Page 11 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

I am about to answer him when the bones call out sharply.Keeper! Keeper!and I shake my head, elf-locks echoing out a wooden sound from the bone fragments entangled in my hair. Tahrik looks briefly alarmed, then nods in understanding, quickly disappearing from the curve of the Garden, turning the far corner just as a Protector enters the small clearing from behind me. I do not move, don’t turn around, but call to greet him, the Living Bones trailing down my back letting me know which of the Council’s guards has come for me.

“Ollendar.” It is not a question, not a welcome, just a statement. Of the Council’s Protectors, he is not one I actively dislike, but I would not willingly seek any of them out. Before…before, the Protectors were like family to our people. They were forus, not the Council. Things have changed, though, and I would no sooner trust a Protector than kiss an adder. There is a gentle, but mirthful, protest from the bone necklace running down my spine, and I can’t bite back a quick grin, sending a silent apology to the line of living fingers and teeth.

I forgot for a moment,I whisper to his bones.Forgive me.

His answering emotion is wry, and, for my bone Protector, surprisingly amused.Kiss the adder over Ollendar,he murmurs back, a rare verbal response. And then, more seriously,I do not trust him.

Two full sentences? You’re positively loquacious today, Lorcan.I tease him gently, but sense him frown, so immediately heed my Protector. If Lorcan doesn’t trust his old friend, then I will not either, andmentally move Ollendar from the list of “annoying but tolerable” to “be cautious”.

“You’re needed.” The words are bitten out, sharp and edged.

Turning, surprise clear in my movements, I raise a single brow at his tone, and focus my white eyes unerringly on his tense form.

“Apologies. BoneKeeper.” He inclines his head, hands pressed before him. “The Council calls for you to attend. If you are not otherwise occupied.”Ah. They must have realized how loose they left my leash.

Sighing, I shrug. I have no choice, not really. Unless the bones command me, the Council’srequestis my law. Running a hopeful hand along the white wall, I send a quick thought to them, but they all shiver and rattle, loudly enough that my head whips around to face them in alarm. My sudden fear puts Ollendar on guard, his body tensing, hand dropping to his sword as he looks for the threat.

The bones want me to go with him, but cry out from all around me in a confusing cacophonyYou must go Keeper. Be watchful, be wary. Be watchful, be wary.There is change coming, Keeper. The End or the Ender. Stay close to the bones. Keep close to the Knife. Wear the Crown. The End or the Ender.It is rare for the bones to speak so clearly of things outside of their memories unless to warn me of danger, and their cold voices scrape along my skin like teeth made of ice.

“Coming, Ollendar,” I reply, voice level and blank, as always when I speak, no hint of dawning dread audible. But when he turns, I move my bone knife forward on my belt, and pull the living bone strands in my hair forward over my shoulders. It is not my Guiding Blade, but is reminiscent enough that it provides some comfort of protection.

We are here, Keeper,they whisper.You are not alone. We are here.

Running my fingers along their smooth surfaces, I take dark comfort in their words. They are here. They are always here.

And I am never,never, alone.

TO THE SCHOOLHOUSE

WREN

The rest of yesterday was a slow decay of time, sitting in a corner like a tame bird, listening to old men ask each other unanswerable questions. It’s a brutally stupid game they’re playing, wasting valuable hours until the hunters return with the Father and the other two Councilmen. They’re so consumed with their own power and privilege that the thought of losing even an inch of what they have stolen has turned them into a nervous little rabbit kits. So they do what they always do, whittle away my time with meaningless moments,needingmy presence without ever asking my input. They kept me so long that night’s fingertips almost grazed the front door by the time they released me with smirking, self-satisfied faces.

I spent most of the meeting as I usually do, tuning them out and losing myself in the memories that surrounded me. They had unintentionally chosen my favorite room in the Council House for the session; the corner with my small chair is ribboned with the bones of a group of minstrels from the time before, who were Guided by the first BoneKeeper in the time after, and whenever I am there, I sink into their strange songs, feeling a world away from the present. The bones in the Council House always pull extra hard at me because I see them so rarely, so it was as easy as breathingto step into their music.

Although, disturbingly, for the first time, it was surprisingly difficult to come back to myself.

The feeling of fighting against them to regain my own body was…unnerving.

It stayed with me all night, crawling along my sleepless skin, curling like smoke in the air. And, in the dark, the whispers of the bones near the Children’s Garden hung as noiseless echoes in my room.Be watchful, be wary. There is change coming.By the time the sky starts to lighten, my head is heavy and heart unsettled. Putting on my armor with unusual haste, I waste water, washing, and washing, and washing again, until the cool, sharp herbal scent has cleared my mind. I need…I need to step away from the bones, just until I feel wholly in myself again.

It is early, too early for the Council to have risen and found new ways to make my life a misery, so I take a chance and wander the waking village quietly, watching the faces of the people. When I look out at the town through a stranger’s eyes, I can see all the things I miss as BoneKeeper. There is music, and noise, and happiness even in the smallest things. When you do not have much, you learn to be thankful for any gift. And you celebrate life in a different way than those who have grown bored and corpulent from luxury. Not every day can be spent fearing the coming Storms, or waiting for the Vengeance to be paid. Life pushes through even the driest lands, tiny, pale green tendrils finding a way to grow. And so it is here. Something that is easy for me to forget when I spend too much time with death.

Just outside the First Gate, a woman near my age is opening the window of a quaint shop with black and white curtains, laughing and holding the small, pudgy hand of a young child trailing after her. Glancing down at my own fingers, I rub them together, picturing a tiny, dimpled hand reaching for mine, and dream a little of what my life would be like if I were not bound to bone as I am. I would wear a patterned woolen skirt with a dusty red apron, hands worn from bread and chores, and smile at the little things, like the smell of a flower or the soft curve of a baby's cheek. And, perhaps, though it is as much of a wish as pure water, someone to love me. Loveme, formyself — not admire because my position, or hold me in awe on a dais, or listen to me only to hear bone. Just someone who wants my words for themselves, my own thoughts, my own feelings. My heart lurches in a painful stutter.Who would listen to you? What do you have to say of interest if not for the bones?And it is true — it is hard to separate myself from them. All of my stories are their stories, all of my words their words.

An uneasy feeling of rebellion surges in my stomach.If I am nothing but an empty vessel for the Gods, why do I have preferences, favorites, dreams…I would have none of these things if I were not someone outside of what I have beenmadeto be.The bones around me in the gate warm under my fingers, and I pull my hand from them, frowning. A passing villager skitters away from my dark look, and I sigh.Why are people so scared of me lately?Wracking my brain, I try to think through the last few weeks, or months, to find something that I’m missing, but the waking bones around me keep interrupting with mindless chattering about Harvest Month celebrations from their own youths, making it difficult to concentrate. One of them, a teacher, I assume, from her sing-song voice, starts chanting the Third Lesson, and it sparks an idea in my head. Touching her in a fond “thank you”, I leave the main road, and quietly drift off through the Second Gate toward the Second village School, leaving the slowly opening shops and streets behind me.

I can hear the children’s giggling as I approach the stone-built schoolhouse, an old, black building that is more menacing than welcoming, but which, for some reason, most of the children who live in the second ring love. Here, our young are required to attend school during the spring and summer months, through their milk-teeth and no longer. In the winter the parents trapped inside with their little ones handle things like reading, music, and simple math. Our school is mainly for husbandry, agriculture, history, and social studies. It has changed over the years; in the bones’ memories school was very different than it is now. But there is little use to musical composition if you can’t fix your plow, so necessity overtakes luxury in our world.

The teacher inside rings a soft bell, a gentle echo of the Council’slouder one, and from the far end of the building, maybe forty older boys and girls rush inside. I’m not good at guessing, but they look like the school’s oldest class, full of ten and eleven year olds, long limbed and gangly, still growing into themselves.

“Settle! Settle!” The teacher is laughing, soothing, and I take a moment to lean against the wall and listen through the open windows. I never attended courses here, and something deep inside my soul shivers in painful longing, before I am able to quiet it.

“What’s today, Miss? Is it boring?” A brazen, high-pitched voice calls out the question, and it startles me in a way. I don’t have much interaction with the young here other than speaking to them for the bone, and it is surprising to hear how…how full oflifethey sound.

“History, to start! So not boring at all, unless death and dismemberment makes you yawn!” The teacher is far too cheerful if she is to discuss our history. But she continues in the same, chirping way, a strange counterpoint to the blood and bone that lines the long pathway to our village. “OrI ammorethan happy to review the benefits of pearl millet with you!” The class groans in response. “That’s what I thought,” she replies smugly. “Let’s begin…”

THE BIRTH OF THE BONES

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