Page 13 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

“Buuuut…there were twelve men in the village at the time, twelve brave and selfless men, who met late at night in the caverns in the mountains, far from the watchful eyes of the Sword’s army.”

“Weren’t they scared of the blood moths?” a little voice calls, and I can picture the teacher’s shaking head.

“Therewereno blood moths, notquiteyet. Our miners hadn’t gone deep enough into the rock at that time, hadn’t dug to the Everfire and opened the caves where the chrysalis were waiting. The men plotted and planned, waited and watched, and then, at great risk to themselves, and for the good of the Upper Kingdom, finally acted. The Sword, approaching death, had made a devil’s bargain with the Ender—” A sharp intake of breath from the children around her, and she smooths her voice to soothing, “I know, I know. But it must be said. He went around the Gods above and below to barter for returned youth. The trade was easy and clean — a sacrifice of five thousand — quiet now, please. Five thousand children. And with every ten lives given, he would gain a month back to himself. That was the bargain.”

“He wouldn’t…he couldn’t have…”

“He did. The plan was in motion before the brave men who were going to act against him had time to move. It was a dark and desperate time for the families in our village. We lost almost an entire generation — he did not take any infants from the inner walls, so all sacrifice came from the second and third rings. Two years—” the teacher’s voice chokes to a halt, then pushes on. “For two years the innocent were slaughtered to buy him youth, and strength, the Unknown drained and then thrown from the cliffs, the water receding further every time a lost child’s body sunk into its depths. And every time the people had to gather and watch. With every drop of blood spilled, the mountains growled and shook. There were more and more mine collapses, lives lost in the darkest caverns. Cracks in the sides began to show the Everfire hidden within. And the years drained from his face like the fresh water draining from our land. His followers got greedy, and demanded the same bargain for themselves,hovering behind him like carrion birds as the atrocity occurred, watching with hungry eyes and the age melted off the Sword’s face every time he anointed his skin with fresh blood. All seemed lost. But then, in the second year, when a full 2,500 children had been lost, the men saw their chance and struck, stealing the knife from the Sword’s very hands whilst his eyes were still blinded with blood! Why, Trina, what’s wrong?”

A quiet crying voice replies. “The poor children, Miss...”

“The poor children. But the brave men, Trina! Who stopped what we thought was unstoppable! And when the man who struck the killing blow had his hair go white with the blade strike, we were gifted the first BoneKeeper by the Gods for our reward.”

The words are true, in a way. But she neglects to mention that, at the same time, the Earth cracked open like a giant’s mouth to masticate flesh from bone, peeling away tendon and sinew, leaving only bleached, hollow remnants behind. And the Sun faded in the sky from a warm glow to a cold, freezing light that would flare to life indiscriminately and singe exposed skin to ash in a single afternoon. Nature itself turned on the people in violent, unpredictable ways. Even water…well. If you are thirsty enough, poison tastes as sweet as wine.

“But the children…”

“Ah. Maybe that’s enough for today about that, hmm? There’s still so much to cover, we don’t need to stay on such dark things for the entire lesson. What would you like to hear about? When the first Traders came and their birds escaped into the mountains? I know that’s a favorite story.”

There is some reluctant giggling from the class.

“Will the Traders ever come again, do you think, Miss?”

I don’t hear the answer, lost in my own thoughts.Will the Traders ever come again?The idea is paralyzing, intoxicating.

There have not been Traders here in my lifetime. But in my father’s time they came from the northwest, from a thin slice of pale dirt that runs along the cliff face. It was a dangerous journey that hasn’t been traversed in more than two decades — in my 23 years thepath hasn’t been traveled. The women who remember the last visit, all mothers with children grown from bellies made heavy by nights with foreign men, speak of it in wistful whispers around the salty ponds. I’m never invited into the chatter, but, like a ghost, hear the words on the wind. And from the bones. The bones never keep secrets from me. They reminisce of the visits during their childhoods, the way they watched the Traders come year after year until the girls were women and could participate. It happened the same way every time. Only a small group came, perhaps a hundred men, no more. They always arrived slowly, wagons loaded with seeds, strange fruits, caged animals, and jugs of crystalline water, and were welcomed with barred gates and Keepers’ spears. The Twelve, the Protectors, the Justice, and the Father would go to speak with them outside the walls, carrying bags spilling over with shining gems mined from deep within the mountain.

An agreement was struck, a yearly renewal of the previous year’s accord in a handshake between the Father and their leader, and then smiles and laughter spilled forth. And here were the rules. The Traders were welcome for three days, no more. They were given housing and what little food we had to spare, treated as honored guests. They were allowed within the central Keep but not the Council House, and nowhere south of the Second Gates. They were free to consort with any woman who would entertain them from any Ring, taken or not, as long as they were of age and the woman consented. They could sing, or dance, or drink, or feast til bursting, but no words wereeverto be spoken of life outside the village, upon penalty of death. And when they left, they left alone — none from the village were permitted to accompany them. From what I’ve heard, the Traders looked forward to their visits like a kind of holiday — who would turn down three days of feasting and fires, of free food, free beer, and free women? And the only price silence? An easy game to play.

On the third day, the wagons were emptied, and refilled with minerals and stones and ore, and with one last cheerful farewell, they would leave along the same sliver of gold upon the cliff edge. It wasrare to have a Trader return more than once; the temptation was too great to break the rules, I think. Or perhaps the trip was a reward or punishment in their culture? I do not know. All I know is that their last visit was as every before. The year before I was born, they came, stayed the allotted three days, feasted and sang to the stars above our home in a strange language, more liquid and lilting than the Common Tongue, then left, and none have been seen since. Our storehouses, now filled to bursting with silver ore, obsidian, and clear, glass like gemstones, have grown dusty. No miners burrow into the mountains anymore to collect the useless, bright rock. At first the Council thought the Traders had been delayed a year by weather or disease. Two, then three years passed, and when the Hunters found the path overgrown by weeds and thick vines and blocked by a massive rockfall, they realized that perhaps the last Xenium had been given, and we had finally been lost to the dusty corners of history.

THE HUNTERS RETURN

WREN

“But what about the bones?” A little voice calls out, the question breaking unexpectedly into the tomb of my thoughts, and it’s my only excuse for what I do next.

“What about them?” I can’t help myself, and round the corner of the schoolhouse, stepping into the room. The children react as though the Ender itself has burst from the pits of Everfire to tear them limb from limb, and the teacher looks faint, blood draining from her face.

“BoneKeeper!” The word is meant to be a greeting but is more of a warning, and more than one child flinches as I float past them quietly to stand by the nowsignificantlyless bubbly young woman at the front of the class.

It does not help that my bone clothing clicks loudly in the suddenly silent room, making me sound like walking death. “I hope you don’t mind, ah….I’m sorry. I can’t remember your name.”

“Hollis.” She looks sick to her stomach, and I play with my braids nervously, trying to think of what to do. I don’t often just…talk…to people; at some point years ago the Council made vague insinuations that casual interactions would distract me from my duties. It was suggested that I speakonlyfor the bones, never for another purpose, so as not to fill me with thoughts whichleft no room for others. At the time I was angry and felt like an outcast already, so the silence seemed to be a blessing. I wonder now if I made a mistake. Maybe, if I had just tried to reach out, tried to be part of the village, their opinions would have changed; maybe they would have seen that I was a scared child, not a living ghost. Instead I stepped further into the veiled world, and further from the breathing one. Somehow thesuggestiongrew into tradition, and tradition into an unspoken law. And now I live only with the bones, and rarely use my voice except to speak from the dark side of the veil. A cold shiver runs down my back as It occurs to me that I don’t really know how to return, and my bones vibrate with me.

Her eyes lock on the tiny sesamoids hanging from my ears, and I drop my hands immediately.

“Ms. Hollis. I’m sorry to interrupt your lessons.” Pressing my hands together I bow before her, not deeply, but enough to convey apology. If anything, it makes hermoreanxious, not less so, and I sigh. “It was perhaps unkind of me to not announce my presence. But as I never attended the school here, I find it fascinating to hear our history as taught to the children. It is…different…in many ways than the version I was given.”

Ms. Hollis coughs, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “It is the Council approved version,” she offers tentatively. “I also learned a more comple–” but she stutters to a halt, pressing her fingertips against her lips, eyes wide in alarm. “I didn’t mean to speak against the newer…ah…I mean…clearerteachings.”

“I didn’t think you were, Ms. Hollis,” I reply quietly. But theapprovedversion that she had told her students was studiously lacking much of the nuance that colors our people’s lives. There was no real mentions of the TriGoddess, no true discussion of how the Council came to power after the Sword was killed…narrowing my eyes, I tilt my head thoughtfully. All in all, the version presented was — lacking.

Turning, I look past them, focusing on the wall just beyond their scared faces. I know my white gaze makes them uncomfortable, so I try to seem as unoffensive as possible. “You are lucky, students. Ms. Hollis has a storyteller’s tongue.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you heard her lecture about pearl millet,”one of the children mutters, then frantically claps her hand over her mouth. I can’t help but smile at the comment though, the amusement surprising me. It is rusty, a dull blade on a whetstone, and is oddly painful, as though it is being torn from a locked room deep inside me.

“Ah yes, the inestimable pearl millet. I once had a pearl millet cake as a child. It tasted like grass and old shoes.” I shudder in exaggerated horror. “I wouldnotrecommend it.” And though Hollis looks stunned, the children giggle, faces crinkling into round-cheeked smiles. It’s more relief than mirth, perhaps; I don’t think any of them expected the ghostly BoneKeeper to tease them. Even Lorcan is taken aback, the feeling of his shock like a line of fire running from my neck to the curve of my back.

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