Page 131 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

There is movement of shifting, quiet grunts of movement and the scuffleof shoes on dirt, then I am lifted onto a horse with no ceremony, with a monstrous hard body wrapped around me.

The same amused voice from before speaks quietly from our side. She must be mounted as well. “Strange Demon, brother,” she notes sardonically. He grunts in return, thighs tightening around me to urge the horse forward. “Strange way to treat a Demon,” she calls after him, though her voice is pitched low enough that perhaps only he and I can hear it. The laughter that follows after, however, echoes clear like a bell as we ride away.

I have been hooded since, can only track the time by sleeping and waking. There is no room for sorrow or fear in my aching body; it takes every ounce of willpower to stay silent, to stay upright, to not cry over spasming muscles cramping so painfully it feels like I will never know peace. I never realized in the village how weak I truly am. I told Kaden once we are not a soft people, and perhaps as a whole we aren’t, but I…I am not made of the mountain’s rock as much as I thought. After the first night, when the BloodLetter lowered me from his horse and I collapsed on the ground to a chorus of amused laughter, I vowed two things — that I would stay silent no matter the cost, and I would keep my feet beneath me no matter the effort.

The disappointed silence the second night when I wavered but stayed upright was tremendously gratifying.

And now we are at the end, I think, of the fourth day. The horse’s quick feet finally slow from a jolting bounce to a slower plod, and without thought, I let out an audibly relieved sigh. The body that has been wrapped around me for the entire way tenses, hard thigh muscles pressing against me, and he huffs under his breath, directly addressing me for the first time since we started this journey. He has made pointed comments in the Common Tongue, scattered vague insults, joked with friends about my many apparent failings, but has not spoken to me specifically.

“Too much for you, Binder? Weak from lack of souls to drink?” There’s a grim satisfaction in his tone, as though he’s been waiting for me to crumble.

I’ve bitten my tongue for days, refusing to reply to any of his baiting, but I’m too tired to be cautious, and laugh bitterly. “How wouldyou evendothat, BloodLetter? It’s a ridiculous thought. Drinking souls? Only one of us here has sipped anything out of the ordinary, and it might surprise you to realize it wasn’t me.” Sarcasm is not a spice I use often, but its flavor is better than bland acceptance. He is silent against my back, arms tense at my sides, but I don’t care anymore. Snorting derisively, I shake my head. “Drinking souls.Absurd.”

“The little mouse is squeaking at you, brother.” The same amused woman from before is beside us again, and he inhales slowly, I think searching for patience before responding. “Is she saying anything of interest?” Clearly I’m meant to understand the back and forth; no one has spoken the Common Tongue for days except to poke at me. I’ve been surrounded by nothing but whistles and chirps, words close to singing and sounds like a hawk’s cry.

“I find her incredibly annoying,” he replies as though I’m not here in front of him. “It’s difficult to listen to her chatter.” A thoughtful pause, and then, “Perhaps you’d take a day with her in your saddle?”

“Ooooh no, Axton. You caught the stray. She’s yours to feed and keep; I want no part in it. I’ve enough on my plate to deal with at the moment.” Obvious annoyance laces every laden syllable.

He sighs heavily. “I suppose you do. How are your unexpected guests faring?”

“They are refusing to speak at all, other than to ask after a white haired woman. We haven’t bound them, but they are under watch for the moment. They are getting restless, though. I don’t know that I’d want to be the one they’re searching for, to be honest. They seem…very angry.”

All breath leaves my body and I freeze, ice running through me.Who is looking for me?There is no thought of hope, only fear at the words, and I almost feel the looks exchanged silently between the siblings at the shudder I can’t hide.Is it someone from the village come to find me? To take me back? How far did we travel? If it’s Silas… but if Silas didn’t make it…Terror seizes my heart.If it’s Raek, the Hunters…It’s impossible to keep my breathing level; my inhale and exhale pulse in staccato rhythms.

“Interesting.” The woman hums thoughtfully, and then, “Perhaps we’ll alter course on the plan? Tonight at the fire?”

He nods in reply, his chin brushing my hair, and thenchirrupssoftly to the horse, encouraging it to pick up its bouncing pace again. The movement sends sharp shocks of pain up my already aching spine, but I can’t force my muscles to relax. The jolting is enough to spark tears in my eyes. I blink them back furiously, willing them not to fall. Unexpectedly though, after a few minutes, the horse slows again, this time pulled to walking by the BloodLetter’s hands flexing on the reins. I hear others around us still moving ahead at a quicker pace; many, many more than I realized were here pass by without comment until it sounds like it is just us alone.

The BloodLetter is quiet for a time, long enough for me to wonder if he is planning on dealing with me as he did the pony. A benevolent favor. A quick death. Maybe this time I would accept it as such. I’m being chased by unknown Hunters, am already caught by a people I know nothing about, and the only ones I’ve ever cared about are all just dreams in the night. The weight of Tahrik, of others whose names I can’t even think, left poisoned, motionless on the ground, left alone inside a crumbling city…it crashes down on me. Suddenly, I’m bent to breaking. All fight drains from my body at once, and I sink forward.

A frustrated rumble of sound vibrates against my back; seconds later I am off the horse, held up by rough, strong hands. “It’s tremendously uncomfortable riding with you when you’re stiff as a board, Demon.” The BloodLetter — Axton, his sister called him — is clearly angry, but I have no response. “Well? Stretch. Move a little. We can’t stop long just because you’re weak.” I don’t know what to do. Being out of the saddle, free to move by myself for the first time in days, seems like a gift. But he’s furious, as though I demanded this, as though I made him give something he was unwilling to. “I told you before that my word is law. You barely have minutes. Use them wisely instead of being a willful child.”

“I…” The words stick in my throat. “I thought you were going to…mercy, you called it.”

SIlence, more silence, and then, surprisingly, an almost gentleanswer. “I told you there are none here who would harm you, Demon. Well. Not without reason. You have until the Crimson City.”

“That was when you thought me a woman, BloodLetter. Not whatever it is you call me now.”

“Incorrect. I never thought you a woman at all. Huldra, I named you first. Demon I name you now. But a reason would still have to be given for either.” His voice hardens, as though he’s realized how much it softened before. “Go stretch. If you have need of the wood I’ll take you. The women went ahead, so you’ll have to manage yourself, even hooded. But don’t think to run. You wouldn’t get far, and there are things worse than being blind. My people have a…broad definition of what constitutes harm sometimes.”

Nodding, the tiniest spark of hope flares in my heart. “I give my word not to run. And I would appreciate a moment in the forest.”

Grabbing my arm in almost bruising fingers, he leads me stumbling forward, then lays my hands against a rough trunk after several steps. “Your word is meaningless, Binder. Fifteen paces, no more. I won’t be able to see you. But you don’t have long; Iwillcome after you.” The warning is clear even as he waits patiently until I have my feet under me to release me. Some battle is being waged inside him, and it’s making me unsteady, this ricochet between coldness and kindness.

There are more pressing things than the BloodLetter, though. Fifteen steps later, after tripping through brush and over rocks, I fall heavily to my knees, wrench up my tunic, and yank my Guiding knife from against my waist, where it has been pressed for so long there is an indent above the curve of my hip.Quickly, quicklyI chant in my head, and set the knife between my knees. There’s no time to be careful or cautious — I won’t get a second chance for this, so I slice deeply into both palms before frantically reaching up to my neck to find Lorcan. He has been completely mute for two days; I haven’t tried to wake him at all, lest he burns what little energy he has left and fades completely. Cold dread coats my heart and lungs as tangible as the warm blood that covers my hands. There has been no time whereI’ve been completely alone, able to anoint him, and I’m paralyzed with desperation and hope.

His bones drink

and drink

and drink.

But still he doesn’t wake. And so I cut more lines, and more still, until I risk severing something and pieces of skin hang in ragged strips. I coat him, paint him completely, over and over and over. And then, almost as an afterthought, anoint the Guiding Knife as well, not looking too closely at why. The memory of its voice at the Blood Tree shivers through me, and the Knife pulses strangely in my stained hands, but does not speak.

Little Keeper?He flares to life from nowhere, vibrant and brilliant all at once, like a shooting star in a dark sky.

Lorcan. It’s all I can say, a whisper, a prayer of thankfulness, and then I cry, and cry, and cry, rivers of tears, oceans of tears. I cry until my breath hitches, until my tunic is wet, until I can’t breathe, but I never take my hands from him.

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