Page 5 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

“You did not think. But you will. You will. I am returning to my home now. Visitations will resume immediately. The bones demand it.”

It is the end of my caged time. I emerge like a phoenix, covered in new feathers, only my feathers are white and hard, and hold the whispered words of centuries in their depths. There is nothing they can say. Nothing they can do — not in the moment, at least. But they can plot, and they can plan, and try to prove me vulnerable and wrong.

So at the turning of the month, when I am struck down by illness, the Council calls Lorcan to Offering— one of the last named by the Council and not the Bones. Their message is crimson clear in his unusually bloody Reaping, and my vertebracelets are soaked red when I take his shimmering soul in my shaking hands.

They are clever when they punish me with Lorcan’s Offering, but even then, make a mistake. The Bones around my neck and cuffs stay those of the Silent, but, a few weeks later, during his Waking, Lorcan offers his bones to line my back, and I accept. He was a silent man in life, and remains silent in death, but with his living bone down my back and around my throat, I no longer have to fear what could be approaching me, trying to catch me unawares. The first day I adorned him I sliced my shirt from collar to hem, unswerving down the spine, and every piece of clothing since, no matter the weather, has had a cutaway for Lorcan’s bones. The Protector’s fingers, vertebra and teeth fall in a straight, graceful line from my neck to the sway of my back, and he rarely whispers to me except to warn of danger.

The bell echoes a fourth time, and I’m yanked back to the present.

DRESSING IN BONE

WREN

Every day since then, I have woken and put on my armor, like an ancient warrior headed to battle. I removeallof my Silent bones when the darkness falls — they are too draining to have against my skin at all hours — but with dawn and duty my masque returns. Only my living bone stays and keeps watch for me when I am dead to the waking world.

Over time I have made small adjustments — the first was to have my Protector down my back. The second was when one of the bakers in the village, a soft spoken woman and a mother to eight children, was called to the Reaping. She requested, hesitantly and respectfully, a place in the strands of my hair. “I have been a mother too long to go to the wall,” she’d said tearfully. “I need to stay a mother.” Looking at me through watery eyes, she’d managed a sweet smile, and reached out gently to touch my face, a thing few would dare to do. “And youneeda mother, Keeper.” Once her soul was nestled at home in its bones, I’d woven her into the strands of my hair, and she’d laughed when she’d found out my secret. Since then she’s guarded me as fiercely as only a mother could, and her children and grandchildren are the only ones in the village who occasionally run their hands over my head.

When I first plaited her into my braids, I tried to remove her bonesevery evening. She fought me though, wrapping and curling herself into elf locks during the day, making it almost impossible to free her at night. Eventually, and much to her amusement, I just gave up and just let her remain. Since then I have added three others — the lone one of her children called to be Rendered, and who asked to be placed near her, a Hunter who saw too much through watchful eyes and simply said, “Braid me” upon his death, and my jeweler who first offered me a way out of my misery. Though his bones are mostly silent now, I keep him close to me to honor and remember him. I tried to remove him once, to give him peace, but he’d whispered, “Keep me. A little while longer, Keeper. Just a little longer.” And so I had.

Lorcan is the only living bone against my naked skin, though. It was difficult getting used to wearing my bone necklace at night, but he growled at me so fiercely the first and only time I tried to take him off that his bone vibrated. I’d never felt something like that before or since, and almost screamed at the sensation, jerking my hands back from the ring of teeth around my neck.

I don’t think so, Little Keeper, he’d whispered, and though I tried to remember thatIam the one in charge of the bone, I’d left him trailing along my spine. The thought of the necklace wrapping around my neck at night and choking me shivered through my mind, though, and I could almostseehis eyes roll in response to my worry.

Enough. I stay.

It was a command I could not ignore. And so, he had.

The hunter in my hair had huffed in quiet amusement. Rather than enter a losing battle, I’d very maturely ignored both. I never did take Lorcan’s bones from around my neck or my spine, though, and over the years, the curves of his fingers and vertebra and teeth have left smooth, shiny scars on my skin, tattoos of where my Protector stays, always watching, ever vigilant. He is as much a part of me now as my own teeth; I would rather rip one of mine out by its roots than pull him from my neck.

Once I’m fully clothed in cloth and bone, I pause, deciding to check myself one last time before leaving the tiny room. Almost reluctantly, I glance at my reflection, a slightly distorted, wavering imageuncertain on the mirror’s muted surface. It’s rare for me to use the dingy little glass over my cupboard; I avoid it whenever I can. The person in it always seems like a stranger, someone caught on the other side of the dull oval, her trapped there, me here, never to meet. I don’t recognize myself in the echo staring back at me, can’t find a string tying me to her. Studying her critically, I sigh. There’s little variation between her and the bones that adorn her; they blend into a single, achromatic creature. Elflocked, milken hair tumbles in bonestrung tangles to her waist, a mess of braids and waves. Full white eyes like a phantom’s stare back at me, their emptiness eerie and unnerving even to me, with no pupil or iris to ease her hollow gaze. Her skin is pallid, closer to a corpse than a living being; the only color anywhere are two vibrant, crimson ovals staining her eyelids, birdwing flashes of scarlett every time she blinks.

Who are you?I ask mutely, but she just meets my pleading gaze dispassionately.

Little Keeper?Lorcan whispers, a tendril of concern flavoring his words, and I jerk my eyes away from the mirror.

“It’s fine, Protector,” I reply out loud, the sound breaking the lingering unease from my heavy dreams. “All is well.”

I must have been lost in the past longer than I thought though, because by the time I arrive at the central keep, most of the inner village has already made their way to crowd uneasily in front of the Council House steps. An anxious murmuring from the people hums like a dissonant song, muted by the black stone of the square. It’s not customary for there to be a gathering this early in the day, nor in the month, actually. Two days ago was the close of the Haymaking Month, and most of the village would normally still be in their beds, tired from the rare revelry, a jewel-bright respite from their daily routine. Many, even now, look sleep heavy, having been pulled from their homes before their breakfasts, no echo of the past day’s joy remaining on their waiting faces. We have had both a Reaping and a Rending within the past week; to demand the presence of the entire inner village so new into the Harvest Month? There is nothing but trepidation of this unknown assembly.

Though no one expects me to be first to the keep, even at the best of times, a tight disapproval emanates from the gleaming black stage and the men on it as I drift, wraithlike, to stand behind them. It is clear they want me to scurry like a repentant child, small and meek, toward them but I force myself to float on soundless feet, refusing to bend to their obvious demands. They cannot command me explicitly, though they try with every sneering “request”, twisting words and meaning to suit their purpose. Worms in the daytime, vipers in the night, the twelve men push against tradition like poisoned water on stone, slowly cracking the foundations of our people. They are exhausting; and at times I don’t know why I continue to fight them when my life would be more peaceful and prosperous if I were pliant. Right now they give me only what they must, and though it is more than what many have, it still leaves a knot of desperation in my chest. If I were sweet, if I were soft, my brief time in this body would be endurable.But at what price?The mottled bruises blooming like winter roses on my arms, hidden to any eyes but my own, speak truths a thousand mouths never could.One that I am not willing to pay.

The villagers fall silent as I pass, then continue their nervous muttering once I am out of reach. Even the children, new to this world, cast their eyes away from my face, a motion that used to convey respect, but somehow now seems to hold an edge of terror. I cannot respond, but blood moths of worry claw at my stomach; the Keeper is a giver of comfort, not a creature of carrion. There should be no cause for any villager to fear me, especially the youngest, who I have protected at great cost to myself.At great and terrible cost.Something colder than the rising winds pierces my heart at the thought, but I force my breathing to remain unchanged.They won’t even look at you. Are they worth what you sacrifice for them?Inhaling deeply, I clench my jaw.I will not. I will never.

Above the mountain trembles, as if in response to my defiance, and an echo of thunder pours from its heights where a distant boulder breaks free, tumbling down over an unseen cliff’s edge.A coincidence, nothing more.But I don’t think of the children again.

“What news?” A single voice rises, noise above noise, demanding.They are tired of waiting, the swirling anxiety in the square heightening to real fear.Unwise, unwise.From the front of the stage, Councilor Raek’s eyes narrow, focusing intently on the throng of people, as though singling out the villager and making note of his name. Only the bones call for Rending or Reaping now — the Council has not named an Offering in years — but they have other ways to exact retribution. The groves always need watering.

Lips pursed, thin with anger, he is about to speak, when a second, and then third call in echo, “What news?” What news?” It is a rockslide of panicked sound, the villagers pressing forward, a crush of bodies and sound, pale and hollow. I school my face to remain blank, but inside I feel the bird’s wing of emotion flutter again.Something is wrong. They are too thin for the Harvest Month. Their eyes are too deep in their sockets. What have I missed?

“Peace! Peace!” Raek’s voice is a gong, and the word he calls to calm the crowd drips with the promise of violence. I want to step back, but it will be seen. “Peace!” he calls again, but in our village, peace means blood, and war, and Rending, and this time, the warning is heard, and the crowd falls more silent than its previous silence. Before it was the silence of night. Now it is the silence of the grave. Seemingly satisfied with their compliance, he tries to gentle his voice, but it’s still steel on stone, setting teeth on edge with its sound. Though Raek is usually a favorite amongst the villagers, for a moment he slips, lets his private face show through his public masque, and he fumbles to regain control. “Friends…”

Councilman Nickolas, stepping forward to stand next to Raek, is an eagle’s scream, too loud in the soundless square. “The Storms are coming!” There is no response from the people, and his mouth curves like the edge of a scythe. “The Storms are coming,” he repeats, “and we are not prepared.” He shakes his head, a sad, disappointed father over the failure of his sons. “The silos are only half-full.”

At this proclamation, a ripple runs like a spark through the people.Half-full! That will not carry the elders through the winter! If the silos are beneath three-quarters, the elders get nothing. Nothing at all.I see a woman shudder visibly in the crowd — she is months away from the sunsetmarking her twilight years. The years we arepromisedshould we make it through the Offerings, and she still has two grandchildren to care for, though her hair is ashen and her face lined. Her eyes are wide with fear, but her cheeks are dry. In our village you are born crying and you die crying, but you do not waste the water in between. And we all know the truth, despite the promises. The sanctity of the twilight years is a dream in the Nowhere. If her sunset birthday falls in the Storms, and we are too low on food, she will be marked, grandchildren or not.I is for Infant, we all owe our dueI chant automatically in my head.But never from my hands. No matter who the bones call for.The mountain thunders again, and I can feel its longing vibrate in my chest.

In the tired clumps of slumping bodies, there is a growing realization — they should not bethishungry in the early frost. Now is the time of abundance in the village…what little abundance they have. And while they are never full, this should be when they are, at least, not empty. But the hollow cheeks and dull eyes of the people speak of too many skipped meals and scarce water. It is written on their faces — the coming Storms will not be kind. The village is too deep in desperation already to make it through the dark hours. Everyone knows the trees grew scant fruit this year, though the Council anointed them with the blood of the Rendered, and the fields of pearl millet never turned autumn gold. But…half-full? In my lifetime, a full twenty-three years, we have never dropped below three-quarters, and even then, the number given as Offering to help us through the Storms was…something I do not like to think of. At half-full…I clench my hands beneath my long sleeves and breathe shallowly. The Offering would be unheard of.

Another of the Council motions to me with practiced hands. “We know, friends. But take comfort!” he calls, not as commanding as Raek, or chaotic as Nickolas — just one villager speaking to another. Somehow, the normalcy of his words does something Raek and Nickolas could not, calming some of the panic. “Take comfort,” he says again with a gentle smile, hand still extended in my direction, and the people turn to face me as one.

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