Page 129 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

WREN

The water is as cold as it was yesterday, but the heat of the day is rising rather than fading, and I lose myself for a few minutes, trying desperately not to think of what has been or what will be, only whatisin this singular second. It helps that the freezing river doesn’t leave much room for thought; I focus on the simplicity of scrubbing my skin, stripping off my outer layers in quick succession, leaving my undershirt and shorts. For a brief, agonizing moment my mind flashes back to a lazy, happy day spent learning to swim beneath a tumbling fall, but I push it to the side, burying it deep until I can breathe again.

Knowing eyes are on me from some direction, I make sure Lorcan stays beneath my shirt, but brush him casually with my fingers as I loosen the wrap on my head that has been hiding my hair. Worry clenches my stomach when he is slow to respond; something close to terror seizes my throat at the sluggishness in his tone when he finally speaks.

Little Keeper?

He is confused and drifting, but istherestill. I haven’t lost him. Not yet. I have time to find enough space to anoint him; perhaps in the darkness tonight, wherever we settle. The thought of leaving him gothat long makes me uneasy, but I can’t think of how to do it any sooner. I know, with everything in me, if I pull my Guiding Knife from where it rests at my waist against my skin, that it would be taken from me. Tahrik left all my bones on me, but we are not in our home anymore, and the memory of Kaden’s initial response to my jewelry is enough to make me cautious.

Sleep, Lorcan,I whisper back.I was just checking on you.

He ebbs away without responding, and I know I’m running out of time.

Quickly now I duck my head beneath the rapid water, rinsing and rinsing again until all the dirt and dust from travel has been washed away, before wrapping it back in the cloth to keep it out of my way while doing the same to my face, the skin exposed on my arms, my legs. When I’m finally something close to clean, I turn and wade from the water, shivering, and wrap myself in the strange clothing as rapidly as possible. The shirt is easy enough, a loose fitting tunic that drops from an odd, broad leather collar at the throat to a flowing fabric at mid-thigh — softer than our wool in the village, but not as soft as the Traders’ cloth. Its sleeves tighten from elbow to wrist; if I were any larger my vertebracelets wouldn’t fit beneath it. Even as it is they press against the seams. There’s a harder binding full of buckles that goes over the top; I try to fasten it several times, but eventually give up, leaving them to hang. A thick, wide belt wraps and ties snuggly around the middle. I’m grateful for it, as it presses my Guiding Knife firmly to me and hides its edges beneath the folds of the cloth. And last are tight fitting, almost hard leather pants, difficult to pull on over damp skin. I fall twice trying, making every effort to ignore the quiet huff of amused sound from the hidden guard across the river.

The moment I’m fully dressed there’s a birdcall, and the bone-faced man reappears, head tilting curiously as he studies me for what feels like a year of time. “Well,” he finally says, clearly attempting to keep some unknown emotion from his voice, “none of that is correct.”

Frowning, I run my hands over my makeshift outfit. I’m oddly offended, which seems to be a special skill of the horned stranger.He’s entirely confusing, fluctuating from unexpected kindness to unearned anger in lurching steps. “I tried—” I begin, only to be interrupted by his stifled laugh, which he endeavors uselessly to disguise as a cough.

“It’s no judgment. But if you’ll allow me, I’ll assist.” Without waiting for an answer, he moves close to me, adjusting my tunic, rewrapping the belt, adding on and tying down the odd cross piece on my chest. His movements are rapid and practical, and though I feel a bit like a child’s doll being dressed, he never alarms me with his hands; in fact, he seems almost overly cautious, as though purposefully avoiding any hint of misinterpretation. One last pull on the strap crossing my chest tightens a surprised “Oof!” of sound from me, and it seems for all the world like he is grinning beneath his masque.

“It will loosen as we ride, sylph. But at the start it’s best to be snug. You can breathe, though?” He asks it casually, as though the answer won’t change the fit of the cross piece on my chest, but I nod anyway. “Good.” Pausing, he steps back and looks around consideringly, before sighing. “It won’t be comfortable for you no matter what, I think. We’re used to hours in the saddle and have no wagons other than those for supplies. None can be spared for human cargo. My mount can carry us both but it won’t be pleasant.” Humming softly under his breath, he continues to stare at me appraisingly, before nodding finally and turning away. Taking two steps, he pauses, then retraces his path until he’s next to me, and picks up my hand. “It’s pointless to have you stumble and fall on the way back to camp. Then I’m dealing with an injured mouse, not just a useless one.”

Only years of practice keep me from snapping back, from showing teeth, but after a beat I calm slightly. In some ways Iamuseless at the moment; this new world requires skills I’ve never acquired. There’s very little I can offer at the moment to assist in any way. I’ve never hunted, never ridden, can’t make a fire outside of the hearth — despite the way the words sting, it’s more because they’re true, and less because they’re unkind. Sighing, I relax my hand in his and let him lead me back to the camp.

“Thank you,” I offer quietly, surprising him I think, judging by the quick tilt of his head to look at me.

“For what, Huldra?”

Trying not to frown at the name, I grit my teeth before answering as peacefully as I’m able to. “For the many kindnesses you’ve shown me in a short time.”

His hand flexes around mine, pressing my fingers tightly together almost painfully, but I don’t react.

“I killed your friend. Not such a kindness, I think.” His voice is placid, but his grip belies his passivity.

There are shards of glass in my throat when I swallow, but I force the words out anyway. “It was not done in malice.”

“Even so.”

It’s like hewantsme to be mad at him, is anticipating what he will say when I scream, or cry, or fight him. And it would be the easy way, a choice that would give my heart false comfort and my anger focus. But false comfort is the first bloom in the Month of the Maiden, beautiful and poisonous. You fill your belly with food after months of aching hunger and for a lightning flash are content. But it curdles, curls deep in your stomach, and the fullness turns to flame, burning you from the inside. At some point the rains come, no matter how desperately you may wish them away. You either prepare and accept them, or they will hit you with a force a hundred times more vicious when they finally pour from the mountain.

Stopping, I pull him to a reluctant pause next to me. Raising my face to his, I keep my eyes blank and unseeing, looking just over his shoulder. I owe this stranger little, am unsure of my place and, to some degree, my safety. But Tahrik’s death isn’t a burden for him to bear; the wheels were set turning long before the blade entered his heart; I carry the full weight of Tahrik’s soul in my own. There is nothing left for this man to hold.

“It was not your fault,” I say as firmly as I am able, and though my voice trembles, the words are sincere. Lifting one of my hands, I rub my chest, trying to ease the stabbing pain at the memory of Tahrik’s wide eyes, of the horror that dawned on his face a heartbeat too late. “I’m not saying it to be…He was walking a path — it was not your fault.” The man just stares at me, and I sigh. “Trust that I would happily blame you if I could. It would ease something in me. Only, sometimes the first tile is knocked down long before the piece in front of you falls; there is no escaping it. I just—” My throat spasms, and I inhale sharply, biting my lip hard so the pain clears the way for words. “I just missed the moment where they started to topple. I didn’t realize…” Shaking my head, I can’t go on, and he doesn’t ask me to. He just turns and pulls me along, hand loose on mine. After a few steps his fingers tighten around mine, just once, in a soft squeeze and release that is meant, I think, to offer silent sympathy. I can’t be certain though, as nothing else changes about him, so I don’t respond.

The fire is almost dead by the time we return to the clearing; he gave me longer than the promised hour at the river. The rest of the camp is completely bare. There is no hint that we were ever here, other than the small, scorched ring of earth, and he glances at it, and then me.

“If you need to dry your hair or braid it, this is the last of time I can give you. No longer than enough to wring out some of the water and fasten it so it’s not blowing in my face the entire ride. If you have hair under that thing, in any case.”

Lifting my hand to my head, I realize that I still have cloth wrapped around it, and nod. “I’ll braid it quickly. You can put out the fire.”

He turns and pokes at the last of the coals with a stick as I pull the wrap from my head and begin combing through the tangled locks with my fingers, trying to smooth out the worst of it. From the woods there’s a harsh bark of sound, unlike any of the previous chirps and calls, and it whips the man’s head around in a split second, the last of the fire flaring behind him. It shows me in full, illuminating me completely for the first time, white hair, bruised skin, and he stares down at me in apparent shock, a hiss of sound escaping his mouth.

“It…it is not possible…” he says under his breath, and darts forward, a grooved knife appearing from nowhere, flashing in his hand. I rear back in fear, but he grabs me, and, like a bee sting, pushes the tip of his dagger into my skin. It is a pinprick, no more, but a thin trickle of my blood flows down the curves of the strange blade, pooling in a small, circular indent at the bottom. Still holding me still, he locks eyes with me as he lifts the blade to his skull. The light is flickering in and out, so I cannot see well, as his back is to the fire, but the tip of a pink tongue dips into the small pond of my blood, tasting it delicately. He inhales sharply, then rips the skull from his head, brings the knife to his now exposed mouth, andlicksthe blade, drawing his tongue along the edge to the point, drinking every ruby drop left, before grabbing me and pulling me to my feet in front of him.

His eyes are still dark, just more visible in his now exposed face. There are three black lines from forehead to jawbone; unlike the markings on his arms, these are smeared slightly, as though they are temporary, and not carved into his skin. The sides of his head are shaved bare, but long, pale hair runs down the center of his scalp, a mixture of braids and elflocks that disappear behind his back. His cheekbones are high and sharp, his lips full and stained with blood beneath a slightly crooked nose, as though it was broken, reset, and broken again. His is not a gentle face, and I wonder, for a moment, if I preferred the skull masque, if it were, perhaps, less scary.

Staring at me, jaw clenched, his eyes narrow, he inhales deeply, like he is scenting me. Then slowly, so slowly it feels like time stretches, he picks up the arm he stung with his blade, and brings it to his mouth. Again his tongue darts out, this time to taste my skin, licking the line of blood that is drip-drip-dripping down, tracing from my wrist to the curve of my longest finger in one slow, unstopping movement. Shivers wrack my body as I stay frozen in his grasp, until he is done and drops my arm, pulling my face close to his.

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