The Bonemender

by Holly Bennett

  “I am a bo—a healer,” Gabrielle amended, using the Elvish term. “I was treating the wounded, not fighting. I went onto the field when my father was injured.”

  Orienne gazed at Gabrielle long and intently. Féolan could feel Gabrielle fighting to be still under her gaze. At last Orienne dropped her eyes and said in heavily accented Krylaise, “I am sorry. That was uncourteous.” Switching back to her fluid Elvish, she added, “May I speak privately to you after? I would explain my ill manners.”

  CHAPTER 27

  FÉOLAN waited with Gabrielle in the drafty entranceway for over an hour, Gabrielle becoming more and more jittery beside him. “I don’t know what she wants or why she looked at you so,” he said patiently, yet again. “We’ll just have to—” The door opened, and Orienne slipped out.

  “They can finish up without me,” she said. “Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”

  They went to Féolan’s dwelling. Small but spacious, beautifully crafted though sparely furnished, it would be filled with light and birdsong when the windows were opened. Now they were shuttered against the cool spring night, and the effect was snug and private. He lit a fire and several ceramic wall lamps, poured three goblets of wine and sat down to translate. Though there were chairs and a table at the far end of the room, they sat instead on deep curved cushions, covered in shades of green, gray and blue, pulled close around the fire. Gabrielle watched how Orienne tucked her feet neatly behind her, looking elegantly at ease rather than sprawled, and tried to arrange herself the same way.

  “I hope you will forgive me for staring so and at a guest,” Orienne began. “It is not my custom. But when you walked in the Council Chamber, I thought for one moment that you were my niece, whom I have not seen in nearly thirty years. You look so like her, I cannot tear my eyes away.”

  Féolan nodded, ready to smile at the chance likeness, thank Orienne for her time and bid her goodnight.

  But Gabrielle spoke up. “What happened to her?” she asked. This was not just polite small talk: her voice trembled with tension. Féolan had never seen Gabrielle so nervous.

  “She and her husband shared a love of wandering,” Orienne replied. “She wished to see the ocean and her husband’s homeland in south Barilles. They set off on a journey to the coast.”

  South Barilles? thought Féolan, curious now. As far as he knew, the Elves had long ago left the coast to Human settlement.

  “I wondered if Wyndra was wise to go, for she had a newborn baby. But she laughed and said, ‘Easier now than when she’s walking!’ She was ever headstrong and fearless ... even with her heart.”

  Féolan looked up sharply at the hint of bitterness in Orienne’s voice, wondering if he had read this story aright. Orienne nodded. “He was Human, a scholar who came to Fernrill settlement to study our histories.”

  Waves of emotion poured off Gabrielle as he translated—startling, churning, mixed-up blasts of feeling that Féolan could not begin to interpret. Gabrielle was shivering so violently Féolan was afraid she was ill. He put his arm around her, but she didn’t seem to notice him at all. Her eyes never left Orienne as the sad tale continued.

  “Neither of them ever returned. After six months had passed, we sent people searching for them. We never found them. It will be twenty-eight years this autumn since she left.”

  “My parents found me that year, hidden in a hollow log by the sea amongst a group of murdered adults,” Gabrielle blurted out.

  It took Féolan a minute to grasp the meaning of her words. His body seemed to comprehend before his mind: it felt electric with excitement. His heart skipped and throbbed in his chest like a skin drum. He gave the rhythm words: Let it be true. Let it be true.

  Gabrielle gave him an urgent look, waiting for his translation, then softened at his expression. “My mother told me only this winter,” she said. “But Féolan, it might have meant nothing.”

  “What does she say?” Orienne now, trying to understand, with her rusty Krylaise, the high emotion in the room. Féolan tried to clear his head and repeat Gabrielle’s words. Slowly Orienne reached out her slim hands and clasped Gabrielle’s between them. They were lost in each other. “My sister’s daughter is dead, then,” she said slowly. “And my great-niece is alive. Gabrielle, I believe I first laid eyes on you at your naming ceremony. You were just one week old, and your mother named you Twylar.”

  “I need to be sure,” Gabrielle whispered. She reached with shaky fingers for a rough rawhide cord around her neck. It was long, tucked deeply down her front. She tugged at it. “I didn’t want it to look worth stealing,” she explained. “So I put it on this leather. But ... “ Now, at last, Féolan saw the glitter of silver at the end of the cord. He leaned forward, anxious to see. It took one glance to identify the tiny necklace: a babystone. He had watched Danaïs fasten just such a one around Eleara’s neck on her name day. Orienne was weeping now, cradling the little jewel in her hand as though a baby still wore it.

  Gabrielle, distressed, turned to Féolan. “We give such a stone to babies on their nameday,” he explained. Stars above, all he wanted to do was take this woman in his arms, but this was her story, not his, and she did not want him now. Not yet. “The stone—”

  “The stone is called jeldeñi,” said Orienne. “It is the stone of your mother’s house. We all admired how your babystone matched your eyes. They were lighter, then.”

  Gabrielle burst into tears, and now Féolan’s arms were welcome. He wrapped her tight, remembering Gabrielle’s sudden tension over their mid-day meal and her hesitation at the falls, imagining how the pieces of her life must have fallen into place with nothing but speculation to hold them together. If she’d shown me the damn necklace I could have told her, he thought. But that wasn’t quite true, was it? He could have told her enough to change the odds, but now it was for sure, and her life was forever changed.

  BUT HOW WAS it changed? Gabrielle did not know how to find the words, or the courage, for all the questions that clamored in her heart. She watched Orienne refill the tall wine flutes, finding a soothing familiarity in the gesture. No stopping now. She had to know.

  “Orienne, what does it mean—to be ... what I am?”

  “To be half-Elven? I’m afraid it is not always an easy life.” Orienne spoke to both of them, now that she saw how it was with them. But her eyes lingered on Gabrielle.

  “Your mother asked me to study this question before your birth. I visited many settlements in search of an answer. Most of our knowledge dates from the last war against Gref Oris. That was a long and bitter struggle with great losses on both sides, and in such times Elves and Humans alike are more reckless with their love. Who can blame them for grasping at what happiness they can, when death looms so likely? But not all died, and an unusual number of half-Elven babies were born the next year.”

  Orienne sipped at the amber wine and gazed into the fire, gathering her thoughts. She sighed. “There is no pattern, it seems, to how the Elvish and Human traits will blend in any one person. Some of the children seemed almost entirely Human, with only subtle signs—unusually keen eyesight, perhaps, or nimble, clever fingers—of their Elvish side. Some were very Elf-like, in looks and even abilities.” Her eyes returned to Gabrielle. “Your mother was a skilled healer, strong in the gift of the hands. This, I understand, she has passed on to you.”

  Gabrielle felt a rush of wonder. For the first time her connection with the woman who bore her seemed real. It was as though Wyndra had reached down through time and handed Gabrielle a torch: a gift and a responsibility.

  Orienne had spoken again and stopped, while Gabrielle was wrapped in these thoughts. Féolan touched her hand and translated: “Those with a more even mix of traits often had a more difficult time. Never really at home with either race, they wandered as minstrels or traders. There were a few scholars and teachers among them and outlaws too.”

  Gabrielle only half-heard this report. She already knew where her path lay. Yet she could not bring herself to voic
e the question on which so much hinged.

  Féolan’s arm tightened around her, and she leaned into his steady strength. His voice was the merest murmur in her ear: “We have already pledged to find joy in what we have and not despair at what might have been. Nothing we learn now will change that.”

  “I know what you would ask.” Orienne leaned toward Gabrielle, reached for her hand and held it between her own. Gabrielle searched the older woman’s face—how strange, that her age had somehow become clear as they spoke—and saw the sadness before she heard the words. Poor Féolan, she thought. Despite his brave words, she knew what he had hoped for.

  “I wish,” said Orienne, “that I could promise you a long life among us, Gabrielle, but I’m afraid that life span is as uncertain as the other half-Elven traits. I know of one, born soon after the war, who lives yet, though age weighs heavily upon him.”

  Had she misunderstood that? One look at Féolan removed all doubt—he fairly hummed with suppressed excitement. But Orienne cut in hastily: “Please, do not let that mislead you. It is an unusual case. And at the other end, there were some whose lives were much shorter.”

  “How much shorter?” Gabrielle was deliberately blunt. It was time to put her fear to rest, whatever the answer.

  Orienne’s eyes grew sorrowful, her voice gentle. “A few lived barely two hundred years. I’m afraid you cannot count on more than that. I am sorry.”

  Gabrielle blinked. Her life had just been more than doubled, and Orienne was sorry! A breathless laugh escaped her. Her eyes met Féolan’s—was she crazy to be so happy? And he was smiling at her, that smile that melted all the bones in her body.

  “Two hundred years, Féolan,” she whispered. “We have—”

  She never got to finish. Féolan had pulled her into his arms, and his kiss drove the words right out of her head.

  Not that she cared.

  MORE WINE AND MORE TALK, and at last Orienne stood and kissed Gabrielle on the forehead and said, “We will celebrate your return in true Elvish style, Gabrielle. But the celebration must wait, I’m afraid, until we are done with these Gref Orisé invaders. In the meantime, may I be the one to welcome you into your family? It is a great joy to me that you live and that we have found each other.”

  It was late. Féolan walked her to the little guesthouse, and Gabrielle was grateful that he did not press her to speak as they threaded their way through the still night. She knew his thoughts brimmed with the life they could now plan together. Hers were a more complicated mixture of joy and sorrow, not ready to be spoken. The stars looked far away and cold this late at night. Did their silvery patterns foretell a person’s path in life, as some claimed? She felt strangely alone for one who has had just reclaimed her family.

  At Gabrielle’s doorstep, Féolan brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Gabrielle nodded. “It’s a lot to get used to.”

  And then it was time for their goodbyes, for Féolan would be gone before first light. Gabrielle drew her hand slowly from his elbow to his fingertips, memorizing the swell of muscle in the forearm, the smooth skin, the intricate join of bones and tendon at the wrist, the long fingers. She tried not to hear the voice that added, in case he does not return. Some time passed before she looked up.

  “All the words and phrases that people use on occasions such as this—take care, stay safe, come back soon—stick in my throat like a burr and refuse to come out,” she confessed. “I can think of nothing to say that feels true in my heart except that I love you.”

  “It is all I need to hear,” said Féolan.

  THAT NIGHT IN BED, the bits and pieces of Gabrielle’s life wheeled around her, assembling and coming apart in random combinations. You are my real mother, she had told Solange, and it was true. Her father had died in her arms on a battlefield. That too was true. How did that fit with Wyndra, the Elf who had borne and lost her so long ago, or the mysterious man who had won her love?

  How were Gabrielle DesChênes of Verdeau and Twylar of Fernrill to become one person?

  And through the long night the other question, the fear that gnawed at the edges of her heart though she refused to give it words, shadowed her dreams: What if Féolan should not return?

  CHAPTER 28

  GABRIELLE woke in the thin darkness before dawn. She sat, hugging her knees, the day yawning empty and anxious before her. Already it was obvious she was not going to be much good at waiting.

  But the day was not as difficult as she had feared. Celani and Eleara came by in the early morning, and from Eleara’s spirited charades and the bundled clothing they both carried Gabrielle understood it was laundry day. She gathered up her own soiled clothes and followed them first to the bathhouse, where Celani showed her how to draw and set water to heating, and then to a place about a half-mile from the settlement where the stream quieted into a deep pool, edged with flat rocks. Here they soaped and rinsed their clothes in water so icy their hands went numb. If my father could see me now, scrubbing away like a washerwoman, thought Gabrielle, surprising herself with a thought untainted by the troubled grief of days past. She had not laid eyes on a servant since her arrival at Stonewater, though someone must cook the meals that appeared under the large pavilion.

  Eleara lay flat on her stomach, watching for crayfish and trout, hissing with the cold as she plunged her arm in to the shoulder after a frog. By the time the clothes were hung out, the baths were ready. Eleara’s idea of a good wash included much splashing, spouting and laughter. And though Celani seemed to be apologizing for her playfulness, it was just what Gabrielle needed. She left their company having learned the words for “cold,” “frog,” “bath” and “stop it,” at least she thought that’s what they meant, and feeling better about her ability to get along without a translator.

  She didn’t need to, though. In the afternoon she made her way to the Healing Lodge, nervous but determined to make some kind of overture with Towàs. He greeted her pleasantly, having apparently decided she wasn’t much threat after all, but without language it was difficult to make headway. She was leafing through the books of healing lore he had shown her—she couldn’t, of course, read the words, but there were illustrations of herbs and treatments—when an Elvish woman, dark-haired and about five months’ pregnant, entered the Lodge. She greeted Gabrielle in fluent Krylaise: “I am Nehele. I am one of Féolan’s scouts.” She patted her swelling belly and smiled. “Off duty, for obvious reasons. I would be happy to act as your interpreter in the days to come.”

  Nehele and Gabrielle liked each other on sight, and the afternoon passed quickly. Towàs was happy to share his knowledge of medicinal herbs and their uses, and Gabrielle found that with Nehele she was not shy to try out Elvish words and phrases. As night fell, Nehele invited Gabrielle to dine with her. “It is Danaïs’ last night with his family,” she said, “and my first night alone. I would be glad of the company.”

  The two women talked late into the night, and Gabrielle realized how much she had missed the company and confidences of women. Nehele recounted her first scouting ventures into Human settlements and asked about the customs and sights that had puzzled her. Gabrielle had plenty of questions in return. Before they were done Gabrielle had told, for the first time, how she had met Féolan and the story of her birth. Nehele shook her head, her dark eyes bright with wonder. “Someone must make a song about this,” she declared. “It is like a tale from long ago.”

  First let him return alive, Gabrielle thought. As if by mutual consent, neither had raised the specter of war that evening.

  “I’ll walk a ways with you toward your dwelling,” Nehele insisted, as Gabrielle made to leave. The night was soft and misty, smelling of spring, and Gabrielle thought again how far away the Greffaire invasion seemed in this sheltered place.

  “Have you attended a birth before?” Nehele asked Gabrielle as they paced along the dark pathway.

  “Yes, many times,” smiled Gabrielle. “I love catching babies.
”

  “Perhaps,” offered Nehele, “if you are here, you will be with me when my baby comes. I know Haloan can do it, but there’s something about having another woman that’s more comfortable, don’t you think?”

  “Many women feel that way,” agreed Gabrielle. Still, she was deeply honored that Nehele would entrust such a thing to her on such short acquaintance. She began to feel that perhaps Stone-water could, in time, become her home.

  TRISTAN NARROWED HIS EYES and scanned the horizon again, searching for the dark smudge of dust cloud or glint of reflected light that would announce the Greffaire offensive. Gods, he needed them to come before he went crazy with waiting. Why the Greffaires had not followed on the retreating Verdeau troops’ heels was anyone’s guess. Three days it had been now since that disastrous battle—time to rendezvous with the Maronnais reinforcements, choose the most favorable site to deploy the men and fine-tune their defense strategy. That extra time had been a godsend, but now the Basin defense force was as great as it would ever be, and Tristan lusted for revenge.

  He was much changed in spirit. The trademark grin had not brightened his face since they had tallied their losses the day after the retreat, and his eyes were flat and hard. Jerome’s death had been a blow. No one could say why the king had been so deep in the field, or why he had remained after the horns had blown. The seeming carelessness of it rankled, but Jerome had come as a warrior, and a warrior expects to risk his life. It was the loss of Gabrielle that nearly undid him. Through the long, uneasy nights, Tristan wrestled with questions that had no answers: How had she missed the retreat? Why had he not watched over her more carefully, protected her more closely? How would he explain her death to Solange? She should have been safely away with the other bonemenders. That his sister, extraordinary as she was, could be killed through some random accident or stroke of ill luck ate at his natural optimism like a cancer.