Page 89 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

Nickolas laughs again, chaotic, crackling noise like breaking bones. He is a rabid animal.

And there is only one cure for a rabid animal.

“I should like your word that, if you fall, they will do naught in turn.” I reply, voice still quiet, and agreement stumbles from the stage in amused grunts and coughs. It is not enough. “Sworn in blood.” I say, and their eyes narrow.Ah, I think.At least blood still holds sway over these maddened men.

They nod grudgingly, as the man holding the boy answers for the lot.

“Sworn in blood,” he smirks, and slices his hand, dripping crimson on the ground, off the edge of the stage, then grins his rotted grin again and twists the boy’s arm ‘til tears spring to his eyes. It is clear to him that no one else is coming, that no one else will brave the darkness or the wrath of the Council. It is just the few men on the stage, a young boy, and a small, weaponless woman half-naked with bare, bleeding feet in the dirt.

“Come at me, then, woman,” Nickolas taunts, “if you will.” And he yanks Marrin up til the small boy is barely touching the ground, his toes skimming the dirt, eyes wide in fear. But Marrin doesn’t make a word, refuses to look at me, to ask for help. He is trying so hard to protect me, and it fractures a piece of my soul.

I swore I would never again, but at what cost?

Trying once more, I chance a step forward, arm outstretched, palm up in supplication. “If you let him go, we will all leave this unharmed. Just let Marrin be.”

He pretends to think on it, a false look of concentration on his face, which is replaced by a rat-like, sly narrowing of his unbroken eye. “He wears your jewelry, Keeper. Did you think I’d not notice?” In a sharp, swift movement, he rips something from Marrin’s body and crushes it beneath his feet. My heart clenches, but I can’t dwell on it. “For some reason, thisthingmeans something to you. So you cantrade yourself for him.” he says, greed and lust licking his tone, the dank stench of sweat heavy in their air. “We’ll take his price from your skin. And you’ll promise to stay, though you’ll break under my hands.” The thought excites him, cold eye lighting up with dark desire.

“Nickolas!” Rannoch lurches forward, straining against the other men on the stage who hold him back. He wrestles violently with them, hand dropping to where his sword would be, but freezes when Nickolas tightens his grip on Marrin. Tahrik is stone-still behind me — he is witnessing something he has never seen, never considered. Our time together is full of wishes and dreams — I have never whispered the darkness of my days to him, have never wanted to stain those precious moments with the ugliness of reality. And now here it is, all at once. Something that to him is unimaginable.

There is no way but forward, I think, stomach clenching in unspeakable sorrow. “Give me my boy,” I command, but there is so much sadness in my voice I think Nickolas takes it for surrender, and he wraps his thick hand around the child’s throat in sneering victory. Marrin’s eyes flare open, one small, pained sound escaping his bloodied lips, then flutter to a close.

“No.” Nickolas replies, curling back his lip and baring his teeth in disdain, tracing a red line lightly along Marrin’s flesh.

I sigh, and drop my head. “So be it.” I whisper, and the screams in the square are deafening when I call his bones home to me.

BLOOD AND FIRE

WREN

His bones explode from his skin in a liquid, squelching sound — a single skeleton shedding its human form behind it — and come stumbling toward me at my beckoning in jerking, awkward movements. On the stage, Marrin has mercifully fainted. The Councilmen who remain on the raised platform are like panicked animals, shrieking in terror.

I cannot see Tahrik or Rannock, focusing solely on the dripping memory of a man walking toward me, tiny bits of exposed flesh and muscle still hanging from his form.

I have not let him die yet, have left him his tongue and beating heart; the pain must be…unbearable.

“Keeper!” It is a garbled wail of sound, a gurgled drowning noise. “Keeper!”

He is begging, but Iwarnedhim.

There is no way but forward.

I do nothing until he drops to his white knees before me, and then I release him to the grave, his soul exploding into light.

Guide me to bone, Keeper!He sings, but even in death the music of him is jarring and cacophonous. I watch him through cold eyes, hislight fading, fading, as he struggles.Do it! Keeper!It is a snarl of sound; when I take him in my hands, he turns smug, even in death.

There are places worse than Silence, Nickolas,I whisper to his soul, and an edge of fear shimmers in his soul light.To be Exiled is a pain all its own, unending and for eternity. You will never be released, because it takes a BoneKeeper to do it. And I will never, never give you peace, Nickolas.

His soul is tumultuous, but he has no choice. There are empty bones tucked away all throughout the walls, little hidden pockets of hollowed ivory, pockmarked and pitted. No suitable home for a soul; to be locked inside such a thing would be excruciating, an Exile even for Exiled. I reach into the wall, loosening an old, decrepit hyoid, thin, with sharp, broken ends, and IshoveNickolas inside, no gentle Guiding, no practiced hands, just sheer, brutal force.

It is silent for a long,longmoment before the howling starts — manic, mindless agony convulsing the sound.

“Threats from a ghost are as good as pure water from an untainted well,” I murmur to the Exiled soul, and my lips curl up in grim satisfaction. “I warned you, I promised you, I swore it in blood. You willneverhave peace.” Nickolas’ crazed song fades into hopeless wails, and it soothes the tumult in my heart.You should not have threatened me or mine, I think, clenching my jaw in fury.And none will find you to relieve you of your agony.Reaching forward with the tiny bone, I push him deep, deep into the wall, the surrounding femurs and maxilla seeming to slide to the sides as he passes, then cover his path back up. Before long the tiny hyoid is in the very heart of the wall, surrounded by silent, empty bones, swallowed by our history. He will never be found, unless the village is torn to pieces. When I finally withdraw my hand, I press my forehead against the exposed ivory, and smile.

The living world rushes back in a rush of sound. Tahrik is screaming beside me, high pitched squeals like an animal being slaughtered, frantic, shuddering notes of dissonance that cut off suddenly as he is violently ill in the dirt. Bent at the waist he vomits, hands on knees, bowed over with tears running down his face. I take a step towards him but he holds out a shaky hand, pressing the air as if it could push me back, and turns his head away from me.

“No, Gods, no!”

Flinching back, unexpected hurt stinging my heart, I stutter-step away, keeping my eyes locked on him.

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