Page 39 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

“Did you know?” I can barely get the words out, and am strangely relieved by their confusion.

“What is there to know?” Rannoch asks, voice tight with trepidation, and I turn my hands over to show them my glistening palms. They inhale as one, shock and horror clear in their eyes.

“Unguided?” Silas is unmoving, hasn’t flinched, but it is clear the weight of the mountains behind him have settled on his shoulders.

“Unguided. Who knows how many? The outside walls are completely silent. There is no living bone there.”

“Raek!” Silas’s voice is a roar of sound, a tearing rumble of thunder that even Raek cannot stand against.

“We have had to make hard choices, Sir, hard and desperate choices….” He is obsequious, hands wringing in front of him as he casts glances around him for support. His cohorts step back surreptitiously, fading into the background, trying not to attract attention, and Raek’s face twists in disgust before he can smooth it back into penitence.

“What have you done, Raek.” It is a statement, not a question, as though Silas either already knows or cannot bear to hear the answer.

“The Blood Tree was dying.Dying. And you were off, as usual, with the Hunters, for weeks.” He’s accusing, but not accusing, even now laying the groundwork for the future. “You’re doing what you can for our people, Sir. How could we do less? We only chose people from the outer rings for the water — no one with families. No one of importance to the village. These are dark and terrible times.”

“No one ofimportance?” The words burst from me, wild anduntamed. “Unguided? Uncalled to Offering? Sent to Silence for what? Forwhat?”

“I do not expect you to understand the struggles to rule this village, Keeper,” Raek responds stiffly, and Silas’s head snaps around at his words.

“Rule, Councilman?” There are flashing teeth in his voice, and Raek straightens.

“A poor choice of words, Father. Forgive me. And perhaps a poor choice of actions, but the Blood Tree was almost dead. You were absent. We had no other options.”

“But why would you notcallme?” My throat is choking tight. “Why would you send them to Silence?”

“You have not been yourself of late, BoneKeeper.” Thisisan accusation, a clear one. Raek isn’t dancing with me like he is with the Father. He sees soft flesh and is coming for it. “Who knows what you would have done? Something is happening to you, Keeper. It worries us. Refusing to read for the Council. Ignoring the practices put in place for your safety. Wasting time telling stories to children. Be truthful, Keeper. You barely get through the Offerings. You do not have the mettle in you to do what it is going to take to save this village.”

The mettle?Ido not have the mettle within me? I have Guided every Offering in this village since I was five, holding wriggling souls in hands that could not tie bootstraps, have watched skin be stripped from bodies and fed to the Earth, watched throats be slit and, still bleeding, be put on a pyre to the Sun God. I haveemptiedmyself of everything that made me human in order to be a vessel for the Gods, carved the living flesh from my body to keep these people from harm.I do not have the mettle?

My hand floats to my Guiding Knife, thinking of all the souls lost to water this gnarled tree, and I grip the blade, unusually warm beneath my fingers.

Keeperit whispers, and I freeze, its voice shattering my ears.Keeper. Blood.

All else falls to silence, the pressure of the voice in my headallowing for no other noise. I close my eyes tightly, pressing my hands against my lids, trying to breathe through the rupturing voice from the razor sharp bone.

Now, Keeper. Blood. And then Blade.

Nothing more is said, but I know as clearly as if I had been drawn a picture what to do. I just don’t know whether to listen to the voice that splinters my brain into such tiny pieces, that causes such terrible, terrible pain, that demands such endless payment. Stomach churning, I open my eyes and the world comes back into sharp focus, the men arguing in an incoherent, senseless stew of noise and bluster.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

I am desperate to ask Lorcan his counsel, but he is so faint around my neck that my heart stutters, and his fading is what finally makes up my mind. In one, vicious movement, I yank the blade from my belt and stab it full center into my hand.

A CRUEL CUT

SILAS

Ascream of sound cuts through the ceaseless arguing, a shriek like an eagle’s cry, and all heads snap around as one to look at our Keeper, white eyes wide, lips pressed together in a thin, tight line. She is immobile, noiseless, and I can’t figure out where the sharp wail came from. I don’t even have time to consider, though, before Rannoch is running forward, pushing past me to stumble to a horrified stop in front of her. And only then do I notice the tip of the Guiding Knife protruding from the back of her hand, bloodless and just as void of color as the swaying woman in front of me.

“Keeper?” I can’t help but whisper the question. It’s the wrong choice, I know it’s the wrong choice even as the word pushes past my lips. I should be strong and sharp, commanding, but her face is taught with pain and fear, and I don’t have it in me to be anyone other than Silas when she is bent before me looking like a crushed flower. I know Raek will hear it, will twist it around when he meets with his rat-like friends in the quiet corners of the Council House, plotting and planning. But she is wild-eyed and frightened, blade through her hand, trembling like a leaf in the storm winds, and for once I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what todo.

I have no time to consider action though, because, in one fluid motion, the Keeper pulls the knife from her hand and turns to the Blood Tree. No one else is moving, no one is speaking — not even Nickolas. So no one is prepared when she takes two short, powerful steps and then, swinging her arm high, plunges the knife down into the red sapped trunk. It seems for a moment that she has lost her mind; there is enough time to exchange a worried glance with Rannoch, I know that, and then all hell breaks loose and all conscious thought disappears.

Because the Blood Treesqueals, like a pig at slaughter, the sound causing several men to drop to their knees, retching. The rest look nauseous, curving over their stomachs, faces draining of all color. There is no one paler than the Keeper, though, who is locked against the tree, now bleeding hand wrapped around the knife as though she can’t let it go.

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