The Bone Maker

by Sarah Beth Durst

  “Marso, take Jentt.” She handed him her talisman. “It’s my turn to distract.”

  Jentt objected. “We have to stick together—”

  “You’re not dying twice,” she told him. To Zera, she said, “Battle conditions again. Obey me. If I can’t rejoin you, get them to Stran’s farmhouse. Then go to Grand Master Lorn and tell him everything.”

  Squeezing her shoulder, Zera didn’t waste time arguing. She shepherded the boys through the greenery. The branches and bushes closed behind them.

  Taking a breath, Kreya stood. Counted to three.

  And then called, “Here I am! Come get me!”

  Taking the invitation, the croco-raptors burst out of the trees, and Kreya sprang into motion. Calling on steadiness, she climbed a tree. She swung on a vine above the croco-raptors. Landed on the ground. Ran, with only her own speed to draw on.

  Lead them away, she thought.

  Give my friends time.

  She ran toward the river, a plan forming in her mind. It was a terrible plan, and she knew her friends, Jentt especially, would have hated it, but she wasn’t taking a vote. She never did.

  She’d have to time it right, make sure that her pursuers believed they’d nearly caught her when, in fact, they hadn’t. Slowing, she feigned a limp, as if she were wounded prey.

  As two croco-raptors charged from the front, having circled her, she grabbed another vine and shot over them. One grazed her leg with its claws. She felt the jab of pain, but adrenaline pushed it back.

  The river roared, invisible through the thick mat of trees and vines. Slicing at the greenery with her sword, she plunged toward the crashing water.

  As Marso had said, the stone fish was in the river, half-submerged and causing the flow to tumble around him. She led the croco-raptors to it.

  Wild with certainty that they would catch their prey, the lizards failed to see the danger.

  Two of them fell straight into its mouth, twitching once from the venom before the mouth closed around them. The other croco-raptors veered sharply away as Kreya raced over the back of the creature.

  She moved as fast and carefully as she could. If only the soles of her shoes touched its toxic skin . . . she could ditch the shoes. Or use them as weapons.

  On the other side, Kreya leaped for the riverbank.

  She almost made it.

  The stone fish sliced its tail through the water, and one scale brushed lightly against an exposed bit of Kreya’s arm. It was the lightest touch, but she knew instantly that it was too late.

  She kept running, though, telling herself not to think, not to look back, and for bones’ sake not to slow. She heard her pursuers fall behind as they were forced to contend with the stone fish.

  She was now contending with it in her own way. The poison permeated her muscles, and she felt them clench. Her vision swam, and the green around her swirled. Slowing, she dropped to her knees and swayed.

  At least the others lived.

  Or at least they had the chance to live.

  Zera would get them to Stran’s farmhouse. Amurra would nurse them back to health, probably cursing Kreya’s name from her pretty mouth. Grand Master Lorn wouldn’t ignore Zera’s report—Kreya had faith that Zera wouldn’t let him. It should have been enough to know she’d done all she could. But it wasn’t. Oh, it wasn’t.

  “I’m not ready to die,” she whispered.

  She didn’t even know for certain if she’d truly formed the words.

  Everything plunged into blackness and silence.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kreya woke to the smell of baking bread filling her nose. She opened her mouth and breathed it in before she opened her eyes. “Not dead?” she croaked.

  “Not dead,” Jentt said, relief clear in his voice.

  She couldn’t focus on him yet. He was a blob of blue in the middle of a sea of brown. Squinting, she tried to differentiate between his face and his body, but the effort made pain shoot into her head. She closed her eyes.

  She must have fallen asleep again because the next time she opened her eyes, her face felt warm with sun, the smell of bread was (sadly) gone, and she was alone, almost. Her bird construct nudged against her hand, and she awkwardly patted his skull.

  Her rag dolls were nestled around her. The three that had accompanied them into the forbidden zone had been scrubbed until their fabric faded to a pinkish off-white—the attempt to remove the blood not quite complete.

  Gingerly, Kreya sat up. She’d expected to see her tower. But no, that burned, she remembered. Belatedly, her brain caught up to her eyes and named where she was: Stran’s farmhouse.

  She cleared her throat, testing her voice. “Hello?”

  Bustling in, Amurra smiled at her. “You’re awake!”

  “Stran?”

  Her smile dipped, and Kreya felt her heart squeeze. If Stran . . .

  “He’s alive,” Amurra said quickly, seeing Kreya’s expression. “Sorry. I should have said that right away. He’s recovering. You were closer to death than he was.”

  “How close?” Her throat felt as if it had been stuffed with wool. She swallowed and changed her question. “How long was I out?”

  “Eight days.”

  Eight! She’d never—

  Amurra rushed to her side. “Steady. Just breathe.”

  Kreya got control of her breathing. She forced her muscles to relax until she sank back into the pillows. She was lying on a sofa in their living room, a crocheted blanket tucked around her.

  Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Amurra waited while Kreya breathed. After a few moments of silence, she said, “I have a confession. When you first came back . . . I hated you. Stran was hurt, and I . . . thought you deserved what happened to you. And worse.”

  Eyeing her, Kreya reached for a pocket and felt only thin cotton. She wasn’t wearing her coat or any of her usual clothes. She’d been dressed in a simple long shirt. All her weapons had been removed. Trying to appear calm, Kreya crossed her hands over her stomach. “Are you going to murder me now? Smothering with pillows is standard. It would cast the least suspicion on you.” She wasn’t certain she had the strength to resist, but if she could manage to scratch the other woman, there would be evidence.

  Amurra sprang up. “Of course not! How could you think that?”

  Kreya relaxed minutely. “You said you hated me.”

  “What kind of life have you had that you’d think that murder is the natural response to hate?” Settling down again, she sat, this time on a chair near the sofa. “I would never . . . You can’t think that of me!”

  “I don’t know you well,” Kreya reminded her.

  “You know Stran,” Amurra said. “Trust him, if you won’t trust me.”

  “If you don’t plan to murder me, could I have some water? And . . .” She thought about what she could stomach. She knew she had to eat. “Broth? If you have it? And Jentt . . . Is he here?”

  Amurra sprang to her feet. “Of course! I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I assume the reason we’re not all dead is because of you?”

  “I did what I could,” Amurra said.

  Kreya fixed her with a look. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Amurra looked genuinely confused. One foot was aimed toward the kitchen, but the other was planted unmoving.

  “Make yourself smaller than you are,” Kreya said. “Life will do that enough for you. Own your power. You created a safe haven here, and because of that, we’re alive. Thank you.”

  A smile blossomed on her face. “You’re welcome.”

  Then the smile faded, and she looked as if she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. She fled into the kitchen. A few minutes later, Jentt emerged with a tray. He set it on a table near the sofa and smiled at her. “You’re lucky—turns out you have some resistance to stone fish venom. You know how rare that is?”

  Kreya drank in the sight of him: his shoulder bandaged, a slight limp, but otherwise he seemed well and whole. “Y
ou seem to have some resistance to being shot with arrows. That’s good. You didn’t used to.”

  Leaning over, he touched her cheek. She saw sadness in his eyes, wrinkles in the corners that hadn’t been there before. She wanted to reassure him that she was okay. Both of them were okay. But she wasn’t certain that the world was okay. “Has Grand Master Lorn responded to the threat? Has he assembled an army?”

  “You nearly die,” Jentt said, “and that’s your first question?”

  “Actually, my first question was to Amurra, who said you’re all alive. So yes, this is my second question: is somebody out there doing what needs to be done to save the world?”

  “Drink your broth,” he told her.

  “Jentt?”

  He lifted the bowl to her lips and tilted it. With shaking hands, she took the bowl from him and did it herself. “You woke briefly enough to take in a little food and water,” Jentt said. “You probably don’t remember that.”

  She shook her head.

  “You weren’t coherent with the venom in you.”

  Kreya lowered the bowl. “Oh no, what did I say?”

  “You seemed to be under the impression that I was a pear tree,” Jentt said. “And you were very concerned about squirrels eating all my pears before they could ripen. Another time, you accused Amurra of stealing a shovel. Every time she walked into the room, you’d demand she return it before she broke it, because you didn’t know how to fix a shovel.”

  Kreya began to laugh and then stopped when it hurt. She felt as if her torso had been trampled. “I don’t know how to fix a shovel.”

  In a quieter voice, he said, “You also cried. As often as I told you I was here, you wouldn’t believe me, and you cried.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I realized how rarely I’ve seen you cry.”

  She marshaled a smile. “It’s not my favorite activity. No more tears. You’re here. We’re all alive, and someone is going to do something about Eklor, right? Grand Master Lorn must have approved action once Zera reported to him.”

  Jentt lifted the soup again. He didn’t meet her eyes.

  “Zera did report to him, didn’t she? It couldn’t have been you—too many questions. Marso would be considered too unreliable. And Stran was injured.” Had Zera flaked on them? Surely she wouldn’t have. She’d seen the danger. She wouldn’t have retreated to her plush life and pretended none of this had happened. Would she have?

  “She was the one who found you,” Jentt said. “She saved you. But . . .”

  He trailed off.

  The silence of that unfinished sentence was worse than any words he could have said. Kreya struggled to push herself to sitting. “But what?”

  “She didn’t know what injured you . . .”

  Before he finished, Kreya realized where he was leading. “She was exposed to the venom. How badly? Is she awake?”

  He shook his head. “She hasn’t woken at all. You, we were able to feed, even when you were delusional. But Zera . . . If she doesn’t wake soon . . . I’m sorry, but there isn’t much we can do. There’s no cure for stone fish venom. The body either fights it off, or it doesn’t. And usually, it doesn’t.”

  “Amurra said Stran was recovering. She didn’t say anyone else had been hurt!” Kreya would have asked if she’d thought Zera was in danger, but the last time she’d seen her, she’d been fine. She hadn’t known to worry.

  “Amurra didn’t want to upset you.”

  “Help me to Zera,” Kreya commanded.

  “You need rest.”

  Kreya glared at him. “I’m giving you a look. Do you see me giving you a look? Carry me, if it makes you feel better.”

  “You’re impossible,” he told her, but he scooped her into his arms—she couldn’t tell if his arrow wound hurt him or not—and carried her, blanket and all, down the hall. He nudged open a door and carried her inside.

  It had been a laundry room, but the washing bucket was shoved to the side, the drying racks were empty, and a cot had been set up along one wall. Wrapped in blankets, Zera lay, breathing shallowly. Her face looked unlike itself, sunken and pale, without the bright spark of a sudden smile or eye roll.

  She needs to wake, Kreya thought.

  Gently, Jentt lowered Kreya onto the cot at Zera’s feet. Kreya tucked her own blanket around Zera, and Zera gave a sigh that was more of a moan, as if she were caught inside a bad dream.

  “This is your commander,” Kreya said, “and I’m ordering you to get better. Do you hear me, Zera? You have no choice. You’re going to wake up.”

  She heard a shuffling from the doorway and glanced over to see that Stran and Marso had joined them. They crowded into the tiny room.

  “Zera, we’re here,” Kreya said, softer. “Your friends are here with you, and we need you to wake up. Can you hear me, Zera? We need you.” Leaning over, she took her friend’s hand. Jentt sat on the side of the cot and took her other hand. Stran put a hand on her shoulder, and Marso touched her forehead. “Can you feel us, Zera? This time, none of us left you. We’re here, and we won’t ever leave you again. Come back to us. Please!”

  She didn’t open her eyes.

  But Kreya didn’t stop pleading with her. Amurra brought broth. The others drifted in and out, but Kreya and Jentt stayed. They took turns talking to Zera, encouraging her to wake. At last, they both fell silent, with Kreya lying beside her on the cot and Jentt on the floor.

  When she woke, Jentt was still asleep.

  And Zera had worsened.

  Kreya listened to Zera breathe in gasps that stuttered, stopped, and then, eventually, painfully resumed. Each breath sounded shallow, and each time Zera’s breath hitched, Kreya instinctively held her own breath, as if that would force her friend to keep living.

  Gray predawn light filtered through the high window, and Kreya studied Zera’s face. Her cheeks were sunken and gray, and her lips were tinged with blue.

  She’s not going to wake, Kreya thought.

  Soon, her breath would stutter, and she wouldn’t be able to draw another one.

  Reaching out, Kreya touched Zera’s cheek. Her skin felt clammy and much too hot. A fever was raging inside of her, and it wasn’t getting better. “Please,” Kreya whispered. She didn’t know who she was begging anymore.

  Whatever was inside Kreya that had enabled her to survive the stone fish venom, Zera, like ninety percent of people, didn’t have that ability. She was going to die, and Kreya couldn’t bring her back. With Eklor and his army on the plains, she didn’t have access to enough human bones, even if she’d had the future years to spare. I’d give it to you, Kreya thought. All I have left.

  If only Zera had been the one with immunity, instead of Kreya . . . Zera didn’t deserve this. She’d been loyal and strong and brave beyond anything she’d ever had to be. She had built herself her own life, all on her own, while Kreya had locked herself away, and then Zera had chosen to leave that life and all its comforts and successes for the sake of her friends.

  “I’m sorry,” Kreya whispered.

  This shouldn’t have been happening. It wasn’t fair.

  “It should have been me,” she whispered. “I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, if I could.” Lightly, she touched Zera’s forehead, cheek, and lips with her fingertips.

  How could she ever say goodbye?

  “It should be me.” And then a thought—an impossible thought—blossomed inside her. “It could be me.”

  The spell to resurrect Jentt . . . There were variants. She’d read about Eklor’s speculations in his journals, and she’d spent time speculating on her own. Years, in fact, of trying to understand the forbidden magic that would bring Jentt back to her. The theory of the magic behind the spell had two interpretations: In one, when she’d worked the magic on Jentt, she’d given a part of her life to him. But in another, she’d taken a part of his death into herself.

  Huh.

  If she adapted the spell just right . . . she could take Zera’s illness i
nto herself.

  Kreya had already fought the poison once. She could do it again. Maybe. Her body still felt weak, and a second exposure could be fatal. But “could be” for her was much better than “would be” for Zera. I might die, but Zera certainly will if I do nothing.

  “I’ll take that risk,” she whispered.

  There was, however, one problem.

  Well, there were many problems, but only one that mattered: to work any forbidden magic like this, it required human bone. She wouldn’t need as much of it as she had for Jentt, since Zera still lived, for now. Just a shard of bone, a couple inches.

  A finger bone, like she’d stolen from the dead girl in Eren.

  Eyes glued to Zera’s gray face, Kreya listened to her breath. And she listened to Jentt, lightly snoring on the floor. She hoped he’d forgive her for this. She hoped she’d survive for him to yell at her. She’d happily listen to days of his unhappiness, if this worked.

  Carefully, she maneuvered herself on the bed so she could reach down to Jentt’s waist. She withdrew his knife. He always kept it so beautifully sharp. The edge glinted in the predawn light.

  She laid her left hand on the bedside table, spread her fingers, and raised the knife. She steadied her breath. Cleared her mind. “Sorry for the mess, Amurra,” Kreya said.

  And then she, in one hard swift stroke, sliced her own finger off.

  Pain spread up her arm, as fast and terrible as lightning.

  Hissing between her teeth, she wrapped her hand in a bedsheet, tying it tourniquet-tight. It continued to throb, so hard that her vision swam and then blackened.

  Briefly, she lost consciousness. She didn’t know for how long. Seconds, she hoped. The blood was still bright red and wet. And Jentt still slept beside her. She had managed not to cry out, which was good. Now, to complete the rest.

  Pressing her severed pinkie finger against Zera’s chest, she whispered, “Give me your pain, give me your poison, give me your rot, give me your sorrow. Iri nascre, evert sai enrara. Iri prian, evert sai ken fa. Iri sangra sheeva lai. Ancre evert sai enrara. Sai enrara ray.”