Amurra clapped her hands together. “Zera and Marso?”
“Fantastic!” Stran roared. “It’s been my greatest regret that so many years have passed. I meant to visit everyone, but life . . . We talked about it, right, Amurra? But somehow the timing was never right. Life got busy.”
“He truly thought of you often,” Amurra said.
“Are they out there?” Stran asked, poking his head outside.
Kreya laid a hand on Stran’s arm. “Yes, but Marso isn’t well. We were hoping—”
Whooping, he barreled out the door. “Marso! Zera!” She tried not to wince. So much for breaking the news gently.
Guess he’ll see for himself.
Amurra smiled fondly as she watched her husband race up the path. “He often says he became the man he is because of the adventures he had with you. I owe you thanks for that, because I love the man he is.”
“You’re, uh, welcome,” Kreya said. Amurra was the first person who’d thanked her for anything in a while. It felt strange. After the war ended, she’d been showered with thanks, gifts, and gold. Every city had thrown parades and banquets. She would have traded it all for a few seconds more with Jentt. Now she had her Jentt, and she didn’t miss the fuss. “We are here to impose on your hospitality. Our friend Marso is not himself, and we need a quiet place where he can recover.”
“Of course!” Amurra said. “I can’t promise quiet with the kids, but Stran’s old companions are and will always be family.”
“Thank you.”
But she wasn’t sure if that offer would stand after Stran met up with Jentt. Up on the path, Kreya saw Stran approach his old companions, and she wished she’d gotten the chance to break the news about the one who should have been dead. She saw Stran hesitate for a moment, and her breath caught—then Stran wrapped Jentt in the same kind of sweep-you-off-your-feet hug that he’d just gifted Kreya with.
From within the house came a girl’s voice: “Hey, that’s mine!” And then a boy’s voice, muffled, which Kreya couldn’t quite hear. “Two kids?” she guessed, then remembered she’d heard a baby earlier. “Three.”
“A seven-year-old, five-year-old, and thirteen months. Stran is an excellent father.”
“I’m sure he is.” Kreya didn’t doubt that. And she didn’t doubt that Stran would be willing to help nurse Marso back to health. Maybe after Marso read the bones and this was over, Stran would even help Marso settle someplace that would be better for his health than an outdoor market in Ocrae.
Scooping the bone reader into his arms, Stran carried him like a baby down the slope and into the house. “Amurra, this is Marso, Zera, and Jentt. Everyone, this is my lovely wife. Love of my life. Light of my days. Cuddle-bear to my—”
Amurra smiled her sunbeam smile at him. “Enough, you. Get that poor man onto the couch.” She gave him a gentle shove through the hallway. They all followed as the room widened into a light and airy living space.
Except for the layout of the house, it looked nothing like the place Kreya remembered. All the floors had been sanded and stained honey blond, seats and benches piled high with pillows filled the room, and the walls were decorated with tapestries that mirrored the embroidery on Amurra’s blouse. It looked, in short, like a home, and Kreya had to push down a sudden spurt of jealousy.
If Jentt hadn’t died, they might have had a place like this.
But you have him back now, Kreya reminded herself. And our home will be wherever we are.
There was no need to feel sorry for herself anymore or jealous of anyone. She was happy for Stran, truly she was. He’d found himself a wife who clearly adored him, and vice versa. Plus he had the family he’d always wanted.
Gently, Stran laid Marso on the couch and covered him with blankets. He was gentle and practiced, as if he’d cared for the sick many times. Even though she thought of him as a kind man, in Kreya’s memories of Stran, she kept seeing him impale skeletal soldiers, rather than nurse an old friend. Twenty-five years is truly a long time.
“Is he ill?” Amurra asked. “The kids—”
“I don’t believe it’s anything contagious, my dear,” Stran reassured her. “I suspect he did this to himself.”
Kreya suspected that too. But why? Was it the pain of the memories? If so, she could understand that.
Stran continued. “I should’ve checked in on him. Ocrae isn’t far. Just got so busy around the farm, with the kids. No excuse.”
Amurra wrapped her arms around him. She was at least two feet shorter than her mammoth husband; her arms only circled around half his waist. “You can’t be everything to everyone. Don’t beat yourself up. You had your own life to look after.”
“I should’ve made an effort. Not just with Marso, but with all of you. Jentt . . . Never thought I’d see you again. It’s a miracle.”
Releasing her husband, Amurra turned abruptly to gawk at Jentt. “Jentt! The Reformed Thief? The Martyr of the Bones? Everyone said you died!”
“It was touch-and-go for a long while,” Jentt said mildly, “but I pulled through in the end. We’ve been keeping it hush-hush. Delighted to meet you, ma’am.”
“Kids!” Stran bellowed. “Come meet my friends!”
A girl, dragging a boot by its laces, came into the room, followed by a slightly older boy hauling a pudgy baby. The baby held a fistful of the boy’s hair and was attempting to shove it into his mouth. Swooping in, Stran lifted the baby into the air. He cooed with delight.
The girl stuck her hand into Kreya’s, holding it tight and looking up at her. The child’s hand was moist and sticky. “I’m Vivi.”
“Nice to meet you, Vivi. I’m Kreya.” She extracted her hand from Vivi’s by turning her grip into a nice, friendly shake. She wiped her hand on her coat.
The boy was named Jen. “After you,” Stran told Jentt.
“I’m honored.” Jentt knelt in front of the boy and gravely shook his hand. “It’s a warrior’s name.”
“Papa said you were a thief.”
“On occasion,” Jentt admitted. “But the name Jentt came from Jentt the Brave, the first warrior to ever slay an edgewood worm, before they were driven to extinction. You know what they were? They had three heads, one that breathed fire, one that breathed acid, and one ice.” He launched into the full story, while little Jen and Vivi stared at him with rapt attention.
Stran introduced the baby-almost-toddler as little Nugget. “We haven’t decided on his final name yet. Luckily, we still have a couple months left until his official naming ceremony. Amurra’s family tradition is to hold it at fifteen months, so he can walk to his name.”
“Two months left, and he will walk to Evren,” Amurra said. “After my grandfather.”
“Or Olag,” Stran said. “Respectable, strong name. Olag.”
Zera chimed in. “I vote Evren. Olag sounds like the sludge at the bottom of a beer barrel. Which is only tasty if it’s expensive beer.”
Amurra nodded emphatically, but Stran looked hurt.
“It’s wonderful to see you so happy, old friend,” Jentt said. He slapped Stran on the shoulder, which required him to reach up. “We won’t be in your hair long. Just need to get Marso up on his feet again.”
“And able to read the bones,” Zera put in.
Kreya wished she hadn’t mentioned that yet. So far, Stran didn’t know they were here for any other purpose than rest and recovery for Marso.
“You want him to read?” Stran said. “In this condition?”
From the couch, Marso whimpered. “He lives, he lives, he lives.”
“Yes, that’s right, buddy,” Jentt said, sitting on the couch by his feet. “I’m alive.”
But Kreya glanced at Zera, who met her look with widened eyes and pressed-together lips. Neither of them had to speak to know they shared the same fear:
What if he wasn’t talking about Jentt?
Kreya knelt beside Jentt. “Get well, old friend. We need you. More than you know.”
Chapter Eleven
Later that night, after a hearty dinner they’d all pitched in to cook, Kreya cuddled against Jentt’s chest in bed. She didn’t mind that the cot was too narrow for two of them—she had no intention of letting him be farther away than this. They were alone, Jentt was alive, and she didn’t have to worry about the spell expiring in a day, two days, ten days, or ever again.
It would have been nicer, of course, if Jentt weren’t angry with her.
“This is the first time we’ve been alone since you revived me,” he said, whispering so they didn’t wake anyone else in the overcrowded farmhouse.
Kreya deliberately misunderstood where he was going with that. “Sadly, we can’t make love in Stran’s daughter’s bed. We have to be good guests.”
“I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you. We need to talk about how you risked yourself. And Zera.”
She traced a heart on his bare chest. “Dead boys don’t get votes.”
He caught her hand. “You knew how I’d feel about it.”
“Yes.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Yes. And I’d do it again.”
The bird construct whirred, and Kreya heard the rustle of fabric beneath the bed. She’d kept her creations hidden while they were visiting with Stran’s family, but she’d let them out after all the lights were doused. She cooed at them. “Calm down, little ones. There’s nothing to fear here.”
Screaming cut off her attempt to soothe them.
Kreya shooed her constructs back under the bed with a curt order to hide, and she grabbed her coat as she and Jentt darted out the door. He had a knife in his hand that she’d never seen before—his belongings, the few there were, had burned with the tower. He must have helped himself to it while they were in Ocrae. She approved.
They burst into the living room to find Stran and his wife, Amurra, already there. Kneeling, Stran had his beefy hands on Marso’s shoulders as Marso was screaming with his mouth open so wide that it made his face look distorted.
“Breathe,” Stran was saying, his voice calm and soothing. “You’re safe. You’re with friends. Breathe, Marso. All is well.”
Amurra had a mug near him and was wafting the steam toward Marso’s nose.
Jentt tucked his knife back into whatever unseen sheath he was carrying. Kreya shrugged on her coat over her nightshirt so she wouldn’t be carrying it, but it didn’t look like there was an emergency, at least not the kind that talismans could solve.
A few seconds later, Zera burst into the living room. She had a talisman in each hand. Given how few she had left with her, Kreya wondered which talismans she’d chosen. “Anyone dying?” Zera demanded. “No? Great. Going back to sleep.” She pivoted and disappeared into the hall.
Kreya noticed Stran’s children, minus the littlest one, peering into the living room. She herded them back. “He’ll be all right. Everything’s fine.” With Stran and Amurra and now Jentt hovering over him, she wasn’t sure how much she could add to the mix. Marso didn’t seem to be calming down much, though he did gasp for breath between screams. “He’s having a nightmare, that’s all.”
Little Vivi nodded solemnly. “I have nightmares sometimes.”
“Oh? What do you do to get rid of them?” Kreya asked.
“I bite them.”
“Sorry?”
Vivi chomped on the empty air. “I imagine I’m biting all the things that scare me.”
“That . . . is a completely sensible solution. I’ll tell Marso to bite them.”
“Good,” Vivi said, and dragged her brother back toward the bedroom they were sharing while Jentt and Kreya used Vivi’s room. From another room, the baby started wailing.
Amurra stood. “I don’t want to leave while—”
“Go,” her husband told her. “Thank you, but we’ll take care of Marso.”
Both Stran and Jentt continued to try to soothe Marso. It didn’t seem to be helping. He was gasping for air now and shaking. His eyes were open and darted everywhere, not seeming to see anything.
Kreya gave them two minutes more. And then she stepped forward, grabbed Marso’s face in her hands, and said, “Knock it off, Marso, and tell me what you see.”
He quit screaming, and his eyes focused on Kreya.
Stran murmured, “I will never understand how you do that.”
Without moving her eyes off of Marso, she asked, “Do what?”
“Make us listen to you. You are half my size, and if I sat on you, you’d squash like an ant, but when you give an order, I don’t even think. Same with Marso. Even after twenty-five years.”
“Naturally bossy, I’m told,” Kreya said. Sitting beside Marso, she took his hands in hers. “You read something terrible in the bones, and you didn’t want to believe it.”
It was a guess, but it felt right.
Marso stared at her, and his eyes looked so much like they belonged to a lost child. “Every time I tried, I saw the same thing. It haunts me, even after the mist fades. My power is broken.”
Jentt said, “Your power can’t break.”
“I am broken,” Marso said. “I shattered like glass. Like pottery. Smashed. Crashed. Shards of me, scattered on the ground. That’s what he said, when I tried to tell. My mind lies. So I tried to silence it.” He was pleading with Kreya to understand.
Bones help me, I do understand, she thought. She’d felt shattered too. For so long. She hoped with Jentt back, she’d begin to heal.
Looming above her, Stran asked in his gentle voice, “Who said you were broken?”
“Guild Master Lorn. I thought it was a warning. He said it was false. He said I was broken. Said that by creating a false reading, I’d broken my mind. Or by breaking my mind, I’d allowed lies to cloud the mist. Can’t tell which. Doesn’t matter which. He was right. All I saw every time I read—no matter what question I asked, no matter what I tried . . . Useless. Broken. Damaged.” His eyes flickered to Jentt and Stran as if he needed them to understand too.
Reaching over Kreya, Stran laid a hand on Marso’s shoulder. “You aren’t, my friend.”
Kreya saw despair leaching into Marso’s eyes—he knew he was in pain, and Stran’s denial of that hurt. She tilted his head so he was looking at her again. “Of course you are. You’re damaged. We all are.”
Stran objected. “Not all.”
Kreya didn’t buy it. Everyone had wounds. But even though she meant the words for Stran, too, she spoke directly to Marso. “Some of us are better at hiding it than others, but we are all broken. You can’t live without breaking a few times. But that doesn’t mean that’s a bad thing. It just means you’ve lived in the world.” She’d had her moments of despair, when Jentt first died, when she read Eklor’s journals and realized what the spell entailed, when she tried it for the first time and failed. She’d shattered and glued herself back together more times than she could count. “What matters is you keep living in it, despite your broken bits—or even because of them.”
Marso was listening.
“You saw what you didn’t want to see. What no one wanted you to see. But I’m here with you—we’re all here with you—and we’ll look at the unseeable together. You won’t be alone. But we need to do this.”
He began to shake. “You want me to read the bones again. You think if I try this time, I won’t see him. He won’t be in my mind. This time I’ll be healed and the mist will be clear, because my friends are with me.”
Stran said, “Exactly!”
“I don’t think that at all,” Kreya said, ignoring Stran. “But I do think that whatever—whoever—you see, we’ll believe you.”
Now Stran’s meaty hand was on Kreya’s shoulder. “A minute, Kreya?”
She let him draw her out of the living room into the kitchen. Moonlight spilled through the curtained window, creating lacy shadows on the floor. It still smelled like the herbed grouse they’d eaten for dinner, and the embers burned low in the hearth. A curl of smoke led up to the chimney. She felt a pang of
guilt for interrupting Stran’s peaceful home life, but where else could they have gone?
She knew Stran had questions, and she saw him marshaling his thoughts, preparing to ask. Saving him the trouble, she said, “Yes, it’s necessary, and yes, it needs to happen now. Do you have any bones he can use?”
Whatever argument he’d been about to make died unspoken—as he’d pointed out, she commanded, he obeyed. Instead he fished the grouse bones out of the bin. Kreya was mildly surprised they were there—she’d expected Zera to have pilfered them after dinner to create more talismans by now, but perhaps they weren’t high-enough-quality bones for her. The effectiveness of talismans depended on the type of bone, as well as the skill of the carver. But they’d do fine for Marso.
She washed them in the sink, carefully cleaning off any vestiges of the carcass, and polished them with a bit of sandpaper from one of her pockets. As she was working, Amurra appeared in the kitchen. “The kids are back to sleep, and your friend seems calmer now,” she reported.
“He’s had a difficult time,” Stran said.
Amurra clucked in sympathy. “He didn’t need to. He could have reached out for help. He’s a Hero of Vos. You can’t tell me that people wouldn’t move mountains to help him.”
It was, Kreya thought, kind of amazing how innocent Stran’s wife was. He’d managed to find someone who seemed untouched by pain or loss. Unfamiliar with broken things that couldn’t be mended. She’s lucky, she thought. Amurra would have been a child during the Bone War, young enough that it all had to feel more like a story than reality.
Without turning around, Kreya said, “We found him mostly naked in a fountain. He’s apparently been living like that for some time. People have short attention spans.”
“Not me,” Stran said stoutly. “If he’d come to me . . .”
“To us,” Amurra said. “We’d have taken care of him.”
“I know you would have,” Kreya said. “But he doesn’t need taking care of. He needs to face what’s haunting him and know the truth.” Cradling the bones in a dish towel, she carried them back into the living room.
The Bone Maker Page 15
