Page 51 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

“You found her bracelets? She asked for them to be returned to her. ‘A kindness’, she said.”

Nodding, I blindly pass him the bag holding her jewelry. Or armor, depending on how you look at it. He glances inside, then looks back down at me.

“You’re looking for her necklace?”

“I was. But…” Letting my voice trail off, I motion at the rockslide. “Her bracelets were laid out, henbane all around them. A warning, and not a subtle one. If her necklace were here…”

“I think she has him still.” He’s hesitant, but wouldn’t say it if he didn’t believe it. Rannoch rarely speaks without thought.

Jerking my head up, I whip around to face him. “What? Why?”

“She was laughing with the boy after I left. Not happy, certainly, not even real laughter, as such, but — I don’t know. I don’t think she’d find any joy that quickly if she didn’t have her Protector still, somewhere.”

“She said…” Pausing, I wrack my brain, thoughts sluggish and heavy. “She said that all of the bones on the floor were empty, that any left in the cottage were empty. You think?—”

“I don’t knowwhatto think, to be honest, Silas. But if Lorcan was your friend, he’ll council her to talk to you. Or you’ll have to trust that if she is quiet, it is on his advice, I suppose.” Sighing, he scrubs a tired hand across his face. “What ishappeninghere? Things are spiraling out of control.”

“We just need to get through to the storm season.” It has become our mantra the last few months, since we finally realized how deeply we’d have to cut into the Council to remove the poison. The time for placating words and patient wisdom has passed. Get to the Storm season. Use the time locked away to dig up the rotting roots, where there is no chance for anyone to whisper lies in the villagers’ ears. Where there are no eyes to witness necessary choices. Many, many meet death during the Storms, even in the best of times. Who’s to say what stops breath in the darkest hours of the night? Straightening, I roll my neck, hearing the straining muscles of my shoulders protest the movement. “Then we reassess. If we can just make it through — we’ll have a few months inside to counteract Raek. His minions. Keep them away from the people of the village. Move forward with decisive hands. But right now we have to focus on food. Figure out how to make up the loss of half a season’s harvest.” I can feel my throat tighten, constricting air and the words.

Rannoch pitches his voice low. Even here we don't feel safespeaking freely. “Do you think they did it? Is that how far we’ve come? Would they have let the grains rot? For what purpose?” Frustration and fear war in his words. “What do the deaths of our people buy them? And how long has this been going on that we’ve missed it? More than we thought were involved if they were able to hide something of this scale, Silas.” The warning is clear. We’ve been playing against a stacked hand.

“I don’t know. But the ground at the Blood Tree wassoaked.”

“Desperation, he said,” Rannoch replies. “Offerings to appease the Sun and Earth.”

“Offerings they didn’t call for. Unguided.Unguided.And with the BoneKeeper in the village the entire time. That’s murder, Rannoch. For what purpose?”

“He thinks he’s in the clear. Says that if the bones disapproved they’d call for him as Offering. He’s very confident.”

“He’s ten steps ahead at every turn right now. I have to focus all my energy on feeding our people. He just wanders and postures. I need moretime.”

“The air smells wet and sulfurous when the winds come off the mountain, Silas. The Storms are coming, and we’ll have time then. We don’t have long.Accidentshappen during the Storms. He will not make it through. He and his brother both.” He’s trying to reassure me, but one problem solved is another caused. The sooner we get the Council locked away, the sooner we can try to counteract their actions, but it’s also the sooner my people start to starve. He lays a hand on my shoulder. “We can’t do anything openly, Silas. The balance is precarious, and who knows which way it would go if we moved now. But there’s hope, friend. The Traders are coming. They should be here at any moment. And their wagons…well. No. They weren’t heavy. But there was enough, if we trade for it all. That has to be a sign of better things.”

“Is it, Rann?” The question hangs between us before something sparks in my brain, buried in the back, beneath the events of the past week. “Speaking of Traders?—”

His pale face, usually so inscrutable, flushes a ruddy sort of red,and he glances away before answering. “I checked. The rockslide is clear. I only used those who were on the hunt with us, whose loyalty I don’t doubt. There weren’t many, but none asked questions, just cleared the path. There is room for the Traders to come.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Hmm?”

“Did. You. Tell. Her?” He shrugs, and I exhale sharply. “Rannoch. What ishappening? You don’t get to make those choices.”

“I—”

“No.” Dropping my voice, I turn to him, trying to lock eyes with him, but he stares resolutely at the ground. “You don’t get to make those choices. What were youthinking? Do you know how much is at risk? Our people willstarve. And why? To impress a pretty girl?”

His head jerks up. “A pretty girl?”

“You know what I mean.” I’m beyond exhausted, and suddenly incredibly angry, at Rannoch, at the Council, at the Gods, and for some strange reason, at a moonlit face with empty eyes. “There are a hundred who would welcome you to their beds with open arms. That one is off-limits.” He looks away, and I can’t help raising my voice, the mountain rumbling behind me. “She is theBoneKeeper, Rannoch. Not a barmaid in town. Chosen by the Gods. A vessel for the memories of our people. She is not a woman for quiet corners or shadowed streets. And for you to put the future of our people at risk —”

He breaks in, frustration biting the ends off his words. “I ask fornothing. I have followed the course since I was named to the Council. I have never wavered. I support you every step. Is it so wrong to want one thing, just one thing, for myself?” Voice desperate, cracking like the snow before an avalanche, he turns to plead with me. “I’m not even looking for alifetime, Silas. Just one moment of happiness that I can savor in this god forsaken land where there is never any sweetness!One thing!”

By the end of it, he is yelling, the muscles in his throat straining, and I thank the Gods that the mountain is loud today, that the earth and the stones above are loud enough to cover his words. Still, my answer is low, and cold, and unwavering. “It is.” And I won’t offer anapology for it. Even if I understand it. Even if somewhere, deep where I refuse to look, deeper in my heart than the miners have been in the mountain, there is an echo of his hopelessness, and of his hope.

He crumbles, and sinks to his heels, staring at the iron soil.

“It was just a shared fruit. Just a moment where this…this never ending weight wasn’t pressing me down. Where life felt…possible.”

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