The Bonemender's Choice

by Holly Bennett

  But though Turga cared little for law, his personal scruples were ironclad. He would not pressure an artist of her caliber. He offered a hand and raised Yolenka to her feet, turned and poured two generous glasses of wine and held one out.

  “Magnificent. It was everything you promised and more. Riko must have been very upset at losing you.” He placed the glass into her hand and waggled the other at the musician seated against the wall. “Here, tell him he is welcome. Though I must say his talent is not a match to your own.”

  Yolenka grinned and winked. “I threw him a few surprises tonight. He does well enough when he is better rehearsed.”

  She tossed back half the wine, glided over until she was almost—but not quite—touching Turga and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I thought I might surprise him again, and send him back without me,” she whispered. “I thought we might like to be better acquainted.”

  “We might indeed,” Turga agreed. “Perhaps he would like to take his wine with him.”

  Another blinding private smile, and Yolenka was pacing across the room to—what was the man’s name? Faylor, Faylon, something like that.

  Turga watched the exchange that followed with amused interest. The musician was not happy—that much was clear. He argued with Yolenka, quietly at first and then more heatedly. She tossed her head and spoke sharply. The man spread out his arms in protest or supplication, but Yolenka brushed him off like a serving boy and turned her back on him.

  “He’s worried about your man, no doubt,” offered Turga. “Aren’t you?”

  “Who, Dominic?” She gave a snort of laughter. “Dom will be deep in his own goblet by now. If by some unlikely chance he isn’t, Féolan will see to it. My husband won’t know if I return at moonrise or sunrise.”

  Turga chuckled in approval and slipped an arm around Yolenka’s waist.

  The musician gave her one last despairing look. She flapped her hand at him, shooing him off.

  And they were alone.

  RELUCTANTLY, GABRIELLE PULLED herself away from the silent unseen battle raging in Madeleine’s throat and eased her awareness back into the world. If Dominic did come, she needed to be alert. It wouldn’t do to be caught in a dazed half-trance.

  She didn’t like to leave Madeleine, though. The infection had spread, and it was strong. It had taken Gabrielle all this time just to build a ring of protective light around the edges of the darkened patches that marked the boundaries of its encroachment and to push it back the tiniest bit.

  And even then, even with the infection contained, Gabrielle could feel Madeleine growing weaker. Some other force was at work that Gabrielle did not understand. The girl’s pulse had become rapid and faint, and she was very pale.

  Perhaps she should keep working. There was a good chance Dom would not attempt the rescue tonight anyway.

  “Matthieu,” she said, “keep your ears open. If you hear anything unusual at all—even just footsteps on the stairs—you wake me up right away, all right?”

  She could just see Matthieu’s nod in the scanty candlelight. “Is my dad coming?”

  “It’s possible,” said Gabrielle. “The time may not be right. But if the plan falls into place, we are going to get you out tonight.”

  She did not add that, to her knowledge, there was no actual plan.

  “GODS OF THE DEEP, what kept you?” Dominic had been pacing the confines of their room since nightfall. No bells or horns marked the passage of time here, but it seemed to Dominic that Yolenka could have performed three dances since she and Féolan had left for Turga’s chambers.

  Dominic peered behind Féolan. “Where’s Yolenka?”

  Féolan’s mouth tightened. “Both questions have the same answer, but it had better wait. We should get moving.”

  They made their way through the fortress, not sneaking exactly but doing their best to avoid notice. Féolan filled Dominic in under this breath.

  “I cannot guess what she is up to,” he concluded.

  “You don’t suppose she means to betray us?” asked Dominic. It was his first alarmed thought, but he could not believe it of her. Not after all she had done to help them.

  Féolan shook his head. “She will not give us away, I am sure of it. Perhaps she means to deflect Turga’s attention.”

  They paused in the shadow of a hallway while two servants bustled past with jugs of wine and a platter of food. Then Féolan continued.

  “Dominic—she said if she wasn’t back in time, we should leave without her.”

  Dominic did not reply. They were close now to the stairway Gabrielle had described, and his thoughts were all on his children and the task at hand.

  “That’s it?” He nodded to the shadowed stairwell at the far end of the hall.

  Féolan nodded. “You sure you don’t want me to go up first?”

  Only Féolan was light-footed enough to creep up the stairs and take the guard by surprise. But it sat ill with Dominic to send another to do his work, especially work as unpleasant as this. He shook his head.

  “No—let’s stick to the plan.”

  And they started up the stairs, making no attempt to hide their footfalls.

  The guard who met them at the top did not seem overly alarmed. He laid his sword across the doorway to bar their way and spoke to them amiably enough in Tarzine. Féolan replied with the words he had practiced.

  “We need to speak to the remedy woman.”

  The man shook his head emphatically. Dominic couldn’t follow what he said, but his gestures were clear enough—he pointed behind him, presumably to the room where the children were being held and clutched at his neck and pointed into his open mouth.

  Féolan nodded patiently and spoke more words in halting Tarzine. Dominic heard the name “Turga.” Silently he eased back his coat and wrapped his hand around the knife hasp. If the man didn’t buy their story, they would have to overpower him.

  The guard stared at Féolan for a long moment and stepped back slowly. He walked them a few steps down the dark hallway and gestured toward a door. He was not about to go closer.

  The two men made as if to walk on past the guard. Dom steeled himself as he drew up level to the man. He had never killed in cold deliberation before. He hoped to all the gods he wouldn’t have to this time. But if the technique Gabrielle had suggested didn’t work, and fast, he would have no other choice. His left arm snaked out around the guard’s neck and wrenched the man backward off his feet. His right hand pressed his opponent’s head forward while his left arm squeezed. Pray heaven he was pressing on the right spots, he thought, as the man thrashed and kicked...and then slumped against him. Amazing. Who would have thought a bonemender would know such things?

  “Count a slow five once he passes out,” Gabrielle had said. “Much more, and you risk killing him. You’re cutting off the heart paths that send blood to his brain.”

  Dominic gave it six-and-a-half. That wasn’t “much” more, and they could not afford for this fellow to recover his wits too soon. Féolan was ready with a gag and rope. Trussed securely, with his mouth stuffed like a goose, the guard would be unable to raise much of an alarm.

  It was the work of a moment to unclip the key ring from the guard’s belt, and an agonizing age before he found the right key and was inside at last. And then Matthieu was pressed against him and Dominic bent down and lifted him high into his arms like he had when Matthieu was a little boy, held him tight and close while Matthieu wrapped his legs around his waist and wept into his neck.

  “I knew you’d come for us. I told Maddy you’d find a way. I knew it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BY THE TIME DOMINIC was able to pull his attention away from his son, Féolan had dragged the guard into the far corner of the cell and was working on the manacle clamped around Madeleine’s ankle. The delicate skin there was chafed raw, and the sight affected Dominic more deeply than anything so far. With a low cry of anger, he started toward the end of her bed.

  Gabrielle�
��s hand on his shoulder restrained him.

  “Dom.”

  He turned, his anger jumping like lightning from the pirates to his sister. Just for a moment. Her serious sympathetic face cooled him instantly.

  “That’s the least of Madeleine’s problems right now. We need to get her to safety, where I can help her.”

  Dominic’s eyes went to his daughter’s face. He had thought her asleep, but saw now it wasn’t so. She was watching him, not with the round, bright eyes he was used to but through half-opened heavy lids. He sank to his knees beside her.

  “Sweetheart.”

  A ghost of a smile. “Dada.” Her baby name for him, whispered on a puff of foul breath.

  She was very sick, Dominic realized, worse than Gabrielle had reported that afternoon. How had she sunk so low with his sister by her side? He had thought Gabrielle could heal anything, but even her mysterious powers must have their limits. A knife-twist of fear stabbed his belly.

  “Hah!” Dominic hadn’t heard the click that signaled Féolan’s success, but he heard the Elf ‘s satisfied sigh and the clank of the manacle hitting the ground. Madeleine was free.

  They must go. Dominic pulled his wits together and explained their plan.

  “Matthieu, can you do it?” he concluded. “It could be hard, if there’s a delay or we get questioned. You must stay still and silent, even if it’s hot or itchy or...”

  Matthieu cut him off. “I know what to do,” he said, “and I’m used to being hot and itchy. Let’s get away from here.”

  Féolan and Gabrielle had already spread out the first blanket. Without another word, Matthieu lay down in the middle and folded his arms. Féolan bent to wrap him up.

  “Wait,” said Matthieu. “That’s not how they do it here.” How did he know, wondered Dominic, but both the press of time and Matthieu’s suddenly closed face kept him from asking. He watched as his son flipped over to his stomach diagonal on the blanket, and directed Féolan to fold over first the head and foot, then the sides of the blanket. “Now turn me over and tie the sides in front, over my stomach,” his muffled voice instructed.

  It chilled Dominic to see his son shrouded like a corpse. Tempting fate, the country folk would call it. But necessity trumped superstition, and he bent to the rough bundle and hoisted it into his arms.

  “Okay in there, Matthieu?”

  Féolan had offered to carry Madeleine. “I do not have Gabrielle’s power, but I can lend her some strength or soothe her if she is restless.”

  If she is restless we are lost, thought Dominic. And if Yolenka is not waiting for us, ready to talk them past the guards...What then?

  ANY MINUTE SOMEONE would wonder why he was standing by the caravan with the mule in the middle of the night. Derkh had long since done as much as he could to ready things without being obvious. The spare swords were unpacked and handy; their essential belongings were stowed. The mule’s harness was laid out on the floor of the wagon. The forge and anvil he left set up outside, as if ready for use the next day. He had gone for the mule before nightfall, returning a piece of tack he had repaired that day, ambling to the mule’s stall, giving her an apple and a grooming, and leading her out as if (he hoped) he was just giving her some air and exercise. After a nominal walk about the grounds, he tethered her by the caravan.

  There he waited, trying to act as if he had some business out there. The night grew dark and cool—a relief to Derkh’s hot skin, which was red and taut from the constant sun. The moon rose. Surely Yolenka’s dance was well over by now. The night crept on. The grounds were empty now but for the odd straggler heading late to his bed.

  Derkh’s alert readiness was slowly replaced by alarm. They should be here by now. If something went wrong in the fortress, how would he know? Maybe they needed help, and he should go in.

  He was halfway across the grounds when the doors opened and he saw them. They were walking, not running, and no guards followed or yelled after them. It had worked out, then.

  Derkh checked his impulse to run to meet them. He shouldn’t look like he was expecting them. He waited—and as they made their way across the dusty yard to him he noticed something. His belly did a slow clench.

  “Okay, you can hitch up the mule,” said Dominic as he drew near. “We’ll lay the children down in the caravan.”

  But Derkh stood motionless, caught up in his own foreboding.

  “Where’s Yolenka?”

  ALL WAS IN READINESS, and still Yolenka had not come. Each passing moment increased the chance that Turga would hear of their leaving or the jailed guard be discovered.

  Dominic took Féolan aside and spoke low in his ear.

  “Can you do this, Féolan, without her?”

  They had done nothing but motion to the bundled bodies at the door of the fortress and the guards had waved them through in hasty alarm. They knew who Gabrielle was and what she was doing in that upper room.

  The gatehouse would be different. Who came and went through Turga’s outer walls was closely watched.

  Féolan was already trying to put together the Tarzine words in his mind. He thought back through the conversations he had overheard, especially those between Yolenka and Turga. Had they never used the word “death” or “dead”?

  Something tugged at the edge of memory. Gabrielle had pulled a long festering piece of decking from a sailor’s foot. The pirate had said something, laughing harshly, to Yolenka, words that had meant little to Féolan at the time. Now the meaning came clear: “Thought I was like to die from a damn splinter.”

  “I’ll do my best, Dominic,” he replied. He didn’t bother to add the obvious: that Yolenka would do it much better. Instead he glanced back to where Derkh stood, his eyes trained on the fortress.

  “I’ll tell Derkh.”

  DERKH HAD KNOWN in his bones they would be leaving without her from the moment he realized she had not come out with the others. He cut Féolan off before he could start, his voice bleak.

  “We have to leave. I know.”

  It had been a long time since Derkh had had to call on the harsh self-discipline instilled in him since childhood. He called on it now, every ounce and drop of it, to turn his back on the woman he loved. They had come to save the children. He would not be the one to endanger them.

  Just let her be safe, he prayed. I won’t ask more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  YOLENKA’S GOLDEN EYES WERE PITILESS as she stared down at the man dying on the floor. He thrashed and retched. A thin greenish foam collected in the corners of his mouth. She was already too late to join the group, she knew. It was the price. She was sorry about Derkh—but she had waited long, long years to watch this man’s death, and she would not cut it short by one breath.

  More than ten years, it was, since her little sister had been taken by Turga’s men. Aliri was not fiery and strong like her big sister, but a delicate and gentle soul. Yolenka still remembered her mother’s sobbing broken voice as she told how she had screamed and fought to get to her daughter, how Aliri had wailed in terror as she was carried off. The man who had pulled the little girl onto his horse struck her so violently to silence her that her head snapped nearly off its stalk; the blood had trickled from her mouth and she had slumped limp across the saddle. That was the sight that tortured her mother’s memory ever after.

  It should have been me, Yolenka had thought to herself. If I had not gone off to train with Riko, they would have taken me. Or if they took us both, I could have looked after her. For years she carried this guilty misery in her soul. And then, overnight it seemed, the guilt was transformed into hate.

  She had purchased the poison in secret years ago and carried it with her for so long she was afraid it had lost its potency. Apparently not. Turga was taking some time to die, but there seemed little doubt that he would. Cautious though he was, Turga was like most men: a few kisses, a little wine, and he lost his sense of danger. It had been easy to take a turn pouring the drinks, to flick open the tiny chamber in her ri
ng and add the murky liquid hidden within. Yolenka would have shared the drink with him to assuage his fears if it had come to that, but it had not. He had reached for the wine greedily, and now he lay before her, racked with convulsions and growing steadily more feeble.

  Yolenka bent close to his ear. “Do you hear me, Turga? Do your ears work still?” His eyes rolled at her, but he made no reply. He had all he could do just to draw breath.

  She spat, square in his face. “This is for my sister. And this”— she straightened and kicked him, hard, putting all her dancer’s muscle behind it—”is for all the other children you have robbed of their lives.”

  She waited until he was dead and then dragged him under the puffy splendor of his silk covers, on his side, face to the wall. With a pillow tucked tenderly under his head, he looked comfortable enough. If she was lucky, his death might not be discovered until late morning.

  She muttered a brief prayer to the Great Mother of All. Muki had her Vengeful Guise, like all mothers. If the Mother’s blessing stayed with her, Yolenka thought she had a good chance of being well away by dawn.

  “WHERE’S THIS LOT going, so late at night?”

  The head guard, Rayf, called his mates away from their reneñas to the gatehouse window overlooking the courtyard.

  “My turn, mind,” muttered Cavran, reluctant to leave the game. They all three watched the peddlers’ mule, heavy caravan in tow, plod across the yard toward the gate. There was nothing for it but to go out and meet them.

  Two men sat up front with the reins. A third paced beside the wagon. Where was the dancing girl, wondered Cavran? As far as he’d heard, the rest were foreigners, with hardly a word of Tarzine between them. He considered offering to translate, as he had on ship with those kids—and held off. Let them sweat a bit first, he thought, trying to talk their way out of here. Might be worth a laugh.

  The tall one answered the challenge and spoke the words clearly enough.