Bonemender's Oath

by Holly Bennett

  “Not very,” answered Féolan. “Less than half the size of Gaudette, I would guess. But it’s surprisingly busy—it’s the only substantial town in the north reaches, so a lot of trade and traffic goes through it.” Derkh did not reply, just nodded as he guided his horse into the turnoff.

  They stopped to eat and rest in the early afternoon, at a place where great slabs of flat rock, warmed by the noon sun, thrust out into the water. Gabrielle stretched out on a finger of stone that allowed her to trail both hands in the clear lake, tucked her rolled-up cloak under her cheek and closed her eyes.

  She looked too comfortable to disturb, so Féolan pulled off his boots and dangled his feet over a wide ledge of his own. Cool water lapped at his ankles. Soon, another pair of feet joined his—very pale feet that looked to have rarely seen the light of day. He watched Derkh’s toes curl up at the first cold shock, then relax and float in the lake.

  “You want to let those feet out into the sunlight more often,” he joked. “They look like big aquatic mushrooms.”

  “I’ve never done this before,” Derkh replied softly, and that seemed to Féolan as sad as anything he had yet learned about Derkh’s life. There was a pause, while they both watched the strange wavery shapes of their feet, and then Derkh spoke again, serious and a little hesitant.

  “There’s something I want to ask you, but I don’t wish to be a burden. If what I ask is too much, I want you to tell me so freely.”

  Féolan turned and searched the boy’s face. Derkh was clearly nervous, but returned Féolan’s gaze with steady eyes. A boy no longer, Féolan corrected himself.

  “Ask me,” he said simply.

  “You told me that while you were in Greffier you posed as a smith, so that must mean you know how to do it?”

  Féolan gave a brief laugh, remembering how near he had come to disaster over a simple piece of horse harness. “I know the basics. But I am better at jewelry than useful metal work.”

  “Oh.” Derkh seemed disappointed. “Well, that would still be better than nothing. I was wondering if you might teach me.”

  “Teach you smithing?” Féolan looked at Derkh in surprise. Derkh colored, the old self-consciousness rising, but kept his head high.

  “I’ve been thinking about a trade, so I could earn my keep here. I was watching the men in Gaudette, the tradesmen, and I kept coming back to the smiths. I thought if you could teach me so I had at least some skill, I might find a smith who would take me on as a prentice, even though I’m...” He shrugged.

  You’re scrawny for a smithy. The words came back to Féolan before he realized Derkh had been talking about his nationality, not his size. Still, it was a problem. Féolan was over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, but the Greffaire soldier who said that to him had been right—he was scrawny for a smithy. He pulled his thoughts together.

  “Derkh, I would be happy to teach you what I know. Better still, if you like it I will introduce you to our head smith and you can learn properly from him.”

  Derkh’s relieved grateful smile made it harder to say his next words.

  “But...I have to wonder if it is the right trade for you. Smithing is heavy work. Most full-time blacksmiths are big powerful men, especially in the back and arms.” He stopped. Derkh’s smile had broadened into a wide grin.

  “You think I’m too small.”

  “Well, it’s just—”

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that. I don’t expect to be small much longer.”

  The confidence in Derkh’s voice was striking. Féolan raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “You remember how my father was built?” Derkh asked.

  He remembered. Commander Col had reminded him of a bull—all neck and shoulders.

  “He had four brothers. They all look like that. And they all got their growth late. I may not end up tall, but I expect I’ll have muscle enough for the job.”

  Féolan took a more careful, appraising look at the slim young man beside him. This time he sought out the underlying frame and noticed for the first time the square stretch of Derkh’s shoulders, the sturdy girth of his wrist, the big hands. Like a rawboned colt, he thought.

  “I guess you have chosen well, after all,” he said.

  IT WAS BORING up on the wall. Matthieu had been so excited when he managed to scale it, and for a long time the view from on high, combined with the smug knowledge that Madeleine didn’t know where he was, kept him interested. Whenever anyone came out of the castle into the front courtyard, he scooted along the broad rock to the place where the great spruce tree swept its branches over the edge and hid in the scratchy boughs.

  But no one had come out for ages now. As five bells rang out, only determination kept him from climbing down and finding something more fun to do. Determination, and the growing suspicion that he might not know how to get down.

  It didn’t matter. He was the lookout, and the messenger had said Uncle Tristan and Rosie would be back late today, and he was going to see them first. Before Yves, before anybody. And when they came, Uncle Tristan would get him down.

  He checked the road again. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Matthieu blew out air in frustration, like he’d seen his mama do. He straddled the wide wall and peered over the edge. It was a long way down. He was afraid to hang his legs over and try to find footholds he couldn’t see. What if he couldn’t hold on?

  Where were they? He checked again—and this time, as he watched, a group of figures on horseback rounded the bend. Even from this distance he could make out Tristan, and Rosie, and the general and a bunch of others.

  Vindicated, proud of his boundless patience, Matthieu watched the small figures gradually get bigger. Most of them split off and followed the road into town. Two made for the gatehouse.

  A new, and even better, idea came to him. If he could sneak right up onto the gatehouse roof... He scooted along, being really, really careful because if Yves noticed him he’d catch it for sure.

  He wasn’t bored anymore.

  TRISTAN RODE THROUGH the gate with a flourish, saluting Yves and reining in his horse sideways to bow Rosie through. As he bent low over his horse’s neck, he addressed her in a whiny, nasal voice distinctly reminiscent of a certain Verdeau councilor.

  “Welcome, most illustrious guest, to Castle DesChênes, home to the most valiant and attractive bachelor prince in all of—” He ducked as Rosalie tried to swat him with her reins.

  A dark shape plummeted onto his back, pinning him against his horse and clutching his neck. Tristan’s heart leapt into a panicked gallop. It can’t be, he thought wildly. Even in death, he stretches after me! He grappled for the hands choking him, yanked them away. Heard a sound that finally penetrated the clanging alarm in his head.

  Giggling.

  He looked up. Rosalie was bent over the saddle, laughing so hard the tears streamed from her eyes. Yves had turned away and covered his mouth with a gnarled hand, but he couldn’t hide his shaking shoulders. Tristan felt the hands he had prised from his neck. Very small hands, they were. Very small.

  “Matthieu!” He reached back, grabbed the small body and swung it in front of him. Big brown eyes looked up at him, unsure, it seemed, whether to laugh or cry. He held the little boy close against his heaving chest. “Eternal night, Matthieu, you nearly scared the life out of me!” He stroked the small back while his breathing steadied. Spoke gently: “Did I hurt you?”

  Matthieu shook his head no against him. “But I never heard you scream like that before. It was—”

  “Very valiant,” said Rosalie.

  A hoot of laughter escaped from behind Yves’ hand.

  GABRIELLE WRAPPED HER hands carefully around the slippery squirmy bundle of life as it slid from Nehele’s body. A boy, warm and strong and turning pink already with his first breaths. She eased him up to his mother’s waiting arms, tucking a soft blanket warm from the fire round them both.

  Nehele cradled the tiny, perfect body between her breasts,
weeping and laughing at once. Every woman in the room—Nehele’s mother, her sister and Gabrielle herself—became teary at the sight.

  Gabrielle watched quietly while Nehele stroked her baby’s hair and cheek, gazed into his eyes, murmured and sang to him. Every single baby she had ever seen born had seemed to her the loveliest creature ever made. Every one, it seemed, had eyes full of mystery and wonder. But never had she seen a babe with eyes like this one—eyes like new violets glowing with dew, eyes even in their first minutes seeming to hold endless depths. She tried to be attentive to her work, to watch the baby’s breathing and color, to monitor Nehele’s recovery, but she kept losing herself in those mesmerizing new eyes.

  Nehele’s mother brought her a cup of tea, squeezed her shoulder in wordless thanks before returning to her daughter’s side.

  This is what I was meant to do, thought Gabrielle. Not wield a bow or make war plans or even stitch together chopped-up soldiers. Just the ordinary work of a healer.

  She sat back, basking in the peaceful reverence she always felt after a healthy birth. Later tonight she would leave Nehele in the care of her family and walk back along Stonewater’s winding paths, under the great orange autumn moon. Féolan would be waiting for her.

  Their future lay ahead, a promise that had yet to take shape. But life was not lived in the future. Life was right now, right here, in her hands.

  She examined the cup she held—the gloss of it, the rich color, the exquisite transparency of the liquid within—and drank deep.

  photo credit: Wayne Eardley

  Holly Bennett is the Editor-in-Chief of Special Editions at Today’s Parent magazine, where she has worked for nineteen years. Her first novel, The Bonemender, was named an International Reading Association Children’s Book Award Notable and a New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age. She’s glad to have found a more respectable outlet for her love of fantasy than beating her children at Star Wars Trivial Pursuit. Holly lives with her family in Peterborough, Ontario.