Page 52 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

Sinking down beside him, I clasp his shoulder gently. “Life is possible, Rann. We’re trying. We have plans in place. There are boulders in the way, but if we cleared the path for the Traders, we can clear the path for the people. We don’t have tostayhere. But we need time to break tradition’s hold on us. And to fight against those who are working against us.”

He sighs, and is already so beaten down that I hesitate, but I know I have to. “And Rann?” Something in my voice is enough to jerk his gaze up, eyes wary. I meet it levelly. “It was just shared fruit? Her lips and cheeks were flushed. I’ve never seen the color on her.” He says nothing. “She smelled of citrus.”

“She tasted of citrus, too,” he replies under his breath, eyes glazing into memory.

There is nothing to say to that, or to the clawing beast that roars to life in my stomach at his words.

THE TRADERS ARRIVE

WREN

Iam inside my now bare cottage, still dressing for the day, a sick pit in my stomach at the thought of what’s to come, when the first shouts echo through the village streets and a rush of pounding feet move so quickly past my door that dust swirls in under the sill. Frowning, I make a mental note that the fit needs to be fixed before the rains come. It wouldn’t do to be locked inside watching poison seep in further and further, pushing me back, unable to mop it up lest I touch it accidentally. Another shout, and then disbelieving laughter, pours through my windows like pure water, bouncing around the now empty walls.

“Traders!” The word is repeated like the refrain of a song, over and over, becoming a call and response, until it sounds more like music than speech. “Traders!Traders!”

Strange reluctance seizes my throat in unexpected panic. There is something portentous about this moment, the joy outside a glaring counterpoint to the hollow in my chest. Too much is new about this year, too many things are unknowns. After a lifetime of well-worn paths, this abrupt, constant change is unsettling.

“Traders!”

“Traders!”

The women’s voices throb with unshed tears, the men’s with a clawing hope.Traders. If their wagons are full enough, if they are laden and heavy, like the golden memories of their last visit…we could survive the Storms. It would be a desperate time — so much more desperate than any we have lived through before, but wewouldlive through it. Most of us. And I wouldn’t have to hear the pain of every life lost, souls singing far from my aching fingertips, swallowed by the winter, unable to be carried safe home. I wouldn’t have to press myself to the door, flesh imprinting with the wood grain, hour after hour, feeling them slipping from flesh, fading from bone.

Little Keeper.

Lorcan’s voice is a wisp of smoke, curling around me, warm and soothing, so gentle, as though he knows how close I am to breaking.

“I’m fine, Lorcan.”

He’s amused, but in a sad sort of way.

Of course. Of course. But it is time to face the world now. The worry only grows if the door remains closed.

“I don’t want to.”

He barks a laugh at the pout in my voice, forcing my lips to curve in response. Lorcan’s mirth is so rare it is irresistible to me, a sun—soaked pathway of warm dirt and clean cut grass.

Stop moping, Little Keeper. Adventure awaits.

“Bossy, bossy,” I mutter, but finish tying on my vertebracelets, inexplicably comforted to have them back on my arms, especially given the amount of time I spent wishing them away. I’m feeling oddly alone with only the Silent bracelets and my Protector, swallowing back a surging sorrow thinking of the Hunter and the Jeweler, and thanking the Gods above and below that the Baker and her son are safe with Marrin around his neck.

No more stalling, Wren.

Rolling my eyes, I glance around the room once more before I leave.

“The Knife?”

He is quiet for a long moment, thenYes to the Knife, but tucked inside. We don’t move without the Guiding Knife anymore, and only againstflesh. It would draw too much attention on a board where we don’t know the pieces.

Nodding, I fasten the Guiding Knife against my skin, making sure it is completely hidden from view. Grabbing one of my few fully sleeved shirts, I pull it on, mostly covering my bracelets, and then tie a high necked cloak around my throat. Lorcan is still bare down my back — I own nothing that does not expose my spine, but the heavy cloth hangs in such a way that you would have to be close and staring to see my Protector clearly. It will have to be enough.

By the time I open my door, the streets nearest to me are quiet, all the noise and chaos now by the Northern Arch, giving me enough time to look up toward the mountain path where none have traveled for over twenty years. It is like a dream from another lifetime to see them now, a riot of colors I’ve never imagined, shining brightly even in our pale sun, decorating a long, seemingly endless row of precariously balanced wagons. They are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, tall things, almost cottages on wheels, with short, straight sides and large, curving roofs, the fronts taken up completely by ornately carved doors covered in gleaming gold, little windows covered with laced curtains. Each is pulled by two stocky, shaggy ponies, who seem to be close relatives to our own, though their long manes and tails are intricately braided with colorful ribbons that trail down their straining muscles.

Even at this distance I can hear the large wheels groaning and creaking as they begin the descent toward the village walls, the drivers’ shouts of “whoa, there” and “steady, steady” echoing from the mountainsides. Something about their voices on the wind makes the entire thing real, and I’m unprepared for the surge of hope battering the curve of my ribs in my chest like blood moths in the night. I spend so much time wishing my life away here, but this could save Marrin. Could save Tahrik. It seems like a sign from the Gods. And if a Xenium is given, after so long, will it move us forward toward an end to this seemingly endless suffering?

I want, desperately want, to witness this moment, to run with the rest of the village and see the Traders arrive after so long, but there isnothing on earth strong enough to force my feet back to the Northern Arch. Even the thought makes my stomach curl, bends me over, exhaling like I’ve been punched, and I have to breathe deeply through the pain.

Little Keeper. There is nothing you could have done.

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