Page 53 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

Lorcan is so sympathetic it hurts. I force myself to straighten, and walk away from the path leading to the arch, away from the Traders and the bright, shimmering chaos, away from the sparkling possibility.

“I won’t risk it, Lorcan. Never again. Unless my throat is cut wide open and you are under my flesh against my veins, coated in blood from my beating heart, it will not happen.” The words are a promise, a vow, an oath.

There is a startled silence, and thenThat’s quite the picture you paint, Wren.

He is trying to tease, but there is a note in his voice I can’t identify. I don’t much care. He can lead me in many ways, but on this I’ll brook no argument. The Gods could come to earth in human form and command my feet from this village, but I won’t risk sending Lorcan to the silence.

“Don’t press me on this, Protector.”

As you wish, Little Keeper.

Again, there is a strangeness in his reply, but his agreement is enough to quiet me. So I wander away from the rest of the village, the rest of the world, and find a quiet corner to wait. It is both forever and not even a moment before the first strains of music wind down the streets to me, and I am left wondering how it took so long and how it happened so quickly, all at once. The bones against my back are quiet, not whispering any secrets to me, so I am caught by surprise when the first children burst from around the corner, laughing and cartwheeling, joy exploding from their bodies in raucous motion and chortling shouts of pure happiness. They are followed closely by a tumble of people, familiar faces mixed with new, unknown voices weaving unfamiliar melodies with strange accents.

At the head of the crowd are Silas and Rannoch, walking with agrey bearded man who moves with a swagger and wears a smile that indicates he’s unsure of his welcome, and is masking it with false confidence. The strangers behind him wear similar looks of cautious hesitance, eyes darting around quickly, belying the grins on their faces and friendly countenances. I barely have time to wonder what happened at the gate before Nickolas and his friends round the curve, faces dark and angry, not bothering to hide their displeasure at the presence of the visitors.

Ah. If Raek were here he’d caution his brother not to be so obvious, but without him, Nickolas is less careful of his missteps. And Denian and Allford trail him without thought.

Still, the remaining members of the Council and the rest of our leaders — the Protectors, the Renders, the Reapers — all wear their welcome openly, even those who were at the Blood Tree, and it’s enough to balance out the few who are practically vibrating with anger. As more and more villagers push forward down the main street, the crowd spreads sideways, making room for the strange wagons and nervous ponies, and come close to where I rest. For one wild second I forget myself, stepping forward, joining the tumult, caught up in the surging mayhem of noise and happiness and hope, losing myself, if only for a short time, in this impossible moment. Children brush against me, not paying attention, focused solely on the newness surrounding them, and I have just enough time to thinkmaybe, maybe…But the adults, even now, flow around me like water around a rock, and I am left in a lonely pocket of space, feeling happiness slide past my skin, breath skirting flesh, close enough to almost touch me, but never making contact.

Something cold shivers over me, storm rains on my flesh, and I risk a long searching glance, looking for something or someone to connect me to this, to pull me into this piece of history and make me part of it, to write me into the story of our people. Silas and Rannoch are already ahead of me, beyond me, but…there! Tahrik’s dark hair is unmistakable, standing out against the unusual burnished autumn colors of the Traders. He is laughing, face lit with joy, and I half-step toward him, knowing in my bones he will feel my presence andseeme, as he always does. But his face is turned, focused on the man and woman walking beside him, a giggling child on his shoulders, another hanging from his shirt, and he walks by without a thought.

Then they are all gone, or it feels like they are, and I am left behind. The noise continues, a trill of music like bird song beckoning any stragglers with a welcome not meant for me. Behind me, the bones warm finally, their soft voices waking with memory, and I lean back into them, into their acceptance, into their comfort.

I remember when?—

There was once a man?—

This reminds me of?—

Their voices whisper and whisper, a soft counterpoint to the gaiety, and I sink into their stories, into their lives, away from the emptiness that is my own.

HAPPINESS FOR FREE

WREN

“Hello there!” A deep voice fills the silence around me, startling me from my seat on the small stone bench where I’ve been long enough that my legs have gone to sleep, and I jerk back in surprise. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you!” A young man — my age, maybe a bit older — smiles at me, white teeth flashing, small indents in his face to either side of his mouth. He is open, friendly, and I don’t trust him immediately. No one here offers friendship for free. “Why aren’t you at the welcoming?” he asks conversationally, casually, as though people speak to me all of the time in such a way. My eyes widen before I can school my face, and I don’t answer. “You don’t seem as excited as everyone else…” he notes, still smiling, still out of place. I shrug, which seems as good an answer as any, and which he somehow takes as an invitation to sit beside me. This is all too familiar, too relaxed, tooclose, and I try to surreptitiously slide sideways. He notices, forest green eyes crinkling at the corners, and I wonder what the world is like where he grew up, that it encourages such a generosity of joy.

Kicking at a stone in front of him, he tries again. “Everyone else is at the gathering?...” It’s a leading statement, but I am not one to follow. I never have been. And my tongue is not used to loosewords or informal conversation. Oddly, the longer I am silent, the larger his grin grows, until I imagine his cheeks must hurt from the force of it. I try not to admire the way his full mouth curves, his low voice filled with laughter, his considering gaze. I fail. My silence becomes his own, and he regroups, falling into a thoughtful quietness, looking around the village with curious eyes.

It feels safe for a moment taking him in. Shooting surreptitious glances at him from my peripheral vision, I try to study him without making it obvious. With his coloring he could almost be from our mountains. But he is too…too alive. Too vibrant.Toolarge. He’s every bit as tall as Rannoch, though still not as towering as Silas. It’s …just…his legs are liketree trunks. Arms strong and muscular, as thick as most men's thighs. He has an almost intimidating strength, because it’s not one borne of necessity, but desire. The ease of his life is written in his body — no scarcity of food slimming him down to straining muscle and sinew, no hard winters or poison rain scarring his skin. But the place his differences are most noticeable are his soft mouth and his dancing eyes. His lips tip up at the corners, even at rest, and the bright glance he darts my way is not guarded or narrowed, just open and interested.

After a few minutes, he turns back to me, seemingly unbothered by having to make a third attempt at pulling words from my throat. Raising a callused hand, he shoves a mop of dark hair, shorter on the sides and thick and shaggy on the top, like our ponies coats as we go into the storm season, from where it hangs in his eyes in order to focus on my face. For a brief, ridiculous moment my fingers twitch, the impulse to run them through his hair so strong I have to fight against it. He is a sort of danger that I don’t understand. But it is danger none-the-less.

“Lots of bone here,” he offers finally, most of his smile gone now, though one side of his mouth curls up still. “Have you looked your fill? Sussed me out? Do I pass muster?” He knew I was watching him, gave me time to do so unencumbered.

If I do not speak, perhaps he will leave.

If I do not speak, perhaps he willleave.

And suddenly, I don’t want to lose this taste of everyday, this little piece of being seen. And so…so I try. As much as I am able.

First, however — I reach up to my face and point a single finger at my eyes. His face drops, realization dawning, and I feel unexpectedly sad for having to mislead him. But there are teeth in the night that do not care for any sadness of mine. “If I had to hazard a guess, then…yes.” The words are whispered, barely words at all. It is enough, though, and the half-smile expands back into his full grin.

“She speaks!”

Narrowing my eyes, I nod. “Shehas a name,” I snap out, and he holds up his hands in apology.

“She couldtellme her name,” he replies cheerfully, not at all intimidated by the threat of my bite, “and then I’d say something clever like, ‘My name is Kaden. I’ve been wanting to hear your voice since the moment we walked into the village walls and I saw you in the shadows, like a flickering candle.”

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