Page 83 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

“We don’t need herthoughts, Rexus,” Nickolas snaps, voice whip sharp and cracking with anger. “Shedoesn’t have thoughts. She is a vessel for the Gods.”

Rexus waits patiently, ignoring the huffing bull of a man behind him, and I walk to the pillar, placing my hands on the curling white bone lines that are inlaid into the rock. They are quiet, so I press my forehead against them, asking for their guidance, but they will not speak, feel…strangely hollow. Not Silent, not exactly, but — I have suspicions, dark, dreadful suspicions.What to do? Perhaps, perhaps I can speak around it.

From my position against the pillar, I harden my voice to stop it from shaking, then call, “The fire is the wrong color.”

There is an intake of breath that drains the world of oxygen, and an uneasy muttering, before a third Council Member speaks. “Please, BoneKeeper. Explain.”

I shrug, and point up. “The Fire is the wrong color. That is all I know. When the Sun God lights it for Offering, it burns blue and white until blood is spilled. The fire is winter yellow and hearth red.”

The black-wreathed Council is shifting anxiously now, an undulating snake of hooded faces turning towards each other and exchanging inaudible words, before Nickolas’s anger breaks through again.

“The fire is lit and the Bones are silent. Surely we won’t ignore this because some…somegirl…is speaking in riddles of blue and reds.” He points a shaking finger toward the top of the pillar, vibrating with rage. “That calls us to our duty. An Offering must be Rendered. What does she think, someotherthan the Sun God lit the fire?”

The protest from the Twelve is clear. To light the fire would be sacrilege of an unthinkable sort. To touch the pillar of the Sun God and call to Renderforhim…my mind shudders at the thought. And yet…and yet…“Why would you think the bones are silent, Councilman?” The iron of our mountain is in my voice. When I am not BoneKeeper, I am a feather on the wind. But in this, at least, I know my place and my purpose, and will not be swayed by power hungry men with tiger-teeth.

He pushes his hood off his head, exposing his leering, victorious face. I can’t help but feel a small sense of vicious happiness where the bones cave in around his now unseeing eye. It’s brutal and stomach churning, and I don’t know why he refuses to cover it, but it gives me no small amount of satisfaction to see the work of my hands. But it’s the only punishment he ever received, and it’s made him overly bold. He has stopped even attempting to hide his machinations.

When I was a child, I was given a game made of animal bone. It was a way to get a young one accustomed to handling things of death without making it obvious or overwhelming. They were little rectangles that could be set up in long lines, curling and twisting, and then, when you were ready, you’d gently tap the first, and the rest would fall, one after another, until the entire lot was down, and showed the final pattern in satisfying chaos. Nickolas reminds me of that game in this moment. As though he has knocked down the first tile, and is waiting for the rest to fall in stunning, inevitable design.

“Arethey speaking to you?” The question is pointed, knowing. “These bones, the only ones who are voices for the Sun God. Are they sayinganythingto you? BoneKeeper?” He adds my title as a cursory afterthought.He knows they are not. Howdoes he know? He has…he hasdonesomething to the bone of this pillar.The thought is horrifying.I am, for the first time, unsure of the correct move. I cock my head, taking him in. He is anticipating something, some response from me. But I don’t know what. And it makes me uneasy.

Quickly I run through all of the options before me, and sigh softlywhen I realize I am going to have to expose one of my secrets.Still, I have many, many left.This is such a small one, but even small cracks in a foundation can crumble a house. Making up my mind, I move forward, drifting straight through the confused Council with a light step. Forward further still, to the far side of the square. As far as the Council’s well, ornate and towering, the well thatonlythe Council may use. It is cased in a heavy, white granite, rippled with grey, chosen because it resembled bone so closely. Little jewels are inlaid on its surface, bright bursts of color we are not used to seeing in our village — an ostentatious display of purposeless wealth, really, since the real treasure is beneath the covering, not the cover itself. Well, notmostof the cover. Because, central in the lid, there is a small circle, difficult to see, that blends in almost perfectly with the granite surrounding it.

If any of them had ever drawn their own water, they may have noticed. If any had dirtied their hands like the rest of our people, perhaps they would have seen the inconsistency. But from a distance, or with careless eyes, you would never find the bone embedded there. Most assuredly not Nickolas, who has not deigned to pull his own water since the moment he was elected to Council, during the between, when there was no Keeper to speak for the Bones. Running my fingers over the lid, I listen, straining my ears to hear the quiet, ancient voice of the Well Guard.

A braying tone catches my attention, harsh and mocking. “You can heargranitenow,BoneKeeper?” He laughs, and the laugh is echoed by three or four of the Twelve. I made careful note of the growing divide. Nickolas is gaining power, and with power comes a false bravado. Turning, I cast my eyes toward him, a net pulling him and the rest of the Council toward me.

“Granite?” I ask, confusion clear as a bell in my voice, the vicious victory I feel hidden in my heart. “No, Councilman. Why would you think that? Of course, it is bone. Always and only bone.”

Nickolas’ anger pours over me, a raging inferno, but I stay, still and silent. “There is no bone in this square, Keeper, other than the pillar. If youmustlie, make it believable at least.”

A step too far, even for his backers, and their uneasy mumblingcalls him back to himself, an apology tight on his lips. “I…that was unintentional.”

Offering my own, tight smile back, I nod. “I believe it was. Truly.” We are dancing with our words, the undercurrents grasping and dangerous. I am not one to block when I could parry, and I tap the lid of the well with a long, pale finger.

“The Well Guard is here, of course. I assume the Council would know as such?” The Well Guard. And now there are dark faces frowning, thunderclouds running across eyes and mouths.I am not safe hereI realize, suddenly, a chill running down my back in skeletal fingers.I am no longer even a shadow of safe.Whatever poison Nickolas has been dripping from his forked tongue has found purchase in enough of the Council’s ears, and I realize there is a vein of hatred running though our Council that is as toxic as the winter rains. I thought it was just Raek and his brother, perhaps a few others at most. But suddenly, stupidly, I understand. Their reverence is all a play now, just pantomime.Stupid, Wren, stupid!Something should have been done long before now about the way I’ve been being treated, about the subtle attacks, and the less subtle ones. There are words and words and words but never actions, and words make things permissible that actions would have silenced.

Rexus’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “The Well Guard?” He is notsoold that his voice is reedy, or that it has a quiver to its sound, but it is thin, and airy. Not much of a match for Nickolas, though truth carries its own power. “We had a Well Guard as a child. During the darker times.”

Silas is curiously quiet, but Rannoch’s clipped, commanding tones echo out through the square. “Explain, Keeper?”

It is a request, though it is formed as a command, and I nod, white hair draping around my face. “In the Darker times, when water went so scarce as to dry the blood of the village, people would raid the wells at night to provide for their families.”

“Even theCouncil’swell?” The voice is affronted, shocked, as though it were unbelievable that 15,000 people dying of thirst may have some right to a well reserved for only Twelve. My stomachtwists and turns. How have we become so blind to the corruption of our leaders?

“Especially the Council’s well.” I continue thoughtfully, no rebuke clear in my voice. “The Council at the time was not like that of today. They cared more for their power and prestige than the wellbeing of the village. At some point they were no longer desirous of the Vengeance being paid, but just in keeping their small, grasping hands on the people of this village.” They shift, uneasy, hearing my words. “So they appointed a Guard. Owen Baldrick, a cousin of the Father in that day.” I turn to address the four who crowd around Nickolas in anxious attention. They glare, eyes bright, lips sneering, but fall silent. “He was a good man, honest and kind, and loved the people of the village. When night fell, he would dole out portions of water to all who approached, silently and surreptitiously, knowing it would be his death if he were caught. He was a brave man. Saved many in the village from certain death. He was found out at the end of the Drought, and was put to death by the Council. Sentenced to Exile for his crimes.” There is a sharp inhale from someone listening, but no other sound.

“So if he was Exiled, what does it matter if his bone is here? He is not present.” There is too much worry in Nickolas’ voice, and I see Silas finally,finallyturn to observe him with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, well. The BoneKeeper at that time did not agree with the Council’s decision. And the village wanted to honor Owen, against the judgment of the Council. So when his bones were about to be hollowed, a tiny piece was rescued, and carved, and placed with marrow in this lid. Here. Hidden in the webbing of the granite.” All drift over to look, seeing the ornate cover with new eyes, seeing the undeniable muted shine of bone.

“So what does thisOwensay?” Nickolas spits out, vibrating with nervous energy. “Though why we should trust a traitor’s bones, I’ll never know.”

Heresy. Heresy and Sacrilege.The words are frozen on my tongue. For him to suggest such a thing, that bone would orcouldlie, is…it is unthinkable.

“He says,” I whisper softly, “that the bones are watching and waiting, to see what the Council decides. He says they are listening and learning, and that it is all in your hands, what is to happen. The hearthfire or hellfire. The Water or Wasting. The End or the Ender. These things are your choice. Paths have been tread that cannot be retread, and choices must be made. The Bones…await your decision. The road ahead is the forked tongue of a snake. Which way will you walk?”

I hear the warning in the words, perhaps Rannoch and Silas do as well. Rexus does for certain, his watery eyes widening in alarm. But the four around Nickolas, and Nickolas himself, are gleaming in their false victory. He turns to me, snapping like fire, and sneers. “You are no longer needed today, Keeper. If the Bones will not speak to name the Offering, then it is the Council and Council alone who will proceed. See yourself home, girl.”

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