Bonemender's Oath

by Holly Bennett

  Tristan nodded. “From Rosie. Dominic, would you read this? I need your advice.”

  “You want me to read your love letter?”

  “It’s not... Look, just read it, okay?”

  “Sure. Take Matthieu.”

  Rosalie’s letter explained the tense look on Tristan’s face:

  Oh, Tristan,

  We are in the most awful bind. Even now, it doesn’t seem possible that this has happened.

  That man I told you about who wished to marry me—his name is Pierre LaBarque. I didn’t tell you before, but when I refused him he was very angry. It scared me in a way I can’t quite explain.

  Now he has come to Father and threatened to ruin him if we do not wed. The threat was carefully veiled and hidden, but he hinted at fires and other “accidents” and even our deaths.

  I don’t know what to do. I said we should go to the Regent’s Guard, but Father says there is no witness and that LaBarque’s words were so indirect that he could deny it and say he was misunderstood. But there was no misunderstanding his meaning. I am sure the man is dangerous—there is something so cold and calculating about him. We might hire guards for our house, or even move to the safety of Chênier, but he could still destroy our fields and warehouses or even harm the farmers who work our lands. Father says he is powerful enough to buy any kind of evil-doing.

  Tristan, if there is anything you or your brother can do, please help us. I’m so frightened.

  Your love, Rosalie

  TRISTAN WATCHED DOMINIC’S mouth set in a grim line as he read. He forced himself to wait until his brother looked up from the letter, then asked, “Do you know this man?” Dominic had been in Chênier since before the war, having been left in charge of the protection of the royal city—and the queen—in the event Greffaire forces broke through the main line of defense. But as regent of the south coast, he and his family lived in Blanchette.

  “Oh, yes,” Dominic replied. “Everyone on the coast knows LaBarque. I have thought more than once that his wealth grows beyond the pace of honest trading, but there has never been any evidence of crime attached to him. He is careful, as Rosalie says.” He shook his head and muttered, “I’ve been away too long.”

  “Dominic, he must be stopped.”

  “Of course he must. One of us must go down there.” Dominic eyed his younger brother. “I suppose it is of no use asking you to stay here for the joint defense meetings? I am the territorial regent, after all. This is my rightful concern.”

  “You’re kidding, right? If some old maniac threatened Justine, would you head off to a meeting?”

  “No. Not if I had a brother to send in my place,” Dominic conceded. “But Tris, you will have to be very canny—you can’t just charge in brandishing your sword. You should take a guard to protect the Martineau manor, though, and if you can possibly persuade André and Rosalie to come up here for the time being, it would be wise.”

  “So you agree with Rosie that the man is dangerous?”

  “I do. He is ruthless and smart. When a man like that puts his own desire above all else...”

  Dominic hoisted Matthieu off the fence and settled him onto his shoulders. “C’mon Matthieu, let’s go find your grandmama. Your Uncle Tristan and I need to have—”

  “I know, ‘nother meeting.” Matthieu brought his small fist down on his father’s head like a gavel as he passed judgment: “Meetings, meetings, smelly old meetings!”

  TRISTAN WAITED IN the spacious front hall while the maid announced him. The men of the Royal Guard who had accompanied him to the coast remained on duty outside the door. He had seen nothing amiss as they rode up the long lane to the Martineau manor, except perhaps a certain closed brooding look to the house itself—he had imagined that, no doubt. But there was no mistaking the way the maid’s uneasy face flooded with relief when she recognized him.

  “Tristan!” Rosalie appeared in a rush and flung herself around his neck. Tristan took his time with their greeting, holding her close, kissing her thoroughly and enjoying every minute of it. He saw no reason not to mix business and pleasure, if chance allowed. A measured tread on the stairs alerted them to André’s arrival, and Tristan straightened up to greet his future father-in-law.

  He was a little shocked at André’s appearance. Drawn and stooped, André seemed to have aged a decade. It was the mark of fear; anger flared in Tristan against the man who had caused such a poisonous change.

  Rosie would not sit in the parlor—”It reminds me of that odious man,” she sniffed—so they ensconced themselves in André’s study. Tristan listened carefully as first Rosalie, then André, recounted all they could remember of their dealings with LaBarque. He felt his face stiffen with disgust and outrage; never had he encountered such cold rapaciousness.

  André’s voice trailed off, and Tristan felt the man’s cautious eyes upon him. “Tristan, I am grateful for your presence here. But I beg you to cool your blood. If you openly confront LaBarque, you could harm us as easily as help us.”

  “I do propose to pay the man a visit,” Tristan confessed, seeing that it was time to unveil the plan he and Dominic had crafted. “Not,” he reassured, “to teach him a lesson with my sword, though I long to do so.

  “No,” he mused. “In fact, I don’t believe we will speak of these matters at all. I am here, as a matter of fact, on official business. As future regent of Crow Island and the Blanchette coast,”—here Rosalie gave a gasp of surprise, and Tristan allowed himself to bask just for a second in her delighted pride—”I feel it my duty to make the acquaintance of the prominent personages and business interests in the region. Moreover, as the current regent will be required in the defense talks for some time to come, he has asked me, acting in his stead, to ensure that the governing of the region continues in good order.”

  It was true that Solange had proposed that the regency go to Tristan. Though more than capable of carrying the crown of Verdeau alone, she needed someone at her right hand, ready to step in if anything should happen to her. It made sense for that someone to be Dominic, the heir to the throne. Within the year then, barring another invasion, Dominic would move his family to Chênier and begin to acquire an intimate knowledge of the players, issues and duties of the royal court, while Tristan would take over the governance of the country’s most important region.

  The mood had changed in the little room. André sat straighter, his manner attentive now. Tristan flashed him a tight smile. “Baron LaBarque, I understand, is an influential and wealthy merchant. I am called upon to introduce myself, I think, and to discuss with him my plans for improving the area’s prosperity. I will ask his advice on the troubling reports I have had of shady dealings, intimidation and outright crime among some of the merchants. I fear an intensive investigation may be required. He will be glad to hear, also, that although he missed the last call to arms it is not too late to support the country’s defense efforts. We will need a continuing supply line for the forces posted at our borders, and while it goes without saying that a man of his wealth will want to contribute heavily toward our material needs, I think I might also be able to pull rank and secure him the honor of establishing and overseeing the transports himself. Surely he can spare the time away from his own thriving businesses to ensure the well-being of our troops.”

  André gazed at Tristan, as though for the first time. “I have underestimated you, I think,” he said softly.

  “Let’s hope LaBarque has too,” replied Tristan. “I am being a little flippant here, but this is a deadly serious game. I’ll be honest, I’d be happier fighting him. But since he has not yet openly broken a law, we must turn his own methods against him. I expect he will recognize a veiled threat when he hears one.”

  Rosalie broke in. “It’s nearly dinnertime. Do you want to put your things in your room and freshen up first?”

  “I’m afraid I must stay at the regent’s residence, at least for the moment,” said Tristan. “This is to be a proper royal visit, after all. But dinner
sounds good. Oh, and it being wartime still, I traveled with six guards. I wonder if four could be billeted here, as the castle is full of Dominic’s people.” Rosalie and André appeared confused at this request. “If you divide them into night and day shifts, they will only require two beds,” he prompted them, “and they can make themselves useful by keeping an eye on things while they’re here.”

  Rosalie sprang into action, bustling off to see the guards—and their horses—housed and fed. They would all sleep better with seasoned soldiers patrolling the grounds.

  André pushed himself to his feet as well and opened a glass-fronted cabinet tucked into the corner of the room. Returning with glasses and a brandy bottle, he poured out the dark golden liquid and offered a glass to Tristan. Tristan was relieved to see that the older man, though still careworn and drawn, had regained his usual firm manner. “Your plan is sound, Tristan,” said André. “But watch out for yourself, boy. Don’t let down your guard.”

  “Yes,” agreed Tristan. “Friendly visit or not, I believe I will go in full dress uniform—sword and all.”

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Tristan followed LaBarque’s house-maid down a dark hallway, leaving his two guards posted at the door. Like the meeting he had held this morning with the head of Dominic’s council, the escort was mainly for appearances. His discussion with LaBarque would be private.

  The woman led him past a series of dark oak doors, all closed, and showed him into a room at the end of the narrow hall. Tristan thanked her, but she merely ducked her head in return and scuttled off. Now there is a woman who is anxious to be somewhere else, Tristan thought. Afraid of her master, no doubt.

  He entered the room, a library or study dominated by a massive, heavily carved table. Behind the table sat a man of medium build and sharp features. Tristan gazed at a face that might once have been handsome, before the thin line of the mouth had hardened into a look of perpetual displeasure, before the dark eyes had taken on such glittering, hooded craftiness. The overall effect was of barely contained malice, and Tristan wondered how André could ever have been gulled by such a creature. Then LaBarque rose, offering a bland smile along with his hand, and it was as though the menace and hostility had never existed. He shows me his fangs, thought Tristan, but just a glimpse. Just enough to threaten without seeming to. The man was an actor, and a good one.

  “Come in, My Lord,” said LaBarque smoothly. “So kind of you to honor me with your presence.” Tristan considered the outstretched hand. It was a gesture used among friends and equals and more than a little presumptuous in LaBarque’s case. Tristan hardly cared for such conventions, but there could be no doubt that LaBarque’s familiarity was deliberate. Let it go, he thought. A power struggle now might derail the entire discussion. He strode forward to greet the man—and LaBarque’s eyes shifted to the back of the room, his smile twisting into a snarl. Tristan’s skin prickled with alarm. He whirled about, and though his sword was drawn by the time he faced the three men who had stepped from the shadowed corner behind the door, a sword would be of little use against the arrows now trained upon him.

  “Shoot him,” rasped LaBarque’s voice. “Now!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DERKH had never been so glad of the rising of the sun, though the morning warmth brought out a horde of buzzing, biting flies even worse than the mosquitoes that had tormented him all night. He hadn’t realized how pitch-black the deep woods could be or how dense. Expecting the same light woodlands he had seen around Chênier, he had struggled instead through a treescape choked with deadfalls and scarred with rocky outcroppings.

  Wanting to escape the sentries’ notice, Derkh had avoided all paths out of the settlement when he left, planning simply to head north toward the foothills. An hour out of Stonewater, he had already lost all sense of direction, blundering through a land that seemed to pitch always at some violent angle, never running level. At first his own determination kept him from turning back. Soon, he didn’t know where “back” was.

  He stopped now, arming the sweat from his forehead, and looked around. Pointless, he thought. Can’t see more than three paces in any direction in this ill-begotten swamp. He was surrounded by trees, mainly spruce and cedar, each with a circle of dead lower limbs thrust out like pike-poles. He had learned last night to walk with his arms held up to protect his head after catching one of these in the temple. Awkward, especially when he took a misstep and fell, but better than being blinded.

  The trees glowered and pressed upon him. Never thought I’d miss those freezing plateau winds, he thought bleakly, picturing the sweeping vistas and open sky of his homeland.

  Easing down on a log and rummaging in his pack for food, Derkh let his mind rest along with his body. The whispery voice of panic that had muttered to him in the dark was silent now. Panic is fear run wild. Col’s powerful voice leapt into his head. Kill it, or it will kill you. His father had certainly given him many chances to learn to overcome fear, Derkh reflected. Maybe those bitter lessons would save his life, after all. He closed his eyes while he chewed, tried to believe Col’s claim that a few moments’ rest were as good as a night’s sleep.

  He knew what he had to do. He had to find a footpath—there must be some; after all, the Elves did travel this county—or at least a rivercourse, to follow. Otherwise he would never find his way anywhere.

  He craned his neck, trying to sense the steepest slope. He wanted to get as high as he could, somewhere with a view so he could look for a break in the foliage that might indicate a passable route. It was a long shot, he knew. He might climb many weary slopes without ever finding what he sought. But it was his only shot, so he picked a direction, ignored the protests of his wrenched muscles and started climbing.

  AT GABRIELLE’S INSISTENCE, Derkh had not been questioned about the Greffaire plans, but on the march home he had overheard Tristan speculating and offered one opinion. “I doubt they’ll try again this season,” he told Gabrielle. “That was our entire invasion force. They would have to empty the internal security service to rebuild an army that size quickly. They lost a lot of equipment too. I’d say if the emperor wants to continue the invasion, they’ll have to recruit and outfit a whole new force.”

  “Your internal security service is the size of an army?” said Gabrielle, incredulous. She wondered if she had misunderstood Derkh’s accented words.

  “We have a lot of internal security,” Derkh had replied flatly.

  DERKH’S GUESS HAD been accurate, as far as it went. But he could not have predicted the true state of affairs in Greffier.

  The total defeat of the Greffaire army was met with black rage by the emperor. No one could explain how such a disaster had occurred. Of the few soldiers who straggled back, starving and exhausted, some raved with wild tales of ghost attacks, arrows raining from the sky and fell warriors materializing from the very air. Those who talked sense acknowledged there were none but Human foes, but still seemed confused about the actual course of events. They could not explain, for example, how the buffering front lines of conscripts had melted away, leaving the professional soldiers to bear the brunt of the fighting.

  Only one fact was clear to the emperor, and he seized upon it: Col had had the advantage, and he had lost it. He had not pursued the retreating army immediately, and thus had given them time to summon reinforcements. The former hero of Greffier was officially denounced, his entire family stripped of their positions and plunged into poverty. Thus did the emperor deflect blame from himself and his policy.

  Nor would he accept defeat. Was he not emperor? To build an empire, there must be conquest. His advisors and nobles, as usual, voiced no objection to his plans to raise a new army, this time under a commander “who can execute a simple order.” But some exchanged dark, cautious glances, and many more brooded alone over the emperor’s latest excess. The invasion of Verdeau had been expensive indeed, and having financed the effort heavily from their own pockets, the nobility of Greffier were not anxious to refill both the royal coff
ers and the military barracks.

  And where were the soldiers to come from? Men had already been pressed freely from the grain fields and cattle ranches that fed the country, and they had not been replaced. The harvest would be meager, the winter hard. Starving men, some muttered, make poor warriors. Before the snows had passed, the secret rumblings of alarm would flame into the first open rebellion in Greffier’s known history. Civil war, not conquest, would occupy the Emperor’s Guard come spring.

  But that lay in the future. Now, the emperor demanded plans for a new offensive. His military tacticians and commanders—what was left of them—considered their options anxiously, and came to one cautious conclusion: they needed to know more about what had happened in Verdeau.

  FOUR DAYS OUT from Stonewater, Gabrielle and Féolan were high in the Krylian foothills, well west of the Smoky River. They scanned the bare dry slope before them, looking in vain for some sign of Derkh’s passage.

  Derkh’s journey through the forest had been easy enough to follow. With the help of a half dozen hunters and scouts recruited to check the outskirts of the settlement, they had quickly picked up his trail north from Stonewater. On the first day, even Gabrielle could spot the broken branches and scuffed loam—not to mention the odd dab of blood or “crash site”—that marked Derkh’s painful nighttime travels. After that, Derkh must have traveled in daylight, for the trail became less blundering and more direct. Bewilderingly, it had led them straight up several steep hills and down again. Gabrielle had worried about this, picturing a panicky, irrational attempt to flee the forest. Then, after the fourth climb, the trail led them to a brook.

  “Good thinking, lad,” Féolan had murmured as they followed the watercourse northwest. “He learns fast, Gabrielle. He must have spotted the break in the trees from that last hill and made his way here. Now at least he won’t wander in circles.”