Page 100 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

No limbs broken, nothing that demands stitching, though there are a few deep cuts that will need some treatment. Shallow breathing, but not pained, not struggling. As carefully as I can I lift her shirt, just high enough to check her ribs. Ugly red splotching as big as my hand is already blooming on one side, but on the surface of the skin. So something to be aware of, but the curve of her ribcage looks unchanged. She’d probably had the breath knocked out of her when she hit the ground. Possibly hit her head as well.

Her vertebracelets had helped shield her arms, though a couple of the bones look cracked. Having no idea what she would do about the fractures, I make a quick decision, tearing a length of cloth from my tattered cloak and binding them as I would have a living person’s breaks. Rocking back on my heels, I take a long moment, studying her as carefully as I’m able to in the scant light of the pit. Some uneasy storm still fills my lungs; I’m missing something important to Wren. And if it’s important to Wren, then it’s vital to me.

Starting at the top again, I repeat everything even more slowly, featherlight fingers tracing the lines of her skull beneath her hair. It only takes a moment before I touch something hard, tangled in the elf-locks on her head. Several minutes of fumbling and frustration pass before I’m able to completely loosen the bones from her hair and pull them around to the front of her body. They wind around her throat, then lay in a straight line down her chest. Her Protector. Silas’s friend.

I’m sure there’s noise from above, the thunder of the mountain, the screams of the people, but all I can hear is the scratch of my breath, the pulse in my veins.Think, Rannoch. Think. You aremissingsomething.Casting my mind back, I desperately search for the times I’d seen her interact with him. Carefully moving her hands from her sides, I weave the necklace through her fingers, wrapping them as though with ribbon. The blood from her scraped palms coats the bones, shimmering wetly even in the gloom of the cavern, and then…it’s gone. Memory surges forward in my mind, pushing everything else to the side. A cold voice from Wren’s mouth, speaking for her and to her, saying things that Silas and I did not understand.

“He has been off you too long. You are already bleeding. It is necessary.”

And the recollection of her face going through the Bone Arch, how tightly she’d gripped her necklace with crimson skin.

Staring down at her still face, I swallow back nausea. Not at the choices she’d made, but the one I’m about to make, hoping against hope that it’s the right one, that I’m not about to violate something sacred, that she’ll forgive me for seeing two paths and choosing the darker one. And then, not giving myself time to reconsider, I reach down to the few cuts that are deep enough to be damp with blood, and cover my hands until they feel like I’ve washed them in a village pool. Breath shallow, nostrils flaring, I try desperately to focus only on her necklace. Over and over I coat any piece of ivory I can see, sick to my stomach, throat tight. Over and over the necklace turns white as it dries, seeming to take handfuls, pitchers, rivers of blood. And still it won’t stay red. Choking, trembling, I roughen her cuts where they’re drying, hating myself even as I pull more blood to the surface.

I’m almost to the point of giving up, horrified with myself and my actions, when her necklace finally, finally remains wet, a crimson band on her skin, matching the prints on her pale eyelids. Collapsing back into the unforgiving wall behind me, I stare at my shuddering hands, stained and soaking. How could you, Rannoch? Howcouldyou?

“What…what are you doing?” There’s so much shock and horror in the words it takes me longer than it should to realize they aren’t thoughts in my head, but spoken out loud, and I look up to meet the cold, suspicious gaze of the Miller. I don’t know how to answer, what to say that would excuse the sight of me hovering over her, washed crimson with her blood, but am saved the trouble when the world began to cave in around us, rocks hurtling through the opening above us at unrelenting speed. Tahrik lurches forward, grabbing Wren from the ground, cradling her in tender arms. Moving as one, we rush toward a curved opening in the groaning wall; seconds after stumbling through it into a low tunnel, light and life disappear behind us in an avalanche of dust and stone. We have been staggering forward since in timeless darkness and unremitting fear.

In front of me, Wren’s small growl of anger yanks me from my reverie.

“Wren?” I am careful to keep my voice low, trying not to startle her, but she jumps slightly anyway. “Are you…do you need help?”

She sighs in frustration. “Yes, but not from you.” Her voice changes slightly, warms just enough to let me know that she’s not talking to me anymore, and it causes a strange, biting sensation in my stomach. “I don’t have a choice, Protector,” she murmurs almost fondly, quiet even in the stillness. “Desperate times and all that.” The gnawing continues, and I frown.Bones can’t kiss a woman, can’t lick the juice of a vibrant fruit from her lips. I have tasted something he will never have. And he is her…friend, I suppose. Be kind.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost miss the moment she grabs her Guiding Knife and slices it along her palm. Tahrik cries out in protest, but it’s too late by half, darkness welling up on her trembling hand. Pressing the Knife in, she rotates it slightly, coating the blade on both sides before exhaling sharply and slumping against the wall. Tahrik is at her side instantly, offering his flask, which she takes gratefully.

“That way,” she nods towards the left, shivering as a cold air skitters out from its depths, raising little ripples on her skin. She jerks slightly, a single drop of blood falling from her hand to the floor. Deep in the shadows of the opposite corridor, there is a longing rumble, almost a moan, but the other two don’t seem to hear it.

The Miller looks doubtful. “You’re sure, Wren?” he asks, valiantly trying to keep the skepticism from his voice. Her answering laugh is almost desperate.

“AmIsure? No. But it’s the way the Knife pulls. Give me a moment. I’m still bleeding, and it would be a shame to waste it.” A pause, a smile in her voice. “Don’t argue. It’s pointless.”

Lorcan. Again Lorcan.

Glancing at us she hesitates, then unwinds the bones from her neck and runs her hand along them until they glisten, even in the darkness.

“Wren?...” Tahrik sounds ill, voice shaking. “What? Why?” He doesn’t know the right question to ask, and wouldn’t get an answer anyway, judging by the way her shoulders tighten. Staring at him, jawtense, she raises a single brow, but empties her face of emotion in the way she does when she is hurt inside.

I don’t like it, don’t like when she hides herself from us, so I swallow back the words that are pushing from my mouth, relax my body, force my tone to casual blandness. “Would any blood do? If…the next time you have to…I’m happy to act in your stead, if it helps. We can share the…the need?”

A flicker of surprise darts across her face, like a flower unfolding, and satisfaction surges through me. “I…it…”. Glancing down at her Guiding Knife, she stares at it for what feels like an eternity. “I truly don’t know, Rannoch. But we can try. For the Blade. If you’re willing.” Ignoring the unintentional emphasis she puts on the wordblade, I nod.Rannoch. Not Councilman.It’s a step forward; the relief I feel at hearing my name from at leastoneof them is surprising.

“Ready, willing, and able, Wren. Just not my dagger hand.”

“Wren…” Tahrik murmurs under his breath, and I frown. Since he saw me curved over her body, hands red, face devastated, he’s been incessant, taking every opportunity to cast doubt my actions. “Are you sure? He’s?—”

“What?” I snap out against my better judgment, but this can’t continue if we’re traveling together. It’s been nothing but careful words and simmering suspicion from him since we first entered these godless tunnels, and just existing at the moment is enough to drain me of energy. His neverending sideways glances, the quiet muttering between the two of them — it’s driving me mad. “Whatam I?” Scrubbing a tired hand over my dry eyes, I inhale sharply before sighing. “Peace, Miller.” They exchange a glance that holds paragraphs. It can’t be them on one side and me on the other for this entire journey, wherever it leads. “For the love of all that’s good in the world,peace. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together, and you’reexhaustingme. Both of you, ask your questions if it will make you feel more at ease, and I’ll answer what I’m able to. But ask them openly. Enough with the hushed voices.”

He stares at me for long enough that I’m close to screaming, thenfinally blurts out, “Why are youhere?” Wariness and frustration are bright in his words.

“Why areyouhere?” I counter instantly, hackles rising.

“Wren,” he answers simply, and I tilt my head in answer. Slow realization floods his face with something akin to anger, the first sign of any real life I’ve seen from this placid, uncooked pile of dough. A creeping sort of resentment flutters along my skin, like blood moth wings, and I smirk at the expression on his face.

“Something to say,Miller?” I hiss, one hand drifting to my dagger as he stands slowly, rolling his shoulders. Even in the darkness I note that years of working the millstone have left him with muscle, and I grin. It will be more of a fair fight than I originally thought.

“Oh, Councilman. So much to say it would fill a book and then some.” I haven’t heard his minstrel voice so sharp before, and mimic him as he drops into a ready stance.

“Ah, ah, ah, Miller,” I caution mockingly. “Be sure you know how to use your instrument before you join this chorus.”

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