Page 138 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

I want to ask Kylabet a question about the people around us, about the camp, the structure, but she has already pulled up her horse to move closer to me and is speaking before I can open my mouth, voice dropped low enough that only she and I can hear it.

“I will take you as far as the center, and assign you a Rider for the day. Stay close. The BloodLetter sent the news through the Band yesterday; all should know the guidance regarding you by now, but even open pastures hide venomous snakes.” Kylabet shows no emotion, could be discussing the clouds in the sky or the color of the ground, but something about her posture, the way she constantly surveys the crowd around us, fills me with trepidation. Everything here is a cliff’s edge on a storm day when the wind is blowing strongly enough to sweep you from your feet into the belows, and I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe smoothly. Fluttering wings of panic stutter my lungs, piercing claws of anxiety sinking into my temples. It’s enough to darken the corners of my vision, the world narrowing down to a single, steady point.

Lorcan?

His response is thankfully both immediate and vibrant.

Little Keeper?And then, more anxiously,Be on guard. There is a hum of violence here. Please. Be cautious.

He’s electric and uneasy along my spine, and for once I don’t tease back. There is nothing in this place that has the flavor of anything other than fear; I’m not scared of death, but there is something in the passing expressions of the surrounding crowd that reminds me there are worse things than dying. Uneasy stillness marks our progressthrough the bustling company; my presence, like a shadow, steals noise from everything it touches. Heavy stares press against me, and though I don’t meet anyone’s eyes, even my mount can sense the growing tension, hooves skirting nervously at any sudden sounds. Kylabet ties her reins in a casual knot on her horse’s neck and casually pulls a small dagger from her belt. It takes a surprisingly long time for us to reach a place she evidently deems safe; the scope of this group is significantly larger than I’d assumed.

Suddenly, in a swift, unexpected movement, she pulls up her horse and turns to me. “Dismount here, Binder,” she commands, and I hurry to obey. “Eyes down,” she mutters, troubled gaze surveying the area around us. “The eyes are the worst of it. The rest they may get used to. Possibly. But the eyes…”

Voice drifting off, she passes me a tether tied to her mount, and leads us both on foot. Following mutely, I act as her shadow, turning where she turns, stopping when she stops. I keep my eyes on the loamy soil at our feet, so I can only sense, not see, when a crowd of horses and humans surrounds us. The sound of many,manypeople dismounting comes from every direction — behind us, beside us, in front of us — and I realize we’re in the center of a circle. A tangible weight thickens the air, bodies pressing close enough that my nostrils are filled with the scent of sweat, hay, and a deeper, rich earthiness that is laced with water.

“Blood Riders, Oath Riders,” Kylabet acknowledges calmly. There is no hint of anything other than steel and sword in her voice. Nothing is left of the woman who was laughing in the forest yesterday; here she is someone entirely different, somethingdifferent. The response to her call is immediate, a loud thumping of multiple fists pounded against multiple chests in one, singular movement. And then full silence, not disturbed by the sound of even a single breath or the shuffle of shifting feet. All attention is focused completely on the lithe warrior in front of me. “I assume you were all passed word?” They must have answered in some way, though I don’t hear anything, and don’t raise my eyes to see.

Calm, Wren, calm.He is trying, but his voice is taut, stretched thin with barely masked emotion.

I want to be, want to steady my racing heart, but Lorcan’s worry swirls with my own and sends shivers of panic down my back. In the time it took me to force air into my lungs, I’ve missed something, the pulsing of blood in my veins deafening my ears. “There is no room for personal feelings here. This…we will call her a guest of sorts for now…does not believe she is a SoulBinder. She and her people call her a BoneKeeper, or Keeper, and have no knowledge of what a SoulBinder is.” Now, for the first time, there is an uneasy shifting, a murmur of dissent. Kylabet continues as though no one has made a sound. “This was confirmed, tasted as truth by the BloodLetter.” A rustle of surprise ripples through the Riders; the world is shimmering with the static before a lightning strike.

“It’s not right,” a deep voice calls out, disgust dripping from each word. Kylabet stiffen next to me; I think she expected it, anticipated it, but the dissent still surprised her, or perhaps just disappointed her.

“The crop that is planted is the crop that is grown,” she replies cryptically, and the man snorts derisively in response.

“You can’t honestly expect us to ride next to a damned Binder, Flank Commander. Word is that we are to use our blade hand toprotectit? Protect that… thatthing?”

She exhales sharply, is about to speak, but is interrupted by Axton’s gravelly voice, coming from the far side of the circle as best as I can tell. “Was there confusion in my guidance, Dagan?”

“Was there confusion on your tongue, BloodLetter?” The intake of breath from the people around me is immediate and audible. There is evidently a hatred of SoulBinders here that runs so deep it counteracts common sense, because even I can sense the taste of death on the breeze.

Axton laughs, actuallylaughs, the sound reminding me of the hollow clattering of the bone fingers hanging from the gates of our village. When the winds blow hard, the chattering and rattling is a warning to us —go somewhere safe, they say.The Storms are coming. That is the music of Axton’s amusement — a caution to go somewhere safe. The dancing notes of blood and bone. But Dagan is deaf to it.

“What a question,” Axton replies softly, and if the circle was stone still before, it is beyond that now; a single movement could collapse a mountain in this moment. “But no, Dagan. No confusion on my tongue. The Demon sincerely believes she is a thing called a BoneKeeper. She doesn’t understand what she actually is, came to our lands against her will and is indebted to us, does not know what binding is, and is convinced that she intends no harm. She is a…curiosity. And one I think the Elders will find…useful.”

The energy of the surrounding crowd changes, almost a relaxing of tension. Something Axton has said is enough for most of the people, although it does nothing to ease my concern. If anything, the shiver of sound when he says ‘Elders’ is laced with venom and vitriol, and it is all directed my way. Clearly, no love is lost between the BloodLetter and myself; there is nothing but cold appraisal in his words, nothing but the emotionless consideration a warrior would have when choosing a weapon. And his lack of concern for me other than as a tool calms the Riders.

Well.Mostof them.

“As usefuldead!” Dagan shouts. Out of nowhere, there is a staggering lurch of motion that jerks my eyes up in alarm. A bearded man shoves through those around him, a long, thin blade, needle-sharp, drawn and pointed straight at my throat. It all happens in a flash, in the space of a heartbeat; one moment he is across from me, the next the tip of his sword is pushing into my skin, stopped only briefly by the leather collar of my tunic. And then his eyes flare wide, face almost comically astonished, a sort of disbelieving shock tilting his head before he exhales once, and slumps to the ground. His soul bursts from his body in a quick, bright blaze of unfamiliar music, but sparks and fades so quickly I don’t have a chance to even raise my hands to him. I can’t bring myself to regret it, though, and am only troubled by the speed at which he dissolved. Even at my best, I would have been hard pressed to have held him long enough to guide him.

Kylabet is calmly unconcerned beside me, wiping off herdripping blade casually on the edge of the dead man’s clothes. Then, with real annoyance in her voice, she calls out to her brother, “Well, my blade is notched from hitting bone, BloodLetter.Ruined.” She might as well be discussing a lame horse or a cracked vase rather than a dead Rider bleeding out into the earth below us. Her indifference to his body is chilling. “Ilikedthis one,” she continues, clearly irritated, and clearly speaking about her weapon rather than the man at her feet.

There is a quick scuffling of the Riders in front of us, and several step forward at once, a variety of swords and weapons being offered to her, hilts extended.

“You’re welcome to mine, Commander…”

“This one has an excellent balance, Flank Commander…”

“...made by Harald, so you know it’s a strong steel, Commander…”

Voices overlap as Kyla stares down at her apparently damaged weapon and huffs in aggravation. Then, with careful consideration, she takes her time looking over the many,manypieces of sharpened steel gleaming in front of her before choosing one. “Thank you,” she says quietly to the man, who straightens with pride. “I’ll return it as soon as I’m able.” Fastening it to her belt, she addresses Axton, displeasure lacing each word. “I expect mine to be fixed, BloodLetter. What a waste.” I’m not entirely certain if she is speaking about Dagan or her blade.

“Ofcourse, Flank Commander.” And if there is a hint of sarcasm in his tone, all are wise enough not to call attention to it.

“Commander?” An almost cheerful voice, completely at odds with the current situation, draws Axton and Kylabet’s attention immediately. Whomever is speaking is someone they value, that much is clear. Axton nods sharply, giving permission for the speaker to continue. “Why didn’t the Binder move? Or defend herself in any way? He must have nicked her at theleast— I can see the blood from here. A disastrously poor Binder if she can’t even keep herself from death’s door.” And it’s true; Dagan had sliced the thin flesh over my collarbone deep enough that the fabric below it is damp, though not soaked. Perhaps it would be fully wet if Lorcan’s bones weren’t tightagainst my skin under my clothing, if they weren’t pulling my seeping blood into them as though drinking from a cup.

Kylabet laughs in response, rolling her shoulders and stretching, turning her back to me if I posed no more threat than a fledgling bird that fell from its nest. She does it naturally, no theatrics in her movements, but it sends a wordless message to those watching. Axton raises a dismissive brow, shrugging in apparent apathy. “That one? Defend herself?” He snorts. “She’s blind, and, as I said, doesn’t know what she is. A baby kitten, complete with kitten claws. That’s not to say not to take care around her, Riders.” They straighten at his suddenly somber tone. “Do. Even children can harm unintentionally. For now, we have captured a nestling mountain hawk, still downy. Be wary of its talons, but let’s see what we can do to hood it and tame it. And if we need to cage it, then we will. But honey catches more than vinegar.”

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