Page 132 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

Wren. Wren. It’s enough.His voice is so gentle, so clear, but I can’t take my dripping fingers from his bones.I promise, Little Keeper. I’m here.

Lorcan.

“Binder!” Axton’s furious bark of sound is too close to me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here in the woods, but obviously my time is at a close. Shoving the Guiding Knife back at my waist, I wince as it slices my skin, then yank down my tunic and hide Lorcan down my back again. “Binder!” He shouts again, and Lorcan smiles wryly down my spine.

Clearly there are things going on that I don’t understand, Wren.

On my hip, the dagger is still drinking.

Clearly there are things going on that I don’t understand, either.

A CHOICE AND A CHANCE

AXTON

She’s sitting across from me in the dancing light of the fire, pale and mute, circles dark as bruises beneath her snow-stained eyes, and I’m furious at how guilty I feel at the look on her face.It’s a trick, Axton. She’s a SoulBinder. Give her a chance and she’ll steal you before the next breath.Pressing my lips together in annoyance, I stoke the flames, then walk her over a plate of food, ignoring the fact that I’ve loaded it with the best of what we have. Ishouldjust dump it, give her nothing but crusts and water, and want to scream to the heavens at the quiet, “thank you,” she murmurs gratefully in her surprisingly low voice, so I don’t respond.

For a long time we sit in the comforting noise of snapping, burning wood and the restless music of night creatures. It’s a peace I cherish, that I long for when I’m away from the summer months, kept inside the Crimson City with all the luxuries it holds. A peace that is being disturbed by a scuttling little mouseling resting silently in flickering shadows. Casting my eyes back to her, I watch her for too many heartbeats; at least she can’t tell how closely I’m studying her, but she confuses me. Which infuriates me all the more. Not a SoulBinder she claims, evenbelieves. A BoneSpeaker. No. BoneKeeper. Her hands tremble as she lifts a bit of cheese to her mouth, and she winces.

“Abranch?” The words burst from me without permission, and her head jerks around to face me.

“We’ve been over this, BloodLetter. I don’t know what else I can say to you.”

And we have. Many, many times since I found her sprawled in a heap on the forest floor, tunic pulled one way, legs another, both hands bleeding profusely from her palms. I immediately examined her hands, then pulled off her hood to see if there had been any other damage done. Her eyelids were wet and red-rimmed, matching her strange birthmarks, standing out like blood against her skin and colorless eyes. “A branch,” she’d explained, voice shaking. She’d stumbled, fallen, went to save herself by putting her hands down and had sliced them open on sharp wood. Everything made sense; she’s ungainly at the best of times, is in a foreign place, can’t see, and was likely rushing. But some tiny fish darts in my thoughts rippling the quiet waters. It wasn’t a branch; of all the things she’s told the truth of, what a useless thing to lie about.Why?

She sat so placidly when I’d straightened her clothes in quick, unforgiving movements, when I’d cleansed and wrapped her hands, never complaining, never flinching. Just wan and numb, and frustratingly accepting. Infuriatingly accepting, as though doing it on purpose.Doingwhaton purpose,I argue with myself.What you ask her to do?And yes. That seems to be the problem. When she does what I ask her to do, when I ask her to do it, I find it…incredibly aggravating. So when we got back to the horse and she’d turned her pale face up to mine, waiting for me to put the hood back on, I found myself unable to do it. Her obedience seemed a trick, and I just lifted her up on the horse instead, ignoring her wary look. And if anyone in the caravan questioned it, they were at least wise enough to keep their thoughts to themselves. We’ve stayed back from the main camp anyways; at least for the time being it seems to be wise to keep her as separate as possible. Though it has meant long days for me — when she falls to sleep at night and one of my Riders can guard the area, I travel to the main camp and meet with the rest of my band, reviewing the day, planning the next. We can’t continue like this, but I need to be sure of my footing before I step forward.

From the woods there is a familiar rustling noise, a quick sharp chirp. A curious look flashes across the Binder’s face — it’s like she almost recognizes the sound, and I narrow my eyes. “Binder…” I ask slowly, “if you had to guess, who would you say made that sound?” I’ve thrown her with the question, can see the options racing through her mind as she tries to figure out the answer. “The truth, Binder. I’ll know if you’re lying to me.”

Sighing, she shrugs. “Your sister, I’d say.”

Surprise flares in my chest. “My..sister?”

“I assume so. The one who calls you brother. Axton.”

The way she says my name is delicious.

“How in the world can you tell?” Forcing everything but suspicion from my words, I pull anger around me like a cloak.SoulBinder.

“She speaks to you most often. Her sound has become familiar.”

Snorting, I shake my head. Her softness and sorrow are tricks. All Binder tricks, but she slips in moments like these, showing who she is. Knowing Kyla’s whistle from others when she doesn’t speak our language?You are growing weak because of a moonlight face. Her throat should have been slit the moment she emerged from the womb.

“Come, Kylabet.” The command is barked out. She’s not here as my sister at the moment, only my subordinate. Though the highest ranking one, which she never lets me forget.

“Alone?”

“No. Bring your companions.”

“I’ll send Teo for them. They’re back a ways. We have kept them comfortable and fed, but I wasn’t sure…” As she’s speaking, my sister enters the clearing, her feet as silent as owl wings. You would only ever know she was there because she let you; Kylabet is a born hunter. When the Gods split us in the womb, they were more generous with her gifts than my own. I would never admit it to her face, but things I struggle with are easy as breath to her; it is difficult not to be jealous. Not that you’d ever know we shared a mother; twins aren’t a welcome oddity in the Crimson Walls.Nothingis a welcome oddity in ourlands. So it’s not well known that we’re real siblings rather than cousins. My mother’s sister was pregnant at the same time and both she and her babe died in a dangerous birth — fortune under a bad star for my mother. To lose a sister and a niece in one moment and gain a son and daughter in the next; the balance of the scales is never even, no matter what some might say.

Our father was away when my mother gave birth to us. She and her sister were to each midwife the other; instead my mother was left alone, brought us to this world alone, presented us to the Elders as cousins and asked for permission to raise us as siblings. I’m not even sure our father knows we share more than half-blood; he certainly doesn’t treat Kyla like a true daughter. Not that he’s cold, but there is more duty and less love with her, and I know she feels it. Chance favored us at least in looks, close enough to be family but different enough to keep the story. Kyla is tall for a woman but still shorter than me, lithe and muscular from years in the saddle. Her hair is darker than mine by a good bit, hints of red in burnished bronze, her nose straighter, mouth and cheekbones sharper. Cousins is an easy story, though everyone acknowledges her as my adopted sister and treats her as such. There is no real difference now in what would have been anyways, had our people taken twins as a blessing rather than a curse.

Kyla is standing silently, waiting for me to acknowledge her, playing the part of my second-in-command with surprising patience. “Speak,” I command tightly, and her lips twist in a wry smile.

“The rest are bedded down for the night. You’re going to have to figure out what to do with this one soon though. Not that there’s any poison yet, precisely, but thereismurmuring, especially given the current pace. Enough faith in you that there are no questions, but curious cats show claws if left without answers for too long, hmm?”

Nodding, I inhale deeply. She’s not wrong. There are decisions to be made; I’m just unsure of the correct path.

---