THE BONEKEEPER’S DAUGHTER

THE BLADE AND BONE TRILOGY

BOOK ONE

ELISE FRY

Copyright copyright 2025 Elise Fry

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The situations, incidents, and dialogue are entirely fictional and not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

No part of this book was written or generated by AI. NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence technologies is expressly prohibited. No part of this publication may be stored in or used to train artificial intelligence systems without the express written permission of the author.

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To B, A, and T — I carved my heart into three pieces and gave one to each of you, and now it lives outside my body for the rest of my life. I love you beyond forever. There is no place you will ever go that I will not follow if you need me.

To my Mom, I am so grateful for you that I don’t even have the words. You are the best of everything in this world.

To my Dad, who wrote me stories every night at bedtime. I will never tell one as mesmerizing as the mermaids getting their hair cut on the pirate ships, but I’ll try. You built me magical worlds from words, and I remember every one.

And, as always, to Chris, who is my always. My unlimited coffee budget while writing this book is the most romantic and appreciated gift you’ve ever given me.

I will literally never stop loving you.

That is a threat and a promise.

AUTHOR’S NOTE AND CONTENT ADVISORIES:

Hello friends!

Thanks for picking up BKD, and I hope you enjoy it. Before you dive in, please be aware this is a very dark book with dark themes. It is always best to protect your mental health when choosing to consume any book, tv show, or movie. General triggers contained within BKD include, but are not limited to: human sacrifice, blood, mention of SA, a form of what people might consider self-mutilation, death…like, lots and lots of death. Of all sorts. The list would be long. I’m going to say if death of any sort bothers you, this is not the book for you. Lots of bones. Children in peril (but not gratuitously). Mentions of self-harm. Mental health battles. There may be scenes which are disturbing to some readers. BKD is a slow-burn, slow-build why choose romance.

THE FIRST LESSON

A is for Absence, Void open forever

B is for Bones, that keep us together

C is for Council, Protectors and Keeper

D is for Death, from Render or Reaper

E is for Ender, the word we don’t speak

F for the Father, the Guide for the weak

G is for Glisten, the flesh for the Sun

H is for Hasten, when Thunder is done

I is for Infant, we all owe our due

J is for Justice, who rules strong and true.

K is for Keeper, Protector of Bone

L for The Lady, Maid, Mother, and Crone

M is for Marrow, the Exiled screaming

N is for Nowhere, a place for the Dreaming

O is for Offering, to keep us all living

P for Protector, the Gentle, the Giving

Q is for Quiet, lest you wake the Sleeping

R is for Render, and flesh for the Reaping

S for the Storms, the death days approaching

T is for Tender, the old ways encroaching

U for the Unknown, those lost to Belows

V for the Vengeance, the payment still grows

W for Water, if we are forgiven.

X for Xenium, a gift rarely given.

Y is for Young, the village keeps growing

Z is the Zenith, the Goddess all-knowing.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE HARVEST MONTH

WREN

The Earth rumbles like it’s hungry, and I have to remind myself to breathe. I know it can’t be — we just fed it yesterday — but it takes effort to force my eyes away from the pit where the pile of bones will grow steadily larger through the month. A young woman — not well liked in our village, but…still — lies there, broken and empty, waiting to be eaten. I guided her to sleep with the setting sun last night, when she was given as Offering. She is curled now at the bottom of the hollow, almost as though resting, but there is no part of her left in her skin. Comforting myself with the same words as always, I run my fingers lightly along the sharp knife tucked at my waist: This is temporary. I have her safe and sleeping. When the Earth has finally had its fill, and all the bones are bare of flesh, bleached white by sun and fire, I will return the souls home. The Earth has plenty of food…I’m just anxious with the coming Storms.

The thought of the thunder clenches my stomach, and I glance to the dawn sky — butter yellow sun in a pale white-blue sea. Cold upon cold upon cold, but no sign of the bleak winter that is due to crash over us in waves, drowning the village in the rancid taste of death we must face every year. No flesh rending to the Sun God, or Reapings to the Earth, will stall what is to come. The Storms will take their due. We learn it in school, rote memorization from the first letters. A is for Absence, Void open forever. At least those given in Offering are guided to peace. If you pass during the Storms, your soul is swallowed whole, its song rising to a shrieking scream before disappearing into eternal silence. It is a game of death — two sides of a vicious scale kept in balance by blood. The gifts we were given to survive are the same that prevent us from settling the Vengeance. Every soul bound to bone increases our payment exponentially, but every life lost to the Storms is only a grain of sand in the desert needed to fill the gaping maw of the Void.

I cast my eyes back to the girl’s empty body and sigh, trying to shake off this unusual despair, thick like oil on my skin. My face remains blank; I would never allow a hint of emotion to show on its moon pale surface, but inside I am nauseous, uneasy with the way regret sits like rot in my stomach. You are not a child. You know the ways of your people, I remind myself firmly. For the good of the many, one must fall. To be chosen for the Offering is an honor in a way. You can step towards the Reaping pit with the certain knowledge that you will wake again in bone, that you will not be lost. Not all have that surety — if I am not near enough when a heart stops beating, there is no hope. Death is but a doorway if you are an Offering. An easy platitude for one who can’t be chosen my mind whispers insidiously, but as quickly as it comes, it dissipates.

Even if I could be chosen, Death is not a ghost in the night for me, a thing to be feared or shied away from. His realm is more my home than the sleepy village around me. Here I am always a step outside, more shade than citizen. There I am wrapped in memories that feel, I imagine, like a mother’s embrace. My comfort in the waking world is, as it has always been, restricted to the cool, smooth surface of the bones. No hand will ever slip into mine to offer solace, fingers curling intertwined like a basket weave, flesh giving way to accommodate my own.

Unexpectedly, for a brief, wild moment, the thought of living arms wrapped around me erupts in a bird’s wing of longing from my heart, frantically beating in my chest, before I am able to snap its neck and quiet it. What is happening today? A strangeness stirs inside me, unwelcome and unwanted. I am the Keeper. The words are a mantra, chanted to bring peace in dark hours. Born into Death before my eyes opened. To dream of softness is a wish for water. Taking a deep breath, I study the girl’s face, and calm myself. She is safely sleeping. Once her bones are stripped of flesh and her blood has watered the dirt, you will wake her and guide her home. There is no need for remorse or guilt. Her end was written in her beginning. At least she will not fall to the winter.

Leaning against the inner wall, its ivory just beginning to glint in the new sun, I rest my cheek against the night cold bone and call to it to rouse from its slumber. An unfamiliar loneliness sits heavy in my throat; I want the bones to speak to me and anchor me back to myself. But a shivering breeze distracts me, skittering down the mountain’s rock face, slipping along the femurs and jaw bones, curling over the iliums til it seems to pause when it hits my skin. It tastes of sulfurous water and sends tremors down my spine. There is still too much to do before the Storms come — the air should be thick with fresh cut grass and threshed wheat from the start of the Harvest Month, not a hint of the poisoned rains that will lock us inside our homes for the winter. Even now, with the sun barely in the sky, the village around me is stirring to life, every moment before the Storms a gift of fresh air and friendship. Most people will spend the next month lingering just a beat too long in quiet conversation, staying out until the tongue of night licks the closest gates and they are finally forced inside. There is so little time left before we are locked away that they drink up every moment like pure water, and do their best to ignore the shortening daylight and scant warmth from the sky.

There shouldn’t be this much chill in the air yet, even this early in the morning. We have the whole of the Harvest, and the whole of the Slaughter Month before the rains start. Frowning, I pull my cloak more tightly around my shoulders. Autumn warms enough mid-day that I won’t need the heavy wool by the time the sun is higher in the sky, but our home, even in the summer months, is never hearth-hot. It is always something just less than. Most things in our land are that way — just enough for survival, never enough for satisfaction. Our lives are clawed from cliff faces.

The oldest bones — the ones in the far, curled corners of the village — those which were ancient already when my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was a child, like to whisper of a time when the sun was hot, a bright flare of what looked like the Render fires, and when grass was green, as vibrant as blood but a different color. It is hard to picture their memories. I have never known the sun to be anything other than an ice yellow, almost white in its light, and the grasses around our village are muted and dusty. Their memories feel like lies, but the bones cannot lie, so I chase whisps of dreams in their words, and imagine a world much different to the one that I know now.

I am not supposed to visit those corners — the bones are too quiet now, and hold no help for the coming Storms. They did not have to feed the Earth, or burn flesh for the Sun God. Something happened in the dark times, when the Unknown were given, when the Earth rose up like a living creature and swallowed entire villages whole, masticating tendon and muscle and rending limbs from its people. I have wandered every inch of this village, touched almost every bone for its story, but have found none that will speak from the Dark Time — not even a fingerbone. All is lost from the time between the great before and the after. And in the after, the Earth yawns open to show us the pits of hell if we do not satisfy its demands.

When I visit the oldest bones, I have to be silent, a ghost on the wind in the night, a whispered prayer, or someone will stop me and lock me away, back in my cage, a little broken bird singing only for select ears. No. I can never go back to that, so every step must be feather soft. I drift over in the near darkness and curl up against a kind rib, a cradle of sorts, and try not to breathe. Their voices are so soft it is almost like I imagine them, and I know, at some point in my life, I will be the last BoneKeeper to be entrusted with their stories. No one believes that the bones will stop speaking, but I hear the tremulous waves in their whispers, and I know. I know. Something is happening to these bones…those closest to the heart of the mountain, to the Everfire. Something is drinking from them, draining them slowly, and one day, they will be empty of soul and memory.

I never was allowed to attend a village school, but the bones of a kind teacher taught me my letters when I was young, and I have scribbled down the stories in childish script, bound the scraps of paper in rough journals that I store in the section of bones where none but I will venture. Even my father wouldn’t go near the blood moths’ cavern, but I am determined that all the bones will be heard and recorded, that all will have a chance to share their memories.

The oldest ones are glad when I am near, their words tumbling over each other like waterfalls in the rains. Here the story of a sweet flavor I’ve tasted only in their memories, there the image of an unknown beast, enormous and colorless, two horns and a gentle face, the scent of smoke and summer hay faint on the wind. Their memories crowd me as I bask in the echoes of different lives, where their skin was cooled by the night air as they walked the open paths of the village slowly, where there were pools of clear water so wide you could not see the land on its other side. No one would believe me if I told them of these things. No one would believe that such a life existed in the before. So I write it all down in the hopes that someday, someday, the Vengeance will be paid, and the Rending and Reaping will be done. And perhaps someone will find my scratches of words and know the path of history was not always paved with flesh and blood and bone. That we were driven here to stay alive.

Though what this life is worth, I cannot say.

A THREAT AND A CAUTION

WREN

“Let me out! Please…please! Let me out!”

Little Keeper.

“It hurts! It hurts!”

“She is just tired. Ignore her.”

There is a murmur of dissent.

“Bone shouldn’t hurt the child.” The words are anxious, uneasy.

“It will help her in the long run. Help her listen to only bone.” He is confident, and it carries the room. A long, thoughtful pause. “We could get her there more quickly if she didn’t have a mother to return home to.”

A flurry of sound, of protest, of reluctant agreement.

“She’s only just started Guiding, Raek. Earlier than any other.”

“The people have gone almost six years with no souls being safe home after losing a fully capable BoneKeeper, and now we’re blessed by a Keeper who can hold a soul barely out of the cradle? To keep her from them — they’ll rebel. We’ve lost too many.”

“They had a Keeper for nigh on thirty years, Raek. If we harm her in some way…we are knowingly sending souls to Silence.”

“The village will understand.” He is pensive, deliberate. “We will say something is happening — some unknown illness attacks her. Blights her vision. Perhaps she started too early. She’s only a child. A girl.” The disdain in his voice bubbles up like poison, and he swallows it down, replacing it with practiced concern. “Her eyes are fading. Imagine what would happen if she wandered the wrong way and got hurt, or worse? There would be no one left to Guide us home. And who knows for how long?”

“What is your proposition?”

“It HURTS!”

Little Keeper. Please.

Bodies shift uncomfortably, but no one moves.

“We are in unknown times, friends. The Father is barely out of his milk teeth. Thirteen. What were the bones thinking? We have no guidance; we don’t even know if he’ll make it through the coming Storms! Do we risk losing the Keeper too? It would devastate the people. With no Keeper, no Father…” Nothing more needs to be said.

“So what, then?”

“We will be careful. Nothing now — her mother barely consented to have her come to training as it is.” His voice is sickeningly sweet, poison that is easy to swallow. “There are considerations…We must watch for her welfare, not let her speak for the bone if she is too tired. And, of course, in her place, the Council will name the Offerings. Until she is well.” And then, more quietly, “When it is time, we will build her a protective cage, and keep her, a little mountain finch brought out to sing.” A considering pause, and then, voice low, “For us, and us alone.”

The room is silent, the implications in his statement astonishing.

“Let me OUT! It hurts! Please!” I want to scream that I am not blind, that they are mistaken, even with my eyes slowly bleaching to white I can see, but the bones whisper anxiously “hush, hush”, so I keep silent. It hurts though. “It HURTS!”

Keeper. Attend. Keeper!

“You cannot be suggesting…” A single dissenting voice.

“There is a vacuum of power. If we do not fill it, others will seek to. Let us just maintain the course, until we know if her sight will improve or drain away entirely, or until the bones speak. This is an unprecedented time. Does it not call for unprecedented measures?”

BoneKeeper!

“It is not tradition…” Indecision, but considering.

“We will make new traditions. Inch by inch. So slowly they will not recognize the land has changed until it is too late. Leave her there until she can hear bone and nothing else. Until she has forgotten anything other than gratitude for the hands that feed her.”

“Please!”

Keeper! Wren!!!

I wake in a rush, a sudden, sickening lurch from heavy sleep to startled awareness, the dream slipping away in the grey veil between. My room is still dark and quiet, a gift before the dust and death of the day. Sitting up slowly, I rub my arms in a soothing motion, up and down, up and down. What woke me? Cold shivers run like a cat’s tongue along my skin, and I look around my small, barren home, confused. What woke me? From the bones down my back, a whisper of sound, a silky, smokey voice easily identifiable.

Little Keeper. You were dreaming.

Ah. Ah.

You were difficult to reach. A long hesitation in the noiseless room, and then, haltingly… You were lost deep in your childhood.

There is nothing to say back. We both know how long it has been since I’ve dreamed of the past. I no longer carry it with me; years of training have taught me to leave that space open for bone memory. An empty jar that the people who have passed fill with their recollections of life, and which I then pour out to the villagers. To have it reappear now? Frowning, I stare down at my still—shaking hands as though they belong to a stranger. Is this even my body?

Keeper? A mother’s voice, from the braids in my hair. Concerned and sweet.

I am well. Thank you for waking me.

I did not. Something else pulled you from your nightmare. The Council Bell.

The Council is calling this early in the day? In the month? Sighing, I lift a hand to rub my face, trying to shake off the lingering shadows left by the dream. The dawn light catches on shiny, pale patterns worn smooth on my paler skin, and something in me twists in rebellion. I don’t want to wear the Silent bones today. Don’t want to fit them in their places, where they have been so long that my body has made permanent accommodation for them. The imprints of their grooves and bumps are landmarks on my skin even when they aren’t bound to me, my living flesh having given way to the hard, empty vertebrae, my arms holding their indentation even when I am bare of them, which is only ever for the length of a night’s sleep. Eleven years of tightly bound bone have worn their pattern in glistening, permanent lines. Turning over, I bury my head in my pillow in frustration. The weight of the bones grows and grows, and it pushes me into the hard earth. One day it will be too much, and I’ll be buried, brought to death by the dead.

The Council bell sounds again in the distance, echoing in the quiet early morning off the mountains, and around me in the village, I can sense life beginning anew, the temporary death of night fading in the rising sun. I have never wanted so badly to be somewhere else, anywhere else, but I am tied to this village and its people as surely as if we shared veins. There is no way to leave without cutting my own throat, and bleeding out. I was born to death, and death will be my escape. Between, I have one foot in each world, and belong in neither.

It is this way for every Keeper, I remind myself tiredly. You are not unique. Every Keeper is trapped in everywhere and nowhere. Every time and no time. It is your blessing. Or curse. But I would not even dare to think those words, even in the darkest corners of my mind. A Blessing. I repeat firmly. To know your path, your purpose. There is a saying amongst the people here — there is no way but forward. But BoneKeepers are exempt from that. Because there is no future for us. There is no past. No then, no now, and no what will be. All times exist in the present together. It is…exhausting. But it is known. Consistent. Expected.

And so, even now, with the weight of the night still heavy on my shoulders, I begin the morning as I always do. The ritual of each day’s birth is the same, even with the Council waiting. I wash my face and wipe my skin in brackish, oil scented water — a luxury most would envy. villagers, in general, do not have even brackish water in their houses, have to trudge to the briny ponds to bathe when they are able. But I have a small stone cistern in my simple home, little more than a wine barrel size, and I fill it each week with new water, lacing it with an herbed oil to lend an earthy, clean smell. After washing, I pull on a thick brown, cowl neck wool tunic, sleeves ending at my elbows, and woolen pants, only slightly darker and slightly thinner. There are talented seamstresses here — not everyone wears such simple clothes, such simple designs, but I am not meant to draw attention to myself outside of the bones. Unless it is for a Rending or a Reaping, I wear plain, unadorned outfits that have little variation. In the summer months I have sleeveless dresses, in the cold a heavy cloak, but otherwise, I blend into the pale dirt of the town.

Sighing, I pull on my short leather boots, then stare at my bracers and necklaces in tired distaste. It is not disgust of the bones — I would never denigrate our dead in such a fashion — but just of the necessary masquerade. Reaching down, I trace the lines of my vertebracelets. I thought them so pretty. Once. A long, long time ago, when my eyes went almost white, and the Council became convinced I turned blind so I could hear the bones more clearly.

Against my will, I glance towards the closed door of my bedroom, and panic flares to life, blood moths in my stomach, swarming wings beating frantically. I have not shaken off as much of my dream as I thought.

Let me out.

Please…please Gods, let me out.

Fumbling for control, I try to breathe, to center myself and push the memory away, but as the Council Bell chimes a third time, the sound is mirrored eerily in my mind, and I am sucked into blackness, the world before me being replaced with a long-buried past.

After the harsh gong of the Council Bell, the silence is painful.

I wonder if it’s morning.

When the Council is angry with me for any perceived infraction — though they say it’s for my protection — they lock me in a small room. Ostensibly for my “safety”. They tell the people they are trying to help me, to keep me from harm, to learn to hear the bones better so “when I am well” I will be able to serve my full purpose as the Keeper. Really, though, they are trying to teach me in subtle ways how to bend to the will of the Twelve, forcing an unnatural relationship between the Keeper and Council. My little cage is lined with both Silent bones and the bones of the Exiled, and the alternating pressure of the quiet and the screaming pushes against my eardrums and head. It’s so heavy that it sometimes causes my nose to bleed or eyes to pulse with each heartbeat, but it’s usually only for a few hours.

This time I’ve been here for days, or weeks, and I’m crumbling to pieces, terrified they’ve forgotten about me, that I’ll be kept here until I die.

It is a punishment specially crafted for a BoneKeeper — well, specially crafted for this BoneKeeper. They would never have dared chastise a Keeper before me with words, let alone with actions. But no Keeper before had been a girl. And no Keeper before had woken to bone so early. They had spoken to me earlier than any other in memory — I Guided my first soul at only five, with the clumsy, soft fingers of a child, and had been at every Rending and Reaping since. And it scared them. Their fear makes them bold and stupid though, and every inch they steal from me has made them falsely brave. Since they took me from my family, they’ve been pushing, pushing, pushing, and they’re fracturing my brain. The bones twist me one way, the Council another, and I’m fragmenting into tiny shards.

I’m so alone.

So very, very alone.

And things are breaking inside me that cannot be fixed.

Over and over and over I knock my head against the cold, empty bone, finding strange comfort in the rhythmic sting that does little to distract me from the strangling walls.

“Are you there?” I murmur to the carpals dull brown with dried blood. “Come play with me...Is anyone there?”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I pull, and pull, and pull at the bone, fresh crimson dripping down its surface. “Come out and play!”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“BoneKeeper?” There is a voice behind me, hesitant and thick with worry. I don’t turn around, still crooning to the silent bones.

“If you whisper to me, I’ll hear you, I promise. Just say something.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“I can almost hear you…just come closer…” And I can almost hear them, which isn’t possible. Not from the Silent. But…but… there is sound, bubbling below the hollow surface, and I call to them over, and over, and over. “I just want a friend. Please. I’m so…I’m so lonely.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“Keeper, are you…are you well?”

The Protector at the now open door to my tomb has grown from concerned to panicked, so I turn to face him, a wide, sweet smile on my pale face, teeth stained red. “Why would I not be well, Lorcan?” And I laugh, and laugh, and laugh, then turn back.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Little Keeper — your eyes…” He sounds horrified, but I can’t see him through the rivulets of blood. I turn back to the wall, crooning softly.

“Come play, come play.”

Knock, knock, knock.

For a brief, heartstopping moment I swear I hear a hesitant knock, knock, knock back from the silent bone.

“Come play! Come play! Say something! I’m here!”

A second male voice joins Lorcan’s.

“Earth and Sun! What…what…?”

“They ordered her here for the length of the hunt! They must have put her here as soon as I left.” Lorcan’s voice is tight, shaking with emotion. “I’ve only just returned. A senior Protector told me to check on her.”

“The full hunt?!”

“This cannot continue.”

“What? You’ll go against them? You know what will happen, Lorcan. And what good will it be then?”

“She’s a child, Ollendar.” Lorcan chokes on the words. “There was a time Protectors did something. Other than being guard dogs for the Council.”

“They won’t let you survive it.”

“One of us won’t survive, and she’s needed more than I am.” He’s resigned, and sighs. “BoneKeeper, if you will? Let’s go figure this out.”

I’m not sure what he does or says when he meets with the Council — he purposefully leaves me outside their room — but I can hear the yelling and angry voices even through the closed doors. Ollendar sits with me, shooting nervous glances my way, but I can’t think through the sudden relief of pressure on my brain. When Lorcan finally emerges, he exchanges a long, meaningful look with Ollendar, then sinks to his feet in front of me.

“Come, Little Keeper,” he says as kindly as possible in his raw, rough voice. It is clear he is not used to speaking gently, but he is trying. The strain of the effort is almost enough to make me smile. Until — “I’m sorry for the collar. It was the only way.” He wraps a cold steel ring carefully around my neck and attaches a short line to it. “Let’s go outside.”

I freeze for a long moment, meeting Lorcan’s eyes like a startled ptarmigan. He does not force me to move, just waits patiently for me to decide. Lorcan is unusual in this new group of Protectors — he was chosen by the bones when I was eleven, and still occasionally allowed outside by myself. The Council was startled, unhappy even, with the choice; Lorcan is young for a Protector — eighteen to my twelve years, but it is not unheard of. The closest to him is Ollendar at twenty-eight. Lorcan always seemed older than his years to me, though. A serious man, his mouth, though full, looks as though it has never seen a smile, and his brows are heavy. The only hint of softness in him is the twinkle in his dappled hazel eyes, like sun through leaves in a forest, a gift from a Trader long ago, perhaps, as our people only have brown.

It takes a breath, maybe two, to adjust, but I don’t argue, don’t complain about the feel of the metal chafing my skin, rubbing a raw line on my throat. It’s enough just to be out of that room. As soon as I stand and nod, he leads me toward the keep door as quickly as he is able. But my legs are stiff from so long in confinement, and we’re still steps from the door to the Council House and the promise of fresh air when, from my peripheral, a newly appointed Council Member approaches. He is not one the bones called for — was pushed through by the Council while I remained “in recovery”. I don’t raise my head to look at him, just hover, quiet and submissive, behind Lorcan.

The man lurches forward, a strange, twisting look on his face, mouth tight, eyes eager, and pushes past my Protector to grab my collar, right at the ring where it meets my throat. He says nothing, just looks down at me with dark, leering eyes, and licks his thin lips with a lizard-like tongue, gliding along his mouth with deliberate slowness as he inhales deeply, nostrils flaring. “This is how you should be all the time, Keeper. Collared and leashed. For your protection, of course.” He tugs a little, frowning when I don’t make a sound, and leans forward til he is inches from my face. Lorcan studies the two of us, brow furrowed, then reaches out to loosen the Councilman’s grasping hand. They meet each other’s eyes in challenge, until Lorcan steps forward beside me, threat clear in the way his shoulders tense. The Councilmember smirks, dropping his fingers from my collar, hand sweeping seemingly accidentally down my young body, and I choke on bile. Lorcan’s gaze darkens, and he physically places his body between the Councilmember and myself.

“You know, Lorcan, I’d be careful,” the man says, smiling. “Until the Keeper is considered able, the Council is still responsible for naming the Offerings. I is for infant, Protector. We all owe our due.”

“A threat, Nickolas?” Lorcan replies, and Nickolas shakes his head.

“Just a caution. Of course I can’t speak for the Gods. Who knows what will happen.” Nickolas tilts his head in amused farewell, then turns and walks away.

The Protector frowns, eyes trailing the Councilman’s steps until he disappears from view, hands flexing into white fists at his sides. When Nickolas is no longer in sight, Lorcan hurries me to a back corner of the First Wall, farther than I have ever been before, as far from the Council House as he can without leaving the inner village. He looks around, face grim, then sits me down in the shade of a Chokecherry tree, and commands me not to move. “I must speak to the Council,” he says, words rushed and laced with worry. “Don’t move. I’ll be back.” And, laying my leash on a low branch, he leaves.

For the first time in weeks I am outside, the air tasting clear and pure as fresh water, the relief of being out of my room so painful I can’t prevent tears from coursing down my face. What a waste of water. Leaning my head into the curved bones of the walls, I stroke the smooth ivory, calling to the souls inside. They respond in surprise, eager and falling over themselves to speak. At first they’re confused, then concerned, voices pushing through each other. Collared, like a dog? Kept in a cage? What to do? What to do? It’s pure luck, nothing but chance, that I hear the almost silent whisper of an old, pockmarked bone at the very bottom of the wall, half in dirt and covered in dry leaves. Keeper, he sighs, Keeper. Attend. I was a jeweler in my flesh life. I can assist. Listen. Listen. Loosen me. Take me. So I pull him from the wall and tuck him in my shirt. Over the next few weeks, I concentrate carefully on his faint voice, remembering every word, following every instruction, until I have the beginnings of my armor, my escape, my new “eyes”.

Lorcan is only able to negotiate leashed walks outside three times a week, and always under a watchful Protector, so at first, all of my bone armor is made from the Silent — those poor, lost souls who had no Keeper to guide them home after their deaths. These are the bones lining my cage, the only ones I have constant access to, so I apologize gently to their absent souls, then I pull pieces from the walls in the darkness to weave together on leather and wire. I connect vertebrae in long cuffs — almost bracers — running from the curve of my wrists to my elbows, their v’s interlocking and pointing down toward my fingers, linked with other, shorter bones. Using scraps of hide, I bind them tightly around my forearms. A wide necklace of teeth and fingers, also taken from the Silent, covers my chest, almost to my shoulders, and drips down my back in a straight, thin line along my spine. Tiny, pearled sesamoids are strung together and curve around the shell of my ears, and I braid a series of bones on thin leather strands into my long, white hair.

Knowing the Council and the young Father cannot tell a bird bone from a leg bone, or Exiled from living bone, I spend all my free moments under the guidance of the jeweler creating my new skin. No one comes to see me — I am not allowed visitors, and have no family or friends, so only Lorcan and Ollendar watch me through knowing or amused eyes, respectively. Lorcan is curious but silent, while Ollendar is condescendingly lenient, thinking my tinkering the fumbling pastime of a little girl. Neither sees the deeper truth, and I hum softly to myself in the night, curled up against the jeweler, my only friend.

I am learning to trust living bone, and no other.

Once all my pieces are complete, I put them on every morning, and practice. It will be only a matter of time until the Council demands my presence; despite their attempts to hide me away, I am still needed for Reapings and Renderings. So at the turning of the month, when they finally call for me, I leave my room and the girl I was behind, and glide into their meeting on silent, ghostlike feet. The moment I enter the Council Chamber, it erupts into chaos.

“Peace,” I say, voice cast low, no hint of the child I’d been left in my tone. “Peace.” They look at me, eyes wide with fear, as though they are seeing the TriGoddess return, and back up against the wall behind them. Twelve men brought to wetting themselves by a girl. It is my first taste of my own power, and I grab it, swallowing it to glow in my belly like the Everfire. “The Bones have volunteered to be my eyes and ears. They offer me their protection so I may resume my full duties as Keeper.”

A murmuring, a muttering, and one man, Raek, steps forward, face set. Turning unerringly to face him before he speaks, I cut him off at the knees. “Councilman Raek? You have a question?”

He looks uneasy, voice placating. “Surely you can’t mean to leave yourself vulnerable, Keeper. We are here to keep you safe.”

“If you are offering your bone to join me, I accept. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

His eyes flare, panic clear as a bell ringing in them. “NO! No. BoneKeeper, you misunderstand me. I meant⁠—”

“I do not misunderstand, Councilor. Your meaning is obvious. I no longer need your particular brand of protection. I have the bones. It is enough.” Touching my neck, I smile, a vicious little grin, sharp teeth flashing in the torchlight. “They tell me all I need to know, and show me what I need to see.”

Nickolas slithers away in the darkness, around the edges of the room, and approaches me from behind, seemingly trying to surprise me and prove me wrong. Whirling around to face him, I raise my Guiding Knife, bone sharp, blade ready, to rest against his unexpecting throat. “Do you wish to go to your forever home, Councilor?” The bones on my body chatter together when I whip around, creating an eerie rattling, like the shaking tail of a snake, and the color drains from his face.

“I thought…I thought…” he stutters, and I shake my head, enjoying the wooden rattling of the hollow bones laced in my braids..

“You did not think. But you will. You will. I am returning to my home now. Visitations will resume immediately. The bones demand it.”

It is the end of my caged time. I emerge like a phoenix, covered in new feathers, only my feathers are white and hard, and hold the whispered words of centuries in their depths. There is nothing they can say. Nothing they can do — not in the moment, at least. But they can plot, and they can plan, and try to prove me vulnerable and wrong.

So at the turning of the month, when I am struck down by illness, the Council calls Lorcan to Offering— one of the last named by the Council and not the Bones. Their message is crimson clear in his unusually bloody Reaping, and my vertebracelets are soaked red when I take his shimmering soul in my shaking hands.

They are clever when they punish me with Lorcan’s Offering, but even then, make a mistake. The Bones around my neck and cuffs stay those of the Silent, but, a few weeks later, during his Waking, Lorcan offers his bones to line my back, and I accept. He was a silent man in life, and remains silent in death, but with his living bone down my back and around my throat, I no longer have to fear what could be approaching me, trying to catch me unawares. The first day I adorned him I sliced my shirt from collar to hem, unswerving down the spine, and every piece of clothing since, no matter the weather, has had a cutaway for Lorcan’s bones. The Protector’s fingers, vertebra and teeth fall in a straight, graceful line from my neck to the sway of my back, and he rarely whispers to me except to warn of danger.

The bell echoes a fourth time, and I’m yanked back to the present.

DRESSING IN BONE

WREN

Every day since then, I have woken and put on my armor, like an ancient warrior headed to battle. I remove all of my Silent bones when the darkness falls — they are too draining to have against my skin at all hours — but with dawn and duty my masque returns. Only my living bone stays and keeps watch for me when I am dead to the waking world.

Over time I have made small adjustments — the first was to have my Protector down my back. The second was when one of the bakers in the village, a soft spoken woman and a mother to eight children, was called to the Reaping. She requested, hesitantly and respectfully, a place in the strands of my hair. “I have been a mother too long to go to the wall,” she’d said tearfully. “I need to stay a mother.” Looking at me through watery eyes, she’d managed a sweet smile, and reached out gently to touch my face, a thing few would dare to do. “And you need a mother, Keeper.” Once her soul was nestled at home in its bones, I’d woven her into the strands of my hair, and she’d laughed when she’d found out my secret. Since then she’s guarded me as fiercely as only a mother could, and her children and grandchildren are the only ones in the village who occasionally run their hands over my head.

When I first plaited her into my braids, I tried to remove her bones every evening. She fought me though, wrapping and curling herself into elf locks during the day, making it almost impossible to free her at night. Eventually, and much to her amusement, I just gave up and just let her remain. Since then I have added three others — the lone one of her children called to be Rendered, and who asked to be placed near her, a Hunter who saw too much through watchful eyes and simply said, “Braid me” upon his death, and my jeweler who first offered me a way out of my misery. Though his bones are mostly silent now, I keep him close to me to honor and remember him. I tried to remove him once, to give him peace, but he’d whispered, “Keep me. A little while longer, Keeper. Just a little longer.” And so I had.

Lorcan is the only living bone against my naked skin, though. It was difficult getting used to wearing my bone necklace at night, but he growled at me so fiercely the first and only time I tried to take him off that his bone vibrated. I’d never felt something like that before or since, and almost screamed at the sensation, jerking my hands back from the ring of teeth around my neck.

I don’t think so, Little Keeper, he’d whispered, and though I tried to remember that I am the one in charge of the bone, I’d left him trailing along my spine. The thought of the necklace wrapping around my neck at night and choking me shivered through my mind, though, and I could almost see his eyes roll in response to my worry.

Enough. I stay.

It was a command I could not ignore. And so, he had.

The hunter in my hair had huffed in quiet amusement. Rather than enter a losing battle, I’d very maturely ignored both. I never did take Lorcan’s bones from around my neck or my spine, though, and over the years, the curves of his fingers and vertebra and teeth have left smooth, shiny scars on my skin, tattoos of where my Protector stays, always watching, ever vigilant. He is as much a part of me now as my own teeth; I would rather rip one of mine out by its roots than pull him from my neck.

Once I’m fully clothed in cloth and bone, I pause, deciding to check myself one last time before leaving the tiny room. Almost reluctantly, I glance at my reflection, a slightly distorted, wavering image uncertain on the mirror’s muted surface. It’s rare for me to use the dingy little glass over my cupboard; I avoid it whenever I can. The person in it always seems like a stranger, someone caught on the other side of the dull oval, her trapped there, me here, never to meet. I don’t recognize myself in the echo staring back at me, can’t find a string tying me to her. Studying her critically, I sigh. There’s little variation between her and the bones that adorn her; they blend into a single, achromatic creature. Elflocked, milken hair tumbles in bonestrung tangles to her waist, a mess of braids and waves. Full white eyes like a phantom’s stare back at me, their emptiness eerie and unnerving even to me, with no pupil or iris to ease her hollow gaze. Her skin is pallid, closer to a corpse than a living being; the only color anywhere are two vibrant, crimson ovals staining her eyelids, birdwing flashes of scarlett every time she blinks.

Who are you? I ask mutely, but she just meets my pleading gaze dispassionately.

Little Keeper? Lorcan whispers, a tendril of concern flavoring his words, and I jerk my eyes away from the mirror.

“It’s fine, Protector,” I reply out loud, the sound breaking the lingering unease from my heavy dreams. “All is well.”

I must have been lost in the past longer than I thought though, because by the time I arrive at the central keep, most of the inner village has already made their way to crowd uneasily in front of the Council House steps. An anxious murmuring from the people hums like a dissonant song, muted by the black stone of the square. It’s not customary for there to be a gathering this early in the day, nor in the month, actually. Two days ago was the close of the Haymaking Month, and most of the village would normally still be in their beds, tired from the rare revelry, a jewel-bright respite from their daily routine. Many, even now, look sleep heavy, having been pulled from their homes before their breakfasts, no echo of the past day’s joy remaining on their waiting faces. We have had both a Reaping and a Rending within the past week; to demand the presence of the entire inner village so new into the Harvest Month? There is nothing but trepidation of this unknown assembly.

Though no one expects me to be first to the keep, even at the best of times, a tight disapproval emanates from the gleaming black stage and the men on it as I drift, wraithlike, to stand behind them. It is clear they want me to scurry like a repentant child, small and meek, toward them but I force myself to float on soundless feet, refusing to bend to their obvious demands. They cannot command me explicitly, though they try with every sneering “request”, twisting words and meaning to suit their purpose. Worms in the daytime, vipers in the night, the twelve men push against tradition like poisoned water on stone, slowly cracking the foundations of our people. They are exhausting; and at times I don’t know why I continue to fight them when my life would be more peaceful and prosperous if I were pliant. Right now they give me only what they must, and though it is more than what many have, it still leaves a knot of desperation in my chest. If I were sweet, if I were soft, my brief time in this body would be endurable. But at what price? The mottled bruises blooming like winter roses on my arms, hidden to any eyes but my own, speak truths a thousand mouths never could. One that I am not willing to pay.

The villagers fall silent as I pass, then continue their nervous muttering once I am out of reach. Even the children, new to this world, cast their eyes away from my face, a motion that used to convey respect, but somehow now seems to hold an edge of terror. I cannot respond, but blood moths of worry claw at my stomach; the Keeper is a giver of comfort, not a creature of carrion. There should be no cause for any villager to fear me, especially the youngest, who I have protected at great cost to myself. At great and terrible cost. Something colder than the rising winds pierces my heart at the thought, but I force my breathing to remain unchanged. They won’t even look at you. Are they worth what you sacrifice for them? Inhaling deeply, I clench my jaw. I will not. I will never.

Above the mountain trembles, as if in response to my defiance, and an echo of thunder pours from its heights where a distant boulder breaks free, tumbling down over an unseen cliff’s edge. A coincidence, nothing more. But I don’t think of the children again.

“What news?” A single voice rises, noise above noise, demanding. They are tired of waiting, the swirling anxiety in the square heightening to real fear. Unwise, unwise. From the front of the stage, Councilor Raek’s eyes narrow, focusing intently on the throng of people, as though singling out the villager and making note of his name. Only the bones call for Rending or Reaping now — the Council has not named an Offering in years — but they have other ways to exact retribution. The groves always need watering.

Lips pursed, thin with anger, he is about to speak, when a second, and then third call in echo, “What news?” What news?” It is a rockslide of panicked sound, the villagers pressing forward, a crush of bodies and sound, pale and hollow. I school my face to remain blank, but inside I feel the bird’s wing of emotion flutter again. Something is wrong. They are too thin for the Harvest Month. Their eyes are too deep in their sockets. What have I missed?

“Peace! Peace!” Raek’s voice is a gong, and the word he calls to calm the crowd drips with the promise of violence. I want to step back, but it will be seen. “Peace!” he calls again, but in our village, peace means blood, and war, and Rending, and this time, the warning is heard, and the crowd falls more silent than its previous silence. Before it was the silence of night. Now it is the silence of the grave. Seemingly satisfied with their compliance, he tries to gentle his voice, but it’s still steel on stone, setting teeth on edge with its sound. Though Raek is usually a favorite amongst the villagers, for a moment he slips, lets his private face show through his public masque, and he fumbles to regain control. “Friends…”

Councilman Nickolas, stepping forward to stand next to Raek, is an eagle’s scream, too loud in the soundless square. “The Storms are coming!” There is no response from the people, and his mouth curves like the edge of a scythe. “The Storms are coming,” he repeats, “and we are not prepared.” He shakes his head, a sad, disappointed father over the failure of his sons. “The silos are only half-full.”

At this proclamation, a ripple runs like a spark through the people. Half-full! That will not carry the elders through the winter! If the silos are beneath three-quarters, the elders get nothing. Nothing at all. I see a woman shudder visibly in the crowd — she is months away from the sunset marking her twilight years. The years we are promised should we make it through the Offerings, and she still has two grandchildren to care for, though her hair is ashen and her face lined. Her eyes are wide with fear, but her cheeks are dry. In our village you are born crying and you die crying, but you do not waste the water in between. And we all know the truth, despite the promises. The sanctity of the twilight years is a dream in the Nowhere. If her sunset birthday falls in the Storms, and we are too low on food, she will be marked, grandchildren or not. I is for Infant, we all owe our due I chant automatically in my head. But never from my hands. No matter who the bones call for. The mountain thunders again, and I can feel its longing vibrate in my chest.

In the tired clumps of slumping bodies, there is a growing realization — they should not be this hungry in the early frost. Now is the time of abundance in the village…what little abundance they have. And while they are never full, this should be when they are, at least, not empty. But the hollow cheeks and dull eyes of the people speak of too many skipped meals and scarce water. It is written on their faces — the coming Storms will not be kind. The village is too deep in desperation already to make it through the dark hours. Everyone knows the trees grew scant fruit this year, though the Council anointed them with the blood of the Rendered, and the fields of pearl millet never turned autumn gold. But…half-full? In my lifetime, a full twenty-three years, we have never dropped below three-quarters, and even then, the number given as Offering to help us through the Storms was…something I do not like to think of. At half-full…I clench my hands beneath my long sleeves and breathe shallowly. The Offering would be unheard of.

Another of the Council motions to me with practiced hands. “We know, friends. But take comfort!” he calls, not as commanding as Raek, or chaotic as Nickolas — just one villager speaking to another. Somehow, the normalcy of his words does something Raek and Nickolas could not, calming some of the panic. “Take comfort,” he says again with a gentle smile, hand still extended in my direction, and the people turn to face me as one.

The BoneKeeper, a pale snow bunting kept in a cage, brought out by the Council to sing for her supper.

Every Gathering is the same — twelve men like carved statues in a row, and me, a pale shadow just behind them, though today two are missing from its ranks, and the Village Father as well. They must be off with the hunters. The Council never asks that I stand with them — I am but a tool to be wielded. Not an equal — not anymore — and they do all they can to make sure I remember my place. I don’t know how they have convinced themselves that their warped version of our history is true, or why they think I would believe them when their words taste of iron and deception. Even if they could force their words to burrow like worms in my brain, the Bones have whispered the true map of our people to me, and the Bones cannot lie.

The Council was not always the crown and the scepter of our land, though they have done all they can to erase any whispers of the past. Long before the Earth rose and the Sky fell, we worshiped a trinity of women — the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. And in that time, when the earth was soft and the wind was gentle, and the TriGoddess gave her blessings to us, the bones have a memory of a woman like me, though they won’t name her, no matter how many times I ask. But she was a Flower, a Jewel, a Treasure Box. Not a whip, or a rod, or a knife. It was in the before, brief in the golden, fading memories of the oldest bones. Before our people were torn limb from limb and left in pits to feed a flesh-starved earth, before we filled the skies with smoke carrying the scent of burnt skin and boiled blood, before water drained from our world and left us cracked and wanting.

Before the Council.

Before the BoneKeeper.

“We are asking the BoneKeeper to search for an answer!” Raek steps in front of the other Councilman, unhappy losing the attention of the people, and his words yank me from my dream fog in a whiplash. I do not start, am too well trained, but my heart beats faster at his words. “Perhaps there is someone who will have lived through this, who will be able to help guide us.” He clicks his fingers at me, commanding his leashed pet, and I step forward, pressing my hands together as is our way, and bowing slightly, the white curtain of my hair hiding my face. I am a ghost. I am a soul tethered to Earth, transparent and weightless. “We have time!” he promises, the words a steel prod. “We still have two months until the Storms descend. We have given our hunters permission to go outside the Northern Arch and beyond the growing lands of the Southern Arch to bring back enough provisions to last us through the worst. And if we go hungry, well, we have suffered and survived similar.”

It is almost laughable that a man the size of Raek can speak of going hungry. He is not heavy — heavy does not exist in our world, even for our leaders — but he is not gaunt and hollowed out like the rest of us. Even at almost fifty years, Councilman Raek is tall and broad, hard cut muscles taught on his forearms. There is no part of him that has dulled to the dust that coats every other villager. It is amazing what sleep and food can do for a man; his gleam and vitality is a lure to the downcast eyes of the people. I have heard the women of the village whisper about him over their kneading and washing. “Raek looks like a man who knows,” they say, smiling and winking at each other, falling into a giggling quiet if he passes by and nods at them. I thank the long silent goddess every night that I have never been one swayed by shiny things.

No, Raek will not go hungry, even with half-full silos. He and the rest of leaders of the village will have their share, even when the rest have none. All who have a place in the Council House — the Father, the twelve Brothers of the Council, an equal number of Protectors, six Renders, six Reapers, and the sole Justice — when we have one —will never go hungry. Nor will their kept women, I think ungenerously, and immediately regret it. I don’t envy the wild-eyed women who I sometimes see scuttling away from the Council House in the early hours, hands laden with burlap sacks earned at a stomach churning price. Not all the Council. Some are decent men. It is best to be honest, even in my own head. Still, aren’t all guilty if none speaks?

Nickolas stands shoulder to shoulder with Raek, the siblings bearing a startling resemblance to each other, looking almost like twins despite the five year difference between them. Raek has either aged well, or Nickolas poorly. Reluctant sadness sits heavy and awkward on his face, almost a mockery of the villagers' own terror. Nickolas has never been as good at hiding his true self as Raek. “We must ask you to sacrifice for this,” his voice heavy with faux regret. “If the BoneKeeper is to find an answer, we must ask you not to request visitations for the foreseeable future.”

And now there is a rumble in the crowd, like breaking rock from the mountain overhead. There are few things that could light any sort of fire beneath these desperate people, but visitations are a right, a gift from the Gods that not even the Council can take away. I smile to myself beneath my veil of hair, then school my face and look up at Nickolas, eyes wide and unseeing. Blind and blank, and white as bone.

“I cannot condone that action,” I say, voice flat and toneless. Show no human heart, no human emotion. You are merely a conduit between the living flesh and living bone. “The Bones will not allow it. Especially this close to the Storms.”

And indeed, I can hear them crying out around me, voices drowning out any noise from the living, the whispered word running from the first gates to the farthest outreaches of our city. Things pass quickly from bone to bone, and even the skeletal fingers hanging like windchimes from the four distant bone arches marking the boundaries of our city rattle in response, a cacophony of sound for me alone. I have to fight not to lift my hands to cover my ears and push out the deafening roar. It would not help anyway, I think, wincing in pain from the vibrations. I don’t hear them in my ears, I feel them in my marrow. And unless I slice my skin open, wrenching myself apart piece by piece, there is no way to silence them. It is never fully quiet in my body until the sun sets, and oftimes, not even then.

Nickolas’s face darkens. He cannot hurt me in front of others — to do so would be suicide — but he can make my life…unpleasant. And I don’t normally dare to challenge the Council. But this is not a challenge — not really. It is simply a statement of fact, a truth borne of blood.

“The Bones will do what is best for our people.” He snarls, his voice harsh, anger like acid corroding his tone. He speaks with such confidence, as though he can hear the Bones, as though our ancestors surround him and granted him their Blessing. But his eyes are brown, and his hair is dirt, and his feet are heavy on the ground. “They will do what we tell them to do.”

I shake my head. “You are not correct,” I state, cold and calm.

There is a collective intake of breath from the crowd. This is unheard of. I’ve never censured a Councilman in public before, even if I am the BoneKeeper. To maintain balance I tend to bite my tongue to blood in front of our people, or at least speak with careful deference. But something has come loose in me today, surprising us all. He moves toward me with barely restrained savagery, the air churning around him, when there is a sharp crack, almost like a tree exploding in frost. Everyone freezes, rabbits in the hunter’s sights, as the strange sound echoes like thunder off the mountain peaks. It is not one we have heard before, and it resonates, shuddering, through the square. Cocking my head, I listen to the bones, then nod, trembling. “You should not have presumed to command the bones, Councilman.” Grief and fear are thick in my voice, and, for once, Nickolas hears the nuances.

“BoneKeeper?” he whispers, all kindness and concern now, the shimmering violence of moments before forgotten. I don’t bother answering him, just cautiously descend from the stage. The villagers crowded around the base of the platform flinch back from me, as though I were a flock of blood moths pouring from the distant cave mouths, coming to gnaw off their flesh in long, jagged strips. Bitterness sits thick on my tongue at their response, hurt sour in my stomach. I have never done a single one of them harm, but they blame me for the choices the bones make. And the unfairness of it makes me want to cry, though I would never waste water on such a small and stupid thing as…well, as loneliness. I am not alone. I have the ancestors and their memories. I…I am never alone. Even now the bones are whispering. I have enough. And sometimes, in stolen moments, the promise of more… I have to force myself not to turn and search the crowd for his face, for the one soft, secret thing in my life. You have more than most.

For some reason, the thought doesn’t comfort me as much as it normally does.

Trailing my fingers along the silent stonecut wall, I follow it all the way to the edge of the large keep square. It is clear where I am going — there is only one reason to round the sharp corner to where the Councils’ ancestors reside. From the platform I hear a low curse, then a scurrying of bodies as the ten Councilmen follow, careful to keep me in front of them. Despite my worry, the sound of their feet scuttling like chickens behind me twists my lips in a sudden rush of disdain and disgust. I am a toothless wolf until they need protection. How quickly the winds change when their own skin is risked. Pausing as I round the corner, I smirk, expression hidden behind my veil of hair, when they immediately stop, not one venturing forward to walk near me. So now who holds the leash?

The bones on the small, weather wall in front of me whisper a gentle chiding, and I bow my head in contrition. Of course I did not mean to disrespect them with my anger, my sadness, my fear, but still. I offer an immediate apology. I let myself be distracted. It won’t happen again I try to assure them. Most are content with the simple “I’m sorry”, but, like those in living flesh, not all bones are the same. While many who were bitter in life soften over the seasons, mellowing to the best version of who they were before the Offering, a few, usually louder than the others, have high-pitched, complaining whines that set my teeth on edge. Visiting the former is, if not a happy experience, at least tolerable. But there is a reason I don’t visit this corner of the keep often — not unless I’m made to, really. All of the dead here are the families of the current Councilmen, the Protectors, and the Father, though in all my time as Keeper I have never spoken for his ancestors. They raised the weak, power-hungry men still hovering anxiously behind me, and it only makes sense that at least some would share their children’s views. Those few bones are currently screaming out, berating me for the sin of my own emotions. Clenching my jaw, I accept the weight of their reprimands, their wailing laments about the poor choice the Gods made in bestowing the blessing of bone on a simple girl, until they finally fall quiet, and I am able to focus back on the living world.

On the ground in front of me lies a fractured femur.

The Councilmen are close behind me, but no one else dares leave the boundaries of the square, which isn’t really a square at all. It was built as an echo of the Council House, an immense castle carved directly into the black rock face of the mountain itself. The Council House juts out of gleaming stone, smooth and oily, five sides of an octagon. Large heavy doors carved from an ancient ebony wood tower over its front steps, which descend to the stage where all gatherings are held. The square mimics its design, but has seven of the eight sides of the octagon, the eighth being the mountain itself. It’s deceptively massive, able to fit, at a pinch, both the inner and middle villagers if needed, some ten thousand people.

The stage and doors to the Council House are positioned directly across from the bottom of the octagon, where every morning, the creaking First Gates open onto the widest street of the inner village. All of the inner village trade occurs along the cobbled thoroughfare, from smithy work to sundry shops. There are even two tiny but bustling tea shops, for those lucky few who have the leisure time to sit and coin to spare. Nothing interrupts the sightline from the face of the mountain all the way to the Second Gates, other than a single, towering pillar directly in the center of the keep. Most people try desperately to ignore it, looking through or around it unless forced to cast their eyes up to its heights when its fire is burning.

Perhaps, though, most importantly — except for the intricate carvings on the pillar and unassuming, almost ceremonial well far over on the side — no living bone is allowed on the inside of the keep’s rock walls. I have heard that, in my father’s time, the boundaries of the inner keep were decorated with the bones of village heroes and in memory of beloved elders. On the eve my eyes were anointed, though, they were stripped and smashed, sometime deep in the night, when no villager would ever venture out. Whoever committed the atrocity left the bones cracked open and hollowed of their marrow, charred and silent on the ground. The savagery it would take to cast so many into Exile in one night was unheard of, and a new dawn was born.

The Council immediately enacted a ruling that no living bone would be permitted inside the keep’s walls, for murky reasons which vaguely referenced protection and safety, but were never clear. The villagers, too numb from the collective loss to argue, had no protest, and the square has been quiet to bone since. The only grace given was to this small collection of ivory, tucked around the corner of the square, where they do not look out over the town, but are stacked in pretty patterns facing a steep cliff drop. The ancestors are kept at the juncture of the mountain, keep, and cliff, where a misstep would send you tumbling down into an endless abyss. The Council’s family bones stay here to give their blessings until a Council Member resigns or is removed, at which time their families are also relocated.

The small spit of land in front of the Ancestors’ wall cannot fit the entire Council safely, so Nickolas and Raek push through the rest. Some who give way easily, some stay their ground and cast narrow-eyed looks at the brothers. I make note of the discord, every ripple in the pond a chance, however small, to breathe more freely. Once Raek and Nickolas reach the front, everyone stills, and they wait in expectant silence, all eyes on the splintered bone, pockmarked white on dusty grey ground. Nickolas is first to move, turning his head to me fearfully.

“Keeper?” he asks, the full question clear in the word.

I sink to the dirt and stroke the bone with gentle fingers. She is fading, fading, fading, and her final words are as soft as a fledgeling’s cry. “Your mother.” I reply, sighing, then shake my head sadly. “Her Marrow is dry. Her bones empty now. May her memory be a comfort in the quiet hours.” Touching two fingers against my lips, I breathe on them, then push the warmth against the bone. “May pure water and tender heart wait for you in the Dreaming.” I whisper, finishing the benediction, then turn to Nickolas, expecting him to offer his blessing as well.

The Councilman moans under his breath. “Surely you are mistaken, BoneKeeper!” He presses the fragments of bone together, as though he could mend them.

“I am not.” I try to keep my voice flat, but a hint of steel enters it despite my best efforts. Standing, more to move away from him than anything else, I brush the clinging dust from my cloak, and look down at him through my colorless eyes. “She is gone.” He hisses in response, but I continue. “She did not wish to see a future where the Council disrespects the Bones.” But there is more, though I don’t fully understand the message I have to convey. “The ancestors warn they will all leave if their words are not heard.”

“What does that mean, Keeper?” The question is surprisingly respectful, though I cannot see who asks it through the crowd of men. “For them to leave?”

“I…I do not know,” I whisper in reply, and the hint of fear in my voice is enough to quiet the muttering from the group. “I have never heard of Living Bone silencing themselves. It…it is not something I am familiar with.” Pausing, I touch the wall in front of me, which has fallen mute, despite my entreaties. “And they are not willing to tell me. In all their memories, no BoneKeeper has ever been able to force bones to speak, Councilmen, as you know. Keepers have asked, or begged, or pleaded, but have not been able to demand of the bones. If they chose not to answer, as they do now, there was nothing any BoneKeeper could do.” It is a truth, if not the truth. There are many shades to a color. It is the truth to say that the rising night sky is blue, but also that the brackish pools of water scattered around the outskirts of our village are blue. One truth does not negate the other. I am always careful with my honesty. “The only thing they will say to me is that if the Bones are not respected, they will not remain.”

The words are a caution the Council refuses to heed.

They exchange looks with each other, and, while worry is heavy on a few faces, some, surprisingly, look exasperated, as though they are being threatened by petulant children. Raek, of all people, waves his hand in an almost careless dismissal of the warning, pushing aside the sorrow that tightened his brow only a moment before. A muscle flickers briefly in his jaw, but he steadies himself, then studiously relaxes his face and stance. He lies with voice and body so fluidly that, if you were to miss a moment in a blink, you would never know that he was anything other than what you see before you.

“What will they do,” he murmurs, almost lightly, to the men nearest him, “jump into the Void? Do we even know for sure that our…” his voice cracks slightly, betraying a suffocated emotion, and he clears his throat before continuing. “Do we even know our mother did this of her own volition? Or did someone cause this? Maybe she fell when the mountain shook? Or perhaps she was not bound correctly?”

At his words, Nickolas’s head jerks up, seeking me out. His eyes are venomous, snake-slit thing as he stares up at me, his body still curved over the needle-thin shards, tiny drops of saliva caught in the corners of his pressed lips. “Do you think—” he begins, his hands trembling, flexing open, closed, open, closed. “The Keeper…” His nostrils flare wide, like a predator scenting prey, and in a sickening moment of clarity I realize the depth and breadth of his hatred towards me; he would kill me if he were able. He would hollow me of my marrow and burn it, would violate my corpse until there was no Peace for me. But he cannot — at least, not here. His brother is already moving to stand beside him, laying a restraining hand on Nickolas’s bent shoulder. Raek’s face is pale and considering as he stares down at the shuddering form of Nickolas beneath him, rocking back and forth on the ground, and his hand tightens around Nickolas’s shoulder, silencing him.

“Oh no, brother. No. I would never cast aspersions or doubt upon our BoneKeeper, Gods forbid.” But his gaze rests on me for a beat too long, and his lips twist into a ghost smile. “To do so would be against the Earth and Sun. I am simply saying we do not know. Do we.” It is not a question. It is a map. A compass for the others to follow, should they choose. And from the shifting of bodies behind him, I know that some in the Council will take the easy path, the way that has been cleared for them so they do not need to strain to move through tangled weeds and sharp rocks.

Sighing internally, I want to shake them, wrap my bone white hands around their arms and scream sense into their empty heads. They are too used to keeping all of their memories in skeletal pieces. “Mmmm,” I hum noncommittally. “I cannot speak on such a thing. As, of course, I did not Wake her.”

Silence, and I want to roll my eyes in response. Do they honestly not even know which Keeper guided their mother after her Offering? Nickolas and Raek have always been selfish, brutish little men, but I would have thought they’d at least remember when their mother left flesh for bone. Seeing the muscles flex in Raek’s jaw at my demurral, I reconsider. Perhaps he does know, but did not expect me to speak up in my own defense. For the bones, yes. But for myself? It is rare. I am usually quiet, head half in the grave when I am with the Council. The cost of voicing my opinion is one I am not usually willing to pay. But I should have been more mindful, and I wonder what else I have missed when I have been away with the dead, rather than here with the living.

My answer is enough, at least, to quell the shifting sands behind Raek. Most were alive when Raek and Nickolas’s mother passed, and will remember that I was only a twinkle in my father’s eye at the time. Those who had stepped over to hover at the edge of his shadow now drift quietly back to center, uneasy with the purposeful weight behind the near accusation. The rest do not change position; three stay steady at his side, three more to the other. It is only the last two who waver, indecisive, unsure of which way the wind blows.

Raek pauses, reconsidering his next move, the chessboard clearly not set to his liking. I don’t know the count of his pieces, or the plan of his game, but he is not confident enough to sacrifice his queen. To speak against the Keeper openly is an unexplored danger, and he is not sure he has the power to do so. Yet. Glancing behind him at the increasingly anxious Council Members, then down at his brother, still in the dirt, he pivots, softening his voice, gentling his stance, schooling his face into a studied sorrow. “My sincerest apologies, BoneKeeper. I hope you know I did not mean to imply…you are, as always, above reproach. We have known you since you were a child.” He injects a tender note, a hint of a nostalgic smile. “Raised you as our own, in a way.” My chest tightens at the memory of their…upbringing. “If you say that our mother silenced herself, then it is as pure water. You have only ever provided us comfort and compassion, an unexpected benefit of having the bones choose a woman….” Rubbing a hand theatrically across his face, his words waver. “It is just an impossible thing to believe. To have happen. When the Father returns with the hunters, we can bring this before him and ask his council. I am sure he will have some answers.”

At his final words, they are back in his thrall. All eight behind him nod in unison, discord forgotten. It is the one thing they can agree on — when in doubt, wait for the guidance of the Father. I can see their worry draining away; of course Raek would never imply…he was simply lost to grief, a moment of insanity. Of all of them, Raek would never speak against the Gods. His brother, another matter. But Raek? He would dig an ocean before blaspheming the gift of bone. As soon as he feels them settle, he turns back to me, running with the rockslide.

“BoneKeeper,” he begins, voice low, and astoundingly reaches forward to take my hand in his own. It makes my stomach churn, and I have to swallow back bile. Surely this is not how touch is meant to feel. It has been so long since another has purposefully reached out to me, perhaps I don’t remember it correctly. Nausea twists like pit vipers in my throat, and I have to take short, almost panting breaths to avoid being sick. Raek’s thin lips flick upward in arrogant satisfaction at my response; he obviously thinks there is something softer than blood moths being born inside me. Something more in keeping with the way any other rational woman in the village would bend to his attention, like summer wheat to the sun. Even those who are claimed would wander for a night or longer to Raek’s bed.

But I’m not of flesh and blood, not anymore. There is nothing in me to warm to his careful fingers, drawing circles in lazy patterns on my hand. Because he has somehow forgotten the first lesson that the Council itself taught me when I was a child. I am not of this world. And my visceral reaction to him simply holding my hand reinforces that notion. When I see the men and women of the village with each other, their faces are mirrors of the joy born in the Harvest Month, not the choking smoke of flesh Rendering. They brush skin against skin, exchanging playful glances, link arms…and none looks like they are about to step into the Storms. I do not respond as a woman should respond to a man. As any woman would respond to this man.

My face must remain moon smooth, though, and I take a moment to thank the Gods for years of practice. I could not hide my erratic breath, but at least my face isn’t a mirror of my revulsion. He croons softly at whatever he thinks he sees, a lover’s tone, and continues. “Ceridwen.” And now I do shudder back, yanking my hand from his. There is a bark of protest from someone behind him, but he continues, blocking them with his back, pressing me forward until I am against the bone wall, with nowhere else to go.

Nickolas watches us through burning eyes, some unholy fire lit within that is fueled by unnatural interest. His thick, lizard tongue darts out in sickening movements, licking his dry lips over and over at the sight of me cowering into the bone, and it gives me enough strength to stand, stone spined, and stall my retreat. “That name is not for your mouth, Councilman.”

He smiles. “Perhaps not. Not anymore in any case. But we were friends once, weren’t we, Keeper? Once, when you were still a child. And the Council was your family. Do you not remember? Ceridwen?”

I do remember.

And I understand the threat poisoning my name.

BETWEEN THE INHALE AND THE EXHALE

WREN

“Let me out! Please! I’ll…I’ll be good! Please! They won’t be quiet! It hurts! Please!” The crackling pain in the young girl’s voice is clear through the thick, stone door, though I can see nothing through the fog of memory filling my brain.

A man’s voice responds, low and sweet, but firm. “Ah, Ceridwen. I would if I were able. Just a little longer, child. Just a little longer. You can’t come out yet. You know that. Not quite yet. You have plenty of friends to keep you company though, don’t you.” It’s not a question. The man’s voice is teasing, affectionate, an odd countermelody to the panic from the locked room.

“I don’t like it in here! Please! I’m scared…” Her begging does nothing, and less than nothing. She collapses into young, heartbroken sobs. “I want…I want my mother…”

His voice sharpens, an edge where before there were only curves. “Ceridwen. We have been over this. You have no mother. The woman chosen by the Gods to birth you and guard you ‘til your milk teeth fall is just a vessel for their will. Only children born of blood have mothers. You are a blessing in human form. A piece of the Gods made flesh. If she keeps distracting you from your purpose, perhaps she will serve you better as an Offering. Your only family should be bone, child.”

It is a threat. And it is a promise.

There is no answer but tears, and I can hear the smiling satisfaction in his voice. “Stay with the bones just a little longer, Ceridwen. Just a little longer, like a good girl, and then you can come out. When you are ready. Just a candle more, and then you can return to your room.”

“...please…” It is a whisper of sound, and he replies in the same — so soft, so gentle, such a silken blade.

“Ceridwen…”

“Where have you gone, BoneKeeper?” His voice is older, but familiar enough to pull me back to myself in a woosh of sound and noise, and I frown, pushing the echoes away. What is happening to me? I’m feeling…I’m feeling. Breathing shallowly, I try to repeat a mantra, to calm my heart. My body is for other’s memories only. There is no space for my own. Reaching out, I force my fingers to remain steady and tap a twisting ulna, hanging from the wall at an odd angle.

“Your father.”

Raek starts, evidently surprised by my response. “What?” The confusion in his voice is almost enough to make me smile. Almost.

“He hangs in the balance. Unsure of what choice to make. Follow your mother down her path, or stay to see where his sons choose to walk. He is…” and now I do smile, a twisting, disappointed sneer, as I am permitted expressions given from the bones. “He is, he says, unimpressed with the way his children have grown.”

There is little he can offer in response, but his hands flex into white fists, rage electric in his body. Nickolas, however, does not have his older brother’s restraint, and shouts in protest before Raek is able to quiet him. “Perhaps…perhaps you could elaborate on that?” The words are tight with anger, forced out in a biting tone.

My fingers still rest on the ulna, but I shake my head. “He says no. To have lost your mother, and still stay focused on the wrong thing…he does not know you anymore, just cautions you to remember your people.”

Raek’s eyes narrow, weighing his fury against his logic. For a long moment, the outcome is uncertain, but in the end, his willpower is strong enough to overcome his outrage. Taking a deep breath, he bows to his father’s bones, and mutters, albeit reluctantly, “I will do better. Thank you for your counsel.” There is a long, long pause as he thinks through his next move, but eventually he turns to me, face a carefully constructed masque of entreaty.

“BoneKeeper.” His voice could not be described as hesitant — Councilman Raek will never show weakness, even with empty silos and the gaunt faces of his people showing their skeletons before him. But…but. He has an edge that was not there before, an edge that did not exist prior to his mother silencing herself and his father publicly censuring him. He clears his throat, tries to refocus, to take control of the fast unraveling situation. “BoneKeeper,” he repeats, “all else aside. We have gotten distracted from the desperation plaguing our village. Will you not ask the bones to help us with this? We must find a way.”

It sounds like truth in his words, and is echoed in the faces of the Council behind him. Nothing but death and further death are before them if I cannot find an answer written in the marrow. Still, poisoned plants have flowers.

“What do you propose?” I ask, moving away from the Ancestors' Wall to stand in the center of the waiting Councilmen.

One of Raek’s supporters, Malik, speaks, voice condensing, as though talking to a child. “You must give up visitation voluntarily, so the people know we are united on this.” There is a murmur of agreement from the few men closest to him, giving him false confidence. “There is no problem currently greater than the shortages. This should take precedence over anything else.”

“Precedence over anything else?” It is astounding how stupid they think I am, to offer brackish sludge in a cup and expect me to willingly trade them pure water for it.

“Anything,” Raek snaps, clearly frustrated with my unusual recalcitrance. I nod, seemingly acquiescing.

“If the Council requests it, I will try to consider it. Such a draconian measure, though…” I let my voice trail away, then shake my head sadly, theatrically. “The bones call out against it. Perhaps…” A spark of an idea flaring to life inside me, far below the surface. The breadcrumbs I leave in my hesitation are picked up by one of the oldest members of the group.

Rexus, a withered, gentle man the others tend to treat as a relic from a bygone era, asks respectfully, “BoneKeeper? Do you have any suggestions?”

“I cannot take away Visitation.” I answer slowly. Shadows have no emotion. I remind myself, inhaling slowly. On the exhale, I force away the feelings that are clinging to me like spiderwebs. Shadows have no fear, show no love, have no friends, keep no enemies. I am a servant of the Earth and Sun. A vessel for their gifts. There should be no room inside me for my own wants and desires; my whole existence is as conduit for others. Nothing more, nothing less. It is a lesson I have had to learn over and over and over again. I…am not a good student. But our Gods are brutal teachers, and are not hesitant to carve their message into my bones.

The Council takes a single breath, ready to protest as one body. I ignore their collective reaction and continue. “I will…I will spend more time with the bones. If you release the Council’s current restrictions and demands on my time, it will enable me to both do visitations and question the bones.” They exchange anxious looks, not entirely sure of what I am asking for, and I have to fight to keep my face unresponsive. Stupid, stupid, to lock the front gate but leave the back door open.

“We –” Raek starts carefully, trying to feel out my request, but Nickolas cuts him off abruptly, a rare thing which causes his brother’s eyes to flare open in surprise and anger.

“Absolutely not. You don’t make demands of us. Remember your place!” Spittle flies from his mouth, landing at my feet, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. But my answer is stone, and causes him to surge toward me in response.

“My…place?” His command, even in these uncertain times, is astounding. “You clearly need no assistance from me, Councilmen. Yours is a matter for the living flesh. As such, I will take your recommendation and return to my place. With the bone, and nowhere else.” Above, the mountain shifts, causing the skeletons on the wall to audibly crackle. It is nothing more than normal settling, but the Council freezes at the sound, cold terror washing over their faces. And suddenly a rush of words burst out from them, pushing past each other to rebuke Nickolas’ disrespect, loud enough that the Earth and Sun can hear them. Their fear ignites dissent, even from Raek’s supporters.

“Do you make decisions for the entire Council now, Brother Nickolas?” one of the men asks, voice low, dripping with venom. “And to offer such disrespect to the Keeper in front of living Bone. Our apologies–“ this last, directed at me. “We do not all desecrate the gift given us from Earth and Sun.” I don’t bother replying. Words are easy things. Actions are harder. My lack of response only serves to further incite them. Raek’s eyes flick back and forth between his brother, the Council, and me, standing stone still in the middle of the chaos, clearly unbothered. He comes to a quick decision, stepping in front of Nickolas, and holds up his hands in the symbol of peace.

“He is lost to grief, Brothers.” Soothing, apologetic, rational. And purposeful, so purposeful. A consummate Councilman. “Of course he speaks out of turn. We would never presume — of course it is a decision of the Twelve.” A guttural sound escapes Nickolas, but Raek does not turn around, still facing the rest of the Council. “I propose a temporary vote, until all have returned and we can convene as a group. Should we offer more…unhindered…time so the Keeper may question the bones? So the people can see our willingness to do whatever it takes to fix this problem?” He places emphasis on the last sentence, and the others pick up his meaning with little trouble.

I clear my throat softly, interrupting, and they turn as one man. “Time, yes. But place is just as important. If you want solutions, I must have access to all the bones.”

I can hear the grinding of teeth, see the clenching jaws, and suppress a grin. They have painted themselves into a corner. To agree with me will mean letting me wander where my feet will take me, giving me permission to speak with those they have kept from me, hidden and secreted away. To disagree would make it seem as though they have sided with Nickolas, whose words shook the mountain.

“BoneKeeper,” Nickolas tries to recover, false concern sour in his voice. “We only think of your safety.”

And now I really do smile, the expression so rare that the men startle like a flock of birds sensing approaching danger, but unable to see the hunter. “Well then, Councilman. It is nice to have your support. Because it is a marrow truth that I am safest with the bones of our people.”

There is no argument. To do so would be to speak against the Gods. Raek looks furious, but wisely keeps his mouth pressed tightly shut, and, finally, briefly inclines his head. All others but Nickolas follow suit; he is the only one who does not move, watching me through rabid eyes, lip curled up and nostrils flared. I am too practiced to react, and stand motionless, face open and soft, waiting for the decision.

“As you will, Keeper,” Raek finally says, words snapped from a biting mouth. “Do what you must to find what we seek.” He chokes on the next, but forces himself to continue. “We will let the Protectors know. All the bones are available to you. Until the full Council is home.”

All the bones.

With those simple words, the world shifts slightly under my feet. Between the inhale and the exhale, everything has changed.

Everything has changed.

THE BRIGHT MOMENTS

WREN

The Councilmembers retreat from the Ancestors’ Wall, faces churning in black fury. If they can find a way around their given permission, they will, and as soon as they are able. But until then, the space has been granted, and with no guidelines, an unusual failure on their part. If I can speak to all the bones at will, they can’t keep me from hidden pockets in the village; no excuses need to be made for my presence anywhere. Raek is too busy physically dragging Nickolas away from the small jut of land to think of his rare misstep, followed closely by his supporters in the group. Sinking to my knees, I begin to gather the broken pieces from the ground in front of me. Logically I know that there is no value left in the empty shards, but it feels sacreligious to just leave them in the dirt. She was not Exiled, is not Sleeping, was not lost to the Storms, did not pass without a Keeper…I am not sure what has happened to the bright, singing soul. In my lifetime I have never known Living Bone to just…just…cease to exist.

Bending my head, I listen as the bones around me recite the names of Raek and his followers as though committing them to memory. Nickolas, Killian, Malik… A weary sigh from one of the bones as the list continues. Corbyn.

At the sound, I find the weather-marked curve of an occipital bone, and trace gentle fingers along its surface.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her, and she echoes the apology back to me, shame thick in her voice. She is embarrassed to claim Corbyn as her grandson, a funny word for an older man, but most bones don’t see age as the flesh living do. Their memories don’t move forward in the same way as the people who still walk the earth. Everything from their time on two feet is bright and vivid, and is like seeing the world through my own eyes. Taste, touch, sound, smell — it is all fresh and new, and I can feel each recollection on my tongue, on my skin, in my nose. Anything from after they are woken in bone, though, is like watching the world through a heavy veil, or oil smeared window. Nothing in their recent memories is quite as clear or vibrant. So two Corbyns overlap in her thoughts — one a clear, gleaming-eyed child with chubby fingers and a loving smile, the other a grey-shaded man, face lined and lips sneering. They ebb and flow into each other, one picture surging to the front then fading into the other. And the pain for her seeing the boy she sang to sleep slip into the Councilor who didn’t even greet her bones is overwhelming.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur again, but she does not respond. There is nothing more to be said, and the wall falls quiet.

Once I finish collecting the empty bone, I place it carefully at the base of the shrine, and consider where to go. None of the ancestors offer advice; all refuse to speak, as though it drained everything inside them to argue against the Council. I wait for a time to see if they’ll relent and give me some guidance, but they may as well be carved from stone, so eventually I offer a blessing, then go back to the main square. It has emptied completely by the time I return; even with the threat of half-silos, life must continue, and there is work to be done. Chickens and sheep don’t care if you are hungry. Crops, however scant, won’t plow themselves.

In any case, now that the morning chill has faded and the air warmed to midday, it is harder to hold onto the frantic fear of the morning. Here is a truth only those who live constantly at the edge know — when your cup is already full of fear, and sorrow, and misery, eventually it overflows, the excess running off and falling, uncared for, onto dry ground. You do not have the capacity to add to it for longer than a moment, because life pushes through, even in the darkest moments, dulling the pain so you can breathe, and walk, and laugh. If you drink too long from the cup, trying desperately to keep it from overflowing, give weight to every sadness, eventually you will forget to inhale, and you suffocate. You drown yourself because you are unable to focus on the tiny sparks of joy in the blackness, on the real now instead of the maybe then. When you are always starving, you eat the bread you have before it goes bad, or is stolen in the night. Borrowed pleasure and borrowed pain are mirrors of each other. Neither is real, just a shadow of emotion. I know that better than most.

The Harvest Month holds the brightest sparks of our golden seasons, the flames of shimmering moments that help us as a people get through the winter Storms. Panic will not make the silos produce more grain. Sadness will not give the hunters more game. But taking every drop of pleasure from the time we have, well. Those moments, however brief and seemingly meaningless, can pull you through the cold and endless hours of the coming months. Offer hope. And hope, in its own way, is more powerful than an empty stomach. H is for Hasten, when thunder is done. Take the bright moments when you can.

With that thought, I know where to go. And, with a smile in my soul, I leave the square.

THE CHILDREN’S GARDEN

WREN

When the Council is quiet and the days are still warm, my feet lead me, inevitably, in one direction, to one place, to one person, where my heart is safe and my secrets kept in locked rooms. He is a feather of hope in my world, a crack in the wall where the light pours through in promise. And if I am free, drifting on the wind, I will always float towards him, as though he commands the breeze.

I do not need to look for him; the bones are whispering to me, guiding me to the far curve of the wall near the Northern Arch, in the Children’s Garden. Not flowers, just a delicate section in the bone wall where most of the children are sheltered, their tiny bones the only ones in our village that are laid in decoration. The children are patterned in sweet blooms, shapes of petals not seen since before the dark times. Ivy runs along the wall here, dust green on pale white — the single place the villagers let the flowering vine grow wild, twisting in and around the fragile scapulas and sternums, helping keep them anchored in place. Anywhere else the clinging tendrils dry the mortar, weakening the bone structure, but in the Children’s Garden, it is as though even the plants want to protect our most valuable Offerings.

Since I was chosen as Keeper, I have never named a child for Reaping or Rendering. Almost all of the most recent bones in the Children’s Garden are from before my eyes went white and I was still guiding souls named by the Council; only one has been added to the ivory flowers since. Slowly, slowly, during my tenure, the almost sickening anxiety all parents feel from the instant they fall pregnant has morphed into a cautious gratitude. They do not know why the Sun God has seemingly never called for a child, nor, apparently has the Earth demanded one, but are increasingly hopeful with each Offering that passes without a child being chosen.

In thanks, a new tradition emerged — from the moment their children are born, they light ever burning candles for the Sun God, and leave small dirt holes outside the infant’s window for the Earth filled with the best meat from their meals. No parent would dare let the flame go out or the pit go empty, even if it has been long enough that I is for Infant has faded from a numbed acceptance to a toothless threat.

These small acts of obsequience are the only guards between me and the wrath of the Gods.

I do not know what I will do if they stop.

Or if the Gods refuse my own Offerings made in the children’s stead to keep them from fire or blade. At the thought, the twisting scars under my vertebracelets flicker briefly with the memory of bright pain.

Dragging my fingers along the wall, I swallow hard. Perhaps, I whisper to the bones beside me, perhaps I would…I would refuse to guide anyone at all..until the Gods promised… The bones shudder in response, and I do not confide in them further.

The liquid sound of a lute calls like a bird in the thin mountain air, pulling me from my grave thoughts, and it slows my feet. A man is singing softly, a love song I have never heard, and the words make me want to cry.

“I shall take you to the river

Where the wild waters flow

And I’ll crown you with flowers for your starfire hair

A bower your bed

and the night sky your home

And I’ll sing you a love song so sweet and so fair…”

Looking up, he meets my eyes immediately, as though he has been waiting his whole life for me. Tahrik, Tahrik, his name like the call of the birds from outside the walls of the village. A short, sharp chirp, a trill, a song on my lips and in my mouth. Tah-REEK, Tah-REEK, an unexpected burst of music in a soundless world. Head tilted, gaze locked on mine without wavering, he smiles, the slow, sweet curve of a lover’s mouth, and continues singing to me, and for me, alone. His voice is soft but sure, sounding as though he is making a handfast vow.

“You’ll give me your heart

And I’ll wrap it in ribbon

I’ll keep it cocooned from the Storms and the rain

It is my only treasure

I’ll always defend it

To keep you from harm and protect you from pain

Until, until, until the stars fall

Until, until, until we’re grey

Until, until, until we’re shadows

And my bones will sing for yours until end of days…”

I don’t know why, but the words are an ache in my heart, and my vision wavers as my eyes fill with tears. It is water gladly given. Tahrik doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from me, his face softening as he watches me react to his song. The air is still and the bones are silent, giving us a moment that seems out of time, that seems like stolen happiness from somewhere other than our here and now. His voice cracks slightly on the next verse, rough with emotion, and then steadies.

“I don’t breathe lest it’s beside you

I don’t see lest you’re in view

If they ask me of my purpose

I’ll answer my heart song so pure and so true

Until, until, until the Storms cease

Until, until, until I fade

Until, until, until the world stops

My bones will sing for yours until end of days.”

The last strum of the strings hovers in the air, like heat on a fallow field, and I know, as soon as it fades, we will be jerked back into the present, our little drops of sunshine dissolving in the shadow of bone. Suddenly, violently, I wish for nothing more than the Keeping to be ripped from me; I don’t care if it leaves me bloody and broken behind it. I want the promise of the man before me, a small house in the village with scrawny chickens and dirty floors, of mudstained children and cold winter evenings sheltered by the hearthfire. I want the feel of his hands on my skin and the taste of the song in his mouth, and it is a dream so overwhelming and excruciating that I cannot breath.

“Keeper,” he whispers, quiet as new bone, and I incline my head.

“Tahrik.” His name is a fever dream, a longing to accept the promise his song made. He offered something with those words, knew that I would hear them, and gave them to me as a gift. And I want, bone, flesh, and blood, to take them, and him, into my heart. What will you do if the bones call for Tahrik? My mind whispers. The Sun God is jealous of happiness. What will you do?

But this is not a happiness to be jealous of, this painful, desperate longing, this unfulfillable wish — this is like the Storm rains — a poisoned blessing, life and yet not life. The Council will never let me go; the bones will never release me. I exist with a foot and a hand and half my heart in the grave, and I will never condemn another to live in the veil with me. The note wavers, wanes, til it is more of a memory of sound than the sound itself exists, and then it, and the moment, are gone.

THE SOUND OF HOPE

WREN

He is unmoving, a world and a breath away from me, face now peaceful and respectful, as any villager should look when regarding the BoneKeeper, and I am sick with longing for the secret smile from moments before. The distant reverence is unwelcome and unnerving. But it is not worth the risk to either of us to say what can’t be said, so my eyes and face are blank and empty as the Silent bracelets around my wrists. My heart, though, cannot be quiet.

Tah-REEK. Tah-REEK. The sound of hope in a soundless word.

“BoneKeeper. Are you well?” He cannot help the curl of his full lips, tilting up at the corner. In a city of death and dust, he is unexpected happiness, and it is always a gift to me, even though it is guarded and careful. Reaching out to the bone wall near me, I run my fingers along their surfaces, wondering how to respond. They’re waiting, noiseless, as I study him surreptitiously.

If our village were made human, it would be Tahrik. His golden skin is the color of the wheat fields in the light of the setting sun, his ebony hair, tumbling in wild waves to his shoulders, a mirror of the mountain rock. The gleaming doors of the Council House are his eyes, so brown they are almost black under heavy brows. His jaw is sharp, and his cheekbones high over hollow shadows; there is never enough food for any of us to be rounded, even for the millers and bakers. Nose straight and neck long to thin but powerful shoulders, everything about him is a map of our people. He looks no different from any other in so many ways, but my eyes are drawn to him even in a crowd of a hundred. I know the way he folds his cloak, how he laces his boots, and, if he is our village, then he is all of the shining moments with none of the despair.

“Well enough.” My voice is cool and calm. My heart is chaos and lightning.

“Are you free for visitations today?” His eyes dart to either side like the tiny brush birds that live in the pale brown scrub bushes outside of the Southern Bone Arch, making sure we are alone.

I am about to answer him when the bones call out sharply. Keeper! Keeper! and I shake my head, elf-locks echoing out a wooden sound from the bone fragments entangled in my hair. Tahrik looks briefly alarmed, then nods in understanding, quickly disappearing from the curve of the Garden, turning the far corner just as a Protector enters the small clearing from behind me. I do not move, don’t turn around, but call to greet him, the Living Bones trailing down my back letting me know which of the Council’s guards has come for me.

“Ollendar.” It is not a question, not a welcome, just a statement. Of the Council’s Protectors, he is not one I actively dislike, but I would not willingly seek any of them out. Before…before, the Protectors were like family to our people. They were for us, not the Council. Things have changed, though, and I would no sooner trust a Protector than kiss an adder. There is a gentle, but mirthful, protest from the bone necklace running down my spine, and I can’t bite back a quick grin, sending a silent apology to the line of living fingers and teeth.

I forgot for a moment, I whisper to his bones. Forgive me.

His answering emotion is wry, and, for my bone Protector, surprisingly amused. Kiss the adder over Ollendar, he murmurs back, a rare verbal response. And then, more seriously, I do not trust him.

Two full sentences? You’re positively loquacious today, Lorcan. I tease him gently, but sense him frown, so immediately heed my Protector. If Lorcan doesn’t trust his old friend, then I will not either, and mentally move Ollendar from the list of “annoying but tolerable” to “be cautious”.

“You’re needed.” The words are bitten out, sharp and edged.

Turning, surprise clear in my movements, I raise a single brow at his tone, and focus my white eyes unerringly on his tense form.

“Apologies. BoneKeeper.” He inclines his head, hands pressed before him. “The Council calls for you to attend. If you are not otherwise occupied.” Ah. They must have realized how loose they left my leash.

Sighing, I shrug. I have no choice, not really. Unless the bones command me, the Council’s request is my law. Running a hopeful hand along the white wall, I send a quick thought to them, but they all shiver and rattle, loudly enough that my head whips around to face them in alarm. My sudden fear puts Ollendar on guard, his body tensing, hand dropping to his sword as he looks for the threat.

The bones want me to go with him, but cry out from all around me in a confusing cacophony You must go Keeper. Be watchful, be wary. Be watchful, be wary. There is change coming, Keeper. The End or the Ender. Stay close to the bones. Keep close to the Knife. Wear the Crown. The End or the Ender. It is rare for the bones to speak so clearly of things outside of their memories unless to warn me of danger, and their cold voices scrape along my skin like teeth made of ice.

“Coming, Ollendar,” I reply, voice level and blank, as always when I speak, no hint of dawning dread audible. But when he turns, I move my bone knife forward on my belt, and pull the living bone strands in my hair forward over my shoulders. It is not my Guiding Blade, but is reminiscent enough that it provides some comfort of protection.

We are here, Keeper, they whisper. You are not alone. We are here.

Running my fingers along their smooth surfaces, I take dark comfort in their words. They are here. They are always here.

And I am never, never, alone.

TO THE SCHOOLHOUSE

WREN

The rest of yesterday was a slow decay of time, sitting in a corner like a tame bird, listening to old men ask each other unanswerable questions. It’s a brutally stupid game they’re playing, wasting valuable hours until the hunters return with the Father and the other two Councilmen. They’re so consumed with their own power and privilege that the thought of losing even an inch of what they have stolen has turned them into a nervous little rabbit kits. So they do what they always do, whittle away my time with meaningless moments, needing my presence without ever asking my input. They kept me so long that night’s fingertips almost grazed the front door by the time they released me with smirking, self-satisfied faces.

I spent most of the meeting as I usually do, tuning them out and losing myself in the memories that surrounded me. They had unintentionally chosen my favorite room in the Council House for the session; the corner with my small chair is ribboned with the bones of a group of minstrels from the time before, who were Guided by the first BoneKeeper in the time after, and whenever I am there, I sink into their strange songs, feeling a world away from the present. The bones in the Council House always pull extra hard at me because I see them so rarely, so it was as easy as breathing to step into their music.

Although, disturbingly, for the first time, it was surprisingly difficult to come back to myself.

The feeling of fighting against them to regain my own body was…unnerving.

It stayed with me all night, crawling along my sleepless skin, curling like smoke in the air. And, in the dark, the whispers of the bones near the Children’s Garden hung as noiseless echoes in my room. Be watchful, be wary. There is change coming. By the time the sky starts to lighten, my head is heavy and heart unsettled. Putting on my armor with unusual haste, I waste water, washing, and washing, and washing again, until the cool, sharp herbal scent has cleared my mind. I need…I need to step away from the bones, just until I feel wholly in myself again.

It is early, too early for the Council to have risen and found new ways to make my life a misery, so I take a chance and wander the waking village quietly, watching the faces of the people. When I look out at the town through a stranger’s eyes, I can see all the things I miss as BoneKeeper. There is music, and noise, and happiness even in the smallest things. When you do not have much, you learn to be thankful for any gift. And you celebrate life in a different way than those who have grown bored and corpulent from luxury. Not every day can be spent fearing the coming Storms, or waiting for the Vengeance to be paid. Life pushes through even the driest lands, tiny, pale green tendrils finding a way to grow. And so it is here. Something that is easy for me to forget when I spend too much time with death.

Just outside the First Gate, a woman near my age is opening the window of a quaint shop with black and white curtains, laughing and holding the small, pudgy hand of a young child trailing after her. Glancing down at my own fingers, I rub them together, picturing a tiny, dimpled hand reaching for mine, and dream a little of what my life would be like if I were not bound to bone as I am. I would wear a patterned woolen skirt with a dusty red apron, hands worn from bread and chores, and smile at the little things, like the smell of a flower or the soft curve of a baby's cheek. And, perhaps, though it is as much of a wish as pure water, someone to love me. Love me, for myself — not admire because my position, or hold me in awe on a dais, or listen to me only to hear bone. Just someone who wants my words for themselves, my own thoughts, my own feelings. My heart lurches in a painful stutter. Who would listen to you? What do you have to say of interest if not for the bones? And it is true — it is hard to separate myself from them. All of my stories are their stories, all of my words their words.

An uneasy feeling of rebellion surges in my stomach. If I am nothing but an empty vessel for the Gods, why do I have preferences, favorites, dreams…I would have none of these things if I were not someone outside of what I have been made to be. The bones around me in the gate warm under my fingers, and I pull my hand from them, frowning. A passing villager skitters away from my dark look, and I sigh. Why are people so scared of me lately? Wracking my brain, I try to think through the last few weeks, or months, to find something that I’m missing, but the waking bones around me keep interrupting with mindless chattering about Harvest Month celebrations from their own youths, making it difficult to concentrate. One of them, a teacher, I assume, from her sing-song voice, starts chanting the Third Lesson, and it sparks an idea in my head. Touching her in a fond “thank you”, I leave the main road, and quietly drift off through the Second Gate toward the Second village School, leaving the slowly opening shops and streets behind me.

I can hear the children’s giggling as I approach the stone-built schoolhouse, an old, black building that is more menacing than welcoming, but which, for some reason, most of the children who live in the second ring love. Here, our young are required to attend school during the spring and summer months, through their milk-teeth and no longer. In the winter the parents trapped inside with their little ones handle things like reading, music, and simple math. Our school is mainly for husbandry, agriculture, history, and social studies. It has changed over the years; in the bones’ memories school was very different than it is now. But there is little use to musical composition if you can’t fix your plow, so necessity overtakes luxury in our world.

The teacher inside rings a soft bell, a gentle echo of the Council’s louder one, and from the far end of the building, maybe forty older boys and girls rush inside. I’m not good at guessing, but they look like the school’s oldest class, full of ten and eleven year olds, long limbed and gangly, still growing into themselves.

“Settle! Settle!” The teacher is laughing, soothing, and I take a moment to lean against the wall and listen through the open windows. I never attended courses here, and something deep inside my soul shivers in painful longing, before I am able to quiet it.

“What’s today, Miss? Is it boring?” A brazen, high-pitched voice calls out the question, and it startles me in a way. I don’t have much interaction with the young here other than speaking to them for the bone, and it is surprising to hear how…how full of life they sound.

“History, to start! So not boring at all, unless death and dismemberment makes you yawn!” The teacher is far too cheerful if she is to discuss our history. But she continues in the same, chirping way, a strange counterpoint to the blood and bone that lines the long pathway to our village. “Or I am more than happy to review the benefits of pearl millet with you!” The class groans in response. “That’s what I thought,” she replies smugly. “Let’s begin…”

THE BIRTH OF THE BONES

WREN

Let’s begin, indeed. Our village — or, more appropriately, city — is not large by any standard. It started as a small fiefdom of sorts, to an ancient lord who ruled with an iron fist. The core of his land is still here, the central village, which is surrounded completely on seven of its eight sides by bone wall. The eighth part is made of the black mountain rising up and towering over those below. To either side of the walls jutting out from the mountain are sheer drops down sharp, unforgiving cliffs. We were built in a defensive position originally, on a land bridge between the lower terrain and the dead stone above. As the Fiefdom expanded through blade and blood, it pushed further into the scrub and dirt, further out from the shadow of the mountain. But inside the bleached enclosure of our ancestors is still the heart of our city.

The bone wall started long before a BoneKeeper was first born. It is all song and story now, words passed from mother to daughter, but they are all the same: The first Lord of the Fief was known as The Queen’s Sword. He was not named for his prowess on the battlefield, but his place in her bed, a mockery because the woman was seventy and he but twenty. All laughter turned to blood when she died, though, as she left him an unheard of legacy of land and wealth that could not be touched. Her son, the new King, chose to retire the Sword to the bequeathed land, as it was far from the central Kingdom, far enough that the Sword and his activities were of no consequence. Out of sight, out of mind seemed to be the easiest plan. From that point, the Sword was left to his own devices, much to the pity of the people he now ruled.

He was young, in his prime, and had enough money to buy an army, which is what he did. He was not satisfied with his lot or legacy, and had a long memory that burned with the echo of the laughter of his peers. And so, for a decade, he quietly built. First the village in the mountain face, his central keep carved directly into the glossy black stone, the rooms cut day and night by his now enslaved people. As they delved into the oily stone, deeper and deeper, thick veins of precious minerals and gleaming stones were discovered and cut from the rock like limbs being torn from bodies, leaving sharp and jagged lines behind. The wealth was staggering, luring the Sword further and further into the mountain’s side, tunneling like worms into rotted fruit. He redirected all able men to the mines, had them live below the surface to work at all hours. And when one would die from heat, or exhaustion, or from the Sword’s temper, he would burn them and use their charred bones to make furniture for his home.

When the villagers protested, he bought their forgiveness with heavy, foreign crops imported from the Lower Kingdom, with sweets and music, with golden fabric and glossy cattle. He would hold festivals where wine flowed freely, and bribe them with false promises. And, much to their shame, they closed their eyes to the atrocities occurring within his palace, because outside the gleaming walls of the imposing castle, the grass was still sweet, the air still fresh, and the ramparts of the village were still made of wood and stone. It was hard to feel sorrow for another when your belly and your cup were full, when your home was warm and your cupboards stocked. If a worker or two was lost, well…didn’t the miners risk their lives in the mountains?

The Sword was handsome, charismatic, charming, and bent the people to breaking before they even realized they were cutting their own throats for him.

After a decade, he had, if not loyalty from his people, a frenetic fealty, for in ten years of rule, his entire massive palace was fully decorated, and not a single piece inside was wood or stone. He turned from the TriGoddess, forbade her name from the mouths of his people, and set dark altars to darker, unmet Gods, searching for one willing to bargain for blood and bone. Flanked on either side by his closest confidants, he scoured every inch of the Upper Kingdom, to no avail.

And then began the push, the creeping disease that spread from the gates of the village down the mountain into the Valley below. In the story we are told, you could see the black veins of rot curling through the forest and meadows like choking vines as the Sword advanced, still searching. His army sent gifts back every month — wagon loads of pale bodies and bones delivered up the mountain to the people there. Waste not, want not, the Sword commanded, teeth sharp and gleaming, eyes bright with mania. These materials are to build and protect our home. The message was very clear, and the people frightened, so they followed orders without wavering, and the first wall of bone rose up around the inner village.

As the wall grew, the land around it drew back as if in response to the atrocities. Crops, once thick and golden, thinned to a pale dusting, barely covering the dry ground. Water, deep and pure, that had made our cliffs coasts so long ago, started dropping away, until it was almost out of reach. What little was grown or tilled was rationed in careful proportions as the people started feeling the first real biting pains of starvation. They became more dependent on the Sword, on his sporadic gifts of millet and grain, of meats and fowl. As their hunger grew, so did their fear. And their obedience.

As his territory expanded, the Sword would leave for longer and longer periods of time, each time growing more confident in the chains he had placed on his people. Even still, his two hooded crows occasionally remained behind. Hand chosen for their ferocity and fervor, his silent Protector or fanatical Justice would stay to enforce his will, cast his shadow over the people. Though none of the three would stay separate for long, the looming threat of an unexpected visit twisted the stomachs and spines of the beaten people.

For the Sword would send evidence of his largesse. Reminders he was thinking of the Upper Kingdom. Heavy carts came, pulled by horses dead on their feet, ribs showing through their dull, patchy coats. None of the drivers entrusted with the precious cargo could speak, their tongues cut from their mouths as caution. But the wild, wide eyes and shaking bodies told more than words could of the horrors occurring far from our cliff face. Their silence was a blessing and a curse as the pile of empty bodies grew and grew in the Sword’s absence. Desperate prayers were whispered late at night for some kind of respite, some relief, some rescue. Candles were lit, wishes written on paper and lit on fire to the wind, blessings begged for from the Maiden, the Mother, the Crone. And eventually, a small seed of rebellion was born in the beaten down people; left alone for long enough that they refused to add to the wall anymore.

When the wagons paused, the first green shoots in years pushed through loamy earth. For a moment, there was hope.

But now the story turns dim, as though it were not already coal black.

In the Upper Kingdom, the people did not know the tide of the war, and, as winter was fast approaching, did not have time to care. Even with the new crops, the cheeks of the village children were too gaunt for it to be the Harvest already, and there was the heavy taste of fear in the air.

Bread can only stretch so far.

Desperation is a door to dark, dire places.

When the Sword came back with a crown on his head and armor of gleaming white, they were a rabid mob before him. He, who had survived a brutal and bloody war uninjured to seize an unearned crown, was swarmed by a starving and desperate people. His army was able to quiet the insurrection, but not before the Sword had lost an eye and an arm. His rage knew no bounds. The men over 18 were allowed to live, but only because he knew he needed people to labor for him. Some women were added to the walls, some kept as prizes, but all men who were not in his army were sent to the frosting fields or chained in the deepest mines to work until they fell silent. The empty homes were granted to his soldiers, as were the women left behind, given as gifts to his most faithful followers, sometimes two or three for a single Officer, and the bone wall grew.

Food was beyond scarce. There was a small crop of grain and wheat, but anything gathered was given to the army, not to the village.

And wagon after wagon of flesh was still being delivered from the Lower Kingdom in unceasing caravans, if not daily, then weekly at least.

You must understand, we were told in whispers as children, you must understand. There was no other food. The people would have died. They would all have died. And some did, rather than make the choice to stay alive.

But others…well, the less said about the Winter that year, the better.

It changed the people. A mass hysteria, a darkness of soul, descended upon them that had not existed before. The Sword reveled in it, bathed in their despair like it was something precious. And in the bleakness, in the time of pure and utter hopelessness, something cracked in the world. Some abomination occurred, so unspeakable that even memory does not have the words for it, and a demon was woken, unseen before in history, unleashed from its pits of hidden fire, chains melted. No one knows how, or what happened, and there are no stories from this silent time. No whispers, no bone memory. For almost a decade, in any history of the world, there is nothing but silence. Not a mouth alive in our village today holds the truth of what happened during those years. There is simply before the birth of the darkness, and after, and not knowing what happened, no one knows how to fix it.

All we know is that after…after, the TriGoddess fell silent.

AN UNEXPECTED TURN

WREN

Unexpectedly, the teacher’s tale diverges from the history I know in my marrow to be true. The change is a difference without being a difference, unsaid words rather than lies, and it sits uneasily on my skin.

“When the Sword was old, older than anyone else in the two Kingdoms, when his skin was so thin it would tear if he moved too quickly, he called together his most faithful followers. The Sword was as wrinkled as a blood moth cocoon, that’s how ancient he was.” The woman drops her voice, making it spooky but teasing, and the children groan in disgust.

“Ew! Miss! Ew!”

“Well, he was. From the Southern Kingdom he called his old Protector, who had long since left his side to rule below in his stead. And from the Traders’ Kingdom he called his Justice, who had acted for the Sword there. These men — his vultures, hooded and bent with age — were almost as bad as him. A trio of evil — bloodthirsty, power hungry, and vicious. Supposed friends, or allies, they had waited and waited for the Sword to be old enough to overcome, to seize his Kingdoms and continue his terror. And finally they saw their chance. But!”

The sound of squeaking chairs tells me children are rocking forward to hear what’s coming, and I unintentionally mimic their unseen movements.

“Buuuut…there were twelve men in the village at the time, twelve brave and selfless men, who met late at night in the caverns in the mountains, far from the watchful eyes of the Sword’s army.”

“Weren’t they scared of the blood moths?” a little voice calls, and I can picture the teacher’s shaking head.

“There were no blood moths, not quite yet. Our miners hadn’t gone deep enough into the rock at that time, hadn’t dug to the Everfire and opened the caves where the chrysalis were waiting. The men plotted and planned, waited and watched, and then, at great risk to themselves, and for the good of the Upper Kingdom, finally acted. The Sword, approaching death, had made a devil’s bargain with the Ender—” A sharp intake of breath from the children around her, and she smooths her voice to soothing, “I know, I know. But it must be said. He went around the Gods above and below to barter for returned youth. The trade was easy and clean — a sacrifice of five thousand — quiet now, please. Five thousand children. And with every ten lives given, he would gain a month back to himself. That was the bargain.”

“He wouldn’t…he couldn’t have…”

“He did. The plan was in motion before the brave men who were going to act against him had time to move. It was a dark and desperate time for the families in our village. We lost almost an entire generation — he did not take any infants from the inner walls, so all sacrifice came from the second and third rings. Two years—” the teacher’s voice chokes to a halt, then pushes on. “For two years the innocent were slaughtered to buy him youth, and strength, the Unknown drained and then thrown from the cliffs, the water receding further every time a lost child’s body sunk into its depths. And every time the people had to gather and watch. With every drop of blood spilled, the mountains growled and shook. There were more and more mine collapses, lives lost in the darkest caverns. Cracks in the sides began to show the Everfire hidden within. And the years drained from his face like the fresh water draining from our land. His followers got greedy, and demanded the same bargain for themselves, hovering behind him like carrion birds as the atrocity occurred, watching with hungry eyes and the age melted off the Sword’s face every time he anointed his skin with fresh blood. All seemed lost. But then, in the second year, when a full 2,500 children had been lost, the men saw their chance and struck, stealing the knife from the Sword’s very hands whilst his eyes were still blinded with blood! Why, Trina, what’s wrong?”

A quiet crying voice replies. “The poor children, Miss...”

“The poor children. But the brave men, Trina! Who stopped what we thought was unstoppable! And when the man who struck the killing blow had his hair go white with the blade strike, we were gifted the first BoneKeeper by the Gods for our reward.”

The words are true, in a way. But she neglects to mention that, at the same time, the Earth cracked open like a giant’s mouth to masticate flesh from bone, peeling away tendon and sinew, leaving only bleached, hollow remnants behind. And the Sun faded in the sky from a warm glow to a cold, freezing light that would flare to life indiscriminately and singe exposed skin to ash in a single afternoon. Nature itself turned on the people in violent, unpredictable ways. Even water…well. If you are thirsty enough, poison tastes as sweet as wine.

“But the children…”

“Ah. Maybe that’s enough for today about that, hmm? There’s still so much to cover, we don’t need to stay on such dark things for the entire lesson. What would you like to hear about? When the first Traders came and their birds escaped into the mountains? I know that’s a favorite story.”

There is some reluctant giggling from the class.

“Will the Traders ever come again, do you think, Miss?”

I don’t hear the answer, lost in my own thoughts. Will the Traders ever come again? The idea is paralyzing, intoxicating.

There have not been Traders here in my lifetime. But in my father’s time they came from the northwest, from a thin slice of pale dirt that runs along the cliff face. It was a dangerous journey that hasn’t been traversed in more than two decades — in my 23 years the path hasn’t been traveled. The women who remember the last visit, all mothers with children grown from bellies made heavy by nights with foreign men, speak of it in wistful whispers around the salty ponds. I’m never invited into the chatter, but, like a ghost, hear the words on the wind. And from the bones. The bones never keep secrets from me. They reminisce of the visits during their childhoods, the way they watched the Traders come year after year until the girls were women and could participate. It happened the same way every time. Only a small group came, perhaps a hundred men, no more. They always arrived slowly, wagons loaded with seeds, strange fruits, caged animals, and jugs of crystalline water, and were welcomed with barred gates and Keepers’ spears. The Twelve, the Protectors, the Justice, and the Father would go to speak with them outside the walls, carrying bags spilling over with shining gems mined from deep within the mountain.

An agreement was struck, a yearly renewal of the previous year’s accord in a handshake between the Father and their leader, and then smiles and laughter spilled forth. And here were the rules. The Traders were welcome for three days, no more. They were given housing and what little food we had to spare, treated as honored guests. They were allowed within the central Keep but not the Council House, and nowhere south of the Second Gates. They were free to consort with any woman who would entertain them from any Ring, taken or not, as long as they were of age and the woman consented. They could sing, or dance, or drink, or feast til bursting, but no words were ever to be spoken of life outside the village, upon penalty of death. And when they left, they left alone — none from the village were permitted to accompany them. From what I’ve heard, the Traders looked forward to their visits like a kind of holiday — who would turn down three days of feasting and fires, of free food, free beer, and free women? And the only price silence? An easy game to play.

On the third day, the wagons were emptied, and refilled with minerals and stones and ore, and with one last cheerful farewell, they would leave along the same sliver of gold upon the cliff edge. It was rare to have a Trader return more than once; the temptation was too great to break the rules, I think. Or perhaps the trip was a reward or punishment in their culture? I do not know. All I know is that their last visit was as every before. The year before I was born, they came, stayed the allotted three days, feasted and sang to the stars above our home in a strange language, more liquid and lilting than the Common Tongue, then left, and none have been seen since. Our storehouses, now filled to bursting with silver ore, obsidian, and clear, glass like gemstones, have grown dusty. No miners burrow into the mountains anymore to collect the useless, bright rock. At first the Council thought the Traders had been delayed a year by weather or disease. Two, then three years passed, and when the Hunters found the path overgrown by weeds and thick vines and blocked by a massive rockfall, they realized that perhaps the last Xenium had been given, and we had finally been lost to the dusty corners of history.

THE HUNTERS RETURN

WREN

“But what about the bones?” A little voice calls out, the question breaking unexpectedly into the tomb of my thoughts, and it’s my only excuse for what I do next.

“What about them?” I can’t help myself, and round the corner of the schoolhouse, stepping into the room. The children react as though the Ender itself has burst from the pits of Everfire to tear them limb from limb, and the teacher looks faint, blood draining from her face.

“BoneKeeper!” The word is meant to be a greeting but is more of a warning, and more than one child flinches as I float past them quietly to stand by the now significantly less bubbly young woman at the front of the class.

It does not help that my bone clothing clicks loudly in the suddenly silent room, making me sound like walking death. “I hope you don’t mind, ah….I’m sorry. I can’t remember your name.”

“Hollis.” She looks sick to her stomach, and I play with my braids nervously, trying to think of what to do. I don’t often just…talk…to people; at some point years ago the Council made vague insinuations that casual interactions would distract me from my duties. It was suggested that I speak only for the bones, never for another purpose, so as not to fill me with thoughts which left no room for others. At the time I was angry and felt like an outcast already, so the silence seemed to be a blessing. I wonder now if I made a mistake. Maybe, if I had just tried to reach out, tried to be part of the village, their opinions would have changed; maybe they would have seen that I was a scared child, not a living ghost. Instead I stepped further into the veiled world, and further from the breathing one. Somehow the suggestion grew into tradition, and tradition into an unspoken law. And now I live only with the bones, and rarely use my voice except to speak from the dark side of the veil. A cold shiver runs down my back as It occurs to me that I don’t really know how to return, and my bones vibrate with me.

Her eyes lock on the tiny sesamoids hanging from my ears, and I drop my hands immediately.

“Ms. Hollis. I’m sorry to interrupt your lessons.” Pressing my hands together I bow before her, not deeply, but enough to convey apology. If anything, it makes her more anxious, not less so, and I sigh. “It was perhaps unkind of me to not announce my presence. But as I never attended the school here, I find it fascinating to hear our history as taught to the children. It is…different…in many ways than the version I was given.”

Ms. Hollis coughs, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “It is the Council approved version,” she offers tentatively. “I also learned a more comple–” but she stutters to a halt, pressing her fingertips against her lips, eyes wide in alarm. “I didn’t mean to speak against the newer…ah…I mean…clearer teachings.”

“I didn’t think you were, Ms. Hollis,” I reply quietly. But the approved version that she had told her students was studiously lacking much of the nuance that colors our people’s lives. There was no real mentions of the TriGoddess, no true discussion of how the Council came to power after the Sword was killed…narrowing my eyes, I tilt my head thoughtfully. All in all, the version presented was — lacking.

Turning, I look past them, focusing on the wall just beyond their scared faces. I know my white gaze makes them uncomfortable, so I try to seem as unoffensive as possible. “You are lucky, students. Ms. Hollis has a storyteller’s tongue.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you heard her lecture about pearl millet,” one of the children mutters, then frantically claps her hand over her mouth. I can’t help but smile at the comment though, the amusement surprising me. It is rusty, a dull blade on a whetstone, and is oddly painful, as though it is being torn from a locked room deep inside me.

“Ah yes, the inestimable pearl millet. I once had a pearl millet cake as a child. It tasted like grass and old shoes.” I shudder in exaggerated horror. “I would not recommend it.” And though Hollis looks stunned, the children giggle, faces crinkling into round-cheeked smiles. It’s more relief than mirth, perhaps; I don’t think any of them expected the ghostly BoneKeeper to tease them. Even Lorcan is taken aback, the feeling of his shock like a line of fire running from my neck to the curve of my back.

What? I question him. I smile sometimes… I am defensive, and his response is the sense of him holding up his hands and locking his lips closed.

Little Keeper, I say nothing. I was simply surprised. It is…nice…to feel you happy.

Oh. I don’t know how else to respond. My heart clenches in a strange sort of skipping movement that I don’t understand; Lorcan does not usually say such things. The room has gone quiet again while the children and their teacher watch me, and I shrug helplessly, shaking my head in amusement.

“They are giving me a hard time,” I say dryly, gently touching the bracers that run up my arms in explanation. The children exchange long glances, before one tiny boy — the smallest in the room by far — raises a quivering hand.

“H-h-how?” He forces his question out, barely breathing, and his eyes go wild when I walk to his desk, then sink to my heels in front of him. Reaching around my neck, I pull Lorcan’s bones forward, laying them on the smooth wood before me.

“Well. This one is making fun of me right now.” Lorcan huffs in denial, but the Hunter and the baker in my hair grin. “And now the ones in my hair are joining in. Which is unfair. They are ganging up on me.” Concentrating just on the little boy in front of me, I murmur conspiratorially, “Do you think that’s just of them?”

Reaching out as though he was about to pet a pit viper, the little boy gently pokes one of Lorcan’s teeth, then jerks his hand back, looking simultaneously proud of himself and sick to his stomach at his bravery. A low murmur of appreciation for his courage runs through the room like fire, and I have to force myself not to smile. He’ll live off this moment for weeks, I imagine.

“No,” he whispers, a sound that is almost no sound at all.

Keeper! Lorcan is indignant, which somehow makes me grin again. This time it is less hesitant, and doesn’t feel like it is ripping away pieces of my soul. The boy’s cheeks bunch into curves when he smiles back at me, and pokes Lorcan again, made bold by my reaction. BoneKeeper! I am a Protector, not a…a cat to be petted.

Are you afraid you will purr, my Protector? There is no response, and I feel a strange pit in my stomach at having misstepped somehow, though I have no idea where. Lorcan? I’m…I…

The boy distracts me by saying very, very quietly, but firmly, directly to my bone necklace, “It’s…it’s not fair. You shouldn’t gang up on her.” Looking up, he meets my white eyes unflinchingly. “I’ll be on your team, BoneKeeper. I’m Marrin.”

“Thank you, Marrin.” I almost choke on the words, my throat suddenly feeling desperately tight. He holds out a violently trembling hand, breathing shallowly, and I press my own against it, palm to palm in the sign of a pact accepted. Marrin stays stockstill, but looks as though he is about to be sent to the Reaping, and I smile softly at him. “I appreciate your courage, and am proud to have such a brave soul on my side.”

The youngster straightens, chest puffing out, shoulders rolled back, and nods seriously, shooting dark looks around the room at the other children, as though daring them to say a thing. The ferocity in his little body makes my eyes well up unexpectedly, a single tear falling down my cheek, and the entire class inhales in complete shock. Even Marrin stops breathing for a long, long moment, before I brush the water from my face, leaving it glistening on my fingertip.

“A gift for you. From my heart in gratitude. My blessings on you, my kind Protector. Of dreams, and pure water, and sweet memories.” And I reach out a hand to lay on his forehead.

“You shouldn’t waste the water on someone like me, BoneKeeper,” he replies, almost fearfully, and I frown. Standing abruptly, I walk back to the front of the room. Hollis is almost as white as my eyes, swaying in place at her desk, looking caught in a nightmare. Turning to face the class, I straighten, donning the persona of the BoneKeeper as one would a masque or cloak.

“Waste? Waste? I would like to make something very clear to you all.” Letting the chill of bone into my words, I can hear the hollow ringing of them in the stone classroom. But they must hear it from the Keeper’s voice, not mine, or they will not believe me. “Are you listening?” They nod in unison, fear heavy on sweet, soft faces still rounded with childhood even in these hungry times, eyes glistening, fighting back tears that they know not to shed. “You are worth every drop of pure water in this world.” It is clearly not what they expected to hear, and the biting fervor in my voice is a marrow vow. “I would wring every ounce of water from my own skin to keep you from going thirsty. Do you understand me? You, each of you, is worth a well, and more. If I cry for you, it is deserved, and I will gift you each tear gladly.”

I want to say more, need to say more, but the bone walls call out to me from the open door, and I tilt my head to listen.

“Ms. Hollis. Children. I apologize. I am needed elsewhere. The Hunters have returned.”

A TINY FRACTURE

WREN

At my words the children burst from their seats, a joyful ruckus of thumping chairs and knocked over books as they rush from the room. A few yell over-the-shoulder good-byes to Hollis, but most, in their haste, simply explode from the room like iced branches in the winter. Hollis shoots a worried look my way, then follows them from the room, shouting instructions. Only Marrin glances longingly at the door before carefully approaching me and pausing in front of me.

“BoneKeeper?” he asks respectfully, waiting for me to turn my head towards him.

“Yes, my little Protector?” I reply, affection clear in my words, and at the sound, he straightens and smiles, pride clear on his thin little face.

“Will you be alright if I go see the Hunters, or do you need me?” Determination is written in every line of his body; he stands in front of me like a soldier awaiting orders. And something very new, and very painful, cracks my heart into pieces, tiny spiderwebs of longing so crippling I can barely breath.

“I–” I have to clear my throat to continue. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Marrin. I will be fine on my own. But thank you for thinking of me.”

He nods seriously. “If you do need me, you can just call for me and I’ll come. I’m in the Third Ring of the village. Marrin, Caris’s son.” Seeing my eyes widen in response, he grins, a lightning bright flash of happiness breaking through clouds. “They let me in the second ring school because I’m smart. Ms. Hollis says I’ll be in the first ring school by next year. I’ll try to make it there sooner. It will help if I’m closer to you.”

The little fractures in my heart turn to canyons at his words, and I can’t speak for a long, long moment. “Won’t your mother mind being so far from you?” I ask gently, not wanting to turn down the gift he is giving me. He stares down at his shoes, drags a scuffed toe through the dirt on the floor.

“She passed in the last Storm season, Keeper. It is only me and my aunt. And she won’t mind me gone. One less mouth to feed.” The steely determination is still there, but now it’s melting into sadness. His voice drops to the hush of early morning, hard truths being faced with bravery beyond his years. “It would be a relief, I think. I am not her child, and these are hungry times.”

Without thinking, I run my hands through my hair, along my braids. I don’t even need to ask — the bones I am looking for loosen before my fingers touch them, and I kneel in the dirt before him. “Well, now Marrin. I have some friends I would like you to meet. They are...very dear to me.” Holding out the bones balanced carefully on my palms, I point to the first grouping. “Before she went to bone, she was a baker in this village.” She murmurs quietly under my fingers, and I smile; Marrin tilts his head, looking at me curiously. “I’m sorry. Of course.” I offer the bones, and explain to Marrin. “She says to let you know she was not a baker, but rather the baker. The best of the lot.” He grins again in response, but still looks perplexed. “She has seven children in the village, has always been a mother. And came to me when I needed her most. She is asking if you would do her the honor of wearing her. If you need me, she will tell the rest of the bones in the village, and I will come to you if I am able.”

His eyes are wide, startled, but he only says, “What…what if you need me, BoneKeeper?”

“Well.” The word is a stone in my throat. “Well. We will figure that out. But for now, will you wear her?”

BoneKeeper….Lorcan is unsettled, but it is too late. I already have a foot off the cliff’s edge and am leaning forward.

“And the others?” He’s less hesitant now, curiosity riding his voice like a mountain hawk.

“This is one of her children. And where she goes, he follows as well.” Marrin smiles with the understanding of youth. Where a mother goes, her children are close behind. Then his eyes darken, face falling as the thought hits too close to home. Trying to distract him, I tilt my head, considering the baker. “Perhaps — let us think. A necklace, Marrin?”

He nods in reply, and I loosen a leather band in my hair, then tie three small distal phalanges and two larger carpals in a pattern, before fastening it around his neck and tucking it beneath his shirt. “Keep that against your skin, please.” I pause, fear sudden and wild in my heart, and my voice drops into warning. “They are not toys or things to brag about. They are a secret between us and us alone. And they are my friends.”

“I wouldn’t, Keeper. I promise.”

“I believe you.”

There is a sound at the door, and in silent accord, we step back from each other just as Hollis re-enters. She tilts her head, watching the scene before her but not understanding what she is seeing. Marrin takes a deep breath, and turns to her with a set expression.

“I didn’t want to leave the Keeper alone. It seemed disrespectful.”

Her face softens, and she smiles. “You are thoughtful as ever.”

He smiles, not a grin, more a tight baring of teeth, and shrugs. “You’re here now, so I guess I can go. If the BoneKeeper doesn’t need me,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. He is such a little adult.

In a moment of rare sisterhood, Hollis shoots me an amused look before shaking her head at the emptiness in my white eyes. Quietly dismissing him, she straightens and presses her hands together, bowing low before me.

“‘I’m so sorry, BoneKeeper. They’re usually better behaved. It’s just…”

“There’s no need for apology, Hollis.” Merriment still shadows my voice, hiding in the corners. “They’re just excited. I imagine many of them have parents who went on the hunt. You have the patience of the Goddess, though. I’m exhausted and it’s only been a few moments.”

Ducking her head, she risks a small smile, thinking I can’t see her response. She pauses, then decides to chance a conversation. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Keeper?”

“Not at all, Hollis.”

“Was the history you were taught so different?” Real curiosity is in her voice, and I recognize the thirst for information. It is a mirror of my own.

I will play pretend for a moment, that I am a girl at the school whispering with a friend. The thought is enticing. Too much so, and it makes me careless. “It was. You did not mention the TriGoddess, or the bone history. And—” this with a wry twist of my lips, despite my best intentions, “the Council played a much larger role in the saving of our people in your tale.”

Keeper! Be cautious! Not all faces are friendly just because they smile. The Hunter in my hair whispers in a rare rebuke, and Lorcan has the feel of frowning down my back, a cold finger tracing my spine. Hollis tilts her head, a considering look on her face.

“Of course,” I add thoughtfully, carefully, “I did not attend school as such. So I am sure you have a more…structured…approach…My education was perhaps a bit haphazard. Not as curated.”

She brightens, nodding. “That makes sense. You would not have had the approved history, maybe.”

Fingering my necklace, I agree in a quiet tone. “Maybe.” Looking around the room, I tilt my head curiously, and a bit of ice seeps back into my voice. “Hollis. Where are the bones?”

She freezes at the question, a deer in a hunter’s sight. “The, uh, bones? Keeper?” Her eyes dart around the room frantically, and I turn the full force of my white gaze on her. She crumbles beneath its weight.

“The Schoolhouse bones. They’ve earned their place within these walls. Where are they? I will not ask again.”

“Councilman Raek…suggested that perhaps…they were distracting to the…learning environment…”

“Did he.” It’s not a question, and she’s shaking at the sound of my vertebracelets clacking on my wrists as my fingers flex.

Temper, temper Little Keeper. Lorcan’s voice has forced cheerfulness in it, as though he’s trying to calm the Everfire that flares to life in my stomach, but he is too late.

“I will visit this room again in two days time,” I say, very, very quietly, all traces of our temporary comradery gone. “I expect the bones to be back in their places within its walls by the time I return.” She is shaking, but not enough. Not enough. And the Everfire inside me explodes into frost. “And I will relay the children the history of our land as told by those bones. The correct history.”

Lorcan and the hunter groan in unison. Little Keeper…Keeper!

“Keeper…” Hollis echoes. She sounds terrified, but on this I will book no argument.

“It’s not a request.” The room is grave silent, except for the click-click-click from my arms, and she nods slowly. “You understand?”

“I…I understand, BoneKeeper. But, the Councilman…”

“That is my business. Yours is here.”

She nods again, and looks sick to her stomach, but I don’t care. To move any, any of the bones in this village without my approval is…it’s unthinkable! Where have I been that such a thing happened? You are always in the Council House or away with the dead, my mind whispers insidiously. You have spent too much time on the wrong side of the veil.

It is where I belong! I argue back with myself. With the living bone. It is more my home than anywhere else.

Is it? Is it? The question rings in my head, unanswered, and a shiver runs down my spine. Is it?

If it isn’t, then there is no place for me anywhere on this earth, now or in the next life. If I am not meant for the dead, and not meant for the living, perhaps…perhaps…

Perhaps I am not meant to be.

At all.

WANING AND WAXING

WREN

By the time I reach the edge of the square, the ten members of the Council who did not join the hunt have emerged from their cocoons, little blood moths with teeth flashing white in the morning sun, their black cloaks wrapped around them. No one is looking for me yet, so I stay where I am, tucked just at the entrance where the last of the white wall remains before the boneless plaza. Pressing myself against the ribs and sternums, I seek comfort from their familiar cold surface. They greet me with affection, a stark contrast to the men on the stage in front of the Council House. There is nothing welcoming about them, despite their plastered smiles. I am sure not a one of them, even the best of the lot, are happy to have the Father and the others back in the village. Everytime the Father leaves the members who remain behind take two steps forward into his power, and only step back once when he returns.

The mood in the square is cautiously optimistic, however, and it is both heartwarming and heart wrenching to see how the Hunters are met with the soft eyes and sweet lips of their wives, the grasping hugs and hands of their children. They’ve been gone for longer than usual this time — just over a full month — were absent for the last of the Dancing and the full scope of the Haymaking, which in any other year would have been unthinkable. It is the only truly joyful time in our village, and is a testament to how desperate our situation must be if the Hunters missed it.

Narrowing my eyes, I realize for the first time how long the Council must have known about our plight without telling us — the last of the Dancing month, and the entirety of the Haymaking Month? Why they would have delayed the information until the start of the Harvest Month, when there is not enough time left, not really, to correct course? Above the mountain rumbles, a hollow, lowing sound, and the bones against my hands keen quietly. The earth and ivory response to my questioning is unnerving, and I am not sure if I should ask more, or less. Neither mountain nor marrow offers any guidance. But..if they knew a month, or even two, in advance, we could have planted more of the quick crops. More root vegetables, or even the tender, fast growing weeds — the purslane, or sorrel, or sunbursts. Granted, they wouldn’t have lasted through the Storms, but they would have given us more time before we had to bite into the winter storage. Why would they have kept such a thing from us? For what purpose? The Month of the Earth is so close now… And the bones moan again.

Oh Keeper, Keeper. The end or the Ender by the twist of the year. You must figure it out before the Month of the Crone. Be watchful, be wary. Be watchful, be wary.

What do you mean? I beg them for an answer, but they have fallen silent, and a sick, shivering sensation settles in my stomach. The bones have never spoken so before, and for the first time in my life, I feel as though they are keeping things from me. I could demand answers from them — perhaps I should — but the price of forcing bone is steep. And permanent. And though I still have time, the Storms are approaching, and the death days are screaming down the mountains like carrion birds, wings spread and beaks gaping. I do not have long. The Crone is coming.

Our calendar follows the waning and waxing of the moon, from full moon to full moon — twelve months to the year, twelve years to the turning. The year opens with the Month of Marrow, a time when we quietly remember those who have passed to exile or the silence. It’s not for those who have been guided home to bone; we do not need to remember them, as they are still with us. Month of the Marrow is for the souls lost to us forever — the Silent who died during a time when no BoneKeeper was there to guide them, and the Exiled, whose own bones were hollowed of marrow and burnt to ash, never to provide respite to their souls. The Exiled souls are locked in foreign bone and awakened, kept from any peace for the rest of time. It is a period of contemplation and darkness; we are unable to leave our homes but for a few, short moments a day, and spend the rest of the month holed up, trying desperately to protect ourselves and loved ones from the Storms.

After Marrow is Month of the Sun God, which marks the first time the sun usually reappears in our sky after three months of almost total darkness and storm. The sun does not stay — it makes short bursts of pale light in a rain drenched sky — but it offers hope to those, who, as every year, doubt the coming of Spring after so much death and darkness.

The third is the Month of the Maiden, when the acidic downpours from the sky finally cease, and we have a month of pale, flowering herbs and nettle blossoms. It is a month of rebirth, but also a month of trial. We have been inside for so long that, as a people, we are weak, and tired, and usually at the end of our supplies. The new herbs lure those who have the most hollow stomachs with the promise of flavorful soup, or sparse salads. Every year we lose someone to the crushing weight of hunger — a villager who barely made it through the storm season and whose mind broke when the first blooms appeared. All children are taught from their milk teeth — the first bloom is deadly; it still holds too much poison from the rains. The water has not had time to filter through the dirt and stone. The first bloom is a beautiful dream turned nightmare. Don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch. Like the Maiden, the first bloom holds the lure of sweetness, the crescent moon, the coming bounty. But also like the Maiden, people forget, in its beauty and promise, lies death.

Next follows the Month of the Mother, when our village’s Midwives are working over hours to bring into this world all of the children conceived during the previous year’s Dancing Month. Full of music and revelry, of open fields and wide spread blankets under star filled skies, the Dancing is an echo of a time before bone walls and Offerings. Even the blood moths are silent in paper-thin cocoons during the Dancing, so few people go inside during the cool, moonlit nights. The result from such feasting are an expanse of full bellies brought to bear all within weeks of each other. And every year, during the Month of the Mother, there is a Birthing Day, where any born on that lucky day, under the right star, will be spared from the Rending and Reaping until after their own first born appears. Those born on the Birthing Day are Sun-kissed, and never chosen by the Sun God for his Offering.

Children’s Month is next, where all of the children born to the village are named and noted in the Council’s tomes. No child is officially named or noted until Children’s Month. While infants born outside of the Month of the Mother may have nicknames or pet names in their families, they are not recognized by the Council until they are recorded.

After Children’s Month is Feasting Month, when the crops begin to bear fruit, and the hunger of the Storm months begins to fade. For the first harvest, early in the feast month, we do not dry or save our food, but are permitted to eat our fill and beyond. It’s a sluggish time, when the air is warm, and the nights are still cool, when people stay up late, past the moonrise, and tell stories of days past around blazing fires. The sun during Feasting Month is always the closest it comes to a before-time color, one that I see in the memories of the bones. Rather than the pale butter yellow it is for the rest of the year, it is something close to the brightness of a new fire. Not vibrant, not blazing, but more than its usual soft-churned color. The blood moths stay in their caves for most of the Feasting Month, laying eggs then dying in a mulch of decaying bodies on the cavern floors, the first food for their ravenous offspring.

Feasting Month leads to Dancing Month, the highlight of the year, a time of merriment and joy. In previous lives, the Traders always arrived in Dancing Month, at the height of our village’s happiness and greatest prosperity. The wagons were heavy, the drinks unending, the songs ceaseless. To have the Traders come during the Dancing was a great blessing, for during the Dancing, as during the Trade, all personal commitments are forgotten for the length of the celebration. It is a time of freedom and forgetting, for shedding the last of the pain and despair from the Storm months, which seem eons away in the echoing laughter of the Dancing Month. Many blankets are shared during the shadows of the Dancing, and people take their pleasures where they may, with no regret or recrimination.

After the Dancing comes the Haymaking Month, the Harvest Month, and the Slaughter Month. With each passing month, as we get closer to the Storms, the golden joy of the Feasting and Dancing months fades steadily, until it is just a candlelight of warmth in our memories. The first rains begin in the Month of the Earth, a cold warning to retreat inside, to bar our doors, to patch our walls and windows, lest the toxic liquid seep in and corrode our skin, stripping it bare, exposing bone to likewise be pockmarked and then washed away. The skies stay grey, no sun lends even cold comfort, but there is still some time outside, hours here or there where the rains stop briefly, just long enough to take care of our livestock, to visit the silos, to get water from the cisterns. You cannot count on those moments though — some years the Storms have descended from the mountains like Gods of old, ravaging our village, knocking down homes and burying people beneath mud and stone. They tear through our streets, wailing like the souls of the Exiled, winds strong enough to flay skin from bone. In those times, people who are ill prepared face the choice of starving to death in hopes of a break in the ceaseless thunder — a long, painful death — or they go willingly into the streets, dragging their emaciated bodies into the path of the Storm, where at least they will go quickly. As Keeper, I cannot save either. Those souls are lost to me and our village forever; if I am not there when they pass, or soon enough after that I can still hear their soulsong, then I cannot guide them home.

The last month of our year is the Month of the Crone — a cold, lonely month where the Storms are at their fiercest, where you cannot leave your home, even a footstep outside, or you will be ripped limb from limb and flung to the four corners of the bone walls. There is no help and no hope in the Month of the Crone. It is the turning of the year, when the days are at their shortest and darkest, the death of what has been and the birth of what is to come, all at once. And we are locked inside for the whole of it, wondering if life still exists somewhere outside of the walls of our homes, wondering if anyone is there, if we have somehow descended into hell without knowing.

The minutes are hours and hours are days in the Month of the Crone, and the only ceasing from the howling winds and relentless downpour is every night, in the midnight hour, when there is a sudden and hollow silence which echoes through the village Streets. Long enough that your pulse becomes a drum beat, that your shallow breaths become shuddering noises, long enough, every single time, that you allow yourself a moment of hope, of maybe. Maybe it has stopped. Maybe we’ve been forgiven. Maybe I can go outside, replenish our stores…maybe, maybe, maybe. But it is never true; inevitably, a slow drip-drip-drip starts, and the winds increase, and we are swallowed again by the Storms.

Every year, during the Crone’s Month, we lose people to the Storm. People who fall prey to the promise of maybe, people who are driven mad by the constant sound, or whose despair is so great that they walk into the streets, seeking relief. Every year there are souls, gone forever, that I cannot save. And every year I relive, over and over again, my worst memory, my living nightmare, from the last Storm season I spent with my mother.

I was nine.

Nine.

Still a child.

Too young to hear flesh melting from bone.

But gifts are a strange thing in our world.

And my gift came too soon.

Help me! Please Keeper, help me! Keeper! The scream is a plume of smoke in my memory, curling around me, ash-thick on my tongue.

Please Keeper!

Please Keeper, the bones around me whisper, vibrating deep in my marrow, eerily overlaying the shrieking in my mind. Come back now. The Council is searching. Curl closer to us. We will shield you.

I jerk my head up and look from my shadow to see Raek and his followers scanning the crowd, and fold my body tighter into the bend in the wall. Raek’s face darkens with each passing second, and Nickolas steps up beside him, hand playing tellingly with the small knife tucked in at his side. It is clear they are looking for someone. Perhaps they catch a glint of my hair on the black stone wall, because Raek’s eyes narrow unerringly in my direction, but before he can move forward, the Father’s thunderstorm voice calls them to attention, and, after an agonizingly long moment, both Raek and Nickolas turn away. The Hunters reluctantly pull away from their families arms and also follow, leaving a field of smiling faces behind them.

There is cheery chatter amongst the women and children left in the courtyard, a joyful cacophony, like spring birds in the fallow fields. But there is an edge to it, a sharpness of lemongrass and rosemary. It is flavored happiness; so much depends on what happened in the hunt. So many lives are poised on the cliff’s edge, waiting to see if they will make it through the Storms. The women in their practiced way are taking comfort where they find it, smiling at the children and caressing their small heads with tender hands, but when they meet each other’s eyes, the edges fray into a frenetic mask. What will happen? They seem to say. And will it be enough?

From my corner, though, I can see the lightness of the bags tied around the men’s shoulders, and know I did not hear the wagon wheels creaking with weight.

So no.

No.

It will not be enough.

And the Storms are coming.

ALL THE WRONG WORDS

RANNOCH

Night rises up like plumes of smoke from the dark valley below. I’ve heard in other places night descends upon you, that light fades in glorious colors and night wraps around you, a heavy blanket, comforting and warm. But here it rises up to swallow you, the frantic swimmer treading, barely keeping your head above the tidal waters, pieces of you being sucked beneath — first your neck, then chin, your head tilted back desperately — until only the barest curve of skin flashes above the surface, and in an instant, you’re pulled under, oxygen lost as the forever black fills your dying lungs. Here, night is a battle, and to make it through til morning is a blessing and a curse. Strange things happen in the shadows of our village; strange and vicious things.

Anyone who has grown up here knows that twilight is a time to disappear. Anyone but the BoneKeeper.

When we arrived home from the hunt, my eyes searched for her immediately, scanning the murmuring crowd over and over. It took what felt like hours to find her, my heart clawing at my throat until I spotted her curled up into the bone wall on the far edge of the square. I only spared half a breath to drink her in before moving past her; it would do no one any good if it was known how carefully I’ve memorized the lines of her face. Nickolas and Raek were beside me, more obvious in their scrutiny, Nickolas running his thumb along the blade of his knife until a thin line of blood appeared on his skin, causing him to curse under his breath. Raek spotted her at the same time I did, but before he could step forward, Silas called us into the Council House to discuss the hunt, and the coming Storms.

For the rest of the day we were locked inside arguing plans, the Councilroom thick with tension and anger, fear and plotting. The divides that were there before the long hunt had become chasms in our absence, and more than once I locked eyes with Silas in concern. The Council had always been subservient to the Father, but when Silas was named as a child to the position over Raek, a full Councilman, the water was poisoned, and it has been a tooth and nail battle since. Even the mountains feel it; no one has ever challenged the strength of the Father before, but we are in unfamiliar times, where every move seems like a dance on a sword’s edge.

Silas called a halt to the “talks” when we started gnawing on bones where the meat had already been stripped, commanding our presence early the following morning. Raek jerked his head subtly toward the door, then left, trailed by his brother and four other Councilors. Silas watched them through narrowed eyes before exhaling sharply and retreating to his chambers. I forced myself to wait an agonizing beat, then another, feigning fatigue by the fire until the chamber had finally emptied, and I could chase the pounding in my veins, the siren’s call luring me outside. If I could just see her for another moment. Just a moment.

And like a dream, as I step outside, she appears. Edging through the shades of light between the ivy and bone, skirting the darkness, keeping one foot in the wavering torchlight that illuminates pale, muddy circles on the ground. My thirsty eyes drink her movements in like pure water. It is not full dark yet, so the setting sun drains a bit of the fire’s brilliance. This is her time, this inbetween — not day, not night, not life, not death, not villager, not Councilmember. Not human, not ghost. Not woman, not Goddess, my mind whispers, and I check myself sharply at the thought. She is human. She is a woman.

The poison Nickolas and Raek have been dripping in Council Meetings is acidic, burning holes in every surface, even my own. She is human, I repeat again, more firmly. Shaking my head, I frown, and the few villagers left in my path scuttle away like field mice.

As a child I was raised on stories of the Council — how they were a beloved institution, a group of grandfathers who cared for their people like they would their own children, who listened to the bones. They revered the Sun God and Earth, and in the quiet spaces of the day, would sneak secret Offerings to the TriGoddess, in the hopes of Vengeance being paid and granted. In reality, the veins of the Council went black years ago, pumping toxic power through its body, infecting the members one by one, until they have become deaf to the needs of our people. And since then, we have been met with fear and reverence, but below the surface other, darker emotions simmer, and they are fools who cannot see it.

My eyes seek her out again. It is as it always is — she is a breath of oxygen in a sulfurous world. I cannot help but look for her, and I watch her, trailing her pale fingers along the wall, a gentle smile on her face as though she is greeting old friends. Perhaps she is. And suddenly, stupidly, the weeks of being gone from her press against me, and I must know, so I follow her, stepping in her shadow until we are far from the quietening central village, too far to be completely safe for her, were she actually alone. At the very edge, nearest the Northern Arch, she stops abruptly, and I can see her sigh, shoulders lifting then falling, before she turns to face me, bones ringing hollow down her back, face studiously calm.

“If you were going to harm me, I feel as though it would have happened already.” Her voice is low, lower than many of the women in the village who pitch their tones high and flirtatious as I walk by, and conversational. She smiles slightly, just a small twist of her lips to indicate amusement. “But since you have not, you must want something else. How can I help, Councilor?” She is all courtesy, a blank canvas of tired anticipation.

“I…I…” I do not stutter. Forgotten Gods. Steadying myself, I adopt my usual manner. “I do not think it safe for you to walk alone, BoneKeeper.” Sun and Earth, the arrogance in my voice. I can see it poke at her, her hackles rising, but she has years of practice dealing with assholes like me. Shoulders slumping now, I shake my head. “I apologize, Keeper. That was…I saw you walking, and just…I decided to follow you.”

She tilts her head, a curious birdlike movement, but there is no change in her expression. “Am I not permitted to be out until full dark?”

She is cautious, words careful, and I’m suddenly so tired it feels like the weight of our mountain is pressing me to earth. “You are, Keeper.” I try to gentle my voice, try and fail by her response, but I do try. I have been wearing a mask for so long it feels welded to my face, and there is something desperate and longing inside me that thinks that maybe, maybe this woman knows what it is like to hide like that. That maybe she would…she would understand me. “It was a passing interest, nothing more. I — I have wondered what it is like to speak to the bones. What they say when they are not…when we are not asking things of them.” It seems as good an explanation as any, though at the moment I could care less about the bones and their desires. Stupid, stupid and borderline sacreligious, but I want to know her. Want to know if there is even a her to learn.

Her head is still tilted, unmoving, a rabbit in a snare, but her white fingers wrap around whiter bone in the wall, searching out something or someone, until she pauses, listening, and then nods. “Councilman. What would you like to know?”

Rannoch, I want to whisper in the shell curve of her ear, breathe warm on her skin. Taste my name on your lips. “What are they saying now?” It’s snapped out, a command, and I want to kick myself. Is it impossible for you not to be a complete ass at all times? I chide myself silently, and fight to find polite words, to show her that I am unlike the others of my rank and station. “Please. I’m sorry, Keeper. I would just like to hear a story.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, and I hide a grin. She is, when not completely and totally frightening with her power, almost…adorable. She is pocket sized in her own way, and I have a sudden image of scooping her up and putting her next to my heart, where I can protect her from the surrounding world. Most of our people are small — years of hard living have not lent us spare energy to grow — men here barely reach 5’10, and only a few seeming giants, myself amongst them, top 6’. The women are smaller still, usually between 5’3 and 5’8, for the tallest. I would say the BoneKeeper is somewhere in the middle of that, though it is difficult to tell. She folds in upon herself so much, unless she is speaking for the bone, she seems wraithlike. There is never enough to eat here, and these past few years even less than normal. For a village with little reserve, we are perilously close to empty, and you can see it in the lines of her wrists, thin beneath the bone cuffs she never removes. Her collarbone stands out in sharp relief beneath her skin and bone collar, and the hollows in her cheeks are shadows even in the shadows.

I frown, looking her over more carefully now. There are bruises on her bare upper arms, dark, purpley prints that look like… “Did someone grab you here?” The words burst out of me, Everfire singeing them, and I reach out in a sudden, sharp movement to touch her arm. She jerks back into the bone wall, and locks eyes with me, unblinking, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow pants.

Visibly forcing herself to calm, she shakes down the edge of her tunic to cover her arm, and backs away from me slowly. “It is nothing, Councilor.”

She doesn't trust me. Why should she? I wouldn’t if I were her; I don’t trust myself most days. “Who is this one?” I ask randomly, trying to change the tone of what is happening here. Nothing is going as planned.

“Which?”

“This one.” I point to a seemingly innocuous bone in a jumble of other bones, and she nods, reaching out as commanded to touch the dull white surface. The curve of her lips in reply could make an empire crumble.

“This one? Are you sure?” she asks me, amusement bubbling in her words, and I have never wanted anything as badly in my life as I do right now, in this moment, just to keep the happiness dancing on her face.

“Yes, yes. This one.” Even to me, the words sound short and domineering, as though she is a peasant to be commanded, but I think, perhaps, she is learning my ways. Or at least giving me some grace, because she shoots me a mischievous smile as I have never seen on her face, as though we are about to share a secret of sorts.

“This one is Hattie.”

I shrug. The name means nothing to me. “And?” Rannoch, Rannoch. You are trying to form a friendship here, not make her hate you.

“Hellfire Hattie, she says. I am sorry.” It is always a curious thing, speaking to her when she speaks for the bones. It is like hearing two voices at once, echoing each other, but with different words. And it is difficult sometimes, because she will speak for the bones and to the bones all at once, creating a tangled web of conversation where only she can hear all sides. “Would you like me to interpret, or do you want to hear her speak?” The question is loaded…it is a test of some sort, and I don’t know how to pass it. Taking a moment, I think. There are two ways our BoneKeeper can speak for the bones. The first is when she simply passes along their words and messages as a third party; at times it can be too distressing for the families left behind to hear their family member’s tones and inflections from another’s mouth. It can feel like a pantomime, I suppose, or a mockery, though none is ever intended. In most situations, this is how the Keeper does Visitations, just sharing their missives and memories. This is the way, until Ceridwen, every Keeper in history spoke for the bones.

The second way I have not seen but once; I do not know if it is more difficult for her, or harder on her. She is the first Keeper I have heard of who can, for lack of a better term, let the bones step through her. And she is the first Keeper who has such scheduled time, who is more commanded by the Council than the bones. They — well, we — twist her time in ways no other Keeper has been forced to adhere to. Prior to her, even her father was allowed quiet time, a community, a family, a home. He lost it, but before…I don’t know what, if anything, living with the bones and no one else day after day does to her. Narrowing my eyes in thought, I make a mental note to do some research. In any case, when doing the second type of reading, her tone will change, a stillness settling on her face, and her words will be directly from the bones. It is not a possession, not exactly — it is just as though she makes room in herself for the bones to speak. They cannot force her to do anything, cannot compel her to let them speak through her. But, if she lets them, they can push through a small part of her, and speak through her for themselves.

“Which…which would she prefer?”

I am rewarded by a blinding smile. She taps the bone lightly, and shakes her head in rueful amusement. “Of course you want to. Alright, Hattie. Alright. Prepare yourself,” she directs to me with a gleeful sort of warning. I could drink her in for eons, this secret, unseen version of her. Taking a deep breath, she quiets, her face going blank, and, “Ooooo…” Her voice is still low, but teasing now, scratchy, and with a low villager accent. “You’re a tall drink of water, aren’t you….My goodness. They don’t make ‘em like you anymore, do they? Yum yum.”

I shift. This is…unexpected. “Ms….Ms. Hattie?” I ask solicitously. I have never had the bones speak directly to me before.

“You can call me Hellfire. OOooo,” she coos again, lust thick in her voice. “I’d make you call me Hellfire if I were still around. I guarantee that. I’d do you a favor or two for free. Don’t you just want to lick him?” she asks, and I see the BoneKeeper flash into herself for a moment.

“Stop it,” the Keeper chides, mirth lacing her words. “You’re incorrigible. I won’t let you through if you keep it up.” And then, like a candle blown out, she disappears again, only to be replaced by the wanton, wanting look of who I assume is Hattie.

“Would you like to hear a story? I don’t charge for the stories. Only what comes after…” Her words are almost a purr, and it creates a churning chaos in my stomach. I suddenly and desperately want to make Ceridwen purr, have her curled up against me, to hear her like this in my arms, in my bed, but…this is not my Keeper. It is her face, and her voice, and for a moment it goes straight through me, an arrow to my core, and then it all just…stops. I stop. Because I can tell the difference. And if it isn’t Ceridwen, I don’t want her. Oh Forgotten Goddess. If it isn’t her, I don’t want anyone. The thought is too much — I cannot look at it right now.

“When I lived in the village, things were different.” A saucy sort of grin flashes like lightning across the Keeper’s face. “Men would call my name as I walked by, would watch my swaying skirt with hungry eyes. I can see the hunger in yours right now, but I know the difference. We still had time for leisure then…the fields still grew enough to round out bellies, even if we weren’t fat, we were full. And full bellies lead men to fill other things..” She cackles and winks at me. “I had a line out my door unless I closed it, and I never closed my door to a wanting stranger. I wouldn’t close my door on you, and we’re practically friends now, aren’t we? But I can tell you aren’t the sort who would cross my threshold, even if I could make you cry with pleasure. You have too many tears in you already for poor old Hattie to take from you.” Shifting uncomfortably, I look away from Ceridwen’s face for a moment, and Hattie cackles again, a smoke filled sound, rough and coughing. “We still had nighttime, and there were a few of us ladies who ruled it. But I was the ruler of rulers. The first amongst equals.” I freeze. They still had nighttime? How old is this bone? How old is this story? She continues. “Oh, you think it was a long time ago, I can tell. ‘Hattie, are you ancient? These bones could still make you dance if I were alive.” The Keeper rolls her eyes, the expression so clearly her and not Hattie that I grin. “How long do you think the night’s been a danger, boy?”

“Three generations? Maybe longer?”

Hattie hoots with laughter. “Maybe longer? Maybe longer? Know your history. Gods above and below, you’ve barely grown into your first beard. What are they even teaching you in school these days?” She hoots again, an odd, almost honking sound, and an embarrassed flush reddens Ceridwen’s face.

“They’re teaching me nothing,” I reply, laughter edging my voice despite my best efforts. “I’m a Council Member. Out of my milk teeth, despite what you seem to think.”

For some reason, all amusement falls from Hattie’s voice, like stone from the mountain, the practiced teasing disappearing. “You’re a Council Member? Surely not.” I can almost see the silent communication between the Keeper and Hattie, and then, “We’re done here. Learn your history, Councilman.” Hattie’s voice is cold now, and then, with a shiver, the Keeper comes back to herself.

She frowns, touching the bone, then shakes her head and whispers, “Yes, of course. When I’m able.” Turning back to me, frown still light on her face, she shrugs. “That didn’t go quite as expected.”

“How did you expect it to go?” I ask, confused by the rapid change in her.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Not like that. I’ve never heard Hattie be so serious.”

“I’ve never heard someone be so…ah…lascivious.” I clear my throat, and look anywhere but at her face. Still, her answering laugh draws my gaze, despite my best judgment.

“Come now, Councilor. We both know that’s not true. I’ve heard from the bones of the way women cut their eyes at you when you walk through the village.”

She’s grinning, relaxed like I’ve never seen her, and I say without thinking, “This is a version of the BoneKeeper that I am unfamiliar with…”

I don’t mean anything by the words, but she hears some sort of warning in them, folding in upon herself, schooling her face to an emptiness that leaves no trace of her in its curves and lines. “My apologies, Councilman. Sometimes when I let someone speak through me, their nature remains for a heartbeat or two. I am returned to myself.”

“No, I…it wasn’t…Ceridwen…” I risk her name, but her eyes are locked on the curve of wall behind me, wide and unseeing, and the few seconds of Hattie’s laughter has faded.

“That is not a name I enjoy, Councilor, and that I did not give you leave to use.” Her voice is storm cold. “The night is rising–”

“What history do I need to learn?” I ask, talking over her. I don’t like the change in her, and it makes me short. “I know the history of our village.”

“You know a history of our village,” she replies sharply, then steadies her tone, and looks around. “It’s too close to full dark, Councilman. It’s time for me to get home.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“I don’t think it necessary,” she hedges, but I shake my head.

“It wasn’t a request, BoneKeeper.” I say firmly, and she sighs.

“It never is.” There is a hint of sadness in the steel that is undeniable.

I want to argue, to tell her it is to keep her safe from whatever hands bruised her, from the creeping terrors of the night, from whatever would harm her. I want to take her hand in mine and lead her down the dirt path to her home, to follow her in and sit by her fire, and feel some measure of peace beside her. But I am not made for peace, or soft words, or gentle things. And all I would bring to her world would be more darkness, more trouble, more sorrow. So it is best I leave her with her anger, and not take it from her, when she so clearly needs it to survive. But as we walk in silence, only the sound of the wind and the encroaching night breaking the silence of the village, I sing her a song in my heart, making empty promises I would give anything to keep.

IN THE AFTERMATH

WREN

By the time I’m back in my little home, my anger has faded and I’m left mostly with confusion at Councilman Rannoch’s attention. I can’t deny a small amount of amusement pushes through, unwisely tilting up the edges of my lips into an almost smile when I think about his face when Hattie spoke to him. But the confusion rushes back when I remember her sudden shift, and her odd request to come back and speak with her alone. Bones don’t often make requests for themselves — not like that anyway. They will say they miss their families, or whisper of desires from lost lives, but to ask such a direct thing? The only ones who ever do so are imprinted on my skin.

Speaking of which, I frown, a shadow of a thought suddenly becoming tangible. Reaching up, I gently run my fingers through my hair, rousing the Hunter’s bones, and then reach around my neck and pull Lorcan forward, over my shoulders.

“You two are awfully quiet tonight. I thought you’d have more to say about me fraternizing with a Councilmember.” I’m teasing, but also, even though Lorcan and the Hunter tend to be quiet, for them not to say anything at all is unusual.

The silence is alarming, and I call to them both a little more strongly. Lorcan rouses first.

Little Keeper?

He’s on alert, but sluggishly so, sounding more like the skeletons in the walls of our city than my Protector, and my brows knit together in concern.

“Are you alright, Protector?” I ask cautiously, but don’t get an immediate answer. The Hunter speaks next, seemingly confused, but then focuses in.

Ah. It’s past the first of the month, BoneKeeper. We did not think to…You have been preoccupied.

His voice, even in bone, even faded, is apologetic, and I want to slap myself. Of course! How did I forget such a thing! They haven’t had to remind me in years at this point. I am not myself lately, feeling pins and needles along my skin. I’m too much in the waking world and getting distracted from my purpose, wasting time on long lost dreams of friendship and fireplaces.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” I whisper frantically, checking the lock on my door before shedding my bone armor, my heavy dress and cloak, and my undershift. Fumbling in the dark room, I light a single candle, just enough to see by, and grab the Guiding Knife from my kit — no other knife will do for some reason, and I have tried many. Many. I don’t like the feel of the jagged, sharpened bone against my skin, and the way the first line of blood is absorbed almost greedily by the Silent blade. It makes me uneasy every time, and even now, after so many years, I have to quell the shiver that runs through me.

Lorcan, as always, notices, despite my best efforts. When he speaks, his voice is stronger, more purposeful.

We are fine, BoneKeeper. Wait a few more days. We’re fine.

There is a pregnant pause before the Hunter, regret clear, contradicts him.

We are not, Keeper. I’m sorry. To have left you alone with a Councilmember…I am sorry, but we are fading.

“Of course. Of course,” I whisper back. The darkness of my room is not a place for human voices; it is for bone only — even my words feel out of place in the thick air. The bones can hear me if I address them directly, even if I don’t speak, but it is more draining. “A moment, Hunter. Lorcan. Jeweler? Are you there?”

Lorcon sighs, a funny sort of sound that usually makes me smile. Bones do not often get frustrated, but it is Lorcan’s main emotion toward me. You know he won’t take your offer, Little Keeper he says, and I shrug.

“You know I won’t stop offering,” I reply snarkily, voice shaking only slightly as I lower the knife toward my parchment pale skin. I hate this part, I hate this part, I think on repeat, but out loud only say, “Next time please remind me before it gets this far. I can’t believe I–”

Enough. Lorcan is firm, and I stop speaking.

My Guiding Knife shimmers in the candlelight, catching the pale glow on its paler surface. I have to move the candle closer to make sure I’m not cutting over well-used territory, and as soon as it’s within a warmth’s distance from my skin, it dances along row after row of hair-thin lines running from my knee to hip. The scars vary in age, but each is a pale, straight echo of the one before it, shimmering white, precise, and etched in excruciating detail. Smaller cuts run in delicate designs between each longer line, connecting them, little raised lace patterns on my skin. Once I realized how often I would have to do this, between my sacrifices to keep the children from the Offerings, and the monthly ritual with my personal bones, I decided to make the necessary pain into pointless prettiness. Of a sort.

“Alright,” I say, voice overly loud now, faux cheer grating my ears. “Who’s first tonight? I miss the Baker,” I add as an afterthought. “I didn’t think that through.”

You never think anything through Lorcan says teasingly. I can tell the effort he’s putting in to making this easier for me, and the Hunter echos him moments later.

That’s unfair. She thinks. She just ignores her own advice.

“Hmph.” It is normal for Lorcan to try and distract me, but it says something about how uneasy I must have made them that the Hunter, usually silent, joins in. Taking the very point of the knife, starting just above my knee, I sink the tip into my unresisting skin, studiously ignoring the strange shiver that goes through the knife. It pulls at my stomach, and I shake my head at my foolishness. I know the Guiding Knife is Silent bone. Frowning, I push the knife in deeper, until a thick crimson rises to the surface, and then slice in one straight, continuous movement almost to my hip.

The blood is vivid in our muted world, always shocking in its intensity. Its color never ceases to silence me; every Rending or Reaping, as many as I’ve ever been to, I still have to force myself to speak, force myself to turn my eyes from the pools of fire red around the Offering.

Keeper? The Hunter’s voice is hesitant, and I come back to myself.

“You’re first, I suppose, since neither would claim it.” Loosening his bones from my hair, I coat my hands in my blood, and roll him around my palms until he’s completely covered. The blood slowly dissipates, so I do it again, and again, and again, until finally when I paint him in garnet it simply sits on the surface of his teeth and fingers, and is not absorbed. I wait a beat, two beats, and when the glistening ruby does not change, I take the bones and rinse them in my small cistern, then weave him back in my hair.

“Better?” I ask.

Much, he confirms, voice almost audible it is so strong.

Be on watch, then, Lorcan commands weakly as I remove him from my neck, the only time I ever have him off my skin. Laying him down on my thigh, straight along the length of my opened skin, I wait. I used to try to coat Lorcan’s bones in my hands, as I did with the Baker before she left, and the Hunter. But Lorcan’s necklace was too long. It would tangle, and nothing would ever be coated evenly. Eventually I came up with a solution, though it makes him soul sick every time to see me cut into myself for him. The Hunter is much more pragmatic; he is sorry for the necessity, but accepting of it. Lorcan — Lorcan is a hollow, stomach churning apology every time I paint him.

The flame is guttering by the time his bones stay carmine, and I have to fight to not sway in my seat. It’s the first time I’ve ever had to go deeper along the same incision before there was enough blood; anytime before tonight, the first slice was enough. But maybe I let it go too long; it has been a full four, and almost into five days since the first day of the Harvest. Foolish, Wren, foolish I chide myself, trying to distract myself from the burning on my thigh.

Lorcan’s voice, when he speaks, is a world of misery, though he tries his best to hide it. It’s always difficult the first day or two after I anoint them; their emotions are much nearer to the surface, to the living, and I can’t imagine how it feels. I pull them closer to the edge of the veil than they’re meant to be, so close that they must feel almost back in flesh, and it’s a pain I can’t understand.

I’m sorry, Little Keeper.

“Hush, Protector. You do it for my own good. I don’t give you a choice, anyway, old man.” The joke falls a bit flat, and there is silence, each of us lost in our own guilt and grief, until I sigh, wrap my wound, and pull on my night clothes, draping Lorcan back around my neck without rinsing him off.

He surprises me when he finally speaks.

How old do you think I am, Little Keeper?

Lorcan sounds unusually frustrated. Wondering if the night has been too much for him, and knowing how much he hates his anointing, I resist teasing him, and really try to think.

I…I don’t actually know. I’m…I’m sorry, Lorcan. I should know.

Wracking my brain, I try and cast my mind back to that time, when I was kept on a leash like livestock, when I woke and slept by Silent bones, and it makes me sick in my soul to rest on any piece of it.

No. I’m sorry, Little Keeper. I forget you were a child. I’ve known you too long at this point to remember just that piece of you. But I’m not a greybeard, however much you may cast me as one. He’s purposefully light, trying to pull me from my darkest places, and for him, I make an effort.

“I was twelve, and you were…you were eighteen? Only? Can that be right?” Speaking out loud helps push the memories away, though I sometimes feel half-mad being the only voice in an empty room.

Correct. So you are 23 now, which means, well. I don’t know what I am, but I would have been only 29. Though you insist upon treating me as though my bones are about to fall to dust.

“It’s not my fault you act like an Old One,” I joke back, and the feeling of him rolling his eyes washes over me.

Children, children, the Hunter chides, and Lorcan almost laughs.

Now he is old, my Protector says.

I am indeed. Fifty and some years more, though it’s none of your business, Protector. And old bones need rest. So hush yourselves. Tomorrow is bound to be…unpleasant.

Curling up, I blow out the candle, trying to ignore the howling wind outside my shuttered window, and the strange scratching sound the branches of a nearby tree seem to make only at night. It sends freezing shards of fear into my heart, sharp spikes of cold panic, but anytime I’ve been brave enough to check, there has been nothing outside my window but night and all its terrors.

The scratching grows louder and louder in the wind, until finally I put my hands over my ears, almost moaning in panic. Something is happening to me, and it’s scaring me. This…feeling of living….it’s too much. I can’t find the emptiness that usually fills me, gleaming white, with no shades of color. The scratching comes again, and I have to bury my face in the thin pillow not to scream.

Little Keeper. You are safe. I am here, Lorcan whispers, and I fight against the tears clogging my throat.

I’m not usually afraid of the night; this is a grave secret I would never tell another. In our village, everyone is afraid of the night. But darkness is just a masque of death, and even the blood moths aren’t what prevent me from leaving my home and wandering the empty streets. There are things more dangerous with razor teeth and hidden talons than the creatures of the Everfire. Things that live inside our bone walls.

“Tell me a story,” I whisper through a choked throat, surprising my bone Protector.

Keeper? He asks, caught off guard.

“Please, Lorcan. Just…just until I fall asleep. I’m going mad tonight. Please.” I rarely ask favors, and never beg, and I can tell how worried he is, how unsure, but the TriGoddess bless him, because, after a long pause, he does not hesitate again.

Once upon a time, there was a girl made of starlight and sorrow, and all the hills and valleys of the world were held in her imperfect hands…

I drift off to peace, guided by his low, hollow voice.

A CHANGING TIDE

WREN

Last night lingers with me into this morning, the strange emotions clothing I did not choose to wear, and they sit uneasily on me. I have not fallen asleep to Lorcan’s stories since he first decorated my back, when I was still so new to loneliness that his teeth along my spine were the only thing that kept me from madness. There are words and worlds that he built for me in my youth that are still more real to me than almost anything else in this village.

But as I grew, first my windows opened, and then my door, and one day, when the promise of spring was thick in the air, and the first poisoned bloom was a blanket of pale color on the ground, a small bundle of flowers appeared on the handle of my shutters, surprisingly bright on the dark wood. It was tied carefully with a woolen string, and two apple buns, still warm from a baker's oven, were wrapped in a small cloth. I’d never received a gift like it before. Nor since, really. I remember reaching out cautiously to take them, as though they would bite, my hands, so confident with the dead, surprisingly unsure of these living things.

It was only the thought that flowers, once cut, are a breath from the grave, that gave me the courage to take them, and the bread. Bread was safe, made of living things now dead, a perfect food for me. As soon as I had them in hand, in the near distance, under an overhang, I heard a song begin, just the gentle notes on a lute, the plucked strings echoing off dawn-silent streets. It pulled me out my door, across the dusty road, around corners, always just ahead of me, elusive and haunting. I shouldn’t have gone; it was unheard of foolishness to follow a shadow’s song. But I was 13 and scared, broken from my time alone with the bones. I did not know how to speak anymore, except for with the words of the Dead, and I kept one hand on the exposed walls at all times whenever I left the safety of my home.

It had taken everything within me to stand up to the force of the Council, and it left me with nothing but puppet strength, used completely to hold my own in a company of carrion eaters. Lorcan and the Hunter, the Baker, her son, and the Jeweler would provide me guidance and support, but things had been shattered within me that bones could not fix. When I did readings for people, I had no understanding of how to interact with them but for the bone memory. I wasn’t quite a child, not quite an adult, and was out of step with everyone else in the village. People were not unkind; we were just separate, with a mountain and a valley between us.

The loneliness was crippling for a young girl, and I had taken to spending more and more time with no one but the dead for company. It seemed almost enough most days, their memories becoming brighter and brighter until they eclipsed the colors of the living world. Until that morning, and the words of a song calling to me, played for only me.

When I drifted through the ivy overhanging the Children’s Garden, there, resting against the curved wall, was a smiling young man — fifteen or sixteen at the time. I knew him by sight, though not by name. Even then, it was difficult to miss Tahrik. Every line of him was a story of our people in a way I never could be. His sharp jaw and heavy brow, his dark eyes and darker hair. If I was a painting, I would be a vague outline on a blank canvas. Tahrik would be all the shades of the land around us, the colors of fresh baked bread, and the stone mountain, of the pathways leading to the farmers’ fields, the dusky roses of the first bloom, born of poisoned rain. He was everything I wasn’t — music, and breath, and joy, and peace — and had a place within the walls, friends who called for him, family that looked for him, people who loved him. He was all possibility in an impossible place, and for some unknown reason, he saw me.

He waited for me to move, watching through laughing eyes, and, when I had finally picked a small, hidden section of wall to lean into, casually walked over, settling on the dusty ground near me, as though it were a thing people did every day. I drew back into myself, and he saw it, giving me space, closing his eyes, never stopping the tune. Just softly, and then, opening his eyes, he tilted his head, which tilted my world in the same motion, and he began singing.

I felt, in that moment, like I was born a new person, someone different than the bone girl. He was singing directly to me, as though it were a tune just for the two of us, and his voice was the sound of color from a time before this black and white world.

“Quietly, quietly, walk in the shadow

Quietly, quietly, through the dark door

Quietly, quietly, young starlit maiden

And there will be peace for you

Water and shore.

Quietly, quietly, shimmer like stardust

Quietly, quietly, hope on the wind

Quietly, quietly, tell me your secrets

And I’ll keep them safe for you

Shall we begin….”

He let the music fade, turning to me with a shining smile, eyes fixed on my own, and he whispered, “Well, BoneKeeper? Shall we begin?”

And we had. Carefully. Slowly. Stolen moments, sometimes days, usually weeks apart. Barely anything, just sips of time, never enough water for a parched throat. But I knew I had someone outside my cage who looked for me. Who watched for me. And that feeling, of having someone want to know where you are, that your footsteps mean something to their day — it is a powerful balm to a broken heart.

We have to be careful in our friendship — the Council are a jealous sort, and, though every Keeper before me has been permitted a wife and children, every Keeper before me has also been a man. Something shifted in them when I was born, when I came from my mother with white hair and milk skin, and things that were allowed in the time before my first cry have been carefully put on high shelves, out of my reach. When you are older, they would say, offering false comfort. When you have time. When you are not sick so often. When you are stronger. When rains fall from the heavens without searing skin to bone. When the TriGoddess returns in human form to right the world.

The last two, of course, are never said. Just implied. When man can grow feathers and fly. When the Sun God is swallowed by the sea. My freedom is a Dream in the Nowhere.

But sometimes, on mornings like this, when the Council is huddled up in their den, and they do not place demands on my time, calling me from my regular duties to serve them at their pleasure, I have a breath of clear air. And in that breath, I always look for Tahrik.

I don’t have long — when not with the Council, I should be reading for the people of the village, but they have been unusually quiet lately with their requests. The whole of the Hunt, longer than a month, the Council kept me in their chambers daily, and it feels a storm’s age since I spoke to anyone for bone. Still, I can’t help but lean my head against the wall and send a longing look down the main street; Tahrik is the son of a miller, and should be here soon to trade grain and flour. By the sun, if he is not late, then I may have missed him already.

I could ask the bones under my fingers, but Tahrik is a small piece of normalcy to me, a place where he is a boy, and I am a girl, and there are no bones whispering between us. It is a nice feeling, this waiting, this nervous anticipation. It is…human. So I wait, and watch the movements of a waking village, drink in the sounds of the people around me.

A woman catches my eye; she is laughing with a pink cheeked child, and the sound is like fresh water. The mother pauses by a shop, then, with caution to the youngster, enters. Her daughter remains outside, drawing patterns in the dust, until she is distracted by the noise of a small clutch of chickens on the far side of the street. In a strange twist, our village, where all must pay their due, values children to such a degree that none would dare harm a young one. Outside of the Reaping or Rendering, children are protected by the entire village. As such, most children are permitted quite a bit of freedom, and the little girl wanders from the door to chase one scrawny chicken down the dirt road. She is not paying attention to anything, though, and my eyes narrow in concern as she veers off course, heading towards a small paddock where the Hunters’ ponies are kept during the outside months. The bony bird flaps through their hooves, startling the shaggy creatures, but the child only has eyes for the chicken until it is almost too late.

Keeper! Keeper! The bones at the gate of the paddock are screaming a warning.

I am moving before I can think, running through the street and knocking people out of the way, who stare after me in amazement. The girl’s crying now, backed up against the edge of the paddock, paralyzed with fear as the ponies rear in front of her. She is inches from an ironed hoof when I am able to grab her and pull her to safety. Wrapping my arms around her, I rock back and forth, crooning a song I remember from my own childhood, a song about the sun and moon falling in love, and sharing the sky. She is still tear stained and hiccuping softly, nuzzled in with a curved cheek and soft skin against my chest, when her mother rushes up, frantic.

“Oh Gods above and below. I’m sorry, BoneKeeper!” She bows low before me, panicked and penitent, before carefully reaching out her hands to take her child. I cannot help myself — I tighten my grip slightly, stealing what little comfort I get from this rare human contact, and the child reaches up with a pudgy hand to pat my cheek. The woman makes a distressed sound, and apologizes again. “I…it was only a moment…she was gone before I…I just heard the yelling…I’m tremendously sorry, Keeper.” She is scared. “We mean no disrespect.”

Disrespect? When has a BoneKeeper ever been worried of respect in any way, other than for the bones? I tilt my head, surprised at her words, and the girl clambers from my lap as my grip loosens.

“No offense taken, of course. I was happy to help.”

“How did you know?” she asked, the words bursting from her mouth before she could stop them. Eyes wide with fear, she slaps a hand over her lips as though to forcibly stop any further questions.

I smile gently in her direction, and reach out a hand to touch the bone door in the stone paddock walls. “She crawled under the door. The bones called to me.”

Reaching out a tentative hand, she runs it along the door as well. “Can I…should I say ‘thank you’?” she asks, and I shrug.

“It’s appreciated, but not necessary.” Smiling, I take her hand in my own, and press it to the bone. “They were happy to help. And they like being visited.”

“They?” she replies hesitantly, and I nod, a little grin on my face. Reaching out my hands toward the girl, I offer, “Would you like to hear a story?” The girl nods, and climbs back into my arms with all the confidence of childhood. Her mother wavers unsure, but a story from the BoneKeeper is a gift she is not willing to turn down. Making her mind up, she settles herself in the dirt before me like a schoolchild, spreading her skirt around her and leaning forward in curiosity.

There is a murmur of sound from the road, and several other people who had been watching the events unfold come over, hovering on the edges of my vision, trying to overhear the story without drawing attention to themselves. It is not often I speak for the bones without request, and even more rarely in a group setting, unless it is for the Council. Come to think of it, I cannot remember the last time I told a story for the bones — when I was younger I would do it almost weekly, sharing their memories, tying the villagers to their history. But then the Council suggested I could better spend my time elsewhere, and scheduled the visits, rather than letting me drift through the village on my own. At the time I didn’t care; it seemed a simpler way than just wandering, and was angry at the people’s eagerness to see me only for bone. No one would ever call my name or ask after me as a child; they would only bow respectfully to a BoneKeeper and be grateful for me as a vessel, not as a person. So I didn’t look too deeply at the Council’s reasons, and, suddenly flushed with shame, realize I didn’t look too deeply at the results either.

I frown. There are some fifteen thousand people in our village and its outskirts. Each area and age is assigned a day — children from anywhere in our cities’ boundaries are Sun Day, the lower villagers Moon Day, then the First Ring on Sea Day, the Second Ring on Winds Day, those in the main walls on Earth Day, and the Council only on Fire Day. An entire day, just for twelve people. The final day, the week’s end and its beginning, is Soul Day, when I used to visit the Elders’ Houses. I haven’t been in too long, however; the Council temporarily shut down my visits when a sickness went through the halls there, most of our old ones too weak to spend energy speaking with bones. A month faded to two months, perhaps longer, and I feel a pit in my stomach.

Time doesn’t mean much to me; it is a kind of blindness I have. Days pass quickly by myself, lost in bone stories; often when I am left to drift away from the living world, only Lorcan or the Hunter call me back to myself. It is not that I can’t return, more that I don’t want to. So when my Soul Days became open, and I was left to go to the quietest corners of the village and drown myself in memories of scents I have never known, colors I have never seen, food I have never tasted, I did not mind. When I have spare time, I spend it with the bones anyway.

But before this structuring, people would wander to me at any time, and sit at my feet as I leaned against a white wall, and I would regale them with stories from the past, of our village and its history. The stories were for all, not carefully parceled out in private moments. And they connected the people of the village, rather than divided them further. How did this happen? How did I let this happen?

The girl pats my face, noticing my distraction, and her mother hushes her. “If it’s too much trouble, Keeper…if you’re too tired….” but I shake my head and smile back.

“No. I was drifting. And they wish to speak. They’re arguing so loudly at the moment I’m surprised you cannot hear them.” I make a face, feigning exasperation, and she laughs, though more in relief than anything else I think. Pitching my voice louder so all around me can hear, I pat the door to the paddock with my free hand, the other still snuggled tightly around the child, who looks up at me with jewel-bright eyes. “This door is made of Old Antony and Old Peter.” I point to a line down the center, where two sets of bones meet and overlap. “Here is Peter, here is Antony. Peter was from…hmmm…does anyone know an area that used to be called ‘Swansdown Street?”

There is a soft rumble in the still growing crowd around me, people growing more brave and moving closer. “I do, Keeper.” A tremulous voice, shaking with age, calls from the back of the group. “It’s Swainslane now, but when I was a child, my great-grandfather told me that it used to be Swansdown, named for a white bird, white as bone, with a long neck and a black face.” There is a murmur in the audience as an old, old man hobbles his way through to the front. His great-grandfather must have been well into his sunset years even at that point.

I nod. “Thank you, Old One.” The title is an honorific not often used anymore in our village, but an honorific none-the-less. Old One, to recognize the gift of your age and wisdom. Ancient One, though I have never met one so old, to recognize and honor your life. “Will you sit, Old One? Perhaps to help me interpret the story? A chair?” There is a collective gasp from the crowd at my words, and I look toward them to see surprise and worry warring on their faces. Frowning, I deepen my voice when I do not hear a response. “A chair?” I repeat, and there is a burst of movement.

“Here, BoneKeeper.” Tahrik emerges smiling, drags over a cut stump, and places it near the gentleman. “Here you are, ah, Old One.” Thinking quickly, he takes off his padded coat and places it over the wood to help cushion it, then helps the man sit. He risks a quick look my way, then shrugs off his undercoat as well and spreads it on the ground. “BoneKeeper. A place for you and your young charge. A summer flower like this one should have a softer spot than dirt to sit.” Winking at the little girl, he unleashes the full force of his smile upon her, and I watch her light up, echoed by her mother beside her.

We shift, and I murmur quiet thanks. He glances at me again through heavy lashes, and offers a sweet smile in return, and steps back, disappearing into the crowd of villagers. Beside me, the elderly man adjusts with a muffled groan, then turns to me, a rueful note in his voice. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, BoneKeeper, but I’m honored to be asked.”

“I am honored by your assistance,” I reply, bowing my head, and again, there is a small intake of breath around me. What is happening here? But I do not have long to wonder, for the chattering of the bones drowns out almost all other sound.

“Alright, alright,” I say, tapping the bones, forcing myself to smile to relax the nervous energy in the crowd. It is awkward and uncomfortable, but seems to help the people near me settle. “Peter was from Swansdown Street, now called Swainslane, and Antony from Rye Court.”

“I’m from Rye Court!” a surprised voice shouts from the crowd before he is shushed, and I grin. This is a perfect story for an autumn day, where the air is clean and crisp and the Storms are at bay.

“Antony grew up just a short walk from Peter…hmmm. Stop talking over one another,” I chide the bones, shaking my head. “A hundred twenty years or more and you’re still squabbling like children.” There is a spattering of answering laughter from the crowd. “Antony and Peter were best friends. And Antony loved Maryrose, a girl in the village. Some of you may have known of her family. She had seven children, each of whom had seven children.” People in the crowd nod in response, though no one speaks. “But everyone loved Maryrose. She was as clear water to most of the boys in her dancing years.” People are sitting closer now, no longer hanging at the edges. “Antony was mute.” A surprised flutter of sound from the audience. “And Peter had a tongue of gold, but he and Antony had a special language with their hands that they had created. I think…maybe many of their friends knew it as well? It’s hard, this story. Peter is clear, but Anthony’s voice is different. Hmm.” Tilting my head, I’m distracted for a moment by the way Anthony sounds. “Yes. Everyone knew…oh! They created the language, then…Anthony’s mother was a teacher in the Second Ring, and they learned it in school. So all the children of the village knew it.”

There is a scuffle in the quiet group, grasping hands, and then a boy, perhaps nine or ten, stumbles forward, and taps his mouth frantically. Behind him his father rushes up to catch him, eyes darting anxiously between his son and me. “My apologies, BoneKeeper. I’m sorry. I tried to keep him back.” He’s almost frightened, his voice shaking, but the boy less so, reaching forward to take my hand. He guides my fingers to his mouth and taps them lightly against it. His father’s words tumble over themselves in explanation, while trying to pull the child away from me. “I’m sorry. Caleb is also mute, but has no way to speak to us.”

I frown, and touch Antony’s bones. Sometimes when I touch them, if they are very old, it is easier to hear. I listen carefully, then make a motion with my hand. “Caleb, this is ‘hello’. It’s not perfect — it’s hard to interpret that sort of movement, but can you do this?” The little boy nods seriously, and mimics my movement. An idea strikes me. “Can you do this movement?” I whisper to him, and he mimics me again. I speak softly in his ear, so only he can hear me, and he turns with a luminous smile to his father, and makes the movement for a third time.

“What is he doing?” his father asks me, bewilderment and a cautious hope warring in his voice. “What does that mean?”

“It means, ‘hello, papa’.”

The man’s face crumples, tears filling his eyes, and he drops to his knees to hug the boy. The boy hugs him back, then taps me, his heart, and the bone in quick succession. I nod in understanding, ask the bone, and show the movement. Caleb takes his father’s face in one hand and signs directly in front of with the other. His father looks to me, and I whisper, “It means, ‘I love you’.” At that, the man becomes completely undone, holding his son and rocking him back and forth, before turning to me with tears thick in his voice.

“Can you teach him and me, Keeper? Even if it takes all of our bone time, could you teach us? So he can speak to us?”

I open my mouth to agree, when, surprisingly, the Old One on the stump speaks up in his reedy voice. “You don’t need the BoneKeeper for that, son. My hands won’t form the words perfectly, but everyone my age knew how to sign. Sure, don’t we have three or four in the Elder homes that are mute? I can teach you, if you’d like.”

There is a heavy silence. How could in two or three generations things like this be forgotten as if they never existed? But when your life is hardship, and there is no time for leisure, your world becomes small, it narrows to the daily activities that move you from moment to moment. The Council makes choices about what is taught in schools, what is important to our people, of our culture and practices. And it strikes me how they have been slowly, without provocation, changing certain linchpins of what makes us who we are as a society. A cold fear enters my heart as I realize that I am surrounded by bones, who only remember, and people, who are being encouraged to forget.

“We, we would be honored if you have that time to spare, Old One.” The man stutters his reply, and the elder laughs.

“Spare time? All I have is spare time. What good are these otherwise?” He lifts his shaking, age spotted hands before him, staring at them as though he’d never seen them. “In my youth, I could mine to the Everfire with these hands. Age sneaks up on you, like the coming Storms. One day you wake up and you don’t recognize who you’ve become, don’t know how you got there….” He stares into the distance, then comes back to himself, addressing the father in front of him. “You come to me in the Elders’ home, and I’ll teach you everything I remember.” Reaching out, he ruffles the child’s hair affectionately. “It will be nice to be around youngsters again.”

Again? Do the children no longer visit the Elders’ Home at the end of week? My brow creases. I have been kept from the people of this village for too long. Come to think of it, I rarely see any of the Elders for their time with the bones. I do not recognize the old man before me, and address him.

“When did I last speak for you, Old One?” I ask solicitously, and he looks at me through knowing eyes, choosing his words carefully.

“Why, BoneKeeper. We know your Decree of the Ages. And we understand of course. You are pressed for time and exhausted. All those in the Elders’ Homes understand.”

“What decree?” I whisper, pressing my hand to my mouth in dawning horror.

“Why, that you can’t speak for the bones anymore for those in the twilight years, or those in the milk teeth years.” He smiles gently, his words carrying a purposeful weight. “We’d never hold you responsible. When the Council came to tell those in the Elder House, we obviously heard their reasoning and would not go against it.”

My heart skips, stutters, and beats again, a cold anger fueling it with chaotic purpose. “Did they,” I reply, a statement more than a question, and everyone in the crowd is silent now. “Have there been any other decrees from The BoneKeeper?” I ask, my voice snapping like fire, and here and there hands lift tentatively in the crowd.

“You forfeit time with the bones if you have not harvested the required allotment.”

“Only one family member may visit the bones per moon cycle.”

“The oldest bones are fading and must be conserved, so visits must be limited.”

“Do not speak to the Keeper outside of the bones, as she is a sacred vessel of the Gods.”

“Do not approach the Keeper outside of the bones, as it will weaken her focus and purpose…”

As more and more voices speak up, the fire within me grows to a full blown inferno, sparking on my skin with storm bright electricity. And as my fury builds, so too builds the fury in the bones around me, the rage looping from them to me and back again in a tornado of emotion, news of the Council’s decrees running along the bone walls of the village. I put the child from my lap gently to the ground and stand, trembling. As I stand, the wind around us rises, nothing unusual for this time of year, but it picks up my hair and whips it around my head like a storm cloud, and the people draw back in fear. I imagine what I must look like to them — a creature of death, white with righteous anger, burning in cold rage.

“I must speak to the Council,” I say. “I apologize for not finishing Peter and Anthony’s story, but I promise that I will. All decrees from the BoneKeeper are hereby stricken from record, and we shall return immediately to as it was previously.”

There is a sort of confusion in the audience, and I wonder how slowly, how meticulously carefully, these “decrees” have been put in place to not alarm the people. It is how you boil a frog, I think. Cold water, slowly slowly heated, this careful erosion of our society. “There are no allotments or restrictions. I welcome your questions. The bones love having entire families all at once, so they may share stories. And the oldest bones are fueled by visits from the living. Without them, they lose their purpose, and their soul spark fades. The Council was wrong.”

The crowd is angry now, but cautiously so. To go against the Council as such is a death warrant. The lottery for Rending and Reaping is supposed to be random, but no one misses when dissidents are chosen, seemingly out of the blue, so close to when they question the leaders of our city. Yes, the bones call for the Offering, but in the months where I am sick or stricken, the Council will pull names if I am unable. And in the times of no BoneKeeper, the Council is responsible for naming any Offering. It is a sacred task and duty, but better men than our current Council have done darker things for purpose and power. There is no telling how deep the Void goes when the light is snuffed out.

Shaking my head, I turn to storm toward the Council House, but am stopped by the frail hand of the Old One. He beckons me, and I lean down to hear him speak. “Careful, BoneKeeper,” he cautions. “There is poison running through the leaders of our village. I fear for you. Use caution. Take a moment to consider your path before you tear down the mountain.”

Placing my hand over his own, I squeeze his gently, and take a deep breath. He is right. I need to think. To plan. “Thank you for your wisdom, Old One. Would you grant me your blessing?”

He looks startled, then perilously close to tears as he nods, and lays a trembling hand on my forehead. “The blessings of my family over you, of protection and peace, of blood and bone, of flesh and form. The blessings of water and wind, of Sun God and Earth, of Maiden, of Mother, of Crone.” My eyes widen. This is an older version than what I have known, and it is not a generalized blessing, but a gift a father would give his child, or a grandfather a grandchild. There is power in the words that is not contained in a casual benediction. “The blessing of my name to yours, my heart to yours, my bones to yours, until the Vengeance is paid in full and beyond. And if your soul calls to mine in peril, I shall offer mine in your stead.” He completes the words, shaking, and pulls me down to kiss my forehead. It is the first time in many, many years that I have felt another’s lips on my skin, and tears spring unbidden to my eyes. “Now go, Keeper. Remind them of who you are.”

THE CROWN AND THE BLADE

WREN

The next day, I wake with a purpose. It has been too long that I’ve let myself be moved around the board, complacent being a piece instead of a player, from fear, from tiredness, from self-pity. But the faces of the people yesterday convince me to step from the shadows where I am most comfortable. Today is the Council’s day for readings — a perfect time to start. I give myself extra time to prepare, lacing up my bone cuffs tightly, adding extra bones in my hair, on my fingers, the laces of my boots — anywhere I can cover myself in their cold, stark protection. And then, pausing, I stare at my face in the small, cracked mirror on the wall.

I have not painted my skin in the Keeper’s sigils since the first time bones called for a child to be Reaped and I denied their request; have rejected all symbols of the BoneKeeper since that moment, other than my armor. But symbols hold power, and I need to reclaim mine if I am to go against the Council. So, reaching out with a hand that only slightly trembles, the clicking of my bracers betraying me, I grab my small pot of tallow mixed with bone ash, and begin. Down the center of my forehead I carefully draw a white design — the sigils for protection and strength. Under each eye, a curving line, like a flower petal, out to the corners, where I carefully inscribe the trimoon, and then, on each cheek, across the bridge of my nose, and under my lips on my chin, the lines of the four elements that rule us — earth, air, fire, and water. Earth and air on either cheek, fire across the center, and water nearest my mouth, as every word spoken in our village is a prayer for water.

A quiet nudge of awareness from the bones in the corner has me sigh, and smile begrudgingly. “Alright, alright,” I whisper to them, and grab my kohl stick from beside the white pot, darkening the lines around my eyes, and retracing the symbols in the black, making the white stand out in glowing patterns on my skin. The kohl lining is an old practice, much before my time, but some of the bones in my room remember. They have pushed me for years to wear the full mask of the Keeper, and I have resisted, every Reaping and Rendering twisting my stomach until I wanted to tear my skin from bone to avoid my role. Perhaps, perhaps, I have done more harm than good avoiding my place in the hierarchy of our city. And if I am to reclaim my place, to fight the poison that has grown while I have visited with death, then I need all the advice I can get.

“Satisfied?” I ask, the fire in my voice amusing the bones, but they push harder, and I shake my head at them, hair rattling.

They call for the Crown and the Blade.

No I whisper, and their mirth fades.

The Crown and the Blade. The End or the Ender.

NO I say more forcefully, and through the open window, the wind rises, whipping around the corners of the streets, dust swirling in curious twists of movement.

The bones of the walls outside pick up the chorus.

The End or the Ender, Keeper. The Crown and the Blade. By the Turning, by the Turning, they moan, over and over, a waterfall of sound, until it blends together in indistinguishable noise, and I crack beneath its weight.

With shaking hands I lift the bone crown from its place in the corner.

A forest of fingers in a circle of white, of metatarsals, of cuneiform. Tiny carpals. Thoracic vertebra. And in all bone history, since it was first discovered, it has only fit on my head. Previous Keepers rested it on their hair for the Offerings, an uneasy perch where it would not settle as a crown should, any sudden movement shifting it from its place.

The diadem curves to me perfectly. But there is a price.

It slices my skin as I settle it on my brow, tiny rivulets of blood running down my face like tears and mixing with my sigils. The bones that cut me almost inhale, sending cold shivers through me.

Ahhhh. BoneKeeper. They are quiet, gentle, happy. They are…thirsty. It has been too long. Thank you, Keeper. Thank you. We will protect you. The Blade, Keeper. The Blade.

I am in the fire now and will burn either way, so I reach out and grab the Guiding Knife carelessly, scratching my hand with it, and if Silent bone could grin, it would be smiling a corpse smile.

The Crown and the Blade. The End or the Ender.

Glancing in the mirror before I leave, I hardly recognize myself. There is no white shadow there; somehow a storm of blood and ivory has taken her place.

I am barely out of my home before the game begins.

“BoneKeeper.” His voice is flat and oily, like the scum that floats on top of our brackish ponds. I wonder how long I can avoid answering him — the little limits I let myself test, my tiny rebellions in an otherwise controlled world. But he is not in the mood for it today, and his dirty, broken nails dig crescent moons into my upper arm, belying the obsequious smile on his face. “It is the Council’s day for readings. We expected you at second light.” Nickolas’ tone edges on belligerent — it is too much of an effort for him to keep up his mask for long, and I wonder again how he has convinced so many that he is harmless.

“I am sorry, Councilman. I lost track of the time.” My answer is placid, bland, but I must let something slip into my words, because his eyes narrow and his grip tightens.

“We all make mistakes, Keeper. You are fallible. No one is perfect.” It’s a threat, but I’m too tired from my dreamless sleep to keep parrying sharp words to try to get first cut. Yanking me to a full stop, he studies my face, venom dripping from his sneering lips. “What is this?” He reaches a hand to touch my face, but I pull my head back, and click my tongue in warning.

“You would do well not to touch the sigils of the Keeper, Councilman.”

He almost growls, a low, dangerous anger escaping him, despite his best efforts. “You merely surprise me, BoneKeeper. I haven’t seen you…painted…in a long time.” The way his voice twists the word painted layers lust, and fury, and condensation all in one. He says it as though I’m one of our Gentle Women, who offer comfort to those who would pay for their talents. They decorate their faces and hands red with a dye made from the dirt of our village's outer walls, and I narrow my eyes. To be a Gentle Woman is a blessing of sorts to many in our town, and they, nor I, deserve the callousness and disgust implied in his tone.

Shrugging, I pull away, his nails scraping my skin as they drag along my arm in an effort to find purchase. “I appreciate your help, Councilman, but I’m sure you have better things to do than escort me through the village.”

He smirks, a wicked twist of his lips, and his thin tongue darts out in lizard-like movements to wet them. “You’re with me first today, Keeper.” The triumph in his words corrodes my stomach, and I frown in response.

“I am not. Rexus would be first, as always, as fits his station. Then Nathanial, Allford, Denian, Raek, Carvek, Edvard, and then would be you, Councilor. If the Father wished to speak with the bones, he would outrank all others.”

“We have altered the order. I am first.” His hand is back around my arm, pulling me along behind him, as you would a misbehaving child, and I throw him off, more violently this time.

“It is not yours to shift. You have no say in this.”

Leaning in close to me, he is near enough that drops of his saliva hit my face as he hisses his reply, “You have no say in this. The old ways are changing, Keeper.”

And they are. The old ways are fading from the village memory, or rather, are being torn from the pages of our history books. Before my birth, a Councilman would never, never think to speak to a BoneKeeper as they do to me. So perhaps it is my fault in some ways, or the fault of my mere existence, some trick of the stars that pulled me to earth early, and in the wrong body, and started a crack in the foundation of our village that cannot be fixed, no matter how hard I try.

In all our known history, there had only ever been one Bonekeeper at a time; usually we’re separated by a sea of births and deaths. There are ancient stories of Keepers where one was in his Twilight season, ready to leave on the raven's wing as another took his first breath from bone, a brief crossing of paths, nothing more. In any recent memory though, when a Keeper passed to the Void, unguided and soul lost, his blood was drained to an urn and kept waiting. His flesh was offered to Earth and Sun, his bones were ground to dust, divided, and placed in the four guardian ossuaries over each of the four bone arches at the entrances to our city. When a new Keeper was called to bone, the dried blood was mixed with pure water and reconstituted for his anointing ceremony.

But never had a Keeper been alive and in his Dancing years when the next BoneKeeper was born.

Never had the blessing been passed from a parent to his child.

Never had a Keeper been marked from birth.

And never had the Keeper been a daughter, rather than a son.

So yes, the old ways are changing, and the twisting, shifting snakes of dissent started 24 years ago, late in the Month of the Maiden, once the winds ceased and the world woke from its darkness. Things were already uneasy — the Storms had come early that year, following strange and unheard of events that left a child as the Village Father. There wasn’t enough food for the longer winter, and the luckiest emerged from their homes gaunt and hollow. In near desperation, on the first clear day without rains, the Council demanded my father’s return to their Keep from his tiny stone cottage where he had been for the whole of the storm season, curled up with his wife and new infant daughter. He showed up in front of the Council House, face tight, broad hands wrapped around a tiny baby, already marked with hair the color of bone.

The Council was furious when they realized what had happened during the long silence of the winter months. The village wanted to see it as a benediction, a sign that perhaps the Vengeance was nearing its end, that a second Keeper was a sign of forgiveness, but the Council was as stone, tradition engraved in every line of their faces.

To have two Keepers, to have one be a girl…there was no path but the inevitable.

The Council ascended the mountain, climbing the treacherous Path to the Stars, or the Sacred Stairs, a shining, twisting series of steps carved into the side of the grey mountain rock. The steps start between two enormous, curved boulders, but within the distance of a hundred feet, rise up alone, like spikes on a dragon’s back. Following a single ridge, over a bottomless gully, the stairs go left from the north wall of the village, up, up, up into the heavy mist that hangs like a shroud at the edge of the treeline. When the sun is just right, it reflects blindingly off the bone that lines the front edge of each stair.

The femurs from every member of the council who has ever served guild the footpath of the current Council when they leave the village monthly to ascend the mountain to a small, hidden chapel at the top, where they deal in secrets and sacred things. The stairs have no rails, no protection from the elements, and, in the past, it was said that the winds sweeping down the mountain face had knocked a Councilor or two from their feet and into the lost world below. I would not mind, in my deepest heart, if the winds would take one of them now. It is there in the round, ivory House of the Gods where all sacred decisions are made if the bones do not speak, and the bones offered no guidance to my father at my birth.

They didn’t leave the sanctuary for a week while debating. The women of the village braved the treacherous staircase up the cliff, bringing sweet honied breads to the fourteen men — the Councilors, the young Father, and the Justice — and left it as gifts on the doorstep to soften their decision. My father was beloved.

But two Bonekeepers…. .

His death was written in my first cry.

My father was killed when I was four months old, and my eyes were anointed with his blood, as was custom. There were only two differences — the first that my father himself was able to press his thumbs to my lids, coated in living blood pulled from his veins before he was Offered, rather than reconstituted dust. The second that his prints remained there, clear crimson whorls and loops stained on paper thin translucent skin, despite many, many efforts to scrub them away. They are now the only color on my face, two vibrant thumbprints the scarlet of freshly spilled blood, standing out in stark relief when my eyes close, his final blessing seared into my flesh.

There was little rejoicing in the village, though the naming of a Keeper would normally be cause for celebration. In a break with tradition, the people called for my father to live, and my death instead. Too many had passed to the Void in Silence during the winter, too many were on the edge of death now, and the absence of a Keeper meant their bones would be Silent as well. The fear pressed them, folded them, and I have heard that they were close to rioting, but my father would brook no argument. If a Keeper was to be Offered, it was his soul that would pass unguided. He would not sentence me to the Void.

There was no food for the normal feast with the naming of a BoneKeeper, just gaunt, hollowed eyes and cheeks, and unending hopelessness. The villagers were distraught and desperate after a vicious storm season, and it morphed into resentment towards the little ghost girl with blood stained eyelids.

The Council followed all traditions of my birth, but did nothing to silence the whispers that raced through the crowds. There was no real Father, just an eight year old child, and no real BoneKeeper, only a milk-white babe with the colorless hair that marks a Keeper’s calling, and the Council reveled in the unease, stepping into the vacuum and taking control from places outside of their magistrate.

When the blood prints on my eyelids would not wash away, and settled instead into permanent marks, they did not speak.

When the bones started speaking to me earlier than any Keeper in memory, they did not speak.

When there was worry about me being a girl, when I was taken from my mother to be raised by the Council, when I was forced into a cage, when they called her to Offering, when I had to Guide her soul, they did not speak.

When my eyes turned white and color drained from them as water from a cup, they did not speak.

The Council waited, and watched, and let the silence be filled with suspicion and supposition, and then, finally, made their move when the village felt close to shattering with worry.

In the absence of a full Keeper and a full Father, they had “interpreted” the will of the Sun God and Earth, and had Reaped and Rendered so many that some thought the days of the Sword had returned. The villagers were scared, and the fear turned them silent, eyes wide, mouths empty. It was a brutal, merciless time, and though at the end of it we returned to the old ways, the shadows of the previous years were still evident in the anxious footsteps of our people.

Nickolas still hovers in front of me, anger building as I drift through the memories of what has passed. He demands attention like a petulant child, hating when anyone or anything takes the focus from him. He looks as though he is about to speak, and, putting steel in my spine, I draw myself up to my full height, pulling in strength from the bones around me.

The old ways are changing, he said.

Then let them change. It is better to alter than be altered. To destroy than be destroyed. I will either be the storm or the sacrifice, and by the Lady, I am not giving more blood than I have already given.

“I will no longer read for the Council.” The words are out of my mouth before I can snap them back, loud enough that the villagers around me pick up their heads in startled interest, and an odd ringing sound echos from the bones around me.

Nickolas looks like he has been slapped, and moves suddenly, as though to hit me here, in the open light of day, before jerking to a stop and glancing surreptitiously around. Even now, with the chaos of the Council riding the city, hitting the BoneKeeper would be a death sentence. He bares his teeth in a rictus grin, trying and failing to seem as though I’d made a joke.

“Ha.” He forces the word out. “You never fail to amuse me, Keeper.”

“There is no jest here, Councilman. You have overstepped your bounds in ways of which I was previously unaware. The bones are now silent to you until the errors are corrected.”

He roars in anger, beyond caring what the people think, and grabs me again, dragging me behind him through the dry roads of the town, down the main street toward the Council House, followed by a crowd of nervous onlookers. I am silent, but the noise of the building audience draws the rest of the Council onto the stairs in front of their home, watching the scene with wide and worried eyes.

Steps from the rest of the Council, Nickolas pulls me in front of him and tosses me to the ground, bloodying my hands, rattling all the bones in and on my body. I don’t fight it, take the pain as penance for abandoning my people for so long. In a way I act a pantomime, welcoming Nickolas’ anger and using it to expose him for what he is. So if I cry out more loudly than I would have, if I am slower rising to my feet, my stuttered movements belying the anger in my belly, than so-be-it.

“Brother Nickolas!” The Father’s voice is dark and dangerous, the stone of the mountain in his words. “What excuse could you possibly have for your treatment of our Keeper?”

Nickolas is a rabid wolf, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. “She is refusing to read for the Council.”

There is a startled intake of breath, knowing glances between the Twelve. The Father, however, is focused on me. “BoneKeeper?”

I shrug, uncaring, and blank my voice to be as cool and white as the winter air. “The Bones refuse. You have abused your power and position for too long, and they will not speak.”

Nickolas whirls around, face centimeters from my own, and grabs my arms in a bruising grip, flowers blooming on my pale skin, hissing, “You will make them.” His brother steps forward and lays a calming hand on Nickolas’s trembling arm.

“Peace, brother,” he whispers tightly, forcing a mirthless smile from his thin lips, trying to ease the situation. His eyes dart quickly toward the anxious crowd, who are studying every movement with growing concern. “Peace, for now.” Raek is much more of the politician than his younger brother. It is his only saving grace, but it is balanced by his downfall — this blind love for his family.

Nickolas shakes him off. I have not moved, do not flinch when he lurches towards me, my bored expression a stark contrast to his crazed countenance.

“Who do you think you are?” he screams, high pitched, like a scavenger spotting prey, and I lean forward, reveling slightly as he steps back.

“I do not think, Nickolas. I know. And you have not been careful enough.”

“I am a Councilmember, and you will address me as such!” He is trembling, panting, and beside him even Raek is beginning to let the cracks show.

“Brother! Cease!” he commands through gritted teeth.

Careful, Keeper Lorcan cautions from my spine, and I reach up to rest my fingers on the strand of him around my throat, drawing strength.

Nickolas is a rabid beast, ignoring the square of people, the restless tumult in the growing assembly. “You are a tool of this Council, and your sole purpose is our will and whim. You will make them speak to us!”

“Nickolas!” The Father’s voice is a barked command, but it is too late, and the collective intake of breath in the square drinks all the oxygen from the world. I respond to Nickolas as I would a toddler.

“I will not make them. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? I won’t even ask them. You have betrayed the legacy of our people, and their counsel is silent to you until your ways are mended.”

“Do not speak to me as though I’m a child, Keeper.” His words are a threat, violence shaking them, trembling on a sharp thread.

“Do not act as a child, and I won’t treat you as one, Councilman.” My tone stays flat, emotionless, and Raek is now wrapping his arms around his brother to pull him back. The Council has been struck dumb — they are not used to me with teeth, and I am suddenly, viciously glad that I found a spine this morning.

The square is crackling with barely restrained energy, an almost violent, frozen tableau on the edge of decisions which can’t be taken back. Raek is as close to frantic as I’ve ever seen him, desperately trying to maintain a stony demeanor while muzzling his brother, for the first time unsure of the next step. My words and Nickolas’s actions have thrown us into an unknown territory, destroying the careful, unspoken balance of a crumbling ecosystem. So I think in some ways it’s almost a relief to the brutish men on the stage when I turn from them toward the listening crowd and pluck control with a simple, gentle smile. Where the Council threatens and coerces, I will offer and give freely. Where they are carrion birds, I will be a mourning dove. And I will correct what has become a place of sinew and sacrifice. Tilting my head and staring over them, as though listening to the bones, I wait a beat, two beats, until the people quieten. “Though today would be a nice day to be a child…” I begin, a teasing note dancing in my voice, shifting the attention from the hovering Council, “because the Bones are calling for a Scavenger Hunt.”

THE SCAVENGER HUNT

WREN

Aripple of excitement runs through the crowd, the sands shifting, even with the gloom of the Council still hovering. A scavenger hunt! The vultures on the stage stir uncertainly, beaks open to tear joy from their people like muscle and tendons from carcass, but there is no clear path for them to wrestle back control, not with the surge of happiness sparking like embers in a prodded hearth. No way to censure me in this moment, though I’m sure I’ll pay a price for my flash of fang. A scavenger hunt! You can hear the words whispered and passed along from person to person, parent to child. I cannot remember the last time we played a game with the bones in the village, the last time the bones were not a reminder of the curse of death, but rather, a promise of redemption, a candle in the darkness. There are children alive in this village who have never played with the bones, and I am going to change that.

Walking to the nearest exposed bone, a small curve of wall far across the courtyard, I lay my hand on it, and call to the memories within. “Send runners to the other Rings to let them know. The children will have two hours from my mark!” I call, letting my voice warm, the excitement of the bones pushing through. “There are ten bones in the Second Ring wall which will feel almost hot to the touch. The first person to find them all will win…” Pausing, I try to think of something sufficiently exciting, then smile. “You’ll win stories from all ten of the bones, a reading every day this week, and a measure of my drinking water.”

Astonishment and exhilaration spreads like the Everfire. Children push past their parents to be close to my feet, looking up with eager eyes that only yesterday had been cautious and anxious. A small girl, maybe seven or eight, dares to reach out, and, light as a blood moth, tugs on my skirt, rattling the bones. Surprised, she jerks back, but I squat down in front of her to meet her eyes.

“Yes?” I ask, and she straightens, the boldness of youth making her brave.

“Keeper?” Her voice is a squeak, and I can’t help but smile.

“Yes?” I ask again, and she lightly runs a finger along my bracers.

“I like your face,” she whispers, and my smile turns to a grin, a curious stabbing piercing my heart.

“I like your face, too!” I reply cheerfully. She cocks her head, looking doubtful.

“You can’t see my face…” It’s half a question and half a statement, and I reach out my pale fingers to place my hand gently on her cheek, before shaking my head back and forth, making the bones in my hair echo like wooden wind chimes.

“They tell me. And the bones never lie.” Winking at her, I straighten, and motion to the children in front of me. “Are you ready? Just be patient long enough so that word can pass through the village!”

They’re dancing in excitement, rocking back and forth on small, dirt stained feet, the noise of their happiness like birds and waterfalls. From the back of the crowd, a familiar man’s laughing voice calls over the cacophony, “Can’t we play as well?” My heart skips and stutters in my chest, almost violently grateful for his support. The other adults in the crowd take up his plea, clapping their hands and shouting out lighthearted encouragement. And what harm could there be in sowing joy instead of harvesting it? Smiling, I raise my voice so everyone can hear me. “Of course! First the children, and then the adults. Two separate hunts, hmmm?”

“What do we win?” A different voice, more hesitant, but still dancing.

“The same?” I ask, and surprised murmurs flash like lightning from person to person. I haven’t really thought it through — two measures of my water in the same week will leave me very low on rations, but…I swallow my panic. I’ve made it longer on less, and what I am doing is more important than my comfort.

Still, when Councilman Rannoch steps beside me and says, “Not exactly the same. We cannot ask the Keeper to give up two full measures of water. I will give one of mine in her place, if it please her,” it…is an unexpected kindness, and I turn to him, face softening, without thinking.

“Thank you, Councilor,” I say, true gratitude in my voice, and his jaw clenches at my words. He doesn’t look at all happy, more pained, at both my appreciation and my smile, which fades from my face under the weight of his glare. I forgot, I forgot. The Council is no friend of mine. It is a pantomime. He is confusing me with his recent actions, and it is discomforting, making me stupid and incautious. I’m unsure what to do with this version of a Councilman, one who asks what the bones would like to say, rather than demands, one who offers his water in place of mine. I don’t feel…I don’t feel safe suddenly, as though I’m being pulled by my skin into flesh emotion, away from bone.

Lorcan? I ask desperately, the overwhelming need to center myself almost suffocating in its intensity. His answering whisper against my skin is a balm, calming me.

So the force of surprise when the Father steps forward to stand beside Rannoch and myself almost knocks me from my feet. “It has been too long since we have had a day of games,” he calls, voice warm and deep, a sound that would lure you from your bed into the cold of the night. “Even during the Dancing Month this year we did not take enough time for happiness. If it is games the bones want, then games they shall have. Work is done for the day. The harvest can wait.” Motioning to several people, he directs, “Call the musicians. Tonight we’ll have dancing and music in the square. All water will come from the Council Well….” A dark and angry muttering snakes from the pained, smiling faces of the Eleven standing behind Rannoch and the Father. “We don’t have enough for a full feast, but a barley soup, and bread, if there is enough?” The few bakers in the crowd nod, and the Father turns to me. “When you are ready, Keeper? It is your game to direct.”

And it is. More than he knows. His words strengthen me, sloughing off any uncertainty. This is my village, these are my people, these are my bones. And the storm of the Council can roar with fury all it wants. I am carved from the mountain, and born from the Everfire. And if death is dancing in Nickolas’s eyes, he is wrong to think it scares me. Death is my only constant, more a lover than a weapon. Nickolas would do well to remember that.

Turning back to the children, I raise my voice. “Three, two, one…Now!”

They race away, laughter brightening the dull streets, echoing off the shops lining the main road, their little hands tracing the bones on the walls, which warm under their fingers, little paths leading them to the prizes. It will take an hour, maybe more, for them to find all ten, and then again for the adults to do the same. Smiling at the antics of the young — they’re pushing each other in play to touch every bone they can find - I’m distracted enough that I startle almost comically at the gentle touch of rough fingers on my hand.

Jerking around, I meet Councilman Rannoch’s pale blue eyes. He is always a surprise to me — those eyes are the eyes of a Trader, not of a villager, and I am reminded that he was born from a Trade a few years before they ceased. The rest of him is village through and through. I take a moment to study him, my face carefully blank, as I wait for him to speak. In so many ways he could be made from the rock of this place, though his harvest gold skin is pale compared to most villagers. His Upper Kingdom ancestry lies in the hollowness of his cheeks, his sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Though his thick, dark hair is longer than most — not tight and shorn as others on the Council — falling over his forehead in disarray, it is the color of our people’s, a rich, loamy brown. His lips are too full to be one of us completely though — they are soft enough to be incongruous with the rest of him, a promise of softness that is not echoed anywhere else on his tightly muscled body. And he is tall, taller than any other but the Father, though lean — in our village there is no spare flesh on anyone’s body. Rannoch is all sharp edges and sword blades.

Until his lips turn, just slightly, into a smile.

And I am undone.

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, but I am close enough to him to see him responding to my response. Though I schooled my face, something slipped through the cracks when his lips tilted up at the corners, and his entire body shifts towards me. We are caught in a strange moment, an unexpected symmetry, and I can’t help but be thankful when the Father’s deep voice thunders from the stage, calling the Council to heel. Rannoch’s smile fades from his face as the weight of responsibility settles heavy on his shoulders. He looks like himself again, the tiny flicker of secret self locked back inside. It is a stark contrast to the villagers who are wandering the square, watching the children racing around, screams of laughter filling the air, and the sound draws his attention.

“Joy should not be parceled out as carefully as water here.” I can’t help but feel sympathy for him, the frustration in his voice masking something deeper, more tender, from a time where we did not have to be hard to survive.

“Councilman?” I’m not sure what else to say. He is…he is strange today. Different from the others who hover in their stone black robes, faces tight, looking over the excited crowd in obvious distaste.

“Do you…can I come find you when I am free? It is not a demand,” he rushes to say before I can speak. “It is a request. That you do not have to meet.”

I’m unsure of how to answer. The Council doesn’t usually make requests.

“Not as a Councilor,” he says softly, carefully. “I have something I would like to discuss with you. As…as Rannoch. Not–” He waves his hand vaguely at the stage to indicate the men behind him.

“I am always at the Council’s bidding,” I reply cautiously, and he sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face tiredly.

“I want to become something better than I am, Keeper.” He is quiet, determined. “At least, I’d like to try. If you’ll let me.” He glances down at me and shakes his head, then sighs when the Father calls again. “To duty, BoneKeeper. For both of us I think. I hope yours fares better than mine.” The rueful note of a shared secret spices his tone, and it surprises me as much as his earlier smile. He turns from me, then pauses and looks back. “Thank you for your time.”

“BoneKeeper!” A child’s animated voice calls to me, and the Councilman inclines his head before turning away. I watch him walk to the stage, feeling uneasy in my skin.

BoneKeeper? Lorcan is concerned, and I shake my head.

I am well, Protector.

It is a hollow assurance, but he is kind enough to let me believe it.

A GODDESS AND A MAN

TAHRIK

Children rush by me, faces bright with residual joy from the hunt, and they push me against the bones as their tiny hands try to touch every exposed surface. Once the main scavenger hunts were complete, the adults in the village decided to prolong the merriment, and hid little treasures throughout the First Ring walls. Even now, hours later, the smallest are still looking for any leftover bounty. I laugh with them, ruffling hair and calling out to the group as they race on, “Carefully! Carefully!” but none turn around. And why would they? A hunt in the village is an almost unheard of treat these days.

“Why did you not join in our hunt?” Davvy, one of my friends from the Third Ring, approaches, holding up his hands as though he wants to box. “Didn’t want to take me on, Miller?”

I grin back, shaking my head. “Not today, Blacksmith. Our family gets enough that I didn’t think it fair for me to try. Others need it more than I do.”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Truth. But most wouldn’t think of it. Only Tahrik. Your heart’s too tender for this life, I swear. Only saving grace is your Gods-blessed voice, hmm? You’d never be called to Offering.”

“You’re ridiculous. You know you sing just as well.”

Davvy laughs in response. “I know. Better even, perhaps. But the ladies love your…instrument.”

I punch him lightly at the innuendo, and we tussle for a minute like children, the lightness of the day infectious, before he pulls away, hearing a faint, “Davv!” in the distance. It must be a lover’s ears, because I can’t tell the difference between his wife’s call and the hundred others who are shouting.

“Ah, the family beckons.” He tries to be exasperated, but fails, the exuberant smile on his face betrays him.

“All is well with Bri, and Isabel then?” Davvy’s wife had borne a child in the Month of the Mother, on the Birthing Day, and as such, his baby Isabel is safe until after her own first-born appears. The thought is a knife in my heart, but I try to ignore it.

Davv is a good friend, though, and lays a comforting hand on my shoulder before looking away and giving me space. “I swear to you, Tahrik, I thought Bri was going to cut the child from her body to get her out before midnight. But yes, both are well.” His happiness is contagious, and chases away dark memories.

“Congratulations, my friend. Truly.”

“Thank you.” Clearing his throat, he looks back at me, raising an expectant eyebrow. “Though Bri has been asking when you’re coming by, and the older children miss their Uncle Tahrik…We’d like to see you before we’re storm-shut.” It’s a light rebuke disguised as an invitation, and I nod in reply.

“The harvest is hard this year, but I’ll come down this week. I’d like to see the newest, and have some treats for the other two.”

“You spoil them.”

“Ah now. What are children for if not to spoil?”

He pauses, then says carefully, tone forcibly light, “Bri has a friend–”

“Davvy.” There is a warning in my voice, but he shrugs it off as only close friends are able.

“I promised her I’d try, Rik. And a promise to a wife trumps making a friend uncomfortable with hard truths. You’ve danced with half the girls in this village. Twice or more…” He’s teasing, but sincere. “Rumor is you’ve tasted from enough wells. Have you not found water you like? When are you going to settle down? A hearth and a home for yourself. Little feet running around. It’s a green field in a parched land, friend.”

And I know it. I know it.

I wish I could explain. Wish I could tell him. But there are secrets and there are secrets.

“It is not a bad life here, Rik.” He is serious now, looking around at the shining faces of the children touching the bones, the faint sound of music in the distance, the smell of fresh bread mixing with clean hay and dust. “It’s hard, but it’s not bad. And it’s made a good bit easier when you have someone to love.”

And that is where we divide, earth from water, sky from ground. Because I have someone I love. And nothing is easier because of it.

A group of women walk by, chatting as they head toward the shops on the main street, and one or two glance at me from under dark lashes. Davvy notices, and nudges me gently.

“Eh? You see? You’re running out of time. It will be a cold storm season for you with no one to warm your bed.”

“Leave off, you washerwoman. I’m not so ancient yet.”

“You’re 25, Rik. Not so young either. Just think on it. I’ve already promised Bri her friend Grace has a place at the table when you come visit. She’s a nice girl. Knows how to keep a hearth warm from what I’m told. Give her a chance.” I’m about to reply when his name is shouted again, and he steps away hurriedly. “Have to go! Too late to say no now! Send word when to expect you.”

“Why you–” The music in the distance grows louder, cutting me off as it turns into a rollicking, joyful harvest tune, a call-and-return, and I can’t help but grin as Davv bursts into song, drowning out my protests.

“Hey and ho and up we go

To the mountains to the mountains to dig for the gold!”

He waves over his shoulder, and I sing out the reply in farewell.

“Hey and ho and down we go

To the valley the valley to thresh fields of gold”

And then together, our voices blending and fading,

“Hey and ho and home we go

To the hearth to the hearth where there rest hearts of gold.”

The song is picked up and echoed around us, repeated through the village as the gaiety of the scavenger hunt builds into a crescendo. I’m suddenly filled with a fierce, biting love for this place and these people, our land and our mountains, our songs and traditions. There are dark, dark parts of our world, but the brightness in the days is a balm, and I feel the village wrap around me as I navigate through the rollicking streets toward the outer edge of the garden wall where my sister resides.

“Will you play later?”

“Did you see who won the hunt?”

“Come by for your mother’s order when you’re able!”

Friends and acquaintances call out as I walk past, occasionally waiting for replies, sometimes just waving in greeting, weaving me into the fabric of their days, into the rhythm of their lives. And though the noise and gaiety fades as I curve around a corner, it stays on my skin, a blanket of love and comfort, of acceptance and belonging. Slowly, I turn down a quiet street, across a patch of grass, and then finally to a small section of bone wall where my sister is kept. Losing her to a Reaping was unexpected and heartbreaking; she had been my best friend and only sibling, even with the years between us. She was my little shadow, trailing me through town, begging me to teach her how to play the lute, wanting to learn all my songs. Everyone knows that anyone could be called, but Cara was so bright, so vivacious — a blessing born one day after the Birthing Day. One short, stupid day, and she was not safe. The Earth must eat, and her sacrifice was not in vain, but I lost a piece of my heart the day my sister was chosen.

My only solace was that the Council named her, and not Wren.

Cara was called to the Offering early, before her eighth birthday, when I was only fifteen and Wren herself was but thirteen. It was during a time when the Council would still occasionally select names if Wren was not well enough to leave her rooms. Even at my sister’s Guiding, Wren was so pale her skin looked almost like mountain ice, and she was shivering as though she had been left out in the Storms. Every inch of her trembled for the whole of the ceremony. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was doing as much as she was able; no one ever held it against her that she couldn't speak for the bones. But the Council…that is a different story.

The illusion of their neutrality faded with every Offering.

Before Cara, they had received the same rations of flour from our mills as everyone else in the village, my father refusing their demands for more due to their stations. After, no Councilmemeber ever had to ask for extra again. And no one from my family has been called to the Sun God or Earth since. Though Wren is the only one who names the Offering now, my father is not willing to take the chance, so others have empty bellies, and the Council stays full.

Wren had cried during my sister’s Guiding, the only time I’d ever seen someone in our village openly weep for another. Real tears, heavy as a storm, mixing with the trails of blood falling down her face from her bone crown. The gift of her sorrow changed something in me, watered a flower that had only just begun to bloom. I wanted to give her a gift in return, but had nothing. What could I give the BoneKeeper? I watched, and waited, studying her, hoping that someday I could repay her for her kindness in the darkest moment of my childhood.

Then, one day, in the flowers of the Children’s Garden, I realized what I could offer her that no one else could. Or what no one else would, for reasons I will never understand. So I became her friend. Her only friend in a village of thousands. Her refuge, her safe space, her home.

And she became my goddess, stealing my heart and breath from my body. I’d worship at her feet for eternity if she’d take me. If she’d let me.

She is too much for this world, too good for the dust and death around her.

In so many ways, it is just the two of us. Wren and Tahrik, and no one else exists in the world when we are together. I have my life in the village, surrounded by the everyday, the comfort of dirt and hay, smoke and sweet grass. And then I have the stolen moments with Wren, separate from all of that, above the pull of the ordinary.

She is luminous, like the full moon on a cloudless night, so bright that even stars dim to nothingness beside her. And, in the brief moments we share together, she lets me step into the sky with her, makes me into something more than a miller’s son.

I know her as no one else does. She is mine as no one else is. And I am hers, blood, flesh, and bone. Her heartbeat is mine in another body. So I do not even have to turn when I hear footsteps approach; I would recognize her in any lifetime.

“BoneKeeper.” I am cautious in my greeting until I know we are alone. Every BoneKeeper before her has been allowed a life outside the dead, but something shifted with her birth, and neither of us knows what would happen if we were discovered.

“Tahrik. I heard you singing.”

And the world narrows to the sound of my name on her breath.

“Wren.” I can’t help the way my voice caresses the word, curls around it like a cat. Ever since I gave her the nickname, it has been the only one she uses. Ceridwen is someone else, from a different time she tries to bury deep in the earth where she doesn’t have to look at it. Wren is who she is now, at least, when it is just her and I, and the bones. She steps beside me, facing the wall with me, and reaches out her hand, caressing familiar friends she finds there. Since I saw her this morning, she has removed her Keeper’s Crown, but her bone blade is still fastened at her waist. Tiny cuts line her forehead, raw and red. Her sigils are still bright on her skin, pale eyes shining inside kohl black lines, and she looks like the TriGoddess returned, so much more than a human woman.

“Your sigils are beautiful, Wren. They suit you.” It is as much as I can risk in the moment.

“Do they?” she asks, a curious note in her voice, and I nod, quick to reassure her.

“You are the Goddess incarnate with them.”

Sighing, she turns from me to the bone. “Ah.” It is an answer and not an answer.

I want to reach out, caress her face, pull her to me, comfort her, but it isn’t safe. I can only murmur, “You are done with the Scavenger Hunt then?”

She nods. “They’re setting up for the dinner. But I’m tired. It was…a long day.”

The silence between us is comfortable, welcoming, stretching into a space that is filled by only us. “I’ve missed you.” It is as much as we ever say to each other; a single stone only to prevent a rockslide which would bury us.

“I do nothing but miss you,” Wren whispers in reply, then sighs, and changes the subject. “Do you know teeth aren’t exposed bone?” she asks me, and her voice is liquid running through me. I love hearing her. It’s such a rare treat that I drink it in like a man dying of thirst, and it pours through me, cool and quenching. Her voice is musical, little trills and unexpectedly low murmurs. “Not exactly. They’re similar but not identical. If they are connected to bone they will work the same for me, but teeth on their own can’t hold a whole soul.” She frowns slightly, and nods, which usually means she’s speaking with either Lorcan or the Hunter. Judging by the very slight rolling of her eyes, it’s Lorcan.

“Is he chiding you for giving away your secrets?” I ask, startling her, and, instead of answering, she takes my hand, guiding it along the wall until she finds a little hole in the surface, almost impossible to see. She moves my hand inside it, cool fingers squeezing mine gently in the hidden dark.

“There she is,” Wren says affectionately. “How you can never find her I don’t know. She sings so loudly!” Her voice is warm, as it always is when we visit my little sister. Cara doesn’t mind being part of the deception — she loves tricks, and never liked the Council, so I knew her bones would be the same. Remembering her as she was, mischievous face crinkling into a gap toothed smile, I feel suddenly and overwhelmingly lost.

“I wish I could hear her as you do,” I murmur, fingers resting gently on the familiar curves.

Wren squeezes my hand again in sympathy, slowly, so slowly I almost can’t tell that she’s moving at first, leans her head until it rests lightly on my shoulder; I freeze, motionless, barely breathing. All other thought flees my head; Wren has never done this — leaned against me, rested her skin against mine. In all our time together we’ve had nothing but passing seconds of contact, where she guided my hand to bone or where I brushed against her as I passed by. I’ve never known the surprising warmth of her body, never lingered against her, petal soft, pressed against me.

She feels…she feels like home.

I am locked in place, and if the bone wall in front of us were to crash down and break me to pieces in this moment, I would go to the earth a happy man.

“I wish many things…” she replies, just as softly, and my heart clenches.

I don’t know this version of Wren. She has been so strange lately; not in a bad way, but in a way where I am unsure of the next step with her, though I have never been so before.

“Like what?” I ask, only just daring to turn my cheek enough that it brushes the edge of her hair, and I close my eyes, inhaling the sweet, herb scent of her skin. We have never been this close for this long; never stood like this, as a man and a woman with no song between us.

“I don’t know.” Frustration bares sharpened teeth in her tone. “Do you ever… do you ever want something different than this, Tahrik? Something more?”

“There is only one thing I want in this world, Wren. And I would give the sky and earth for it.”

“Would you?” She turns to me, pale eyes shining, full of hope and trepidation, and I’m suddenly scared to hear what she is about to say. Her voice drops to below a whisper. “Would you ever…leave the village, do you think? If it meant a quiet, peaceful life?”

The longing in her voice shatters me, but her question stuns me to silence. Leave? Our people? Our home? I want to answer, want to say “of course” without hesitation, but in the space between thought and word she has already pulled away, straightened, and removed her hand from mine in the wall. She has withdrawn into herself, behind her bone armor, and I feel like I’ve failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

“I would go anywhere for that dream, Wren,” I say as firmly as I’m able, trying to get her to look at me, but I don’t know if it was too little, too late, if I was too slow to respond. She surprised me by suddenly jumping off the cliff where we have walked, carefully balanced, for years. And it strikes me in a lightning flash that, if I don’t follow, I will be left on the ledge alone. Turning fully to her, I take her hands in mine, not bothering to look if anyone else is near. “If you say the word, I will build a cottage for us. We can fill it with children and laughter, and I will rub your feet by the fire at night. I would make you a soft nest of woolen blankets, and bake you sweet breads–”

It is working, and she unfurls, softening, and interrupts me, voice wistful. “I want chickens.”

“I will get you as many chickens as there are in the world,” I promise, voice shaking from laughter and emotion, and my reward is a single tear from her eyes. “Where it is safe for you. Here in the village, I will make you a home.”

Her brows knit together slightly, and she closes her eyes in response, but before I can ask her what’s wrong, her face changes, empties, as though she’s looking at a white void. All emotion leaves it; there is nothing left but smooth marble in the cold lines of her lips. Stepping away from me, she presses into the bones, letting go of my hand and fixing her lips into her practiced, BoneKeeper smile.

Ah, I think, and mimic her expression.

In the near distance, the steady clop of a pony’s hooves approaches. Wren turns blankly toward the sound, body tense like an overly tight string. I debate leaving — we try hard not to be seen together — but I am within my rights to visit my family, and I’m suddenly loath to abandon her. Perhaps the rider isn’t coming here; perhaps they will pass a lane over, never seeing us, and we can resume building castles in the sky together. Stay or go? Stay or go? Anxiety brushes my skin like blood moth wings.

As the sound gets closer, though, almost upon us, the wings change to teeth as her face softens into an unfamiliar expression. A knot twists in my stomach. I’m not used to not being able to read her; usually I can hear every song in her heart. At least I know she is not scared, so it cannot be Raek or Nickolas, but she is more Wren and less BoneKeeper in her response, and my shoulders tighten. She has no friends here; I cannot think of who she would turn to greet with a face that gentled at his approach.

The answer feels like a blade to my throat.

Councilor Rannoch pulls up sharply in front of us, swinging from his mount, dropping the reins casually behind him. As he approaches, her lips curve into the shadow of real happiness, and I know, I know he thinks it’s for him by the satisfied smirk on his face. He doesn’t know that it is just her showing the memory of our few minutes together.

“You are in the wrong part of the village right now,” she says to him, voice wary but...not empty. It’s not exactly friendly, but it’s not formal either. I have never heard her talk to another this way; Wren usually only speaks to the Council or for the bones, and very rarely has any emotion in her voice other than that of the dead. She is barely warm, but he smiles at her response with cold affection.

I know this Councilor, have watched him watch her; he craves her like he craves power, can’t tell the difference between that and love. He stands on the stage with the others, but where they are smug and satisfied, he is silent and searching, the tension in his body never draining until his eyes touch on her face, however briefly. No one else would notice — he never lets his gaze linger, never seeks her out to speak with her. I’ve just played the same game too many times to not recognize myself in another.

To his limited credit, he is kind to her in the ways he knows how to be, and I think he truly believes he cares for her, but he would never go to the Sun God in her place, would never let her out again if he knew she were speaking to me, not the bones.

“Should you not be in council still?”

He hears her question with false ears, laughing because he thinks she’s tracking him in interest, rather than to keep him away.

“You follow my movements, BoneKeeper?” he says, voice low and seductive, though I’m sure she doesn’t understand the strangled note in his tone. She has been kept away from the living for so long that the louder emotions of a beating heart are more a cacophony than a symphony in her ears. She’s a creature made of whispers and half-breaths; anything more feels like an attack, not an approach. He is too used to the women of this place, does not understand my Wren.

“Not follow,” she replies, almost thoughtfully. “I just know where you’re meant to be.”

His answering smile is pure satisfaction. “I know where you’re meant to be as well, and it’s not here.” But he’s not angry, just teasing, and there is an almost playful challenge in her words when she replies.

“This villager needed help finding his sister. You know that is what I do. The bones pull at me if I ignore them.”

This villager. This villager.

Here is a secret that no one will ever know. Wren’s eyes went almost white on her 12th birthday. There is just the palest ring of blue, so pale that unless you are close to her, in the right light, you would never see that it exists. And no black is there at all. The Council believes she went blind so she could hear the bones better. And she never corrected them, never protested. Though she was the first BoneKeeper in history to be kept in a caged room for her protection, she has never said a thing. But I know, and she knows. It is not even a grave secret that the bones would whisper about. It is something beyond that. A secret of ash and dust.

“Can he not find his sister on his own?” The words cool, just enough that my skin prickles in warning. There is such a thin line between life and death in our village, thinner than anywhere else, I think, and the Veil between the two are the Council’s words and wishes.

“Could you?” She is truly curious, I think, a sound I am not used to hearing in her voice. “Take me to your Old Mother,” she commands, stretching out a hand, tapping the wall beside her. Whatever she hears makes her laugh, just the smallest birdsong of sound, and I can tell he is pulled into her orbit, as we all are when she is near. “They think it’s funny, and ask that you join me. We are on a new hunt now. Where is your Old Mother?” Her smile is a flash of lightning, and he grabs the reins of his pony, shaking his head.

“You know I cannot,” he replies ruefully. “You know the bones shift.”

“But this man should find his sister on his own?” she chides gently, only because he is smiling, only because he is in a good mood. “You know he cannot. What is my purpose if not for the bones?”

Nodding, though he thinks she cannot see him, he moves toward her hand. “I am taking your hand now,” he says, just before his fingers wrap around hers, and I am reminded that, for a Council member, he is not as bad as the rest. They all would just grip her like a sword, a weapon to be wielded. She pauses, and reaches her free hand back toward me to take mine — an awkward chain of connectedness.

“I must go. Here, here she is.” And she puts my hand back in the hole, resting it on a single fingerbone. “She’s glad you’re here. You can whisper her all your secrets and she will keep them safe for you.”

I know this is her way of saying that Car will tell her any messages I leave, so I thank her in our way, saying the words we all say, the only words we usually say, to our BoneKeeper. “Thank you, Keeper. May the bones be quiet and calm for you.”

A sad look flashes across her face before she can help it, and she whispers, almost against her will, “The bones are never quiet, Tahrik. They sing to fill every silence.”

There is a pause, a sharp intake of breath. There is too much affection in my name, too much weight, too much emotion. Eyes widening, she shakes her head as though waking from a dream, and touches the bone wall again, covering her misstep. “I…of course their song is a blessing, though. She is calling your name on repeat. It is resounding in my head. Enjoy your time with your brother, Cara.” Then, turning to the Councilman, tilts her head, feigning a look of interest. “Alright, Councilman. Lead on. If you’re up for the challenge.”

He is caught, trapped like a fish, and smiles. “Always, Ceridwen.” Then, more cautiously, “If the bones aren’t pressing you too hard.”

I hate the sound of the name on his lips, as though he has a right to it, a right to some other part of her that is not his. But he’s arrogant, and I can’t help the smirk that presses against my lips; his calling her Ceridwen shows how little he knows of her, and he misses the way her face tightens at the name.

“I didn’t mean to imply…I misspoke, Councilman. Nothing more. Their song is never pressing. It is always a gift. I would…” she swallows, hesitant, before continuing, “...it would be a favor to me if we would not speak on it again.”

“You have my word. And the Miller would never, I am sure.” There is a warning in his tone, which is laughable. As though I would speak of anything that would hurt her. As though I would not cut out my own tongue to feed to the Earth before I would say a single word that would harm her. But I nod, and press my fingers to my lips, head bowed.

“There is nothing to say, Councilman. Of course.”

His eyes narrow in satisfaction, then tosses me the reins he is still holding. ““Miller. You’ll stable my mount.” It’s not a question, and he does not pause for a response before putting her hand through his arm. “Come now, Keeper,” he says to her gently, comfortingly. “Come and laugh with the bones at how I can’t even sense my own family.”

She looks down at her hand, trapped in his elbow, and sighs, before turning her face up to him. A curious look breaks through her worry like a sun through a cloud; she seems almost unsure of what to do. He covers her hand with his own, locking her in more tightly, then gently pulls her forward. They walk away together, her hand dragging along the bone wall next to her, his lips moving as he speaks to her quietly, and I press my face to the hole in the bones.

“Oh Car,” I whisper. “This cannot continue. But it cannot end.”

And I realize that I, too, am trapped.

THE ORANGE AND THE MOTHER

WREN

Rannoch’s face softens the moment we walk away from Tahrik. Tahrik, Tahrik, his name is a song, his name is a promise, his name is a dream. Tah-REEK, Tah-REEK, the sound of the sunrise, the promise of dawn.

I keep my face placid, my eyes unseeing, but Rannoch’s sharp lips turn up at the corners. The sweetness is unexpected, though he has been more gentle with me recently than I have seen him be with any other before. “Your meeting is done unexpectedly early,” I offer as an opening, trying to find my footing, and he frowns.

“It was a waste of time. It usually is.” He’s gruff, clearly frustrated. “Nothing but chickens squawking. They love hearing their own voices.”

I make an indeterminate noise — I can’t tell if he’s looking for a response, but I have none to give him in any case. My whole life I have tread only on safe paths, where I know the ground is sure and steady. These new moments with Rannoch are like trying to climb shale cliffs, slippery and uncertain.

Lorcan? I ask suddenly, and he flares into awareness.

Here, Keeper.

I’m…I want to say I’m scared, that I’m suddenly petrified by the changes that have been happening, but I don’t know how.

He sighs in the way only bone washed in my blood can, and whispers against my skin I am here, Little Keeper. I will warn you of harm. For now, be wary, but from what I know of him, you are safe.

I nod, then notice Rannoch has been waiting patiently for me in my silence, head tilted, watching through careful eyes.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

“You are wearing your sigils, Keeper.”

“It seemed the day for it.”

“You don’t seem to enjoy them.”

My heart stutters in response. “Why would you say such a thing, Councilman?” I ask, voice cooling. Have I been so incautious?

“I apologize. I meant more that it has been a long day, and that perhaps you are tired of blood and bone lining your face. I think I’m casting how I would feel onto you, which is not fair.” His lips twist again into a wry smile. “After the hunt, if we’ve been in the mud and the dirt, I can’t wait to wash my face off when I get home. I thought maybe it would be the same for you, that feeling of returning to yourself. I didn’t mean to compare. Of course the dirt of the hunt is a far cry from the sigils of the Keeper.”

It’s such a strange, normal thing to say, that I don’t know how to respond. His earlier words echo in my head. I want to be something better than I am. At least, I’d like to try.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, and then, “I wouldn’t mind washing my face…” The words burst from me unexpectedly, without my permission, but he just nods in reply, face unchanging, and alters our course down a small side street.

Oh, Little Keeper.

Lorcan’s voice is amused in his long-suffering way though, so I can’t have misstepped too much.

“There’s a small cistern this way. I have a cloth you can use.”

At the curving end of the path is one of the common cisterns, small stone bowls more than anything, filled with brackish water from the ponds scattered through the outlands of our walls. It’s tepid and stale, but serviceable, and I dip the offered cloth into the water before wiping my face, feeling the transition from BoneKeeper to woman with each stroke. Rannoch just stands patiently, waiting for me to pass the small square of fabric back to him once I finish.

“Let me help, Keeper.” It’s not a question, but I am getting more used to the gruffness in his voice, and don’t take offense. Taking the cloth, he reaches out slowly and tilts my head, finger barely touching my skin, and studies my face. “Just here, and here…” he murmurs, gently wiping the side of my cheek and forehead, before pausing. “Done. You…look more like yourself, now.”

My chin still rests on his finger, his eyes on my face, and the moment grows too long for comfort, but he does not move.

“I have a…thing…for you…” he begins, almost hesitantly, casting a furtive glance around us. My breath catches. Rannoch is not hesitant. He is not furtive. He is cool, and confident, and arrogant. Above all else, arrogant. Rannoch knows who he is and his place and importance in this village, and walks like a man who believes the soil of the earth was made for him. In some ways, it was. He may have been born from a trade, his pale, pale eyes betraying his heritage, but in all other ways he is a lodestone for the future of the village. Young enough to be a Councilor for decades to come, having been chosen, like Lorcan, early by the bones, and he wears that knowledge in every step he takes. But now, discomfort sits on his shoulders like a weight, and I fight not to narrow my eyes, to keep them wide and empty, like the fields around our walls.

“A thing?” I ask, unable to keep curiosity from crawling through like a cat, wrapping around my tone in an unexpected purr, and his eyes light with satisfaction.

“Yes, Keeper. A gift, as it were.” he answers, voice lightening and teasing, and this side of him, this unexpected window into someone other than the Councilman, is dangerous. “But you’ll have to wait until we go to the Oldest Mother first. Take me there.”

I startle slightly, pulling away from him, then calm, on the surface uncaring, but inside tremble. There are two poisonous words in his honeyed tone. Gifts in our village are not a known thing, not in many ways. It is a gift to serve the Council, a gift to be chosen as an Offering. It is a gift to be protected. So a gift is not a word said with a soft smile, with dancing eyes, with nervous anticipation. And I had offered to take him to his Old Mother, not the Oldest Mother. Never the Oldest Mother. I do not know how he knows, but I can hear the purpose in his voice. She is in one of my secret spaces, but now he has commanded, and I cannot ignore a request to meet with bones. It is in my blood, so if the words are spoken, I cannot betray my calling.

I lead him to the Oldest Mother, worry like acid in my stomach. She is some distance away, quiet and forgotten in the furthest back corner of the village, three bleached bones nestled by the cracking, ancient entrance to one of the old cisterns, and our walk to her is silent and proper, through the now quiet village, streets mostly empty of people. The few who remain do not look at us — it would do no one good if questions were seen in their eyes. One of the smaller children ventures a tiny wave, then remembers I cannot see her, and scuttles away. For the rest of the walk we are like ghosts in a dead forest, the path becoming quieter and quieter until there is no sound but the sandy scratch of our feet on dry dirt.

The Oldest Mother is in a quiet, lost corner — one of my favorite places in the entire city, and I am suddenly wary. No one can see us here — most don’t even know this little crevice exists. When you look down the path towards the cistern, it seems as though it is built straight into the stone of the mountain behind it. And it is, mostly. But there is one, tiny nook that curves around the back of the pillars, large enough for three or four people at most. You would never see it unless you walk all the way to the end and almost press your body against the edge of the city wall, which you would not do, for risk of shredding your skin on the thorny overhang that anchors the wall to the mountain behind it.

It is a place you slip into; you do not stumble across it.

She is covered by the heavy vines that travel the length of the stone wall, sharp, biting spikes on twisted black branches, crawling down to the dirt like dying veins. I will give Rannoch his due — it is always hard to locate the Oldest Mother, even for me. The wall is long and uniform, though old, and if you do not know just where she is, you will cut your hand to vermilion ribbons before you can find her.

I walk to a point where the thorns know me, where I have sliced them off so I can slip my hand through and brush against the cool, smooth bones bricked into small slots between larger stones.

“Here,” I say, warmth blooming under my fingertips. It is always a pleasure to connect skin with bone. And no one visits the Oldest Mother, not really, so her happiness becomes my own at the promise of her many-times great Grandson.

“Show me.” He commands, and it is not a question, but is not cruel, so I take his hand to guide him through the safe space. The moment I touch him, though, his breath falters, his fingers close reflexively around mine, an odd echo of my moment with Tahrik, and he stops me from reaching further forward. We are both facing the wall, shoulder to shoulder, tucked in a corner away from the eyes of the village, the huge, breaking pillars of the cistern blocking us from any view, and his hand is unexpectedly warm and soft in my own.

“Councilman?” I ask, voice clearly hesitant, and he turns to look down at me, to study the image of my thin, pale fingers in his own, more tanned ones.

“Keeper…” he begins, still staring down, not meeting my eyes. His voice is a whisper; he sounds like the bones. “I have a gift for you, but you cannot tell anyone.”

I frown. “I don’t know how to reply, Councilman.”

A thought flashes across his face like lightning, before he can stop it, and his fingers flex in my own. “Just Rannoch here.” A pause, and then, “Please.”

This is new. This is…this is dangerous, and static crackles along my skin, like the air in the days before the Storms. I have never called him by his name. It is not a word for my mouth.

“I…cannot?” It’s a question, and he frowns, then reaches into his pocket, and passes me a small ball of something wrapped in rough wool.

“This must be a secret between us, Cerid–” He stops himself. His tone is too nervous to be a command; I bend toward him unintentionally. Nothing about this moment is known. It is all shimmering and different, and I am not sure I want to open the small, strange thing in my hand. There is something about it that will bind us together in a way that I have not considered. “I mean it, Keeper. This is nothing that can ever be said outside this moment. It is a Death Silence. Like your eyes.”

The words stop my heart, my breath, my lungs. Like your eyes. Like your eyes. “Breathe, Ceridwen.” He pauses. “I’m sorry. You don’t like that name.” He’s frustrated with himself, and mumbles quietly, “I don’t know what to call you.” Sighing, he shakes his head. “I know. Of course I know. I have known since the day they went white.” He pauses, corrects himself, almost as an afterthought. “Almost white…” he says, and a sleeping child at night would be louder than his voice in that second. “I know you like I know my own skin. And I have never said a word. I need you to do the same.”

All thought has fled me, and my hands act of their own accord, unwrapping the gift while my mind is still tripping over his revelation. Like your eyes. Like your eyes. Inside the dull wool is a strange, round ball. It is textured, scent sharp and sweet, like nothing I have ever smelled before. But most surprising is the color. It is bright and blinding, almost hurting my eyes. It is like fire, and reflects the cool light of the sun back in warmer, almost painful ways.

Rannoch leans forward now that this secret is revealed, eager and anxious. Even still, even in the closet privacy of the vines and the shadow of the cistern, he looks around and around, searching for prying eyes. He pauses, reaching out a single finger to caress first the strange ball, then cautiously, cautiously, like a feather or ash falling from the burning pits, he traces the hollows of the knuckles on my hand. I do not understand this moment, but am caught in the shadows of his skin on the pale white of my own.

“The Traders are coming.”

All air disappears in his words, dissolves into a vacuum of void and chaos. The Traders are coming. Suddenly the strange little ball in my hand makes a terrible type of sense. Now that the secret has been spoken into reality, the words rush from his mouth in staccato breaths, almost unintelligible, though I’m not sure if it’s the pulse of my blood that fades them in and out, or if it is his inability to speak what should not be spoken. “Silas and I met them on the hunt….still four days away, perhaps five….their wagons are not full, but they have some things….we cannot tell anyone…only Silas and I know. The Council would…they would turn them away….we cannot tell…we’re not sure…” The command in his voice is clear now, all softness has fled in the aftermath of his own realization that he has stepped a foot into death, that even he would not be protected if he misjudged the cavern of my silence. “You must promise.”

What truths are being told here, what depth of secrets? Why would the Council turn the Traders away? Traders we desperately need? Who could save our village in a rabid time, when the Storms are approaching and the silos are empty?

I cannot look away from the glowing ball in my hand, my eyes watering from the viciousness of its color.

“What is this?”

I know the question surprises him, but he scratches a nail across its surface, and a flare of stinging, clean scent pearls rises from it, tiny pearls of liquid on its skin beading up from the line. Then he takes it from me, and digs into it, peeling back its outer layer, exposing a second ball of pale, almost translucent, matter underneath. He splits it into pieces; the water of it spreads across his fingers. Locking eyes with me, he holds his breath for a moment, before very carefully reaching out a finger and tracing it along the bottom curve of my lip.

I have…I have never been touched like this before, never tasted the skin of another human, and without thought I pull my lip back under my teeth, but his finger follows, brushing the tip of my tongue, and the earth shifts beneath me. Eyes wide, I cannot move, and he is not breathing, and only the flood of a sweetness I have never known spreading across my tongue takes me from the moment. My body may be frozen, but my eyes flick down to the gift in his hand. A smile of singular and starlight sweetness breaks across his face like fire warmth. This is too much for one moment. I think. Too much, too much, but his hands are already moving, taking a section of the gift, and pushing it into my mouth, before eating one himself.

I chew, cautiously at first; the flavor is like nothing I have ever known, have never dreamt of. It is fragrant and tart, and tastes like its color, vibrant and biting. There is little of it to eat — it is almost a drink as it has so much liquid in it. A sound of happiness I have never made sings in the back of my throat, a murmur of pure pleasure, and Rannoch’s eyes flare open in response. Without thought he reaches out to hold the side of my face, then bends his own close to mine, so close we share a breath, so close his nose brushes mine, and the song in my throat stutters to a fluttering silence.

“I must,'' he whispers, the words forced from his throat, and once said, his hand wraps around the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, tangling and taut, and he pulls me against him, his lips closing in on my own. The first press of them against mine is a star exploding, a phoenix dying and being reborn. I don’t push him away; he takes it as an invitation, pressing my back against the cold, grey stone of the cistern, tongue darting out to caress my own in my mouth, a guttural moan torn from his chest. He tastes like the gift, bright and sweet, and he is drinking me in, tipping my head back to open my mouth to his, exploring every inch of my lips with ravenous thoroughness. Even his teeth close on my lip in a gentle bite, before pressing a kiss to the spot. His other hand breaks apart a piece of the food, and, pulling back, without breaking his stare, he runs it along the outline of my lips, the juice from it running down, and my tongue darts out to catch the taste before he leans in to lick the flavor from my skin.

“When you are mine and mine alone, I will have you naked before me, and I will bathe you in the juice of this fruit, then spend hours licking it from your skin.”

The words are a dark promise, a whispered dream brought to life in a fervent vow.

Keeper!

I pull away immediately, shuddering, pressing a hand against my chest. He sees something in the movement and smiles, not the secret soft movement from before, but something more feral and fierce, and it is like the flame from the Everfire, the heat so wild it hurts. I do not know how to speak, but a sudden, unexpected shout from the Oldest Mother shatters the moment.

BoneKeeper!

Looking around frantically, I realize the only place for him to go is further in, because if anyone discovers us in this moment, there will be nothing but skin and blood for him, and closed towers for me.

“I’m sorry…” I whisper, and confusion laces his face before I shove him back, further into the area where even I do not always venture. The vines are too thick, the thorns sharp and cutting, and realization floods his eyes as his ears pick up some sound I do not yet. But I don’t need to hear. The bones do it for me. Nodding once, sharply, Rannoch separates the vines with more skill and care than I am able, and slips silently into the shadows within. I take my flask from my side and waste precious water washing my hands and skin, rinsing my mouth and spitting it out, and a flash of hurt lights his eyes before he can stop it.

“It is not you…” I try to explain, against my better judgment. Let him think it was him! This should not have happened! But it would be a betrayal I could not stomach to leave that in his head. He grins, satisfaction bright and brilliant, then is gone, and I reach through the vines to the wall in front of me, fingers laying gently on the Oldest Mother, and I pray and pray and pray. She is quiet, and I think, perhaps, she used her energy to warn me, because she has so little that her shout must have drained her, but after a moment she whispers against my fingertips.

Stay, calm, stay. It is not much, but I take her council, and do not move, pressing my head against the wall, carelessly through the thorns, a cutting crown around my head anointing me in thin rivers of blood.

“She is this way. A child saw her come.”

“Why would she be here? Who is with her?” The second voice makes me shudder, but I calm my breath and stay flush to the bone.

“BoneKeeper?”

There are three Lorcan says, voice tight, and I try to remain still, lost in the bones. If they find me, it is the only explanation. Three Councilmen, though. It is never a good sign to have so many of The Twelve on the hunt for one small rabbit.

“Here she is.” The voice is disgusted. “Keeper!” A bark, a command that even I cannot ignore, and I pull away from the bone, blinking blood from my pale lashes.

“Councilmen?” My voice is far away, in a dream, and I can sense their confusion.

“What are you doing here, BoneKeeper?” A deeper, more cavernous voice, low and rumbling like thunder, pulls me upright. The question and the asker are both unexpected.

“Father?” It is almost unheard of to have the Village Father out. I have drastically misjudged the situation. There is a vibrating string of tension between me and the Councilmen, a simmering anger that hovers on their surface like a mirage of water. It seems a year since I refused to read the bones for them, but it has only been the course of a day, and my defiance is clearly still at the front of their thoughts.

Three councilmen and the Father, though….Either the Storms are early or the Ender has come for this to happen.

The Father steps forward, burl and brawn; his name would make him seem a greybeard, but he is living fire, all dark, polished wood gleaming in the pale sun. The Father is younger than most of the Council, and though we are not privy to the choices the Sun God makes in his wisdom, it is easy now to see why he was anointed as the leader of our city. He is the only one in the village who looks like a piece of the before that was forgotten and found, a mystery of blood and bone that cannot be explained. As a man he is a sort of brilliance that is difficult to look at, but impossible to turn from.

Lorcan’s sense of relief on my spine is unexpected but comforting.

Silas. You are safe for now, Little Keeper. He is…was…a friend.

I have heard that the Council was not as bad before; there were encroaching members, of course, men who grew too fond of softer treatment, of fear and favor, of power, always power. But they were balanced by those who had been in service for a longer time, who had silver beards, and wrinkled skin, whose bodies wore the weight of the decisions they had made for our people. During my father’s time, the bones named so few to the Council that the people grew used to control resting in the hands of the oldest in the village.

Everything changed in the winter of my birth. I’ve only heard fragments of the story from the villagers when they thought I was not listening, when they did not see me, half-girl, half-shadow, but from their words in quiet corners, this is what happened. The bones refuse to speak to me about their choices for anything — any Offering, any Councilman, any decision from the Gods — and I will not force them, so everything I know is swallowed truths and wide-eyed whispers. I am marrow certain that, were I to sit in a history class in the schools, the story would be different, something more palatable. But at least the elders in our village know that the autumn before my birth, early in the Slaughter Month, the bones named Silas as successor to the Village Father. Silas was only a child, I think eight, when the bones whispered his name. It was unheard of in our history to have a child named successor — usually, when one Father is close to death, the next is named, and there is time for training, for transfer, for trust to be built between the Council and the new Father, between the people and their new leader. The Old Father remains a trusted hand to help until he passes and is guided to bone. His femurs are placed as all Fathers, Councilmen, and Justices before him, on the stairway leading to the House of the Gods. These bones are off-limits to any other than the current Council and the Father; even I, as Keeper, am not permitted to visit them by myself.

Still, despite Silas’ youth, the people counted it a blessing of sorts. Perhaps Silas was named so the old Father could raise him into a truly strong leader, perhaps it was a sign of something better to come. No one was truly worried; there had always been the steadying hand of the Father previously, to guide the Council. It was unthinkable that the bones would call the older Father to Offering, leaving nothing but a child to lead us. The old Father would spend the winter educating Silas, and we would finally have a leader who would be able to pull us from the wreckage of our history into something new. Hope flavored the Slaughter that year, and even the poisoned winds curling down from the mountains couldn’t taint it with bitterness.

But the winter winds didn’t ebb and flow as expected; instead they tore into the village devastatingly early that year, cold biting the people like a rabid wolf. Before the end of the Slaughter Month, just after Silas was called to serve, the rains poured down so fiercely that roofs were torn from homes and people had no protection from the poisoned water. My father was trapped by the Storms in the now-abandoned BoneKeeper’s home, carved from rock far from the Council House, and could do nothing for the hundreds of villagers sent to their deaths in Silence. Everyone was frightened; in an eerie echo of our current situation, the silos were too low for such a long storm season. People were trapped between crying out in sorrow for their neighbors and being sickened by the hope they felt knowing with every death, their rations increased slightly.

In the midst of this storm chaos, during a short break in the rains, when the mountain was shaking, and thin streams of Everfire could, for the first time, be seen pushing through its cracks, the Village Father walked into the wilds beyond the Southern bone wall and did not return.

Such a thing had never happened. There was no time to mourn, or time for discussion in the village — any who had a home left were confined to it with the coming rains. Many who had lost their homes were welcomed into tight quarters by neighbors; some of the single men, Raek and his friends included, were taken into the Council House for the season, as it had the most room. They were vipers given quarters in a badger’s burrow, and had a long, dark winter to inject their poison into their hosts. And the power shifted, slowly but surely.

My father and heavily pregnant mother were locked away from the rest of the world in their stone cottage. And then I joined them, at the height of the longest winter in our village’s memory, when the Storms ripped the walls from homes, and corroded the flesh of so, so very many people, lost forever to the silence.

I was born on the turning of the year, from Crone to Marrow, one foot in each, as I have had one foot in life and death since. Into a time where the Village Father was an eight year old boy, and the Council tasted a power they were reluctant to give back. Silas has had to wrest it from them, piece by piece, chipping away at the monolith with bloody fingers to carve it into the shape he desires. It has been a long, silent battle, fought by a dark, silent man, who looks cut from the same stone that makes the face of the mountain. There is nothing soft to him — no flash of a smile, no glint in his ebony eyes. They are a starless sky at midnight. But his voice is close to kind now, though I cannot see his face through blood.

“BoneKeeper?” he asks again, and someone behind him scoffs.

“I am speaking to the Oldest Mother, Sir.”

There is a tightness in the men. Did they not know she is here? Then again, they rarely know where any bones are anymore. They have forgotten their lessons if they think they are beyond the memory of the bones.

“Why are you visiting the Oldest Mother?” Nickolas’ voice is a biting command, like his hands on me when he collects me for visitation, my skin showing five fingerprint ovals every day after. I know for certain like I know my own blood that he would imprint himself on me in less temporary ways if he could. I can feel it build in him like the coming Storms. Soon even the threat of Exile will not be enough to keep him from my body. I do not know what I will do when he comes for me.

“I am starting the questioning? I was asked to find answers — the empty silos?” My voice echoes my confusion, tilting up at the end, a rare show of flesh and blood instead of ghost and shadow. I am still blinking away where the thorns have cut me, so I startle violently when strange hands suddenly touch my face, wiping at the crimson ribbons. Flinging myself back, I impale myself on the wall behind me, hundreds of tiny pinpricks pushing into my skin, before strong hands wrap around my arms and bring me forward softly.

Lorcan moans quietly on my skin, absorbing the blood, sounding almost drunk from a second anointing in such a short time.

“I am sorry, Keeper. Forgive me.” The Father’s voice is too deep to be soft, but the words are gentle. Though I hear murmurs from behind him, even the Council would not dare to counteract the Village Father. Openly, at least. Though they are becoming more and more bold in their rebellion against him.

“I was just startled. It is a small thing.” He hums low in his throat, a thought trapped.

“You are bleeding.” He is matter-of-fact, and I shrug, replying in the same vein.

“It is not unusual.”

His answering sound feels like the mountain’s rumble in my chest. Turning from me, he faces the Councilmen, three across, one on either side of Nickolas like guards.

“We came because you are owed an apology, Keeper. And Nickolas was…eager…to give you one, as soon as possible. Is that not true, Brother Nickolas.” It’s not a request, and even I would have had trouble refusing the command in the Father’s voice.

Nickolas sneers, lip curled back as though smelling rotten meat, and shrugs dismissively. “I’m sorry you misunderstood my intent, Keeper. Emotions run high in hard times. I know you would not understand such a thing. But I will not be so incautious again.”

The silence is deafening, the Father’s face a storm of anger, but he swallows back whatever words press against his teeth.

“Brother Aleksander? Brother Malik? Would you get some small amount of cleansing oil and clean cloth, then meet us? The Keeper needs tending. Nickolas, you can return to the Council House. We’ll speak further there.”

Two of the three men scurry away without question, but Nickolas hovers. “I’ll remain. It is perhaps unwise to leave you alone, Father?” His voice is poison, and I wonder how others do not hear or see the veins of blackness that run through him. He is a pit of venom, and should be Rendered to the Gods. Even the bones draw back from his presence.

“Brother.” It is all The Father says, but it is enough, and Nickolas spins in an angry turn.

“Careful, now, Nickolas.” He stills, though Nickolas does not acknowledge the words. “Perhaps we need a more substantial Offering to show our faith and fervor. I is for Infant.” We all owe our due, I can’t help but finish the rhyme, and see the Councilman’s shoulder’s tense, an answer now forced from his mouth.

“I am an untouchable, Father.” It is as close to a curse as he is able to form, and I see the Father’s lips turn up, as though he was waiting for that answer.

“U for the Unknown, those lost to Belows. There is no word of untouchable in the First Lesson, Nickolas. You would do well to remember that. You are dismissed.”

He turns to me, giving his back to Nickolas, and misses the hiss from the Councilman’s lips, the jutted jaw and narrowed eyes. Then again, I think, staring at the muscles tight in the Father’s shoulders, perhaps he has not.

He waits, a beat, and another, until Nickolas finally stomps away. Everything is silent for a long, long moment before the tightness in his body loosens and he exhales slowly. Without speaking, the Father examines my face carefully, taking in the rivulets of blood running down my face, my blank expression, the way my body sways back toward the bone wall as though pulled there. I’ve never had the full weight of the Father’s gaze directly on me, and it makes me unaccountably nervous. He is not often in the village or at the Council meetings, choosing to go out with the Hunters as frequently as possible, usually accompanied by Rannoch. In the rare times we are together, he avoids looking at me, as though something about me disgusts him or personally offends him.

To be honest, until a week or two ago, I don’t know if I would even have registered him seeking me out in any case. I spent so much of my time deep in memories when I sat with the Council that I can’t recall ever speaking to him, if not for the bones. It is the only way for me to stay sane in this village; I am alone too often, and would be driven mad by my thoughts if I had no company at all. But there is no place which has welcomed me other than the walls of the city, and I am not comfortable anywhere but with the living bone. Even with Tahrik it feels as though I’ve stepped into someone else’s life for a brief, glorious moment, giving me a hint of what things would have been like had I just been a girl with dust brown eyes and the hope of happiness reflected back at me. With Tahrik I do not have to be myself, if only for the space of a breath or two.

Silas’s face is soft, considering.

“How goes the questioning, Keeper?” he asks quietly.

Picking up the corner of my shirt, I wipe the blood from my face slowly to give me time. Lorcan is almost electric on my back; he has never been bathed with blood twice in a month like this, and I’m distracted by the feel of his energy down my spine.

“It…goes.” It’s an answer and not an answer, and while I’m trying my best to be respectful, there is something in my voice that makes it clear I’d rather be anywhere else in this moment than standing here with him.

“Ah.” Silas is stone still, not looking away from my face, and I feel as though he can see through me. It’s unnerving, and I pull my hair over my shoulder, fumbling fingers finding the Hunter in my braids, looking for comfort.

He seems sleepy, which makes me even more nervous. The Hunter was just anointed in my blood; he should be awake, not distant.

Hunter? I call anxiously.

Here, BoneKeeper. Be at peace. I feel better at his immediate reply, but still ask,

Do you need anointing? I have enough, and can do it without being seen.

PULL ME AROUND, KEEPER! Lorcan’s voice is a shout interrupting us, loud enough that I wince, and he apologizes immediately. Bring me to the front, Keeper. I know Silas. I’ll watch for you.

The Hunter feels wry in his response. It seems your Protector has had enough for both of us. I am well, Keeper. You don’t need two lunatics yelling in your ears.

Lorcan huffs in response, but says Around your neck, Little Keeper, so I can watch all sides.

Hesitantly I loop Lorcan around my hands and drape him over my fingers. The Father watches, unspeaking, as I wrap the long strand around my neck, a collar of crimson and white..

“Was…was that your Protector, Keeper?” He is respectful, but his words light a fire within me.

“He is my Protector, Father.”

“Lorcan?”

I nod.

“He was a good man,” the Father says sadly, and I frown.

“He is a good man,” I snap back, bite in my voice for the first time. “Don’t speak of him as though he’s not here. It’s ill-mannered.”

For a second, there’s a ghost of a smile on the Father’s face — for some reason my response amuses him — but then he freezes, attention caught by something on the ground. The smile and softness blow out like a candle flame, and he stares at me through narrowed eyes, careful and considering.

“You will come with me to the Blood Tree, Keeper,” he commands abruptly, voice raw and thunderous. In the blink of an eye he has shifted from a stag to a hawk, the former careful and silent, the latter talons bared and screaming down.

I don’t know what’s changed, but when I can’t see the path, there are no safe steps other than emotionless compliance. “As you wish, Sir,” I murmur, nodding placidly.

He frowns at my docile reply, but doesn't take his eyes from mine, as though wanting to see the effects his next words will have on me. “And Rannoch?” he growls, so low it is hard to hear him, “We need to talk.”

I am as still as a rabbit in a hunter’s trap, face blank, eyes empty as the Father’s waits for me to react in some way. But I give nothing, and less than nothing, until he finally turns away.

“You are being foolish, Rannoch. Correct your course. I won’t warn you again. BoneKeeper. Your hand? I will guide you there.”

I cannot move, am still barely breathing.

Little Keeper! Lorcan is loud from blood, and snaps me out of my fear. You are not prey. Straighten your spine.

Taking a deep breath, I shake my vertebracelets at the Father. “I have others holding my hand, Sir. I don’t need your assistance.” A pause, and then as an afterthought, “But thank you.”

He presses his lips together but acquiesces, turning to walk away. I follow a few steps behind, trying to calm my shaking, wondering how he knew, what he knows. Just as I leave, I notice the smallest curve of peel from the fruit laying in the dust, and a shiver runs through me.

THE BLOOD TREE

WREN

By the time Silas slows his pace, we are far from the center of the village at the north-western corner, the towering mountains curving above us. He has not looked over his shoulder once to check my progress; perhaps he can hear the stumbling sound of my feet in the dirt.

Or he has more faith in your abilities than others do Lorcan comments wryly, still wrapped around my neck in a collar, and I startle.

Protector?

Did you not — did you not speak to me, Little Keeper?

But we both know I did not, and Lorcan falls silent.

Unease creeps on my skin like Blood Moth wings, and my hand drifts to the Guiding Knife of its own accord, caressing the edge as though it could provide some comfort. My nerves make me careless, and I nick myself, the smallest drop of crimson pearling on my skin. The bone knife absorbs it instantly, and it feels like a low low purr of sound vibrates from its depths. Jerking my fingers away, I surreptitiously wipe them on my hem.

Too much is changing, and I understand none of it.

It is not until we approach the curving north-west gate at the very outside edge of the village that Silas finally stops. He still doesn’t turn around, just stands staring at the edge of our city — civilization on one side, wilderness on the other. The path turns sharply from the gate, so from our position we are unable to see the Blood Tree.

“BoneKeeper,” he begins, and the caution flavoring his words sets the small hairs on my arms to standing. “Some advice. There are more things at play on the board than you understand, I think.” I bristle instantly, wanting to argue, but he turns to me, silencing me with a sigh and a raised hand. “Peace. For the love of the Goddess, peace.” Shaking his head, he scrubs a hand across his head, frowning. “It’s not an insult, but Keeper. You are barely of this world. The petty politics of normal men are not in your scope. Or have not been, to this point.” Running my fingers over my bracelets, I debate responding, but remain quiet when he continues. “Your silence buys you safety in this moment, do you understand?” He pauses, and says, almost wryly, “That means no scavenger hunts or fighting. Just — be yourself. No. Perhaps I should say be as you were. Before I left on the hunt. Not whatever you have become in the space of a month.”

The Father looks at me, waiting for an answer I think, but I remain silent and empty, and he nods. “Perfect. Just…do that. And listen.” Turning back to the gate, he exhales forcefully. “Forward to battle, I suppose.”

It is not comforting.

The Blood Tree is just outside the gate at the top of our village, a twisting, clawing obstacle on an anemic path fading out into pale green and gold, the dust of the road stopping suddenly where it meets the vegetation— almost at the cliff’s edge. It grows a stone’s throw beyond the curves of a massive, bleached white archway, ribs for shape, femurs for strength, empty eyed skulls to keep watch, long sides coming to a pointed top high above the rest of the wall. The Northern Arch is as imposing as the Council House in its own way; made completely from Silent bones, there have to be two hundred or more villagers used in its formidable structure. I have never passed through its limits — even approaching the arch makes me nauseous. There are so many Silent in it that I can feel it pressing against me even from a distance. It is mirrored in the south by an identical edifice, and the eastern and western walls, making the very edges of our society. No feet but the Hunters’ go behind the faded brown pebbles and dirt.

In a strange twist of fate, my only family is walled here, resting just outside the interior of the village, their bones nestled in the wilds-facing perimeter. It is considered by many in the village a position of honor, guarding us from the night; to me, it is a position of exile, far from the heart of our people.

I tried once to lean against the wall nearest the archway, at the very limit of where I was able to go, one hand grasping tightly to prevent me from falling, the other stretching, fingertips straining to touch a familiar humerus, and was just able to brush it, skin to bone, before I was violently ill from the pressure of the Silent. It was my grandfather’s, my skin recognizing the dips and grooves that comforted me on long days after he went to the Sun God.

He was the first of my family I Guided when I was old enough to hold souls — I was seven when the Council called him to Offering. For a long time, even though I could guide souls and hear bone, I would get sick at the turning of every month, and would be unable to name the Offerings. The Council was always more than willing to do it in my stead, and called my grandfather, my uncle, and my cousins in rapid succession. The final roots of my family were torn from the ground and thrown to the fire when I was ten and I cradled the soft, shining soul of my mother from her Rendering, leaving me the last of our broken tree. It was a brutal and breaking series of Offerings, my young hands trembling more each time I carried the bright weight of another I had loved.

I learned my lesson early, it settled into my marrow, became part of my heart — anyone I loved would be given as Offering. Any person who showed me kindness, however small, would somehow be named not long thereafter.

After I woke him in living bone, my grandfather would tell me stories of my mother as a child, of my uncle — her only sibling — and of my family. I would curl up with him in the pale twilight and listen to his whispers, feeling tied to something greater than myself, a history of my blood that kept me attached to the earth. But when all of my bloodline were gone in Offering, I was taken to train permanently with the Council. My family bones were moved outside my reach, far down the perimeter walls past the Northern Arch. As a reward, they said, for my hard work. An honor, they said, for my ancestors. A punishment, they meant, for me, and suddenly I had nothing to connect me to this place anymore. So I began to drift, and drift, and drift. The only thing that caught me and kept me were skeletal fingers and ivory arms, and I built a new home for myself where the people who love me could never be taken from me, and comfort, however cold, was a constant.

After the day I tried to reach him, I woke, sore and shaking in my cottage, to bone dust in a pile on the ground beside my bed. The threat was clear.

I have not returned to the Northern Arch since.

“Are you ready?” SIlas asks, interrupting my thoughts, then, taking my silence for acquiescence, walks forward and through the archway. I pause behind him, still on the inside, looking at the scene before me. A mixed selection of Council, Renders, Reapers, and Protectors are already gathered around the Blood Tree — more than Raek and Nickolas normally have in their little snake pit. At the sight of him, the simmering, nervous group of men by the tree fall silent.

“I heard you called a meeting, Brother Raek.” His voice darkens as he glances around the gathering. “Nickolas. Aleksander. What a surprise to see you both here.” Silas turns back to address Raek directly. “I thought you’d appreciate my presence, if we are having a meeting of the Council.” Silas’s words are measured and weighted; Raek and Nickolas look stunned, and furious all at once.

“Of course, Father,” Raek replies, oily and serpent slick. “We just didn’t want to bother you as you have only just returned. It is a simple discussion of the silos and the Storms. Not worth your time, I’m sure. But we welcome your presence, your making space for these small problems.” He has a way of speaking that makes it seem as though he’s permitting the Father to be there, as though the Father does not care about the village, as though power here is in Raek’s hands. I can see Silas’s shoulders tense at the condescending tone. He waits a beat, perhaps two, debating, perhaps, how to answer, then notices I have not followed him, and turns to command me.

“Hmm. BoneKeeper? Attend.” It is sharp and biting compared to his tone from moments before, but even a lifetime of following orders cannot force me through the arch. I feel sick to my stomach even being this close, wavering on my feet.

“You have brought the BoneKeeper?” Nickolas’s words are a hiss, venomous and flashing. For the first time, Raek looks truly concerned, but I don’t have time to consider the meaning.

“I…” Swallowing hard, I try to make my feet move, do anything, but I cannot. Silas is frowning, as though I’m doing this purposefully to test his patience, ignoring his advice. The rest watch through considering eyes, and I’m unsure of the best play in this moment.

“Keeper?” Silas starts toward me, but is pushed aside by Nickolas, who stalks from the tree to my side.

“This is no time for your insolence, woman,” he snarls, lips curling into a sneer. “You would do well to keep your mouth shut and not get involved in men’s issues.” Grabbing my arm in bruising fingers, he twists the skin and yanks me forward through the gate in a violent, careless motion.

The bones of the village scream as one — high-pitched, agonized wails of sound, a tortured, crazed shriek of noise loud enough to shatter eardrums, and then, all at once, fall silent.

THE BLOODIED TREE

WREN

When I come back to myself, I am on the ground by the tree, the Councilmen hovering over me with scared faces and wide eyes. Somewhere in the distance Raek is berating Nickolas in a low, steady stream of words that are unending despite several meek attempts at protest. The Father is standing above me, hands clenched in tight fists at his sides, and Rannoch is kneeling in the dirt beside me, pouring water in my mouth.

“Cease…” I say sputtering weakly, and the relief breaking on his face is like the first sunrise after the storm season.

“You stopped breathing.” He doesn’t try to hide the panic in his voice, perhaps because it is echoed on the faces of the men around him. “You stopped breathing, Keeper.”

“He should not have forced her!’

“She knew something was wrong!”

“It’s a sign…”

“It’s a sign…”

The Council, Protectors, Renders, and Reapers are all murmuring amongst themselves, a combination of disgust at my treatment, and something darker, more insidious. I don’t have time to consider their reactions though, because it is so loud out here, beyond the wall, and yet so quiet.

It is…too quiet.

Sitting up in dawning terror, I look around frantically, creeping hysteria freezing my heart. The only sounds in the world are from the men around me, the wind, the tree branches, the birds…but no bones. No bones!

Grabbing Rannoch’s arm, I pull myself to my feet shakily then stumble toward the wall, falling into it, uncaring that I cut my hands and arms pressing into the skeletons.

Hello? Hello?

I know where I am, inches from my family, and I turn to them.

Hello? Hello?

There is no answer. The bones here are empty.

Empty.

They were not when they went through the archway, that much I know, and I’m gutted with a reborn loss, long-shelved grief dusted and polished and placed before me, bright and new again. What has happened? Where is everyone?

A sickening thought strikes me — if fear were a flame before, it is now an inferno, flowing through my veins like Everfire — and I raise a violently trembling hand to my hair. I cannot touch my neck yet. I simply cannot.

Hunter? I ask, hope choking my throat, tears stinging across the bridge of my nose.

Silence.

HUNTER? I scream, but still. Silence.

I do not even need to question the jeweler to know he is gone as well, and, without moving from the wall where my face is pressed into unresponsive bone, I cry, and cry, and cry, tears pouring unchecked down my face, sobs tearing through my body in tremors as brutal as any storm.

He is gone.

And if the Hunter is gone…I can’t even think the words.

Forcing myself, I raise a shuddering hand to my throat, where Lorcan’s bones are wrapped around my neck in a crimson and ivory collar.

The silence in front of me is echoed now behind me, the world having fallen into a mute hush with only my keening to shatter its stillness.

Lorcan?

Silence.

Please, please Goddess.

…lorcan?

His name is a whisper, barely a whisper, a prayer.

And the response is a breath, not even, but…

keeper…what?

The relief births a fury in me unlike anything I have ever known, and I turn in one, savage motion, skin raw and bleeding, the cuts from the bone crown and thorn vines reopened here a third time by the bone wall, wind whipping my hair into twisting strands, all my bone armor now completely silent other than Lorcan, who is barely a sigh on my skin.

“What have you done?” I scream, the sound reverberating off the mountains, echoed by the hawks circling above us, biting shrieks of a predator spotting prey.

The men cower before me, pressing back against the Blood Tree.

“What bonds have you broken, Council? Here beyond the sight of your people. What. Have. You. Done?”

Raek, still with Nickolas, stares at me, eyes bright with malice, but does not respond. Several of the Council mumble and mutter, placating noises full of meaningless excuses. Interestingly enough, others turn to each other in confusion — Rannoch and Silas exchange long, heavy glances, an entire conversation held in the space of a breath.

“This is not your province, BoneKeeper.” Nickolas’s entire body is tight with disdain, my title an insult in his mouth, and I turn my full attention on him, stalking toward him, trembling with rage.

“You dragged me out here, Nickolas. You have made this my province.”

He falls silent as his brother’s grip tightens down again, and I smirk, glancing back and forth between the two men. “A caution, Councilman. Your brother will not always be here to save you and silence your tongue.”

“Is that a threat, BoneKeeper?” Raek asks, voice purposefully loud, faux concern and indignation clear. He is trying to take control, to turn the tide on this chaos. Tilting my head, I smile and reply softly.

“I certainly hope so, Raek. I rarely waste words.”

“How dare you!...” His outrage would be funny if it weren't so hideously out of place.

“How…how dare I?” Turning from him, I dismiss him in a casual shrug of motion, then slowly approach the tree. It is a black, twisting thing, with climbing, looped roots bursting from the ground then diving back beneath, branches like claws and talons curving toward the sky and the bone wall.

The Blood Tree has been here, just outside the gates of our city, for as long as anyone can remember, though it has grown in recent years, grasping root systems running up to and climbing the bone walls of our city. During the warmer months it produces a thick red sap identical to its namesake that the Hunters collect in endless buckets. The sap is boiled down with brackish water to create a heavy, salty-sweet syrup used in every village festival. The syrup is mixed with fermented grain to make mead, is kneaded into dough for flavored breads and cakes during the solstices, and is even combined into tinctures to aid against sickness or help with pain. In turn, during times of hardship, the Blood Tree is anointed with blood collected at the Rendings and Reapings, as a plea for help from the Sun God and Earth. It is a practice outside of the Rendings and Reapings called for by the bones and the Gods, a tradition born of desperation, like the watering of our fruit tree groves.

I am certain, though I have no part in it, that as soon as wheat in the silos was growing scant, the Council was out here, pouring small, ceremonial drops of Offering Blood on its bark. But the ground is wet beneath my feet, marshy and spongy. A cold chill runs down my spine, where Lorcan is painfully quiet, and I raise a horrified hand to cover my mouth. They could not. Even them. It would be…but the tree has grown so much. So quickly. Approaching it carefully, I ignore the protesting men around me and pick my way through the curving roots to the soggy earth nearest the trunk.

It has not rained here since the last storm season.

Shaking, I drop to my knees and press my hands to the ground.

They come away red and metallic, smelling of iron.

“BoneKeeper…” Silas’s voice is cautious. He and Rannoch stand directly behind me, blocking me from the watchful eyes of the rest of the men, and I cast blank eyes up to their faces.

“Did you know?” I can barely get the words out, and am strangely relieved by their confusion.

“What is there to know?” Rannoch asks, voice tight with trepidation, and I turn my hands over to show them my glistening palms. They inhale as one, shock and horror clear in their eyes.

“Unguided?” Silas is unmoving, hasn’t flinched, but it is clear the weight of the mountains behind him have settled on his shoulders.

“Unguided. Who knows how many? The outside walls are completely silent. There is no living bone there.”

“Raek!” Silas’s voice is a roar of sound, a tearing rumble of thunder that even Raek cannot stand against.

“We have had to make hard choices, Sir, hard and desperate choices….” He is obsequious, hands wringing in front of him as he casts glances around him for support. His cohorts step back surreptitiously, fading into the background, trying not to attract attention, and Raek’s face twists in disgust before he can smooth it back into penitence.

“What have you done, Raek.” It is a statement, not a question, as though Silas either already knows or cannot bear to hear the answer.

“The Blood Tree was dying. Dying. And you were off, as usual, with the Hunters, for weeks.” He’s accusing, but not accusing, even now laying the groundwork for the future. “You’re doing what you can for our people, Sir. How could we do less? We only chose people from the outer rings for the water — no one with families. No one of importance to the village. These are dark and terrible times.”

“No one of importance?” The words burst from me, wild and untamed. “Unguided? Uncalled to Offering? Sent to Silence for what? For what?”

“I do not expect you to understand the struggles to rule this village, Keeper,” Raek responds stiffly, and Silas’s head snaps around at his words.

“Rule, Councilman?” There are flashing teeth in his voice, and Raek straightens.

“A poor choice of words, Father. Forgive me. And perhaps a poor choice of actions, but the Blood Tree was almost dead. You were absent. We had no other options.”

“But why would you not call me?” My throat is choking tight. “Why would you send them to Silence?”

“You have not been yourself of late, BoneKeeper.” This is an accusation, a clear one. Raek isn’t dancing with me like he is with the Father. He sees soft flesh and is coming for it. “Who knows what you would have done? Something is happening to you, Keeper. It worries us. Refusing to read for the Council. Ignoring the practices put in place for your safety. Wasting time telling stories to children. Be truthful, Keeper. You barely get through the Offerings. You do not have the mettle in you to do what it is going to take to save this village.”

The mettle? I do not have the mettle within me? I have Guided every Offering in this village since I was five, holding wriggling souls in hands that could not tie bootstraps, have watched skin be stripped from bodies and fed to the Earth, watched throats be slit and, still bleeding, be put on a pyre to the Sun God. I have emptied myself of everything that made me human in order to be a vessel for the Gods, carved the living flesh from my body to keep these people from harm. I do not have the mettle?

My hand floats to my Guiding Knife, thinking of all the souls lost to water this gnarled tree, and I grip the blade, unusually warm beneath my fingers.

Keeper it whispers, and I freeze, its voice shattering my ears. Keeper. Blood.

All else falls to silence, the pressure of the voice in my head allowing for no other noise. I close my eyes tightly, pressing my hands against my lids, trying to breathe through the rupturing voice from the razor sharp bone.

Now, Keeper. Blood. And then Blade.

Nothing more is said, but I know as clearly as if I had been drawn a picture what to do. I just don’t know whether to listen to the voice that splinters my brain into such tiny pieces, that causes such terrible, terrible pain, that demands such endless payment. Stomach churning, I open my eyes and the world comes back into sharp focus, the men arguing in an incoherent, senseless stew of noise and bluster.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

I am desperate to ask Lorcan his counsel, but he is so faint around my neck that my heart stutters, and his fading is what finally makes up my mind. In one, vicious movement, I yank the blade from my belt and stab it full center into my hand.

A CRUEL CUT

SILAS

Ascream of sound cuts through the ceaseless arguing, a shriek like an eagle’s cry, and all heads snap around as one to look at our Keeper, white eyes wide, lips pressed together in a thin, tight line. She is immobile, noiseless, and I can’t figure out where the sharp wail came from. I don’t even have time to consider, though, before Rannoch is running forward, pushing past me to stumble to a horrified stop in front of her. And only then do I notice the tip of the Guiding Knife protruding from the back of her hand, bloodless and just as void of color as the swaying woman in front of me.

“Keeper?” I can’t help but whisper the question. It’s the wrong choice, I know it’s the wrong choice even as the word pushes past my lips. I should be strong and sharp, commanding, but her face is taught with pain and fear, and I don’t have it in me to be anyone other than Silas when she is bent before me looking like a crushed flower. I know Raek will hear it, will twist it around when he meets with his rat-like friends in the quiet corners of the Council House, plotting and planning. But she is wild-eyed and frightened, blade through her hand, trembling like a leaf in the storm winds, and for once I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.

I have no time to consider action though, because, in one fluid motion, the Keeper pulls the knife from her hand and turns to the Blood Tree. No one else is moving, no one is speaking — not even Nickolas. So no one is prepared when she takes two short, powerful steps and then, swinging her arm high, plunges the knife down into the red sapped trunk. It seems for a moment that she has lost her mind; there is enough time to exchange a worried glance with Rannoch, I know that, and then all hell breaks loose and all conscious thought disappears.

Because the Blood Tree squeals, like a pig at slaughter, the sound causing several men to drop to their knees, retching. The rest look nauseous, curving over their stomachs, faces draining of all color. There is no one paler than the Keeper, though, who is locked against the tree, now bleeding hand wrapped around the knife as though she can’t let it go.

Below us, the Earth rumbles.

It starts low, far beneath our feet, a faint shiver, grass tips wavering slightly, as though a soft breeze came by. But nothing has moved in the still air, and the tremor grows and strengthens until tiny cracks appear on the surface under our boots. They widen, and widen further, until I can see the layers in the earth and rock, until I can see how far down the ground is soaked with blood. It is inches deep. Inches, and I turn horrified eyes to Rannoch, who is already looking at me with dawning realization. This was not the sacrifice of a few villagers, not to have the hard packed earth beneath the Blood Tree saturated as though there were a scarlet spring beneath its roots. This is something much, much darker than I can even think of in the moment.

Above us, there is a sound like a glass breaking, like a stone flung through a window pane, and it echoes off the nearby peaks, reverberating in a thunderous symphony.

The booming finally pulls the BoneKeeper from her trance, and she glances toward the mountain before slumping back against the tree in seeming exhaustion. Dripping crimson hand resting on her bone necklace, she sighs, closing her eyes, and simply says, “I would run if I were you.”

And Gods help us, we do.

And she smiles as though she sees it.

THE TREE IS DEAD

WREN

They race from the tree like chickens from the slaughter, squawking and squalling, arms flapping as they push by each other, scrambling to go back through the Silent gate. I can’t move, can’t stand, muscles trembling from the effort it took to bury the blade in the Blood Tree, and can’t force myself to focus on anything beyond the sickening memory of the way the blade swallowed in my hand, the way I felt it as though my fingers were wrapped around a throat. Swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, like it was drinking an ocean. And then, suddenly, it felt empty again, as though it had never spoken, as though it hadn’t drained the tree dry of the red sap that is so vital to our people.

As though it hadn’t severed something deep inside the trunk, woken something deep inside the earth and high above in the mountain.

Behind me, the tree cracks open, straight down the center, and Lorcan’s sharp voice pulls me from my stupor.

Little Keeper! UP! Now!

The relief to hear his voice is so strong I almost cry, and his tone softens, but is still urgent.

Up now! Get back through the arch. The ground is unstable here.

Shaking my head, I ignore him. I won’t go back through — who knows what will happen to him? He barely made it through the first time. There will be another way.

Keep your hand on me he says reluctantly. The blood will protect me, I think.

Trembling from exhaustion, I get to my feet and stumble toward the gate, unsteady like a newborn kitten. As the tremors increase, my knees fold beneath me, and I realize in sudden fear, and more frighteningly, in unexpected relief, that I’m not going to make it. That the earth is going to open beneath me and swallow me whole, and that, perhaps, that’s not the worst thing. That, if it takes me, at least I won’t be here anymore.

The thought is disturbingly comforting, and for the briefest of moments, I stop moving.

Wren–

But his voice is cut off by the feel of strong hands on either side of me, taking my arms and draping them around broad shoulders.

“Quickly, Rannoch!” The Father is urgent, and Rannoch, on my other side, is just as frantic.

“Hurry! Please, Ceridwen!” He’s begging me not to fight them as they try to drag me toward the gate, but I need my hand on my neck or I will lose my Protector, so I’m writhing like a fish on a bank. Silas makes a noise of pure terror and frustration, and swings me in one motion into his arms. I immediately cover my necklace with my bleeding palm as Rannoch steadies the Father on the boiling dirt. We make a strange trio, floundering at the last minute through the dubious safety of the bone arch. Lorcan vibrates beneath my skin but then strengthens as we turn back to look at the carnage happening on the northern path.

The earth has cracked open completely and is devouring the tree. In a horrifying, eerily human pantomime, the shaking limbs and thin branches seem as though they’re grasping fingers, clawing at the edges of the pit that is engulfing the trunk. If I didn’t know better, I would think it was actively fighting against the pull of the earth, trying to climb out, save its devastated body from the inevitable.

But the Earth always wins.

The Tree seems to squeal again as its last limb disappears, though it could just be the sound of the bark being crushed by the quaking earth, and then, for a brief, heartstopping moment, everything is silent.

Raek has just enough time to turn to me, face lit with fury like the Everfire, and takes a single step, before he is thrown from his feet by the force of the falling rocks above us, the mountain releasing thousands of pounds of rock in a massive landslide. They pour down, flowing like water, tearing trees and crushing plants beneath them, in a steady stream as though being poured from a cup.

Silas drops to his knees but somehow, between him and Rannoch, manages to keep me from hitting the dirt next to them, and then, as gently as he is able, sets me on the ground.

“Will it crush us, Keeper?” Rannoch asks, both scared and resigned, as though he has looked death in the face before and has made his peace with it.

I don’t know why he thinks I can answer his question, but somehow, in my heart, feel that we are safe now. So I shake my head minutely, and he sighs, relief clear on his face. The men around us are shouting and screaming; our silent, stone-still group is a sharp contrast to the rest of the Council, and even in the chaos, I feel considering eyes note the difference.

Outside the bone archway, near enough that tiny pebbles fling up and pepper the faces of the Councilmen closest to the opening, the landslide rushes by, cascading toward the gaping wound in the ground, then flowing into it, filling the emptiness, piling tons of rock and stone and dirt on top of the swallowed tree. It continues until there is a heavy mound there, until the curving roots are ripped from the ground, until the creeping vines are torn from the bone wall, leaving nothing but jagged, dripping red wood hanging from the white structure, and then stops.

All is silence. All is dust. The earth stills and settles; the mountain sighs and softens.

In the lull, across the path, Raek and Nickolas help each other to their feet, murder clear in their eyes and snarling mouths. Silas shifts away from me, stands, and brushes himself off. Looking down at me with an inscrutable expression on his face, he points at me with an unwavering finger, and issues a clear, biting command to Rannoch.

“Take her. Brother, remove her immediately to the Council House for questioning.”

Rannoch leaps to his feet and drags me roughly to mine, then wraps a hand around my vertebracelets. “Yes Sir,” he snaps back, yanking lightly on my arm, pulling me off my feet for a brief moment before surreptitiously pushing back again to steady me. Across the rockstrewn path, Raek and Nickolas pull to a stop, watching the interaction through smirking faces.

“I can help escort her, Father,” Nickolas calls, mouth salivating, words thick and worm-filled.

“Rannoch can handle a little girl, Nickolas,” Silas says, not looking away from the two of us. “I’ll ask that you and your brother walk with me, though. I would seek your counsel, if you’re recovered enough.”

Triumph flashes on Raek’s face, lightning quick, but obvious, and he presses his hands together before bowing slightly towards Silas. “Of course, Father. Anything we can do to help.”

The Father’s shoulders tighten minutely as he inhales deeply, then jerks his head at Rannoch, before turning to face the rest of the Council. Rannoch pulls me immediately away, escorting me in the direction of the Council House, away from the prying eyes of the men behind us. As soon as we’re out of sight, his grip loosens, though his face stays hard and his hands remain wrapped around my wrists.

Lips unmoving, jaw tight, he whispers frantically and almost unintelligibly to me, “Are you alright? Keeper, are you hurt?”

If you were not within a breath of us, you would never have known he spoke, so I respond in like, just a single downward motion of my head in a half nod. I am both — hurt, but not desperately. His relief is palpable but short lived.

“What in the world have you done, Keeper?” he mutters, mouth still immobile, shock clear in his voice. We are a year and a mile away from the man who traced my lips in the shadow of the bone wall; it seems a dream in the Nowhere now. “What have you done?”

I don’t answer; we are approaching the center of the town, where villagers observe our progress, shock and concern clear on every countenance.

What have I done?

I wish I knew.

PIECES ON THE BOARD

WREN

“She is a danger to our people!”

The debate has been raging for hours, the arguments looping back to the start at this point and beginning again. There are calls for blood, my blood, and I should be more worried, petrified even, but instead I find myself growing…almost angry. Angry with the blustering, wind-filled, wrinkled lumps of men in front of me. Angry with the scheming and stupidity, angry with myself for sitting silently on the side, angry about letting myself be discussed as though I’m not here.

Finishing the last of the cistern water I was provided when I first was called into the chamber, I debate my actions. I’m cold, and tired, and hungry, full of sharp, biting grief for my lost Hunter, of paralyzing fear for my weakened Protector, and suddenly I have had enough. Surging to my feet, I draw the eyes of all the Council and the Father to me.

“I’m leaving for the rest of the evening,” I state simply, rolling my empty eyes at the cacophonous response, Councilmen jumping to their feet and shaking their hands in the air like spoiled children.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Raek bites out. “You have much to answer for, Keeper.” He’s sneering, lips twisted up, overly confident, his supporters making noises of agreement behind him. To his credit, he’s played the game beautifully, distracting the discussion from his sacrificing villagers without the bones calling them to Offering, sending our people to Silence when there is an able Keeper within our walls. He expects me to be complacent, as always, bending to threats and menacing looks, thinks of me as an obstinate child throwing tantrums who will be brought to heel. Raek depends on my respect for our traditions, on my reliance for their protection. But he hasn’t noticed the shifting plates beneath my surface, the oceans being born in desert lands while he wasn’t paying attention.

“Ah.” Something in my voice stills the Council, some flash of fang, and I smile, cold and vicious. “Yes. Are we talking about answering for our actions now, Councilman? Then I am happy to stay, and hear your justification for murdering our people to water a tree which served the Ender. Please, explain how you felt it acceptable to send souls to Silence, in secret away from half the Council and the eyes of the Father. Explain why, when there is a BoneKeeper, you thought it your province to decide who lived and who died. Because I, and the bones, would love to hear any explanation.”

There is silence, and then an explosion of sound.

“The Ender…”

“To Silence?...”

“But…”

“Murder?…”

“She didn’t know?...”

Only Raek, Nickolas, the Father, and Rannoch are unmoving. The rest of the Council, the Protectors, the Renders and Reapers are a wash of chaos. Clearly some pertinent things were left out of the briefing they had had while I sat outside the Councilroom, waiting to be called in.

“Oh, did we not discuss that yet?” I ask innocently, and heads whip back and forth between us, Raek and Nickolas now standing as one and advancing threateningly toward me. “Ah-ah-ah,” I caution gently, and they freeze, the weight of the full Council upon them. “You wouldn’t threaten the BoneKeeper, would you?” Smiling grimly, I shake my head, the bones calling out hollow songs. “Well. Not openly, at least. Perhaps you need reminding, Councilors, but I am not your servant. I am not beneath you, to be commanded and commandeered.”

“You are a girl,” Nickolas snarls, and I smile.

“I am. And this girl had to see earth soaked with the blood of our people, several inches deep, damp enough that my palms pressed against it could still feel the warmth and wetness of the victims. Murder I said and murder I meant. These were no Offerings to our Gods, but sacrifices to a darker purpose, blood that polluted instead of purified. What say you, Raek?”

Raek’s nostrils are flaring, eyes narrowed as he thinks through his answers. But a wave of dizziness presses against me, churning in my stomach, and my vision flickers. I know this pain, though I haven’t felt it in ages. “I’ll let you think of excuses, Raek. You and your brother can fumble with half-truths and full-lies to the rest of the Council, and the Father.” Fury white hot and poisonous drips from him, his body trembling with the effort of remaining still, and I, perhaps unwisely, decide to shove the blade in deeper. “You’re predictable, and, truly, I am tired of you.” Yawning theatrically, I turn my back on him and the rest of the men. “Though I must say, your feeding the Ender was unexpected. Pointless, but unexpected.”

“Raek–” The Father’s voice is tight and demanding as I leave the room, drifting calmly and quietly out, not letting myself collapse until the door has closed behind me. I only make it a few steps until I reach the far wall and fall against it, sliding to the ground, cold with fear. It’s been years, but the wet clamminess on my skin is a bleak reminder of what’s to come. When this sickness used to take me I was lost to the world for the space of two, if not three days, and it’s beyond full dark, so I have no way to find my way home. Not like this. If I were at full strength, I would risk it, but I already feel the weakness seeping into my muscles. If I lose consciousness here, like this, I don’t know who I’ll be when I wake. Cold shivers ripple through me, but I fight them, trying to stay upright against the wall.

The Council door opens, and my breath catches in my throat before seeing Rannoch’s face, at first lit with fury, but instantly melting into fear at the sight of my shaking body curled up on the floor.

“Keeper?” he asks worriedly, but I can’t answer him. “Blood and bone, what’s wrong with you?”

The hallway wavers, and then disappears, and I am swallowed by pain and darkness.

THE TASTE OF WATER

RANNOCH

She slumps over like an emptied bag of flour, like a bird that has been shot from the sky, wings pierced and broken, plummeting to earth, and looks pale grey instead of bone white. The change is petrifying, and I don’t know what to do. Silas sent me out to pull her back in, to have her answer questions about her accusations, but if I drag her back in now, I’d be throwing a carcass before wolves. What to do? It’s too late to take her to her home, and I can’t leave her unattended in her chambers here. She wouldn’t be safe. I know that truth in my heart, and it sickens me. Her rooms in the Council House have no way of barring the door from the inside, not that she could wake to do it now anyway.

There is a creak of sound from behind me, and I spin around, cloak spread wide to try and hide the small, crumpled body behind me. Thankfully it’s just Silas, eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him, and in a sudden wave of panic, I realize I haven’t even had time to check if she’s breathing yet. Sun and earth, she could be…no. I can’t think it.

“What…?” Horrified voice pitched low, he glances behind him furtively then shuts the door firmly.

“I don’t know! I just found her like this.”

“Check her! Quickly! We don’t have time….” His words are tight, strangled, and I can tell he’s fighting for control. Whipping around, I drop to my knees and check her breathing, her pulse, and when I feel the pale flutter of motion on her throat, a wave of relief so intense washes over me I feel nauseous. I can’t speak, but he must see something in my expression that releases some of the tension in his jaw.

“Hells, Rannoch.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, he looks as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and, in a way, I suppose it is. “Is this ever going to get easier?” he murmurs quietly to himself, shaking his head. “She can’t go to hers…where? Yours? That would be putting you at risk if they found out. Mine is impossible.”

There is a flurry of shouting so loud it pushes through the heavy door, and we exchange panicked glances. Silas exhales sharply, then straightens, flexing his shoulders and spine before deciding.

“Take her to the old mine entrance. Near enough no one knows about it, and I don’t think the older members would go there.”

He’s right…he’s almost always right, to be fair. The old mine is perfect. There’s only one broken, stone blocked entrance left to the mountain’s heart from the Council House, and I’m not even sure anyone else knows it exists. All the others were fully walled up decades ago, when the first miners cracked through the glossy black stone deep in the body of the mountain, and found a lake of molton rock, thick and shimmering an iridescent blue so captivating and mesmerizing that a full ten of them had walked into it willingly before they even knew what they were doing. The rest tried to follow, but were yanked back by the few who hadn’t entered the chamber yet, who hadn’t seen the fire, just heard the moans of the men who were pulled into its depths, and a chilling sort of music echoing through the chamber, calling to them in a sweet voice. Even with their fellow miners wrenching their arms and the melting bodies of their friends floating in front of them, another four or five miners had broken away and lept into the glowing pool, deep, bloody scrapes on their skin from their companions desperate attempts to keep them back.

None of the miners who made it back to the village lasted more than a week. They were plagued by a voice only they could hear, singing to them from the lake in the mountain. One by one, deep in the night, they left their families and friends, the safety of their homes, and walked on bare and bloody feet back to the fire. The Council at the time voted to wall up the tunnels immediately, but it was already too late. The miners would claw their fingers raw on stone and then wriggle through the small holes to get back through the tunnels, leaving behind streaks of crimson and bits of flesh in their desperation to get back. Only one was able to fight it, largely because he was mostly deaf, and had been the furthest away from the cavern. And even he would tremble in the darkest hours, face turned longingly toward the mountain, humming under his breath.

“Reap and Render, the Ender, the Ender…” he would mutter over and over, rocking back and forth. “Reap and Render, the Ender, the Ender…”

It’s a child’s game now, played in a circle. They tap on each other’s heads, calling “Reap and Rend, the end, the end, the end, YOU!” and then chase each other in a violent burst of speed, the first trying to sit before the second calls him or her to Offering. But at the time, it was a warning no one understood. Not really. Not until the blood moths swarmed out of the mountain for the first time and pulled long strips of flesh from screaming villagers.

“Rannoch, now!” Silas snaps, yanking me from my thoughts, and I sweep her up into my arms, her body limp and pliant. “I’ll take care of this mess and meet you there.”

Nodding, I adjust her in my arms, then set off through the long, dark hallways to the secret, silent place where hopefully she would be safe.

It is hours until Silas is finally able to join me, and I spend the entire time watching the shallow movements of her chest, barely inhaling, barely exhaling. I’ve been unconsciously mimicking her, not breathing until I see her breathe, and am exhausted with worry by the time he climbs past the wall of rock to the small room that is tucked, forgotten, just behind it.

“How is she?” are the first words out of his mouth, and I shrug.

“Breathing. Alive. Otherwise, no change.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I walked out and she was collapsed on the floor, eyes open, panicked, and then it was like a candle snuffed— she just went out.”

Groaning quietly, he slumps back into a chair, looking years older than his 31, gaze locked on the Keeper’s face. “Rannoch.” The single word is a book of meaning.

“I know.”

We exchange a long look; this is how we’ve always communicated. We’d learned over time that actual conversations weren’t safe, so our strange friendship grew in laden words and heavy glances. I remember the moment we realized we were on one side of history together, with the rest of the Council on the other. The BoneKeeper was sick and unable to speak for the bones, so the Council voted in her stead. It was an unusual reoccurrence after years of her falling ill; since the moment she clothed herself in bone she hadn’t missed the monthly naming for Reaping and Render. Nor has she missed one since. On this occasion, though, while she was unwell, Nickolas and Raek, plus a few of their cohorts, pushed to call for a certain child. And while we all abide by the First Lesson, something about the Council naming the girl felt…deliberate.

I wasn’t there yet, too young to have been called to the Council, so I wasn’t part of the decision. A girl from a miller’s family, still with milk-teeth, was chosen, and Ceridwen, barely well enough to Guide, sobbed through the length of the Offering. Even at 15, I noted the looks of satisfaction on Raek and Nickolas’ faces; it was clearly personal in some way, and the Offerings should never be personal. Since that time, that last child, none have been called by bone, a thing which has never before happened in the entire history of our Rendings and Reapings. It makes certain members of the Council furious, though their only explanation for their anger is that it seems like the Keeper is purposefully going against the First Lesson, somehow circumventing the will of the Gods — I is for Infant, after all. It makes them suspicious of her, and they sow that suspicion like seeds for summer wheat. There is too much fertile ground for doubt in our village these days; desperation seeks a cause, a place to lay blame when everything is crumbling around you. And it is always easier to look at one than many, to have the comfort of thought that, if only a single thing were different, everything would be different. It’s much harder to face the reality that there are no easy paths to the mountain peak, that it will be struggle after struggle, the work of many hands over many seasons, not a sole, sharp cut in a solitary, swift movement.

The day the miller’s daughter was thrown to the Reaping Pit, Silas caught my anger; I was young and hadn’t learned to cloak my emotion yet. He remembered it though, kept it tucked away, and six years later, when the bones by way of Ceridwen commanded me to the Council, he reached out to me cautiously. I was more than happy to join him in his plans to burn the poison from this village, but hadn’t anticipated how deep the roots of corruption and abuse went.

Silas, however, had watched for years as the flesh of our leaders grew gangrenous, helpless to do anything. He had been called to be Father too young, and it gave the sitting Council unheard of strength, dangling him like a puppet in front of the people. They overplayed their hand when Silas was 20, though. His closest friend, someone he considered a brother, was named Offering by the Council at only 18 — a strange choice, as Protectors, Renders, and Reapers were almost never chosen. The moment sparked something in Silas that forced him from child to adult. From what Silas has said, he argued vehemently against it, but was still fighting to claim his position as Father, and was outvoted. Lorcan’s loss was devastating to him, and set fire to a long dormant flame inside him. He vowed at Lorcan’s Guiding to correct the course of our village, and to put nothing before it; no friendship or love, no family or feeling would supplant that single, driving goal he had sworn in blood over the empty body of his only friend. He was clear with me from the start — if for some reason it saved our people, he would slice my throat himself, friendship be damned. I would die for our village, but Silas would let himself be consumed by the Everfire.

We’ve been plotting and planning ever since, taking careful, cautious steps on ground that constantly shifts beneath our feet. There have been few things that are consistent, little we’ve been able to depend on. Staring at the girl curled on the ground before us, skin almost grey and glistening with cold sweat, it’s unnerving to realize even those things we thought would never alter have started changing.

“How–” Silas speaks, then stops, studying Ceridwen’s still face with a furious dawning realization. “When she has been sick in the past, how has it presented?”

Shaking my head, I shrug. “She bars her door, and is unreachable for two or three days. Then is weak, but in her right mind. There are rumors of it being a falling sickness, or fainting spells.”

“Rumors,” he scoffs. “Of course. Started by whom? I don’t even have to wager a guess. Always when an Offering is to be named?”

Nodding slowly, I inhale, long and low. “As far as I know, initially yes. Though not for years, at least for an Offering. Not since the miller’s daughter. Not since –”

“Not since she was able to bar her doors and windows, hmmm?” He grimaces. That had been a battle between the Council and the Keeper — the right to personal privacy, and I try to remember the last time she’d been sick.

“Yeees…” I reply, thinking back. “She was allowed to start locking her home at, what, 12 or 13? And the last Offering named by the Council was just after…She’s taken ill since — just rarely. But never for a Rending or Reaping. You can’t think….”

“Poison,” he whispers to himself, surging to his feet and leaning over her face, inhaling deeply through his nose. “I can only smell herbs.”

“She prefers her water scented — it’s a common enough practice. Most of the village, if they have time and stores enough, lace it with sweet grass or rosemary, or chamomile. Something to help mask the taste from the cisterns.”

“Something that would mask henbane, or nightshade.”

I nod.

“Who gave her water tonight?”

“I don’t know. Not me, or you. Or Raek or Nickolas. She would never accept it from their hands.”

Sighing, he rubs a tired hand over his face. “But having her incapacitated during these discussions of the Blood Tree, of her actions, of her claims….Gods. It doesn’t looks good. She accuses them of feeding the Ender–” His words are cut off by a sudden rattle from far down the tunnel and we exchange panicked looks. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Nodding, I quickly light all the torches in the small room, and the sound subsides. “What happened after I left?”

“A lot of arguing, a lot of placating. I’m sending Raek out with the Hunters past the southwestern wall for a week.”

I can’t help letting a bitter bark of laughter escape. “How hard did he fight leaving his comfort and privilege?” It’s rhetorical, but Silas answers anyway, face darkly satisfied.

“Hard. Until I made him expedition leader. Which he wore for several minutes with a puffed chest before realizing I wouldn’t let his brother go with him. I’m sending a few of ours as well. And a second party to the southeast.”

“Nickolas?”

“No. Just a few of their supporters. We’ll have Nickolas in the village, and five others. So six of the Council here for when the Traders come. Plus you and I. As long as they stay on course, Raek and his crew shouldn’t be back until they are already welcomed into the village.”

“Silas.” I don’t even know what to say, but he hears the question anyway.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand it, Rann. We leave on hunt, the silos are full and dry. Full enough that we’ll make it through the winter, in any case. We return and half is gone, lost ‘to mold and rot’? How? How?” He stands, pacing, and for a second I’m reminded of how young he really is, how long he’s been shouldering this burden, how much he hates the weight of being the Father to these people. “And they would turn away the Traders, too, if they could. After the last visit…” We exchange looks again. Yes. After the last visit, and the Council’s rash decisions to block the path. With our stores barely enough to keep half the village alive through the winter months, this trade could mean the difference between life and silence for thousands. Thousands.

Raek was on the Council when the trail was blocked, when the avalanche was loosed to prevent anyone from outside the Upper Kingdom from entering. A secret none but those on the Council know.

“We need this, Rann.” He is certain and desperate all at once.

The Keeper moans quietly, and we turn as one towards her. Her jaw is locked tight, eyes fluttering beneath her thin lids, and Silas presses his lips together. “I don’t like this. Something is bothering her. Her breathing is too shallow. Did it get worse when you came down here?”

I take a second to think, then nod. “Yes. And ever since.”

“She’s too close to the mountain’s heart, perhaps? It’s almost dawn. Do we risk moving her now?”

At his words, the ground vibrates, and I sense, more than hear, a sound I’ve never heard before. It’s almost a child crying for help, and I take a step immediately toward the open door.

Help me, please, help me… It’s words and not words, some wail of pain pressing against my skull.

“Rannoch!” He’s sharp enough that I stop, and he shakes his head. “We’ll move her now. Right now. It’s close enough to light that the blood moths should be returning, but even if they’re not, we’ll have to chance it. The tunnels shouldn’t be singing. We’re risking too much.”

Shaking my head roughly, the sound fades, and I frown. “Did you hear that?” I ask, and he nods grimly.

“Yes. And it is heralding nothing good. Something is happening, Rann. And if we don’t figure it out…” His voice drifts off as he bends over the Keeper and picks her up. “Let’s go.”

Extinguishing the lights in the small room, I lead the way, acting as his eyes and ears as he walks silently after me. From far down the tunnel, beyond the second wall Silas and I made when we discovered this opening, a little voice sings and cries, calling and pleading, alluring and promising,

It is surprisingly hard to walk away.

A LITTLE PROTECTOR

WREN

Wren. Wake. Please, Wren. Please.

His voice is exhausted, barely a whisper of sound, as though he has been calling my name for hours, or days, and I wake groggily to reassure him.

“Protector. I am well.” My response is scratchy and raw.

Little Keeper. The rush of relief I feel from the bones down my back is almost tangible.

“What’s wrong, Lorcan?” I can’t make my brain work, little embers sparking and fading, and I rub my eyes tiredly. “I’m exhausted. I forgot what it felt like to be this sick. It’s been ages.” Clearing my throat, I try to stand, but wobble precariously and fall back onto my bed. “Hunter? No smart comments today? Have I finally elicited some sympathy from you, old man?”

Silence.

Silence that presses in on my lungs like stone, and the sorrow from Lorcan is so profound and deep it is almost a color.

Ah, Wren. His sympathy is my undoing, and memory rushes in on a painful inhale. I know, I already know, but I can’t help fumbling in my hair to feel for the bones there, braided so intricately that they would have to be cut out if I needed them removed.

Hunter. Hunter. I chant his name, or the name I called him, over and over, but it is too late by half. He has been gone since the moment I walked through the northern bone arch, pulled to silence by the Silent.

“How?” I moan, but there is no answer, because…because there is no answer. I didn’t even see his soul loosed, didn’t hear his heartsong. He was gone between breaths. We are traveling unwalked roads, our feet on paths that have not been tread, and there are no signposts to guide us in these strange new times. A little locked chest deep in my heart opens, and the memory of the Hunter slips into it to join all those I keep there — my mother, my father, my family — then the chest closes again, trapping the sadness inside with their faces.

“Lorcan?” I can barely say the word; he feels as though he is slipping from bone like water into hard earth, but he replies, though quietly.

Here. Still here. But…I am tired, Little Keeper. As tired as though we missed a month of anointing.

He’s not asking, but he would never have to ask in any case, and I grab my Guiding Knife from where it is tucked against me. My hand flames into sharp pain, and I cry out unintentionally. Looking at it more carefully through waking eyes, I unwrap the careful linen binding that someone put around it, and study the pink skin of my palm, glaringly colorful against the white of my unharmed flesh. No stitching, no balm — it is healing far too quickly, and I swallow back worry. There is not enough space in this moment for future moments; I have enough room for this breath and this action and no more.

“Right. First things first.” Forcing life into my voice, if not cheer, I pull off my shift, and glance down at the lines on my leg. The last carving is still sensitive, and I waver. Everything hurts right now. Everything.

I am well enough. Rest first.

Rolling my eyes, I ignore him, still playing with the blade in my hand, trying to get up the courage to cut, and startle like a bird when it whispers to me.

At the heart.

“What?” I know I sound scared, but a voice? From the Guiding Knife? It petrifies me.

In the crown and at the heart it replies, then falls silent.

Keeper? Lorcan is concerned, but drifting, and I frown.

Fine. Fine! All else is unknown, why not this as well? Stabbing trees and the fainting sickness, leeching bones and blood soaked ground. Nothing is as it should be. And a command from the Guiding Knife with no explanation? In the crown and at the heart? Fine. Getting to my feet, I stumble to the corner where my crown is kept and jam it mutinously onto my head, ignoring the way it feels like fingers grasping at my skin, then pull off my shirt and quickly, without dwelling too long on the action, cut a waning and waxing crescent shape over my heart, one on either side of my breast. Pulling Lorcan off from my neck, I wrap his bones around me, winding them through the moon curving on my skin. It is incredibly and surprisingly awkward, though I try to ignore the feeling, binding him in place with a length of cloth wrapped around my ribs like a high belt. The knife is…satisfied? I’m not sure entirely, but whatever awareness is there fades away as Lorcan strengthens.

What? Little Keeper, what?...

His incredulity pulls a rusty sort of laugh from me, though no one else would think to call it such. “Don’t get comfortable there, Protector.” The silence is so awkward that my lips twitch up against my will. “If you’re feeling better, will you…what happened?”

It takes him a long, long time to respond, and when he does, his voice is bright and alive, but choked. Poison in the water, perhaps. I was too tired to…Rannoch and Silas rescued…I’m sorry, Keeper. This is impossible. Put me down your back again, and we will discuss it all.

“No. Not until you are soaked through. Don’t test me on this, Protector.”

I can tell he wants to argue back, but a cautious knock at the door interrupts us.

“Yes?” I snap the word out sharply, fumbling with my shirt and dress. An uncertain murmur answers, so soft I can’t make it out, so I stomp over to yank the door open.

Marrin is there, looking hesitant and scared, but determined, and I settle my face into a placid expression immediately.

“Marrin! Is all well?”

He nods and shrugs in the way of children, all one seamless motion. “I heard you were unwell, BoneKeeper, so I asked my aunt to make you some soup.”

A small clay pot hangs at his side; he peers around me into my room cautiously. “I can put it on your table for you if you’d like, Keeper.”

“That was kind of you, to think of me.”

“Maybe not so nice. She’s not the best cook, BoneKeeper…” He grimaces, then looks guilty. “But she tries.”

“And how are my friends?” Running a gentle hand over his head, I greet the Baker and her son fondly. The Baker is surprisingly lively.

It’s good to see you, Keeper.

“How is life with Marrin?” I ask curiously.

He’s a wonderful boy, Keeper. A true joy. It is good to have a little one again to watch over.

Marrin tries to wait patiently for me to finish, but shifts back and forth on his feet before finally bursting out, “What does she say?”

I grin at him. “She says you’re nothing but trouble. A terrible child.”

He startles, then grins back. “You’re teasing me!” Astonishment fills his young voice, and I mimic his earlier shrug and nod.

“Perhaps,” I reply, and he laughs. The bones in my room echo the sound like wind chimes; they delight in his happiness, an unusual emotion within my home.

“Would you like to take a walk, BoneKeeper?” he asks courteously. “The sun is almost warm today, and I know you’ve been unwell.” Straightening, he puffs out his chest, an unconscious mimicry of older men. “If you’ll trust me, I can make sure you’re alright.”

“I…” Lorcan is still draped at my breast, and I should move him first, but my room suddenly seems dark and oppressive, and a breeze from outside smells like fresh hay and late autumn. Whirling around, I grab a high collar cloak which hides my bone necklace, and slip on my low boots. “You’ll have to guide me, Protector. I have no bones on today.”

Clearing his throat, he glances at my head where my crown is still fixed in place, then back down at his shoes. “Oh. Well. I suppose I have some.” I’m oddly reluctant to remove my crown, and grab my Guiding Knife as well. I hesitate, then fasten it inside my waistband, against my skin. “Not far though, Marrin. I’m…rather tired.”

He looks determined at the words, an oddly serious expression on his young features, and he extends his arm courteously. “Don’t worry, BoneKeeper. I’ll keep you safe.”

As always, he makes me want to cry with his ways, a painful lump of emotion knotting my throat. “Thank you,” I murmur, and he nods before leading me from the room out onto the rough, worn walk.

Keeper, this is untenable. Move me before you go.

His voice is tight and thin, but certain.

You are still too weak.

Lorcan feels like he is going to protest, but is interrupted by Marrin, and quiets.

“Where would you like to go, Keeper?”

Away from here, Marrin. Far, far away. But that is a thought I keep to myself.

A BOY AND A MAN

TAHRIK

Ihaven’t seen her in almost three days, not since our strange, lingering moment in the shadow of my family’s bones, not since the Councilman came and took her from my fingertips. There have been uneasy murmurs around the village while she’s been gone — nothing open or outright, just vague insinuations which leave a bitter aftertaste once the whispers leave your mouth. I think it would be worse, whatever worse is, if Raek were still here in the village, but he left the day after Wren was taken sick. His brother still skulks around the village, but people tend not to listen to him as much without Raek beside him. Wren has never been a friend to Nickolas, and it’s easy to see why — his eyes never leave her face — more often than not, though, he seems a piece for Raek to play on the board, all bluster and no bite.

Trying my best not to linger, I walk past Wren’s tiny cottage for the second time this morning, and am unprepared for the cracks in my heart when I see her, head bent low to hear the youngster next to her, holding her hand and leading her towards a bench near the wall. Her face is so soft; I don’t think I’ve ever seen it look quite that way before, and have to swallow back the ache in my throat that rushes in with an image of her before a snug fire, holding a baby, gazing down at it with that same expression. And me, watching from the door, back from a day at the mill, home to my wife and my child, my hearth and my heart. Pieces fall apart within me and reform, like sand melting to glass, and everything I knew before in small grains join together into one, clear window. Wren.

There are moments before, and moments after, and I have stepped through the inbetween.

“BoneKeeper.” My heart is too clear in my voice; the boy beside her snaps his head around to look at me, sharp and considering.

“Keeper,” he says, voice pitched low. “It is the miller’s son.”

She smiles, smiles, down at him, and whispers, “He’s fine, Marrin. He’s my friend.”

I can see the news surprise him, and he looks at me through new eyes. He’s so careful of her, so cautious, that I can’t help respect the little one, and wait patiently for him to make a decision.

“Alright,” he calls, giving me permission to approach. “She’s just resting with me. I’m tired.” I fight against the grin pushing at my lips; no one looking at the two would even begin to think that he was the sick one. Wren’s illness is in every line of her face, the tightness around her eyes, the pallor of her skin. But I admire him for trying to protect her, and nod seriously in reply.

“I understand. Marrin, is it? I’m Tahrik. Wren’s…friend.” I purposefully use enough of a pause that the word is heavy, and his eyes widen before he turns to look at Wren, who is unnaturally still.

“Wren?” His voice is hesitant, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Only to Tahrik,” she warns, then ruffles his hair. “And the Baker. And you, now, if you’d like. But nowhere other than empty spaces, you understand?”

He nods, then scuffs his feet. “I don’t know…is it wrong for a Protector to be so casual?” There’s a quiet desperation in his tone — he clearly wants the familiarity, but also takes his self-appointed position seriously.

She smiles gently at him, hand still on his head; I am not used to seeing her touch another so casually. “Oh. I have it on good authority the best Protectors call me Wren. It is only you and one other, and you are in excellent company.”

As always, my stomach lurches slightly when she speaks of her bone Protector in such a fond way. I have grown up here, I know the ways of our people like the lines of my hands, but it is still occasionally strange to hear her voice warm so much when she speaks of cold bone. It happens when we visit my sister, when she passes along stories from ancestors in the walls; she is clearly more comfortable with the dead than the living. As it should be, I remind myself. She is more goddess than woman. You are blessed by her attention, Tahrik. You cannot love the moon and be surprised that it lives in the heavens.

“I’m glad to know she has such a stalwart companion, Marrin,” I offer, holding out my hand, which he takes and shakes earnestly. I’m rewarded by the light in Wren’s gaze, her face sweet and wistful. You are blessed, Tahrik, I repeat to myself, and feel it in my marrow. For some reason this woman sees me. In a village of thousands, she looks for me. And I feel the weight of her eyes on me every time she finds me, as tangible as fingers on my skin. I wonder desperately if mine feels the same to her. The area around us is silent and empty, and I take the chance to really study her, to run my hungry eyes along the lines and angles of her face.

She is pale today, beyond pale, a grey the color of early morning fog from the mountain, skin damp, the only color tiny rivulets of pink from her crown. Something is clearly wrong, and my heart clenches my throat as I narrow my eyes, taking in the small tremors running through her that she’s trying to quiet, noting the indents in her flesh where her vertebracelets normally lie. Even her neck is bare of her ever present Protector. “Wren? Where are your bones?” Worry is obvious in my question, but she shakes her head in a single, sharp move, and darts her empty eyes towards Marrin’s bent head. “Though of course you can’t wear bones every second of the day!” I continue, false cheer in my words, and I turn to draw the boy’s attention from her. “Tell me about yourself? Do I know your family?” I ask him, settling back on the ground against the wall, and begin strumming mindlessly on my small guitar. I should be at the mill. I have things to do. The Storms are coming. But the Ender himself couldn’t pull me from the shadow of Wren’s feet. Three days without her has been an eternity.

He glances at her, squeezes her hand in a mute question, and she nods subtly. He has so much faith in her simple movement that, with her approval, he answers me freely. “I’m from outside the Third Ring, originally. My parents both…I live with my aunt now. Inside the Third Ring.”

“But…” Wren prompts gently, and he grins, face lit up.

“But I go to school in the Second Ring. After the storm season, I’ll be in the First Ring school. It’s certain.”

“Marrin!” Surprise and delight are clear in her tone. “You didn’t tell me! Where will you stay? It’s too far for a daily walk from the Third Ring. Perhaps…” She trails off thoughtfully as he responds.

“I found out a few days ago, but you’ve been sick.” A cloud drifts across his face. “Keeper...some of the people…things are being whispered…”

She nods and shrugs. “Things are always whispered about me.”

“This feels different, Wren,” I agree with him hesitantly, and her eyes narrow.

“How?” The word is short, clipped, all the joy from a moment before gone in an instant.

“I don’t know. It just does.”

She makes a low, indeterminate sound. “Does it matter?” she says, voice studiously empty, and in an unexpected moment of symmetry, Marrin and I exchange worried looks.

“It matters…I think, Keeper. But I’m not used to listening for grownup conversations. They tend to be boring.” He pauses, stumbles over his words. “I’m getting better, of course, Keeper. I’m paying more attention now.”

She runs her hand over his head again, as though she can’t keep from comforting him. “I know,” she replies seriously, then her eyes blank slightly, and I can’t help but flex my jaw. I know that look, the small change of her, and it is obvious that, even if I cannot see him around her neck, he is somewhere on her body still.

He is nothing but bone memory, Tahrik I have to remind myself when she nods at words I can’t hear. Nothing but bone. The words feel almost sacrilege, even in my private thoughts, and I change focus abruptly, interrupting her silent conversation.

“Do you want to walk, Wren? The day is nice, and you’ll have two of us to help.”

Sighing, she shakes her head. “I think I’ll need what little energy I have left. The Council approaches. The bones are warning me. Tahrik?” She inclines her head silently toward Marrin, and I take him by the hand immediately, startling him.

“Would you like to earn an extra loaf today, young Protector? I’m off to the mill and desperately need a spare set of hands. Yours seem strong and capable.”

His eyes flare in surprise. The offer, both of extra bread and of mill work, are an unheard of opportunity for a Third Ring child, but he pauses anyway, glancing at Wren first, earning my endless respect.

“You…you don’t want me here when the Council comes?” His young voice trails off, first into hurt, then into a very adult realization. “Oh! You don’t want me here when the Council comes.” Tightening his fingers on my hand, he nods, and then grabs her hand gently before we walk away. “I’ll come check on you, Keeper. I’ll come back later to make sure you’re alright.”

She smiles weakly at him, a half-expression, but it is enough for him to turn from her. Risking a moment, I reach out my own hand and trace it whisper light down the line of her cheek. “I’ll check back too, Wren.”

“Hurry now,” is her only response, so we duck around the corner, leaving her faded and fragile behind us.

“I don’t like leaving her alone like that.” Marrin’s voice is a breath, barely a noise at all, and my fingers flex reflexively on his.

“Neither do I, Marrin. Neither do I. But we have no choice.”

Pausing, he looks up at me, his serious expression too old for his years.

“There is always a choice. I don’t think we’re making the right one.”

“Well, we’ll do as she asks, young Protector, and check on her later, hmm?” Pulling him along, I try to ignore the cold blade of his words in my heart. There is always a choice. And I’m not making the right one.

A PROMISE OF PEACE

WREN

They are gone but a few moments before Denian and Allford appear — two of the oldest members of the Council, with only Nathanial in between them to change the order. They rarely are errand boys, sent to bring me to heel, so I’m unsure as to the meaning. Neither is cruel, neither openly in opposition to the Father, but nothing is certain these days, so I sit, frozen, waiting, until they are in front of me.

“BoneKeeper?” It is Allford, tone mostly respectful, but there is an edge.

“Allford. Denian. What news?”

“You’re requested by the Council, Keeper.” Ah. Denian is more transparent, gentle regret clear in his voice. “The Father, and several members, wanted to give you another day to rest, but there is unease in the people that only you can quiet. Are you well enough to walk to the Council House? With assistance?”

“I am well enough by myself, Denian. Thank you, though, for the offer.”

Lorcan murmurs a quiet protest against my skin, but even he knows that walking into the Council House leaning on another would be like a lamb to slaughter.

“Then we must go, Keeper.”

Pausing, I turn to face my door, suddenly anxious. “I am not dressed for the day, Councilman. I have none of my bones but my crown. I need time.”

“I am truly sorry to say that you do not have any. If it’s any comfort, this will be quick, I think. It is a smaller group, as many are away with the Hunters. I’ll guide you there, BoneKeeper. I give my word that no harm will befall you.”

Taking my arm cautiously, only touching my sleeve really, Denian leads me forward, with Allford hovering on my other side, close enough that I can feel the pressure of air between us, but he does not brush against me.

The walk is…uncomfortable. Tahrik and Marrin were right; something insidious has happened in the days I’ve been asleep, something that has changed the cautious respect, the slight unease of the people into outright fear, their eyes widening in near terror as I’m paraded past them. Too late I wonder if I look like I’m leading or being led, flanked on either side like a prisoner. But we are there before I can change anything, walking up the steps and through the ominous doors yawning open like a mountain tunnel before us.

They bring me to one of the few rooms that doesn’t have bone, and a cold shiver runs down my naked spine. This is purposeful. There are perhaps only three rooms that don’t have bone in the Council House, and none are used other than for storage or for incidentals. Never for Council meetings, or matters of importance. I am suddenly, viciously glad I have my crown and blade.

The room is windowless and dark, even mid-morning, and smells stale and unused in a cold, dustless sort of way. In front of me, in a small circle, are some of the Council, but not all. The Father, Rannoch, and two others. Denian and Allford join them quickly, leaving me to stand on my own. No Nickolas, no Raek.

“BoneKeeper. You are well?” The Father’s voice is flat, unemotional, giving no guidance.

I respond in kind. “I am recovered.”

All of the men in the room exchange long looks, knowing there is no bone other than my crown, perhaps thinking the bones on my head wouldn’t whisper their movements to me. Only Rannoch does not look away from my face, though I can’t rest on him long enough to gauge his emotions.

“Our group is small today. Several have been sent on the hunt, two were…not invited to this gathering.” Allford shifts in his seat, so slightly it is barely a movement, but it is enough to catch my breath in my throat. Secrets should not be whispered in this room.

“Father—” I interrupt him, trying to think of a way to caution him, but he raises a hand, and Rannoch shakes his head once, minutely. Ice freezes my heart when I remember his comment from days, or weeks before. Like your eyes. Time has lost all meaning. Like your eyes. Who knows? Still. I stop, and wait.

“We are concerned, BoneKeeper. Those of us within these walls are worried for your safety.” He breathes in deeply, then continues. “There is…suspicion. That someone poisoned your water.” The intake of breath in the room would empty the world of oxygen. This is new knowledge to some. “After the Blood Tree, after the mountain and the Earth, when we came here to the Council House. Where it should be safe for you. Where that sanctity was violated.”

Allford shifts again, and this time another shifts with him.

Rannoch interjects, sounding like a stranger, and I have to fight to keep my hand from lifting to my mouth, remembering the bright moment of sweetness so sharp it cut something into me that is taking time to heal. The stone faced man in front of me bears no resemblance to the one from the cistern wall, and I concentrate on controlling my breathing, wondering what games are being played, wondering if I have been a pawn on more boards than I can even imagine, and for what purposes.

“We think, BoneKeeper, that it would be best if you stay here for a time, until we can figure out what happened.”

“Here?” The word bursts from me unintentionally, almost on a laugh, and most of the men startle at the sound. “Here? That is your answer to being poisoned within your walls? That I willingly return inside them again to what? Act as a mouse waiting for the trap to spring? For the cat’s claws? I don’t think so, Councilman.”

“You have a room here already, Keeper. It would be no hardship for a short period of time, only until we are able to figure out what has been happening.” Allford’s tone is meant to be soothing, but sounds like the winter winds sweeping off the summit of the mountain, cold and full of warning.

“I will never stay in that room again, Councilman.” There is no answering warning in my words. It is a bone promise. His lips twitch up before he can stop them, just a flicker of amusement that is more scary than anything else I have seen today.

“We cannot protect you outside these walls, Keeper. Who knows what could happen to you? If it is true that someone poisoned your water…we don’t have evidence that it was even inside these walls. It is more likely that it happened earlier in the day, that it took time for the herbs to take effect. Perhaps it even explains your response at the Blood Tree. Your…unusual…accusations that followed.” Allford’s voice is thoughtful, and he is so focused on my response that he does not see the quick flick of eyes between Rannoch and the Father. Ah. Ah. I am already acting as a mouse, whiskers trembling, without my knowledge. “You are essential to this village, BoneKeeper. It is our duty to guard you, in any way we are able. Surely you can’t argue with that.”

“BoneKeeper.” This from Denian, next to Allford, voice low and smooth, pleading. “It isn’t safe for you. None of us want to say it, but you have been…erratic…these past weeks. It makes the people nervous.” Holding up his hands, he shakes his head. “I’m sure you have your reasons. I am certain. I would never think to question you. But you have not been yourself. Threatening to take away visitation from the Council? Your actions against the Blood Tree? You visiting the school, scaring the children — yes, yes, we know about that. Hollis came to us, concerned about threats you made. You need rest. Perhaps…perhaps the bones are pressing you too much. Perhaps you just need space, like this one, free of them, to relax. Don’t make a decision now, of course. We’re offering you this room, empty of bone, for you to recover. You’ll be able to lock it from the inside. And,” his tone lightens, as though we’re sharing a joke, “we’ll outfit it with furniture, of course. Not just these simple chairs. Something lovely and soft...pretty! It will be a place of solitude for you.”

He is musical, lulling me with dream words, though how he would ever guess at them I don’t know. A place where bones didn’t press against me at all hours of the day? Where voices weren’t whispering even in the quietest moments, commanding and demanding, or just calling for attention? Just…just a room, where I would be just Wren, and no one else? But there are things he doesn’t know, how far the bones can call to me, how loud they can scream when ignored, and the sweetest temptations are always the blooms of the first rain after the storm. I know better than to eat those crops, no matter how shriveled my stomach is, how hollow my bones are showing under my skin.

“What an interesting offer,” I reply quietly, noting the flash of victory in his eyes, the questions in Rannoch’s and the Father’s. “What a very interesting offer.”

Allford is quick to strike, like a snake, fangs already bared. “Try it for a few minutes, if nothing else BoneKeeper. Certainly you’ll need to return home to get your things, if you approve. But just try it. I will hold your crown for you — carefully, of course. You have no other bone on you?” He runs his eyes over me, checking, but my Guiding Knife is inside my shirt against my skin, where I never wear it, so its place on my belt is empty, and Lorcan is clearly gone from my neck and back. “You are curiously empty of your normal outfit today.” He fights to keep suspicion from his voice. “No necklace even.”

I shrug, trying to appear careless. “You rushed me here. I didn’t have time to dress properly. You were there. You know Denian had to lead me.”

His answering smile crawls on my skin like beetles. “We’ll leave you in peace for a few moments then, BoneKeeper, to see how you feel. There is no pressure. No rush. Just see how it is for you. I’ll just—” His hands are already reaching out, fingers flexing, towards my head, and I have to steel myself not to recoil.

“Rannoch will return you to your home when you are ready. He will sit outside to give you peace, and to watch the entry. Allford — he will take the crown, though thank you for your offer.” The Father’s tone books no argument.

Allford forcibly drops his hands and tries to smooth the frustration from his face. “Are you sure, Father? I am happy to help in any way.”

“I am sure.”

There is a long, long pause, before Rannoch steps forward, palms up in front of him in supplication, not demand. “I’ll take good care of it, BoneKeeper. You have my word.”

“Thank the Gods for that,” I reply flatly. His word is as easy to trust right now as the blooms from the spring rains, pretty and poisonous. Bending my head forward, reluctance clear in my movement, I wait.

“You don’t want to pass it to me, Keeper?” He is hesitant.

“If you want my crown, you will have to take it from my head, Councilman.”

After a beat or two, he slowly and carefully grabs the band of my crown where the bones are tight and sharp, and tugs lightly. It does not move.

“I don’t…it’s not coming off. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Looking up, I meet his eyes, though to anyone watching it would just look like I was adjusting. He and I share my secret though, and I take petty delight in the discomfort on his face.

“Don’t you?” There is no answer. “It doesn’t like to be off my skin. You’ll have to force it to let go.”

His brows knit together in concern and confusion, but he pulls, then pulls harder, until the edges begin to release, bone fingertips scraping along my temples and yanking at my hair, reopening shallow cuts from the previous week. The bones groan, half in protest, half in lapping greed, taking tiny droplets of scarlet with them, drinking them up. Rannoch shivers in front of me, almost as though he can feel their anger at being forced from me.

“I’ll keep it safe, BoneKeeper.”

Shrugging, I turn away, dismissing him. “You’ll do what you will with it, Councilman. Clearly I have no say here at the moment.”

Silas clears his throat, distracting the considering eyes of the rest of the Council. “We’ll leave her to it. Perhaps you’ll walk with me, give me your input regarding her room. Brothers?” It is too tempting an offer, I can tell, and all but Rannoch follow him out.

Everything is silent between us.

“BoneKeeper—” It’s barely a whisper of sound, but not one I’m interested in hearing, no matter how gentle, how apologetic. He and the Father have put me on a hook without my knowledge, wriggling and writhing, luring the biting fish from the brackish ponds where they hide beneath dark rocks.

“I’ll be out shortly, Councilman. I have no intention of staying here, no matter how lovely and soft you make it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“You expect much more of me than I realized, Councilor.” Despite my best effort, bitterness is thick on my tongue, stinging my taste buds like ginger root.

He sighs. “I…Enjoy the peace while it lasts, Keeper.”

Shaking my head, a dark snort of sour laughter shatters from my throat, startling him. He waits for an explanation for a breath, maybe two, before realizing none is coming, and silently leaves the room.

DUST AND DECAY

RANNOCH

Our walk back to her home is heavy with her anger, though her face is placid and peaceful. She had remained in the room for perhaps five minutes at the most, emerging pale and seemingly undisturbed.

“It is not to my liking, and I am tired,” is all she said, and took two steps forward before freezing, jaw flexing, noting the absence of her crown. She didn’t ask me, though, and simply bit out, “I clearly have no bone on me to guide me home, Councilman. Perhaps you would be kind enough.”

And so I had taken her thin fingers gently in my own, placed them on my sleeve, and led her from the Council House back into the cold sun. Since then, she has not spoken or looked at me, and I’m suddenly desperate to have a hint, even a glimpse, of the girl I saw on the day I kissed her.

“Ceridwen—” It’s a mistake, I know instantly, but to call her “BoneKeeper” feels like it would make things even worse. Sighing, I stare straight ahead, but mutter under my breath, “I’m sorry. I am sorry. If it helps.”

“For what, Councilman? Surely you have nothing to apologize for. I am aware of my place here, of how the Council views me. As a tool for their purposes.”

It is clearly worse than I thought. “We don’t…you’re not a tool for me to use…”

“Did you not expect me to notice you baiting a trap, Councilor?” Her answer is tight and biting, before she smooths her tone. “Do you think that all tools are meant for destruction? Use of a thing is use, whether or not you intended to treat it as an object.”

“I…we had to…but…” She is right and she is wrong all at the same time. It is impossible to have a conversation in front of watching eyes, though, impossible for me to plead with her to listen.

“But makes an excuse of an apology.” Her lips tighten, almost imperceptibly. “It’s better I know where I stand when I am by your side.” There is cool acceptance in her quiet words now, and it feels like a dagger to my heart. “I know I am a vessel of the Gods. It does no good for a wolf to want to become a bird. Wings don’t grow from wishes.”

“Please, Keeper⁠—”

Her fingers twitch on my sleeve, and I stop speaking. The walk to her home is interminable, and does not get better as we approach to see her door cracked open, handle hanging at a broken angle.

“What’s this?” Concern is electric on my skin, raising the hairs on my arms like the crack of lightning in the winter months. Things have been changing, too quickly for us to keep up, but for someone to risk entering the Keeper’s cottage, for someone to break into her home…Turning, I catch the eye of a passing villager. “I need the Father. Quickly now!” Snapping out the order, I step back into the role I’ve played for so long, arrogance dripping like storm rains from me. “BoneKeeper, you will stay here while I go inside. That’s not a request.”

Surprisingly she doesn’t fight me, stepping to the side and sitting on the low wall outside her door. I can’t decide whether to go in alone or wait for a second set of eyes as witness; am not sure if Silas’s words would even back mine up in this unheard of event.

“The bones say there is no one left inside,” she whispers quietly, not looking at me, staring somewhere off into the distance, eyes blank. “But nothing more. They won’t say who entered, or what happened. Just that the house is empty.”

The house and her voice. It is like everything inside her has drained away, leaving only her shell. Something is happening that I am missing, but I don’t have time to think on it. Not now. So I file it away in my mind, adding it to the growing list of worries that sits on my shoulders, pushing me into the earth.

“Rannoch?” Silas is behind me suddenly. I must have been staring at the door for longer than I thought, or else he ran from the Council House here. “Broken into?” He can’t hide the astonishment in his words, and I shake my head in reply.

“She says it’s empty. That there’s no one left inside.” We exchange a considering look. The words are right and wrong all at once.

“Any ideas as to whom?”

“She doesn’t know. The bones won’t say.”

Inhaling deeply, he glances her way before letting out a long, slow breath. “Alright. Inside. We’re attracting a crowd.”

And we are — a surreptitious group watching through subtle glances. The longer we remain outside the small cottage, the more people gather. The door creaks loudly as I open it, a loud, shrieking sort of sound that grates on my ears. “Someone should fix that…” I mutter over my shoulder to him quietly; she hears me and shakes her head.

“No. I like to know when my door is being opened.”

It is taking a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light of her cottage, but even so I can see Silas stiffen at her words, head tilting consideringly. He doesn’t address it though, just freezes, still in the doorway, as he takes in the room before him.

It has been ransacked. Blankets and pillows are torn apart, fabric ripped as though by the claws of some wild animal, and a long straight slice runs down the center of her mattress, the soft wool and hay inside pulled out and scattered. There is a small table flipped and broken, pots of kohl and white cream cracked and smeared on the walls. But the worst of it lays in powdery white piles on the floor. Every bone from the walls of her home, from her shelves, from her windows, has been pulverized, smashed into tiny pieces, ground into dust or broken into jagged shells. It is sacrilege, an atrocity of the worst sort.

“This is what she meant,” I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice. Silas is now beside me, staring at the floor with me, and makes a questioning sound, words failing him. “When she said it’s empty. That there is no one left inside. She didn’t mean an intruder. She meant…” I feel sick to my stomach.

Silas drops to the ground in a sudden collapse of movement and begins sifting frantically through the closest pile of sharp fragments, as if looking for something or someone.

“It’s pointless, even if you could hear them.” Her voice is cold, barren. “There is no one left here.”

“Keeper, were all your bones here? All of them?” He’s trying to keep his voice calm and steady, but a swallowing sadness makes it hollow, and his shaking hands belie his emotionless tone.

She smirks. Smirks, lips twisting in an expression I’ve never seen on her face before, something dark and sharp. “You commanded I attend you, did you not? I was not given time to dress, to lock my door. Just pulled along like an errant child. Every bone that lived in this room is still in this room.” She pauses, empty mask settling back on her face. “Why. Did you know any of them? You have never visited my cottage to speak with them.” All of her words are questions and none are questions.

“I knew your Protector, BoneKeeper. Lorcan was a friend.” Still sifting the bone dust through his fingers, he finds a larger piece and turns to her, naked hope on his face, draining like water when she shakes her head.

“The piece is big enough to hold a soul, but there are none left on the floor. The bones that were in my home are empty. As empty as the room you’re trying to lock me in, thinking to tempt me with furniture.” Shaking her head, she is about to speak again but is interrupted by a soft knock at the door. A young child I don’t recognize stands there, eyes wide as he looks around the room, before locking eyes on the BoneKeeper. He’s trembling, but his back is straight.

“P—pardon for interrupting, Councilman. Father. BoneKeeper. But…I was out walking, near the Northern Arch, and saw your…your bracelets…outside the wall. On the rock fall where the Blood Tree was. I couldn’t go and get them; I’m not supposed to go outside the gate. But I thought you should know.”

“Was there a necklace there as well?” Silas snaps, but the child shakes his head.

“Not that I saw, Sir. But again, I couldn’t get a close look.”

“Rannoch?” He is already turning away from the room, heading toward the door, and I’m torn between staying and going with him. It feels unsafe to leave her here on her own, in a place where her things have been violated in such a violent manner, but she waves me away, clearly not wanting me to stay.

“Perhaps this young man would be kind enough to help me straighten and sort what is left of my things,” she asks, voice surprisingly gentle and considerate, a stark comparison to her tone when speaking to Silas, to me. The boy doesn’t hesitate, immediately getting to work, and I press my lips together in indecision.

She’s directing him quietly, asking him to straighten the grate in the fireplace and empty the cistern. He rights her chair then takes her hand, making her sit down before following her directions like a soldier. It is a struggle for him to get the fire started, and I step forward, intending to help, but they both pause at the movement, glancing at me as though I’m an intruder, as though they’d forgotten that I am here.

“I have it.” His voice is stiff, and he angles his small body between me and the BoneKeeper, clearly interpreting me as some sort of threat. “Thank you though, Councilman. I…I can stay, if you’d like, until you return. I don’t think anyone would return with a child in the house now.”

He’s right, or he would have been right a week ago. But a week ago I would never have thought someone would break into her home, would denigrate the bones, would ruin the grain reserves, would send villagers to Silence feeding the Blood Tree. I know nothing I knew a week ago, not even the feel of my own skin.

“Go, Councilman.” She hesitates, then, quietly “I’d consider it a kindness of sorts if my vertebracelets were returned to me.” It is an opening, however small, and I seize it, helpless.

Turning abruptly, I leave with no goodbye. Her words are a command that I can’t ignore. There is little space for stringless favors in her world; I can’t miss the chance to give her a taste of it. Closing the door tightly behind me, I pause for a moment, resting my hand on the wood, whispering a silent prayer of protection, when suddenly from inside the soft sound of sad laughter floats through the cracks.

I know nothing.

THE THREAT OF FLOWERS

SILAS

Her vertebracelets and two tiny curves of ear cuffs are displayed ostentatiously on top of the scar in the land where the Blood Tree was swallowed, pulled apart and stained pink from the still wet, metallic smelling dirt. They’re wrapped in the pale flowers and dark leaves of Henbane, a clear threat. I collect everything I can, then search the area for her necklace, feeling sick inside. If Lorcan is gone, this time to Silence, his loss is another tally on my soul, where there are so many cuts that it’s more lace than fabric at this point. My debts grow and grow the longer I am the Father of this godforsaken place, where evil has taken such deep root I’m afraid I’ll never be able to rip it out.

“Silas.” Rannoch’s voice is flat as he approaches.

“Rann.” There’s little enough life in my own, and I don’t bother to turn to him as I continue to sift through the rocks.

“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 know what to 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 is happening here? 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 safe speaking 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 was soaked.”

“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 more time.”

“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. Accidents happen 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 is happening? 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 you thinking? Do you know how much is at risk? Our people will starve. 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 the BoneKeeper, 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 for nothing. 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 a lifetime, 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 an apology 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.”

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 to stay here. 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 we would live 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, then Yes to the Knife, but tucked inside. We don’t move without the Guiding Knife anymore, and only against flesh. 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 is nothing 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.

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 then That’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 a grey 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 think maybe, 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 and see me, 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, too close, 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 loose words 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. Too large. He’s every bit as tall as Rannoch, though still not as towering as Silas. It’s …just…his legs are like tree 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 will leave.

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. “She has a name,” I snap out, and he holds up his hands in apology.

“She could tell me 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.”

I frown harder, shaking slightly, though I don’t know why. Calm down, calm down. “Why?”

“Why…why did I see you? Why do I want to hear you? Why do I think you looked like a candle?” I shrug again, and he laughs, the sound musical. Drinking it in, my mind chants over and over danger, danger, danger. This casual happiness could be addictive in three short days. It’s too much even in this moment. I can’t imagine how painful a lifetime of it would be. Holding up a hand, he ticks off his fingers. “I can’t tell you why I noticed you as soon as I walked in. But you glowed in the shadows, fading in and out like a ghost. And I couldn’t look away. Which is saying something in the City of Bone.” The last is almost sardonic, and I don’t like the sound in his easy voice. There is a hint of fang there, of venom, then he slips back into sweetness as he continues. “Why do I want to hear your voice? You look like you have a century of words trapped in your head, and I want to know what they say. Everyone else here rushed up, couldn’t stop talking, touching, looking. You stayed back and didn’t move, and then drifted away.” Looking down at the ground, he kicks the rock again, and adds softly, “I wanted to see where you drifted.”

How to speak? I don’t have the practice, don’t know what it is like to be someone other than just the BoneKeeper. Taking a deep breath, I stare at the wall beyond him. “I don’t like crowds.” It is all I can offer, but it seems to be enough.

Nodding encouragingly, he picks up a piece of straw and plays with it, twisting it this way and that in his giant fingers. “I thought as much. I knew if I wanted to find you, I’d have to go as far from the madding as possible.” He shifts, uncomfortable on the stone. He’s used to cushions and soft things, I think, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out of my mouth.

“I am not soft.”

I’ve surprised him, and feel an unfamiliar flush of…what is this? Embarrassment, I’d say, but I’ve never been embarrassed, not..just as a girl with a boy…so the feeling is almost sickening in its intensity. My face feels hot, and I look away from him. He is careful when he replies, cautious, as though walking where he is unsure of a safe step. “No, no, I would not say you were…”

The words are gentle, but cause unexpected, and I’d wager, unintentional, hurt. My shoulders fold in around me, shielding me. So much bone to protect one stupid, delicate heart. Reaching out, I run my hand along the wall, where tiny pieces of bone are mixed with the binding mud, locking the giant stones in place, and I slice a finger on a particularly sharp fragment, just enough to draw a drop of blood. It brings me back to myself, and I straighten. I am not soft, and I would not survive if I were. Not like this man-child, who has nothing but full cheeks rounding out his square jaw, and sweet eyes that will not keep him safe from the Storms.

“We are not a velvet people,” I reply, remembering the material on the couches in the Council House. My words are edged, almost accusatory, and he sighs.

“I misstepped, but I’m not sure where. Can we start over? I’m sorry.” He is killing me. This casual kindness, this willingness…he is killing me. Suddenly I realize there are other ways to die than by the flame or by the knife, and it scares me. My heart is missing beats that have been steady since I was born.

Keeper.

Lorcan is quiet on my back, his voice tense. There is no warning, though, and he says nothing else. I want to answer, but am distracted by movement.

“I’m Kaden…” he starts, holding out his hand, and I stare somewhere over it for a long time, too long really, til the moment becomes awkward. He startles suddenly and rolls his eyes. “Forgot already,” he mutters, then says more loudly, “I’m holding my hand out to you.” I have no idea what to do, but he is patient, waiting for me to make up my mind, until I lift my own hand and hold it out as well, reaching until it bumps his gently.. I’m not sure what I am meant to do now, so I just leave it there, odd and stiff. For some reason it makes him smile, though I’m not sure where I’ve gone wrong.

His thick, strong fingers wrap around my smaller, paler ones, and I tilt my head, studying the movement. We are somehow just…holding hands now. And — well, I like it. But I don’t know how to extricate my fingers, and I think I’m misunderstanding something. He gives no clues, just sits happily holding my hand in his, until I sigh in exasperation. “Alright. I give up. What did I do wrong?”

Laughter pours from him like water from a jug, bubbling and bright, and I am suddenly so thirsty that my throat clenches. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. But it was nice to hold your hand, if only for a minute.” He lets me go, and my fingers feel cold. “In my culture, we shake hands when we meet.” He holds out his hand again, and I place mine in his again, the same way as before. Smiling gently, he changes the position of my fingers until they cross his palm, and pumps my hand up and down twice. The movement startles an answering song of laughter from me, and I jerk my hand away, covering my mouth in surprise. I don’t…I can’t think of the last time I laughed like that, other than with the children or for the bones. This sound, this sound was just from me though, no one else, and the look of satisfaction on his face is…craveable.

“I’m sorry!” I offer, voice still unsteady, though I fight against the amusement there. “I’ve never…I don’t understand the shaking thing. I don’t mean to make light of your practices though. I apologize. Can we try again?”

He nods, eyes sparking like embers, and we shake hands again, this time quite seriously, and I commit the movement to memory. “Does everyone do this?” I ask. “Or is this between friends? When do we use this? Our village doesn’t have such…such casual contact.” Well. Our village doesn’t have such casual contact with me, in any case.

Kaden frowns, just the hint of one between his brows, but tries to smooth it out. “Everyone does it. In most formal situations, or first meetings. If we were closer friends, our greetings would be different.”

“How so?” I ask, curiosity overtaking me now. I don’t get many chances to just be like this, and don’t know when I will again. And knowledge is like water to me — rare and precious.

“Should I just show you?” he asks, and I don’t heed the eager warning in his voice, so I nod. He stands and turns to me, grabbing my hands gently and pulling me to my feet so close in front of him that on a deep inhale, his chest would brush mine. The thought catches the breath in my throat, and I look up at his face with wide eyes. Something in them drains the humor from his own, and it is replaced by an unfamiliar hunger.

“We would…” he clears his throat, then continues in his deep voice, “...we would, for friends or family members, embrace, and then kiss either cheek.” Reaching out, he demonstrates, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me against him, before leaning back and placing a gentle kiss on either side of my face. I am frozen, I am ice, unable to move. His face is smooth, lips soft, and I can feel his breath glide over my skin. His clothes are almost luxurious, some fabric I have not touched before, and he smells of soap and summer hay-clean, warm scents that make me want to curl against him and make his arms my home. With that thought, I pull away from him, but slowly, reluctantly, and steady my shaking breath. Danger, danger my mind whispers again, but the bones around me offer no such warning. They are watching, and waiting, but with interest, giving me no cause for alarm.

Kaden is shaky as well, and looks around as though to give himself a moment to think. “Can you…will you show me your village a little, Flame?” The words curl my mouth to smile again — this Trader pulls a string inside me I thought cut many years ago. Flame. Usually I am a ghost, a shadow, something empty til others fill me. I have never been called something…something that illuminates, rather than fades.

Lorcan is…silent, yes, but tense, down my back. He feels like a clenched jaw, or closed fists, but says nothing, and I reach up, deceptively casual, to rest my fingers on his bones.

“I will. Though only the Keep. I’m not venturing into the chaos of the First or Second Ring today.” I shoot him a guarded smile. “You’re welcome to go back at any time, though. There’s not much to see.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” he replies seriously. “I think there’s plenty here to keep me interested.” His eyes are fixed on me, unwavering, and his meaning is very clear. Why is it so hard to breathe near him?

Motioning toward the wall, I walk slowly, and he falls in easy pace next to me. “I’ll take you to the far edge, near the cistern and the Oldest Mother, and we can walk from there?” I offer, and his brows knit together in a perplexed expression.

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying, Flame, but where you lead, I’ll happily follow.”

Being with him is what I imagine drowning would feel like — it is too much, too much, but the water would be impossible to turn down. An excess of happiness in a place where joy is rationed in careful bites. Out of nowhere, the image of a bright orange ball, the sting of citrus, and the feel of sharp lips tracing my own sends a wave of anxiousness through me. I press my hand to my stomach, and change course.

“Perhaps we’ll start in the Gardens,” I say quietly, shakily. Taking him to the secret, silent place near the cistern feels…feels like a sort of betrayal. I cannot do it. I’m sure he notices, but he says nothing, reaching out cautiously to take my hand in his instead, and squeezes it gently. I shouldn’t let this happen I think, but to be a girl for a moment, just a girl and nothing more, is so overwhelming, that I let it happen. And I squeeze back. Just once.

“Will you not tell me your name, Flame?” he asks quietly, tone teasing, but something serious on its edges, and I stop walking to look at him.

I have met his eyes more in the past few minutes than most other villagers’ in the past year. I am not used to seeing and being seen. “Maybe I should make you earn it…” I reply, and the sound of it makes me think of the unmarried women in the village during their dancing seasons, a pale echo of their siren songs. Even so, my unpracticed flirtation is enough for the Trader, and he leans in towards me, eagerness clear on his face.

“Do you plan Labors for me, Flame? Some sort of trials to earn your trust?” Stepping back, he flexes his muscles playfully. “Is there a flower on the crest of the mountain I can pick for you to show you my worth? Or perhaps a wild beast I can tame?”

In truth, I barely hear his words. I am not a woman impressed by flesh, but he is not a man like I have known in my life. It is…surprisingly difficult to think. He is too playful, too happy, too large, too bright. This Trader is overwhelming, and is making me uncautious. His face falls, just slightly, and he apologies, the words tumbling from his mouth like a rockfall. “I’m sorry, Flame, I forgot. Your eyes.” There is a rueful humor in his words, almost self-deprecating. “I was trying to impress you with a display of my manliness.”

He catches me off-guard, and I laugh again, a snorting sort of sound that horrifies me, but pulls a deep, rumbling laughter from him.

“Come.” Reaching out my hand towards him, I am rewarded with a lightning flash of victory in his smile, and shining eyes, and I lead him toward the Garden path.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says after a moment, courteous and cautious.

“More than you already have?” I say, teasing again. I do not recognize this version of myself.

He chuckles, then, “How do you know where you’re going?”

I shrug, not wanting to say anything about the bones. “I grew up here. It is not that big, and I know my steps. If I get off balance, I find a touch point to guide me back. But the sounds and lines of the village do not change.” Making a face, I point vaguely off to the side. “You can smell the tanner, yes?” He nods. “And then…” tilting my head, I listen, and point in a different direction. “You can hear the smithy. And then, as we get closer and closer to the Garden walls, the sound falls away. It grows cooler in the shadow of the mountain. The ground changes underfoot. The paths where I walk are smooth and clear of stone. If I hit too much gravel, I have gone off-track….” I am babbling slightly, each word tasting like a lie in my mouth. Because they are lies my mind whispers. But I owe this Trader no truth, when lies buy my freedom.

We are close to the curve where the path splits, the high walls of the Council House visible at the fork, though we can’t see the square in front of it, and he looks up, up, up, at its black stone face, at the weathered white bones around it, at the stark ivory stairs leading to its large, obsidian doors, shining smooth in the pale sun. Four large columns rise to either side of the doorway, each elaborately carved and topped with three glaringly white skulls — the original Council, still overlooking their village. Those bones are some of the only ones I have never touched, never questioned. They are too high above me; there is no way to climb to hear their whispered words.

It is not a welcoming place, by any means.

“Here you should be able to see the Council House,” I murmur.

“And…what is that?” he asks, still staring up, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“It’s where the Twelve live — The Councilmen, the leaders of our village. And then the six Renders, six Reapers, if they wish. The Protectors — twelve again, and again, only if they wish to reside here. The Father, of course. Oh. And the Justice,” I add as an afterthought, lips twisting in a caustic smile, the feel of it much more familiar to me than the pure happiness from moments before. “When we have one.”

“When you have one? You have no…Justice?” he asks curiously, tilting his head like a bird.

His question hardens my smile into a thin line, cold and smirking. “We do not. There is no justice in the village.”

I know he hears the double meaning, but doesn’t know how to ask, or maybe more accurately, doesn’t know what to ask. He settles for, “Why?”

I shrug. “The Bones,” I answer vaguely, and he frowns.

“The Bones?” he asks, confused, but there are questions I cannot answer. “It’s eerie here…” The words are quiet, almost a breath, but I am used to listening to the dead, so it is no strain to hear him.

“In the shadow of the Council House?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“No. We have buildings three times the size of this.” It is hard to imagine. “In the shadow of the bones,” he says, shivering, and I frown, pulling away from him.

“There is nothing eerie about our dead, Trader.” I was a fool, giving into his smile and sunshine. I should know better. And for him to find the bones, my bones, offensive….my chest tightens.

His face darkens, jaw clenched. “By putting them into walls? Not properly honoring them?” he rebuts, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I…I was told the ways you…honor…your dead are different than ours. It is hard to see. I’m sorry. It was insensitive of me.”

“You should not speak so confidently of things you clearly do not understand.” My words are cold, all camaraderie forgotten. To insult the bones is…it’s unthinkable.

“You’re absolutely right.” There is no hesitation in his voice, just open apology. “It is a mistake I won’t make twice. You have my word.” I’m not used to men admitting fault in our village, but I hear no mocking in his words, only sincerity. “Can we go back, Flame? To when my foot didn’t fit so completely into my mouth?” His tone is pleading, playful.

I don’t understand the expression, but nod cautiously. “Do not insult the bones again,” I warn, and he nods, before jerking his head up at a rumble from the mountains above.

“What is that?” His fear is unexpected.

“A stone-song, nothing more. Just the mountains saying the village has grown loud. A warning, if you will.”

“They should listen to the warnings, but fools will be fools.” He glances in the direction of the town square, where music is echoing down the streets, strange instruments I have never heard bouncing off stone walls in staccato patterns. Shaking his head, he sighs. “Will they ever learn?” It is about more than the mountain’s call.

“You can squeeze a stone to dust before it gives water.”

He cocks his head curiously, as though he hasn’t heard the expression, but I may be misunderstanding his movement. “Water is a scarcity here?”

His words have an odd inflection — half-question, half-statement, as though he’s saying something he already knows the answer to, but wants to check that his information is correct, and I narrow my eyes.

“We were all told about the basics of your culture while on the road here, to help make things easier for the Trade, and to help us avoid unnecessary conflicts. Clearly I am an astoundingly good student.” He holds up his hands self-deprecatingly, and rolls his eyes. “I can’t lie to you. I’ve always been terrible at school. It may not be immediately obvious to you, but I’m more brawn than brain.” Grinning at me with his entire heart, his green eyes dance in amusement, and my world shifts on its axis. “Will you try to teach me something anyway? I promise to pay more attention to you than my instructors back home. In fact,” his voice drops to a rumble like the mountain-song, a laughing secret between the two of us, “I promise not to take my eyes off you, Flame.” His smile is a sunrise.

It’s not so much forgetting to breathe as suddenly being incredibly conscious of it, of the rise and fall of your chest, the expanding and contracting of your lungs, the stuttering inhale that you hold for half a second too long before it rushes from your lips in a trembling sound. Kaden waits, just watching me, thinking I can’t notice his reaction, and the tiniest smirk at my response is enough for me to steady my beating heart.

“What lessons would you like to learn?” I ask blandly, and feel an unusual surge of satisfaction at the rueful twist of his lips.

“You wouldn’t ask if you knew the answer I want to give, Flame,” he laughs under his breath. Lorcan’s awareness sharpens against my spine, his teeth scraping my skin.

Little Keeper.

Protector?

Hmmm.

It’s not an answer to my question, not a rebuke, not…well, it’s not really anything. Maybe a caution, at the most. He says nothing more, but I step back from Kaden’s orbit anyway; the light of his sun is pulling me in too close for warmth I am unfamiliar with, and I will end up engulfed and burnt to ash if I am not more careful.

“Down there is the central keep. That should be where everyone is. There are more most likely on their way even now.”

“Well then, we’ve overstayed our welcome here, if we’re that close.” He shrugs, glances at me, and elaborates. “You said you don’t want to be around other people? And you’re the only people I want to be around. So where else can we walk?” Kaden’s eyes dart back up to the black columns, and then down the hidden square behind bone walls, but he presses his lips together in a firm line. He is clearly making an effort, but I think the Gardens may push him too far.

“I can show you the cisterns? Or some of the shops, perhaps?”

“Wherever, Flame.”

Casually, and without obvious thought, he reaches out and takes my hand again, but waits for me to lead him. It’s so unusual, his clear confidence in me, his patience with my pausing. There is no demand, just an ask, and it’s almost uncomfortable.

Making up my mind, we cross the dirt and leave through a little stone archway. Curling right, we walk close, close to the wall, the bones all whispering quiet greetings to me as we pass. Kaden’s hand flexes around mine briefly, and I glance back at him, concerned. The hairs on his arm closest to the wall are standing up; I tilt my head, frowning.

“I’m alright. I bumped against a…um–” clearing his throat, he continues, studiously cheerful, a stark contrast to his natural ease from moments before. “I’m just trying to get used to the differences. It’s not...I…I am trying.”

There’s a cautious apology in his voice, and I come to a full stop, turning to face him. It does him credit that he doesn’t look away from the full-moon white of my eyes. “You don’t need to feel bad for feeling unsure, Trader. Our ways are not yours, our customs are not yours. As long as you don’t insult the bones you will have no arguments from me. I don’t expect you to be at ease. Just not dismissive or disparaging.”

“I thought–”

“You would not put a stone in water and expect it to swim, Trader,” I interrupt gently. “Your attempts to understand are a gift. You can be apprehensive; I’m sure I would be in your place. Our best learning is done where our feet are unsteady. As long as you have an open mind not clouded by judgment, I am happy.”

His shoulders relax as he inhales deeply, eyes still locked on my own. A faint, faint line appears between his brows, almost non-existent, then he reaches out a massive hand and lightly detangles a small twig from my wind-wild hair without saying anything.

“Shall we continue?” I ask, words almost swallowed to my heart they are so quiet in this suddenly too small space.

“Yes please, Flame,” he replies, just as close to silence, and I nod, turning away. We walk for a few minutes, not long at all, until we come to the far curve of the mountain wall. Against it are four enormous stone cisterns, each large enough for an entire Council House and half of another. They are massive, carved, like the Council House, directly into the face of the mountain.

“Here are our cisterns,” I say, voice too loud, trying to break free from the strange moment before.

Kaden tilts his head, studying them. “Are they — how do they work?” He’s clearly confused, as most would be I think.

“Our winter rains and snows are poisonous.” Frowning, I try to think of a way to explain. “Our people used to be miners. You know this?” Kaden murmurs a sound of understanding, so I continue. “We haven’t mined much since the Trades stopped…” There is an uncomfortable silence and I rush to fill it. “But long ago, it was the main job in our village. When the Storms started, someone in the town realized that the mountain rocks filtered the water over time enough to be drinkable. It’s not— it’s not like the water you bring with you. The mountains remove the impurities but leave the essence, eggy and sulfurous. And then, sitting in the cisterns, the water picks up new flavor…a taste of blood, from the metals in the mountains. Our water is not…it’s not pleasant. And there isn’t ever enough of it.”

“Is there no — what would you call it — clean water here?” He hasn’t taken his eyes off the cisterns, or his hand from my own.

“There are two, sometimes three wells that go deep enough into the earth to strike pure water. The well in the square, which is the Council’s well only, that has pure water, though it sometimes runs dry. The well by the Children’s ward. And then there is a well far from town, but only the Hunters have been there.”

“Those hold enough for your entire village? For crops and bathing and…I don’t know. Water things?” he asks, and I smile.

“No. These are but four of the twelve cisterns.”

“Of course twelve,” he turns from the mountain to smile at me, and I can’t help but mirror him.

“Of course,” I echo. “Symmetry, I suppose. But for bathing and washing, for non-drinking water, we have brackish pools all over. You may have seen some when you came in?”

“The salt ponds?”

I nod. “They’re not perfect, but they do what they need to. And the children like to swim in them during the summer when they’re able. As for crops, the first bloom is always poisonous, but after, for the first and second harvest, the roots pull from the water below, not the water on the surface or the rains, and those are usually fine. Our livestock gets cistern water, and each of our people get a measure weekly for their home.”

“What happens if you run out? If you go through your water too quickly for some reason?”

My eyes widen in surprise, and I tilt my head, brows almost to my hairline. “Would you step off a cliff willingly, Trader, knowing there is nothing at the bottom but sharp stones that will kill you?”

“Of course not…” he replies, a question in his voice.

“Why, then, would you think someone would go through their water too quickly? It would be jumping off that cliff — what good would it do for someone to jump after you? You would both crack open on the floor below. You must be wise with water in our village, Trader. We learn from birth.”

“Right. Differences. Open mind,” he teases back, and though his tone is forced, I appreciate the effort.

There is a long silence, and then, heart pounding, I glance cautiously around before whispering, “Do you have so much water where you are from?” I know we are not meant to speak of life outside the village, but I can’t help it. And no one is near enough to hear but Kaden and the bones.

He mimics my caution, and lowers his voice. “Enough to swim in and sail on. Enough that you can’t see the other side of the largest lakes, Flame. You could drink for days and never even sip a fragment of it.” A thought strikes him, and he fumbles for a moment at his waist before pulling out a flask and holding it out to me. “Here.”

Stepping back from him, I press my body into the wall. The bones are silent, but aware, and their presence soothes me.

He shakes it insistently. “Here, Flame. You can have all of it. My water is yours for as long as I’m able.”

My throat clenches at the thought, and I can’t help my hand from drifting up to accept it, when Lorcan’s teeth bite my spine, and I jerk to a stop in surprise.

Keeper! His voice is a growl along my skin, and I bend to almost breaking.

Wren, Wren. That life is not for you. I chide myself angrily, ignoring Lorcan’s instant remorse.

I didn’t mean–

But I know. I know already.

“Thank you for your offer, Trader,” I whisper, and stupidly, stupidly, tears fill my eyes. Blinking them away, I turn from Kaden, who hovers, confused and unsure.

“What have I done?” he asks, voice gentle and worried, and I shrug helplessly.

“I…in our village…” I stutter to a stop, feeling like I’ve been punched in the stomach. He doesn’t know what he offered. He doesn’t know what it means for me to accept.

“Can we pretend for a moment that there is no you and me, that there is only us, and that…that there is no space between us for misunderstanding or embarrassment? That we are friends, and it is safe here to speak freely?” He is hesitant, hopeful, and what can I say?

“You made an offer of pure water,” I say softly. “It is a…a proposition of sorts? Or a request, more accurately. A promise. Did they not speak to you of this?”

And suddenly his face goes flame red, a hot, flushed color, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head in understanding. “Oh. Oh. Flame, I didn’t mean…”

And somehow that’s worse. That he didn’t mean. That he just…that he was just kind enough to want to share water with me, for no other purpose. Because why would he offer pure water to this strange girl clothed all in bone, with full moon eyes and colorless skin, this shadow in a shadowed world.

I force my voice to lighten. “I know. It’s fine.” A wobbly grin sits awkwardly on my face, but I push ahead. “At least you didn’t find yourself bound to a ghost girl for three days. Can you imagine?”

He does not mirror my faux amusement, just stares down at me through gem green eyes. “I can imagine,” he whispers, so soft that if I were not used to listening to bone I would not have heard him. Then, louder, “How would I share my water, then, Flame?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know, to be honest. We don’t…that’s not a practice here. Not like you’re suggesting.”

“That’s right. I forgot.” He says the words to himself, as though I am not meant to hear, and I narrow my eyes.

“What did you forget?” I stare at the ground, unable to look directly at him. He forgot? There is more to the words than I understand, and the bones shift uneasily now. I am making bad choices. I know this, but the easy camaraderie is not something I can give up lightly. It’s like taking a single bite of food when you are starving. Sometimes a taste of something only heightens the ache of missing it, and suddenly I feel a stabbing hole in my belly. Food will not fill this though, I think, blinking fiercely. Loneliness cannot be satisfied with bread.

He hesitates at my question, and lowers his voice. “My uncle was a Trader here once, years ago.” A sort of rueful grin crosses his face. “Two of my nephews came from that trade.” My head jerks up in a painful movement, and his eyes flare in a sort of panic. “I shouldn’t have said that! Please. Ignore my carelessness.” His breath is fast, his smile forced now. “What is wrong with me?” he mumbles, shaking his head. “You make me forget myself.”

“What did you mean? When you said that. What did you mean?”

He sighs, and shakes his head before looking at me. “My uncle came here as a Trader. 24 years ago. He met my aunt here, just the three prescribed days. But he couldn’t leave her, so he smuggled her out. Imagine that,” he says, voice whisper-soft, “seeing someone for a moment, speaking with them for a song, and knowing your heartbeat has changed to echo theirs forever. How could you leave them behind?”

I cover my mouth with my hand. The words are sacrilegious. Worse, almost. It’s unheard of. “They check every wagon…” I whisper, my voice trailing off. No one but the Hunters and the Council leaves. No one.

“They do,” he confirms. “But there are ways. It has happened.” He is not quite smiling — a strained grimace that mimics the smiles I grew up with — and he is unsure, but continues. “My aunt told me stories of her village though. Fantastical stories. I wasn’t supposed to come, but I had to see what made her.” His ruddy face has too much roundness and life for this place. There is too much color to him, too much vitality. He is like a bird in a small cage, flapping frantically to free itself. I would not even need to hear him speak to know he is foreign to us. I’ve been quiet too long, and his words come faster, some inner, innate cheerfulness bubbling back up, despite our situation. “She told me so many things I didn’t really believe. A wall of bone miles long. A colorless world. She even said there was a person who could hear—” but his words are interrupted by a shout in the distance, and he jerks his head up, stopping himself.

“What else did she say?” I ask quietly, and he shrugs. Someone left the village? Someone…there are pieces of our life somewhere else? I want to shake the answers out of him, but am scared of what it could mean. Where would I go, if I left? Could I leave the souls here to the silence forever? Just to play pretend at being a real girl? I feel sick at the thought.

“She said that water was precious. That pure water even more so. And she says I talk too much. In case you hadn’t noticed.” He grins at me ruefully, before grabbing his flask, and staring at me. “Um…in our land, if something is left with no claim, it’s open to anyone. Shall we try a cultural exchange of a sort?” Looking around thoughtfully, he spots a bare rock, almost a seat, curving up into the mountain, and walks over, then puts his flask on it. “I’m abandoning this canteen here,” he declares loudly, dramatically, looking over his shoulder to make sure I hear him clearly. “I forfeit all rights to it and its contents. If anyone finds this, or stumbles across it, it belongs to them free and clear.” He’s oddly formal, but teasingly so, strutting away from the flask like a chicken until he’s as far from it as he can get on the small outcropping. Then, covering his eyes, he whispers almost as loudly as he spoke, “Is that enough, Flame?” and I can’t help but laugh in response, the sound rippling down the rocks around us, echoing off the mountains, swallowed by the bone wall.

A CANDLE AND A FLAME

KADEN

Her laugh is a waterfall, and it pulls me into its dancing waters. Her laugh is a birdsong, a nightingale, soft sheets twisting in twilight rooms. It’s dusk promises and whispered words, and the iron weight of prior oaths and allegiances is broken under its feather-light sound.

Her white eyes are blank, enormous in her hollow face, cut from frosted glass, but her mouth, full and rose pink, curves up into a smile that could inspire a thousand years of love songs. She is impossible to look away from. I would never have guessed that sea fog eyes would be so easy to lose myself in, could never even have dreamed up a girl with white capped waves of hair tumbling down her back in strange twists and braids. She is completely unknown, unmapped, uncharted, and I’m suddenly and stupidly so desperate for her name that I don’t stop to think. It seems unfathomable that she’s actually of this world, and I’m overwhelmed with the very real fear that, if I don’t know her name, I’ll have no way to call her to me and bind her to the earth.

“Flame,” I whisper, and step towards her, hands outstretched. She flinches back immediately, as if she heard the silent sound of my footsteps approaching, and the laughter drains from her, all of her slowly opening windows and doors shuttered again and locked against me. In the blink, I see the only color anywhere on her, two swirls of red on her translucent eyelids, almost like thumbprints, vivid blooms on a pale field. And then they’re gone, and the ocean of her eyes swallows me again. “Where…where will you take me next?”

“Where would you like to go?” It’s a gentle parry, and it’s clear that she’s unused to this sort of dance, whatever it is that we’re doing. I’m more practiced, but only with those that have practice.

Suddenly unsure of every step I’m taking, I shift nervously, awkward as a newborn colt. This is the kind of woman who makes men deaf, dumb, and blind to anything else in the world, and I’ve already tripped over my feet more times than I can count. I don’t know how many more chances I’ll have before I need to return to the main group. All at once three days feels like it will pass in the space of a second, and a strange, almost panicked feeling seizes my heart.

“Let’s go somewhere you love…that is special to you. Or we can have a picnic of sorts? I don’t have much on me, but we can make do. It’s your dance to lead. I’m happy to follow.”

She sways toward me, just a hint of movement, and I have to fight to remain quiet, to give her the space to make up her mind. To pull her to me when she’s off-balance would be a bitter dessert; I would rather go hungry than taste rushed sweetness. If she chooses to walk with me, I want it to be with willing steps, however slow. So I remain silent, though it takes the patience of a God, and am rewarded beyond measure when she answers, her voice sweet and low, an unexpected sound from the thin column of her throat.

“I have some few things as well…” she offers hesitantly, touching a small bag on her belt. “No one in the village wanders without a small flask or a snack pouch.” The faintest flicker of a smile lights her face. “A cultural exchange, you said? Here is an oddity of ours. We all have little…well, the adults call them ration packs to give some sort of validity to their purpose, but in reality, they’re nothing more than purses full of honey sweets. It’s an old habit from long before my time, but everyone carries them and sneaks treats to the children of the village with impunity. There’s very little purposeless pleasure practiced here, but for some reason this is one we are strangely unwilling to give up.”

The thought of the dust-covered, stoic people of the Bone Kingdom slipping clandestine candies to their children is surprising, but charming, and I grin. “You must love your children very much.”

Again, emotion flashes across her face, this time less readable, and she cocks her head, choosing her words carefully. “How a society treats their children is a reflection of their hearts, no?”

And isn’t that the naked truth, laid bare before me.

There’s no room for shadows in three days of sunlight, though, so I focus on the woman in front of me. “Perhaps…well…I’m sure I’ll get the full official tour later, but if they aren’t looking for me, can we just wander? Where would you go if it were just you? Or if you were out walking with your friends?”

Her face is blank, books filled with empty pages, and her hand drifts up again to her neck, to a necklace of carved, white pieces that she keeps tucked against her skin.

“With my…friends?” There’s a pause that’s filled with the weight of a loneliness I have never known. And then her voice warms in an alluring glimmer of some secret joke, “My friends are everywhere. They love this whole place.” Her lips twist up into an almost-smile. “Correction. Most of them love this place. Is that better?”

It’s a strange question to ask me, but I answer anyway. “No one loves any place wholly, I’m sure.”

“Isn’t it funny? You can hate a place in its entirety, but not love it the same?” Her voice is thoughtful, almost as though she’s not speaking to me at all.

“Can you, though? Do you…do you hate this place in its entirety?” These are the questions I’m not meant to be asking. We were trained and told and threatened, but I did not expect to sit with a lantern-bright girl in the shadows of a bone wall and an oil black mountain, and somehow everything I know to be right is drifting away into a pair of cloud filled eyes.

Startled, she glances sideways, almost as though she’s looking around her, but not really seeing anything.

“I…I suppose not. Not really. I like the smell of hay during the harvest. And the way the sun warms the bones in the late summer evenings. The way the frogs chirp in the ponds. The mountain birds singing just before the Storms, when the air is cold and hollow and thin.” Sighing, she plays with her necklace again.

“What do you love though?” The question escapes me despite my better judgment, and she shakes her head.

“Love isn’t a place for me. Not this place, anyway. It’s more people.”

“You do have people you love?”

She freezes, head tilting as though she’s listening to some quiet caution that is too soft for me to hear, delicate fingers twisting the chain around her throat. Her reply is slow, carefully planned, spoken as though others are waiting on the answer with pricked ears.

“I think life would be a very lonely thing without people you love, and who love you in return. Almost unbearable, really.” It’s not an answer, but doesn’t invite further discussion. “What about you?” She glances at me from beneath thick white lashes, and raises a brow. It’s…it’s unexpectedly and ridiculously adorable, and it makes me stupid.

“Me? Do I have people I love? Of course!” Oh Kaden, you idiot. There’s obviously no “of course”. Stumbling over my words, I rush to fill the silence. “My aunts and uncles and their kids. Three nieces. Three nephews. More trouble than they’re worth.” Affection fills my tone thinking of their faces. “I have a dog. Is that stupid? But I love him.”

“A…what is that? A dog?”

“You don’t have dogs?”

She shrugs, a half-movement, and I try to describe him. “Like…like a wolf? Do you have wolves?” I continue at her nod. “So, like a very friendly wolf. Who lives inside with me. And takes up most of the bed.”

“A wolf in your home?” The astonishment and curiosity in her voice is enough to make me throw all caution to the wind.

“We do. It’s not a wolf exactly, but about the size of one. You probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference after dark on a walk. Except for the fact that wolves are quiet, and my dog’s an idiot who trips over his own fee, much like his master.” I grin at the thought of him. “He was the runt, and almost drowned at birth because of it. But I convinced my mother to let me try with him, as long as I promised to shoot him if he didn't turn out. Val — that’s my dog — ended up being the best of the bunch.” I can’t keep the pride from my voice. “He’s great on the hunt, perfect to command. But he gets overly excited sometimes, and then turns into a full-scale calamity.”

“I wish I could see him.” She smiles a little at my description, and shakes her head. “A wolf in your home.”

“Come back with me and I’ll give you a puppy to raise yourself,” I offer out of nowhere, and then, “I’m sorry. That was stupid. I speak without thinking sometimes. My mother would say ‘most of the time’.”

“Your mother is on the list of people you love?” She couldn’t know the question is a knife in my side.

“Ah. I…respect my mother. Deeply. I don’t think there’s anyone I respect more,” I’m cautious and hedge the question, but there’s something in my answer that makes her unbearably sad.

“Respect and love are very different things. Very.” In the distance, a song starts playing, growing louder and louder, though not as if it’s approaching us. It seems more like…a crazy thought, but like the music is traveling along the curved white walls around us. “We should get you back,” she says suddenly. “If the music has started, so has the Trade. You’ll miss out on the fun. Rare as water at this time of year.”

Turning from me, she starts walking away, but freezes when I whisper, “Flame?” There is no answer but I know she’s listening. “Will you dance with me? In the keep? When we get back?”

Without looking at me, she shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“What if…what if we…” Moving as though she were a bird perched on a tree branch, so as not to startle her into flight, I step towards her. Carefully, carefully, then reach out a hand once I’m in front of her, making sure not to push, not to grab. Just wait. Wait for her. “Will you dance with me here? For a moment?”

Longing crashes over her face out of nowhere, so unexpected and overwhelming that I wonder if I’ve misstepped again.

“I don’t know how.” Shrugging helplessly, she folds into herself. “I would make a terrible partner.”

“You won’t,” I say confidently. “Not to brag, but I’m incredibly good at leading.” Grinning down at her, even though she can’t see me, I puff my chest pretentiously. “Training, you know. I never wince when a lady steps on my feet.”

The music grows louder, as though encouraging her, and she throws up her hands in the air. “Alright! Alright! You’re pushy today.” A little gurgle of laughter burbles from her throat, and when she places her hand in mine, all rational thought flees.

“So…step, step, step together, step…” I chant quietly, and in ten steps my heart has torn itself apart and reknit in an entirely new pattern. She is, without a doubt, the worst dancer I have ever partnered, tripping over her feet, tangling her legs in her dress, and I have to catch her several times to keep her upright. It is my favorite thing that has happened to me in my life, and all I want is for every dance from now to eternity to be this awkward, and ungainly, and ridiculous. “And step, step, twirl — Sea and stars, are you alright, Flame?”

On the twirl, she spun too quickly, and out of my hand, and down to the ground before I could stop her.

She looks almost stunned for the length of a panicked breath on my part, then starts laughing so loud, and long, it’s like a song written only for me. Tears form at the corner of her eyes, and she lifts a finger to catch one, staring at it in bewilderment before shaking her head. “I…I…I…” My Flame can’t even get words out; she looks lit from within with amusement, and pulls answering laughter from my heart.

“I’m sorry!” I chortle, trying desperately not to make her feel like I’m laughing at her. “I should have caught you!”

“Oh Gods above and below! I’m so…I’m terrible!” Her grin swallows her face, and I just stare at her for what feels like forever. “You have me off-balance, Trader. In more ways than one.”

She is a single star in the night sky, and it’s overwhelming. “I can’t keep calling you ‘Flame’. Won’t you tell me your name?” I’m almost begging, and I’m not a man who begs. Usually. Though I’m quickly learning that when you are hungry enough, you will drop to your knees for a crumb if that’s what it takes.

“I don’t know…” she says slowly, still smiling. “What about your labors? You haven’t gotten the mountain flower yet.” She’s teasing, but I can’t keep a serious note from my reply, though I make every effort.

“I’m looking at the mountain flower. I just don’t know its name.”

For the first time since I met her, a hint of color enters her cheeks, a pale rose that even our dancing and her laughter hadn’t bloomed. “I…” She’s hesitating, but I’m happy to wait for her answer until the mountain is turned to dust by the brush of a bird’s wing. “My friends call me ‘Wren’.” Her eyes flare wide, as though she’s said something she shouldn’t have, and there is an oddly painful sort of hope on her face. She grips the necklace at her throat again, catching my attention..

Looking closer now, really studying her for the first time, my brain takes in what my eyes have been glancing over since I met her.

“Is that…are you wearing human bones?” The words burst from me without thought, tinged with a horror I desperately try to swallow, but am unable to in time. All emotion drains from her in the space of a breath. Scrambling to her feet, she goes completely blank, and the girl who had been slowly unfurling like a flower is suddenly steel straight and lightning bright in front of me.

“I’ll take you to the dancing. I think — I think you’ll like the music better there. Not everything in our village is repulsive.” There’s a bite to her words, no echo of the obviously rare laughter remaining.

“I’m sorry…” I begin, but in so many ways I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. She’s wearing human bones as jewelry. I don’t understand this place. It’s dark and glaringly white at the same time, the bones of the walls reflecting the light of a sun so pale it doesn’t resemble our own. Everything here is washed out and faded — the dirt, the grass, the people. It is all muted and quiet, and it makes me uneasy.

“I have known you the space of three breaths, and you spent two of those apologizing, Trader. Not a good start to a temporary friendship, and time here is precious. I don’t think that yours being spent on me is a good use of it.” Again her hand floats to her necklace…of teeth, and maybe fingers, I see now. “I would caution you to remember, though, that were I to go to your lands, I am sure much of it would disgust me in the same way I so clearly disgust you. I warned you once not to disparage the bones. Your lack of respect is…distasteful.”

“My…my…lack of respect? You have made the bones into jewelry!” Stupid, stupid Kaden! Sea and Stars. Stop talking!

She glares, thunder quick and fierce, and I realize suddenly that I have vastly misjudged her in some way. This flame in front of me is white hot and would burn a man to dust. It’s not the quiet candle flicker I originally assumed. And for some reason, that makes everything even harder. The way she is now would lure stronger men than me to their deaths.

“It’s not jewelry. It’s armor. And eyes. And love.” She stops suddenly, fingers flexing tightly around her necklace, then surges ahead. “Yes. Love. And that is all your time with me spent on ignorant words and wasteful questions.” Suddenly her head jerks up and around, and her hand drifts out to the bone wall, fingers caressing it in a sweet, almost tender movement. “Thank you,” she whispers, and steps further from me, until she is almost pressed against the cistern. Pulling up the high collar of her cloak, she buttons it around her neck, covering her necklace from view.

There is the noise of voices from around the corner, and she draws back even further, sinking into the bones as though they are comforting her.

“Bad, bad choices,” she whispers, and I realize, all of a sudden, that she’s speaking to the bones, not me. That she’s been speaking to them on and off this entire time, and my heart seizes in an ice-cold grip.

A voice filled with thunder rings through the clearing, shattering our fragile, secret world, and I turn to face two men, black garbed and hovering. They smell like danger and death, and, instinctively, I step in front of Wren, between her and whatever promise of harm they bring.

A NAME AND A PROMISE

WREN

“Trader.” The word is knife sharp. “What are you doing here?”

I expect the man in front of me to cower under the dark glare of the Father, but he straightens, eyes narrowing, feet dug deep in the earth.

“I’m speaking to one of your people. Were we not instructed to do so? Is this not part of The Trade?” The words are formal, careful, but edged, though the point hits an unexpected target. There is a pang in my chest. I had forgotten about the Trade in our easy conversation. He was instructed to seek someone out. I am just a someone. I know it deep inside my chest, but my heart still stutters painfully. I don’t know why. I’ve known him for the space of a sentence. Whether he sought me out or stumbled across me, it was nothing.

Kaden sees something in my face, and his brows draw together, before a dawning thought has him reaching out to me. “Oh! No, Wren…” he says, voice apologetic, but before his hand can touch my own, the Father has his wrist in a bruising grip, bending it back to almost breaking.

“You will find someone else. There are many women in the village who would be pleased to give you a tour of sorts. Trade…wares…with you.”

Even with an arm wrenched in a painful angle, Kaden laughs, sharp and short. “I am fine where I am. I’m enjoying the company.”

“She is spoken for.” The words are torn from the Father’s mouth, and I step back slightly in surprise. He looks at me, eyes burning like pools of the Everfire.

“I was told that even those…with commitments…are free for the three days we are here. Is that not true?” Kaden is not quite abrasive, but not cautious either, and I assess and reassess the cheerful man in front of me. To speak so to the Father is…well, you may as well jump off the mountain into the Below. The Father exhales on a low note, sending shivers across my skin.

“She. Is. Spoken. For.” The emphasis is different. And the truth of his words hit me all at once, like a rockfall. It is not that anyone wants me, it is that they speak for me. I am spoken for. I am lived for. There are no choices I make for myself — not even this one, which is granted to every other woman in the village. I cannot choose what to eat, what to wear, where to go, with whom to speak, when I rise, when I settle. I cannot even choose the words from my mouth, I am so tightly bound. And in this rare moment, the first of its type since I was born, the first in so long that we thought the Traders would never return, I am being silenced again. Again and again and again, I am only good for speaking other people’s words. Even the dead have more freedom to their voices than I do. And a low keening breaks from my throat, a small hawk’s cry, before I clap my hands to my mouth to silence it.

I know who I am. I have always known. I am a vessel for others. It is my honor and my burden. But the glow of the man in front of me, the casual confidence with which he walks through life…I suddenly and desperately want to taste it, if even for a moment. All three men look at me with mirrored expressions — concern and confusion warring on their faces.

“Are you?” Kaden asks quietly. “Are you not willing, Wren? I would never force you…”

I am about to answer, I want to answer, but Rannoch steps from the shadows behind the Father, looking like a storm cloud.

“What do you keep calling her?” The Councilman is all fire and fury. “Keeper? What is this?” There’s a note in his voice that I can’t decipher, but Kaden suddenly grins; whatever he hears in Rannoch’s question makes him fierce and wild, almost baring his teeth.

“Her name, of course.”

“That is not her name, Trader.”

“It’s what her friends call her,” Kaden bites back, and everyone freezes, freezes as though the Storms themselves have poured down the mountain and covered us all.

“Her…friends?” The Father is studiously casual, echoed by Rannoch.

“Her friends call her Wren? Do they.” It’s a flat statement, leaving no room for an answer, and there is a pit of fear like viper’s fangs in my stomach.

Kaden clearly knows he misstepped, but not how, and shrugs, just as deceptively relaxed as the others. “I am her friend, and that's what I call her.”

No one has moved, standing in an odd sort of triangle — Kaden by my side, Rannoch at one point, and the Father at the other.

Tilting his head, the Father looks between us, humming almost silently, the sound low and dark from his lips. He waits for a beat, then turns to lock eyes with me, and, without looking away, addresses the Trader.

“You are free to go.”

“But—”

“There is a woman in the village — Isabel — who will be happy to show you whatever you would like to see. She has been told to look for you. You should not keep her waiting,” he offers lazily. “You’ll be the envy of many, many men. Isabel is as pure water to the people in this village. A fine companion. And can show you more interesting things than the cisterns.” He has been looking in my eyes too long now. I’m desperately trying to focus somewhere distant over his shoulder, but will not last long; the demand in his gaze is as strong as the pull of Everfire.

“Flame—” Kaden is waiting for me to say something. He thinks I can say something. He is luring, trying to get me to come to him. “Wren…”

“Her name is not for your mouth. Any version of it.” The anger is a serpent’s bite. I do not know why. “Go! You’re not needed here.”

There is a pause, longer than I would have thought possible, and I start to turn to look at Kaden before the Father reaches out and grabs my chin in his hand, locking my head in place.

“Uh-uh-uh, Keeper.” The words are odd, almost affectionate, but hold the note of command I am used to obeying, and I wilt, staying silent.

Kaden makes a small, thoughtful sound, not angry or frustrated, just…considering…if I had to guess. Taking a deep breath, he nods, clearly choosing to concede to the Father for the moment, and smooths his face back into an affable masque, though he smiles with less mirth and more fang than before. Ignoring the others, he steps beside me, shoulder to shoulder with the Father who still holds my chin in a gentle grip belying the fierce expression on his face. I was wrong in my initial guess - they are close enough in height to bother the Father, the twitch of a flickering muscle in his jaw the only sign of discomfort, but from the normally taciturn man it’s equivalent to a scream.

Eyes soft now, Kaden takes my hand, pulling my gaze to him even against the weight of the Father’s fingers. Voice low, a hearthside whisper, he offers something halfway between a caution and a promise. “I’ll see you soon, Flame. Before the night ends.” The dark rasp of warning from Rannoch and the Fathers’s throats does nothing but pull a bright counterpoint of laughter from Kaden, who winks at me in unexpected amusement, then squeezes my hand, and walks away.

“The hell he will.” The Father’s words are growled, not spoken, his hand sliding from my chin to encircle my throat; suddenly my heart is beating like a wild rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare. He steps into me, bending me back like a reed in the wind, his lips so close to mine our breath is shared, that I would swear before the Earth and Sky for the briefest of seconds I felt the feather-light touch of his mouth on mine, though it is an impossible thought. Kaden is gone, the clearing is silent, but he is stone, unmoving. There is not enough space between us to inhale without the heat from his body flooding my tongue, so my chest is rising and falling in short, shallow pants, but still he doesn’t release me. It is not until Rannoch leans forward, a strange, barely restrained violence in the movement, that the disquieting moment is broken.

“Silas?” Rannoch is confused, oddly angry, and the Father immediately releases me, almost pushing me from him.

“What…” my hand drifts to my mouth. “Sir–”

“Don’t call me that,” he commands, lips curled up in unexpected disgust. “Especially not now. You have my name. Use it.”

THE FATHER

WREN

The words are rolling thunder from the mountains.

“I’m sorry…” I stutter in response. “Call you…call you what?”

“Silas. You know my name, Wren. Your father is the one who named it and saddled me with this…honor.” His tone is acidic, like the winter rains, and I shiver, pulling the cold of the bones around me to shore up my courage, to strengthen my spine.

“You know my name, Sir,” I snap back, a maelstrom of anger replacing the rare joy from my odd time with Kaden. “I am Keeper, or BoneKeeper, or, if you must, Ceridwen. No other. And your resentment is misplaced as I didn’t choose you. The bones did. I’ll pass along your thanks, however.”

“But Wren to your friends, Keeper?” He ignores my reply as Rannoch steps up beside Silas, just as storm-ridden, and the two exchange a long, dark look. “What friends do you have here, Wren?” Something curls through his voice like smoke.

“Why would you think I have none?” I hedge, and they look at each other again.

“Who are your friends.” It is not a question, it is a demand, and for some reason it makes me want to cry, cry rivers and valleys until I have emptied myself of all the water in my body.

Running my hands along the walls, I press my face into them, turning away from the men, and the bones whisper soft words of comfort to me.

There’s a pause, and then the Father’s voice, this time softer, the fury drained from it. “The bones. Of course. Of course.” He is almost gentle now. “Did you tell the Trader that the bones call you that?”

Shaking my head, I press my lips together in a tight line. “No. Just that my friends do.” It’s no use fighting, or playing word games. “What does it matter, Sir?”

His eyes narrow. “I have asked you before. I will not ask kindly again. Silas. At least when we are alone, or with Rannoch. There are no secrets between us.”

The words hold a wealth of meaning, and I turn slowly from the wall to face them.

Lorcan? I whisper, suddenly ice cold and shivering.

Here. He answers immediately. Just go cautiously, Little Keeper. I don’t know the game at hand, but Silas is a good man. We were close…before. The other one I don’t know as well. He and Silas became friends after my Guiding. But I grew up with Silas. Just go cautiously.

Both Rannoch and Silas are watching me through interested gazes. They look at each other silently again, some unspoken communication passing between them, before turning back to me.

“Who are you speaking with?” Rannoch asks quietly.

“What?” The word stumbles out of my mouth, surprise clear. “The bones, of course…” I add on awkwardly, and he frowns.

“But which bones?”

“I don’t see why that matters,” I reply, slowly, slowly moving my hands down my vertebracelets then up to my ear cuffs, not letting them linger in any one place too long.

“There is someone you are speaking with specifically, Keeper. I would like to know who,” Silas says now, commanding, a strange note in his voice, and I shrug.

“Well. I would like to know why the Council is full of poison and plague, but we can’t always get what we want, can we.”

Wren! Lorcan barks out, but there’s laughter tumbling in his voice that pulls at my lips. What is going on with you?

I don’t know I reply, and ice floods my stomach. I don’t know, and that’s the marrow truth. Two weeks ago I was cold marble. Two weeks ago I spent every spare moment on the other side of the veil. I knew who I was. I had a place and a purpose, and if I wasn’t happy, at least I recognized myself in the mirror. Now I am a storm season of emotions I haven’t felt since I was a child, an avalanche of living pulling me screaming from my comfort into this breathing world where I don’t belong. I don’t belong and yet I can’t leave; somehow I have stepped too far from the shade and something is pushing me further.

It is too much.

“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper helpless, pressing my hand against my mouth. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I just want to go home.” I don’t care that I’m breaking in front of them, don’t care that I’m showing pieces of myself that they haven’t earned. Exhaustion presses on me; if I could just close my eyes and sleep. If I could just disappear from this world for the smallest time. If I could just step from my body for a moment, I think I would survive.

Silas sighs, eerily echoed by Rannoch, and Lorcan down my back, all three exhaling from opposite sides of the veil, and I am trapped in their breaths somewhere in between.

The world wavers, shimmering in front of me, and Silas leaps forward in a sudden movement. Catching me before I fall, he holds me upright until my feet steady, though my stomach churns. Burying my now throbbing head in my palms, I try to pull away from him. In response he grabs my hand, looks surreptitiously around him, then leads me along a thin dirt strip, barely distinguishable from the scrub surrounding it. I’ve never noticed it, despite walking this village my entire life. Rannoch mutters a sound of surprise, but nothing more, and follows after us. I am too unbalanced to fight him, my vision still blurred and wavering, and follow like a newborn pony, legs wobbly and unsure. Moments later we are at a strange little door, wooden and cracked, tucked into a rough, dirt wall. It is almost impossible to see until you are directly in front of it, the bleached wooden panels the same color as the uneven dips and crags of the dirt, and there are no footprints or track marks to give away its location. Silas looks around carefully once more before opening the door and drawing me inside.

Rannoch follows quickly, glancing left and right on alert, the door snicking softly shut behind us. They lead me down a long hall to a dark, cold room. It’s barely big enough for the three of us, more a large closet than anything else, one wall curving out and around, all the way back to the doorway. I’m guessing it was a natural cave that was closed off just enough to put a door in, and then forgotten. There are a few, sparse shelves against almost damp stone, and a single half-broken chair with one uneven end table beside it. We must be deep, deep into the mountain for there to be moisture on the walls here; it is not a well traveled area. Silas lights a small, wavering lamp and places it next to the chair, where he directs me to sit. Blood moths fill my stomach at the sight, thinking briefly of the Trader’s description of me, but I am knocked out of my reverie by a cool glass being pushed into my hand.

Silas nudges the cup towards me, indicating I should drink; I just stare down at the water. He waits, waits some more, then barks out, “Drink, Keeper.”

Anger surges against my ribs at his tone, a searing heat like the blade of a Render’s sword. Silas pulls fire from me as quickly as the Trader pulled laughter; I know which I prefer. Boiling rage gives me the gift of clarity, burning away the lingering unease of the last half hour, clearing the fog from my brain. Mouth twisting in the mockery of a smile, I shake my head mutinously, trying to ignore how much I feel like a child throwing a tantrum.

Little Keeper, for all the stars in the sky…

But Lorcan’s caution is too amused to be taken seriously, as though he’s watching a game rather than a war, so I ignore him.

“I will not tell you again. Drink the water,” Silas bites out, glaring at me, and I smirk, shrugging noiselessly. “You are impossible, Keeper! Drink!”

Since my silence seems to infuriate him, an unexpected weapon in an unusual battle, I simply raise a brow and remain unmoving. We are stone crashing against stone, fire against ice, until suddenly, without warning, he softens, exhaling sharply. The shift is so abrupt, so tangible, I almost fall forward from my seat, as though the tense air between us had been solid. “Earth and Sky. Of course. Think, Silas.” He is clearly frustrated, more with himself than with me. Reaching out, he grabs the cup back, glances between me and the glass, then takes my hand in surprisingly gentle fingers. Carefully placing my palm against his throat, he murmurs, “You can feel me swallow this way. I’ll test it first so you know it’s safe. I won’t have you fear poison in my presence.”

I can’t help the small spasm of my grip in surprise, and his eyes flare briefly in response, sending a curious ripple through me. Focusing entirely on my face, he places one of his hands over my own, wrapping my fingers more tightly around the strong column of his throat. His other lifts the glass to his mouth and he sips, once, twice, enough that I can feel the movement of his skin under my own. And then he stops, leaving us frozen until Rannoch clears his throat uncomfortably from his position behind Silas.

Without looking away from me, he takes the glass from his mouth, turns it, and places it against my own, so our lips share a single point. There is nothing about this moment that should be so fragile, so unbalanced, yet my breath is shallow, my lungs tight.

“Will you drink? Please?” It’s not a demand, just a curling, sweet smoke request, and almost against my will, I take a sip, though my hand is still on his throat beneath his own.

The water is unexpectedly cold, and pulls me back to myself. Of course it is pure. Of course. What else would the Council have for themselves while their people drink filtered poison? Whatever secret I have let slip in my expression causes him to sigh, and he releases my hands before turning away.

Rannoch murmurs something under his breath, which sounds like, “I thought we weren’t doing things for the face of a pretty girl,”; Silas’s head whips around to meet Rannoch’s sardonic gaze, but everything is so unknown that I push it to the side, keeping my eyes on the glass in my hand.

Silas exhales heavily. “The water was a gift from the Traders. It is not a private stock.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean…” I reply shortly. His shoulders tighten, muscles rippling beneath his thin shirt.

“I know your thoughts, Keeper. You have not learned to school your face well enough to hide them from me when we are in private.” His voice is strangely sardonic, “Your thoughts are not your own in any case. They belong to the village, and the Council.” A long pause, and then, so low it’s hard to hear, “They belong to the Gods, and the bones. But most of all, they belong to me. As they are mine, so you are mine.” It is a threat, a promise, and, in the far corners, a dark desperation I have not heard in the Father’s voice before. But the claiming makes me deaf to whatever slip of his soul he is exposing to me in this moment.

“Do I have no rights?” I snap, and he lets out a tired laugh that is more of a cry.

“No. No, you don’t.”

“I am still a citizen of this village!” All of a sudden it is too much, and the wild anger of years of frustration, of being caged and kept, bursts from me, caution thrown to the storm winds. “Every BoneKeeper before me has had the full rights of a citizen!”

Silas is just as angry, just as rash in his reply. “Every BoneKeeper before you has lost a right, just bit by bit, chiseled away until we’re where we are now. As BoneKeeper you are more and less than a citizen, Wren. You should know that by now. You are not seen as a woman.” The words are a punch to my stomach. They drip with disdain. I am not a woman. “The Council has been meeting, preparing for the coming Storms. And in the meetings many things other than food and shelter have been discussed. You chief amongst them. There is a debate…” He pauses, seemingly discomforted, which makes me more nervous than anything else up to this point. “...there is a debate as to whether you are to be considered human, or a blessed vessel from the Gods. And, as a vessel, you are a tool, nothing more. A sacred tool, to be protected and cherished. But you would not have the rights you are so used to now.”

A bitter laugh escapes my mouth. “Rights? You think I have any rights now? That I am living a life of comfort and ease?”

He shakes his head sharply. “You have no idea how things could be for you, who fights for you to keep your cage door open, even slightly.” He is frustrated, furious.

“They are not fighting hard, if you know anything of my life.”

“You know nothing.” The words are a rebuke. “They risk everything to keep you from the wolves.”

“The wolves are at my door every night, Sir.”

His eyebrows draw together, a deep crease between them. “What wolves?”

Shaking my sleeve back, I show the fingerprint bruises, the slices of skin raw from nails. “You may think I’m not worthy of being called a woman, but rest assured. Nickolas and others do not have your same distance, and would treat me as such if given the chance. They are not kind with their conquests, I’m sure you know.”

He reaches out a massive hand with unexpected gentleness, and caresses the bruises. “Nickolas did this?”

I nod. If I am in for blood, I am in for bone. “And worse. And has promised worse still. But I keep the door barred. If I am moved to a place to sit on a dais and be a vessel, this vessel will be filled and broken before morning light.”

“Nickolas will not do so again.”

I laugh, now with real amusement. “You think you have a tamed beast, but he is rabid, and none of you are willing to see it.”

He shakes his head. “He will come to heel when I call. He is not as brave as you think.”

I fight against rolling my eyes. It would be comical if it weren’t so dangerous for me personally. “He is not as stupid as you think. And when you loosen his leash, I only hope I am not in his sight.”

“He will not hurt you, Wren. You have my word.”

“You are more blind than I am, and when it is too late, I will be food for the Earth and will not be able to say you were wrong. And even if he were not to hurt me, do the other woman in this village not matter to you? Or do you truely not see him for what he is? Ignorance is no excuse for you.”

He rubs a hand across his face, a tired movement that speaks volumes of frustration and exhaustion. “Do you know the Bones called for me when I was eight?” he asks conversationally, as though any of this conversation is normal. As though anyone ever speaks to the Father. Come to think of it, as though anyone speaks to the Bonekeeper.

“Yes, in theory, but not the details of it.” I answer carefully. It is always best to be cautious when one does not know where the path leads.

“They did. You were a babe, a child, so I am not surprised you do not know the full story.”

“As though 8 is not a child?” I bite back, and then sigh, rubbing my forehead. I am not myself today, am being dangerously careless. But I don’t want to be myself! I think mutinously. I want to be…anyone else. My head is throbbing, and I feel dizzy suddenly.

Head between your knees, Little Keeper!

Lorcan barks out the command which I immediately obey, leaning forward and trying to calm my breathing.

Silas’s bass is surprisingly contrite. “My apologies, Keeper. I forgot that the Silent and the Exiled are difficult for you.”

Ah. That explains it. We are too deep in the Keep, too deep in the carved out mountain, and I am surrounded only by fragmented mosaics made of Silent bone, and worse still, the Exiled. The coldness and emptiness pulls at something inside me, but it is muted by a dark, throbbing pain pounding nails in my skull. Guide us home they whisper, agonized pleading, tearing at my skin like claws. Blood, flesh, and bone. Bring us home, Keeper, or give us Silence, but end the pain. We repent, we repent, we repent. I am being sucked in and down, pulled by dragging hands into the Below, until⁠—

A cool breeze and cold cloth yank me back into myself. The Father is kneeling before me, holding me up with one giant hand, guiding my fingers forward with the other to place them on a well-worn femur. She sings to me, a joyful trill of recognition, and I startle.

“Your...your mother?” I ask, surprise clear in my voice. I have never read for the Father in any personal capacity. Only for the purpose of the village. So his mother is singing, singing, singing, words tripping over themselves, excitement dancing along the femur like fireflies in the night. The Father looks wary, unsure, and surprisingly vulnerable.

“I thought…I thought perhaps you’d need someone loud enough to drown out the sounds of the Exiled. And my mother was many, many things. Loud being foremost amongst them.”

The vulnerability sits awkwardly on the usually forceful man, until I remember that, when he was first named as The Father by my father, after my anointing and when I was old enough to Guide souls, the first call to Rendering was his mother. Without a BoneKeeper, until the new one is born, or old enough to speak for the bones, the Council makes the rules and decisions. It is meant to be impartial, as it’s seen as a heavy task to call to Render or Reap, but there are entire fields that have been harvested while no others have been touched.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember her Guiding well.” I feel like I should apologize, though I’m not sure why, and he shrugs in response.

“You were very sick at the time. And very young.” He tilts his head, watching me. “I’m surprised you recall anything from that time. It seemed…difficult for you.”

Unsure how to respond, I smile down at the femur. “She’s very excited. Why isn’t she out with the other families? She’s been…not lonely exactly. She says you speak to her often. But she is missing the sunshine.”

He frowns, shaking his head. “She knows why,” he replies cryptically.

“It’s not safe for your family, she says. Nor for Rannoch’s? And others? What’s this?”

Rannoch and Silas exchange a long look before Silas turns back to me. “Bones have a tendency to go missing around here, Keeper. Especially those with stories to tell.”

Cold shivers through me.

“Do they.” It’s not a question though — surprising me in how unsurprising it is. Of course the bones I don’t see, the ones inside the Council House, or far up the mountain in their chambers, would be most vulnerable. And most valuable. It is a sad realization that, even with the reverence we’re supposed to have for our ancestors and the Gods, the grime and waste of petty power still has enough pull to overcome sense. “Were the old ways even real? Has it always been as such?”

Rannoch and Silas look at each other again before Rannoch sighs. “Memory is always seen through a golden light or a blackened shadow, Keeper. There is little that stands as it looked in the plain sun of day when you walk backwards through time.”

The femur sings beneath my fingers, pulling at the corners of my lips despite Rannoch’s words. “He ate as much as that?” I whisper, and Silas rolls his eyes, faux irritation in his voice, barely masking his curiosity.

“What awful and untrue stories is she telling you, Keeper?”

His entire body is leaning forward; I have never spoken for her, so it has been many, many years since he has heard her. “She says you were a tiny, untalented thief,” I reply, trying to keep the hint of laughter from my words. Her joy at finally being able to talk to her son is filling me with borrowed happiness.

“Untalented?” He is astonished. Rannoch laughs quietly beside him, the sound low and secret, flickering and thrilling.

“Alright, Keeper. I must know. It’s entirely inappropriate for this moment, but please.”

“She says he would go to their pantry and take the honey rolls in the night, moving them around so she would think there were none missing. But his face and hands would still be sticky in the morning, and he never noticed she kept the breads on the lowest shelf on purpose. A game from a mother to a son.”

“I was only five or six, I’ll have you know,” Silas mutters, a reluctant grin curling his lush mouth, softening his face in unexpected ways.

“Mmmm. And seven. And eight,” I reply, and he growls in the back of his throat. “Your quarrel is with her, not me. She says you…I don’t know these things?” Pausing, I wait for her to try to explain, brow furrowed, and Silas comes closer, hovering over me as though he could hear her through sheer proximity. He’s massive, like the mountain, making it difficult to concentrate on his mother’s words, though I try. My focus is skittering stones down a hillside, though; Silas smells like woodfire and cold dusk air, his skin close enough to mine that I can feel the heat from it. Only his mother’s laughter draws me back, but I am curiously breathless when I speak for her again.

“She says you ate…maybe little pockets of meat and a buttered sort of — I don’t know. Not bread, exactly. Lighter. With pieces flaking off?””

“Oh!” Longing fills his voice. “I haven’t thought of those in years! Miners’ pies. Or mountain pasties, they were called. Not many made them, even when I was a child. A waste of ingredients even then, maybe. Or they took too much effort. But they were my favorites. And my mother made the best of them.”

Frowning, I twist my lips, feeling unexpectedly disgruntled. “I’ve never had them. How is that?”

“By the time you were able to, Keeper, the miners had stopped going to the mountain heart. And without trades, things became a bit tighter in the village.”

His mother is still filling me with whispers, and I close my eyes to concentrate. “Their memory tastes like nothing I’ve had before. I wish I could try one…”

“You can taste their memory?” Silas asks, suddenly very serious, and my eyes fly open before I can help myself.

“No, I…I meant⁠—”

“Keeper. You said their memory tastes like nothing you’ve had before. I’ve never heard of a BoneKeeper who could taste memories.”

“A turn of phrase. Nothing more.” Stupid, Wren! Have care letting your secrets slip!

He stares down at me, at the bone cradled in my hands, at my blank face, and waits. Rannoch is still beside him, like a deer frozen in a hunter’s sight. Even Lorcan shivers at my lapse, suddenly very awake around my throat, down my spine.

You can taste memories? What other secrets have you been keeping from me?

Shrugging, I don’t answer him, but he asks again, a teasing warning clear in his voice.

Little Keeper, I’m surprised at you. Can you taste memories? What else are you not telling me?

I want to answer, but it is hard to concentrate with Silas and Rannoch staring, unflinching, with Silas’s mother still speaking, with Lorcan poised and waiting on my back. Layers and layers of sound and expectation and demand, and I am suddenly overwhelmed. Beyond overwhelmed really.

“Aren’t there places for you to be?” I ask, passing the femur back to Silas with careful hands and a quiet thank you for her time and stories.

Silas sighs, staring down at the bone in his hand, then nods once, more a quick jerk of his head than anything else. “Rann?” The affection in his voice is clear; I’m being let into a private moment, but purposefully. I’m beginning to wonder if there is anything Silas does that is without meaning. “We have to ready the feast tonight. Nickolas and his few need to be distracted with tasks, kept as far from the Traders as possible. Away from the silos as well. We can’t risk anything going wrong. Their wagons don’t have enough, but anything is better than what we have now.” Scrubbing a tired hand across his face, he turns back to me, dark eyes indecipherable. “Our time together isn’t done, BoneKeeper, only delayed.” It’s a clear warning, but doesn’t carry a threat. More of a lingering promise, and though I don’t understand it, something in his tone sends cool shivers over my skin.

Too much today has been the unknown, and it seems safest to slip back into the masque where I am most comfortable, where my face is a still pool, a mirror of the outside world and nothing more. Breathing in deeply, I inhale the cold bone around me and school my body back to its center.

“Whenever you ask, Father. Of course I am, as always, ready at the call of the Council.”

I am placid, calm — the perfect BoneKeeper. And it infuriates him and Rannoch both, which oddly delights me, though I keep the little flicker of smug happiness locked deep inside.

Rannoch’s mouth presses into a thin line, brow furrowed in obvious suspicion at my ready acquiescence, and he moves in front of me, sinking to his heels. Silas mimics him, the two men penning me in my chair between their overly warm bodies. “Wren,” Rannoch begins, holding up his hand in anticipation of my protest. “I won’t call you Ceridwen when you clearly hate it, and I’m tired of calling you nothing but BoneKeeper. A title is not a name. So if your bone friends call you Wren, then I’ll do it too, and you’ll just have to accept my friendship.” I bite my tongue, and it’s enough that he continues, ticking points off on his fingers. “The Blood Tree has been destroyed. You’ve accused Councilmen of murder. Murder. Your house has been ransacked, your bones desecrated.”

Silas makes a pained sort of choking sound, and Rannoch lays a comforting hand on his shoulder before continuing. “You’ve refused to read for the Council. And⁠—”

“And you’ve been poisoned,” Silas mutters.

Rannoch nods, echoing him. “And you’ve been poisoned. And we can’t deal with any of it right now because the Traders are here for the first time in near memory, and we’re desperate for this trade. Desperate, Wren.”

Silas breaks in, taking over. “So for tonight, just tonight, please. Stop fighting us. Stay somewhere safe. Don’t risk anything. We’re trying to get our feet under us but the ground keeps shifting so quickly we’re being swallowed. Please. Just for a night, return to who you were a month ago and once the trade is complete, we’ll figure this out. But there’s too much.” He tries to sound reasonable, but it comes out as all his words do, commanding and firm.

“Of course,” I reply quietly, demurely, eyes wide and clear. They exchange an uneasy look, and Rannoch shakes his head.

“We’re serious, Wren.”

“Yes, Councilor. I’ll take your advice to heart.” There is nothing in my voice to infuriate them, but Rannoch almost growls, and I can feel Lorcan rolling his eyes on my back.

Little Keeper. Stop poking the bears. You’re incorrigible.

I have to fight to keep a smile from my face at Lorcan’s exasperation. Nothing amuses me more than annoying my somber Protector.

Silas continued talking while I listened to Lorcan, and I catch only the end of his instructions. “Take her home the back way, Rannoch, then meet me at the Trader’s camp. Keeper — just…don’t burn anything, or break anything, or kill anyone. For the space of the Trade. Just the space of three days.”

With that, he leaves, Rannoch watching after him with concerned eyes before turning back to me and offering his hand.

“Alright, Wren. Home with you, I suppose.”

Home.

The word slices me, unexpectedly sharp for some reason. So casually said, as though it were a place I should know.

Home.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my face empty, and am trying desperately to breathe through the abrupt stabbing in my chest, when Lorcan’s bones brush my skin under my cloak, soft as a bird’s wing, and the pain is gone in a heartbeat.

Let’s go home, Little Keeper he whispers, and I can feel him dancing down my spine.

Home.

BELONGING

TAHRIK

All around me life surges with the sound of music, stomping feet, clapping hands, and laughter ringing from the corners of the packed square. In a rare occurrence, the Council invited all musicians up onto the platform outside their house, and we’re packed on here, a mix of villagers and Traders, playing our fingers until they're raw, alternating between groups to fill the air with song. We’ve played together long enough into the evening that we’re catching each other’s melodies and occasionally are able to join in on repeated choruses. Even the people in the square are calling out on the echoed refrains of the Traders’ music, funny, lilting songs they call short-haul shanties, full of strange words.

Lift and pull and rise up oh

Warp and weft and waves below

Lift and pull and rise up oh

Fall away and leeward go…

Children are running between twirling skirts and spinning bodies, shouting with sheer happiness, tugging on smiling Traders’ tunics and being rewarded with small pieces of sweets from their seemingly endless pockets. Almost every woman is dancing — with villager or Trader, it doesn’t matter tonight — and any man who isn’t in the center of the square is sitting at a table around the outside, sharing a drink and a story with an unfamiliar face. More came on this Trade than from any of the stories in the past — a full two hundred, by my count, though it could be less or more. They’re a funny mix, though I’m sure they’d say the same about us. Most are friendly, open with their laughter and words, but there is a small group of twenty or so that floats surreptitiously around the edges, not drawing attention to themselves but never fully blending in either. They’re ready with a flashed smile, a clapped shoulder, but never step into the dancing, never stay in one place too long, always watching, seemingly on guard.

I don’t suppose I blame them, really. It’s been a long time — a full generation, really— since they were here, and no one knows why they stopped coming. It hasn’t been broached yet; the first day of the trade is always for welcome and warmth. It’s not until the morning that we settle into exchange of wares, a trade we desperately need. Shaking my head to loose the gloom of tomorrow from settling, I wrap my hands more firmly on my lute and turn to Davvy beside me.

“What do you think, Dav? One or two more?” Darting my eyes up the mountain, I try to judge how much daylight we have until we’re forced inside. No villager has mentioned blood moths, or being inside at full dark; the Traders have never been here when it’s been a worry, and we’re not sure how much to say. But the thought of breaking this happiness into rationed pieces cuts at my heart, which is suddenly and so unexpectedly full of love for this place and these people that I find it hard to hold in, my fingers calling out the emotion that is flooding me.

Dav grins at the familiar song, turning and shouting to the others on the platform, who immediately pick it up, the Trader musicians looking on curiously. It’s an old song, more of a child’s tune than anything, but it’s ours — our people’s, our town’s, sung at almost every birth, every wedding, every name day — it’s a song of joy, and belonging, of the land beneath our feet and the strength of the rock around our homes. Davvy normally takes the lead on this one, but his eyes are locked on his wife, Bri, who has appeared in front of him, baby on hip, staring up at him with all of the lights of the village shining in her eyes as though she’s seeing him for the first time, and he has no space in his head for anything other than her face, so I start, to raucous cheers, and hundreds of voices join in, wrapping around me, pulling me to them in song and spirit.

Here is the butcher and here is the baker,

Here is the potter, here the meadmaker,

Here is the farmer, home from the field

Golden from sunshine where gold is the yield

There goes the miner, and there goes the child

When the weather is light and the winds all blow mild,

Home they all come when the hearth’s glowing bright

To fresh bread, and pearled barley, and warmth for the night.

Oh for love, oh for love, oh for love, oh for love,

For the dirt on our shoes and the stones up above…

By the second chorus of “Oh for love”, the Traders have the rhythm and are shouting it out with us, and the voices of a thousand or more people rise up in something that carves itself into me. For love, for love, for love…I can tell I’m not the only one drinking the moment in, looking around me, meeting the eyes of friends and strangers alike, sharing this between us. It is as near perfect a piece of time as has ever existed.

A trembling breeze skirts down from the mountain face, cooling the air only slightly, but it is enough. Even as packed as the square is, the heat of bodies twisting together in changing patterns, I can almost see it as it curls through the crowd, close to a living thing, rustling skirts and reminding those of us who live here that we don’t have long left tonight. The first night of the Trade is closing fast, and I can see the concern on people’s faces even as they continue dancing. In previous years, when the Traders came during the Dancing or Haymaking, they took advantage of open fields and moonless skies, of the warmth of summer and the cave-bound blood moths. But we are into cooler weather now, and the nights aren’t safe.

There is a break in the music when the song ends, people looking askance at each other, unsure of what to do. Behind me the door to the Council House opens unexpectedly, and the Father steps out with Rannoch and another Councilman, faces placid. Even silent, he draws attention, waiting until everyone nearest the stage is quiet, looking at him, before he speaks.

“Honored guests–” The Father’s voice rings out through the square, and the laughter fades as the rest of the people turn towards him. “At this time of year, we would not usually stay out past the twilight. But if we light all the beacon fires around the square, as well as the bonfire in the middle, we believe we should be fine until full dark. At that hour, any Trader may accompany a new friend home with a torch in hand, or, for any who are in need, room and board will be provided within the Council Keep. If you’d prefer to stay in your camp, of course you are welcome to, but we ask you, for safety, to stay inside your wagons or tents until dawn breaks. Our nights here are not friendly.”

A loud, boisterous cheer goes up from the villagers, who ignore the Traders’ questioning eyes, and music rushes forth again to fill the empty spaces with dancing sound. Davvy grins at me and puts down his lute.

“We’ve played enough, friend, and there are enough who still have flesh on their fingers to continue our share. Come dance a bit!”

Bri is still in front of the stage, her friend now beside her, reaching out with welcoming fingers, face flushed from heat and movement.

“Come, Tahrik!” Bri cajoles. Dav wraps an arm around me, motioning with his other hand expansive merriment toward the village.

“Tonight, of all nights, be free!”

Shrugging off my lute, I turn to put it on the chair behind me, ready to jump into the fray, when, from the side of the square, in the midst of all the color and frenetic gaiety, a cool, pale shadow catches my attention.

Her face is gutted, naked longing raw and painful, enough that it stings my throat, that I want to run to her and smooth away whatever weight is bending her to breaking. I can’t — it’s impossible, like drinking dirt — but I have to do something, give her one small gift if nothing else.

Turning to Dav, I grab my lute again. “One more! Just one more!” and bless him, because he joins immediately.

Looking back at her, waiting until she sees me, I shout as loud as I’m able, “The Sun and The Moon!”

It’s a favorite of Dav’s, and of the crowd’s, a love song that has been part of us since before bone memory. Everyone sings along; after a beat, I feel safe enough to turn back to her, to pull her in through my words, even if she can’t join in the dancing.

It takes a moment to find her, because in the space of a heartbeat, she has become someone I don’t recognize.

She is smiling as I’ve rarely seen her smile.

And she is not alone.

STEPPING THROUGH GLASS

WREN

Iknow instinctively I shouldn’t go, that I should just stay home in my quiet cottage, stuff my ears full of wool to drown out the music rolling down the streets, the promise of welcome, the desire to belong, but it is too strong. Stronger than anything I’ve felt before, I think; the pull of this magic night, this chance step outside of time harder to ignore than the first bloom after the rains. And so I give in, shrugging of the strangeness of my talk with Rannoch and Silas, pushing aside the memory of the crowd flowing around me, of Tahrik not seeing me, and I stutter-step my way to the very edge of the square, outside the ivory walls, still on the bone side, peering around the corner like a child spying on her parents.

My eyes immediately seek out the rollicking band of players, Tahrik in the middle of the lot, laughing and singing with his friends, women in front of him smiling up at him with welcoming curves and beckoning fingers. A sick sort of knife twists in my stomach — I forget sometimes that he has a world outside of me; how selfish I am, how arrogant to believe that just because he is my only friend, I am his. For some reason I want to cry, a complete waste of water. But just as I have to swallow back tears, he looks up, across the square, through the throngs of villagers and Traders, and meets my eyes, for just a moment.

“The Sun and the Moon!” he shouts, staring directly at me and nodding slightly, waiting until I nod back, then looks away. But he sings more loudly than before, sending the song spiraling through the sky, and I know his choice is a message to me.

“The moon was a goddess alone in the sky,

Alone oh alone and alone she did cry

The Sun saw her tears by the light of the day

And he flared into flame til he burned them away…”

The chorus is taken up around the square, feet stomping, hands clapping, and in sudden motion, a whirl of dancers sweep by us, pulling my eyes from Tahrik in spinning, swirling color. Mead is being poured freely around from freshly tapped barrels, the weight of the coming Storms disappearing in this rare, unheard of respite. Some breath of fresh air arrived with the Traders, some promise long forgotten, some hope of perhaps. Perhaps we will make it through now, perhaps not so many will go to the Silence, perhaps the children won’t emerge from the winter months quite so gaunt, so hollow. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…it is a rhythmic word, repeated in the dancing feet and happy shouts of the people around me, and it carried me with them.

It makes me careless.

So when a warm voice and warmer body press against me from behind, I sway into him unintentionally, barely brushing him, but barely is more than enough encouragement.

“Dance with me, Wren?” He is joyful, his earlier run-in with the Father not diminishing his natural exuberance. “Don’t say no,” he begs, smile pleading as he walks in front of me and takes my hands, backing up toward the dancers, pulling me with him. “Don’t say it. I’m sorry for every misstep. My only talents are saying stupid things and dancing. You’ve had too much of one. I know. I know. Can I make peace with you through the other?” He pauses, unsure now as to his welcome. “You don’t have to forgive me. But can we not dance?”

“I–” Pulling a hand away from him, I reach out to grasp the bones in the wall for support.

He misunderstands my reluctance, and asks with a deflated yet oddly defiant air, “Are you not even allowed to dance?”

“I…” I honestly don’t know. “No one other than you has ever asked me…”

“Well, I’m asking. There is no reason for no. There is no moment but now. Come with me, Wren.” Kaden’s voice is low, alluring. “Come dance with me.”

And Gods help me, I do. Throwing all caution to the wind, I step forward with him and let him lead me onto the floor, into the music, into the chaotic happiness of the people there.

DANCING AND DARKNESS

KADEN

People avoid her. Avoid us. It is clear as day as she stumbles and trips her way through unpracticed steps. I’m a quick learner, our earlier attempts at dancing making me cautious and careful, and I keep a hand on her the entire song, steadying her each time her feet catch each other, spinning her in tight circles, trying to ignore the growing, anxious murmurs running through the nearby crowd. They draw back from her shining face, from her moonlight hair that clicks as she twirls, and I forcibly swallow back anger at the scared faces, and anger at myself for the shiver that runs through me when I realize the sounds from her hair are bones.

You have no space left for judgment or apologies I caution myself, clenching my teeth together to keep the questions inside. You have no space for missteps. And so I smile, and sing to her, and revel in the answering curve of her lips, in the pink flush of her cheeks, the tightening of her fingers on my own.

Her people may pull away from us, but mine fill in around us the moment they see me on the floor. They’re curious, but friendly, shouting out their names to her as they go by, shooting me knowing looks and teasing winks. The closer they get to us, the tighter she pulls into me, never quite full against me, but clearly uneasy with the clamor and pressing around her. It does not take long for her smile to become strained, and her breathing to change from happiness to something close to fear.

I stop immediately. “I’m out of shape, Flame.” Making a show of puffing like an old man, I’m rewarded by her startled laugh, though she captures it and presses it back into her mouth, covering it with a trembling hand. “Can we break for a moment? Long enough for a drink, some food?”

“You’re welcome to, Trad-” She pauses, looks at the ground, then, “Kaden.” Who knew the sun could rise on a single word? “I think I’ve overstayed my time here, though…nights like this are rare for my village. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, or drain their joy in any way by my presence.”

Frowning, I grip her hand more tightly, even as she surreptitiously tries to draw away. “The lack of your presence would drain my joy completely, Wren.”

Her eyes widen and she darts nervous, unseeing glances around her, as though checking who could hear. “Please, Kaden. Just…Keeper, when others are around.”

Nodding, I sigh. “Keeper. Come sit with me. We’ll go to the very edge of the crowd. But gift me some company? Some of my men can come with us, scatter around the table to make it less… I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t understand the dynamics at play here. But come for food, will you? Is that not done?”

She laughs again, and again hides it. “None of this is done, Trader. But I suppose if there is to be a reckoning, food is not worse than dance.”

Nothing she says makes sense, but if she’s willing to follow, I’m happy to lead, and I carefully navigate to a far corner that is full of shadows, where empty cups and used plates litter the table. There will be time enough to clean in the morning; the few hours of this night are clearly for pleasure, not for chores.

“Sit,” I say gently, clearing a place in front of her and tucking her against the wall, picking a spot specifically so she is close to an opening through which the white gleam of exposed skeleton glimmers in shivering torchlight. It makes my skin ripple, but she immediately relaxes, and I feel a brief sense of triumph at having made a good choice. “I’ll get plates. Is there anything to avoid for you? Anything you most crave?”

Again I’ve surprised her, judging by the startled tilt of her head. “I– I don’t know how to answer that, Trader. I suppose if there’s something you’ve brought from your lands, I would like to try it?” Her voice tips up in a question, but a certain longing sparks the words, and her request becomes my command.

“Of course, Keeper. You trust me to choose?”

“Surprisingly, I think I do.” The cautious, teasing note from our first meeting is back somehow, despite all of my wrong turns, and I grin down at her, though she can’t see me.

“Well, then. Let’s see if I can earn it.”

It doesn’t take long to pile a plate for her. Though the tables with food are rapidly going bare, some of my friends sneak things from their own stores and pouches into my hands, nudging me with joking elbows and approving looks. A few jerk their heads toward her in silent question, but I shake mine in response, and they shrug without pressing the issue. When I’m satisfied with the selection I make my way back, pausing only briefly when I see the seats near her occupied. She is unmoving, the pale focal point in a strange, chaotic painting.

There are three councilmen set away from her by only two or three spaces, carrion birds with dark faces, shooting angry, malevolent glares toward the silent Keeper. And then a second group, two laughing women and two men, one of whom is distracted by the smaller of the two girls, who is wrapped around him like a cloak, the other who is desperately trying to focus on the second girl, but whose neck muscles are strained from not turning toward Wren. Interesting, interesting.

Other spots at the table are filled with my own people, most of whom are accompanied by openly welcoming women sharing plates. Everyone is flushed red from the dancing and the mead, half-drunk glasses of dark liquid being refilled from flowing pitchers while small sweets are passed from lingering fingers to waiting mouths. It’s an obvious courtship of sorts, and I watch carefully as I approach the table before sitting across from Wren, ignoring everyone else.

“Alright, Keeper,” I say by way of getting her attention. She immediately looks up from where she was staring at her folded hands, still as a statue.

“Trader?”

“I’ve brought you a wealth of things to try, but I’ll warn you, not all are to my liking. I figured I’d give you as much of a variety as possible though — let you make your own mind up. I think I’ll be selfish and start with my favorites, lure you to my side.” Trying to keep my voice light despite the number of eyes on us, I cut a small piece of meat and hold it out to her lips. She flinches back minutely as it brushes her mouth.

“I…I can feed myself, Trader,” she mumbles, almost silently, but can’t fight a reluctant smile when I take the chance to nudge the food into her mouth.

“I’m watching around us, Keeper, and this seems to be the tradition, no?”

She’s about to answer, chewing thoughtfully as the new flavor fills her mouth, when a tight voice beside us breaks into our quiet conversation.

“No.”

Startled, her eyes flick toward the sound, as do mine. The man from a few seats down the table looks as though he’s surprised himself and his friends around him; a strange sort of silence falls over the people nearest us.

“I’m sorry, Keeper. Of course I didn’t mean to speak for you. But no, Trader. It’s not the tradition. Not with her.” He’s stumbling over his words, forcing a casual tone into them, cheeks rounding with a practiced smile. “Ahh…I’m sorry,” he says again, and unexpectedly holds out a hand to me, stretching down the table, across the woman next to him. “I was watching your people. This is your custom, yes?”

Taking his hand, I shake it, answering smile tight. “It is. I appreciate your careful study of us.” There are many, many meanings in seven short words, and I believe he hears them all.

“Not all conventions are as obvious,” he answers, meeting my gaze steadily. “Tahrik.” The man motions to himself by way of introduction. “I am sorry, Trader, for joining uninvited. I’m sure it’s hard to come in and know the smaller nuances of our ways. For example, this one, with food, is not as clear perhaps? It’s…an offer. A pursuit, if you will.”

“Like the sharing of water?” I ask, and his eyes widen in surprise before he nods.

“Exactly so.”

Keeping my eyes locked on his, I reach down to the plate again, picking a slice of sweet bread I can see in my periphery, and hold it out to Wren’s lips.

“Keeper?” I say quietly, making my voice purposefully soft, a whisper of promise, lingering on the word with intention clear. Tahrik’s hand flexes white against the table.

“It is not done,” another voice snaps out, this time from one of the thin lipped vultures, and the violence in his tone would be a warning to most men. Suddenly I recognize him; he was one of the few when we arrived who was less welcoming, who almost threw the trade away before we even entered the gates, and I narrow my eyes at him. Seeing the challenge there, he glances nervously at his two friends, then back at me more confidently once he’s assured of their support. “We wouldn’t expect someone like you to know—” the meaning is clear, though the words aren’t inherently offensive, “—but the Keeper is not like the women of our village.”

“Isn’t it her choice? From what I’ve been told? The women in your village are free for three days to keep any company they desire?” Keeping my voice level, I glance between the two groups.

“She is not a woman.” He bites out the word like an injured dog, baring teeth and snapping. His friends shift anxiously at his flat statement though, and then from down the table there’s a surprised sort of huffing sound that catches everyone’s attention. The smaller of the two women, tilting her head, brow furrowed, interrupts the conversation, much to the displeasure of her partner, who is frantically trying to shush her.

“What?” she asks, confusion naked on her half-smiling face. “Of…what, Councilman? Of course she’s a woman?”

“Mind your mouth around your betters.” There’s a sharp intake of breath from the surrounding groups, the sudden change attracting the attention of my people, and now everyone seated around the long table looks toward us as silence falls. Clearly realizing his mistake, he clears his throat and tries to soften his voice. “It’s not a matter for you. The actions of the Keeper are not yours to discuss,” he offers in a semi-placating tone, but he can’t strip the tension from it altogether, and she leans forward on the table now, looking down toward the curled-in woman in front of me.

“What funny tales you are telling, Councilman Nickolas,” she offers, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her face, furrowed brow belying her expression. The man beside her groans under his breath, and she hushes him with a hand on his leg. “Is it a game with the Traders? I love games.” Looking at me briefly, her smile softens into something real. “Of course she is a woman, Trader. Such a strange thing to say. Every Keeper has been one of our people — most have had a wife, sometimes children. But they all have had the same choices as the rest of us. She is shy. More quiet than many of us. Prefers her own company. But she is a woman. And has all the rights of one, even if she exercises hers by being alone.”

Across from me, Wren inhales raggedly without looking up. No one else around the table notices the sound other than me and the small woman down the table, who suddenly looks incredibly concerned, as though something has occurred to her, some uncomfortable truth escaping, loosed by the dark drink and the darkening night.

“Keeper?” she asks quietly, and, almost despite herself, Wren turns her head toward the hesitant sound. “Are you…do you like being alone?”

The question catches the attention of everyone, everyone near us. Wren is a carved piece of marble, no emotion showing on her smooth face, chest barely rising and falling as we all wait for the answer. It feels like a year before she responds, very, very quietly.

“I am used to being alone.”

Most of the men relax minutely at her answer, as though they have been proven correct, but the women exchange a long look across the table, and some unheard conversation passes between them. In one movement, both stand, and glide down the few feet until they are next to us, and though they are clearly uncomfortable, the more talkative woman sits directly beside Wren, the other next to me.

“I’ve met you of course, Keeper, but to remind you, I’m Bri. Married to Davvy there — he’s a blacksmith in the village. This is Grace. She’s the most talented seamstress in the village. Has a little shop in the Second Ring.” Wren nods awkwardly, and Bri and Grace look at each other again. “I’ve never thought to ask, didn’t want to bother you, but the trade and the mead are making me bold —” she is trying to put laughter in her voice to mask her unease, but her breath is shallow, and she’s unable to hide the worry completely. “We’ve never seen you at the sewing circles, or at the women’s pool. We all assumed it’s because you…did you not want to come? It’s of course fine to prefer your own company, Keeper. Not everyone is made for my non-stop chatter.” She cloaks her concern in self-deprecating humor, her friend joining in with a forced sort of laugh.

“She’s a lot to listen to on her best day, Keeper. Some are for silence, and there is no shame in wanting to be alone.”

“I…I am never truly alone,” Wren replies, staring down at the table. “I am used to endless conversations.” She tries to smile at the women, but it’s barely an expression.

“But…” Bri darts a quick look around her, at the men pretending to ignore the conversation, at the eyes which flicker over their bent heads, and she lowers her voice again, so even I have to strain to hear her. “Are you…I’m sorry, Keeper, if I’m overstepping. But are you lonely?”

“Is there a difference between being lonely and being alone?” Wren asks with a sad sort of shrug, and Bri reaches out and grabs her hands, holding on even as Wren flinches back slightly at the contact.

“Yes. Yes, Keeper. There is quite a difference between the two. There is a world of difference between the two, actually.”

“Then I suppose I am one and not the other.” The words sound torn from her stomach, but are hollow, a strange juxtaposition of aching fullness and terrible emptiness.

Nodding tightly, Bri’s jaw clenches at the words, though she tries to smooth her face. Grace, beside me, also sounds tense when she speaks, though she tries to hide it, studiously ignoring the three Councilmen whose faces look like thunder. With a sort of forced casualness, she smiles at Wren, saying, “Well. Now you’ve done it, I’m afraid. We were under the impression that you didn’t join us because you…we wanted to respect your wishes and…Well.” She clears her throat and tries again. “I forget that the women’s pool is far from the bone wall. It would be a difficult road for you to travel on your own. Bri and I will come get you in the morning, if you’re free? Most of the women will meet there for a swim before the day begins. If you are interested, of course. And not busy at the time.” The last is said with a flickering smile toward me, and Bri nudges Wren’s side in a gentle sort of teasing motion.

“She can’t go,” Nickolas snaps, having watched the exchange like a raptor, talons sharp and bared.

“I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, anyway,” Wren says gently, cutting Nickolas off, but the women are drunk and determined.

“You wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable, BoneKeeper!”

BoneKeeper? BoneKeeper. The word echoes in my head. Keeper. BoneKeeper.

“She’d need a Protector with her in any case, and none are permitted at the women’s pool,” one of the men by Nickolas says by way of explanation, trying to diffuse some of the growing tension. Nickolas nods imperiously, as though that settles the matter, face creasing in a cruel sneer, Wren’s clear discomfort bringing him some obvious satisfaction.

Grace, though, tilts her head and smiles, lips pressed in a thin line. “Why would she need a Protector, Councilman? She’d be with the women. Bri and I will keep her safe. If she wants to come, of course.”

“Do you? Want to come, I mean, Keeper?” Bri turns back to Wren, and everyone waits on her answer.

“I…I think I would…” she says, surprise clear in her voice, and both women try to smile in response, though they look incredibly sad and not a little bit guilty.

“But is it safe for you, BoneKeeper?” The words burst from Tahrik unintentionally, earning an approving glance from Nickolas. “I’m sorry, I…do you swim? What if something happens? Is is wise?” He looks truely anxious, so lost to his own emotion that he fails to notice Wren’s jaw tightening and the odd look of hurt that flashes quickly across her face before she can catch it.

“Tahrik!” Grace says laughingly, his name lingering in a teasing, familiar sort of way. “What a question!” She and Bri roll their eyes in exasperation. “Men,” Grace huffs jokingly. “As though we can’t teach you to swim, if you want. Sun and earth.”

“Well then. That’s settled, no? And tonight you have the company of this fine Trader to enjoy, if that’s your choice, of course,” Bri says, putting heavy emphasis on the words.

Nickolas’ countenance is murderous, and he stares at Bri, fury clear in every line of his face. “Bri, is it? How kind you’ve been to our Keeper. Tell me. I like to get to know the people of our village. Are you married? Do you have children?”

I don’t know what poison is in the seemingly innocuous words, but a threat is clear.

She shivers, though she tries to mask it, and answers almost against her will. “I am. And I do.”

“Ah,” he whispers, thin tongue darting out to lick his now curling lips. “Ah. I is for infant. It is hard to be a mother sometimes, is it not? I can only imagine.” There is a dripping, liquid sound of hunger in his sneering words; Bri’s eyes widen in alarm, but Wren, who has been a wilting flower to this point, suddenly sits upright, looking down toward Nickolas, hand on her throat, eyes narrowing. The change in her is a lightning strike - in a sudden, blinding flare she has gone from shadow to scythe.

Voice is studiously casual, almost unconcerned, she locks her empty, unseeing gaze on Nickolas. “Is it? Now? I wouldn’t think so, Bri. I really wouldn’t think so.” She’s so calm it makes whatever menace he was trying to leverage seem overblown and dramatic, makes him seem like a petulant child, and he trembles with anger at it.

There are strange things at play here, and I’m missing all of them, but Bri hears something I don’t, face softening into a desperate hopefulness. “Our youngest was born on the Birthing Day, so…but we have an older child as well.”

Wren’s thin fingers are still resting on her collarbone, and I can see a vein pulse on the slender column of her neck. She tilts her head curiously, then smiles at Bri. “How fortunate. Children are a blessing from the Gods. I am certain yours will grow in health and safety.” Some kind of promise is in her words, some kind of vow, and I’m suddenly and desperately frustrated at the way these people speak in endless riddles and hidden meanings. Nickolas is incandescent, anger pouring from him in waves, but Bri and Grace, and Bri’s husband, are focused on Wren like she is the moon and the sun in the sky.

“Thank you, Keeper,” Bri whispers, voice tremulous. Of all the things this evening, somehow those simple words are what shakes her apart, and she wipes her eyes surreptitiously. “We’ll….we’ll see you in the morning, shall we? Grace and I will come by to get you.”

“I look forward to it,” Wren replies, even as Nickolas surges to his feet at the exchange. The women beside her startle back at the sudden movement, but the two Councilmen next to him grab his arms, faces alarmed, and rapidly pull him away, muttering frantically under their breath, shooting looks at the rest of the table, where Nickolas’s inexplicable fury is drawing unwanted attention.

“Not long left to the night!” one of the Councilmen calls out, faux jocularity ringing sourly in his words as he tries to smooth the weirdly escalating situation. “Enjoy the dance and the mead while there’s still time!” Again with a barely hidden warning, though most around us are drunk enough that it drifts across them like smoke before dissipating. Bri and Grace hear it, though, and hurry to the two men, each taking one by the hands and pulling them away from the table. Bri’s husband goes quickly and willingly, but Tahrik looks over his shoulder toward Wren, who almost seems to meet his gaze. Their exchange is brief; and though I feel like I’m imagining it because her face is unmoving, some unsure hope seems hidden in its shadows. It drains away when he flicks his eyes to the still arguing Councilmen, and then down at Grace, who is tugging entreatingly on his hand.

“Come, Tahrik!” She’s flirtatious, alluring, a warm earthiness in her voice. “The night is drawing to a close soon!” There’s an offer clear in her words.

Again he looks toward the Councilmen, and then once more at Wren, before smiling down at Grace next to him. “Well! If there’s only a short time of dancing remaining, we should go! Councilmen! Won’t you join us?”

The invitation hovers in the air, the three vultures pause their furious discussion, unsure of how to respond. Two or three of my people, who have been uninvolved to this point, glance at me questioningly, and I jerk my head toward the Councilors surreptitiously. Immediately they jump to their feet, bringing the women beside them with them, followed quickly by the rest of my people, and surround the councilmen in noisy encouragement.

“Lead the way!”

“To the music!”

“More drink! More drink!”

Their shouts and the press of their bodies push the Councilmen away from the table, away from the shadowed wall, and away from Wren and me, where we are suddenly left in a vacuum of sound.

The silence is heavy. Her face is still turned toward the departing crowd, and I can see her swallow hard, jaw flexing, eyes wide and empty in the flickering torchlight. Sadness wraps around her shoulders like a cloak; I know nothing and less than nothing, but it is clear how hard her life has been for her, though I don’t understand why. A strange sort of panic grips my heart as I realize how desperately I want to make things easier for her, as I realize how quickly time is passing here, as I realize I have two days left with her white eyes and moonlit face.

“Wren?”

She turns to me, and all my carefully planned words are lost in the curve of her lips and the shadows like bruises beneath her eyes. Instead, I pick up an empty glass and fill it from the flask of pure water from my side. Putting it in front of her, I guide her hands toward it until they rest on its edges.

“My water is yours, if you want it.” It’s the best I can do, feels woefully inadequate for what I’m offering, for what I’m asking, but it’s the way of her people, and is heavy with meaning for her. I said the simple words earlier without realizing what they invited; now I make it clear that they are intended, that I want her to drink from my cup.

Her fingers jump, just a tiny flick of movement, and then she is still for a long, long time. Long enough that I become nervous, long enough that I’m sure I’ve misstepped again somehow, that I’ve grievously offended her or broken some unspoken rule. But then. Then. Slowly, with heart-stopping care, her hands wrap around the cup in front of her, and lift it in agonizingly deliberateness to her mouth. It hovers in front of her face for a second, or a minute, and she bites her pink lip in thought, staring down at the water.

Worlds die and are reborn in my soul when, raising her eyes to mine, she finally brings it to her mouth, and drinks.

“Thank you for the water, Kaden,” she whispers, face softening, blooming into an unsure sweetness unlike any I’ve ever seen or tasted, and my heart explodes inside my chest.

The trade has been accepted.

OF WISHES AND WHISPERS

WREN

The door to my cottage creaks loudly in the silence, but I barely hear it over the stuttering pulse in my veins and the sound of Kaden’s shallow breath behind me. There is a weight to this moment that is tangible, a velvet thickness in the darkness of the motionless room, and I pause, back to him, not turning around. This night has been a series of ebbs and flows, of unexpected pain, and the promise of unknown pleasure, and all of it together is petrifying in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.

In many ways, I don’t understand myself or the choices I am making that I can’t go back from. Is it loneliness, or is it being alone? It is loneliness, loneliness, loneliness…

Ah, Little Keeper. You deserve more than the scraps you have been given.

Lorcan’s voice vibrates with sadness, or pity, and I can’t tell which.

You… He pauses. You deserve more than cold friendship. And now it’s easier to hear. It is sorrow upon sorrow, deep enough to be palpable. I want to respond, but in my silence, Kaden has stepped closer, near enough that the heat of his body warms the shivering space separating us, and it pulls me from one side of the veil to the other. There is a question in the air between us that I don’t know how to ask, or how to answer, and my lungs constrict in something that feels like panic, but is different. All at once it becomes too much.

“Thank you for walking me home, Trader.” Despite my best efforts my voice shakes on the words. I can’t imagine what would have happened if I had tried to say his name.

He steps forward again, close enough to me now that when he breathes, the fabric on his shirt brushes my back, against Lorcan’s bones, against my exposed skin. I should move away, should shatter the fragility of this moment, but I can’t. Seconds stretch into trembling inhales and exhales, until he tilts his head forward and rests it gently against the back of mine.

“Wren…” It is a whisper of sound, a prayer and a plea, and when I do not move, he slowly, slowly raises his hand to my neck, softly sweeping my hair over my shoulder to leave the nape naked, sending rippling shivers through my body. “Wren,” he whispers again, but this time his lips are touching me, my name a kiss of warmth on my bare neck. I vibrate against him, a single string plucked on a lute, and I can feel his mouth turn up into a smile on my skin.

Carefully, with a studied patience, he reaches around to the front of my throat, where my cloak is tied, and pauses until I nod, infinitesimally, but discernibly. With painstaking movements, he undoes the knot and lets the fabric billow to the floor between us. The shirt I am in has a wide, long cut for Lorcan — though the sleeves go to my wrists, there is only a thin band of fabric at my neck and waist. My back is almost fully exposed, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, and Kaden’s sharp, appreciative inhale at the sight causes an answering purr of satisfaction in my heart.

No more than a heartbeat passes before I feel his fingers tracing down my spine, a warm path of skin on skin where no one has ever touched me before, and fire flares in licking flames following the pattern he is drawing on me, not even startling when he accidentally brushes against my bone necklace.

“Wren…”

Wren!

Jerking back, I’m yanked from the moment by the sound of Lorcan’s voice, loud enough to fracture the silence into a thousand pieces, the pain in it cutting my skin.

Lorcan! What? What is wrong? I’m frantic, forgetting Kaden for a moment, grabbing my Protector with panicked hands. Do you need anointing? What has happened?

Nothing. Nothing, but his voice is a moan.

“What’s wrong?” Kaden is on edge behind me, straightening as though sensing danger. I can’t answer him, Lorcan’s voice is drowning out all other sound.

Take me off, Keeper. Take me off, please.

What? He has never asked to be removed. I don’t understand.

Take me off, BoneKeeper! He snarls at me, a sharp, biting command, followed quickly by I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please Wren. Please. For now. Sun and Earth. Just take me off your skin. I don’t…I don’t want to be touching you right now.

Everything in me freezes at the words.

“Are you alright?” Kaden’s living voice is abnormally loud in my ears. “Did I…did I do something wrong?” He’s hesitant, worried, and I turn to him, shaking my head.

“No, I…I’m…I…” There is nothing more than stutters of sound, confusion and hurt clear in every syllable, and Lorcan’s presence softens against my spine.

Little Keeper, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just…it’s alright. Just for now. Put me on your bedside within reach. You’re safe with this one, I think. Take a moment to just be a girl, Keeper. A girl without the dead dragging her down.

He’s so gentle, but so hollow. So flat. For the first time since I wrapped him around my neck, I don’t know him, don’t know what he’s thinking, and I can only rest uncertain fingers on him, trying to figure out what to do. Kaden tilts his head, watching my movements through considering eyes, flicking his gaze from my fingers to my face and back again.

Take me off, Wren. Please. It would be best for both of us. I’m asking you as a favor, Keeper. He’s so hopeless, and though it goes against everything in me, I can’t deny him.

Yes, Lorcan. I don’t know if he can hear the numbness in my words. If it’s what you want. In one swift, sudden move, I pull him from my throat, over my head, feeling his fingers and teeth drag against my spine, almost as if he’s trying to hold on and trying to let go all at the same time. Shaking, I carry him to the small table by my bed and lay him neatly in a curling pile. Kaden follows me, not crowding me, just observing, noting the way my fingers linger on my necklace, until I forcibly pull them away. He waits for me to turn to him, waits for me to lift my head, then steps forward, lifting his hands to either side of my face and resting them there.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, careful and considerate, studying my reaction to his question.

“Is it enough to say I don’t know, but that it has nothing to do with you?”

His brows knit together, and he glances quickly to my necklace before focusing on my face again. “Your comfort is my law, Flame. You won’t offend me if tonight needs to turn into tomorrow. You’ll find I’m a patient man. There is pleasure enough in your company alone.”

I don’t know how to answer him. Lorcan said to just be a girl, just this once, but I’m not entirely sure I know what that means, or more, if once I taste what it’s like, that I’ll be able to let it go. Kaden waits patiently, hands cupping my face, thumbs tracing light lines along my cheekbones, and it feels so good I involuntarily close my eyes, sinking into his fingers. I sense more than feel him step forward, the warmth of his body moving towards mine enough of a hint of what’s to come that I raise my face to his.

If his body is warm, his lips are molton when they meet mine, some lingering unknown sweetness on his tongue flooding my mouth as he pulls me to him, all hesitancy gone the moment my lips part against his. There is a rumble of sound deep in his throat that makes me think of the mountain crumbling, then his hands are under my thighs, picking me up in a swift, surprising movement, wrapping my legs around his waist. Keeping one hand under me, he slides the other up my back and through my hair, tugging until my head bends back and my throat is a curve of moonlight before him. Locking me against him, he buries his face in my neck, pressing his lips against my skin and breathing deeply, before lowering me gently to the bed behind us, never separating our bodies from each other.

We land with him on top of me, though he takes his weight onto his elbows, and I can feel the flutter of my pulse in my heart, breath skipping in erratic pants of sound. I am shaking, trembling under his unmoving hands, waiting for him to move forward but uncertain of how to follow. I’m not stupid or naive; our village isn’t a place where things in the bedroom are only whispered about in dark corners. Any happiness is celebrated here, the women as bawdy as the men after a pint of mead; even children know where they come from. It’s not that I don’t understand how the pieces fit together, it’s that I never expected to be a part of the puzzle, and am suddenly and wildly unsure of what to do.

He has paused long enough that it gives me time to worry, so when he raises his head to look at me in the darkness, my shallow breathing isn’t only from desire.

“Have you…” He stops, sighs, and tries again. “Is this a trade you’ve taken part in before, Flame?” My head barely moves, but the slight shake has him inhaling deeply, before letting his breath out slowly.

“Does it change your mind?” I ask quietly, already pulling back, but am surprised into stillness by the bright flash of teeth in the darkness and his disbelieving laugh.

“Wren, the old Gods could come to life and offer me all the wealth in the world and it wouldn’t change my mind. Good lord, woman. As if anything other than your request could tear me away from you.” He sounds so comically affronted that I can’t help grinning, and am rewarded by his dimpled smile, visible even in the flickering glow of the coals in the fireplace. “If you must know,” he says with a huff, “I’m trying not to embarrass myself. I feel like an untried boy.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It is…a battle. To be what you need in this moment. When all I want to do is strip you naked underneath me and taste you until you come apart beneath my mouth.” His voice darkens on the words, lowers to a rasp of sound that feels like a cat’s tongue on my skin.

“Oh!” I say stupidly, then, surprising both of us, “That sounds fine.”

“Fine? Fine?” Suddenly he’s laughing, a bright, rolling sound, and I’m laughing with him, and I realize out of nowhere how I’ve never known that there could be such easy happiness, even in these moments. That not everything has to have shadow or shade, that some things can just be light, and sweet. Kaden is gasping, his breath hitching on the words. “If you could see my face, Flame! I tell you I want to take you to the very peaks of pleasure, and you say it would be fine…” His amusement rolls through me, the echoes of it rumbling in my chest where he is still pressed against me.

“Should I have said something different?” I tease, the darkness making me bold, turning me into someone I’ve never been, may never be again.

“Something more flattering than fine you mean? No, Wren. You’re perfect as you are. I’ll give you fine, and more than fine, and then we’ll see what you have to say.” The open laughter in his voice is alluring, warm and inviting, a private joke between us, and it’s intoxicating. Sheer happiness is written in every syllable; there is nothing he is holding back, there is nowhere else he wants to be, and he isn’t afraid to let me know. It’s overwhelming.

Dragging his lips across my skin, back up to my mouth, he bites playfully at my bottom lip, smiling against my smile, whispering against my mouth. “It’s a challenge you’re giving me? One of my trials? To have you shatter to pieces again and again until you’re nothing but stardust, and then bottle you up to glow for me alone in the night?” The words are kissed along my jaw, the corner of my mouth, the edge of my ear, the hollow of my throat, all with sweet, soft lips followed by sharp, surprising teeth, sending shivering lightning through my veins.

Sighing playfully, in a way I didn’t even know I had in me, I shake my head, and he stops moving immediately.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I promise to only give you achievable trials, Trader,” I reply seriously. “Something you can actually accomplish.”

“Vixen!” He pounces on me, pressing me back into the thin mattress, and nudges his nose against mine. “I see how it is. Little do you know your pleasure is my own, and how selfish I am with my pleasure.” Threading his fingers through mine, he presses my hands above my head and hovers over my mouth, breathing me in. “I would say I will make you beg, Wren, but it’s clear I’m the one on my knees here.” His words drop to a whisper, a ragged promise, suddenly serious. “No. I won’t ever make you ask for a thing. Never. I’ll give to you until I’m empty, and still plead with you to let me give you more. You never will have to ask me for anything, do you understand?” I nod, but he doesn’t move. “Tell me.” It’s a command, not a request.

“I understand, Kaden.”

The shudder that runs through his body burns heat and hardness into my skin, and he bends forward to kiss me again when there is a sharp ricochet of sound at my door. Rolling off me immediately, he drops to a low crouch, the knife at his belt already drawn before he hits his feet, his other arm outstretched protectively.

“Kaden.” The voice at the door is reluctant, but firm.

“Arden?” Displeasure is clear in my Trader’s tone.

“You’re needed. I’m sorry to disturb you. There’s a…problem…at the camp. Some confusion over a trade agreement.” Tension vibrates in every word, as well as reluctance. It’s obvious whoever Arden is, he didn’t want to interrupt Kaden. There’s a long, long silence as Kaden straightens, breathing deeply, before he turns to me, lips pressed in a tight, thin line.

“I’m sorry, Wren.”

“I’m…they need you? Specifically?” Trying hard to keep the plaintive note out of

my voice, I sit up awkwardly in my bed, suddenly cold without him against me.

“Evidently,” he says wryly, frowning over his shoulder and raising his voice to be heard, “although I’m fairly certain Arden could have asked one of the others for their advice instead!”

“False,” Arden replies immediately from the other side of the still closed door. “Your presence is required. And quickly, too. If possible,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Fine,” Kaden grumbles, rubbing an exasperated hand over his face. “Don’t move from here, Flame. I’ll be back.”

“Not tonight you won’t.” I sigh. “It won’t be safe. Don’t leave the circle of your fire once you’re there. To be honest, you shouldn’t even go now, but there may be enough of the bonfires left burning that you’re alright for a short time.”

“Someone gave me a torch, but said it won’t work for long,” Arden offers, obviously listening to our exchange.

I nod. “Go then. It’s not safe for either of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Reluctance is written in every line of his body, and he glances between me and the door, then back to me, burning hunger naked on his face. “If I can make it back tonight, would I be welcome? Or would you rather…” His voice trails off as he walks to the door, glancing over his shoulder at me quizzically.

“If you knock, I’d let you in, but it’s really not safe,” I reply, strangely reluctant to tell him no, which is what I should say.

His answering grin is unending reward. “Go to sleep, Wren. I’m coming back to you as soon as I can. If you leave it unlatched, I’ll sneak in and wake you with sweetness.” The promise in his words is enough to stop my breath, the stuttering inhale loud enough that his eyes light with a feral satisfaction, and he strides toward me, pulling me into one last demanding kiss, almost bruising my mouth with its intensity, leaving me shaking under his hands. He waits until I’m liquid beneath him, body suppliant and melting, then kisses me gently once more, before slipping from my cottage, pulling the door shut tightly behind him. Sinking back into my bed with an unfamiliar smile, I wrap the blankets tightly around my trembling body. Woken with sweetness indeed. Skin dancing with the memory of his touch, I lull myself to sleep and dream of strange red wagons and flashing green eyes.

NICKOLAS IN THE NIGHT

WREN

It is late, far into the depth of night when time loses meaning, when the creak of my door pulls me from slumber. For a second I’m confused, but then my lips curl up despite myself. I didn’t think he’d make it back, and I shiver in anticipation — anticipation, which quickly turns to apprehension as I hear the slow shuffle of footsteps on the dirt floor.

“BoneKeeper…”

The voice is sibilant in the darkness, a snake’s whisper from the shadows, and is much too close to me. It’s thick with saliva, a hideous, dripping sound, and nausea curls in the stomach. I swallow reflexively, hand at my throat. It’s not Kaden; my heart beats frantically in my chest as I silently slip from my bed to the floor in the darkness.

“BoneKeeper…” He is seconds behind me, though he couldn’t have seen me leave my bed in the inky blackness, I can hear his hands pull at the covers, looking for me. “Come out now. I’m…to take you to the Council House. Where aaare you?”

He’s trying to lure me out, but cannot hide his excitement. It’s lurid, lascivious, and crawls along my skin in rotting paths. “BoneKeeper!” He snaps sharply, a snarling wolf, before calming his voice again. “No harm will come to you. I swear it on the Sun God.”

Skies and seas, Nickolas must be far gone now if he is willing to blaspheme the Sun God’s name.

“Come out!” A chair being knocked over, and a high pitched laugh. “I won’t hurt you, Keeper! Just a little taste won’t hurt…I saw you with that Trader.” The frenetic switching between molten anger and erratic giggling is petrifying. “I saw you!” It’s sharp claws, accusatory, desirous…and dangerous. He laughs again, an unexpectedly girlish sound. “But he didn’t stay long. Not long enough. You’re making all sorts of friends, aren’t you? We should be friends. Come be my friend, child. I’ll protect you.”

His mind is gone. It is the only explanation. I crawl silently away from him, tucking into a small corner, thankful for the first time that the fire has died, that icicle chill fills the air.

“Keeper....the Council sent me for you. You cannot hide forever! Is this a game?” A fevered elation floods his words. “It is a game, clever girl. To heighten my senses. To add spice to the flavour, hmmm?”

I’m barely breathing now, small, fluttering movements of my chest, tiny flares of my nostrils. The cottage is quiet when he stops moving, and panic floods my blood. He will find me. There is not enough room to hide here. And nowhere to go. I am trapped in the tight corner, wedged between the wall and a cabinet. His footsteps, heavy moments before, are now phantom shuffles of sound.

“I am coming for you, sweet girl. And we will have time together before I take you to the great house. Time for a sip of your honey. No one will know. No one will know…” He is fumbling in the room, breaking things with in his grasping movements. “I saw you, you know…I saaaw you….” Nickolas’s voice is ricocheting between pleading and biting. “You’re too good for our village, but you’ll give yourself away to a dirty Trader? No. No. He didn’t have enough time. But I do. I do.”

I cannot hide forever. Fear is a weapon he is wielding against me, that I am letting him use. He had too much in his corner for me to give him more advantage. Who am I, to be hiding in my own home, letting him feast on my terror? Steel enters my stomach, and I force my frantic heart to calm.

Think, Wren. Think. This is your home. You can move like a shadow. He has no advantage but size.

I have not calmed quickly enough. A meaty hand, sweating and slick, circles my wrist in a bruising grasp, and the whites of his eyes shine in the darkness. “Ah! My little blood moth! I’ve found you.” A whimper escapes my throat, and he shivers at the sound, yanking me toward him. He presses me flat against him, between the bureau and his body, cold, damp skin flush against my own. But his breath is unexpectedly hot and wet on my cheek and when he murmurs in my ear. “I will crush your wings beneath my foot and keep you flightless for me alone.” Desperately I pull my head back, turning it from him, but he grabs a handful of hair in his fist and turns my face back to his. “Don’t be cruel, Keeper. I can coax sweetness from you in many ways.” Leaning forward to press his forehead into my neck, he inhales deeply, and I gag as he licks my neck. “You will learn to like it,” he whispers gently, and then gnashes his teeth, biting me, his mood flashing back and forth like strikes of lightning. “You will like it or I’ll break you until you have no choice.” There is spittle on my skin, and he is giggling again. The eerie sound curdles my stomach before it is swallowed by the darkness in the room. “No one will know, no one will know. I’ll be quick.” And, lifting his free hand, he yanks down my thin shift, tearing it, and grabs my breast in a clawed motion, tightening, tightening until I cry out in pain. “Yesssss….” The hiss is drawn out in a craving hiss, and he squeezes harder, dirty nails digging into my skin. “Make those sweet sounds for me, Keeper.” His hand releases, skims lower, lower, until it presses into my stomach. “I’ll make you sing for me.”

I am bent backwards now, him ripping out hair as he forces me to bow, curved like a hunter’s weapon. His hand is lower still now, trailing acid across my skin, and I panic, a wild bird caught. Something dark churns within me, a threat, an idea. I have only done it once, only ever once, and swore never to call the bones that way again, but…before the thought goes from fragment to force, my flailing fingers close around a heavy weight. My knife! It’s upside down, my hand wrapped around the blade, but I ignore the sharp slice, and in an instant am swinging the thick bone handle to connect with a scarily loud crack against him that shakes the teeth in my skull.

My hand comes away from his skull sticky and wet. He collapses to the floor. In flashes of movement I’m across the room without thought. Flash. The door is open. Flash. I’m in the village on the main road. Everything is a stuttering pulse of vision. The street is empty. No one comes out at night in the village. Stay silent. For the love of the Gods, stay silent. My head aches, fear and panic locked tight in my throat, raw and throbbing. No one would help, in any case. No one could help. This is unheard of. Who would attack the BoneKeeper? I stare at my shaking hands, glistening even in the vibrating light from the street torches. You’re in shock. You’re okay. You’re in shock. But you must move. MOVE!

Flash. Somehow I’m in front of the Council House. In the distance, a strange cry echoes tremulously from the night. A laughing howl and a low purr, a chuffing noise, and slow footsteps. The sounds are not far from the main street. Iron is in the air, the red rust scent of blood, and the cry tumbles from the mountains around me. Fear is a living, twisting creature in my stomach, and it closes my lungs in a ferrous fist. Flash. Terror takes over, and suddenly I am watching from above the ghost girl, floating outside her body. She’s pounding on the door, her hands dripping, a strange keening wail erupting from her mouth. Calm, calm, I try to whisper to her. Calm. But she is looking over her shoulder into the blackness like a hellhound is chasing her. I see the moment she makes her decision, breathing deeply through her nose, her chest expanding and contracting in a long, slow movement, and flash. I am pulled back into her body.

The bones of the village vibrate. The sound is so jarring that all other noise ceases. There is a grinding, a creaking, a groaning, a pop, as they hear my plea, even the oldest crackling with effort. The white skulls high atop the pillars of the Council House, none of whom have ever spoken to me before, murmur behind me. We are awake they whisper, a comforting murmur in the night. We are awake, Keeper. Stand your ground. It is not as it seems. Stand your ground. I breathe again, deeply, and an otherworldly peace settles like a shroud over me. I am not a child, to be scared of the dark. I am not weak, to let fear take over me to where I lose myself. Drawing myself up, covered in blood, I remember myself. I am The BoneKeeper. This is my village. These are my people. And the bones will answer me if I call.

Facing the empty street from the dias of the Council House, I wait. The main road is 400 meters long, and every ten meters of the main stretch is shadowed in the flickering light of a torch. Beyond the last shop, the road disappears into ink and coal. I can only just make out a figure stepping forward at the far end. Tall, even at this distance, and broad, it pauses, not coming further towards me, though nothing bars its path. Great curling horns catch what is left of dying torches still fastened outside shops and homes lining the street. They are massive, larger than any elk or deer I’ve ever seen, mostly hidden in the night’s shadows. The man, or creature, tilts his head, as though scenting the air, moving more like a predator than a human. Were you not hunted tonight by a human? my mind whispers insidiously, and I tremble at the memory, grabbing my Guiding Knife carelessly for comfort. It nicks my already bleeding hands, and tiny beads of crimson liquid drip in staccato rhythm to the ground.

As soon as the first one hits the stone beneath my feet, the creature whips its head around to face me, and freezes. The night expands and contracts between us, pulsing in a strange, tangible breath, and he takes an oddly gaited step forward, almost as if against his will. I wait, bones humming around me, hands bleeding at my side, and tilt my head subconsciously, studying what little is visible of the creature. I was more scared in the safety of my home than I am in this moment.

Oddly, though I cannot be sure, it feels like the creature mimics my movements, head tilted, hands at its side, and it seems…the whole thing seems so surreal, so out of time for a moment, my lips twitching despite myself. There is no way the creature could see it, no way it could tell at this distance, but it throws its head back and calls out a liquid howling sound, such joy in its deep song that it almost pulls the same from my throat. I am overcome with the urge to tip back my own head and answer it, howling until I have torn my voice from my body, and somehow it can tell, taking another single, confident step forward, before the door at my back is yanked open, and I fall, unresisting, inside.

A VOICE IN BONE

WREN

Iland on the floor with a pained gasp, and am immediately pulled to my feet by Rannoch, who is murmuring apologies, even as Silas is barring the door behind him.

“Quickly, quickly,” he commands, deep voice tense and fraying at the edges. I’ve never heard him sound so…human. “What were you thinking, Wren? Out at full dark? What were you thinking?”

Rannoch’s eyes jerk to the Father, startled by the emotion in his tone, but there is no space for questioning as the light hits my face and my torn clothing. Silas pulls back his now bloody hand, looking at it in confusion, as Rannoch’s face darkens into something murderous.

“Who did this to you? Who DID this to you?”

Silas is a towering storm, and picks me up in his arms like a child as Rannoch moves swiftly to the water basin they have in the corner of the Council House. Such a luxury I think inanely. It is fresh and not brackish, and they have a deep well of it sitting in the open, like gold spilling from their fingers. Rannoch grabs a cloth and soaks it, even as Silas pushes open a private door through which I’ve never been before and sets me gently on a cushioned couch inside.

Rannoch is in front of me, wiping my face gently with the damp cloth, and I can see the streaks of blood on it when he pulls away. His jaw is clenched, his body vibrating with the effort not to scream, but I can’t tell if he’s angry at me or something else.

“I did nothing wrong…” My jaw aches when I speak, and though I’m half-defiant, the world has come rushing back in painful color, and I’m also half-petrified. Rannoch hears it in the tremble of my voice. Nostrils flaring, he takes a deep breath, forcibly calming his face.

“I am not angry at you, Wren. I am terrified for you. What happened? Please.” He cannot stay at peace, the promise of teeth and blade edging his words.

There is a presence behind me and I flinch away from the shadow before I can help myself.

“I apologize, Keeper. I didn’t mean…I didn’t realize.” Silas is trying desperately to step back into the roll of the Father, away from the emotion fragmenting him, but his clenched jaw and flexed hands betray him. “Can you tell us what happened? What forced you to into the night?” Silas’s voice is deep, a chasm of lost souls in its darkness. There is a death pact being made in this room, with no words having been spoken. But I have no patience for their posturing.

“Your rabid wolf escaped, Sir.” My words are biting, a snarl, and he rocks back on his heels.

“Surely you can’t mean…”

“Nickolas.” I spit his name out from my mouth with blood following. At some point he must have split my lip. My tongue darts out to prod the corner gently, and it stings, tasting of metal.

“Nick — Nickolas did this?” Rannoch is frantic, running the cloth down my neck, at my clavicle, behind my ears, trying to clean the dirt and grime so he can see the cuts and bruising.

“I warned you. I warned you—” I yelp, yanking away from Rannoch’s hand, and both men lean over, examining me closely.

“He tore hair from her head.” Rannoch sounds like he is going to be ill. “Ripped it from her scalp. Oh Gods, Wren. Your shift….” He face pales, from ghost to bone, and I think he’s going to pass out for a moment. “Can I…I’ll be gentle…” and he moves his hand towards the rip of cloth barely covering me. It’s too much, though, and, without conscious thought, I fling my body away from him violently, like a frightened horse. He backs up immediately, holding his hands in front of him to show he’s stopped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He stutters, a quick babbling sound, water on rocks, and he steps toward me slowly, hands still up. “Someone needs to check, though. If you need medical attention…”

I know he’s right, I know it, but I’ve gone from a life where I am never seen to one where I am completely exposed, all the time, and it is too much. It is too much. Still, I know he is right, and, hands shaking violently, I pull back the edge of the torn cloth, exposing some of my chest. A hissed curse escapes Silas’s mouth, the promise of death and thunder covering him like a shroud. Looking down, I see five ruby lines clawed into my skin around my breast, dark bruising already purpling my naked flesh. It makes my stomach churn, and I have to swallow back sickness. Later, later. When you are safe. You will never be safe. You will never be safe. There is no later. There is only this, forever and ever. There is only this…

My lungs stutter, seize, and suddenly I can’t breathe. Reaching out frantically, I find bone around me, and pull its coldness into me. Quietly now, Keeper. Quietly. We are here. We are here. A gentle chorus of the dead wraps around me, settling my trembling limbs and silencing the tears I did not even realize were falling. Come to us, let us in. We’ll take you for now. They offer to step inside me, softly, but I’m too agitated, and yank as hard as I can, grabbing onto the nearest soul. All at once, most of my conscious mind goes to sleep. In that space, between waking and sleeping, a presence surges forward in me. The voice that speaks is not my own — cold and clinical.

“Her neck as well, Village Father.” Whoever is speaking for me has no love for the Father, that much is clear.

He recognizes the change in my tone, jerking his head up and looking consideringly at my empty face.

“Are you deaf as well as dumb? Her neck.” There is no humor, just a biting cynicism. The woman speaking does not expect one of the Council to help, tenses my body for me as he moves forward.

“Who speaks for you, Keeper?” he asks quietly, concern clear in his voice.

“Who I am is none of your business. You have let your gift be bruised and bloodied when she warned you. She warned you, and you answered with casual indifference. You want more of her secrets now? You have not earned a single one. I would slit your throat in the night — every one of the Council’s — if I thought it would help her in some way. But I cannot take what she will not give. Even now, she lets me speak, calls me forth with her blood, which I did not think possible. It is all I can do for our child. It is more than you have done, though. Her neck.”

Silas is silent, moving forward like a dark shadow, and I watch through a pane of glass, from somewhere far away behind my eyes. His hands, as large as the Trader’s, reach up slowly, tracing the star pale column of my throat, and he chokes on his next words. “Rannoch, we…soap. And clean water. Not brackish. Use some of the Traders’ gift.”

Rannoch takes a moment to look at whatever Silas is seeing, then rushes from the room, returning moments later, hands full. Slowly, painstakingly, as I sit like a doll, they wash every exposed inch of me. Occasionally panic flashes through my mind, but the bone memory of the woman who has taken control croons me sweet songs, like a baby, and the panic recedes. Flickers of pain light my vision, but she takes those too, cocooning me away from reality.

“Does it…does it need stitches?” Rannoch’s words are sick with worry.

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” The helplessness in Silas’s voice is my undoing, and, even far away from my body, tears push through, waterfalls of sorrow cascading down my cheeks, mixing with blood and forming red rivers on my waxen face.

“Did he — Wren, did he touch you anywhere else?” The words are ripped, sharp and jagged, from Silas’s mouth, and Rannoch moans quietly in a sort of panic. I cannot move, so the voice speaks again for me.

“Follow the bruises, Councilmen. Where they stopped, so he stopped.”

With her unspoken permission, they continue cleaning down my torso, both swallowing audibly in a sort of horror as they pull the edge of my pants down, just to hip level, purple and black handprints pressed into my skin like a FleshCarver’s tattoos. The line between the bruising and my untouched skin is drastic, even in the wavering light of the torch.

“Here? As far as here?”

I nod — or she nods for me, I cannot tell, and Silas and Rannoch exchange looks before cleaning my skin, rough hands gentle as a newborn lamb. Then it is Silas’s turn to disappear, returning with a pile of soft, dark clothing that smells of woodfire and pine. Rannoch frowns, but Silas ignores his inquisitive look, carefully removing my ripped top and replacing it with some sort of cloth that is much softer, much stronger.

“A gift from the Traders,” he explains shortly, and I nod again. What do I care if it is a gift from the Gods themselves? “Can you…will you return to us, Keeper?” His voice is tender, the whispered velvet of a lover, and before I even try, my bone guest shakes my head.

“No. She needs to sleep before she comes back and you question her. But there is nowhere here that is safe for her.”

“She will be safe here!” Silas protests, bass voice cavernous. “I swear it.”

“Oh, you swear it?” The amusement in my words is a sharp contrast to the scent of blood in the air, to the wet, red rags dripping crimson puddles on the floor. “As you swore that no harm would come to her from your tame little beast? As you swore she would be safe under your protection? We chose the wrong man,” she spits out, bitterness and fury warring in my voice. “We had such hopes for you, but you have failed us at every turn.”

Silas looks helpless and furious at the same time. “I have failed you?”

I shrug.

“What test did I fail?”

And she laughs for me, a colder laugh than my own, the clattering of bones in my voice a Reaping pit song.

“What test have you not failed? It would be the easier question to answer.” There is a long pause, and then, sharply, “Where is her Protector?”

Silas and Rannoch exchange hopeless looks. “Someone stole into her cottage and destroyed the bones there. We…we don’t know if her Protector made it through or not. She won’t tell us. But I’ve never seen her neck free of him before. We haven’t had time to…” Rannoch’s voice trails off.

“You strip her of her armor and then are surprised when invading armies take advantage. What an absolute waste you have been.”

“I was a child,” Silas snaps out.

“So was she,” the voice replies coldly. “You are nothing but excuses. Councilor? Her Protector? He is not gone. I assume he’s in her home still. Take a torch and get him.”

“It’s full night⁠—”

There is no response but expectant silence, and he leaves the room. Nothing is said in his absence, the woman curving around my consciousness, not exactly preventing me from returning, but not encouraging it either, and I drift in the timeless nowhere until Rannoch returns, breathing hard as though he’d run the entire length there and back. Lorcan’s bones are carefully draped in his hands, and he moves to put them around my neck, but she clicks my tongue in warning, taking them from him and looking over the teeth and fingers carefully. “He has been off you too long. You are already bleeding. It is necessary.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, as though I could even give her one, and wipes my bloody hands down the length of the necklace over and over and over again before wrapping it tightly around my throat like a collar.

Little Keeper? Oh Gods, Wren! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Lorcan surges forth, beyond frantic, horrified, but even for him I cannot speak.

“At peace, Protector. She is going to sleep soon, and you will not be removed again.” She turns me toward Silas and Rannoch, about to speak, when from outside the entryway, close enough to touch the sound, the liquid howl of the horned man rings out. It is muffled by the door, but it seeps in the cracks, bouncing off the walls. Jerking my head up suddenly, I can feel my eyes flare wide in surprise, chest constricting painfully. “Is it?” The hope in my voice is beyond anything I have in my heart or body — it is full of centuries I have not lived, and she pulls me to my feet, unsteady as a newborn foal, as though wearing my body.

Silas and Rannoch startle back, and move to grab me, but I shake them off. That sound…it shivers through me, running through my veins, calling to me. He is much too close, whoever he is, but too far away at the same time. The two men move in front of me, as though to protect me from whatever is outside the barred entrance. If I took back my body, my voice, I could tell them that he would not hurt me, that something in him sings to me, but for the first time, I cannot. The bone memory keeps me back, locked away in my body.

From the night his song rings out again.

“Ah.” The longing in my voice is so melancholy it hurts my throat.

She is still smiling though, and, before I know it is happening, she leans my head back, white and red hair dripping down my back, and sings out, a hunting bird’s call, a keening, shivering sound that is pain and pleasure all at once. Everything and everyone freezes, Silas and Rannoch whipping around to face me. There is nothing but silence, both inside and out, just the staggered inhale and exhale of the men inside the walls of the keep.

From outside the door, the whisper of a startled motion, and then the call of darkness, a low, chuffing purr, like one of the beasts in the bones’ memories. No one moves. I do not know how long we stand there, but at some point the chuffing noise quiets, and the woman in me smiles in apparent satisfaction.

“She’ll sleep here now, Councilmen. There is one outside the doors guarding her who will not fail.” And, without my consent, she shuts my eyes, and my world disappears.

AN ETERNITY AND A DAY

SILAS

“And I am telling you, Trader, that she is not available to see you.” Rannoch lays a steadying hand on my shoulder from behind me, less to comfort me, I think, than to calm me, but I’ve had enough of the foreigner in front of me, and for the first time, am beginning to regret the trade, supplies be damned. He came, uninvited, pounding on the Council House door before first light, before it was safe to walk the street, frantic and demanding, as though he has a right to any information regarding anyone in our village, least of all our BoneKeeper.

“Don’t push me, Village Father.” The threat is clear in his voice; it is not a sheathed sword. The blade is exposed and ready. “You need this trade far more than we do. You think I don’t know the look of desperation on people’s faces? Hunger is hard to hide, no matter how late into the night you let people dance. Where is she?”

“She is safe.” Rannoch answers behind me, and I have to clench my fist to keep from swinging it. We owe him no answers.

“There is blood in her home, Councilman, and clear signs of struggle. You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” The hard lines of his face are granite, much different than the laughing carelessness he showed her last night during the feast, and I narrow my eyes, reassessing him.

“Kaden, correct?” I ask flatly, and he nods in reply. “Your concern does you credit, but you are not of our village, of our people, of our ways. You have two days left in our city, that is all. My word will have to suffice. She is safe. And not your concern.”

Kaden’s nostrils flare, shoulders tensing, and then all at once the anger drains from his body, leaving only quiet misery. “She left her door open for me. Do you understand? If harm came to her, it’s because I promised to return. By the time I was able to…please.” I can tell how difficult it is for him, how much guilt he is bearing, but in the moment I’m viciously glad to have someone other than myself to blame. Someone else to look at so I don’t have to see my face in the mirror and know, know, that her blood is on my hands.

The sound of Rannoch’s choked breath behind me distracts me from answering, though. “She…left her door open for you?”

The meaning hits me, wrapping around me like a snake. It takes several moments for me to be able to respond without tearing this boy’s larynx from his throat.

“I wasn’t aware the BoneKeeper had invited to you to…trade.”

“Are you normally aware of Wren’s choices?” he asks, and I want to slice the smirk from his face as painfully as possible.

“I was long before you arrived here, and will be long after you leave. So yes. I am.”

We lock eyes, neither willing to look away, and though there are no clear stakes on the table, the taste of violence grows between us, metallic on my tongue. Who knows how long we would have stayed there, or how quickly blades would have been drawn, had two anxious women not approached hesitantly, clearly not wanting to interrupt, but having their footsteps forced forward by need.

“Village Father?” Hands wringing, pulling at their skirts in nervousness, they approach together, lending each other strength.

“Yes?” I know I’m too short, too clipped in my response, and see them shaking, but I can’t force peace into my voice, no matter how deeply I breathe.

“We…we went to call on the Keeper at first light….she was meant to join us at the women’s pool…house a wreck…what looks like blood…” Their words tumble over each other, making it hard to separate them.

“You…I’m sorry. Wren was going to the women’s pools with you?” Rannoch sounds astonished, as if the Earth and Sky Gods themselves were in front of us.

“Wren?” The women turn to each other, having a silent conversation, and then back to us, eyes narrowed in twin expressions of carefully crafted nonchalance. “Yes. Wren. She was to come with us today. We promised her last night. Something has happened.”

“Well, Village Father. I may not be your people, but these women are.” The Trader is smug, and steps behind the women, offering them space to move forward. “Surely you owe them some sort of answer about where their…BoneKeeper?...is.”

“She is…indisposed.”

A shout and a groan from the square reverberate through the emptiness of the plaza. From the far side, Raek is calling to us, arm wrapped around a stumbling Nickolas, face pale and bloodied in the early morning. The women gasp in shock, hands going to their mouths, eyes darting between me and the brothers, who make a pathetic show of their progress.

“Village Father!” Raek manages to be both respectful and outraged, and my hands clench to fists at my side, visions of smashing his skull to pieces flashing through my brain before I can stop them. Rannoch steps up beside me, silent and anxious. Raek and his Hunters weren’t meant to return for another four days at the least, when the trade would have been completed, and he would have no room to undo what had been done. They must have gotten in this morning, though why so early I have no idea. “My brother! My brother has been attacked!” The distress in his voice is real, but not for the reasons those watching would think.

Raek is a favorite, though, having charmed most of the village since before I became the Father, and the two women run toward him, clucking like distressed chickens, helping him sit Nickolas on the steps.

“What happened?” One asks in horror, seeing the deep gouge and vibrant purple-red bruising on the side of his face. I have to bite back a vicious grin; whatever Wren did to him laid him out. The side of his eye looks almost crushed in, the bone caving oddly at the curve above his cheek, and I find myself muttering a silent prayer to the Gods that it’s broken, that it gets infected and creeps to his brain, killing him so I don’t have to. I wouldn’t mind his blood on my hands — I’d make it last, collect it drop by drop from his veins so he would feel every second of his life leaving, but it would destroy everything Rannoch and I are working to rebuild here. I can’t make any mistakes, not if we want this village and its people to survive. So I grit my teeth and simply say, “Explain.”

Whatever Raek hears in my voice isn’t to his liking, because he narrows his eyes assessingly before widening them again in borrowed distress, playing to his real audience. “I got back this morning, just with a small group, ahead of the rest of the Hunters. To…bring you a report, Father.” Here he stutters briefly, and I exchange a quick glance with Rannoch. There is a fox in the henhouse. Clearly someone sent him word, somehow, that the Traders were here. Our circle of those we can trust has narrowed again, and I see Rannoch making mental notes about who we have lost from our already small band of allies. “I was coming straight to the Council House, of course, and I stumbled across his body on the path.” He takes a deep breath, lets his voice shake on the words, and the women bow toward him in sympathy. “I thought him dead.”

I wish him dead. But I can’t say the words, just nod.

“Thank the Gods he was breathing. I was able to rouse him. Barely. Just barely.” That part I believe. Nickolas looks green, as though he can only just focus his eyes. “He was able to tell me the barest outline of what happened — that he was returning to the Council House after the dancing, that he passed the BoneKeeper’s house and heard screaming.” The women gasp, and Kaden, who has been noticeably quiet, inhales sharply, his jaw clenching. Raek risks a quick glance toward the Trader, and I’m caught by the brief flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Something is at hand that I’m not seeing. “He ran in to help her. The cottage was pitch-black — he could see nothing, just two figures in a struggle. Rushing over, he managed to pull the larger one…a man, he said…off the Keeper, and he thinks she was able to escape. In the chaos, the attacker smashed Nickolas, though, and knocked him out cold.”

“Who would assault the BoneKeeper?” This from one of the women, who sounds like she’s about to be ill. “The BoneKeeper?”

“No one in this village, that much is certain,” Raek replies as if on cue, and it suddenly and sickeningly plays out before me, unraveling too quickly for me to stop it.

“Never, never,” the women agree in shocked murmurs, dabbing at Nickolas’ face with small clothes and clucking meaningless words of appreciation for his bravery.

“Nickolas was concerned, though, that in the fear of the moment, in the darkness and the shock of the event, especially because he thinks she had been hit, her memory of the event might be…shaky. That our BoneKeeper may be so distressed by the evening that she may think Nickolas did this, or misremember the path of the night. We wanted to check on her, to make sure she is comforted by the presence of those who wish to see her safe and secure.”

“Oh, she would never believe that a Councilman would attack her,” the women rush to say. “Never. Unthinkable.”

And it is. Unthinkable, that is. That a Councilor would ever attack the BoneKeeper. But we live in unthinkable times, where unspeakable things happen on a daily basis.

Kaden, who has been silent beside me the entire time, leans forward — infinitesimally, but enough to draw attention. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly commanding, enough that Raek straightens slightly, despite himself.

“And who do you think attacked your Keeper, Councilman?” The question is dark, and loaded, and though he tries to fight it, Raek’s lips twitch in a minute break before he is able to stop them. “Because your statement that no one from the village would seem…dangerously close to an accusation.”

Raek tilts his head, lips still pressed flat against amusement, and raises a single brow. “What? Absolutely not, Trader.” There is strange emphasis on the last word, a dripping sort of hatred that even the women catch, both falling silent, glancing back and forth between the two men. “I would not think to accuse anyone, especially when I have been back in the village for less than an hour, and so much has happened in my absence. I was simply stating a fact. For all of our history, we have never had a BoneKeeper attacked or assaulted. Then I leave, and in the meantime, Traders have arrived for the first time in twenty-four years after an unexplained absence, and our precious Keeper has been bloodied and beaten. That one happened at the same time as the other is not a direct correlation.”

“Hmm.” Kaden responds only with a sound, nothing more; Raek’s mouth twists into a sneering satisfaction.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay longer at the moment. I’d like to get Nickolas to bed. He has been through enough. Ladies, thank you for your help. I know from experience that you were most likely on your way to the pools — please, don’t let us keep you. Your kindness in this moment has been so appreciated. I’d like to gift each of you a measure of water from Nickolas and myself, in gratitude you know.”

The women flutter from him to Nickolas and back again, eyes darting briefly to Kaden, Rannoch and myself, then back to the brothers.

“Thank you, Councilor! It’s too generous by half…” They protest, but he waves them off, taking their names and then helping Nickolas to his feet, staggering briefly under his weight.

“Father. Councilor. Trader.” He nods briefly to each of us in turn, then leads his waste of a brother inside the house doors, leaving our strange assembly on the steps. Kaden is unmoving beside us, but is taking long, slow breaths as though to calm himself. Rannoch glances at me, then stares off into the distance, lost in thought. He is playing out the pieces on the board — I recognize the look on his face, thinking through tactics and movements, rethinking choices made in new light. The women, however, surprise me, all of their fluttering and agitation falling away once the brothers close the door behind them. They exchange a heavily laden look, and then address me carefully.

“Clearly there are things to work out here, Father. We’re due at the pools, but… perhaps it would be best for all involved if we keep this matter quiet for the time being.” Some of my shock must show on my face, because the shorter of the two purses her lips in something like annoyance, though she tries to bite it back. The other sighs and shakes her head, then says in a low voice, “Do you think we have no eyes or ears, Father? You should have more faith in your people. At least…some of your people.” She points a finger at Kaden, almost rolling her eyes. “That man would not have laid a hand on the Kee — on Wren. Unless she asked him to. The same cannot be said for others. This can’t be kept quiet. There will be no way. But none of it will come from our mouths. And if Wren needs a woman’s help, call on myself — I’m Grace — or Bri. We will come, or will know who to send.”

There’s a long, accusatory pause, and then Bri speaks, trying to stay respectful, but failing. “She’s been kept by herself for too long, Father. We thought it by choice, and tried to respect that. But even kittens’ eyes open eventually. Please call us to assist. Don’t let her heal alone, or without a woman’s presence. If Nickolas looks like that, I can only imagine what damage…the attacker…may have done.”

I can only nod, which seems to be enough, and they turn away in a sharp swirl of skirts. Beside me, Kaden loses his battle with staying calm, and faces me, muscles tight, hands clenched.

“You will take me to her,” he states flatly, no room for argument in his voice.

And Gods’ help me, but I do.

A BROKEN BIRD

KADEN

We have a bird in my homeland — tiny, so little it could fit in the palm of your hand with space for another. A little puff of feathers, and seemingly docile. The Crimson Wrush, it’s called. All white, with startling red wings, and a red cap on its head. That’s what Wren looks like, curled into a small ball on the bed in front of me, scarlet streaks through her white hair, stained carmine hands curled protectively across her face, leaving just her closed eyes and thick white lashes visible. The rest of her is tucked beneath heavy blankets in a silent room, far from the Council House, where Silas and Rannoch led me after the confrontation on the steps.

Her bone necklace is back around her throat, woven through her fingers, pressed against the mottled skin on her cheeks, bruising clear even in the dim light, and I want to break the world around me to pieces, leave no one but her and me breathing.

“I know.”

Rannoch’s voice is somewhere caught between apologetic, antagonistic, and completely helpless.

“What in sky and sea?...” I don’t even know how to continue what I was going to say, and swallow reflexively before forcing myself to ask, “It’s a stupid question, stupid, but…is she alright? I mean, she’s not alright. I can see that she’s not. I don’t know what to⁠—”

Silas interrupts, thankfully. “Her attacker pulled some hair from her head…” He pauses, choking, then continues. “He — I think he must have hit her. She has scrapes, bruising. It stops at her hips. She was able to fight him off. But she isn’t unscathed.”

“Yeah, well. Neither is he,” I growl, some small amount of pride creeping into my voice. They exchange quick, surprised looks, and I sigh. “Are we pretending that that willow-spined excuse for a man wasn’t the one who did this? He’ll lose that eye if we’re lucky. She must have really gotten him.” A vicious grin splits my face. “I’d have liked to have seen that. This little thing cracking his head open. A shame it wasn’t just a bit harder. If you can hear me, Wren, even in your dreams, that was fucking brilliant of you. Well done.”

“She shouldn’t have had to.” Rannoch’s voice is tight, even accusatory, and I sense more than see Silas tense up next to me.

“No. She shouldn’t have. But we don’t always have choices.”

“We do, Silas. We actually do. And we may have to make the choices we make, but that doesn’t mean I can’t regret them.”

Wren stirs, a low moan of sound escaping her lips, and both men fall silent.

“Where are we, anyway?” I ask quietly, more to distract them from each other than anything else. If they fight, and wake her, I know we’ll have to leave, and I want as long as possible to study her sleeping face.

“We’re in the old BoneKeeper’s cottage,” Silas replies begrudgingly. “It’s been mostly abandoned. Few remember that it even exists. Before Wren, the BoneKeepers lived here. When Wren was young, she was moved to the Council House for a time, and then given a small home closer to the House for safety.”

I snort derisively. “How’s that working out for her, I wonder?”

“Not well,” Rannoch replies tightly. “Clearly.”

“We’re doing what we can, Rann,” Silas snaps, clearly frustrated. “When the rains come —” He pauses, and Rannoch inhales long and slow, before exhaling and nodding.

“You’re right. You’re right. When the rains come.” They exchange a long look, and then focus back on Wren.

“They just need to get here sooner,” Silas whispers, and Rannoch nods in agreement.

“What happens when the rains come?” I ask, curious despite myself, but Rannoch is clearly back with Silas, and shrugs.

“What happens, Trader, is that you’ll be gone, so it’s not your concern. Neither, I’ll remind you, is Wren. You have a day left here. Well, the rest of today and tomorrow. And then this will all be a fever dream you’ll leave behind.”

Staring at Wren’s face, brow furrowed even in her sleep, I don’t reply.

“You will be leaving this all behind,” Silas repeats, voice deepening on the echo of Rannoch’s words.

“Well. Not all of it.” Both men tense, but they’re not the only ones who know how to play games, and I tear my eyes from Wren, trying to inject some casual levity into my voice, despite it feeling like shards of glass. “There’s still the trade to complete, no? And judging by the exchange on the steps this morning, perhaps we should finish that sooner rather than later. Three days of the trade is typical, but I won’t stay where we’re accused of attacking women. If things get ugly, it would be best for us to leave early.”

Silas relaxes slightly and nods in agreement. “It’s not a bad idea. Offload the food and goods, and we’ll prepare the silos.” Turning to Rannoch, he switches from friend to leader in a moment. “Gather those who need to be involved — anyone who is interested in smaller trades as well, for cloth and wares. We’ll do the town’s exchange in the Second Ring, and ours in the First, at the same time. Draw attention away from the larger of the two, try to avoid any possible interruptions. And just…if there are questions, tell them we’ll celebrate again tonight, and leave tomorrow for slow farewells, rather than rushing the exchange on our last day.”

“Good. That will work to everyone’s advantage. Nickolas and Raek should be laid up today, but in case — we’ll have it all tied and knotted before they can come in with scissors. It’s harder to undo what has already been done than it is to just prevent it.” Rannoch glances toward the door, then, almost as if fighting himself, turns back to Wren’s unmoving form, and lays a gentle hand on her head. Silas clears his throat, but Rannoch, voice strangled and shaking, whispers, “Don’t. Just…for once, don’t.” He stands there beside her for what feels like a year, then leaves, saying nothing further. Silas stares after him, concern carved in every line of his clearly exhausted face.

“It is hard to lead.” I don’t mean to speak, to offer any sort of comfort, but the words are pulled from me in sympathy. Silas doesn’t look at me, just exhales slowly, then scrubs a hand across his face.

“It is.” His reply is almost silent, but in the quiet room even a whisper is a yell, and I can’t help but feel pity for the amount of pain clear in the two simple words.

“This isn’t a place for the soft, Wren said. I don’t think I understood her when she first told me, but it’s becoming clearer now.”

“Wren told you that?” He looks at me curiously, then both of us are jerked like puppets on strings to face a tiny, exasperated voice barely emerging from the cocoon on the bed.

“Are we just all calling me Wren now?” It’s only a heartbeat of sound, but rushes through me like a song, and I have to fight to keep myself from picking her up and stealing her from this place forever.

“You told me to call you Wren,” I say jokingly, purposefully affronted, and am rewarded by the small twitch of her lips from behind her hands, though her eyes stay closed and her face unmoving.

“Hmph.” I can’t help but smile at the disgruntled sound. Silas is more cautious, though, looking back and forth between the two of us as if trying to gauge the waters.

“Are you…how are you feeling, Keeper?”

She laughs a little, but it is a bitter, shattering glass sound, not the gurgle of water I heard from her yesterday. “Oh, I’m very well, can you not tell, Father?”

His face clenches. “Do you need anything?”

She still hasn’t moved, as though just speaking is taking all of her energy, and anything else would be too great of an effort.

“Can you rewind time?” she asks, and I can see the words hit him.

“No.”

“Then nothing from you.”

“I have water, food…” He looks around, taking in the room. “More blankets?” He pauses, then, softly, “Two of the village women offered their company. Bri and Grace. If you would like it.”

I can tell the words surprise her, even if she hasn’t changed from her position curled tightly in the corner of the bed. “Not today. But…maybe….maybe tomorrow. If I am able.”

“Alright.” Reluctance is clear in his voice, but he continues. “Trader — we will run out of time if we don’t leave soon.”

“Time for what?” she asks, and he sighs.

“We have to move the trade up a little. We’ll begin today, and then will have tomorrow for anything left, if needed. Due to unforeseen circumstances, the trade will be cut short.”

Startled, her eyes finally open, and I want to pull my knife and cut every single throat in the town when I see the burst blood vessels staining her white eyes. “Kaden?” My name is a rainfall of questions, not a single drop, but many, many, all contained in a solitary word. And I don’t know how to answer any of them.

“I’m here, Wren.”

“Until tomorrow.”

I feel like I’ve swallowed stones, and they sit, lodged in my throat, blocking sound, strangling air. Silas answers for me. “Yes, Keeper. Until tomorrow.”

“Ah.” The exhale is heartbreaking, as if all happiness left her lungs with her breath. Then, voice calm and empty, “I wish you safe passage home, Trader.” Her eyes close again, only the faintest glimmer of moisture on her lashes revealing anything. She is turned away from me, her fingers closing to tight fists around her necklace, and Silas shakes his head slowly.

“I’m sorry, BoneKeeper. Truly.”

“For what, Father?” Again, she is blank, as though she is not even in her body.

“For many things said, and more that are unsaid,” he replies quietly, but she doesn’t acknowledge him. Turning to me, he flicks his eyes between her still form and my hovering one, then, reluctance clear, says, “I’ll give you a moment to say good-bye.”

Stepping from the room, he pauses just outside the door, close enough to see, but far enough that, if I whisper, he will not hear. Gliding forward, I sink to my knees beside her bed, though she doesn’t turn to me, and rest my forehead against her back.

“I’m sorry, Wren. I came back. It took longer than I thought. It was stupid, stupid of me. I shouldn’t have asked you to leave the door⁠—”

“You came back?” She sounds surprised.

“Of course I did! To find the room destroyed, blood—” Choking on the words, I push forward. “I went to the Council House, demanded to see you…”

“It’s…Kaden. We carved dreams from clouds for a night, and it was beautiful, but…you leave tomorrow.” Wren pauses, then slowly, agonizingly, turns over to face me. And I know she can’t see me, but I feel like her reddened eyes are memorizing the lines of my face. “Thank you, though. I felt like someone real for a moment, and you gave that to me.”

“Come with me.” The words are ripped from me, torn from the silent, secret chambers of my heart, but I’ve never meant anything more in my life than I do in this moment. She’s already shaking her head, but I reach forward, wrapping her hands in mine, bone necklace and all. “Don’t say no. Don’t say no. Come with me. I know how. We’ll figure it out. Please.”

“You’ve known me for a breath, Trader,” she whispers against my fingers, lips brushing my skin, and I tremble.

“If you’ve been drowning for a lifetime, do you need more than a breath to know what oxygen is, Wren? Do you need more than a moment of sunshine to know its difference from rain? Come with me. You don’t have to promise me anything. I don’t want to chain you to me. Just…please.”

Wren’s face is a battle of hope and hopelessness, of wishes and weariness, and I can tell the moment when experience wins out over possibility. “I ca⁠—”

Silencing her with a finger on her lips, I shake my head. “Don’t answer now. Now is not the time for it. A day ago I didn’t know you, and time has shifted since I saw you in the shadows. Who knows what will happen in the next day, or the one after? And if you don’t come with me, if you can’t…” Fighting the tightness in my chest at the thought of not seeing her face again, I continue. “I’ll walk as slowly as I’m able, until the border of my lands. I can make a week stretch to two. I’ll look for you, leave my footsteps for you to follow if you change your mind. Once I get to the border of my people, I won’t have a choice, but I will take as long as I’m able. Don’t say no. Leave me with hope, Wren. Even if it’s smoke on the wind.”

Waiting for her answer feels interminable. She doesn’t move, fingers still intertwined with my own, mouth against my skin — doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t push forward, and we are caught in the in-between until Silas breaks the silence.

“Trader. It is time.”

Nodding, I have to force myself to loosen my hands from hers, feeling like I am peeling my flesh off as I withdraw from her. She stares at me, breath shallow, face bruised, eyes bloody, and I don’t know how anything beyond this moment will be possible, how I can make myself leave without hearing her voice.

“Trader.” Silas is commanding now, all patience used, and I glance over my shoulder at him, before turning to Wren one last time. She is still staring up at me, empty eyes locked on my face.

She bites her lip, holds her breath, then, “...If…” and nothing more.

“If is enough, Wren.”

And it is. Though the swell of hope in my heart feels like knives, and walking away from her tears my soul from my body. If is more than I thought, and more than I deserve.

A LONG NIGHT

WREN

The air is heavy and thick the next time I open my eyes, tiny shards of shattered-glass pain filling my lungs with every breath, so it takes me longer than it should to realize there is someone in the small room with me. Before panic can overtake me completely, a deep, exhausted voice almost stumbles across the floor from the far curve of the wall.

“It is only me, BoneKeeper.” Silas is careful, subdued, trying to be reassuring, but I have had enough of waking to strange men near me, and I cannot calm the frantic skipping of my heart. The room is almost pitch-black — the only light a thin strip of flickering candle flame from beneath the door frame separating us from the front room of the tiny cottage — so he isn’t defined, rather just a shadow in darker shadows.

I’m completely disoriented; it is a peculiar trick of time, waking up in the house in which I was born, where my mother raised me, where my father decided to give his life for me. In the ink of night, I am pulled back to being a child, the stale smells old but familiar. This place is a memory box filled with long-forgotten treasures of scents and sounds that prompt a choking array of memories. Even Silas shifting in the chair reminds me of my mother sewing at night, rocking in a rhythmic creak, the steady sound somehow lulling me to sleep.

It is too much, combined with the avalanche of the last two days, and my heart cracks in painful longing for the safety of my mother’s arms, the feeling, however brief, of someone else taking the burden from my hands. The present and past shimmer over each other, a mirage of what was, what could have been, and what is, and I can’t prevent the crushing sadness of realization that, whatever version of life I am in, it is not one of my making.

Silas waits a beat, two, then speaks, his voice velvet-soft in the pressing darkness of the room, a blanket of deep sound covering me and pushing back against the weight of the memories around me. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he offers unexpectedly. Something in his tone catches my breath, though he isn’t vulnerable and there is no hesitancy. Instead it is like he has practiced this, knows the words by heart and has been waiting to say them. He is matter-of-fact, but unguardedly so. “Not the first time I met you, though I remember that as well. You were a baby, white as bone, snow hair, bloodstained eyelids. Even then you had pale eyes. They had color, just not entirely. Did you know that? Ringed in sapphire, but the entire middle was diamond blue, light and clear.” He drifts away into some private moment, long enough that my eyes start to grow heavy, and my breathing slows before he begins again.

“But the first time I saw you, well. That is a different matter altogether, isn’t it. Because you can look and look at something and never really see it. And maybe I would never have, had things gone differently. I was too young to be named Father, no matter what your bone friends may say. The weight of a people is too much to bear for a single man, let alone a child. And though gifts in our village are not things that can be given back, I would have done almost anything those first few years to have passed it to another's hands.”

My throat is too raw to respond; I’m not certain what to say in any case. I don’t know this version of him, don’t really know any version of him other than what I’ve seen on the stage and in the Council House.

“I — I don’t know how much you remember, Wren.” For the first time, he falters slightly, before his voice strengthens again. “I have to assume…everything. It’s not something I can forget, and I wasn’t locked in the room with you. I’ve never known — did you think I was part of it? Part of your…training…as Raek called it.” His question is fervent, begs for a response.

“I haven’t thought of it,” I whisper, and though I can’t see his face, I can hear the sorrow in his answering sigh.

“Ah. You haven’t,” he says, a strange twist of disappointment curls through the sound. “I wasn’t. If that makes any sort of difference. I didn’t agree with it, but you were, what, five when you started coming to the Council House? I was twelve or thirteen at the time. Most of my days were spent with tutors, learning the rhythms of our people, the patterns of the Council. The price of our past, and the cost for our future.” He stops, then exhales sharply, a mirthless huff of sound. “We chose the wrong man, she said. The soul that spoke through you. We chose the wrong man, and you have failed us at every turn.” The words are bitter, acidic. “They didn’t choose a man at all, though, did they. They chose a boy. A wholly unprepared boy. And threw me to the wolves to be raised, then expected me to know the correct path forward, though all the ways are lined with blood and bone.”

There is a shifting in the darkness and suddenly he is next to me, still hard to distinguish in the dim room, but close enough I can see the curve of his shoulders, the bend of his head, the curve of his cheek. “Do you need anything?” he asks. “Can I get you water? Something else?” I shake my head carefully, painfully, and he sighs, then continues on his original path, as though he never detoured. “You were newly twenty. It was the spring where the Month of the Maiden was unusually forgiving.” He pauses as though waiting to see if I remember. What he doesn’t know is that I remember every soul that has been lost over the years, every soul I have guided as well. The spring of my twentieth year bloomed so vividly and enticingly that I thought I would be trembling under the weight of those I would have to guide to bone. But we only lost two to the poisoned harvest. More made it through the winter than in the previous few years, and I think it lent courage and strength to the villagers.

“It was early enough in the morning that the light was still thin, the air almost painful from breathing in the cold. I don’t remember why I was out, where I was going. Just that I rounded a curve in the road, and there you were, kneeling on the ground in front of a child who was giving you a loaf of bread. It was the first time I saw your face look like…like you were in your body. You thanked the girl, and smiled at her, then stood up, dusted yourself off, and walked away.”

“That was the first time you saw me?” I ask, surprise clear even in my barely voiced question, and he laughs briefly, a deep, delicious rumble of thunder that rolls through my chest.

“It was. Because —” He pauses as though he is trying to make a decision, then, reaching out hesitantly, he takes my hand in his, leaving it open so I can pull away if I want to. But his hand is warm surrounding mine, and my fingers curl into his without thought. “Because I thought in that moment that you knew what it was like to wear a masque. That perhaps you knew what it was like to be someone who was created by their circumstance, who had their life forced upon them rather than…I thought, selfishly, maybe here is someone who could understand me.” He stares down at our intertwined fingers. “I regret not thinking instead, maybe here is someone I could understand.”

Neither of us speaks for a long time. The only noise is the settling of the house, the wind outside, the occasional deeper breath. “Wren,” he finally says, “when the sun rises, we will have to forget tonight, and return to our duties. We both know there is no escaping the commands from the Bones. Nothing can come of this.” There is no uncertainty; he is resolute and immovable. “Tomorrow we will be back to normal, back to the masques we wear to make it through a day.” Here his fingers betray him, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of my hand, and his voice drops from a murmur to a whisper. “But for tonight, for this moment, maybe you’ll let me pretend that it is just you, and just me. That the first time I saw you, I approached you as a boy in this village would. That we have spent the last several years meeting under the full moon of the Dancing Month, that we have shared mead from the same cup. And that we are both unbound from expectations, from duty. Just for the space of a few hours. You can sleep and dream, I can sit and dream, and if dreams are the only place we meet, for tonight it will be enough. We can be an unwritten book together, just in this moment, the ink being sketched on the very first page. No chapters before, only empty pages after. Everything still to be decided, scribed only by your hands and mine, none other to guide the pen.”

It is a fantasy woven in rich fabric, and I tighten my fingers around his, closing my eyes to picture what he is painting in his words. Taking the movement as assent, he slowly reaches up his other hand to brush my tangled hair from my face, to gently trace the line of my jaw, carefully avoiding any cuts or bruising. “I will pretend that I haven’t been breaking under years of other people's expectations. That between us, we have made our own plans, that we have not been not forced into those ideas for what we should do and who we should be.” He swallows hard, and though his voice doesn’t tremble, it is tight, so controlled it is almost shattering. “This village has left little room for me to know myself, even now, though it is becoming easier. For so long, every step has been a prescribed path forward — despite what I am, most things are chosen for me, and those expectations are a heavy burden. I think you know how that feels as no one else in the world would. That, in a different time and place, your soul might recognize mine as a mirror.” Silence fills the space between us, swelling and pushing out, and time freezes in the seconds between our heartbeats. When he speaks, his heart is in his words, raw and ragged and true. “I have been called so many things in my life, and none ever seemed to fit. Father, Brother, even Silas. But here, in the dark with you, I have no name.”

Picking up my hand very gently, he brings it to his lips and kisses it softly, before laying it carefully down by my side and pulling the blankets up around me.

“Rest now, Wren. I’ll stand watch and none will cross the threshold. We are somewhere out of time, somewhere unexpected and unknown, a path no feet have trodden. You’re safe here, in this moment. Tomorrow will come with all it may bring, but for now, I have you. And I will keep the darkness from your door.”

When I wake again, the room is empty, and I am alone.

THE WORLD IN BLACK AND WHITE

WREN

By the time I am well enough to stand, the Traders have gone, and with them, the faint whisper of hope that had breathed some small amount of life into the dying coals banked in my heart. It has been all of two days, not even, but their caravan is already high enough on the golden mountain path that only a faint cloud of dust is visible. They must have left early, been loaded before the third day of trade even commenced, taken their bright eyed ponies and flame red wagons before the sun was awake, before the traditional feast, the parting songs, the last, lingering moments of short-lived romance.

Lorcan is studiously silent around my neck. Every now and again it feels like he is about to speak, but stops himself. I am glad he doesn’t try to offer comfort. It would be water into a sieve.

“BoneKeeper?” There is a hesitant knock at my door, but I’m unusually slow to respond. It feels like moving through mud, the effort to turn draining what little energy I had.

“Yes?” Though my voice is dull with fatigue and pain, it’s enough for the two women hovering at the threshold, and they come in like ptarmigans, feathers fluffed, feet skittish.

“Oh. Oh, Keeper!” Bri’s voice is horrified, but Grace shushes her quickly, and when Bri speaks again, it is with forced cheerfulness, a hard, crackling sound at odds with her careful, gentle movements. “We heard you were…indisposed…and brought you some bread and soup. Grace?”

At the prompt, Grace drags a broken table in front of me, tutting under her breath at the state of the previously abandoned cottage, exchanging silent looks with her friend. Bri keeps chattering, filling the empty space with tumbling, meaningless words.

“...and I told Dav that we were coming, so he decided to fill a sack with some small things…you know children, they just get it into their heads that they don’t like something that week, so we have more carrots and potatoes than we know what to do with, and I’ll ask you, what sort of child doesn’t like fried potatoes…”

I’m only catching the scattered edges of her monologue, finding it surprisingly difficult to focus for too long on one thing. I don’t understand what has happened to me; the hollowness in my stomach is a gnawing pit and a sickening, dense rock heavy enough to make me curl forward despite myself.

“Keeper.” Hesitancy, then, “I’m so sorry,” with so much sympathy in her voice my eyes fill, and it takes every last ounce of control I have left in me not to let them overflow. If I start to cry, I may never stop. “You’ll feel better with a little food. Grace is going to help you. You don’t have to do anything. We’re here.” She pauses, swallowing hard, and Grace takes over, spooning a small amount of soup into my unresisting mouth.

“We’re here,” she repeats Bri’s words, then, “and we’re sorry we weren’t here sooner. We didn’t know is all I can say. We just didn’t know.” Clearing her throat, she takes a deep breath, then pushes forward, trying to keep her tone level and emotionless. “Councilman Rannoch and the Father mentioned you had…some injuries. Would you like I to look at them or⁠—”

Lifting my eyes to her face, I shake my head in a shadow of movement. It’s enough, and though she presses her lips together in a thin line, she nods to herself and just offers me more soup.

“It was a strange day today for most of the village. The, uh, the Traders left early, if you didn’t hear them this morning.” Bri is clearly trying to break the news gently, but the words force themselves out in reluctant stutters of sound.

“Why?” Again they exchange heavy glances before Bri responds.

“There was some disagreement between the Traders and the Councilmen. It was enough that the trade was called early, that they took back sacks and sacks of grain they had only just unloaded. The Father attempted to…there was no…I’m not sure. I’m not sure what happened; it was so far from where most of the villagers were. The Councilmen tried to explain it away afterwards, but there is unrest. Everyone knows how badly we needed this trade; it seemed like a miracle when the wagons came.”

“They took back grain?” My voice is a raw, bloody scrape, but I’ve never heard of such a thing. To take back the trade offer, and after so long without a trade at all. The women nod in unison, lips pursed in silent disapproval.

“Enough for at least a month, as long as we used shallow cups to measure. And left our dusty ore and dull, useless jewels sitting in pointless piles. What sense is there in arguing over small things when we can’t eat rocks?” Bri is almost frantic, tears thick in her throat; Grace murmurs small, unintelligible comfort to her. “I’m sorry, Keeper.” Bri takes a deep breath. “We’re not here to add further upset. I just…I have children.”

“No one could do anything?” I ask, too stunned to think clearly, and Grace sighs.

“The Father tried. Councilor Rannoch. A few of the Traders — your emerald-eyed one was particularly vocal. But it wasn’t enough by half. Too many accusations made, some ugly words spoken. It has been a long time since the last Trade happened, and women were free to their own devices in the night.”

Bri shrugs uncomfortably, fussing around the small, empty room. “It’s hard on the men, maybe…” she mumbles, an excuse in her voice. Grace narrows her eyes, clearly picking up an argument that started before they came to my door.

“The men in our village were happy enough to dance with anyone during the season, Bri. And with no recriminations. Yet somehow the women doing the same was enough to salt earth? Something is happening, something is changing here, and the longer we pretend it isn’t, the more it sinks into our skin, the harder it will be to scrub out.” She turns to me, brow furrowed. “Nickolas is suggesting, quietly of course, that the hunt is becoming too taxing for women. That the Hunters narrow down to only the strongest men, to preserve rations, until after the Storms. And then we’ll reevaluate.” She shakes her head angrily. “Reevaluate what?”

“Grace…” Bri whispers, looking around her, an edge of fear tightening her jaw, and Grace snorts.

“This is what I mean, Bri. Since when have we had to look and see who may be listening? And there’s talk of changing Children’s Month. Of recording names following the father’s line instead of the mother’s.” Snorting scornfully, she shakes her head. “What good would that do, after the Dancing Month? I ask you!” Turning to me, Grace studies me with careful eyes. “Keeper,” and her voice is cautiously respectful, every word chosen with care, “have you…heard any warnings. From the bones? About the shifting sands in the village?”

“Don’t press her,” Bri shushes her friend quickly. “We’re not here for…we’re sorry, Keeper. Or — do you prefer — we heard you called by another name. Maybe only by friends though?”

Their voices pulse in and out in strange rhythm, like a heartbeat, and I’m doing my best to concentrate on their unexpected kindness, on their gentleness, so different from the things I have known in my life here. But it’s taking all my effort to force my chest to move in-and-out, in-and-out.

“Wren…” Her voice is hesitant, but strengthens when I don’t protest. “Are you — are you alright? Truely? Grace is a talented healer. If there are…if you have a need she can…” Bri is trying, desperately, and Grace sinks to her heels in front of me, taking my hands.

“If we can help, Wren. In any way. Are you alright?”

I swallow, pressing my lips together, and then, “I’m just so…I’m just so sad.” The words choke my throat, fill my eyes, empty my heart. I sound like a child, lost and faintly surprised, and the women exchange a long, laden look.

“Ah. Well. That I have not found a tincture for, not one I can make anyway. The only cure is time.”

“Time I have in abundance. Acres and acres of time.” Shaking my head, I make an effort to come back to myself, to settle into my skin which doesn’t seem to fit the same way as it did three days ago, a week ago, a month ago. Forcing an approximation of a smile, I take a deep breath. “I’m very thankful to you both for your thoughtfulness. Sincerely. And I don’t wish to upset you in any way⁠—”

“But it’s time for us to go.” Grace’s voice is wry but understanding, and she squeezes my hands before letting go and standing. “We tend to overstay our welcome at the best of times, Keeper, and this is not the best of times.”

Bri pulls the small table closer to the chair where I am sitting, then places the soup tureen and bread on it, guiding one of my hands to it. “Here is the rest of your meal, for when you want it.” She hesitates, then cajoles in a mother’s voice, “Please eat. It will help. And maybe a blanket? Your skin is cold. Can we⁠—”

Grace breaks in, interrupting Bri’s fluttering hands with fond exasperation. “She can’t help but be a goose to any gosling she sees. It’s in her nature. Don’t be offended.” Their interplay brings a wobbly and faint, but real smile to my lips, and pulls echoes from both of theirs. “Sincerely, Keeper. Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile. Think carefully before opening the door to us again; Bri will have laced curtains and woven rugs over every inch of this cottage by the time she steps across the threshold again.”

Bri huffs indignantly, but looks around with considering eyes. “It could use a little brightening up…”

Grace laughs in reply. “Sun and Earth. I’ll take her now, before things get any worse. Can we—” She pauses, and Bri takes over. It’s like a pantomime, a little show of happiness they’re putting on for me, to bring some light into the dull room.

“Can we come back? If we haven’t caused too much ruckus this time, we’d like to see you tomorrow, if you’ll have us.”

I don’t understand them, not entirely. Friendship hasn’t been a dish on the table for me in this village, and all gifts offered have come with strings. Even Tahrik is a treasure box of stolen moments, nothing as ordinary and extraordinary as just having people drop by. I answer more coldly than I intend to, but I can’t keep the confusion from my voice.

“I’m well enough. You don’t have to return.” Even to my ears it’s a sharp reply, and I try to soften it. “Though I thank you.”

“We don’t have to, Wren. But we’re asking if we can.” Bri is patient, has taken no slight from my cutting response.

“If…I suppose…” Something is wrong inside me that I can’t say yes, please, I’m lonely. But if friendship colors my world and then is ripped away — I shiver. What will the Council do to anyone who shows me kindness? I learned long ago to snuff love, but don’t know the lines of where any show of sympathy or solace is permitted. And I can’t bear the weight of souls that only went to the Gods because of me. “I would leave some time between…I think it safer…maybe only if the Council is otherwise occupied…”

No other words need to be said. Their faces show clear understanding, and blossoming worry. It’s not their fault; Bri has a husband and children, Grace — I don’t know, but it would be much to risk for small reward. When she speaks, she is slow and thoughtful. “We’ll take the caution to heart, and thank you for it. So perhaps we’ll let you rest tomorrow.” I nod, ignoring the stinging beetles of disappointment scuttling through my stomach. It’s the right thing to do, the wise thing to do, staying away from my door. But it adds to the loss of Kaden’s laughter, to the hollowness of my home, to the pain from the bruises still flowering on my skin. So when she continues, her words tighten my lungs and sting the bridge of my nose. “But — we will be back. And soon. You’ll find us like brambles, Wren. Once we catch on something, we’re terribly difficult to remove. Come on, Bri, we have other stops to make this morning.”

Bri grins at her friend, raising a knowing brow. “Are we going to the mill this morning as well, Grace? To…fill your sack with flour?” Grace smacks Bri lightly, and Bri laughs in return, nudging her.

“Enough, enough. Let’s let the poor Keeper have peace.”

“Of course. We’ll just go and get…your wheat ground, hmmm? Dav said Rik is working this morning. Perhaps he can help you put mortar to pestle and break your grain?”

“Leave off, you washerwoman,” Grace mutters, blushing furiously, calling out a farewell over her shoulder as they leave together.

Exhaustion hits me like a physical force, a punch to the stomach, blunt and brutal. It is a better path for him, if that’s where his feet walk I try to convince myself. What we have are moments outside time. We exist only between blinking, bloodstained lids. Slowly, painfully, my body feeling bent to breaking from the weight of my blessing, I stumble to the door and check the lock, once, twice, and then I collapse into my bed, curling up in a tight ball.

Little Keeper. Lorcan sounds so very sad, raindrops of sorrow dripping down my spine. But I don’t know what to say, how to answer him.

Shall I tell you a story, Wren?

Pulling him off my spine, I wrap him around my hand and press him to my cheek, taking comfort in the edges of his teeth, the curve of his metacarpus, the cold line of his capitate.

Once upon a time he begins, voice soft and lulling, and if he can feel the stain of my tears as I drift to sleep, he is kind enough not to say a word.

THE FIRES ARE BURNING

WREN

The Fires are burning, but the bones are quiet.

The smell of acrid smoke yanks me awake from restless sleep, blinking blearily in confusion. No bones are calling, warning me of singed flesh, of melting fat, and they always warn me ahead of Rending. The burns to the jealous Sun God are my least favorite, so when the bones hear whispers from the mountains above, from the whipping winds racing down the rock face, when they feel the warmth of the sun increase on their exposed, weather-pocked surface, they call to me. He’s wanting, they murmur, he’s hungry. He’s angry. He’s calling for flesh. And I know that one morning, soon, I will awaken and a bitter smoke will sting my nostrils, will hover heavy on the village, and someone will be called by Bone to fire.

Today, though, today they are silent. Not one speaks, and I shiver. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. The words sound in my head as a clanging alarm, a sword on a shield, and I hurry to dress before making my way to the square. It’s the first time in a week that I’ve left my cottage, the first time I’ve felt some sort of life drift back into my veins. As soon as I was well enough to walk, I had left the old BoneKeeper’s cottage and returned to the cold comfort of my empty home, against Lorcan’s advice, against common sense — a stupid but quiet rebellion opposing decisions others continuously make for me. The broken lock on my door has been wholly unnecessary — even the Council has left me alone this week, a thought which sends electric tendrils of worry twisting along my skin. I wasn’t paying attention.

Something changed with the Traders, and yes, it was Kaden, but also it was more and less than him. It was the taste of fruit that hadn’t been watered by the blood of an Offering, the strange simplicity of friendship, the happiness of woefully bad dancing with a willing partner. It was the hint of things outside our village, and some doors, when opened, cannot be forced shut again.

I spent all week trying, and exhausted myself every day with the amount of effort it took to forget, only to remember it all in the night. My time was scattered with minor distractions; Marrin visited with some more food reluctantly made by his aunt. When he saw me, he flung his thin arms around me in a quick, fierce hug that did more for my heart than any soup could have. He let go almost immediately, straightening and gruffly rubbing his eyes, mumbling something about the proper behavior of a Protector, then read me a story by the fire before running home in the twilight, having lingered too long in the dubious comfort of my cottage. Bri came once, briefly, a scramble of children with her; Grace stopped by separately, long enough to drop a loaf of floured bread with a sweet smile. And one morning, still early enough that the dawn was cold in the air, a bundle of fragrant blossoms and two apple buns were left on my windowsill, an object memory that caught my breath in an oddly painful way. But otherwise, I was left alone, curled up with Lorcan, who whispered me so many stories I had to anoint him again.

In all our time together, I’ve never had to soak him more than once in a moon’s turning, and I refuse to look too closely at how often he’s been stained red from my veins already during the Harvest.

It doesn’t matter anyway, I think to myself. I will cut myself to ribbons to keep Lorcan.

He spent most of the empty days attempting to distract me, sharing memories from his childhood, stories from his mother and father, funny little tales of him, and oddly Silas, when they were young. I sunk so deeply into him that I forgot to keep my secrets from him; when he realized I could taste his memories, could smell the barn where he’d leap from the rafters into the hay, could see the colors of his calico cat, he couldn’t hide his concern.

Little Keeper he said, voice tight and desperately controlled. What else are you hiding? This is — I have never heard of a BoneKeeper who could do such a thing. I asked you before, I ask again. We should have no secrets between us.

And I knew it for truth, so I told him. How I could sometimes feel him on my skin, the drag of his fingers, the tremble of his teeth, the bite of his warning. That occasionally when he sighs it seems like the air shifts around my throat, as though his bones are breathing on my neck.

Should I remove you, Protector? I asked hesitantly. You didn’t know when you offered to guard me that I…that you…

If you try to take me from your skin, I’ll strangle you, Little Keeper.

He was teasing, but not, and I couldn’t hide my relief. I’d lived so long with him as a part of me that the thought of putting him into the bone wall was ice in my veins. And it was a relief to share with someone that, maybe all of my time as a child locked with bones had changed me, had caused some kind of irreparable damage, canyon wide cracks in me that can only be filled with the memories of the dead. Share the pieces of myself with someone who accepted their broken mosaic and found something worthy in them as they were, not trying to rearrange them to make a prettier picture.

And then, when he rested, I drifted into the bones around me as I had not done in a long time, letting them pull me into their side of the veil so long that the scent this morning of real smoke in the real air was a shock, the smell so thick and strong in my cottage it burns my nose, even this far from the square.

A call for death tore me from the death side of the veil, and suddenly I’m very and inexplicably terrified.

I don’t take time to eat breakfast. It is a mistake.

By the time I arrive in the square the twelve are in their black cloaks, like vultures circling, surrounding the Sun God’s pillar. But the Bones did not whisper. He has not called for flesh. Making my way toward them with silent steps, I wait for them to acknowledge me. I am not kept long.

“BoneKeeper.” The Father’s voice is low, cavern-dark, and troubled. There is no hint of quiet confidences and shared secrets in his words. It is as he promised, simply a moment out of time. “Who have the Bones chosen?”

I raise a single brow. “What do you mean, Sir?”

He looks at me sharply. “The fires were lit this morning when we woke. He is calling for his Offering.”

Shaking my head, I look to the tall pillar, maybe fifteen feet high, ornately carved with the symbols of a distant god. The pillar is made of the same black rock as the Council House, gleaming in the early morning light. At the top, a small metal brazier sits, fire dancing merrily inside it, heavy smoke pouring out of it, falling like a diseased plant trailing to the ground.

“The Bones…” I am hesitant, words slow, shaking my head.

They shift uneasily at my answer, glancing at each other beneath cowled hoods. There are entire conversations held in secret silence, some of the Council clearly confused, others waiting with almost eager anticipation, and all at once I want to scream at them, to strangle them for their unrelenting stupidity. That desire is cut short as Nickolas’s voice rings out from the end of the semi-circle.

“Have you lost their favor, Keeper?” The sound of him freezes my blood, still fading bruises flaring to painful life, the memory of his fingers on my skin choking me. Lorcan’s teeth on my back scrape my spine when I shiver, pulling me back to my body. Nickolas’s words are an insult, and worse than that, but he continues before I can speak. “If the fire is lit, the Offering must be made.” He turns slightly, addressing the Council, and like a comet across the night sky, I see his plan laid out, a brilliant flame leaving destruction in its wake. “If the Bones will not tell her, it is the Council’s job to choose, as we do when there is no Keeper, in the times between.”

And it is true. If there is no BoneKeeper, the Council speaks for the Gods, is left to interpret their will on their own. But there is a Keeper, and never in our history have the Gods called for an Offering and the Bones been silent.

I look back up to the pillar, and hiss, a short, sharp sound that catches the ears of the Council members nearest me.

“What are your thoughts, Keeper?” Rexus, one of the older members of the council, addresses me. His face is wrinkled and folded under a scraggly grey beard, and though I don’t know his actual age, he wears his years poorly. He is too old to serve, really, but no one has been called to replace him.

“We don’t need her thoughts, Rexus,” Nickolas snaps, voice whip sharp and cracking with anger. “She doesn’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…some girl…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, some other than 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 Render for him…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.

“Are they speaking to you?” The question is pointed, knowing. “These bones, the only ones who are voices for the Sun God. Are they saying anything to you? BoneKeeper?” He adds my title as a cursory afterthought. He knows they are not. How does he know? He has…he has done something 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 softly when 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 that only the 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, not most of 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 hear granite now, 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 you must lie, make it believable at least.”

A step too far, even for his backers, and their uneasy mumbling calls 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 here I 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 not so old 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 the Council’s well?” 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 stomach twists 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, finally turn 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 this Owen say?” 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 or could lie, 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.”

Girl. Girl. Title stripped, addressed as a villager. I would take grave delight in being anyone other than myself, if it were not for the fate of our people being decided by rabid beasts. I make one last attempt, turning to Silas. “Be warned and be wary,” I advise quietly. “It is not that they will not speak. They are simply waiting.”

He nods, and turns from me. “We will meet in the Council House to discuss how to proceed. Councilmen?” It is something. Returning to the Council House instead of ascending the ivory staircase to the House of the Gods…it is something. It means he is trying to avoid naming the Offering. He is looking for space and time to figure this out. “Brothers? Now.” Silas is abrupt, commanding the lingering group who’s hooded eyes are still fixed on me, leading the group away in a long line of black. The last is Rannoch, carefully avoiding attention, only daring to approach for a brief moment once all the rest have left.

“Take your own advice, Wren,” he whispers. “Be warned and be wary. I do not like the way the water flows.” Looking around quickly, guarded, he reaches out a hand and traces my cheek to rest his finger on my lips, before pulling it back and pressing it into his own. Then, turning, he follows the rest of the Council in hurried movements.

I stare after him for too long, lip tucked below my teeth, trying to erase the confusion caused by the feel of his skin on mine. It is only the oily smoke in my eyes that pulls my gaze from the Council steps back to the small fragment of bone in the lid.

“I fear you are no longer safe here, Well Guard.” My words are quiet, courteous. “Is there another fragment where I could place you? Do you know where your Silent bones lay?”

There is a thoughtful hum of sound in my ears. His soul is old, and is growing weak. It is enough, though, and I nod. “Come then, and I will guide you home.” Looking around cautiously, I touch my bone dagger in my waist belt, and pull his soul from the lid, fitting him uncomfortably in the hilt of my blade. “It is only for a short time, Well Guard, I’ll move you to the blade soon. Rest, and I will find your bones. You will be safe. You have my word.”

Turning away, I look around the square again, and this time meet the black glare of Nickolas, hidden on the far side of the open area, dark in the shadows. He doesn't know I see him — I make sure to keep my eyes wide and vague — but he is focused on me with an unnerving intensity. There is nothing he can make out clearly from his position, nothing he could have heard that would cause trouble or suspicion, but his watching eye is wild with the promise of violence, and, even hours later, resting in my room, I am unable to quiet my shaking hands.

ALL MUST PAY THEIR DUE

WREN

When I am finally called to the square that evening for the Council’s decision, I notice the small circle of Owen’s bone has been pried loose, and is ground to dust in front of the well. It is a sacrilege, and a clear warning. The old ways are gone; and in their place, a monster with a cavernous maw is rising from the bowels of our mountain. I touch his sleeping soul gently, safe in my knife, to reassure myself. I am a step ahead, but the wolves are biting at my heels.

“We have decided to honor the Sun God’s call,” Raek says as soon as I am before the Twelve, no room for greetings or niceties in his words.

Taking careful note of those before me, I narrow my eyes. Four are nervous, restless, but defiant, like rebellious children who have erred but refuse to be penitent. Two — Raek and Nickolas — are excited, open hostility gleaming like teeth in the night. Two are hesitant, refusing to meet my eyes, hands shaking. And three look desolate, as though the Storms have come early and wiped our people from the land. Of all the faces before me, these three are the only ones which scare me. If they have given up — if they recognize the precarious position our village is now in, and cannot find a fight within them to go against what is clearly so wrong — there is no hope left. Only Rannoch and the Father have the promise of war in the way their bodies are quivering with rage.

Nickolas steps forward beside Raek, and I note the change in the order of the Twelve. As one of the more newly elected members, he should be further back. Instead, Rexus is in the far corner, sitting in shadow. Ignoring the rest of the group, I glide to him on silent feet, and kneel before him.

“Are you well, Councilman?”

Nickolas is not angry that I am ignoring him. He is smirking, almost laughing, and I have to steady myself. There is worse, and worse still to come if my quiet defiance is amusing to him. Rexus dares to reach out and lay a hand on my head in blessing and benediction.

“The path ahead is lined with sharp stones, and will cut your feet to ribbons, Keeper. I am sorry I was unable to be of more service to you. The blessings of my family over you, of protection and peace, of blood and bone, of flesh and form. The blessings of water and wind, of Sun God and Earth. May I protect you with bone after, as I am unable to guard you with flesh before.”

“All will be well, Rexus,” I whisper, but he shakes his head, and drops his hand. Taking a moment to steel myself, I breathe deeply, then stand and return to my place before the Council, face grave and set. “As you will, Councilmen.”

Nickolas sneers, and replies, speaking over Raek, who shoots him a warning look, which Nickolas ignores. “We have decided that, given the unusual nature of the situation, given the silence of the bones, perhaps the Sun God is testing us.”

Testing us, testing us….the words ring in my mind, a dreadful cloud of suspicion beginning to form.

“Perhaps we have not been as penitent in our Offerings as we should. We have spoken over this matter, thought long and hard.” He is playing with me, as a barn cat plays with a mouse. No matter what is said after this point, I cannot react. This build up is for a purpose. He continues, a mockery of sadness lacing his tone. “We believe a greater Offering must be made to show our willingness to pay the Vengeance. Upon reviewing the records, there have been some families who have not shared equally in the glory of Offerings these past ten years. There has not been the adherence to the First Lesson of previous BoneKeepers. I is for Infant.”

Oh Gods save me. Gods save me from this madness about to occur. But the Gods are silent, as they always are, unless demanding their fill of flesh, blood, and bone. A prayer to the Gods is as a secret whispered in the wind — it will never be heard, or answered.

“The Well Guard’s family — we were able to trace his name, thanks to you, BoneKeeper — has not been called as far as we could see. There is a Baker’s family — eight children, and only one Reaping in the past six years. None since she and her son were called. And of course, no children…none at all, almost since you first became Keeper.”

Tilting my head, heart racing but face placid, I study him.

“Councilman…” I fight to keep my voice calm, infuse it with the chill of the bones around me. “This would go against the ways of our people. The Baker’s family has paid twice in the past ten years, similar to many other families, and she and her son have acted as my eyes in continued service, rather than claim the rest all are promised. And the Well Guard’s family…He has watched your well these many years, serving in death as he did in life. In appreciation, his descendants are exempt from Offerings.”

Nickolas and Raek exchange a quick glance, and it is Raek who speaks. “But some unhappy accident has happened, and the Well Guard’s bones are no longer there. Which makes his contract forfeit.”

I nod, and shrug. “More is the shame, for his presence kept poison from the Council’s water.”

“Are you threatening us?” Nickolas hisses suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, and the four rebellious men behind him lean forward, vultures spotting carrion.

“It is not a threat, Councilman. Merely a fact. Someone must have a deep hatred for you, to have done such a thing. Your water will never be safe again, and for what? I would have told you his purpose had you asked me.”

Nickolas and Raek exchange a look again, this time Raek looks incandescent with rage, and Nickolas belligerent. Ah. So this is the way the web is woven. I cannot think of it longer, as Silas steps forward and shakes his head disapprovingly at Raek and Nickolas, before turning to me.

“A decision has been made.” Furious regret is in every letter, every syllable of his words, and I swallow a ball of fear that is choking me now. “The Council has voted, and by a margin that I cannot balance out as the leader of this village.” He is trying to let me know he did not approve, that he fought against what is to come, but it is a cold comfort as the weight of his next statement hits me. “They have decided. Three of the remaining children of the Baker. The two oldest descendants of the Well Guard. The wife of one of our blacksmiths. A seamstress from the Second Ring.” He pauses, as if seven, SEVEN people at once are not an abomination, a gorging of flesh unseen since the days of The Sword. But there is more. His voice is so soft, like the hide of a new calf, like the fur from a wolf. “An infant from each Ring of the village. To fulfill the First Lesson, to regain favor with the Gods.”

And there, the axe has fallen.

I have kept the armies at the gates for years, since I offered my first personal sacrifice to the Gods when the Bones called for a child, and they accepted. Deep, patterned lace carved into my flesh, a map for the Gods from the sky above and ground below, a book I have written on pages only they can read.

Once, years ago, when a newly born infant was called by the Bones, so young her eyes hadn’t settled into their color yet, I swallowed her name and locked it in my throat. For days I was ripped apart in unending pain, the Gods pulling at the veins in my body, twisting my muscles, breaking and reforming my bones, but I refused to speak. I knew just a whisper would end the agony, but there are things worse in life than physical anguish. And so I endured a grim, unceasing crucible, where moments melted together like fat in the fire. The infant was called just after I Guided Tahrik’s sister, and the scars of Cara’s passage were still red and violent on my heart. To have another child, a baby, called only a month later — the pain gave me stupid courage, the echo of her Offering a gift disguised as a curse maybe.

The bones of the village pressed in on me for days, blocking out all other sound, coming close to rupturing my ear drums with deafening pressure. Once they have called for an Offering, there is no peace until it’s answered, no quiet until blood. I waited long enough that the Earth began to churn, that the pillar’s fire was hot enough it dripped embers like rain to the ground beneath it. And still I would not bend. The bones began shrieking her name, day and night, ripping sleep from me like flesh flayed from muscle. It was incessant. Finally, sick from exhaustion, sicker still from what was being demanded of me, I decided to throw myself into the Offering pit, taking the Guiding Knife with me, and placed it at my heart.

My courage was a broken bird in a storm the moment the Knife cut my flesh, and I had to take a breath before trying again. But in the inbetween, several drops of my blood fell to the ground. The instant they hit the Earth and were swallowed up, the bones suddenly, and mercifully, fell silent. As I readied the Knife a second time, they started whispering, confusion clear in their voices. It…it is accepted, Keeper. Your blood is accepted in her place. More, more, but your Offering is accepted.

And so I carved my first line into my thigh, too deep, too straight, not caring yet that I was writing a story on my flesh that would remain forever. I didn’t know. I just wanted the screaming to stop, the baby safe, the Offering satisfied. I thought, foolishly, that that would be it, that another child would never be named, that I had broken a curse.

I had not.

For years, years now, every time a child is named, I have added to my filigree in delicate pattern, the first line being the only straight, angry scar. Everything since has been a curling leaf, a flower petal, a teardrop, a spiderweb. Beauty from desperation, and, in a way, these Offerings were the biggest blessings of my life, since it was through one of them I discovered, purely by accident, what anointing bones in my blood does. I will never forget the moment Lorcan’s necklace trailed over me during an Offering and he roared to life along my skin in vibrant, curling flame, like fingers tracing my spine.

But I cannot save a child from being called when they have not been named by the Gods.

Drawing in a breath so deep as to empty the world of oxygen, I straighten, eyes cold, spine diamond. I open my mouth to refuse, of course to refuse, when a shout from bone distracts me — so loud that I whip my head around, the fingers and teeth adorning me clacking loudly. Behind me, above me, surrounding me from the farthest walls of the city, the bones speak as one. Keeper! Keeper! they cry, a keening wailing filling the air so loudly I want to cover my ears, but I cannot move. I am frozen, a waking corpse, because their sorrow is my sorrow. Keeper. You must. The Council must be seen for what they are. This is the only way. The Gods were testing, and the Council has failed. If they go through with this, they have failed, they have failed, they have failed.

I….cannot. I canNOT! I call back. Ten people. Ten. And children!

I is for Infant….they sob, and I shake my head, lifting a trembling hand to my eyes, wet with tears.

Yes, yes, I is for Infant, but never have I…the rhyme is still taught in school, a warning, a guide, but never since I took the Crown…I cannot…

The bones fall silent, all at once, the cacophony ceasing so suddenly it leaves a hollow, ringing noise in my ears. Nickolas and Raek are both speaking, but I can’t hear them behind the cavern of wind in my skull. I am shaking, a tree in the Storms, trembling so violently my bone armor vibrates with me, chattering and rattling. I know myself, I know the very heart of me, and I can’t see how I will be able to stand on the dais to oversee this atrocity, no matter what the bones say. But if I don’t…to leave innocent souls unguided…what do I do? Icy fingers of panic dig into my heart, my lungs, my stomach, tearing at the tissue. What do I do?

Swallowing back a churning sickness, I turn and face the Council, who have fallen strangely quiet. I wonder how long I have been with the bones…seconds? Minutes? Enough time to make them uneasy, to blunt the sharp edge of victory in their eyes. Only Nickolas looks untouched.

“Did you hear us, BoneKeeper?” he asks, venom in each word, and I nod carefully, as though my head would fall off if the movement were too sudden.

“I heard, Councilman. And more.” Turning to look at each one in turn, unseeing eyes focused with eerie accuracy on the Councilmen, I force my chest to expand, contract, expand. Think, Wren. Think! There must be something! “I heard. If you choose this, if you walk this path…”

“There is no if, Keeper. There is no if.” Raek is bland, emotionless, and his calm conviction is a dagger to my heart. There is no if. The Council has abandoned the ways of our people, our history, the will of the Gods, the caution of the Bones. The tenuous balance that existed from the days of the first Keeper is gone; swallowing hard, I realize they’ve left me no choice. I won’t leave souls unguided, won’t condemn innocent people to Silence if I can house them in bone. If I can’t stop this, I will have to bend to their decisions. If they are so far gone that they’ll ignore the Bones, there is no threat I can make that would counteract this atrocity.

Even knowing that, I have to try. Inhaling deeply, I force myself to straighten, to make my words an unwavering promise. “As BoneKeeper, I am bound by the Council’s decisions as much as those of the Bones. I understand my position, and my duty. Better than most of you know your own, evidently.” Taking my knife from my pocket, I slice my palm, deeply enough that the gelatinous glistening of fat is visible even in the dimness of the pressing night, and hold my hand out in front of them, ruby red teardrops falling to the ground, forming a puddle at my feet. “And I swear to you, by blood, by flesh, by bone, that if you commit this heresy, I will never Guide your souls home; I will cast you to Exile for eternity.”

The stillness in the square is deafening, the only sound the plink-plink-plink of my blood hitting stone. Not a single man moves, until finally, “Nickolas…” One of the weak carrion birds behind him whispers pleadingly, and Nickolas turns a crazed glare at me.

“You will do as you're told,” he bites out, “and when it is time, you will Guide us home, or you will suffer.”

It is an empty threat, and he knows it. He has overplayed his hand.

“You may command me in life, but you will not in death,” I reply, voice flat and empty. “If you kill me, you will go to Silence, as no one will be left to Guide you. If you let me live, I will make sure your bones are hollowed and your marrow burned, even if it costs me my gift.” Bending over, I dip my thumb into the pool of blood before me, then straighten, and, closing my eyes, press my thumbprint onto either, already stained lid. “So I swear it as BoneKeeper.” Looking at the Father, at Rannoch, at the rest of the men who let this happen, I shake my head. “This world will be all you get, and then I will Exile you to Silent bones, and your eternity will be naught but suffering. And when you pass, I will empty the bones of your ancestors as well, every one I can find. They and their stories will be lost to history forever. As will your names when you are gone. You have assured it. If we are breaking tradition, we are breaking tradition.”

There are shouts of protest, of anger. Such a thing has never been done before; being Guided to bone has been a right of the people since the birth of the first Keeper. But these are dark days, and darker nights; if the world is changing, then I must change as well, or my hands will be stained forever to match my eyelids, red with blood of those I could not save.

“You will never know peace again, in this lifetime or the next,” I whisper fervently. “Never. Call me when it is my time.”

Whirling, my armor calling out in its rattling song, I leave the churning vitriol of the men behind me, roiling waves of fear and venom washing out from their conclave. But I have little hope; even in the moment I know it won’t be enough. They will convince themselves that, eventually, I will bend to them, or break for them. That it’s an empty threat from a faded ghost of a girl.

There is no if.

Blood has been called for, and will pour from innocent throats like rains from the storm skies if I can’t find a way to untangle this web, to alter this course.

There is no if.

Please I beg the bones around me, dragging my fingers in claws along the skeleton walls, bloodying their ivory surface. Please. Help me. Please.

But the bones are silent.

And I am alone.

PAWNS AND PLAYERS

TAHRIK

Davvy is stone-still next to me, barely breathing in the shadow of the Council House. I don’t even know if he’s hearing what they’re saying, and I lay what I hope is a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“We know, we know,” Councilman Raek is calling, trying to quiet the uneasy crowd. The Father is silent beside him, unmoving. “It is a sacrifice, a terrible sacrifice we must ask of you.” He looks dreadful, as though the weight of the decision is bending him towards the earth. “We…” Pausing, he swallows, shaking his head sadly. “We have no other choice. We feel we have no other choice.” Rubbing a tired hand across his lined face, he motions behind him to the rest of the Council, who stand in similar postures, shoulders bent. It’s clear this decision was one not made lightly.

Davvy shudders beside me.

Raek continues. “The BoneKeeper has asked the bones, but they will not speak to her.” There is a low rumble in the crowd, something between anger and disbelief, and Raek immediately holds up his hands. “Peace, friends. Peace. We can’t blame her if they refuse to counsel her. We have no insight as to why they would hold their voices from her, why they have changed the pattern of hundreds of years. But is there a reason to suspect it is her fault they will not speak?”

Narrowing my eyes, I look around me at the gathered villagers. Raek is weaving careful riddles, slipping strange insinuations in through cracks formed when he called for an Offering of ten villagers to help appease the Gods and grant us an easy Storm Season. Behind him, Wren picks her head up from where she has been staring resolutely at the ground, standing far enough separate from the Council that it seems deliberate, almost defiant.

“That is not precisely true, Councilman Raek,” she interrupts flatly in a frozen voice. He’s unable to hide the quick flare of anger that flashes across his face, and the uneasy shifting of the people watching becomes an anxious snake undulating through the square. “They speak to me. You did not like their answers.”

“Barely answers, Keeper,” Nickolas steps up beside his brother, crowding between Raek and the Father. “You said they wait to see our decision. They offered no tangible steps forward for our people. We have had to take the reins, make terrible, heart-wrenching choices for the good of our village.”

He is not as practiced as Raek; his words seem more staccato and less…less honest, though the thought of a Councilman lying about such a massive Offering is unthinkable. Even one like Nickolas. Wren is completely still, no flicker of life visible; her chest seems unmoving though I know she’s breathing, eyes unblinking, hands hanging at her sides. She looks for all the world like the Maiden reformed on earth, carved from marble into an otherworldly effigy, beautiful, but inhuman, and deadly. In a sudden, cold rush of fear I realize how she must appear to anyone who hasn’t heard her laugh, who hasn’t seen her gentleness with children, who hasn’t spoken to her but for the bones. There is little sympathy in her expression, a stark contrast to the twisting, pained faces of the Council that stand opposite her. No one who didn’t know her would understand that it’s a masque, that inside she is falling apart. If only she would soften for them, just the smallest amount. Show them her heart.

It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen her, and since all eyes are on her now anyway, I take the chance to study her hollow face. High on her cheek is a fading, yellow-brown bruise hidden by the curtain of her hair; Bri and Grace made it sound as though she looked terrible, like she had been attacked by a wild animal, but there is little I can see of it beneath her high-necked cloak and hood. Even the mark on her cheek is more like a shadow in this light, and will put to rest the small scuttle of rumors swirling around the village about the Keeper being brutally beaten in the safety of her own home. Looking at her now, I think most people will disbelieve the gossip; she is more or less as she has always been. Which won’t elicit any goodwill towards her, especially with the failed trade. If she had something more obvious, if she showed any weakness, perhaps the people would feel more for her. But she gives them nothing.

It hasn’t helped that she’s been hiding in her cottage since the Traders left; the last time I saw her was as Grace led me from the table, as I tried to lure the Councilmen away from her, tried to give her a moment of peace. Even if it was while she was sitting with the overly-familiar Trader. The only saving grace was that I knew, I knew, Wren would never entertain someone like him — he was too loud, too bright, too much for her. Wren is a mountain bird meant for a safe and quiet nest in a cozy tree, not a hawk or a harrier screaming through the storm-drenched skies. Bri went to see her, and Grace, and I left her a gift early one morning before she woke, but I didn’t want to risk knocking on her door, and she would not come out. Not until today, when the Council bell called us to the square, and the twelve men on the stage announced the path forward into blood and death.

It is too much for so many here. With the weight of the Storms approaching, there is unfounded resentment growing in the air — about the failed trade, the lost grain, the hope given and taken away, and now, the Offering. And somehow, somehow the blame has shifted like dust in the wind, and the memory of our Council arguing in low tones with the Traders has been replaced with vague blame directed towards Wren. Did she invite someone in? What did she do? How did this happen? What did she say that broke the trade? It is always in the shadows, never in the open light of day, but the attack and subsequent events have become tangled in strange ways. Nickolas has earned some minor goodwill from the villagers though; the loss of his eye and the violent break of his orbital socket a testament to how hard he tried to protect the Keeper from her unknown assailant, how he must have taken the brunt of the attack. But even that twists and transforms into Wren’s fault. She shouldn’t have…Why wasn’t she more careful…Why would the Keeper invite a Trader…

The questions wove through the streets like snakes over the past week, slipping through shadowed corners, under window sills, tiny barbs that stick and sting, impossible to get rid of. And suddenly we’re here, lungs constricted, watching the panicked faces of ten people in front of us, feeling the guilty relief of thousands behind us. And something more, something that I don’t want to look at too carefully. Because, at the heart of it, I believe in the goodness of our people, the ways of our city. I have hope for our future, trust in our past, and am praying, desperately, that there is an answer which will not result in the path the Council has cleared for us to walk.

Bri stands in front of the stage facing us, white-knuckled, grasping hands with her friend Grace, shoulder to shoulder with several others. Her face is forcibly cheerful as she blinks away tears, making soft cooing sounds to her toddler who is clinging to her legs. Their youngest is mercifully asleep in Davvy’s clutching arms.

“It is much to ask, but there is much to ask for. Please know, if we were able, we would each step forward and take the place of one of these villagers, but who would lead us through the winter Storms? It’s a great and terrible thing that they do for the good of our people. And perhaps it will appease the Gods, our gift and Offering, our return to the adherence of the First Lesson. Our willingness to abide by the rules of our village, instead of flouting them.” Raek stares pointedly at the Keeper, then glances to the wriggling infants in the arms of their stone-faced parents. “So we must. BoneKeeper, if you will? Five to the Rending, five to the Reaping.”

From the shaded mountain curve behind him, several of our Renders and Reapers come forward, reluctance oddly gaiting their movements, slow stutter steps of hesitancy clear. It has been years since anyone other than the Keeper named an Offering and it sits like a wrong sized shirt on our skin. If there is a Keeper, healthy and able, to have the Council name the Offering is not done. I can see it in the faces of our people, the tightening of eyes at the way Bri’s child sobs when a village woman peels her grasping hands from Bri’s skirt. The way the parents clutch their infants to their chests as though physically unable to pass them to the waiting arms of the Reapers and Renders. The way the crowd rocks forward on their feet, almost as one living entity, then settles back on their heels.

But Offerings must be made. It is the path of our payment, the price of our history. There is nothing else for it. And everyone knows. All must pay their due.

“Stop.”

Wren’s voice rings out louder than I’ve ever heard it. Louder than the Council Bell, louder than the Hunters’ horns, louder than the Earth when it is hungry. Behind her, the mountain rumbles as though in reply, and she calls out again, staring behind her at the black rock face, “Stop.”

As though it hears her, the mountain quiets, and the entire village freezes as one. If she were not so frightening it would be funny to see how the Council almost cowers at her single command, but she is terrifying, stark lightning across a black sky.

“I cannot Guide this many home to bone without my Crown and Blade, without my sigils painted.” She pauses, then continues, a sardonic lilt lacing her normally empty voice. “And I am sure the Council would never send ten to Silence when there is an able BoneKeeper.”

“Of course.” Raek’s eyes are narrow, thoughtful, but there is no reason for him to object, even though it is written in every line of his body. “And where are your Knife and Crown, Keeper? To delay seems needlessly cruel. And I am sure the BoneKeeper would never be purposefully heartless when there is an Offering to be made.” His words are a sarcastic mirror of her own.

“My Knife is where I left it. My sigils will take time. I have to make the bone ash, to find kohl. But my Crown…” She trails off, deliberately inviting a question, and Raek is unable to leave it sit.

“Where is your crown, Keeper?” he asks, and she sighs.

“I am uncertain, Councilman. It was taken from me and not returned.”

All eyes are fixed on Wren and Raek, and it’s only by chance I see the quick glance dart between the Father and Councilman Rannoch. There’s no meaning in it, just a meeting of eyes, but it’s enough to make me wonder.

“Who took it?” Raek demands, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, though in every other way he maintains his composure. He seems more angry for her than at her. And yet, there is something…something more there.

Wren shrugs. “You know my home was ransacked, the bones inside destroyed.” In the square, there is a sharp intake of breath, a shocked murmur of sound. Clearly most people haven’t heard this; somehow it was kept quiet by the men on stage. But Raek doesn’t deny it, which increases the muttering noise. “I promise you on my gift that I have no idea where my Crown is now.”

Truth is clear and undeniable in every word, and Raek’s lips press together in a thin line. There are games being played here that I don’t understand, and I’m suddenly and oddly furious with her, a surprisingly bright flame of anger that I douse immediately. It’s just…if only she’d stop fighting so hard. The Council is flawed, is struggling – even the most devout can see it – but if she used honey and sweetness, she could pull some to her side, help correct the course. The BoneKeeper has always been a balance to the Council. While corruption is eating at the edges of our Council, there are good men on the dais who want the best for our people, who just need guidance. If she’d just stop pushing back, then maybe things wouldn’t be so contentious. Maybe they’d give her space for a life outside of her blessing. Space for a home, for children, for happiness. For me. But every time she stares them down, every time she battles them, they double down, tying her more and more tightly.

You love her as she is, Tahrik, I remind myself. If she gave in at every step, she wouldn’t be herself. I sigh. But it would be easier, a little voice whispers in my head. It would be easier.

On the stage, the Council confers quietly, before turning back to the square. This time it is the Father who speaks, though Raek and Nickolas both obviously have words ready and waiting in their mouths.

“The Council will look for the Keeper’s Crown. Until it is found, unless the Gods demand it, we will hold on any Offerings. If the Bones command the Keeper, we will have no choice but to move forward without it. If the Crown is found, we will move forward on the Council’s choices. But until then, if she says she is unable to Guide the Council’s named Offering without it, we must accept her word and her will.” He sounds almost, almost relieved, although I have to be mistaken.

“We will find your Crown, BoneKeeper,” Nickolas hisses softly, more of a threat and less of a comforting promise.

She smiles at him suddenly, unexpectedly, the rare expression sending a wave of confusion through the crowd. They can’t hear the exchange, but can see the strange back-and-forth. “I will appreciate your attempts,” she replies almost sweetly, and for some reason it pulls anger from him like Everfire from the mountain depths. Raek pushes past the Father, physically standing between Nickolas and Wren, chest to chest with his brother.

“Enough,” he whispers, face tight. If I weren’t so close to the stage, I’d never have heard him. “Enough.” Nickolas’s eye is wild, his jaw tight and flexing, and for once Raek seems almost alarmed at the way his brother’s body is trembling. Raising his voice, without taking his eyes off his brother, Raek addresses the crowd. “Brother Nickolas is clearly distraught that someone would dare to touch one of the BoneKeeper’s sacred tools. We…all of us…will do everything within our power to find her Crown.” It is a vow, but an uncomfortably cold one.

“Until then,” the Father’s deep voice interrupts Raek’s higher, thinner one, “everyone may return home. Immediately.” There’s a long, pregnant silence, then a rush of movement, the ten Offerings almost falling forward into the arms of their families, their spouses, their parents. Beside me Bri is suddenly and silently pressed against Davvy, her body shaking with suppressed sobs, answering tears streaming down Davvy’s face as he cradles her head with one hand against him, the other still wrapped around their infant. Water not wasted in this case. Without speaking, he turns, leading her and their small family away. I watch them go, watch the rest of the crowd leave the square somberly and silently. The gift of this borrowed time is only a hanging axe, a pause in the rains. It’s no reprieve, just a short relief, and it is almost worse than just having faced the Rending or Reaping when first called.

As the last of the villagers shuffle from the darkening keep, I can’t help but turn back to look at the stage. Wren is still there, motionless, blank eyes staring beyond the crowd, beyond the First Gate, far from anywhere I can find her. She is lost somewhere in her head, or speaking with someone I can’t hear, though her hands aren’t touching bone or floating to her neck. The Father and Councilman Rannoch are slightly behind her and off to one side, exchanging words, eyes darting from Wren to the dissipating crowd to the rest of the Council, who are exiting from the stage through the massive doors of the Council House. No one seems at ease.

“Keeper…” The Father almost whispers her name, heavy with something I’ve never heard in his voice, and he clears his throat roughly, as though he is about to try again.

She turns to him, as blank as I have ever seen her, as though no piece of her remains in her body, and terror flows like storm-poisoned rain through my veins. I don’t know where she goes when she locks herself away, but sometimes she’s so far gone I’m scared she won’t return, that she’ll drift far enough from me that she’ll never find her way back.

“I would not speak if I were you, Father,” she says blankly. “You’ll find no purchase for your footsteps here.”

“Keeper,” Councilman Rannoch’s voice is a mirrored echo of the Father’s, and elicits the same response.

“You are making choices, Rannoch.”

Suddenly I’m reminded of her young Protector’s words — the schoolboy who loves her so fervently — on the day we walked away from her and left her on her own. There is always a choice, he said. We are making the wrong one.

Those left on the stage are tense and silent, and it feels as though we are running headlong toward a cliff without slowing. The Father looks like he’s fighting against screaming, jaw clenched so tightly I’m surprised I can’t hear his teeth breaking. But Rannoch steps forward, hand outstretched in supplication, and, almost without my permission, I lurch toward the stage in awkward motion, drawing their attention.

“BoneKeeper!” The word bursts from me, too loud in the frozen square, surprising all of us. Make a choice, Tahrik, I think. Inhaling slowly, I try to calm my tone, to sound respectful but distant. “Do you need someone to walk you home? I am headed close to that way. I can go with you, if you wish.”

Nothing obvious changes in her face, but her shoulders drop, just enough to let me know that she’s let out a breath.

“Thank you, Miller. I appreciate your offer, and gratefully accept.”

Beside her, both the Father and Councilman Rannoch tense, but don’t move to stop her. I walk to the steps, reaching out to take her hand, and am surprised by the way her fingers tighten around mine, betraying her placid face with their white-knuckle grip. We don’t speak as I lead her from the square, don’t speak as I walk her to her home, don’t speak as I open her door and make sure it is safe for her inside. I want desperately to fill the silence, to say something, but the longer it goes, the harder it is to find anything to offer.

And so I leave, a canyon of unsaid things between us.

But at least I made a choice.

And perhaps, even though it was a small one, it will be enough to help bridge this strange gap that is somehow growing between us.

BROKEN PROMISES AND BROKEN BONES

WREN

Keeper!

The word is a falcon cry, a dying keen, a broken dream.

Little Keeper! Awaken!

Wren! Oh Wren! They’re taking my boy! Wren! They’re taking my beautiful boy!

I lurch from sleep, from dead to living in a single, painful gasp. Who is screaming? What wrenched me from my dreamless world?

Wren! Hurry! Hurry! My boy!

The pull from bone is so strong it is almost tangible; I’ve never felt something like it before — it is a command I can’t ignore, leaving no room for thought, only action. There is no space even for breath; I don’t put on any bone armor, any clothes other than my thin sleep shift, don’t even grab my Guiding Knife. My windows are rattling with the shrieking dead, urging me to fly as quickly as I can, through the black night, the moonless sky swallowing sound and motion.

The knife is at his throat! You must run! Run run run run run…

The command is repeated, over and over, as I stumble over the uneven ground, the surrounding dark too thick to see anything; for once my masque is reality — I’m truly blind in the night, pressed relentlessly forward by the voices of bone now acting as my eyes, urging me to go faster and faster still. They sink into me, wrapping around me, suffocating me with their panic. Night-damp earth slides beneath my racing feet, sharp, slicing rocks carving bloody footprints from my bare skin, a clear path for Hunters towards their quarry.

Breath coming in shallow, terror-stricken gasps, I fly around the corner of my small lane, then jerk to an abrupt halt. Beyond me, at the end of the long, unbending main street, the thick ink of the sky has been torn open. In front of the Council House, a bonfire is lit, a raging inferno so bright it seers the eyes, dancing garishly against the night. And beyond it, on the stage, four, maybe five large, shadowed shapes, with a shorter one in front of them, bent back at a painful angle and struggling silently against grasping hands.

There is something in the turn of the small head that catches my breath in my throat, that freezes my heart in panic.

Wren! My boy, my boy, my boy…

Her voice is a mother’s desperate lament, calling from around his neck. She thinks I am too late.

Perhaps I am.

I am too far for anything but drastic measures.

Too far for anything but steps which, if taken, can never be undone.

I am ashamed that, for a moment, I wonder if the end will be worth the journey.

Until Marrin makes a small sound, barely a whisper, but it travels down the empty streets like a scream, and my heart cracks.

Oh Little Keeper…what are you thinking?

Lorcan is scared for me, but he hasn’t learned all my secrets yet, despite his years on my spine.

I draw myself up to my full height, and plant my bleeding feet in the earth.

“If you harm that boy,” I call, voice diamond and stone, loud even over the snapping of the fire, “It will be the last thing you do on this earth.”

The man exposing Marrin’s young, pale throat, cackles, echoed by the carrion birds hovering behind him — loud, braying laughter that is swallowed by the oily stones of the square.

“Threats from a ghost are as worthless as water from the village ponds,” the sneering man returns. Nickolas. Of course.

Around us, up and down the street, the village wakens, the unusual noise in the Reaper’s-pit-silence of midnight running like a lightning bolt of fear through the homes over the shops. I hear more than one latch rattling in indecision; is it worth the risk of night to open their windows? Most remain closed.

“I will only warn you once, Councilman, and it’s more than you deserve. If you walk down this path, there is no way back home for you.” My words are amplified by the exposed ivory surrounding me, the sound shivering like shattered glass, echoing in hollow, sharp reverberations off the walls of the town around me. I can hear them, mirrored from the First Gate to the Third Gate, the sound repeating in a faint, eerie chorus much farther than was logical. The bones are crying out with my voice, and the men on the stage shift uneasily. All but Nickolas, who grins, teeth in the darkness looking decayed in a snarling mouth, skin mottled and leathery in the fire’s light.

Behind me, hesitant footsteps approach.

Your…friend. Lorcan’s words twist in strange ways.

Tahrik is silent, shaking, but standing at my shoulder.

Fear is a tangible beast in the night, claws flashing, cutting everyone but me. I’ve made my decision; there is no room for anything but certainty. There is no if.

Behind the men, the keep door opens, and Rannoch emerges, sleepy and confused, but alert; even from this distance I can see his eyes darting back and forth from the men on the stage to where I stand, a short distance down the road.

“Your warnings are useless, Keeper.” Nickolas sneers. “The old ways are dead. The gift of bone was wasted on you; perhaps the answer is a sacrifice greater than any before. A sacrifice others are afraid to make. A gift that has been given, given back.”

The threat is toothless, but scares Marrin. My littlest friend. My young Protector.

He speaks for the first time, throat trembling against the blade, but he does his best, his child-high voice shaking with a desperate attempt at bravery. “BoneKeeper, go. It’s not safe for you. Please. Please go.”

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, this thing means something to you. So you can trade 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 I warned him.

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, his light 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 I shove Nickolas inside, no gentle Guiding, no practiced hands, just sheer, brutal force.

It is silent for a long, long moment 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 will never have 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.

“How could you, Wren?” he moans, not looking at me, “How could you?” He is sick again, and it turns my stomach.

“How could I?” I whisper viciously. “How could I?!?”

Tahrik is gagging; I turn from him in disgust, the residue of my anger at Nickolas staining my skin like blood. Rannoch stands quietly off to the side, and I bare my teeth at him as I stalk past, snarling. “What?”

“Nothing, BoneKeeper,” he replies quietly. “I said nothing.”

It’s too much and not enough as the weight of my actions presses in against my temples. I forgot this part. Oh Maiden, Mother, and Crone, I forgot the aftermath. Please, Lady, give me the strength to get to the stage. Just enough to get to Marrin. My vision tunnels down to a single light in front of me, the blazing fire, and a small boy.

By the time I reach the raised platform I am shivering violently, my skin almost rippling from my trembling. Marrin is bone pale, thin eyelids so white they are almost blue closed lightly over eyes which are too young to have witnessed my monstrosity. I can see his tiny chest rising and falling like a baby bird’s, though, and it is enough. I reach toward him, then think better of it, and am beginning to back away when he opens his eyes and fixes them unerringly on me.

“You came, Keeper!” It is a breath of sound, and so apologetic I choke on my reply.

“Of course, my Protector.”

His jaw juts out and brows fold together as he fights tears. “I’m sorry, BoneKeeper. I tried not to call for you. They wanted to hurt you. I tried so hard.”

“You were very brave, my little man. Too brave by half. I’m glad I put the Baker and her son on you, or things would have ended quite differently.”

He collapses into rough, raw sobs, shoulders shaking as he covers his face. “They…they took her, Keeper. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t fight them. They ripped my necklace off and…and…” the rest is drowned in tears, but he points to a small dust pile on the ground. I school my face to softness.

“There is nothing you could have done, Marrin. She called me from my sleep, a near impossible task for bone, and at such a distance. She told me, ‘they’re taking my boy, they’re taking—” I swallow hard before finishing, “they’re taking my beautiful boy.’ And she pulled at me, as hard as she could. She and her son both. So hard, my Protector, that I do not think they would have had much…much left to them. They gave everything they could to bring me to you.”

“And you saved me—” he whispers, still crying.

“And I saved you,” I promise him, then open my arms to receive a fierce, desperate hug from his thin, quivering body.

Above us, in the inky sky, there is a quiet hum, the sound of heavy beating wings, and I jerk my head up to look beyond the bonfire. Great undulating hordes of blood moths hover just out of the edges of the palest light, the heat and sparks pushing them back. But the fire is dying, even now, and Tahrik and Rannoch are out on the road, where the shadows are growing longer.

Marrin will be safe; he is with me, but the two men have no protection. With the last of my strength, I pick up the child wrapped around me, and stumble away from the stage and the false safety of the fading flames. Rannoch watches me approach, eyes steady, though he shifts uneasily on his feet; Tahrik is curled the earth, pale in the dirt by a still quivering pile of empty flesh and pooling blood. The glistening remains of Nickolas fill me with an unexpectedly dark gratification, the harsh atonement for touching my Protector surprisingly soothing. Cradling his featherweight body against me, I can’t bring myself to regret my actions, whatever the cost.

Behind me the Councilmen waken, and start to protest.

“You can’t just⁠—”

“What have you⁠—”

“Sun and Earth!—”

Their words tumble over each other in quick succession. But there are only four of them, and not a single shutter has opened on the street, despite the screaming, despite the tortured shrieks of full-dark in our village. No one has seen the path of this night but the Councilmen on the stage, Rannoch, Tahrik, Marrin, and myself. Well. And Nickolas, I think, gallows humor pushing back the throbbing in my skull. Mist presses in at the edges of my vision; I am too close to fainting.

“Can you walk?” I murmur anxiously to Marrin. Once he nods, I set him on his feet by my side. “You must trust me. Stay close, and hurry.”

He squeezes my hand and presses against me as we run down the short stretch to Rannoch and Tahrik. Above us, the blood moths press close, pull back, then closer still, their wings beating in thick hush-hush sounds, long, tear-shaped hindwings like star drops in the night. A few, made bold by the scent of freshly spilled blood, risk the upper reaches of the fire; the sizzle of their velvet bodies fills the silence.

The Councilmen are as stupid as I had hoped. Rather than staying on the relative safety of the stage, they leave their platform to hunt me, breaking a blood vow, making it easy to leave them to their fate, however gruesome. If even one had honored his promise, I would have had to try, would have been bound to, but am grateful for their predictability. They have not noticed the dying fire, have not heard the fluttering wings, have too much faith in the promises of a dead man to keep them safe.

With nothing left in me to go further my legs suddenly give way beneath me, pulling Marrin with me. We collapse in an awkward knot; I keep him wrapped in my arms, pressed against me.

“No, Keeper,” he tries to protest. “I can cover you with my body. I am your Protector.” He fights against me weakly, but I shush him.

“The blood moths won’t attack me, Marrin. But it takes all my energy. So please. Rannoch? Tahrik?”

Rannoch comes immediately to my side and sits silently beside me, shooting a questioning glance my way; Tahrik takes longer, and I am breathing in strained, stuttering gasps by the time he reaches me.

He lowers himself to the ground in front of me, hesitates, then bends his head to my hands, touching his forehead to my shaking fingers.

“Wren….I—” His voice trails off, but it is enough. I know. If I were to have witnessed what he witnessed, I would think myself a monster as well. I am a monster. I do not think it.

The telltale sound of clicking in the silent night pulls me out of my dark thoughts, and I shoot frantic glances at the two men. “Closer, closer…Marrin, close your eyes. Please. I can’t help your ears, but please.”

He obediently screws his eyes shut. Rannoch wraps his arms around us protectively, and Tahrik, looking from me to the child, quickly rips small pieces of fabric from his shirt before balling them up and placing them in Marrin’s ears. He presses his hands over the boy’s head trying to mute all sound, before meeting my eyes again.

“Will it be bad?” he mouths, no sound escaping, and I nod, jaw clenched.

“Worse than imagining. You will live, but not untouched. Just don’t move.”

And there we sit, an unlikely tableau, frozen like storm ice in the heart of winter, when the first Councilmember steps outside the tenuous safety of the bonfire into full night. His friends are inches behind him.

Thankfully there is no time for screaming. The cloud of blood moths is so thick that the men are covered in an instant, their mouths full of tearing, fluttering bodies burrowing in as soon as they open, eyes already eaten by razor sharp teeth. The only sounds are the gnawing of thousands of tiny teeth tearing at living skin, the wet, ripping of flesh being stripped of bodies, the low humming of the blood moths’ wings. There are no soul songs; blood moths are creatures of the Ender, and eat sinew and soul the same. It is worse than the Silence, worse than Exile. It is a nightmare made real.

Marrin’s tiny, bruised body quakes against mine, and Tahrik can feel it. Clearing his throat, he tries once, and then once more, before he is finally able to speak.

“If I don’t move, can I sing Wren? Or will it be⁠—”

“Oh sing! Sing, please, Tahrik. Just quietly.”

He stutters, his voice is shaking, but he sings directly into Marrin’s ear, his neck bent to press his head against Marrin’s.

There’s a road up a hill where the wildflowers grow

Oo-dallally, hey-dallally, where the flowers grow

And a stream full of fishes where the wild waters flow

Oh, the water, hey the water, where the waters flow…

Marrin shudders as he lets out a small sigh, and relaxes against me, the sound of Tahrik’s song drowning out what little noise remained through the cloth in his ears. Tahrik keeps singing, verse after verse, voice growing steadier even as the ravenous moths focus their attention away from the bodies they’ve just stripped to bone and onto our tiny group. Rannoch’s arms flex around us, but otherwise he stays still, unflinching, the first line of useless defense against the Ender’s delicate, deadly creatures.

“Wren?” he whispers as the squelching sounds cease, and the blood moths turn as a group of starlings toward us. I can’t answer; he does not move, placing all his trust in my trembling body.

They move towards us in a swarm, some flying, some crawling, dragging their blood-soaked wings along the ground behind them. The ones wriggling forward on the earth, bellies too full and bodies too sodden to be airborne, creep to the warm, dripping remains beside us and cover what is left of Nickolas in a cloud so thick it looks like writhing stone. Nausea fills my throat as they feast, the soggy gurgling of flesh a sickening harmony to the clicking of teeth on cracking bone. It’s impossible to ignore, distracting me, so they are almost upon us before I reach out and push against them. The moths swirl like smoke in the air, heavy and choking, then try again. Again I push back, and now we are locked in a dance, and I am giving away all my secrets to save a small boy I barely know and two men of whom I am entirely unsure.

“BoneKeeper?” Rannoch questions, astonishment clear in his voice, words barely audible above Tahrik’s song, but I can tell he hears it, and his body tenses, waiting for the answer.

I am sweating, head pounding, heart skipping necessary beats in a staccato rhythm. I’ve done too much tonight, more than I ever have before, and I’m swaying in place, fighting against myself and the famished, fluttering wings.

“They have exoskeletons. They…their wings are lined with bone, of a sort…”

“They’re…they’re not human, Wren.” The fear in his voice is shattered glass; whether he is afraid of me or for me, I can’t tell.

“They aren’t,” I confirm, but have no energy to say more, and he does not ask. The moths don’t give up easily, not when they can smell the blood on Tahrik’s knees and Marrin’s throat, not when they know they are close to breaking me, close to more food for their endless bellies. Every time they press forward they get closer and closer, until tiny mouths are scraping Rannoch’s arms, nibbling on his fingers. A few clamber in my blowing hair; those, though, stop fighting immediately, crawling up with thin feet, sitting like jewels around my head. Others walk carefully down my arms to perch on my wrists like living bracelets, nestling in the grooves of my skin where my vertebracelets normally go. Once there, they are still, unmoving, and make no attempt to go to the others.

The battle seems endless; by the time they finally retreat, it is only because the sky has lightened marginally, from pitch to ash, though the fire has burnt out completely. The taste of dawn is cold in the air; it is enough to drive the bulk of the blood moths back to their caves. The few that are on my body, some fifteen or twenty, stay, frozen, then fall off and remain on the ground when we all finally stand, muscles screaming. Marrin, past the point of exhaustion, has somehow fallen asleep in Tahrik’s arms. He cradles the boy gently, and looks to me cautiously.

“Am I safe to take him to my home? I don’t know what else to do.” I bend my head in silent reply, and he sighs. “Wren, I⁠—”

“It is forgotten, Tahrik.”

Nodding uncomfortably, he stares at me for a moment, face inscrutable, then shifts Marrin’s sleeping form, and leaves on silent feet. My eyes trail his every step, the growing distance between us a tangible thing, pulling air from my lungs. Suddenly and desperately I wish for nothing more than for him to glance over his shoulder one more time, for something in him to force him to look back and reassure himself that I’m alright. A bright, almost painfully relieved spark flares to life in my heart when he pauses at the edge of the square, long enough for the wait to tighten my throat in agonizing hope. But it dies when his head drops without turning, when his feet stutter forward again, when he rounds the corner and disappears from sight.

Studying the ground where the moths lie, unmoving, I try desperately to ignore the weight of Rannoch’s eyes on me.

“Secrets upon secrets, Keeper,” he whispers softly. “Secrets upon secrets.”

Reaching out, he takes my hands gently in his own. They are rough and calloused, but steady and unwavering; there is no hesitation in his touch. Lifting my trembling fingers to his lips, he kisses them softly, his mouth unexpectedly warm against my skin, a flare of heat in a frozen world. “Thank you, Wren,” he whispers, feather-soft and fervent. “You were very brave.”

I want to respond, say something, but the night finally catches up with me, the relief of surviving surging forward, replacing all the adrenaline with crippling fatigue. In one sudden, crushing wave, the price of my choices crashes over me, my vision flickering, then failing.

“Oh!” I say briefly, stupidly, then hear his shout of alarm as everything in me dissolves into unconsciousness.

ALL THINGS FALL APART

RANNOCH

She is curled up, folded into the smallest version of herself, body still, face blank. Her only tells are her hands — one is wrapped in the string of bones hanging from her neck, the other crossing her chest, resting on her exposed vertebracelets as though for protection.

As if she needs any protection. From anyone.

Still, as soon as I’d brought her back to the Council House after she collapsed, I’d passed her to a stunned Silas with no explanation, and ran to get her armor for her. I’m a stupid man in many ways, but it’s rare for me to make the same mistake twice. I’d left her without her bones once; it will never happen again. Moving quickly enough that she was still lost to the world when I’d returned, I’d carefully laced her bracelets on her unresisting arms for her, fiercely grateful for their cold embrace. And though I can’t see them beneath her tangled clouds of hair, I know her ears are encased in the delicate bone cuffs that arch along the translucent curve of her ear.

I am desperate to clothe every inch of her in bone, to give her some outlet of comfort she won’t accept from anywhere else, but I only know the way these few pieces fit, her patterned skin guiding my hands. She didn’t question their presence when she finally woke, blinking blearily like a newborn kitten, unspeaking. Didn’t adjust them, or alter them in any way, which filled me with a strange, undeserved sense of pride at the time. But it’s faded since then, as she still hasn’t moved, hasn’t left the crook of the bone chair where Silas set her hours ago. Against my will and better judgement, I glance at her for the fiftieth time in the space of as many heartbeats. It’s hard to pull my eyes from her, even knowing the weight of my stare makes her uncomfortable. I wonder if she can tell I’m studying her body to see where I can add to her armor, where I can craft stripped bone into something beautiful for her, or she thinks I’m judging her actions, acting as silent Justice over her choices.

The memory of Nickolas stepping through his own flesh flares to life in vivid detail when I close my eyes, but I keep my face level. And try my best to ignore the feeling of vicious satisfaction in my stomach that the little ghost that has haunted my every waking moment was able to do what Silas and I couldn’t.

In front of me, a small boy stands straight and unwavering, eyes narrow, thin limbs locked at his sides, and stares at Silas with a surprising amount of animosity.

“You’re not in trouble, Marrin,” Silas begins gently, and the child’s mouth curls at the corners in response.

“I’m not worried about that, Father,” he replies, just enough respect in his voice to offset the edge that is also there. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m just looking for…your story of what happened last night. We have five Councilmen missing, reports from villagers in the First Ring of screaming and…Someone heard your name shouted.”

“Marrin is a common name here, Sir.”

It’s true — common enough in the Third Ring anyway, and I have to fight against a wholly inappropriate grin. There’s nothing funny about this moment, about what is happening and what is still to happen, but this little orphan who is angling his body between Wren and Silas is showing more fire than the whole of the Council, and I can’t help but admire him.

“I’ve already heard most of the story, child. But as Father of this village, it’s my duty to look for all sides before the whole.”

And he has. This morning at first light there was a line of people outside the doors of the Council House, telling tales of screams in the night, of the wet sounds of blood moths feasting, of the smell of bonfire smoke in the darkest hours. And the evidence left behind on the stage outside our door could not be ignored. A still simmering pile of embers on the ground, burnt out torches, drying pools of mud red with blood. No witnesses, though, only missing bodies. Raek has been almost Ender-crazed, demanding answers, flesh, blood, punishment of any sort, sending scouts out for any sign of his brother. But he can do nothing without some proof. If Nickolas wandered into the wilderness of his own accord, what is there to be done?

Officially I have no story to tell. The only names we have heard mentioned over and over again this morning are Marrin, and Nickolas, and the BoneKeeper. Raek wanted to be here for the questioning, but he came in with hands already outstretched into claws, and had to be removed. Instead we have two of his friends, sitting silently in the room as witnesses to a trial with no Justice. And everything rests on the scrawny shoulders of a boy still in the schoolhouse with no idea of the board or the game.

Marrin tilts his head, eyes darting like a bird between me and Silas, before risking a quick glance at Wren, who finally breaks briefly from her stupor to offer him a small smile. Looking back at the Father, Marrin shrugs almost carelessly, the shallow curve of her lips enough to shore up his courage to unbreakable walls.

“I was taken from my bed by Councilman Nickolas. He and several others dragged me to the square. He seemed out of his mind, and was mumbling strange things. He cut me here,” Marrin motions to his throat, “and here, and was screaming about blood and breaking the BoneKeeper, about hurting her over and over in terrible ways. About sacrifices and Offerings.” The Councilmen on the wall shift uneasily. There is no denying the truth in Marrin’s tone, and there is no reason for the child to lie. If nothing else, the vivid lines on his neck offer proof.

“Was the BoneKeeper there, Marrin? Did you see her?”

“I lost consciousness, Sir.” I can tell how much it pains him to admit it; it lends credence to his story.

“But was she there? villagers are saying they heard her voice calling out, heard her speaking with Nickolas.”

Marrin glances again at Wren, takes a deep breath and continues. “He, uh, his voice was changing, going all low and high, and he was…saying things as her and then as him. So maybe that’s what they heard? The shutters were all closed, you know. Nobody opened a single one. Nobody opened a door to help me. It was full night.” And now his voice trembles, despite his best efforts. He’s only a boy, after all. “Who would be crazy enough to leave their home at that hour for a Third Ring child? You’d have to be out of your mind. We all know it would be the wrong choice to risk death like that.” Marrin’s tone turns almost chiding here, and Wren’s lips twitch despite herself. There’s clear truth in these words as well — who would risk such a thing?

The Councilmen exchange glances, lips tight. They’re not supposed to speak, just let the Father question, but one leans forward anyway, interrupting.

“How did you survive then?” He is hard, but the question is fair.

Marrin drops his eyes, staring at the ground, as though in deference to the Councilman, but I can see his shoulders tighten slightly, see him take a steadying breath before looking back up and meeting the Councilor's eyes. “I…I…when Councilman Nickolas put the knife to my throat the second time, I lost consciousness. And woke up on the ground to a flurry of blood moths, and the sound—” He chokes briefly on the words, then continues in a rush. “It…I couldn’t open my eyes again, but I could feel a wet cloak beside me, and I just pulled it over me, as tight as I could, and didn’t move until morning. And then I ran, and ran, and ran.”

The Councilors exchange grim looks again and nod at one another. Silas waits a beat, then, “Do you have other questions, Councilmen? I’d like to make sure you feel all have been asked and answered, so there is no feeling of missing information.”

It’s a dangerous play by Silas, and shows a startling amount of faith in the abilities of the boy before us.

“Only one, Father, if you’ll indulge me. Why you, do you think, child?” And there’s the rub. Why Marrin?

“Oh, he mentioned that. He said he thought I was important to the BoneKeeper.” Marrin straightens, a small, proud smile on his face, and the Councilor's eyes widen in surprise at Marrin’s ready answer. Even I’m taken aback at his reply, and not a little worried.

“And are you?” There’s a curling curiosity, the hint of possibility.

The boy puffs out his chest, somehow seeming much more childlike. “She came to the Second Ring school and I got to talk to her there. I told her I wanted to be a Protector someday, and she didn’t say it was a hopeless aim. So she knows me a little I think.” Oh, he’s clever. Clever, clever boy. He’s telling the truth, but in a way that makes it…if not laughable, at least said in the way where adults will humor him, and then exchange rolled-eyed expressions over his head. “Maybe someday I’ll even be a Councilor, like you!”

The two men smirk at each other. “You want to be a Councilor someday?”

And Marrin, Gods bless him, nods his head seriously. “I’d like to do what you do, lead the village. I told my aunt that the BoneKeeper had spoken to me at the schoolhouse. She may have told someone else. She…she took me in when my parents passed, and it was a hardship for her. I think it maybe made her a little proud that the Keeper would take the time to speak to me. It was nice for her to be able to say that. Maybe he heard that the Keeper told me I could be a Protector one day.” He pauses, draws a line on the ground with his toe, looking much younger than his years. “She probably doesn’t say that to everyone, I think.” The conviction and hope are clear in his voice, and it is enough for those listening with careful ears.

“Ah.” The Councilor clears his throat, trying to hide his amusement, however disdainful. “Well. It’s a good goal, even for a Third Ring child.”

“Any further questions?” Silas asks again, and they shake their heads in unison.

“None, Father. The explanation seems…fair enough.” There is a telling lack of surprise on their faces, as though they knew Nickolas was barely contained and expected him to slip his leash at some point. In some ways it seems as though they’re almost relieved, and I wonder if it helps their cause at all to have one of the unstable pieces removed from the board. They couldn’t touch him for fear of Raek, but it’s clear he wasn’t a favorite. Neither is pushing back against the story at all; neither seems to want a different explanation. Nickolas is gone, and if it took four others to be rid of him, the price was evidently worth it.

“We’re sorry, child.” And now the second Councilor is speaking, the way forward clear. “The pressing Storms and the empty silos…the weight of his responsibility must have been too much for him. I hope you can accept our apology on his behalf. He is not the whole of the Council. And those who were with him, well. We apologize on their behalf as well.”

His gentle smile is meant to be comforting, I’m sure, but tiny bumps shiver down Marrin’s skin, though he hides it well. “Thank you, Councilman.”

“You’re dismissed now, Marrin. Thank you for your time.” Silas is abrupt, and Marrin hears the warning, leaving without lingering, not even looking toward Wren who seems almost forgotten in the corner.

Neither Councilor spares her a look as they exit, shoulder to shoulder with Silas, who walks them out, and she and I are left in a suddenly empty room, with too much space between us.

The silence is hollow.

“Wren…” Jerking her head up, she locks her eyes on my own, face tight. “My apologies. Keeper. Is there….can I do anything for you while we wait?”

She doesn’t answer, just stares at me for a long moment before dropping her gaze again. And so we sit in silence until Silas returns, and then silence for a measure more, until she finally speaks.

“Why am I here?”

The chill in her voice is enough to frost breath, and I can see the weight of responsibility settle on Silas’s shoulders.

“Did you…did you do this thing, Keeper?” He is harsh and hesitant all at once, two sides of a coin battling to be seen at the same time. It’s as he’s always been since the bones whispered his name to Wren’s father.

“What thing is that, Father?”

His jaw flexes at the honorific. From her mouth it’s more like a curse.

“Nickolas…how?…” He can’t seem to find the words to ask what he needs to say, pacing back and forth in the small room before finally sitting in a chair opposite her, burying his face in his hands. “Living bone, Wren. Living bone!” Silas’s voice is a whisper, softer than a whisper; he looks around us as though the very walls are listening. Perhaps they are. “Who else was there? Are there any other holes we’re missing that need to be filled? Rann says only the child and the Miller. Why in the world would he come out at full dark?”

She tenses. “Is that what Rann says.” Her voice is flat, emotionless, and I feel suddenly like I somehow betrayed her, though I have no idea how.

“We’re trying to protect you, Wren. To somehow explain this away; if anyone knew. Sun and Earth. How did you call living bone?” Her hands drift to her necklace again, but otherwise she shows no reaction. Silas frowns and leans forward. “We are trying to help.”

Her shoulders curve in, her head drops, her fingers go white on her necklace, but still she doesn’t speak, and I am left wondering if maybe it’s not that she won’t, but that she can’t. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her look this tired, this empty. She is always floating somewhere, but now she is mist instead of fog, almost translucent, and seems to be having trouble focusing on us. Her eyes keep closing for longer and longer blinks, the only color on her face the vibrant crimson stains on her lids. Even her breathing is slow; Silas and I exchange worried glances.

“Are you…are you alright, Wren?” I ask hesitantly, and the question is enough to force her eyes open.

“I’m just tired, Councilman. Muscle tired, marrow tired. I don’t think I could Guide a soul right now if they burst into song in front of me. But there is nothing you can do.” The admission is surprising, the words almost slipping from her mouth, and she presses her lips together in a tight line.

Silas rises to his feet, pacing back and forth again while I sit helplessly, then sinks to his heels in front of her, eyes darting between her necklace and her face, between her tightly clutched hands and her tightly drawn features, and comes to some sort of decision. Ignoring the alarm on Wren’s face, he leans closer to her and addresses the bones around her throat directly.

“Lorcan, I know you can hear me. Offer some counsel to our friend. She needs more than herself and bones right now.”

A STORY BETWEEN FRIENDS

SILAS

Wren’s fingers jerk slightly and her eyes flare in surprise. “Wha—” she begins softly, but I interrupt her. I’ve already earned an avalanche of enmity from her, what’s one more pebble on the pile?

“Apparently you’re the only one she’ll listen to. I’m asking you for your help. She has to trust someone other than skeletons to be on her side.”

Her eyes narrow but her white gaze drifts; I can tell she’s listening to someone, or arguing with someone, judging by the small crease of her brow. We wait, and wait, seemingly endlessly, but she stays where she is, not returning to us from wherever she has gone. Only a knock on the door brings her back, and it is almost eerie to see the life re-enter her face like a candle being lit.

Rannoch surges to his feet in alarm, hand dropping to the knife at his belt, moving quickly to block the Keeper from the door, placing his body between her and the entry in an echo of the surprisingly brave little boy earlier. It’s wasted time, but I stop for a moment to take it in — the way he is angled, the look on his face — and I’m suddenly and overwhelmingly concerned for him. He has become less and less cautious these past few weeks after a lifetime of care, and is exposing himself more and more, peeling away layers of skin to reveal the muscle below. We’re less than two months from the Storm season now, from meticulous plans and hidden deeds; if he can just wait, just a little longer, there’s a chance that the Month of the Maiden will bring more than poison for him this year.

How will happiness find him if he’s forbidden to follow the footsteps of a shadow? The thought is insidious; I do my best to ignore it. Maybe…maybe without the weight of midnight machinations, when he is free to wander the village and meet all the women from First to Third Ring, maybe his eyes will find purchase on another face. Would yours? the voice whispers, but I shove it deep in the back of my mind. The village first. There is no other choice.

“Rann—” His name is a caution, a warning, but he’s clearly moved beyond caring.

“Tread your path, I’ll tread mine,” he replies simply, the divergence so sudden and unexpected it feels like a knife in my stomach.

“Rannoch.”

“I’m the pauldron on your shoulder, Silas. Always. But I’m also the shield in her hand. And you’ll have to trust that I can be both; the shield is in front, but the pauldron is tied to the body.”

And what is there to say to that? The knock sounds again, and I turn to the door, yanking it open, unable to hide the anger that surges in my chest, the familiar emotion lurching to the front, trying to suffocate the unexpected hurt.

“What?” I bark out, knowing there is the edge of a sword in my throat.

In front of me is a suddenly alarmed Protector, with the Miller standing nervously behind him.

“I’m sorry, Father!’ The Protector steps back at the look on my face; I immediately smooth it into, if not a placid expression, at least one that doesn’t bode of murder. “You asked me to bring the Miller here when he arrived, to discuss the silos?”

“Yes. Of course.” Exhaling sharply, I motion for the Miller to enter. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Father,” he mumbles awkwardly, then wastes no time leaving, not even looking over my shoulder into the room.

The Miller is still standing on the threshold of the door, and I wave him inside impatiently. “Find a seat,” I command, not caring how I sound anymore. “Tahrik, is that correct? We have things to discuss.”

Tahrik pauses, looking around him quickly before his eyes settle on Wren. “Like silos?” he asks, and I cough out a sardonic laugh.

“I think you know we’re not here to talk about grain and wheat.”

Somewhat surprisingly, Wren didn’t look up when Tahrik entered, and is still staring deliberately at her feet. He sighs deeply, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he takes in the scene before him. Rannoch has relaxed his stance somewhat, hand off his dagger, but is still forward on his toes, as though he’s unsure of the Miller. And given the tension in Tahrik’s shoulders, I’m not far behind him. There is a look in Tahrik’s eyes as he studies Wren that I’m not entirely sure of; I can’t put my finger on it, but it sets my teeth on edge, and I narrow my eyes thoughtfully as I watch the decisions play out across his face.

After what feels like far too long but is most likely only a minute, he makes up his mind, glancing at Rannoch and myself before going to sit next to her. He’s not close enough to touch her, not exactly, but closer than one would expect, his choice to be next to her rather than on a separate chair a clear statement. Settling back, he rests one of his hands in the space between them, almost an invitation, and lets out a deep breath, as though he’s climbed a mountain and finally reached the summit.

“So. The silos.” His voice is open and friendly, his face calm, and only the slight tremble of his fingers on the seat of the couch belies his worry.

“The silos, or something like it,” I repeat wryly, and Rannoch snorts, but any amusement, however misplaced, drains from his face as he watches Tahrik and Wren next to each other. In her exhaustion, things she has kept hidden are slipping through cracks, and I don’t know what is happening, or why, but her secrets are flashing beneath still waters like the silver scales of the tiny fish in our brackish ponds, catching the light and then disappearing.

Beside Tahrik, Wren is unfolding, slowly, slowly like a mountain daylily opening in the early light of the rising run. As Rannoch and I claim chairs across from them, one of her hands drops from its deathgrip on her necklace and drifts down to the seat, resting at first casually beside, then against his, her skin brushing his fingers seemingly unintentionally. He flinches slightly, then freezes in place, forcing his hand to be still. They don’t look at each other; at first glance, they would not appear to be anything to each other, but when her smallest finger finally touches his, her shoulders relax, tension draining from her as though a question was asked, and answered.

It changes what I thought I’d say to him, how I was going to approach him about last night. In the space I’m taking to think, Wren sighs and shrugs, then looks directly at me with her moon opal eyes.

“Would you like to hear a story? It’s one no one has ever heard before, I promise you.”

Rannoch and I exchange confused looks. She sounds so…complacent. As though none of this has touched her. As though we’re discussing fabric or bread. There is nothing in her voice that seems bothered by the growing threat against her. Only that tiny finger, pressed against the Miller’s, shows any emotion. He hooks his over hers, and I suddenly want to take my knife and slice his fingers off.

She doesn’t wait for a response, just starts speaking, level and bland. “It’s from when I was a child. The last year I had my mother. Before the Council fully adopted me, before my eyes went white, before every breath I took was weighed and measured for its hidden meaning. I hadn’t yet lost all my milk teeth. I still crept into my mother’s bed at night, when the color of the sky looked like blood on the moon, when the thin woolen blanket was not warm enough. When I dreamed of the dead that whispered to me as I wandered the village, and panic ripped my heart at the wriggling, glowing souls I had to keep safe.”

Wren’s voice trembles before she clears it and forces it back into dispassionate carelessness. “And her arms were enough to protect me, and her promise of ‘it will be alright’ was enough to soothe me. I was her only child left, my father was long since gone, and she was grey from sadness. Not even the golden light of the Dancing could warm her enough to bring her any joy. I was too much for her and not enough, all at the same time, but she tried to give me what she could. As with everything in our village, what she had was scant and faded, but sufficient to keep me alive with hope.”

The man next to her turns his hand over, palm up, and she glances at him, confused, before a small, sad smile flashes across her face. Wren intertwines her fingers with his in a strangely uncertain dance as though they’ve done this forever, but also never before; their every interaction is confusing. He squeezes her hand gently, and she swallows hard.

“During the Crone’s month of my ninth year, the storm stopped at midnight for an extraordinarily long time. Long enough that the black of night was fading to the thick gloom of day, long enough that someone — I’ll never know who, but someone — ventured into the streets. We could hear his scuffling feet, dragging, from houses away, in the silence of the waiting. He was staggering in the direction of the nearest well; the sound of his steps haunts my dreams sometimes…a long, wet, dragging sound, a pause, and another following in a strange, syncopated rhythm that scratched at my eardrums. I remember the fear on my mother’s face — how she looked at the door, then down at me, then back at the door, and then, with dawning horror, heard the first drip-drip-drip of the rain’s returning.”

Wren is gone now, lost in the memory, and I want to yank her from it. Her eyes are mist, are cloud-filled and glistening, her face tight, jaw flexed. She’s not here anymore; we are watching an echo of that day play out before us.

“No. No no no!” Her moan makes us all jump; she doesn’t sound like herself, but an older version of herself, and I realize it must be her mother’s voice. “Cover your ears! Ceridwen, cover your ears!”

Wren’s face crumples, confusion and naive terror clear — it is the face of a nine year old girl who knows terrible, terrible things are about to happen.

“Mama?” Her voice is young and shaking, and I have to clench my jaw to fight against the tears unexpectedly pressing against my eyes. Across from me, Rannoch swallows hard. The Miller is stone still, his fingers laced through hers. He startles like a spooked pony when she jerks her hand away suddenly, wrapping her hands in a white-knuckled grip on the bone around her neck. Something pulled her out of her memory — I’m guessing Lorcan — and though her breathing is fast and shallow, she simply closes her eyes before continuing.

“My mother grabbed me in skeletal hands, thin from the fasting of the Crone’s month. Locked eyes with me, flint glinting in their depths. Commanded me, voice sharp and biting with more life than I’d ever heard from her, and I obeyed as quickly as I could.” There is a long pause; none of us move. “She tried. She tried her hardest.” Her voice drops to a horrible whisper of sound, a rasp of longing, a terrible acceptance. “But she did not understand the pull of bone….The scream from the man in the street was unearthly, high pitched — full of panic and pain. It was a shivering, eerie sound that overwhelmed even the steadily increasing Storms, carried down the streets on gusts of wind that whipped it around corners and through cracks in houses, filling the entire inner keep with the shaking, trembling cry.”

She’s drifting again, and though I see it, see her disappear, the hairs on my arms still stand on end when she shrieks, a ghostly wail of unearthly pain. “‘Ahhhhh! Ahhhh! No! Save me! BoneKeeper, save me!’” She makes a gurgling sound, a bubbling noise from her throat, and I swear I can taste the blood and acid. “‘Help me! Help me! I can’t see…my skin, my skin, my skin! Oh Gods, Gods! Keeper! Keeper! Keeper!’”

She is wild now, head tilted back, neck stretched and corded. Everything else is silent; I don’t know what to do. Slowly, slowly, her screams fade, and she sighs, nodding in response to some unspoken call.

“I’m alright. I’m alright,” she whispers. “I can finish. Thank you.” Now louder, directed toward us again. “I was nine, and his bones were calling me. He was so near to our house, groaning and retching. His cries pushed against our walls, knocked on our shuttered windows. If only he’d been closer. We would have let him in, let him stay with us, but he was still in the street, stagger-stepping toward our home, flesh melting from his body as the rains came down, faster and more fiercely than any in memory, as though the respite had been but a trick to lure out the weak and wavering.” She swallows hard, but continues. “He was frantic, words falling over each other, rising in pitch until they were shrieks in the cold dawn streets. And then he was at our door, flesh squelching as he pounded with rotting fists against the wood. I could hear it, hear the cracking of his finger bones as he clawed violently against the barred entryway.

“One of my mother’s hands dug into my shoulders, keeping me in place. Her other arm wrapped around my head, covering my ears, trying to block out the sound of the man disintegrating on our doorstep. ‘Keeper!’ he pleaded, voice garbled and ruined. ‘Keeper! Guide me home, please Gods, Guide me home! Don’t let me go to the Silence!’.”

She looks at each of us helplessly, then pulls her hand from her necklace and stares down at her fingers.

“I was nine….I ripped my mother’s hands off me, ran to the door, tried with weak hands to lift the bar, but she pulled me back, wrapped her arms around me again, binding me. ‘You can’t.’ Tears running down her face. ‘You can’t. The winds. We couldn’t get the door shut again. And the rains. You’d be….you can’t. I’m sorry. He’s lost already. I’m sorry. I’m sorry….’ She was crying against my head, and I was crying too, sobbing out to the man, just outside, so close I could touch him if we could open the door. But I was on one side, face pressed against the wood, and he was on the other, a mirror to me. He was clawing to get in, long, wet sounds on the wood, and I was clawing to get out, skin torn and bleeding as I tried to carve my way to him.

‘Help me, help me, help me,’ he cried.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I’d echoed, and it lasted for a long time. Too long. Much too long. Long enough that there were streaks of blood dripping down our door from my hands, that there were tiny, half moon cuts in my arms from where my mother held me back, bruises from the force of her grip red and raw on my skin. And when the wind reached its pinnacle, when the rain was endless and unceasing, I lost my mind, just for a moment. You understand? Just…just for a moment.”

Still staring down at her fingers, she clenches them into tight fists, nails cutting into her palms. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to help. He was in so much pain, for such a long, long time. And his bones…they called to me. So…I called back. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to help. I didn’t…didn’t know you could pull bone through flesh, from a living body, didn’t realize the agony of it.” Tears are streaming down her face, cascading down unchecked, her breath hitching as they drip off her chin onto her bone necklace. “I thought I was helping, I swear.”

“His soul finally started singing, a stark, crazed song like I’d never heard before, one full of the promise of violence and retribution and hatred thick and muddy, so heavy it clouded even the glow of his fading light. Souls aren’t meant to carry the pain of their life to the Guiding, but he did, and all of it was directed at me, at failing to open the door, failing to guide him to bone, failing as the Keeper of our village. Even had I been able to open the door, there would have been no bone left to tie him to — the second I pulled his bones from him they started corroding.”

This is a truth long known in our village. The Storms take any bones and any souls which are tied to flesh and blood at the start of the season. I don’t know why they don’t wash away the exposed bone walls that have stood for centuries around us, only that, if bones house a soul, they are safe together, though sleeping, during the Storms. Even had she been able to open the door, I don’t think she could have Guided him back to bone. I’m not sure she even has the answer to that.

She sounds so small now, so terribly small. “I was nine.” She says it as though looking for forgiveness, as though offering an explanation and repentance all at the same time, and I suddenly feel sickeningly sad for her, and the things that she has carried. “I took the weight of his death into my heart, breaking a little, in small, seemingly insignificant ways, little cracks that mimicked the nail marks on our door. And my mother shattered right beside me, crying in a different way, for the loss of her husband, the loss of her daughter, holding me with equal parts blame, and love, and despair, and guilt. Blame for my father’s death, guilt because it was not my fault but she couldn’t help but fault me, despair for what my life would be as BoneKeeper, and love, thankfully love, that balances and blanks all other emotion. Love for her child that was strong enough to keep her breathing when she wanted to stop; love that forced her feet to move, her hands to gather, her voice to sing, her arms to gentle. Love that suffocated all other emotion enough that she could take my face in her trembling hands, tears coursing down her face like the poisoned rains, and say, ‘It was not your fault, Ceridren. It was not your fault.’ But I was nine. I knew everything and nothing, and you cannot always choose the pieces of you that become cornerstones in your foundation. And the silence in the winter Storms are always, for me, filled with the memory of his screaming.”

Taking a deep breath, she locks eyes with me, suddenly fierce and ferocious, a winter fox with teeth bared and snapping. “I carry no extra weight or guilt for Nickolas, and if, if I had his screams in my memory, they would be a lullaby that would send me to a dreamless sleep. Do with that what you will.” She wipes her face with a hand, then runs it over her necklace, before standing in one smooth and graceful moment. “And that is all the answer you will ever get from me. Father. Councilman.” She nods coldly to both of us, then glances down with cautious eyes at the man beside her. Her voice is now hesitant, as though she’s unsure of what his reaction will be. “Tahrik?”

He stares up at her as though she is the sun and moon and all the Gods in between, and her face gentles to such a degree that she no longer looks like an ethereal, tethered ghost, only a painfully hopeful girl. In one sudden and terrible moment I realize who her friends in the village are.

I’ve been blind.

“Wren,” he whispers back, so softly it’s barely a breath, but the room is small and silent, and her name is a song. He smiles at her with such singular sweetness that everything narrows to the space of that moment, that smile, that breath. When her lips curl at the corners in answer, their curve cracks my heart. My friends call me Wren I hear her say, My friends. But she said it was the bones. Did she though? Did she? And I realize that, no. I had just assumed. I saw her sway into their cold comfort, and accepted that as her answer. My friends. The Bones.

“Will you walk me home?” she asks, and does not even glance behind her as they leave.

Rannoch and I exchange long looks in silence, then collapse as one into the chairs beside us. We stay there, unspeaking, until the fire dies in the grate, and our bodies are stiff from the cold night.

SILENCE AND FURY

WREN

“Afull half of the Council is gone. Gone!” Raek is wild with anger; all his tight control died with his brother, and he’s incendiary on the stage, incandescent with rage and fury. Rather than scaring the people in the square, it ignites them, spilling like Everfire from one to the next, a madness passing from villager to villager. “We are being punished by the Gods for forgetting the ways of our people! Empty silos, early Storms, absent Justice, and now—” His voice catches, and the barbs in it rock the listening audience forward on their toes, “— now, an errant BoneKeeper, refusing to Guide souls because she cannot paint her face in pretty patterns. When will it be enough?” For all the darkened crevices of his soul, he speaks with a golden tongue, and it draws people to him. “When will it be enough? My brother…my brother…” The heartbreak in his words is clear, pulling sympathy from those around him like a fish on a hook from a pond.

Turning, he points to me with a shaking hand. “Will you condemn our people further? Waiting for your missing Crown—” Disdain and suspicion drip from him like poisoned rain. “Waiting for your simple sigils? You’ve Guided enough souls without them — we’ve all seen you Keeper. It is too much! Too much! Do you not want to see our people safe through the Storms? Offerings must be made, and you will be the one sending them to Silence if you refuse to Guide them. No one else. Their souls will die in your hands. It is as it has ever been — if the bones refuse to speak, the Council must take the task.” He raises his voice again, as though it were not loud before, as though it was not already echoing from the stone walls in the keep square, so crowded with people that too deep of an inhale would brush your chest against another’s back. “We will not let you drive us starving and helpless into the depths of the coming Storms! The Offerings have been named, and will be Reaped and Rendered with or without you, Keeper. We cannot fail all because you choose to fail some.”

Silas steps forward, face dark, hands raised. “Brother Raek⁠—”

But Raek turns to him, sneering, three of the remaining Council standing behind him, a black, cloaked wall of support. Rexus, old and weary, is bent like a weak willow in the middle, and only Rannoch stands beside the Father. “You were named very early, Father. Very early. By a BoneKeeper who knew, perhaps what grew in his wife’s belly. Who is to say? But you are so often gone from our village, choosing to leave with the Hunters, choosing to stay outside our walls — there are those who question if you even want to take care of our people, or if you’d rather walk into the winter Storms like the Father before you.” He leans forward, the crowd leaning with him, faux concern on his face. “Can you lead us, Silas?” The crowd draws in a breath as one; to address the Father so…but Raek pushes forward. “Can you make the hard decisions? The ones that steal sleep from you at night with their weight? The ones that crease your face with their memory? That is what it takes to lead this village. And if you do not have the mettle in you to draw from, well — this is already a path we have not walked in the history of our people. What is one more thing?”

Silas opens his mouth to speak, but Raek has turned from him, despair and grief wrapped around him like a cloak, worn on his face like a masque, but the people are too desperate now to care. When the Council Bell called us to the square this morning, it was to announce that a further measure of grain had fallen prey to rot, that we had even less than thought, that starvation was not a threat this winter, but a promise, that the coming famine of the coldest months will send more to the Silence than ever heard of in bone memory. The hollow faces of the children will cave into sharp, gaunt slices of bone beneath flesh and then further. No toddler or infant will survive; there is just no way to keep their bellies full enough, and even if a parent gave all they had, how would someone in their milk teeth care for themselves when their mother or father lay empty on the floor, unable to continue through the Storms.

“If the Trade had happened…” Raek lets his voice trail off, glancing at me, the implication clear, and the weight of thousands of eyes follow his, pushing me into the wall of the Council House behind me. I’m not on stage with the Council, but low behind them, beneath the pillars and the massive overhang, having been told curtly that my presence on the raised platform with the Council was not required today. “If the Trade had happened,” he repeats, trying to be heard over the growing discord in the square, “perhaps we would not have to make this choice. Perhaps we would not have to beg the Gods for forgiveness.” Eyes white-ringed with fanatic energy, he turns his face to the yellow-grey sky above. It’s a strange, sick color, like a fading bruise, the late light of our weak sun flicking in and out of churning clouds. On the stage, Raek falls to his knees, hands stretched up in dramatic supplication, fingers grasping at the air as though he could pull the Sun God down from the injured heavens. “But I will beg, if that’s what it takes! V is for Vengeance, the payment still grows! Well, we will pay, and pay, and pay! We will do it with willing hearts and hands, until the streets are red enough for the Gods to give us grace to make it through the storm season! If it takes ten, or ten sets of ten, is that not better than a thousand? Two thousand? We will pay!” he screams to the chaos above him; the sky roils in response as though it hears him, the grey clouds racing, winds whipping through the square.

And the people…the people kneel.

Rannoch is desperately trying to hide his panic; Silas, beside him, is whispering fervently in his ear, eyes darting between Raek, the Council, the villagers, and me. Control has been torn from his hands in a single moment, and even those he trusted, other than Rannoch, are nowhere to be found.

Lorcan is abnormally silent on my back; he trembles on my skin as though he is trying to speak, but is unable to. He is almost vibrating with strangled effort, and sickness rises in my throat.

“Bring the first Sacrifice!” Raek calls, and from the crowd, Grace is dragged by two Protectors. This is nothing like we have ever seen; Offerings are not treated like criminals, gripped tightly in inflexible, bruising hands. They are not thrown before the Council as though they have committed some crime and are now facing punishment. They are walked with care and gratitude, given honied breads and sweet mead, made comfortable and given the blessing of their people. They are honored, and thanked, and sent to the Gods with love and heart-deep appreciation. None of that is here, none exists in the furious lines of Raek’s face, the desperate hunger of the rocking crowd, the set acceptance of the approaching Render and Reaper, each ready to do their job.

“To the Reaping, for the Gods!” he screams, and the kneeling crowd echoes him.

“To the Reaping, to the Reaping!”

Grace is panicked on the stage, eyes wide and wild, looking around her in confusion and terror. Silas steps forward again, no hesitancy this time, towering over her. His presence is just enough to push Raek back a step, to settle the crowd enough to make himself heard. He is our mountain in human form, massive and threatening, carved stone, glinting obsidian, and grim determination is written in every line of his body. Reaching down, he extends a steadying hand to Grace, who takes it in her own trembling one and lets him pull her gently to her feet.

“Who are we becoming?” he asks, low, troubled voice a startling counterpoint to Raek’s higher, screaming one, the juxtaposition enough to drain some of the hysteria from the undulating crowd. “Who are we becoming?” There is so much sadness in his voice it is cavernous. “With calls for Sacrifice?” The word is bitter on his tongue, and flavors the ears of those listening. It is true; we don’t speak of Sacrifice, only Offerings, and the difference is night from day. Slow realization breaks on the faces of those closest to the stage. “When have we ever treated the gift of someone’s life with such disdain, with such callous hands, with such cold hearts?” Looking down at Grace, he studies her, giving the people a moment to take in her tear-stained face, her straining chest, shuddering from hitching breath. “You know this woman. She is a seamstress in the Second Ring, not a Sacrifice. She has made clothes for the births of your children, dresses for your weddings, blankets for your hearths, taught at sewing circles. Does she not deserve your appreciation? The comfort of your gratitude, the weight of your arms around her as she fulfills, for each of us in our stead, the price we must pay?”

Shame is thick in the air; Raek’s jaw is jutted forward, brow dark, but he has no room to speak as Silas continues. “We are not a soft people,” he acknowledges. His eyes dart my way before looking back out into the square. “We do not live in a world which often allows space for tender things, which is filled with nothing but warm days and star filled nights. But neither are we heartless — at least, I would not have thought so. We do not treat our Offerings like…like this!” Somehow his deep voice, already cave dark, drops lower, as though the mountain itself is speaking. “I cannot go against the full will of the Council,” he says, more to Grace than anyone else, “but neither will I let us continue down this path of madness. If an Offering is called, then it is called, but we will pay as we always have. With gratefulness, and love. With hope, and with honor. With gentle hands and a Guided soul. But we will not Sacrifice as though her life isn’t a gift to protect us from what has been, and what is still to come. And there is no place in this village for anyone who would ask for such a thing, or demand it.”

The words are pointed, a sword’s tip, aimed at Raek, who takes the hit with mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. “Of course, Father,” he spits, before forcing his face into a mockery of respectful supplication. He drops his voice, so only those closest to the stage can hear. “And, as you agree to the need for the…Offerings…perhaps you would call the other nine now, as a show of solidarity in these most trying times.”

Silas is silent, and Raek, without looking away from him, shouts out to the waiting crowd, using the Father’s words against him in near-parody. “With love, and respect, with hope, and honor, and gentle hands, the Council calls the rest of our Offering to the stage, for Reaping and Rendering.”

Slowly, slowly the crowd parts, letting those named stutter-step forward. There is no last minute respite written on the page this time, no call for Crown or Blade that will stop what is to come. Too many are too afraid, too many are too hungry, and there is a bone deep belief in every villager here that for any peace to occur in our lives, Offerings must be made.

“BoneKeeper?” Raek calls, pointing to a spot just to the side of him but still on the ground, still shadowed by the stone portico, turning to me with blazing eyes when I don’t move. “BoneKeeper?” He says again, this time the command is clear.

“Do we Rend and Reap now on the Council stage, Raek?” I ask, unable to fully strip emotion from my words, and he smirks when he hears the tremor in my voice. He is so lost to his triumph that he misses the way the people nearest us look at each other. “Is it a play or a pantomime? A theatre performance instead of a sacred tradition?”

“You know it is not, Keeper,” he replies tightly, fingers twitching at his side as though he’s forcing himself to not wrap them around my throat.

“Then we move to the Reaping Pit or the Rending Fire, though the Earth is silent and the Fire is banked.” I raise my voice to carry on the cold wind; my words are true, and strike home with any who can hear me. With the death of Nickolas, the pillar fire miraculously died out as well, and no bones are screaming with unrelenting pressure in my ears for Offering. But the Council is too far down the path they’ve chosen, and will feed the Earth and fire whether or not the Gods demand it.

Raek narrows his eyes, considering. “No, Keeper,” he whispers, a strange smile twisting his lips, “we will Offer our first here, where the full weight of our people will grant her comfort in her final moments. You can Guide her as easily here as anywhere else, and then we will move her to the Reaping Pit. In fact,” he says, turning to face the crowd, “we will Reap and Rend all here, where the hearts of those watching can strengthen the hearts of those Offered, where we move forward with these Offerings as one people, with one purpose, one determination.”

He is turning it into a spectacle, the quiet solemnity of the Rending and Reaping being polished and decorated as some sort of celebration, rather than a somber reminder of what has passed, what is present, and what is still to come. When we Rend, when we Reap, it is with the Offering being surrounded by family and friends, and though the Rending Fire is never fully comforting, it is not stoked to blazing until after I have put the soul to sleep in my Guiding blade. Though the Reaping Pit is never calming, it is surrounded by what few flowers we have in our village, by whispering trees, and low stone benches for last moments with loved ones. No Offering is ever forced to their knees in front of a breathless crowd of thousands, throat exposed, waiting for the Reaper’s sharp dagger. No Offering watches the Render approach with his thin, curved blade, knowing it is moments from their heart. They face the rising or setting sun, look to the mountains above them, and when their breathing is slow and their heart at peace, they are taken from this life into their bone life. And though there is fear — who would not fear the unknown — there is never terror.

But Grace is forced to kneel again on the stage, Raek’s hand in her hair twisting her neck painfully; the waiting crowd is motionless and uncertain. Her breath is loud in the square, sharp, frantic pants of sound, neck corded and bent back at a terrible angle. Her panic extends to the Offerings waiting in front of the stage, and even the infants raise tiny, meager cries as their parents' hands flex too tightly against their smooth skin in useless desperation. All else is midnight quiet.

So the sudden, wet sound of Raek’s knife across Grace’s throat is an avalanche of noise, a stomach churning liquid squelch. Her still seeing eyes flare wide in discordant surprise, and she raises a single, trembling hand to her dripping throat in clear disbelief. This is wrong, all wrong. Raek is not a Reaper, does not have the skill or practice to send an Offering to the bone life in a single, swift movement. He has made the cut too shallow and too deep all at once; she won’t recover, but neither is it the quick, merciful death we are granted as Offerings. Her chest strains in struggling beats of motion, a high pitched whistling, drenched and dreadful, bubbling from her gaping mouth, her fingers flexing against torn skin, coming away hearth-red.

No one has moved; we are nothing but echoes of motion. Our inhales and exhales mirror hers, surface, shuddering breaths, an entire people suffocating from the slice of a single blade. The shock of what is happening is too much to force feet forward. Even Silas is stone-still, hand extended toward Raek as though he saw the flash of the blade before it crossed her throat and tried desperately to stop it, but was unable to.

We all stay frozen for a minute, an hour, a year, watching the life drain from her in staggering steps, Raek standing over her, hand still wrapped in her hair.

“For the Render,” he whispers, staring down at her through cold, dark eyes, and behind him, the waiting Councilmen echo his words.

“For the Render. For the Render.”

“For the Render,” Raek says again, but this time I am awake, and aware, and even in my stupor, even though he tries to slur the words together in a hushed, sliding sound, I hear him differently. For the Render? For the Ender? For the Render? For the Ender?

Above me, Raek abruptly releases Grace’s hair as a thin trickle of crimson drips back from the corner of her open mouth to her ear, then onto his clenched, white knuckles. He shakes his hand away in sudden disgust, flinging tiny droplets of blood from his skin, lips twisting in distaste, before turning from her as though she was a rodent he had dispatched, and nothing more. She stays upright for another agonizing moment, head lolling like a broken doll, and then, finally, finally the light drains from her eyes, and my lungs collapse in relief as the square echoes with cold thump of her body slumping to the floor.

Yanking my bone blade from my belt, I wait, rocking forward on my toes, anxious to pull her to me, to give her peace, to grant her safety, to Guide her home.

Her chest is motionless, her lungs are silent.

Her veins are still, her heart is quiet.

Her skin has smoothed, her muscles softened.

And yet, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Until a tiny, pale mist drifts up from her body.

There is no soul-song.

There is no vibrating, joyful light of memory.

There is no…Grace.

Only a soft grey smoke the likes of which I’ve never seen before.

But I still reach.

I still try.

And I can almost, almost feel her. Almost hear her, lost somewhere in the cloud hovering over her body, my fingers glancing off her time and time again. And I swear she is stretching for me, that I’m so close to catching her I can taste it, when a screaming wind tears down from the mountain, shrieking through the trees, sending people staggering back from its force. It’s brutal and blinding, ripping breath from bodies, sending small stones like glass fragments into skin. It’s a storm wind, sulfurous and noxious, full of ash and poison, and it races around the square like a living creature, a wolf on the hunt, searching for prey.

Everyone turns from it, cowering, covering themselves with their billowing cloaks, wrapping themselves around their loved ones. Even the Council on the stage bends back from it, shielding their eyes from the dirt and debris being flung in the churning air. So it is only Raek, and Silas, and Rannoch, and myself, who see the howling gale stutter, almost pause as it skirts across my skin, and then fully cease for a heartbeat when it nears the mist still floating over Grace’s body.

Flinging myself forward, I shout in alarm, hands outstretched, fingers grasping at empty air, desperately trying to find her. Because I know, somehow I know, if the wind takes her, she will be lost forever.

But I’m too late, if I could have reached her at all.

The moment the storm wind touches her it absorbs her, all at once and with no warning. Her greyness flares briefly, just a blink, then is swallowed by the storm, and is gone. The wind thickens until it is almost tangible, choking and suffocating, then roars away in a rush of chaos and flurry.

Everything is still

Everything is silent.

And then a single drop tumbles to the earth.

And another.

And another.

AFTER THE SACRIFICE

WREN

Water falls like memory from the sky.

Something in our deepest souls knows this event, this kiss of rain on skin. Rain. The word feels foreign on my tongue — it’s a flavor from the world before, a spice, or sweetness that we have never tasted. But I know it like I know the taste of my tears. This is rain, real rain, that has not been seen in centuries or longer. There is none alive now who has felt this before, who knows anything other than oil and iron, brackish rivers and briney ponds. We drink from sulfurous cups, we grow from poisoned soil.

Men and women are like children, falling to their knees in the wet clay, water carving valleys in the dirt on their faces, and they raise up their voices in songs that have only been whispered by fireplaces until now. Children are running, kicking puddles of standing water, the ground so parched that it will not accept the downpour, so the liquid runs along the surface until it finds cracks and burrows to seep through into the barren earth below. Even the Protectors and Keepers, the Renders, the Reapers, the Councilmen, are all standing, hands outstretched, closed eyes tilted to the rapidly darkening heavens above.

People are calling Raek’s name as a blessing, embracing him, thanking him over and over, the horror of the last hour washed away in the miracle of the last minute. He’s passed from hand to hand, pulled from family to family, welcomed with open arms across the breadth of the crowded square. Grace is all-but-forgotten, lying crumpled in a congealing pool of blood on the stage. The gentle downpour rinses her stained body clean, red rivers pouring from the platform's edge; they run pale pink and then clear, until she looks only as though she’s sleeping. Rannoch and Silas exchange a long, silent look, then move as one to straighten her empty body, folding her arms and closing her eyes, their careful hands pulling at strings deep within my heart. No one else gives any notice; they are too busy smiling, faces creaking under the strain of expressions long since forgotten. These are not the Storms of acid that sweep down during the winter months, the biting cold that flays you alive. This is water. Pure, clean water, and the village as one heaves a sigh that seems to shake off centuries of burden.

Have we been forgiven?

It is a running whisper through the people, an echo over and over so it becomes one voice, one word. Forgiven forgiven forgiven? It cannot be believed. Water has been a myth, a story for so long, that to have it appear unceasingly in refracting teardrops feels like a fever dream. The peoples’ laughter turn to tears, to gasping sobs of relief tearing from their stomachs in painful, heart wrenching cries.

To want a thing so desperately, for so long, and to finally receive it carries its own type of pain.

I have not left my place in the shadow of the Council House, tucked back beneath a heavy overhang, dry. Parched, even. My skin and throat are calling out for the promise mere steps from me. If I were to reach out a hand, just stretch the slightest bit, I could touch it, but something is holding me back. Something is keeping me from it, and I fight to move forward with every ounce of strength in my body, rocking back and forth on my feet, heel-toe-heel-toe, but I cannot move.

In the sky, the last of the pale glow of the sun winks out.

A sharp crack of thunder explodes from above, a flash of lightning so bright it blinds the eye dances up from the summit of the mountain to the clouds, leaving sparking, dancing dots behind. And in my ears there is a roar so loud it’s like the sound of fire but a thousand times more, an echoing static. It is deafening, so it takes me longer than it should to hear the screaming. And longer still to realize that the screams are coming from me, hunched over as though I’ve taken a knife to the gut, hands pressed over my ears to stop the pressure and the pain, eyes screwed shut so tightly they hurt.

I’m loud enough to catch the attention of those nearby, even over their songs of praise and thanksgiving. Loud enough that the Council turn as one toward me. Loud enough that Silas, still steps above, and Rannoch, who has not moved from beside him, flinch. I am screaming, screaming, screaming, and the bones are screaming through me. They are shattering glass in my ears, scraping my skin with obsidian blades, stuffing my eyes with sharp quills. Every moment in my life is just this moment now, with no beginning and no ending, just unceasing, unrelenting pain. The bones are screaming, and they use me as their vessel.

My voice is raw and red before it gives out, and with the dying note of my agony, the rain stops. And the bones fall silent.

Raek, face dark, lips twisted into a sneer, spittle flying as he stalks across the courtyard, points a shaking finger at me. “What have you done?”

What have I done? What have I done? I don’t understand the question, but I open my mouth to answer, when, as a single entity, the bones raise their voice one last time, loud enough so even the Father and the Council can almost hear, the pressure enough to rupture eardrums, loud enough that the people on their knees in the dirt cock their heads as though they feel a cold breath down the back of their necks.

Run, the Bones scream, and then, RUN! RUN! RUN!

All around the village, bones begin to shatter, rapid pop-pop-pops, like frozen trees exploding in the winter Storms, and in the darkness cast by the racing clouds overhead, bright soul lights flare to agonizing sparks, then just as quickly fade. Song after song wails out from the ruptured bones, a sharp, staccato keening, then is gone. It starts at the back, where the oldest bones are, and I feel a stabbing pang in my heart. The Oldest Mother. But there is no time. People are on their feet now, frightened rabbits, wide eyed sheep, looking around for a leader.

“Out of the way,” Raek tries to command, but he is shaking, swaying, his cry a high, trembling screech of fear. He was not made to carry the weight of the voices of bones; something in his brain has come loose. “Clear a path for the Council! Clear the way!”

It’s a toothless bark, more a plea, and he is not obeyed. In that moment, his eyes meet mine with murder clear in their depths. I have no time for him, for his promise of death. If death wants to take me, I’ll drift into his arms like smoke and be carried to a place with more gentleness and peace than this one. He will be my lover and I his consort, and I will be faithful to him for eternity for delivering me from my living hell. But now, now, the Bones command me and I must obey.

From the shadow of the Council House I raise my voice as loud as I’m able. “Run,” I yell, echoing the bones, shaking with effort. Drawing myself up, I motion toward the lower gate. “Down the hill to the outermost wall. Pick up the children. Leave all else. There is no time!’

Word is passed in a shower of splintering ivory; the villagers rushing to grab their young, slipping awkwardly down the path. The rain which moments before had been a source of such joy now proves treacherous as people push and shove to move forward.

“With care! With care!” Silas’s voice booms out as he leaps off the stage, directing the exodus. Panic is high in the crowd; he keeps them in check only through the weight of tradition and sheer willpower. He is the lightning and the thunder, the earth and the sky, and it’s impossible to look away from him. “Quickly and quietly. Move forward. Pass the children along.”

It’s working — the people are shaking with effort, but it is working. Until, from behind me, a groan rings deep inside the mountain, so low and ominous it is the song of a nightmare come to life. From the rock cliffs, from the stone faces, fissures crack open, jagged lines running from the very summit down to the base in lightning bolt patterns, crackling and snapping, full walls of sharp edged boulders calving down in careless chaos. When its skin is torn away and the veins are exposed, the mountain shows its blood; deep from its chest, the shimmering, luminescent blue heart of Everfire pulses forward from its depths. It’s slow, seeping, but unexpectedly beautiful, weeping from the ragged tears on the mountain’s side. The people left in the square turn to stare at it, moths helplessly drawn to torchlight.

And so, when the fracturing pieces of stone still tumbling down slam into the square, villager after villager are knocked from their feet, pinned to the ground beneath unforgiving weight. Screams bounce off the walls, the ground, the Council House doors, filling the square with panic where only moments before songs had swept the streets. Fear is a living snake in my stomach when I realize that, even crushed and broken, life draining from them, the people trapped on the ground are still craning their heads toward the Everfire, still straining to see the incandescent rivers of flame.

Silas is halfway across the courtyard now, easy to spot, a full head taller than any around him, pulling villagers from the wreckage, pushing people toward the First Gate, doing anything he can to help. Raek and the rest of the Council are nowhere to be seen; even the Protectors are gone, leaving their people behind them covered in dirt and blood, in final death and chaos. Only Silas and Rannoch are still in the rapidly emptying keep, Rannoch directing movement from close to the Council House, Silas from the center, near the Sun God’s pillar.

Beneath my feet, the ground trembles.

It’s such a small shiver at first that I almost don’t feel it, but I’ve lived in the pocket of the Earth too long to ignore the bite of need pulling at my muscles. Terror is an electric current in my soul, and I cast my eyes around me in desperation. What am I missing? What am I missing? In the shadow at the Sun Pillar, Silas is oblivious to anything but the people around him, ignoring the tiny cuts covering his skin from sharp flung stones, the water and blood mixing and dripping from his face as he commands the villagers in focused determination. Beside him, the pillar vibrates.

“Silas!” His name is torn from my throat, the warning so clear and crimson his head whips around, looking for me in the shade of the Council House, missing the danger to himself.

Wren! NO! Lorcan cries out from my back, so much pain in the words it’s like the effort it takes him to speak is cracking him into pieces, but he’s too late.

“Silas!” I scream again; my feet finally obey me, and I step forward into the keep, just enough so that he can see my raised hand, pointing to the pillar beside him. Glancing up in confusion, he leaps back just in time to avoid the iron brazier plummeting toward the ground, coal dust exploding from it when it hits, covering anyone near it in muddy ash. And then, in one, jarring clap of sound, the earth beneath it boils, and the pillar, which has stood in the heart of our village for the whole of bone memory, topples, leaving him on one side, and me on the other.

From the edge of the overhang above me, tiny rivulets drain from the oily stone. The water hisses when it hits my skin, burning me like living flame, and I frantically stumble back into the still dry area protected by the massive, stone slab roof. The earth is still rippling, almost convulsing, moving in waves of brick and bone across the keep, churning bodies to piles of flesh and blood; the walls of the central square quiver and collapse in rocky ruin, exposing tiny, glinting pieces of white bone that were entombed within. Everything is falling apart, everything is ravage and wreckage, dead bodies and dissolving souls. And there is nothing I can do, nothing, because I am caged in beneath the Council House.

None of the souls in the square are singing anymore; the rain and the ruin absorb their music in ravenous jaws — I am too far to Guide even one from the Silence, if that is even where they are going, watching helplessly, hands outstretched, heart shattering. My ears are full of dissonance, eyes truly blinded by flaring and fading souls.

So I do not hear it when, above me, the heavy obsidian overhang, put there by the Sword himself when the village was founded, shudders. Don’t notice when, beneath it, the pillars holding it sway, then bend, then splinter and break. Don’t move when, suddenly, in one terrible and inevitable motion, the stone cracks and plummets down in crushing certainty.

“Wren!” Silas’s distraught voice rings out across the square, his hand reaching in an echo of mine from moments ago, as though he could prevent what is to come. But he is too far, much too far now; another groan echoes from deep within the mountain and the Earth opens beneath me.

BOUND BY DUTY

SILAS

She falls.

She just…falls.

Hovers for a moment, like a bird, like the goddess, white hair haloed around her head, eyes wide and frightened, and I swear, I swear that for a moment she sees me, that her blank eyes focus in on me and her mouth parts just slightly in horrified surprise, and then…

She falls.

“Rann!” My agonized scream rings out across the Keep. Anyone else would think it for the horrors happening in our village, that I am calling for help from the Council, that my paralyzing fear is for my people. But Rannoch hears it, his head jerking up from where he’s desperately helping people to their feet, shielding them from the rocks still raining from the heavens, pushing people away from the shaking walls. He hears it and freezes, turning to me with dread on his face. I can only point to the gaping maw that is open and undulating in front of the Council House.

“Wren…” and it’s not even a sound, just a mouthed word. I am too far away, can’t get past the pillars and bones that block me, the duty that binds me. Rannoch, though, is already at the edge, already peering down into the ragged abyss. His entire body tenses, pulled taut like a bow, and then he looks up at me and meets my eyes with sorrow and regret beyond anything I’ve seen before. Raising a single hand, he shrugs, half in apology, half in farewell, then, tearing a horrified noise from my throat, he steps forward and follows her.

“Father! Father!” The voices surround me, begging and pleading for help, guidance, direction, but my heart and throat were ripped from my body the second she disappeared into the pit. “Father, please!” Their faces pulse in and out with my heartbeat, shimmering on the edges of my vision as I try to breathe through the suffocating terror and push it to the sides. Around me is nothing but wailing and shrieking, bodies rushing by me, scraped and bloody, pulling at me, yanking at my clothing. “Father! Please!” But I can’t speak until I hear someone close to me yelling over and over again, “Father! Where is she? Where is the BoneKeeper?”

Everything suddenly comes into sharp, painful focus. He’s shouting, trying to get my attention. “I saw her, for a moment she was there and then she just–” The man in front of me is panicked, beyond panicked, looking around him, eyes frantically sweeping the chaos. He looks like he saw the Ender himself rise up from the Everfire, and I know him. Vaguely, I know him. Her friend.

“Miller?” I’m stupid, confused. “Wren?” My throat constricts on her name; it is impossible to make it sound like anything other than a prayer.

It’s enough to pull him from his mindlessness.

“Father?” He stiffens, raising his head, and turning to look at me with a sort of agonizing carefulness. “What did you just say?”

Even now, he’s cautious, respectful, a true son of the village in a way that I never will be. Even with her having been swallowed by the Earth, even with mountain bursting open, he treats me as though I am a step above him. And that is where we differ, because if I were him, and someone was standing between me and my friend with the answers trapped in his throat, I would tear them from his neck with my teeth.

Tahrik is trembling in my silence, almost vibrating, and something in him breaks free as he leans forward, eyes wide and wild. “What. Did. You. Just. Say.”

Ah, I think. Perhaps we’re not so different after all then, and I point silently to the open pit on the far side of the keep.

“You can’t get there, though,” I mumble numbly, and he shoots me a disdainful look.

“You can’t–” he begins, but then takes in the carnage around me, the weeping people screaming my name, the Renders and Reapers fleeing like scuttling rats fleeing to safety, not sparing a thought for the people we’re meant to be leading, and his tone changes. “You can’t,” he repeats, but quietly now, and with such sympathy it makes me want to scream. He spares a second to lay a hand on my shoulder, then without another word, turns and nimbly climbs up and over the pillar, the bones, the bodies. And though his hands are torn and bloody by the time he reaches the pit, and though his face is bruised and clothing ripped, he does make it. For a long, long moment he stares down; his shoulders collapse, his lungs emptied of breath, and my heart seizes in my chest.

He is seeing her body, I think, her broken and battered body, with no one to Guide her home.

So when he starts climbing down, not leaping as Rannoch did, just descending over the sharp edge, hope strangles me in almost suffocating fingers. His head hovers above the drop for long enough that I wonder what he’s doing, until I realize he’s staring at me, waiting to make sure I am watching him. Once he is certain, he nods once, then gives me a quick, flat smile before disappearing.

It is nothing, but somehow enough.

If her feet walk anywhere on this earth, I will find her. And Rannoch will keep her safe until I can. I’ve learned not to trust anything in this cursed world, but I know his mind and I know his heart, and if he’s alive, then she’ll still be breathing. If he isn’t, then the only family I have left is gone, and it all becomes meaningless anyway. I just can’t look too deeply at what happens next. Once I fix this. After she returns home to the village.

One thing at a time, Silas. There is no space in this moment for the next.

Straightening, feeling the weight of fifteen thousand people on my shoulders, I look around. “Away from the walls!” I yell, voice echoing over the square, and thank the Gods they listen, lost sheep needing a shepherd. “Go to the fields! Down the center roads on the high ground! The rain has stopped. Avoid standing water!” Barking out orders, I take control, directing the few Hunters left in the square, encouraging the wild and paralyzed people to move. The Earth is still seething and surging, heaving beneath my feet as though it’s gasping for air, and I know we don’t have long before it will be impossible to leave. Taking a few, frantic moments, I do everything I can to loose more boulders, freeing anyone with life left in them that I’m able to, trying desperately to avoid the rocks raining from the mountain. It’s not enough, it will never be enough; there are still villagers screaming for help from the far sides of the square, squealing beneath stone like pigs at the slaughter, but I try, hands slippery with blood and ash, blinded by dirt and mud. I try.

And fight every instinct in my body to go back toward the Council House, to follow Rannoch and leap into the pit where my heart was eaten with a white haired girl.

THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN

RANNOCH

There’s very little space between waking and sleeping. Deep in the heart of the molten black tunnels, veined thickly with raw minerals, life itself seems a dream, and this pressing prison of stone a living nightmare. We’re guided only by Wren’s blank eyes; truly blind now she pulls us forward at a frantic pace, letting us stop just long enough to regain strength before she pushes on. When she is certain, we don’t have time to think of all that could go wrong. It is only in the pauses, at the forks of long, hollow tunnels, where our blood runs cold — air stagnant in some, in others pushing out and then sucking back in like an unknown creature is breathing just beyond the bend. At these, when she freezes statue-still, head tilted, eyes closed, and listens to something only she can hear, the Miller and I exchange long glances.

We are at such a place now, and have been for a full five minutes. Wren is nervous; her pale fingers barely visible in the darkness, playing with the wet bones around her neck, wrapped like a choker. Lorcan, I correct myself. He is Lorcan. Not just bones.

Everything has been phantoms and fear since the rain fell. Longer than that, actually. So long that I can’t remember the last time it didn’t feel like fist clenched around my heart, burning ash filling my lungs. I’ve lived for the past few weeks surviving only on the memory of a sharp, citrus sting and soft, sweet lips. It’s enough to keep my feet stumbling forward though; hope is a powerful elixir, poison and cure all in one, depending on the dose.

When I saw her body at the bottom of the pit…shudders run through me. No. Don’t dwell on it — on her white hair red with blood, on the way her spine was twisted, on her empty face. I followed her down almost without thinking, only pausing to say as much of a goodbye to Silas as I could. The panic-stricken look on his face is burned in my memory, though. My body didn’t give me a choice; it moved without me knowing, really. I would have gone anyway, would have done the same again without hesitation, but the acrid taste of betrayal still coats my tongue. He needed me, and I abandoned him. I made him a promise and broke it. For so long we’ve only had each other, chosen brothers in a deadly family, and I’ve left him, willingly, at the worst possible time. I don’t know how he’ll ever forgive me. But I don’t know if I could have forgiven myself if I hadn’t jumped after her.

From the tunnels there is a long, wet, sucking sound, like a drowning man trying to breathe, and I’m suddenly pulled into the memory of my feet sinking into the damp ground by her crumpled body.

Hitting the ground awkwardly, sliding on oily shale, I ignore the pulling protest from my muscles, and scramble over to her.

“Wren, Wren, Wren—” Over and over I whisper, a plea and a prayer, the only word my mouth can hold. She seems wholly unmoving; I can’t see her chest, and her back is immobile in the darkness of the cavernous room. Gently, as though she’s made of glass, I turn her over. She must have slid down the wall of the pit in her fall; scrapes and bruises litter her skin like she’s crawled through thorns. Somehow, though, she’d landed on a pile of soft sand and dirt, no rocks or sharp stones under her.

“Wren, Wren…” I beg again, frantically running my hands along her arms, her shoulders, pushing her damp hair back from her face. The tiniest flutter of a pale blue vein in her neck caves my heart in; inhaling deeply, burying my lingering terror deep at the back of my mind, I force myself to calm down, to do a real assessment of her. Meticulously, I check her ankles, knees, wrists, elbows — everything I can, this time with analytical hands, not willing to miss anything because I let myself become stupid with fear. Wren needs me focused; anything else can wait.

No limbs broken, nothing that demands stitching, though there are a few deep cuts that will need some treatment. Shallow breathing, but not pained, not struggling. As carefully as I can I lift her shirt, just high enough to check her ribs. Ugly red splotching as big as my hand is already blooming on one side, but on the surface of the skin. So something to be aware of, but the curve of her ribcage looks unchanged. She’d probably had the breath knocked out of her when she hit the ground. Possibly hit her head as well.

Her vertebracelets had helped shield her arms, though a couple of the bones look cracked. Having no idea what she would do about the fractures, I make a quick decision, tearing a length of cloth from my tattered cloak and binding them as I would have a living person’s breaks. Rocking back on my heels, I take a long moment, studying her as carefully as I’m able to in the scant light of the pit. Some uneasy storm still fills my lungs; I’m missing something important to Wren. And if it’s important to Wren, then it’s vital to me.

Starting at the top again, I repeat everything even more slowly, featherlight fingers tracing the lines of her skull beneath her hair. It only takes a moment before I touch something hard, tangled in the elf-locks on her head. Several minutes of fumbling and frustration pass before I’m able to completely loosen the bones from her hair and pull them around to the front of her body. They wind around her throat, then lay in a straight line down her chest. Her Protector. Silas’s friend.

I’m sure there’s noise from above, the thunder of the mountain, the screams of the people, but all I can hear is the scratch of my breath, the pulse in my veins. Think, Rannoch. Think. You are missing something. Casting my mind back, I desperately search for the times I’d seen her interact with him. Carefully moving her hands from her sides, I weave the necklace through her fingers, wrapping them as though with ribbon. The blood from her scraped palms coats the bones, shimmering wetly even in the gloom of the cavern, and then…it’s gone. Memory surges forward in my mind, pushing everything else to the side. A cold voice from Wren’s mouth, speaking for her and to her, saying things that Silas and I did not understand.

“He has been off you too long. You are already bleeding. It is necessary.”

And the recollection of her face going through the Bone Arch, how tightly she’d gripped her necklace with crimson skin.

Staring down at her still face, I swallow back nausea. Not at the choices she’d made, but the one I’m about to make, hoping against hope that it’s the right one, that I’m not about to violate something sacred, that she’ll forgive me for seeing two paths and choosing the darker one. And then, not giving myself time to reconsider, I reach down to the few cuts that are deep enough to be damp with blood, and cover my hands until they feel like I’ve washed them in a village pool. Breath shallow, nostrils flaring, I try desperately to focus only on her necklace. Over and over I coat any piece of ivory I can see, sick to my stomach, throat tight. Over and over the necklace turns white as it dries, seeming to take handfuls, pitchers, rivers of blood. And still it won’t stay red. Choking, trembling, I roughen her cuts where they’re drying, hating myself even as I pull more blood to the surface.

I’m almost to the point of giving up, horrified with myself and my actions, when her necklace finally, finally remains wet, a crimson band on her skin, matching the prints on her pale eyelids. Collapsing back into the unforgiving wall behind me, I stare at my shuddering hands, stained and soaking. How could you, Rannoch? How could you?

“What…what are you doing?” There’s so much shock and horror in the words it takes me longer than it should to realize they aren’t thoughts in my head, but spoken out loud, and I look up to meet the cold, suspicious gaze of the Miller. I don’t know how to answer, what to say that would excuse the sight of me hovering over her, washed crimson with her blood, but am saved the trouble when the world began to cave in around us, rocks hurtling through the opening above us at unrelenting speed. Tahrik lurches forward, grabbing Wren from the ground, cradling her in tender arms. Moving as one, we rush toward a curved opening in the groaning wall; seconds after stumbling through it into a low tunnel, light and life disappear behind us in an avalanche of dust and stone. We have been staggering forward since in timeless darkness and unremitting fear.

In front of me, Wren’s small growl of anger yanks me from my reverie.

“Wren?” I am careful to keep my voice low, trying not to startle her, but she jumps slightly anyway. “Are you…do you need help?”

She sighs in frustration. “Yes, but not from you.” Her voice changes slightly, warms just enough to let me know that she’s not talking to me anymore, and it causes a strange, biting sensation in my stomach. “I don’t have a choice, Protector,” she murmurs almost fondly, quiet even in the stillness. “Desperate times and all that.” The gnawing continues, and I frown. Bones can’t kiss a woman, can’t lick the juice of a vibrant fruit from her lips. I have tasted something he will never have. And he is her…friend, I suppose. Be kind.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost miss the moment she grabs her Guiding Knife and slices it along her palm. Tahrik cries out in protest, but it’s too late by half, darkness welling up on her trembling hand. Pressing the Knife in, she rotates it slightly, coating the blade on both sides before exhaling sharply and slumping against the wall. Tahrik is at her side instantly, offering his flask, which she takes gratefully.

“That way,” she nods towards the left, shivering as a cold air skitters out from its depths, raising little ripples on her skin. She jerks slightly, a single drop of blood falling from her hand to the floor. Deep in the shadows of the opposite corridor, there is a longing rumble, almost a moan, but the other two don’t seem to hear it.

The Miller looks doubtful. “You’re sure, Wren?” he asks, valiantly trying to keep the skepticism from his voice. Her answering laugh is almost desperate.

“Am I sure? No. But it’s the way the Knife pulls. Give me a moment. I’m still bleeding, and it would be a shame to waste it.” A pause, a smile in her voice. “Don’t argue. It’s pointless.”

Lorcan. Again Lorcan.

Glancing at us she hesitates, then unwinds the bones from her neck and runs her hand along them until they glisten, even in the darkness.

“Wren?...” Tahrik sounds ill, voice shaking. “What? Why?” He doesn’t know the right question to ask, and wouldn’t get an answer anyway, judging by the way her shoulders tighten. Staring at him, jaw tense, she raises a single brow, but empties her face of emotion in the way she does when she is hurt inside.

I don’t like it, don’t like when she hides herself from us, so I swallow back the words that are pushing from my mouth, relax my body, force my tone to casual blandness. “Would any blood do? If…the next time you have to…I’m happy to act in your stead, if it helps. We can share the…the need?”

A flicker of surprise darts across her face, like a flower unfolding, and satisfaction surges through me. “I…it…”. Glancing down at her Guiding Knife, she stares at it for what feels like an eternity. “I truly don’t know, Rannoch. But we can try. For the Blade. If you’re willing.” Ignoring the unintentional emphasis she puts on the word blade, I nod. Rannoch. Not Councilman. It’s a step forward; the relief I feel at hearing my name from at least one of them is surprising.

“Ready, willing, and able, Wren. Just not my dagger hand.”

“Wren…” Tahrik murmurs under his breath, and I frown. Since he saw me curved over her body, hands red, face devastated, he’s been incessant, taking every opportunity to cast doubt my actions. “Are you sure? He’s⁠—”

“What?” I snap out against my better judgment, but this can’t continue if we’re traveling together. It’s been nothing but careful words and simmering suspicion from him since we first entered these godless tunnels, and just existing at the moment is enough to drain me of energy. His neverending sideways glances, the quiet muttering between the two of them — it’s driving me mad. “What am I?” Scrubbing a tired hand over my dry eyes, I inhale sharply before sighing. “Peace, Miller.” They exchange a glance that holds paragraphs. It can’t be them on one side and me on the other for this entire journey, wherever it leads. “For the love of all that’s good in the world, peace. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together, and you’re exhausting me. Both of you, ask your questions if it will make you feel more at ease, and I’ll answer what I’m able to. But ask them openly. Enough with the hushed voices.”

He stares at me for long enough that I’m close to screaming, then finally blurts out, “Why are you here?” Wariness and frustration are bright in his words.

“Why are you here?” I counter instantly, hackles rising.

“Wren,” he answers simply, and I tilt my head in answer. Slow realization floods his face with something akin to anger, the first sign of any real life I’ve seen from this placid, uncooked pile of dough. A creeping sort of resentment flutters along my skin, like blood moth wings, and I smirk at the expression on his face.

“Something to say, Miller?” I hiss, one hand drifting to my dagger as he stands slowly, rolling his shoulders. Even in the darkness I note that years of working the millstone have left him with muscle, and I grin. It will be more of a fair fight than I originally thought.

“Oh, Councilman. So much to say it would fill a book and then some.” I haven’t heard his minstrel voice so sharp before, and mimic him as he drops into a ready stance.

“Ah, ah, ah, Miller,” I caution mockingly. “Be sure you know how to use your instrument before you join this chorus.”

“I’m more a son of the village than you’ll ever be, Councilman or not. I grew up with a scythe in hand, and I think you’ll find my fingers play the blade as well as they play the bow.” We’re both grinning now, rictus smiles with teeth flashing in the flickering darkness, and from the tunnel on the right, an eager sort of breathiness sounds.

Wren scrambles to her feet, wrapping the bones around her neck frantically, and my attention switches to her in a heartbeat. Those bones. Around her throat, feeling her pulse, where my tongue should be, tracing the pale column from the hollow up to that frenetic trembling beneath her skin. If I crush the bones, tear them from her, I can take their place. I just have to…

I must make a sound, a movement, because her eyes flare open, white in the darkness, locking on my own before focusing over my shoulder, down the breathing corridor. “It’s the caves,” she whispers, “We have to run!” and whips around, fleeing into the blackness so quickly I’ve lost her before I take a step.

“Wren!” Tahrik is after her like her shadow, and for a brief, wild moment, I am left alone in the unending night. From the tunnel on the right, the one we are not taking, a faint voice calls.

“Rannoch!” It sounds like her, like she is crying out in pain. How did she get there? Did the tunnels combine ahead? Did she fall? “Rannoch! Help me! Please… help me!”

One step.

“Rannoch!” Her voice is quaking, vibrating as though her skin is being pulled from her body.

One step more. And now I am only half a step away, half a step until I am in, half a step until I have entered the sucking blackness.

“Rannoch!”

Cold fingers wrap tightly around my wrist. “No.”

I’m caught, caught between her voice pleading from the tunnel, and her hand pulling me away.

“Rannoch! Help me!” Her voice is crying from the depths, sobbing out. “HELP ME!”

Beside me, Wren tenses, breath fast and shallow, and her grip cuts into my skin, bruising. “I. Said. No!” This screamed, not at me, but down the empty corridor. There is a startled shiver of shadows, the sliding movement of ink on ink, and then a piercing wail so loud I instinctively move to jerk my hands up to cover my ears, but she won’t let me. Wren is yanking at me now, pulling me off balance, running down the left corridor, with me tripping and stumbling after her, away from the screeching needles of sound behind us. In seconds we are even with Tahrik, who grabs my other hand without hesitation, helping Wren drag me forward. For a moment I’m confused, and then more confused when I realize I’m fighting them, trying to return the way I came. Why am I fighting?

“Rannoch! Please! I’m dying!”

She’s in agony, begging for me, and I’m a chained beast against them, clawing and desperate.

“She needs me! She needs me!” Even in my stupor I can hear the frenzy in my voice as I try to tear their hands from my arms.

She needs me, she needs me, she needs⁠—

“Rannoch. Stop.” In front of me, marble hands on my face, I meet Wren’s eyes. “Rannoch. It’s not me. I’m here. I’m with you. It’s not me.”

Tahrik is breathing heavily behind me, and I realize suddenly that his arms are wrapped around me like steel bands, that he has wrestled me into place somehow without me even realizing it.

“Wren?”

Her face relaxes at whatever she hears in my voice.

“I’m here, Rannoch. It’s fine. I’m fine. That isn’t me.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly, and out of nowhere am overcome by a shaking spell so bad I can barely stand, am kept upright only by the Miller. “Oh. I thought…”

“I know,” she replies, and there are so many questions in those simple words; questions I want to answer, questions I’m not ready to answer, questions I don’t even know if she wants to ask. So I take a deep breath and force myself to settle.

“I’m sorry.” Stupid words, but they’re all I have. “Miller, I’m sorry. I don’t know..I’m not sure…”

His arms fall away, and he steps back. “It’s fine…Rannoch. It’s the mountain. We’re too close to the Everfire. Let’s keep moving.” He glances behind us, shaking his head. “Now. Let’s move now. You’ll let us know when we are safe, Wren?”

She laughs shakily in response. “Safe? Will it ever be safe?”

He takes her hands, staring down at their fingers intertwined. “We will find a place, Wren. I promise it. But for now, I’d settle for anywhere other than here.”

It is taking too long. Long enough that we are two days out of food, if you can call honeyed sweets food, and a full day out of water. Long enough that desperation gives way to hopelessness, which in turn fades to brutal acceptance. Yesterday, no words exchanged other than a silent nod, Tahrik and I quietly emptied the last of our flasks into Wren’s when she wasn’t looking, but it is not enough. We had been filling her ration pack with our own when we were able, though the last time I tried, Tahrik held his hand over the pouch and shook his head.

“One of us has left the village, knows how to hunt, to navigate. There is no space left for niceties now. When my feet fail, don’t give her a choice, Councilor. She won’t want to leave. You must make her. Whatever it takes.”

I wanted to protest, but had enough respect for him that I didn’t offer false comfort. “I will make her. Whatever it takes.” It was a gruesome promise. We both knew what was being said, what it meant for both Tahrik, and for Wren.

She is far from us, hovering in front of another set of tunnels, another series of unending twists in the fathomless blackness that has consumed us. Even at a distance I can see her reaching for the Guiding Knife. I tried three times with it before we gave up; my blood was not to its liking for some reason. On the third try, the knife stayed wet, would not drink any of my Offering; Wren silently tucked it back in her belt, though her fingers were gentle when she took it from my bloody hands. Tahrik never offered; I don’t know which was worse in her eyes – my rejection, or his reluctance.

Tahrik is corpse-pale, skin bruised under his dark eyes, cheeks hollow. This is a man who has given everything, and beyond everything, inside him to stay next to Wren. There is nothing left to go on. Even with the weight of my eyes on him, he stares at her for a long time, face naked with longing, as though it is the last time he will ever see her, and I feel sick to my stomach. When he sighs, dropping his head, it’s the sound of a key in a lock, a decision being made and accepted; despite everything, I have been dreading this moment. Finally, looking back at me, he holds out a shaking hand, and I take it solemnly in my own.

“For what it’s worth, you’re a better man than I thought, Rannoch.”

“For what it’s worth, so are you.”

He grins, a small spark of life dancing across his dying face. “What a pair we are. We would never have been friends outside of her, I think. You’re too arrogant.”

Smirking, I shrug. “Is it arrogance if it’s true? You’re too soft.”

Releasing my hand, he smiles over his shoulder, all of his happiness focused on one wraithlike girl. “Ah, well. When the people you care about are surrounded by nothing but the cold and hard, it’s a bit of an honor to provide a soft space. Something you should think about. Not for this one here, you know. But for someone else, somewhere in the future.” He coughs a little, a dry, rasp of sound that whips Wren’s head around.

“This one,” she calls, and he sighs.

“Mark the way for me, Wrenling. I’ll sit for a few and follow just behind.”

“This one,” she repeats, more insistently. Like it has for the past week or more, her voice pulls him to his feet. His shuffle forward is painful to see, and I slip an arm around him in faux comradery.

“Alright, Keeper. Lead on.” Tahrik looks at me accusingly through narrow eyes, and I shrug. “You can make it a little further, Miller. There’s life in you yet, and what I’d have to do to her to make her leave you behind would not sit well with me. So take the help, and know that I’ll keep my promise.”

Nodding, he leans against me, and we stagger forward together, deeper into the eternal night.

OUT OF THE CAVERNS

TAHRIK

It’s the sound more than anything that pulls me from my slumber. Something like music that isn’t music, a kind of burbling noise that is faintly familiar, but it’s hard to think through the piercing light, blinding even through my closed lids.

Am I…is this the Dreaming?

It’s impossible to force my eyes open; they feel like they are sewn shut, though the pain in my temples is enough to convince me that somehow I am awake, that somehow I am alive. The Gods wouldn’t create a life of struggle to follow it with this type of agony in the Dreaming. My lungs hurt, there’s a weight on my chest that feels like stone when I try to breathe, and for a brief, flickering moment, I wonder if it’s worth the effort, or if I should just let my ribs collapse into me and not force them out again.

Then I hear her voice, scratched raw and ragged, but there, and oxygen floods into me in painful, desperate waves. If she’s breathing, you are too, whether it feels like knives in your heart or not. But it takes everything in me just to exist; I have nothing left to move even a fingertip. All I can do is lay on what seems to be cool grass, head cushioned on some kind of strange fabric, and listen. Even that staggers in and out with uncertainty, words rising and falling away with a surprisingly warm wind. Wherever we are, it’s not in the caverns.

“...more than enough. Just eat. Stop protesting. You’re all walking skeletons.” I don’t recognize the man’s voice; his words have a strange lilt that tug at something in the back of my mind, but the fish slips the hook before I can catch it.

Rannoch, though, I know immediately, even if he sounds like he died days ago, and it’s just the memory of him speaking. “First to Wren. When she’s done, I’ll go back for seconds.”

“Wren is fine.” If I could smile, I would, the bite in her voice more proof than anything that she is, if not thriving, well enough.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Wren is right. Believe I’d give her everything in my pack and then some, but I can tell how much it took from you to carry that one over there. I don’t know how you did it, to be honest. You look like you can barely support your own weight.” Admiration is clear in the man’s voice — it’s a freely given compliment with no strings.

Rannoch is more reluctant in his reply. “If I hadn’t, she would have. Or she would have stayed in the caverns when he collapsed. It’s the only way I could make her keep moving forward. I was close to leaving him behind.”

He broke his promise. The thought flashes through my head quick as the beat of blood moth wings, but then a memory of blood moths and Wren twists my stomach, waves of nausea rippling through me, and I push it away.

“Somehow I doubt that,” the unknown speaker says wryly. “I think you had choices. And you made the one you could live with. It does you credit.” Silence. “In any case, we have food enough for now. And some of this won’t carry. Eat. Just eat. What good would it be to waste it? Flame, put some more on your plate so your friend here will put some more in his belly. And the broth is almost ready for the other.”

“How will we get him to drink it?” Fear tightens her words, as though a hand is clasped around her throat, and it’s enough to pull a whisper of sound from me.

“I…”

A flurry of movement, and the press of bodies.

“Don’t try to speak, Tahrik!” Her hands are cool on my face, pushing back my hair, bringing a flask to my lips. “Just drink. A little, only a little at a time. Your stomach has been empty for too long.”

It’s a pain everyone in the village knows, and even now, suddenly desperate with thirst, I force myself to swallow slowly. Pure water. Not brackish. Where are we?

Her hands are replaced by larger, warmer ones, rough with callouses. “We’re going to try some broth, friend. Water is all well and good, but it won’t help you recover, and we can’t stay here much longer.”

I know that voice. How do I know that voice?

Something heavy and savory is poured down my throat and fills my stomach.

“Slowly, friend. Slowly. Tahrik, correct?” The question clearly isn’t for me, and is

answered with a low murmur of sound. I’m already fading back to sleep when he pulls the bowl from my mouth, and only catch the end of his sentence. “...move tomorrow, though. Here, we must watch and not stay still too long. We’re not safe in the walls of your village anymore.”

Rannoch and Wren snort in unison at the comment, but I’m lost to the waking world before they answer.

This time I’m roused by a velvet soft muzzle, and it’s easier to open my eyes, the needle-sharp pain having been replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. Everything around me is quiet, other than the sweet, hay-filled breathing of the pony and the low crackling sound of a well fed fire. It takes longer than it should for me to be able to focus in the dim twilight, but as soon as the color of the sky registers, I sit up in panic. We need to get inside! Where’s Wren? The pony shies away nervously at my abrupt movement, and suddenly she’s beside me, hands grabbing my own, forcing my eyes to lock on hers.

“Tahrik!”

“Night!” It’s all I can manage, fear thick in my throat, and she makes a soft, comforting sound, almost a mother soothing a child.

“It’s alright. It’s alright! Night is different here. Everything is different here.” Something…new…is in her voice. Something I haven’t heard before — a kind of excitement or energy thrumming low, a strange, bright music dancing. It sits uneasily in my chest.

“Where…where is here?” I don’t recognize my own voice, scratchy and rough, and I wonder vaguely how long I’ve been asleep.

Behind her, a massive tree trunk of a man approaches carefully, a small, steaming bowl in his hands. “Here is the Corpse Bridge, the wet plains and low mountains between the lands of my people and those of the Lower Kingdom.”

“I know you,” I reply stupidly, and he smiles at me, friendly face open and welcoming.

“More or less, friend. We met in your village for the Trade. Or lack-there-of,” he adds sardonically under his breath. “Kaden. I’d shake your hand, but save your energy for the soup, hmm? You’ve been balanced precariously between life and death for a few days. Anything we can do to keep you on one side and not the other is worth a weight of gold to these two.” Nodding his head toward Wren, I notice Rannoch mere steps behind her.

“Not me as much,” Rannoch mutters, earning him twin, almost amused looks from Kaden and Wren.

“Of course,” she replies seriously, but there is affection warming her words in ways that make my blood cold. Trying to shove the thought to the side, I focus on Rannoch’s frowning face.

“I think I owe you a debt of sorts, Councilor,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with as much gratitude as I’m able to. “I certainly didn’t walk here on my own feet.”

He shrugs, not responding until Wren throws a little stone or nut at him, and then sighs, moving next to me and sitting almost shoulder to shoulder by my side. “I owe you an apology of sorts. I made you a promise.” His voice is flat, almost bland, and I reply in kind.

“You did.”

“As it turns out, when it came to it…I didn’t have the mettle in me to keep it.” He is staring at his hands, not looking at me.

“What promise?” Wren asks curiously, and then, when we don’t reply, more darkly, “Rann? What promise?”

Rann? Rann?

“Who can say the worth of bargains made in darkness,” Kaden interjects, drawing her attention to him, distracting her.

“That sounds like a saying?”

“It is, to my people. It’s a bit different in our language, but the meaning is the same. If we translated directly to the Common Tongue it would be more…hmmm. Something like ‘a covenant unseen by sunlight is sea fog’. Or similar. There are words we have that the Common Tongue doesn’t.”

Wren is almost wistful when she replies. “I wish I spoke another language.”

“You do,” Rannoch offers beside me, smirking. “One of bone.”

“You know what I mean,” she teases back gently, and again strange teeth gnaw at my ribs. Something happened while I was asleep that I’m missing.

“Oh, Miller, I almost forgot—” Rannoch turns to me and presses a small pouch into my hand, before getting to his feet and stretching. “Keep it close, in case of need.”

Wren shakes her head at his words. “Yes, in case you ever want useless shiny stones to hang from your neck.”

“I’ve told you they have value in other places, Keeper!” He huffs with false indignation, and she grins at him like a child.

“Enough that you thought to collect them in the tunnels while carrying us?”

“Enough that they were worth gathering. And you’ll keep them on you like I told you to. You never know when you’ll need to bargain. What is worth nothing in our lands is a treasure in others.”

“You speak and speak, but it still sounds like chickens chattering to me…” she laughs, and he growls in mock-affront.

Their back-and-forth makes me uneasy, fills the pit in my stomach with acid.

Kaden sinks to his heels in front of me, blocking them from view.

“Soup, Tahrik. For strength, as we can only stay one more night here before we need to travel. The Corpse Bridge is no place to tarry.” Dropping his voice, Kaden pushes the bowl into my hands. “Don’t be too upset at broken promises. He meant to keep it, but your little bird there was apparently distraught when your legs failed, and wouldn’t leave you. She begged him, and he had enough strength, just. So eat.”

I shouldn’t be so comforted by his response, but the thought of meaning that much to Wren — it soothes the tightness in my chest, and I put the bowl to my mouth gratefully. Rannoch and Wren have finished whatever back and forth they had, and Kaden turns from me to face them. “I’ll teach you my tongue, Wren, if you’d like.”

She’s just taken a sip from her own bowl and chokes on the liquid at his words; Kaden’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly at her response before he full out grins at her. “You said you wanted to learn another language…”

“Yes. Of course. The broth was hot. I’d appreciate that, Kaden.” She is strangely breathless. The teeth against my ribs are back.

Still grinning, he hums under his breath as he moves away from me to tend the fire. It draws my eyes up, and then up and up and up. There’s enough light left in the dying sky to still shadow the world around us, and though the land is rapidly fading from dim to dark, I can still see enough to catch my lungs in something close to panic.

“The sky⁠—”

Wren and Rannoch nod in understanding; Kaden is more puzzled.

“What?” he asks, glancing our way with a confused smile on his face.

“It’s so…so big,” I say numbly, and his brow furrows.

“It’s the sky?” He’s not judging or disdainful, just curious, and Rannoch shrugs.

“It’s more open than we’re used to,” he tries to explain. “Everything in our village is always in the shade of the mountains, in the curve of our walls. And we don’t leave. Well, not many. The Hunters go beyond the bones, but even that is rare. This much space is new for us.”

“There are mountains…” Kaden says, motioning to the sides, but they are lower, and more distant. They’re softer than the jagged, obsidian peaks of our home, curved and curling.

The three of us from the village exchange looks. It’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t grown up with the comfort of being surrounded, wrapped in the land and the city like a blanket.

“The ground is strange too,” I muse, pressing a hand into it. It gives way slightly under my fingers, the grass thick and smooth, not sharp and sparse.

“It’s called a wetland,” Wren interjects, pushing her own hands into the soil, a glimmer of a smile on her face. “There’s water just under the surface, Kaden says. The entire way along here. The land grows in colors I’ve never seen, Tahrik! Wait until morning light; your eyes will hurt from it all!” I like to see her happy, but the feel of the ground beneath me doesn’t give me the same comfort; tiny flickers of anxiety run along my skin. Something she says pushes at my brain, but I can’t figure it out. Too much is unknown.

“What’s a Corpse Bridge? That sounds fairly ominous!” I try to inject some levity into my words. It seems like Rannoch and Wren trust the Trader to some degree, but the Trade ended so badly, and there is so much that we don’t know. The more information I can get, the sooner we can form a plan, and more flies are caught with honey than vinegar. So until I find my footing, I need to smile. “And why can’t we stay here? Where are we traveling? How did we find you? How long was I out?” The questions, once started, pour from me, unable to be stoppered.

Kaden stares into the fire for enough time that I’m about to repeat myself, when he answers me. “This is our second full day here, setting into the third. But it needs to be our last. Rannoch and Wren haven’t said much about your time in the tunnels. Just that it was…for too long.” He swallows hard, eyes darting quickly to Wren and then back to the fire, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Too long by half and then some. We’re close to three weeks of time since I left your village, the second day in the Slaughter Month now.”

“Ten days then, give or take.” Shivers run through me. The rains start in the Month of the Earth; Wren sees it, as she always does, and smiles gently at me.

“It’s alright, Tahrik. Kaden says it doesn’t storm in the same way here. The rain is safe when it falls.”

When it falls, when it falls. Suddenly the buried memory of our last few moments in the village stabs me like a knife, and I fold over in pain. Surprisingly, it’s Rannoch who offers comfort. “Breathe. Breathe,” he murmurs, gripping my shoulder in joyless commiseration.

“Our people!” I choke out, and he sighs.

“I know. Put it away for now if you can. We’ll figure it out.”

“We have to go back! Sun and Earth!” Flashes of light burst in and out of existence behind my closed eyes, and I feel dizzy.

“Breathe, Tahrik. I know.”

Kaden’s voice is heavy with sympathy. “They told me of the tragedy. The avalanche and earthquake. But also that the tunnels collapsed behind you, and you couldn’t retrace your steps. You’re lucky you made it through at all; I don’t know how you managed. The caverns beneath the canyonlands are unnavigable. Enough have tried and failed that no one ever attempts it anymore. The ways crumble and shift too quickly to map it; to even think of it is a death sentence.” There is, if not accusation in his tone, at least biting curiosity that he is unable to hide. “You are lucky, beyond lucky. Blessed by the Sea and Sky, by the Gods old and new. But they exacted a price for their gift, I’d say. You came from the caves barely living, dead on your feet. We’re far enough north on the Bridge that it makes no sense to go south right now to the path that leads back to your village, if the way is even open after the rockslides.”

Poking the fire, he grabs another log and throws it on, almost as though he’s trying to distract himself. “Anyway. It makes more sense to take you to my home first; we’re close enough that the journey shouldn’t be too hard. We can heal you up there, and then decide how to proceed.”

Nodding reluctantly, I agree. “I suppose.” If we’re that near, it will give us a chance to get packs, rations, water, perhaps even mounts. And then we can go back. I won’t risk Wren’s health on a wasted desire to return more quickly, no matter how large the sky looms overhead.

“From what Wren and Rannoch have said, these coming months aren’t the time to go in any case. You don’t have the reserves to make it through, especially now, given your current state. So we have until the Month of the Maiden to make our choices.”

“The Maiden?” The words bursts from me, appalled. “No. No. That’s too long. If we load up with supplies, once we’re recovered, we could…if we take enough, we could help! The people…our homes…”

Rannoch and Wren exchange an inscrutable look, and suddenly I realize what has been tugging at my attention, what has been creeping on my skin. The way she has held their gazes, the way she’s moved without hesitation. The land grows in colors I’ve never seen…

“Wren…?” Shock sends a tremor through her name.

She looks at me and sighs, and because we are each half of the other, I know she knows what I’m asking. “Rannoch already knew, Rik.” Her use of Davvy’s nickname for me twists in my stomach.

“He…you told him?” Something close to betrayal laces my words, and I have to swallow back the sound.

“No, Miller,” he replies for her, voice tight, eyes narrow. “I knew. I’ve known for years. You’re not the only one with eyes, you know.”

And I hear what he’s saying, but more, I hear what he means, and I realize that what we have is an uneasy truce, not an alliance.

“And Kaden?”

“Ah, well. Kaden was told in a moment of panic and sworn to secrecy on blood. And complied with the…let’s call it a request…quickly and without complaining, may I add. When Wren was frantically fluttering between two unconscious men and threw caution to the wind in favor of care.” He is teasing, gentle with his response, but clearly seeing something on my face I meant to keep hidden, changes the topic. “All your other questions are answered together, Tahrik. The Corpse Bridge is a long stretch of land connecting the Lower Kingdom with mine. One side is the Canyonlands, what Wren says you call the Belows. The other side is bordered with bogs so wet and deep they suck any traveler down in a single step, trapped beneath the surface forever. There’s no way through them, for man or beast. The bogs lead to the ocean. The name — Corpse Bridge — it’s a relic from the Great Wars. So many died here, caught between the Kingdoms, that every step was nothing but bodies and blood. And the history still lives in this land; some things can’t be washed away. It’s not a safe place for anyone.” He pauses, clearly trying to choose his words carefully now. “I’m not trying to discount your experiences — any of you — but there are dangers here you can’t imagine.” Voice pitched low, Kaden glances around, shoulders tight. “You’re from a place where you look inward for threats. Or to the Gods. Here — we need our eyes up and looking out. We don’t live in the same isolation. There are daggers in the night.”

Rannoch shifts uneasily, hand dropping to the blade at his waist, and subtly steps closer to Wren. “Closer to the fire, Keeper, if you please.” It’s half a command, half an entreaty, and though she casts him a wry look, she stands gracefully and moves toward the roaring blaze.

“I was cold anyway,” she calls haughtily over her shoulder; a grin quick as lightning flashes across his face before he schools it back to a scowl. She sees it though, and has to fight against an answering smile, lips pressed tight in a thin line to belie her mirth. Their amusement is such a juxtaposition to my own emotions that it feels like a terrible pantomime, or that I’m locked outside a home, pressing my face against the window, witnessing something that I’m not a part of.

“Gallows humor.” Kaden notices my response; I am beginning to believe there isn’t much Kaden doesn’t notice, for all his smiling and friendly ways. “They were awake and aware when death was kissing their heels, Tahrik. It hasn’t been long enough since the tunnels for them to lose the drunken relief of being alive. Forgive them their joy in the moment. I know it’s strange to you right now, but you’re only just awake. It’s not that they don’t care, you understand? It’s just…you’re breathing. Your eyes are open. There is food, and light, and warmth after too many hours of…well. Just after too many hours. It’s hard for you to understand right now, but they’re not being callous. They’re just figuring things out.”

Sighing, I nod. “I feel a mile and a year behind everything.”

“Time lurches forward in strange ways. You’ll catch up.”

“So.” I shift, eyes locked on Wren and Rannoch at the fire, still trying to make sense of everything that has happened. “How did they find you?”

“Well, friend. That I can’t speak to.” He inhales deeply, almost troubled. “I consider it luck, but luck is a strange and fickle thing. I don’t trust it. When we left your village, I told Wren I’d walk slowly as long as I was able.” Ignoring my sharp intake of breath, he continues. “And I did, and then more slowly still, because my wagon snapped an axle. It was fixed, but took time. And then my horse pulled up lame. And another few days passed; I should be wholly in my lands by now, am pressing every bit of luck I have left to my name. Initially three of my friends stayed with me; the rest progressed without us.” Taking a long sip from his bowl, Kaden shakes his head ruefully. “We’re not a people who suffer delays easily, and are held tight to our…commitments. We were expected back at our home in a certain timeframe; any change to that outside of a prescribed limit wouldn’t have been welcome. But, just before Wren and Rannoch limped from a cave mouth I could barely see, one of my friends got sick. And then a second. The third had no choice — he’s better with herbs and tinctures than I am. Had I been the lead, we all would have ended up unintentionally poisoned. So we put them in my wagon, he took the reins and left, and I started collapsing camp, meaning to follow on immediately behind him. Instead, here I find myself, still on the Corpse Bridge, in the company of people I thought I’d never see again. And another three days off schedule.”

“Will it cause you trouble?” I ask curiously, and am answered with a roar of laughter that catches Rannoch and Wren’s attention.

“Oh..oh..oh…” He’s laughing so hard now there are tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. “Will it cause me trouble?” he asks, voice trembling in almost manic amusement. “Yes. I suppose you could say that. It just might.”

“What’s so funny?” Wren calls, and he shakes his head, grinning broadly.

“Your friend, Flame, and his questions.” Turning to me, he takes my wrist in his calloused grip and pulls me to my feet. “Come now, Tahrik. Time enough for talking tomorrow. We’ll all bed around the fire, and then pack in the morning.”

Stumbling forward on weak legs, I try to keep myself upright. “Are there tents?”

“No. They take too long to set up and put down, and if we need to move quickly…” He lets his voice trail off, but I understand. “There’s a bedroll for you there, though, and Rannoch and I will switch the watch. When you’re recovered, you can work in, but it will do no one any good for you to take a spell now.”

“I can take watch,” Wren mutters stubbornly under her breath, clearly playing the string of an argument that has been plucked before. Both men sigh, but it’s Rannoch who answers, surprisingly placatingly.

“You absolutely can, Keeper. No one doubts that.”

“Then work me in.”

He stares at her through dark eyes, considering, before pitching his voice very low. “I would, Wren. But the strain of being away from the bones has⁠—”

“Alright, Rannoch,” she snaps hurriedly, eyes darting from him, to Kaden, then to me. “Alright.”

Kaden glances between them, and chooses to ignore the exchange. “So. Sleep now. Get what you can. There’s hard travel ahead, I’m sorry to say. But we’re not far from the edge of my lands if we push. And then can slow our pace.”

We settle in around the glowing circle — Wren between me and Rannoch, Kaden at the far side, sitting upright on a stump, body tightening from easy camaraderie to alert caution. The air around us seems alive in strange ways, the sounds of the night here filled and foreign; in our village night is silent, and the noise of this new place presses against my ears. Beside me, Wren’s breathing steadies and slows, echoed a short time later by Rannoch. But the vastness of the sky above me and the softness of the ground below me are suffocating, keeping sleep from my exhausted body.

Everything in me is straining, crying out for the village, for my hearth and home, my friends and family. Everything except an unending, aching longing that finally falls quiet at the inhale and exhale of a goddess beside me, and I drift to sleep on the lullaby of her breath.

It is enough. For now, it is enough.

SECRETS AND STARDUST

KADEN

We’re not moving quickly enough, but it’s impossible to speed up with the Miller right now, even though he’s slowly regaining his strength. I honestly thought he wouldn’t make it when they first came from the cave mouth like skeletons lurching from a tomb. I don’t know how Rannoch carried him as far as he did; the man’s willpower scares and impresses me. Sea and Sky know he didn’t have anything pushing him on but a pair of moon-white eyes; the relief on his face when he saw me running toward him was almost painful.

“Trader?” He could barely speak, eyes sunk so deep in their sockets he looked hollow.

“Councilman?” I’m sure I sounded stunned, but he’d appeared from almost nowhere. The land he stumbled up bowed down to a natural arch of stone covered by long, sweeping grasses. Nothing about it drew attention, nothing looked like a place a man would walk out of. Especially not one who should be weeks behind me, not steps in front of me. I recognized him from our last day in the village; he’d been one of the few to try and preserve the Trade the day everything had fallen to pieces. “What?”

Without responding, he dropped a man at my feet, muscles trembling with effort, then turned, went back to the almost non-existent opening in the ground, and disappeared briefly. A moment later he emerged again, this time leading my Flame by the hand.

All oxygen left the world the moment I saw her, bones sharp as knives over cavernous shadows where the curves of her cheeks used to be.

“Kaden?” Her voice was stronger than his, but if she was a phantom before, she was a wraith now, almost translucent. He led her to me, staying in front of her as though to protect her. She’d lifted a small, shaking hand to his shoulder, light as a fallen leaf; he turned to her as though she had weighed him down with armor. “Rann. He’s safe.”

Turning back to me, he inhaled slowly before speaking. “Are you?” It was obvious it was all he could manage, but even then one hand was at the blade on his belt, the other held protectively in front of Wren.

“I am,” I replied seriously, locking eyes with him. “I’ll take the watch now. You have my word.”

And on the exhale, his eyes rolled in the back of his head, and he collapsed next to the other lying stone still on the ground. A short scream of sound burst from Wren, a kind of panicked keening, before she cut it off, swallowing it down. The memory of it still crawls on my skin at night.

Trying to be surreptitious, I glance over to where Wren is walking quietly next to Tahrik. She’s been very careful with him since he woke, fluttering over him like a mother hen, and he’s tolerated it with a sort of amused patience. They have a strange way with each other, all at once comfortable and awkward, and it’s an odd thing to see.

There’s no denying Wren gravitates toward him, and I can tell it irks Rannoch as much as it bothers me. It shouldn’t…I shouldn’t let it. It’s not the way of our people to let that sort of thing be a hindrance. We are more focused on the whole than the individual, on group harmony and a kind of collective cooperation. It’s a far cry from the People of the Bone. We’re governed by different laws. If a Carving shows a future that diverges from your present, well…There is no arguing with it. So families are as changeable as the tides in my home; some are small pools, some branched rivers, some oceans. But if Wren opened her cottage door to Rannoch and myself and invited us both to stay, it wouldn’t be unusual.

There’s little chance of that happening though, at least, not any time soon. I don’t know what I was thinking would happen if I saw her again, maybe that she’d fall into my arms and we’d pick up where we’d left off, begin the dance we’d started when the night played its own music for us, but too much road has been traveled in too short a time, and stronger blooms have been killed by weaker Storms. The first night we were together again, when the two men were laying still as corpses near the roaring fire, I’d sat as close to her as I dared, but her shoulders were curved in with exhaustion, her face grey, unable to even turn her head towards me. And I knew, knew it before that really, that the tiny glimpses I’d been gifted of a teasing, tripping girl were sparks from banked embers. That it would take breathing space, and restraint, and care to tend that hearth. Too quick and the coals would snuff out.

I fail at many, many things. Too many to count really.

But I am a patient man. A very patient man.

And I’m good at building lasting fires.

So, we wait. And take the quiet moments, the brief flickers from the coals, the hints of glowing heat within. It’s easy for now; she’s too tired for anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. Glancing back at her again, I can’t help but sigh seeing Tahrik stumble over his feet for the third time in as many minutes. It’s time to break. Again. Forcing myself to remember that the reason he is so weak is because he gave everything for Wren to survive, I slow our pace more; the anxiety riding my back, urging me forward, isn’t the Miller’s fault, and it would be unfair to blame him for my own disquiet. Rannoch told me the second night, when he’d finally woken from a near comatose sleep with a start, surging to his feet, dagger out, calling for Wren. It was only when he saw her face that his breathing slowed, that the wildness drained from it, and he collapsed back next to the fire.

“I thought…” he said, desperation and desolation clear in his voice. “I thought…”

“I know.”

Even as exhausted as he was, the panic wouldn’t let him sleep, so we’d sat through a long, deep night together, the inky black around us pulling secrets from his soul that he would never have let slip at any other time. The choice to leave the village behind him. The feel of the damp stone beneath his aching feet. The sounds of the tunnels breathing as though alive. The moment Tahrik fell. How he didn’t think he could take another step. When they ran out of food. Worse still, when they ran out of water. The only word he didn’t breathe was Wren’s name, and I knew better, even then, than to ask. It’s strange the friendships that are forged in the darkest hours.

“Rann—” I call out, and he whips around immediately, tense and alert. Jerking my head once toward the two lagging behind me, I point to a small copse of trees. He nods in understanding, changing his path.

Wren glances up when Rannoch walks to the woods, trailing his movements. And Tahrik watches her, studying her blank face, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. It’s the way things have been the past few days. Every time Wren looks at Rannoch or me, she puts on her masque, emptying her expression to a sort of placid nothingness. I’m not sure who she’s trying to protect — Tahrik or herself.

Checking the height of the sun in the sky, I debate if we have enough time in the day for a little more travel, or if we should just stay here. Tahrik is trembling, but to his credit, hasn’t complained, or made any sort of indication he had to stop. As long as Wren is beside him, he trudges forward. I need to be more generous in my thoughts. It’s not his fault I’m so far off course, not his fault I’m still on the Corpse Bridge, a week or more out from the border of my lands. Less if I just left them and rode ahead, though my horse’s hoof is still tender and won’t hold up to hard or long riding. Even Tahrik can only be on its back for an hour or two a day before it starts limping again.

It would be impossible anyway. Wren’s drinking from a flask now, and the smooth, white column of her throat is a siren’s call. I left her once; I can’t imagine anything short of death would pull me from her a second time, and even then there would be some debate.

BoneKeeper.

“Should we stop here for the night?” I ask as I approach the weary group.

Surprisingly, it’s Tahrik who answers ruefully. “I know it’s for me, Trader. I can go a bit further. You mentioned wanting to get as far as the low boulders in front of the mountains. How far on is that?”

Grimacing, I shake my head. “Too far, Tahrik, but we’ve made better time today. It does no one any good to walk your feet to stumps.”

“A bit further, then, anyway,” he replies, a tired smile on his face. “I’m stronger than I seem.”

For the first time, Wren looks discomforted, as though she’s about to say something, putting me instantly on alert. “What? What’s wrong?” My words come in strange echo; I can’t help but shoot a quick grin at Rannoch whose voice overlapped mine. “Mirror mirror!” I don’t mean to say it, but the patterns of childhood run deep sometimes.

He cocks his head, looking confused. “What?”

“It’s a children’s game in our land.” I’m strangely embarrassed suddenly, rubbing the back of my neck with a hand. “It, ah, when you say a thing at the same time, whoever calls out ‘mirror, mirror’ first wins. The other doesn’t get to speak until you say their name.”

Wren’s lips twitch, her masque slipping, and then fully smiles, dawn breaking across her face in such exquisite light it’s impossible to look anywhere else. “Rannoch can’t…can’t speak now? Until you say his name?”

Nodding, I rely as somberly as I’m able, willing to do anything to keep the curl of her mouth. “He can’t. Those are the rules.”

Trying and failing to mimic my serious expression, she turns to Rann, who drinks her in like water, unable to completely bury the longing on his face. “No speaking then. This will be a god-like task for you. Oh! What’s the penalty if he loses?”

“A favor to the winner…” It’s not; there’s no real penalty, just merciless teasing. I think maybe Rannoch knows I’m lying; he levels a dark glance at me, but still doesn’t speak.

Beautifully, unexpectedly, a trill of laughter pours from her, a birdsong, a promise of summer, and I drink it in, smiling from her gift of joy.

“Oh!” she gasps, almost giggling, little chirps of hiccuping sound. “Oh, well. That seems fair! We should respect the customs of your land, Kaden. If he speaks, he’ll owe you a favor.”

Rannoch huffs, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms dramatically with a humor I truly didn’t know the stoic man possessed, and even Tahrik joins in, though he’s interacted with us minimally so far.

“The power you hold now, Kaden. Use it well. You could make him carry your pack for a week.”

“Or do your laundry!”

“Or rub your feet!”

They go back and forth like children, each suggestion more and more outlandish, until, “Or sing to you!”

“It won’t be a favor to hear me sing,” Rannoch warns in a serious tone.

“You broke the mirror! And now I demand a favor. Sing me a song, Councilor!”

Groaning, Rannoch buries his face in his hands, then sits up straight and stares at me, expression hard. “You asked for it.”

Briefly, beside me, I hear Wren whisper to Tahrik, “Have you ever heard him sing?” but his answer is lost in the most ear-shattering noise I have ever heard in my life, somehow toneless and completely dissonant at the same time.

Round the bend, round the bend

First and middle, then the end

Goose and duck, goose and duck

Pick one or you’re out of luck

Fire’s red, fire’s blue

Run the circle, I chooooooose YOU!

“You can’t be serious.” Tahrik sounds honestly stunned, then covers his mouth as though he could force the words back in, and Wren is almost cackling with laughter, wrapping her arms around her ribs.

“Oh, oh, oh…it hurts! Oh! Rann! I’m sorry…I shouldn’t…but oh!” Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears of amusement, cheeks scrunched tight.

“What….ah….what was that?” I ask him carefully, trying not to add to his clear embarrassment, his normally pale face flushed red.

“I told you it wouldn’t be a favor,” he mutters shrugging, and I can’t help but feel for him.

“I meant the song. The singing was…um…fine. Good man. Paid the favor right away. Sign of character.” I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, Wren’s laughter is so distracting.

“It’s a game from our home,” Tahrik answers for him, smiling. “The children play it. They sit in a circle and one walks around, taps their heads, then picks one to chase. All the rings do it. It gets surprisingly competitive. The winner keeps the circle crown until the next game — quite an honor in the schoolyard. Bragging rights for days, or at least until the next time they play.” He and Rannoch exchange amused, knowing looks.

Turning to Wren, I raise a teasing eyebrow. “I can just see you, flying around the circle, tackling your prey. Was it your favorite?”

I don’t know what I’ve said wrong, but the laughter drains from her like water from a cup, all the colors of the world fading to black and white. Her attempt to keep smiling when she answers cracks something in my heart.

“No. I didn’t really play games, as such.” She’s still smiling, but it trembles, and she stares fixedly at the ground, shoulders curled in.

Rannoch and Tahrik have also fallen silent, then, as one, start moving busily, pointlessly, adjusting their packs, filling the empty space with meaningless words.

“Are we walking on?” Tahrik tightens the straps on his bedroll, shifting it in front of him.

“Not too long until night,” Rannoch answers, but glances my way to confirm.

“We can do another hour or two,” I reply uneasily, and both immediately rise.

“Come, Keeper,” Rannoch stands over her, hand outstretched, voice tellingly soft. “A little further, and I’ll sing to you to keep your steps light.”

Her wobbly smile smooths, and she raises her face to his. “Am I to be punished the whole way? At least tell me my transgressions so I can ask forgiveness and escape my fate.”

He huffs, mock affronted, and Tahrik steps beside him, shoulder to shoulder, also holding out his hand. “I’ll sing to you, Wren. Sun and Earth, and I’m sorry Rannoch, but no one deserves…I mean…Well.”

They grin at each other, the camaraderie surprising after the last few days, but I suppose a common goal weaves disparate cloth together, and Rannoch nods. “Alright, Miller. I suppose.”

Wren reaches up with both hands and lets the men pull her to her feet. “Will you sing any request, Rik?” she asks, and the way he looks at her lets anyone with eyes know that he would run his voice bloody to fill her days with music, but he answers teasingly.

“Any but Run the Circle. I don’t think I could compare with Rannoch’s performance, and wouldn’t like to try.”

His reply is enough to draw a small laugh from her, and they head toward the low hills together, his truly glorious voice filling the space around us.

Oh her eyes are like diamonds,

Her hair is spun gold…

The three walk away from me, and suddenly I’m on the outside. Trying not to let it bother me, I grab my horse’s reins, clucking to it softly. Time and tide shift relentlessly, I remind myself. I may be steps behind today, but tomorrow I might be a league ahead. Still, my pack feels unusually heavy as I trudge forward.

“Trader!” Rannoch has stopped, looking back over his shoulder at me. “Hurry your feet and join up, or I’ll serenade you.” He’s frowning, as though he’s chastising me for lagging behind, but I can hear the amusement lacing his words. Wren’s face turn up towards his with cautious affection.

“It’s not my fault you’ve left me with all the work, Councilor,” I call back in the same tone, and he grins briefly, a quick flash.

“A question for you — what’s that animal you’re leading?”

Tilting my head, I wonder if the man has taken ill or had a spell. “My…horse?” I answer cautiously, only to hear him yell, “Horse! Mirror mirror!” triumphantly at the exact same time. Wren and Tahrik’s laughter pull me forward and into the fold, and I welcome it, pushing aside the thought of what will happen when we finally cross into my homeland. Time and tide, I think. Time and tide.

All things shift with time.

CHANGING WINDS

WREN

“Bring me the water, will you Wren?” Kaden calls from the fire, and I shift my weary body to help, when Tahrik settles a hand on my shoulder, pushing me gently back down.

“Rest. I’ll do it.” He’s frowning at Kaden, shaking his head in quiet disapproval.

“What?” Kaden asks, usually cheerful face tense, though he’s trying to hide it.

“You shouldn’t ask her to do such things,” Tahrik replies tightly.

“What things?”

“Carrying buckets, cleaning up after the horse, the washing…” Tahrik glances at me, then back at Kaden, who simultaneously looks puzzled and frustrated.

“She’s fully capable, Miller. We all do it as well.”

“She shouldn’t have to, Trader.”

The past two days have been like this as food has become more scarce and the weather has gotten colder. All of the laughter from the wetlands and the low hills was left behind as we approached the denser forest and higher mountains — still nothing like those from our village, but less curved and more jagged than the soft, grassy mounds at our heels. Kaden has been trying to hide his worry, but I’ve heard him speak with Rannoch in low tones by the fire late at night. Apparently this area should have more game, more fruiting trees and nuts, more vegetation available. It’s why the Traders don’t pack as much dry food when they travel; their lands provide for them, and they’ve become used to the luxury of abundant woods. I think he feels personally responsible for our growling stomachs, though it’s not as bad as he’s making it seem. We still have enough, even if it’s only just. It’s scant, but we go to bed at night without hunger gnawing in our bellies.

“I’m happy to help,” I offer quietly, trying to smooth their bristling backs, but it’s only wood on the flame.

“See?” Kaden snaps; Tahrik ignores him, turning to me, forcing a placating smile.

“I know you are, Wrenling. You just shouldn’t have to.”

“It’s not about having to or not having to, Rik. I’m part of this. So⁠—”

“You’re the BoneKeeper,” he bites out quietly, interrupting me, then glances over his shoulder at Kaden, who has fallen silent and is focusing on the pot of simmering stew in front of him. “You’re not supposed to be doing menial tasks.”

“Not here, Tahrik,” I reply, unable to keep a little frustration from my voice. “Here I am just a girl. Just Wren. And here I can use my hands for things other than Guiding. I want to use my hands for things other than Guiding.”

I can tell how unhappy he is with my answer, and get to my feet in a sudden, swift motion. I’m sick of this argument. As he’s gotten stronger, he has been more protective of me, more concerned. And I appreciate it — of course I appreciate it. But it doesn’t give me space to breathe sometimes.

“I’m going to take a minute,” I call, voice louder than I intend it, but all three men just nod and turn to their own tasks. At this point they’re used to me stepping away into the heavy woods, as long as I stay within shouting distance. Tahrik passes me a flask in silent apology, fingers lingering on my own as I take it; I squeeze his hand gently in quiet forgiveness. We’re all tired edges fraying, each for our own reasons, and it does no good to hold onto these bursts of passing emotion.

Kaden is bent under the weight of responsibility, keeping us three wobbly foals safe. He’s used to the long hikes, the nights spent sleeping on hard ground, the vastness of this trip, but Tahrik and myself aren’t, and spend most of our time stumbling after him, muscles used to the rigors of our village, not the demands of long travel. Even Rannoch, who has ventured out with the Hunters, is sore and weary in the mornings. It’s a relentless pattern — we wake, we walk, we sleep. And between it all, he finds food and water, leads the way and the watch. All while still smiling, even if it has become more and more strained.

Rannoch is physically drained, the time in the tunnels finally catching up with him. He needs rest, real rest, but is stronger still than Tahrik, so ignores the growing demands of his body in order to help Kaden. There’s also a sorrow that clings to him like spiderwebs. I asked him about it, as gently as I was able one morning when the air was still heavy with chill from the night and mist was thick around the camp hiding even those closest to me from view. I’d woken early and thought to stoke the fire, but he was already there, staring numbly into the embers. He sighed, and shrugged, then replied softly, “The choices we make can be the right ones, Keeper, but still hard to bear the weight of.” He said nothing else, and I didn’t feel it was my place to press him.

Tahrik — well. Tahrik is trying. Desperately. But the newness of the land, the travel, even the air here is hard for him. He’s constantly shooting anxious glances at the sky as we walk, quick, darting looks laced with fear. It’s eased slightly as we’ve gotten closer to the mountains, but during the time we were surrounded by nothing but the long, open stretches of wetland, seemingly endless from our feet to the horizon…he’d struggled. Even now I can hear his rapid breathing at night as he desperately tries to fall asleep, quick, panicked pants he attempts to swallow the sounds of in the quiet of the camp. The field of stars that covers us in a vast expanse of darkness that’s so fascinating and alluring to me is, to Tahrik, a suffocating blanket pressing down on him. He doesn’t complain, smiles sweetly at me, fills my days with song, makes me laugh with gentle teasing…but his eyes are always wide, his breath always shallow. And I worry for him.

The woods are cool and heavy here — lovely, strange trees that hang down in sweeping curtains of leaves next to ones like our pines, but thicker, their needles carpeting the floor of the forest beneath my feet. Deeper and deeper I walk, until the rustling din of the camp is lost behind me in the swishing, whispering branches. It’s so curious, the way this place is empty and full of noise all at once; without the bones, there is room for so much sound.

I see, Lorcan murmurs wryly from my back, drawing a smile to my face immediately. Clearly I talk too much, deafening you with my chatter.

“Clearly,” I reply quietly, but out loud. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, when it is just the two of us, I can hear him as though he were across from me, can almost picture him sitting in front of me, just a featureless shadow and shape, but still a man instead of bone.

I feel fine today, Little Keeper. No need for anointing.

“It’s useless, Protector. You know it’s useless.”

We’ve had this back and forth so many times since we left the village that it’s a play, and we know our parts by heart. He protests, I don’t accept it, I anoint him, and we move on.

You’re incredibly frustrating, do you know that, Wren?

His response is an unexpected divergence from our script, startling a laugh from me, an embarrassing snort of amusement, and I clap a hand over my mouth to try and swallow the sound.

Don’t do that. His voice is oddly strained. Don’t. You…you have a nice laugh.

My cheeks warm; I can’t help but grin at the words. “Careful, Lorcan. I’ll begin to think you like me. You’re supposed to say something like, ‘you’re being incautious, Little Keeper. A rabid wolf might attack if it hears you’...” I deepen my tone when mimicking him, and he laughs, sending a shiver down the skin of my back.

THAT’S what I sound like to you?

“Something close. Something like, oh, mumble mumble don’t anoint me, mumble mumble stop being foolish, mumble mumble make good choices.” I love Lorcan when he’s in this mood.

You’re ridiculous, he replies, tone affronted, and I laugh again. He pauses, then says reluctantly, You are being incautious though.

“Oh, Lorcan,” I groan, eyes still closed. “Really? Not today, please.” He doesn’t answer, and I sigh, mirth fading. “We’re not seriously having this discussion again.”

I’d do anything not to ruin this peace for you, Little Keeper. You get such a scarce amount these days. But we need to talk about this.

“We don’t.” And now I’m firm, almost angry, opening my eyes, the little dream of him and me sitting together dissolving in the speckled light of the small clearing.

We do, Wren. We do. Or the time will come and go, and we’ll miss it altogether.

He’s right, I know he’s right, but we’re not there yet. Not yet.

Since the day we were swallowed by the Earth, things have been…strange…with him. When I woke in the tunnels with Rannoch and Tahrik, Lorcan was coated in my blood, bright and crackling with chaotic energy. He was a shout of sound, dragging me from my stupor, and I’d come to consciousness in a rush, cradled in Rannoch’s arms as he moved as quickly as he could through a pressing darkness. One of Rannoch’s hands was wrapped over my own, keeping my crimson fingers clasped tightly, purposefully, over the tangle of Lorcan’s bones. I can tell Lorcan is thinking of the same thing, and our overlapping memories briefly engulf me.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Tahrik is hidden somewhere in the swallowing night, tense and worried. But it’s the fear in Rannoch’s answer that clenches my lungs.

“Just forward, Miller. I don’t know what else to do!” He sounds helpless. “The walls are collapsing behind us. It does no good to stop!”

Stumbling through damp, black hallways made of stone, Rannoch does his best to keep me from scraping the walls, but they curve around us so closely they’re like a second skin. Everything is nebulous; I drift in and out of consciousness, Lorcan pulling me one way, a numb stupor drawing me the other.

“I’ll take her,” Tahrik offers at some point from behind Rannoch, and I feel him tense before reluctantly turning to pass me over.

“Keep her hand on her necklace,” he cautions darkly, and though I can hear Tahrik mutter something in reply, when he holds me, he leaves my hand laying loosely on Lorcan’s bones.

“I mean it, Miller,” Rannoch snaps. “Or I’ll take her and abandon you to yourself in these Godforsaken tunnels.” Tahrik’s fingers flex around mine, and Rannoch turns away. “This way,” he says, and I fade away again.

When I finally woke, Lorcan was…needing. Since the first of the Harvest, an anointing that used to last a month became barely enough for a week, and then five days. Now…it has only been two since I last painted him, and even still I can feel him dimming. Not enough to call for a full anointing, but too much for the little time that has passed.

This can’t go on forever, Wren. He’s reluctant, but more worrying, he’s trying to be comforting, to be gentle with me.

“Unfortunately for you, Protector, you have no say in the matter.” Grim determination darkens every word, and I know he hears it.

Little Keeper, He’s frustrated now, almost angry. I know he feels helpless. I know how it feels to have your will ignored, to be forced into a cage not of your own making, but I can’t lose him.

My voice is thick with tears when I answer, snapping at him, trying to command him, but there’s too much desperation in my words to take them for anything other than a plea. “No, Lorcan. I’ve told you before. And if you keep fighting me, I’ll slice a line down my spine and sew you into my skin against my own bones.”

There is silence, and more silence.

Alright, Wren, he sighs finally, but I’m not foolish enough to think I’ve won anything. Alright. We’ll go a little while longer. But you cannot bleed for me daily. I don’t think either of us would survive it.

And it might be true, what he’s saying, but it’s not a thought for this moment. Not yet.

“Will you tell me a story?” I ask, feeling drained and hollow where only moments before I was full of laughter. His answer is hesitant, and carves out deeper holes in my chest.

I’m sorry, Little Keeper. I think…I think it best if I preserve my energy.

“Then I’ll tell you one,” I whisper. He smiles on my skin.

That would be a nice change, you demanding creature, he teases, almost tenderly, and I try to ignore the fear that is pulsing so strongly in my veins that it’s changing the rhythm of my heart.

“Once there was a girl who had a pet bear, and the bear was old, and grouchy, and overbearing…oh, did I mention old…”

Lorcan’s huff of laughter pulls a shadow of a smile from my trembling lips. Closing my eyes again, I settle back more deeply against the tree.

“The bear was nothing but trouble…”

Not yet. Not yet.

OF FORTUNES AND FUTURES

RANNOCH

“Rann!” Silas’s panicked voice pulls me from dark dreams of cracked mountains and angry Gods, and I sit bolt upright, fear coursing through me like lightning, only to realize it’s just a memory. Only a memory, but one that has left me cold and shaking, a clammy sweat coating my skin like oil. There’s no going back to sleep tonight. Sighing, I stand slowly, stretching sore muscles unused to the punishment I’ve inflicted on them in the past few weeks. Two? Three? I don’t know at this point — time is passing in strange, stuttering ways, where days are months long, but hours only minutes.

From across the dim firepit, Kaden is staring at me, giving me time to sort myself before he calls to me quietly so as not to wake Wren or Tahrik. “Poor dreams?”

“You could say that. It’s fine, though.” I make my voice as wry and humorous as possible, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me.

“We’re in a strange place here, friend.” He’s trying to be comforting, but what comfort can be offered to someone who left their people behind where a surging Earth and scourging sky flayed the people’s skin from bones and ate them alive, no souls Guided home. “The Corpse Bridge is hard even on peaceful minds. Too much blood has been spilled here for there to be no echo of death and destruction, however pretty the trees. However pure the water, as you’d say, right?”

I can’t help but smile reluctantly at his words. We’ve been talking as we’ve traveled, exchanging stories from our past — always cautiously, never ones that expose much beyond what is already known, but he’s a quick study, however much he likes to pretend to be otherwise. He’s especially good at language, picking up our idioms and adopting them as his own, though he never uses them quite right. I suspect it’s because Wren grins every time he uses one just slightly incorrectly. He’s always gently self-deprecating afterwards, which somehow convinces her to talk him through the correct way to use the phrase. It makes her curiously happy, so I’ve studiously ignored the deadpan winks he’s given me when she leans toward him to teach him. Her laughter is coming more easily these days, and I’d pay a higher price for it than the smug face of a frustratingly friendly Trader.

“You know it’s right. No use in pretending when Wren’s asleep,” I say wryly.

His grin is clear even in the faint light cast by the embers. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

There’s a long pause, long enough that the sound of the fire fills the spaces around us, and then, very softly, “Are you okay, though, Rann?”

The darkness invites confidences that daylight would hide. “I…I don’t know. I am, as much as I’m able to be. What we left…” My voice trails off, and I shrug. “But I’d make the same decision again, and that’s some comfort, I guess. I don’t regret where I’m going. Only what I had to leave behind.”

“And that one?” He nods toward Tahrik; I didn’t need the prompt though. Wren’s fascinated with every step of our journey, empty eyes drinking in everything around us, every minute of the day. Even the way she moves, despite being sore and tired, is strangely light, as though a physical weight has been lifted from her. And I suppose in a way it has, though it’s one I’ll never understand or appreciate. Her shoulders still curl in with fear at times, of course, her face blanks and closes at others. You can’t shed a skin that was sewn to you every day for years in the space of a heartbeat, but when I watch her breathe deeply in a way I’ve never seen before, it makes me fiercely glad I jumped after her.

Tahrik, though… “He’s trying, Trader.” He’s one of my people; I won’t disparage him to someone who doesn’t know the heart of our village.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, Rann. That’s one thing I don’t doubt. He’s making every effort, I think. But he’s struggling with the space here.” Then, more cautiously, “And with the changes in the way…the way a flower is blooming, without surrounding weeds. I don’t mean offense.” He is being very deliberate with his words, with his footing, and I appreciate his attempts.

Nodding, I sit heavily on the ground next to him. “You have to understand our village, I suppose, to know what he’s going through. He’s never left there. Never on a hunt, even, so everywhere he walked was inside a wall. It felt like an embrace, a comfort. Not to speak for him, but…” Trying to think of how to explain it, I shrug, almost helplessly. “I know you didn’t see much of it, Kaden. And what you did was a poor representation in many ways. But for all its faults, there was music, and laughter. And love. Our Council is not our people, our history not our whole. I’ve tried to remember that, to hold it close in hard times. But Tahrik, I don’t think he needed as many reminders.”

Sighing, I stare at the dirt, attempting to find honest words for our home, and for the Miller. “I didn’t know him there, but it was impossible not to know of him. He was requested at every celebration for music, was invited to every table at our festivals. I am beginning to wonder if I haven’t given him enough credit, if in my…envy, perhaps… I’ve overlooked how hard this all must be for him. He loved and was loved there in a way that I don’t entirely understand. And to leave the comfort of that, to come to this…” My voice trails off as I consider what Tahrik has been keeping quiet.

“It’s funny.” Kaden drops his voice, and I cock my head curiously in response. “When I was there, I felt so trapped.” Rushing to explain, he holds his hands up, clearly trying to stall any offense, though I wouldn’t argue with him about that anyway. “It’s not meant to provoke you, please understand.” Shaking his head, he exhales sharply. “Sea and Sky know I put my foot in my mouth often enough with Wren at the start. I don’t want to travel the same road with you. But it just felt like relentless pressure against my eyes, my ears, my chest. I couldn’t take a full breath until we left.”

“I imagine that’s how Tahrik feels, just in reverse.”

“He cares for her deeply.” The comment is a thread dangling; to pull on it would unwind an entire cloth. So I’m careful in my reply.

“He does.”

“Did you know? In the village?”

“It wouldn’t have been safe for him if anyone knew, I think. Either of them.”

“Mmm.”

“Just so.”

He’s even more hesitant now, like he’s carrying a pane of paperthin glass. “Do you think they had an understanding?”

“I don’t know. I…I haven’t asked.”

“Did she…did she leave anyone behind her?”

“We all left people behind us, Trader.” There’s so much sorrow in my words that he puts a hand on my shoulder and leaves the rest to silence, even though I know there are more questions filling his mouth.

“I’d sing to you to comfort you, friend, but I’m afraid next to that one, my voice would be a dying sheep. Never as bad as you though.”

His teasing is enough to shake a little of the sadness shadowing me. “Go to bed. We’re close to morning, and you said we still have a long way to go?”

He nods, now serious. “Longer than I’d like, in any case. And into areas I haven’t traveled, though I know the land enough to see us safe.” He sighs. “I don’t think sleep is coming for me tonight, though.”

Yesterday had been a blow to Kaden. The path the Traders follow through the mountains to the borders of their lands, straight and solid from the Corpse Bridge to his home, runs between two mountainous ranges, a little cut-through providing relief from climbing rough cliffs. The closer we’d gotten to it the more clear relief had been on his face, the strain of the past weeks draining away. But as we approached, there was a strange roaring sound, one I’d never heard before but which Kaden clearly recognized, and his shoulders collapsed, cheerful face folding in near desperation.

“We’re too late.” His words were ominous. Tahrik looked almost numb with terror, and Kaden straightened immediately, shaking off the gloom that had briefly covered him. “It’s alright, Tahrik. I’m being dramatic. The path is flooded now, it’s not safe to travel. Even if it dries, there’s no guarantee that more water won’t pour down from the source, and we’d get caught in mudslides or washed away. We’ll have to go around.”

“Can I see?” Wren replied, curiosity clear in her voice, and Kaden wasted a morning of travel to walk her carefully up to the mouth of the path, where brown, churning water rushed over stones and carried small branches and leaves at quick speeds past the jagged curves of the path. I’d never seen anything like the violence in the water; we are used to land, or mountain, or sky heaving and seething, but the chaos in the water was something foreign and frightening. In rare accord, Tahrik and I had exchanged anxious glances, but Wren, who I thought would be petrified, was wide-eyed and wondering, holding tightly onto a rock with one hand, leaning over the surging river as far as she could, close enough that spray wet her cheeks.

“Careful,” Kaden cautioned quietly, but there was something in his eyes as he looked at her, at the wildness of her expression, that was a pit in my stomach. He wasn’t as surprised as Tahrik and myself at her response, didn’t leap forward as Tahrik did to try and pull her back. He simply watched as though he’d expected the tentative joy blooming on her face, the curling of her lips as the water tumbled past us.

“It’s amazing,” she whispered, and he smiled in a strangely satisfied way at her words. “I’m alright, Tahrik. I’m alright.” But she’d accepted his hand, let herself be drawn back from the edge, casting a longing look over her shoulder as he led her away. Kaden trailed them with his gaze, eyes narrowed, then glanced at me, brow raised in a silent question I studiously ignored.

So here we are, off the path in more ways than one, traveling lands none of the four of us have set foot on, and everything is changing, leaving me struggling to keep up. Kaden is still staring into the fire, a companionable silence growing between us, until he inhales deeply, low and slow.

“Can I ask you a question, Rannoch?”

Something in the way he says it, some reluctant hesitation, causes my hackles to rise, but I keep my voice level. “You’re always free to ask.”

“Though you may not answer?” he replies, clearly rhetorically, but continues anyway. “Her necklace…”

“No.”

“Rann, I⁠—”

“No.”

“Why don’t I tell you what I know, and then you can decide.” He’s tense now, not quite belligerent, but his jaw is tight, muscles flexing against his clenched teeth. “It’s clearly important to her. There’s something about it… It’s obviously very different than her bracelets⁠—”

Different than her bracelets? I don’t know what I expected him to say, but not that.

“You didn’t know? You can’t tell? She doesn’t talk to them in the same way. She doesn’t really talk to them at all. Though I don’t know what that means.”

It’s impossible to process what he’s saying for so many reasons. “Ta—talk to them?” The stuttered words aren’t a response at all.

He almost laughs, more a tired huff of sound than anything else. “I’m not blind, Councilor. Though you must be if you can’t see the difference between her bracelets and her necklace.”

Nothing seems safe to say, so I don’t reply, but a chill skirts my skin that has nothing to do with the darkness. How carefully does he watch her? How much does he know? What is safe to say? I wish Silas were here.

“Let’s try another way. If I am put in a position where I have to save one and not the other, what do I do? How hard do I try to protect them all if it comes down to it? What choice should I make? Do they serve different purposes? It’s clear the necklace is more important to her, but which is more necessary? If you and Tahrik aren’t there, I should know what is vital to her survival, Rann.”

The question forces a response from me. Eyes narrow now, almost suspicious, I study him. “Where would I be but at her side, Trader.” It’s a statement, and doesn’t invite further queries.

Staring in the fire, not looking my way, he casts his voice low, imbibing it with as much honesty as possible. “Nowhere else, if you had the choice, Rannoch. As I said, I’m not blind. But we’re not always given the option. And if it’s just me and Wren, I’d like to know how best to keep her safe. The chances of fatal steps are higher when you don’t know how to walk the path.”

Silence stretches between us, violent and vibrant like the waters that blocked our way through the mountains, and Kaden finally sighs, nodding. “Alright, Rannoch. Alright.” Getting to his feet slowly, he moves like an old man, bones groaning, exhaustion clear in every line of his body. “There are still a couple of hours until sunrise. The watch is yours.”

The watch is yours. So much trust in that statement, so much faith.

“Rannoch, he’s safe," she’d said.

And then, “I’ll take the watch now. You have my word.”

“The necklace. Always.” It’s a whisper of sound, barely anything, but I see it hit in the pause of his steps, the single nod of his head in reply.

“The necklace.”

And I am left by the fire, by myself, desperately hoping I haven’t exposed secrets which aren’t mine, desperately hoping I’m picking steps which won’t prove to be fatal.

SONGS AND SHADOWS

TAHRIK

“...and not long after is when they decided to keep the sheep and goats separate.” Wren is smiling as I regale Kaden with the story of the Great Goat Escape, a well-known folktale in our village that has grown over the years with each telling. Her face is so soft these days, even in the vibrant chaos around us, so bright and noisy it’s impossible to relax. It’s difficult to look away from her tentative joy, from her newborn happiness, but it’s also strange to see her so open all of the time.

“What?” she asks, a curious tilt to her head, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. “You have such an odd look on your face.”

“Odd! Well, I’ve been called worse I suppose!” I try to tease, but I’m sure she sees the effort in my smile, and I shrug. “It’s just— I don’t recognize you sometimes these days.”

She dims almost immediately into an awkward and uncertain anxiety, and I want to kick myself. Tahrik, Tahrik. You don’t need to say every thought unfiltered. Forcing a more natural cheerfulness into my voice, I continue as though I didn’t notice the light flicker and wane from her, as though I didn’t cause it. “You glow, Wrenling. It’s nice to see.” And it is nice, I have to remind myself. It’s nice to see her something other than shuttered and closed. It’s just hard that it’s happening here, so far from our home, from where she and I had been building our dreams together. Hard to have a smile that was once only for me directed toward the Trader and the Councilman. Still, I was the first to see it, and it wouldn’t be fair for me to have so many that I laugh with and call friends and deny her the same. Inhaling deeply, I let out a slow, controlled breath. This is good. This is good. She’s finding herself, and when we return to the village, maybe they won’t be able to put her back into her small cottage. They will appreciate her more, listen to her wants and desires because they’ll know that she can leave if necessary. They’ll let her have a home, and a family. And people will see what I’ve seen all along, the beautiful soul that fills her from within, the caring heart they have missed. But she’ll be safe. Not like here, in the wilds and wilderness, where every step risks her life.

She’s still unsure; my compliment helped but I need to be more careful. She’s going through enough. She doesn’t need my stupidity to add to her already full plate. Kaden is quiet, watching the interplay between us, and I have to force myself to breathe evenly. He sees quite a lot, hiding behind a shrugging, amiable facade. I think it would be easy to discount him; he’s certainly trying hard enough to make himself seem as amicable and inoffensive as possible. But no one who attends even the smallest of details with such casual meticulousness is a person you should let fade from your awareness. He is too alert.

“Is that when they changed the barns then?” Wren’s question startles me from my thoughts.

“It’s — you know the Great Goat Escape, Wren…?” Confusion is clear in my reply, I’m sure, but she knows this story. Everyone in the village knows this story. A two-year old could recite the opening lines.

She’s smiling again, but it’s puzzled, hesitant. “No…”

Rannoch is startled too, but tries not to show it. “You haven’t heard it? Count yourself blessed, I suppose. They should call it the Fourth Lesson it’s told so often. I’m surprised they didn’t make you memorize it in school.”

Her lips are twisted up, but pressed into a sad curve, though she’s trying to hide it. Kaden sees it, of course, and jumps in.

“The Fourth Lesson? You only have three? That must make your schooling short and easy. Ours is brutal. I can’t tell you how many times I had to sit in and copy lines for misbehaving.”

It works, mostly. Wren grins at him and shakes her head, distracted. “We have more than three lessons. He’s talking about the Three Lessons. And I have no doubt you wrote a book and then some of your wrongdoings. You seem like trouble was a constant companion.”

He gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest, and even Rannoch laughs. “You wound me, Flame. More was just expected of me than I was willing to give.” He stutters to a stop, Wren’s brow furrowing in curiosity at the strange way he phrased his reply, but he pushes through her unspoken question. “So, obvious emphasis on the dreaded Three Lessons. What are they?”

Wren, Rannoch and myself exchange heavy looks, and, funnily enough, it’s Rannoch who replies. “It’s not that I won’t tell you, Kaden, but they’d bring clouds to a clear evening. So perhaps some other time?”

Kaden nods in easy understanding, and moves to the fire. “Not much tonight for food, friends, but let’s eat what we can. Were the goats ever caught?”

“Some must have been? The village still has plenty.” Wren is hesitant; I honestly don’t know how she’s never heard the story. It makes me wonder, not for the first time, what the details of her life were before I met her; she doesn’t talk about them with me. Or at all, as far as I know. Of course I know the outlines, that she was raised for many years in the Council House, that she didn’t go to school in any of the rings, that she was mostly on her own. I just don’t know the shading and stippling. She never wanted to ruin the few moments we had on memories, and I never wanted to press. But she must have heard the tales that weave the fabric of our village, the legends from childhood, the lore that warms the heart of our home.

“How do you tend them during the Storms?”

“The goats? Or the animals in general?” I answer, moving next to him and helping ladle out the thin broth. As verdant as the land is here, it’s unforgiving at the moment, not offering much to eat, which is clearly concerning Kaden. The game is hiding, the trees are barren. “Most homes have short hallways to small barns. It’s not the most pleasant for the animals⁠—”

“Or the people,” Rannoch interjects with a wry smile. “The smells can be…overwhelming.”

“And if the people don’t have a barn?” Kaden is always full of questions, but is so interested and respectful of the answers most of the time that it’s hard to begrudge him information. It helps that he’s generous with his own knowledge, never hesitating to share with us, despite it being three to one.

“The Council has large enclosures, and many, if not most, of the animals are housed there. The Protectors, the Renders and Reapers — they have nothing but time during the storm months, and take care of much of the village’s livestock.”

“For a price,” I mutter unintentionally, but it catches Rannoch’s eye. He presses his lips together, trying to hide his disgust, which surprises me. I would have thought he’d support the tax.

“For a price,” he agrees, and huffs. “Originally something reasonable, I’m told. One choice animal. That’s it. And paid randomly. Now it’s five choice animals, and not always taken as…haphazardly. Some of the Council also takes the tax, despite not helping care for the animals. ‘For use of the House’ they say.”

Kaden does quick math in his head, whistling through his teeth in shock. “You have…what is it Wren told me? Six Renders, six Reapers. Twelve Protectors? Twelve Councilmen? Then the Father and the Justice? If you have one…” he says, shooting a secret glance at Wren, who smiles at him in obvious appreciation, sending tiny daggers of jealousy through my heart. “That’s 190 animals!”

“If we all took the tax, yes. Not everyone does.” Rannoch pauses, then adds reluctantly, “Though, to be fair, more and more do every year. Which affects the breeding stocks; you can’t remove a hundred of the best blood and not expect it to change the breed. So the Council stock, over time, has become the most desired.”

“And they charge for breeding their animals.” It’s one of the few areas the village has pushed back against the Council lately, real discontent growing from the changes.

“Is that not normal?”

“No,” I reply. “The betterment of our livestock benefits everyone, so breeding rights have never been for payment, not as such anyway. You ask, of course, and are free to refuse, but it only harms the village as a whole if the herds are thinned or weakened. It does no good to the Council to keep the heartiest and strongest to themselves while the Third Ring’s livestock grow spindly and scrawny, year after year. If it continues this way, they’ll lose their herds altogether, and then the Storms will be a dire event.”

“Are…are most of the chosen animals from the Third Ring?” Kaden is thoughtful, and Rannoch nods in response.

“Lately, yes. Though we’re trying to change things. Some of us choose our five, and then just return them to the farmers. But it’s a losing game — ten, fifteen, twenty from two hundred.”

“Hmm. And do you get five as well, Wren?” Kaden surprises a bark of hard laughter from her, bitter as yarrow.

“I don’t even get village folktales, Kaden. You think they’d give me an animal to love?”

“Would you want a pet?” Rannoch is curious, gentle in a way I’m not used to hearing from him. Some of the arrogance that cloaked him in the village has fallen away, and it makes him frustratingly likable at times. It will be hard to remind myself that we are not friends when we return to the village; easier to keep him at a distance now so I don’t have to unlearn bad habits. I’ll have to caution Wren later to do the same.

“She wants chickens,” I reply for her, and she grins at me. “Many, many chickens.”

“And then some,” she adds, sending electric starlight through me when she laughs at my pained expression.

“Just how many is many?” I groan, and she almost giggles, a girlish, bubbling sound I’ve never heard her make. It’s happiness distilled into a single moment, filling all of my empty spaces with nothing but pure, unfiltered joy.

“Many is many,” Wren laughs, and I shake my head, burying my face in my hands in mock despair.

“The winter barn I’ll have to build you⁠—”

Her eyes are drops of moonlight, and because she’s staring at me, she misses the way Kaden and Rannoch’s faces darken, the looks they exchange when they think we can’t see them. I fight to keep a smug smile from my face; it’s uncharitable, but I’m suddenly and fiercely exultant they’re hearing pieces of our secret plans.

“Perhaps we won’t need a winter barn, if we settle somewhere outside the walls…” Her voice is quiet, wistful now, and I have to ignore the worry tugging at my heart. She’s mentioned this before, leaving the village, but…our people need her. Especially now. I shudder to think of how many souls have gone unguided since we left, how many are lost forever to the emptiness of the Void. Dreams are drifting across her face, though, delicate longing sketched in every line; now is not the time to take them from her, to try and urge her down a different path. So I leave it, and just bring her a scant bowl of broth.

“Alright. Enough with you and your army of chickens,” I tease her. She squinches up her face in adorable protest, and laugh helplessly. “Eat something,” I urge her more seriously, and she sighs.

“You’re a mother hen, you know that, Tahrik?” She’s smiling, but in a strange way that I’m unused to. Still, her happiness is mine; grinning down at her, I shrug.

“You wanted chickens, Keeper. Careful what you wish for.”

Rannoch and Kaden laugh from the firepit at the expression on her face, continuing their own quiet conversation as we settle into our evening meal. And if it takes everything in me to ignore the fear that gnaws at my stomach, growing bigger every day we are away from our home, then it’s a small effort for these moments of dreaming together.

THESE SAD TRUTHS

WREN

The water is a strange consistency — thin, and clear to the bottom, frothing in tiny white bubbles where it hits rock or shore. It’s almost singing as it runs over stones and tree branches, and in its shadows I can see tiny fish darting through glinting sparks of sunlight then back again. Everything here is foreign and fascinating, and my stomach clenches in an unfamiliar but eager anticipation for the next unknown thing.

From in front of me Kaden crows, a happy, excited sound that bounces off the larger boulders around us. “I wonder…” he mumbles under his breath, and runs ahead, leaping from stone to stone with practiced feet, until he’s a hundred yards up, at the turning of the small river we’ve been following for the last few days. “Yes!” he shouts from the curve. “Wren! Rannoch! Tahrik! Come see!”

And we do, stumbling like children across the tiny pebbles, the stump-sized rocks, keeping close to the shale cliffs that border the quick-flowing water. Tahrik is careful, cautious, reaching for me to help me over rough areas, but I gently shake off his hands, pulling myself up and over the jagged surface.

“Let me help, Wren,” he whispers, looking behind at Rannoch who is watching the interaction, head tilted like a bird, curious and waiting. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

An unfamiliar kernel of rebellion sits heavy in my heart. I’ve never felt this hardness towards Tahrik, but my whole life has been lived within tight boundaries of cold, white walls, the dead my only comfort. This openness calls to me, its raw, strange life echoing through my bones and coursing in my blood. I’ve been protected and kept from the world long enough, and have no desire to continue the patterns of my youth in this new, wild world. “I can do it.” I try to be gentle. He just wants to take care of me. But I am not a child.

He frowns, opens his mouth to speak, and then wisely shakes his head to silence himself. I know he’s unhappy with me, and it curdles in my stomach. Tahrik’s unhappiness is my own, and it distracts me as I climb over the next boulder, scraping my knee, drawing a small, startled “oh!” from my mouth before I can smother it.

Tahrik jerks back, examining my skin frantically.

“It’s nothing, Tahrik. It’s nothing.”

The lines between his brow are caverns deep as he stares down at my tiny cut, little ruby teardrops decorating the surface.

“You’re bleeding.” The words are flat, accusing, and I’m about to snap back, but feel the weight of Rannoch’s watching eyes. Taking a breath, I study Tahrik’s face, really look at him, instead of just responding. His jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide, hands shaking, and suddenly, clearly, I can see his fear. Not just for me, although that is at the forefront, but of this adventure, the enormity of the open sky above us, the creeping forest around us. The walls that were, for me, an Exile — bones that never fit my soul quite right — for him were safety, and surety. He would never have left the shadow of the mountains if it were not for me, and the magnitude of what he sacrificed to stay with me suddenly hits me. Reaching out, I lay a pale hand on his face, and study him, even as he stares unwavering at me in return. We are caught in a moment, a fork in the road, and I don’t have a map to lead me from this place.

Tahrik never minded the boundaries of his birth. His family is well-respected, three or more generations of millers grinding grain for our village. They were never in the mines, had comfortable lives, as much as any in our village ever had. He had friends, family, parents — he was in line to run the mill if his mother and father made it to their sunset years, or before that if they were called to Offering. Thinking back, really thinking, I remember now how many people loved my friend. My only friend. How he would laugh with the women in the streets, how the children would sneak to him for crusts of new bread, warm from the oven. He would sing at every wedding, would dance at every birth. And, somehow, even in all of that vibrancy, he had seen me in my stillness, and had chosen me.

I am realizing, now, away from my gilded prison, how disparate colors can seem to two different sets of eyes. Tahrik was part of our village in a way I never could be — his memories of the Dancing seasons, of his milk teeth years…all of these were lit in a warmer glow than my own. Perhaps the sun that shone in his memory was not the pale butter yellow that it was in mine. And I wonder, with a sick suddenness, what I looked like to him, there in the shadow of the Council House. Was I a wraith, a ghost? A goddess? Or just the girl that I so desperately longed to be. Had he seen me as I was to myself, or had I tricked myself into thinking that, because he looked at me, he also was able to look inside me.

“Tahrik…” I whisper, and there are so many words I want to say fighting to find purchase, but all slip away at the fading light in his eyes. He sees my struggle, he does see it, and sighs, before smiling ruefully.

“I know you can do it, Wren,” he says, hands still shaking, fighting himself to keep from grabbing me. “I’m just…mother henning, I suppose. Cluck, cluck.” He sighs again, then turns from me. “Ah, Wrenling,” he murmurs, shaking his head a little, a true apology clear in his voice though he doesn’t look at me. “I’m proud of you. I am. You’re stronger than most people realize. I’m happy for you, too, despite how it may seem. You’ve needed a rest. And this may be a strange version of that, but you carry so much weight at home…This break is good for you, gives you room to breathe a little, to recover. I know you can do it,” he repeats. “Of course you can. You’re sure-footed. I should have called you Mountain Goat instead of Wren.”

“So help me, Tahrik, if you call me a goat…” I let my voice drift off into a tentative, teasing silence, and am rewarded when he turns back to me with a wry smile, lifting a dubious brow.

“Baaaaa,” he jokes back, almost stiffly, but he’s clearly trying. Dropping his voice and his eyes, he stares at the ground for a long moment before whispering, “I think it’s me, more than you, who is having trouble with their footing in this new place. But I’ll find it eventually.”

The silence between us is a blank map, waiting for a cartographer's pen.

“Would you…” This time my voice is louder, stronger. He has given me a gift, by being here with me, by leaving his entire world behind with no promise of a new world in front of him. Just because a girl who is mostly a shadow, barely linked to the living, asked him. And if he needs to hold my hand, what do I gain by keeping it from him?

You cannot make yourself smaller than you are forever.

Lorcan’s voice is quiet, much quieter than it ever was in the village, even with the increasingly frequent anointings, and cold fear slips along my skin. I want to answer him, but what can I say that is true in this new world?

Tahrik was my only friend for years. Years. And how does it hurt me to reassure him of his place? “Would you help me?” I hold out a hand — the words are surprisingly hard to say. But I am rewarded by his smile as he looks up at me, and his gentle fingers wrapping around my own.

“Of course, Wren.” He guides me up the steep surface…a rock I could have climbed a rebellious voice whispers insidiously in my brain, but I ignore it.

“Thank you,” I say, and he smiles again.

“Don’t be afraid to ask me for help, Wren. I’m here for you always, little goat.” The fire of his old confidence comes back at my need, but the weight of his words settles on my shoulders, and, try as I might, I cannot shake it off. He is here for me. I am responsible for him, and his happiness in this new land. I asked him once if he would leave the village for me, and he agreed. Did he though? Did he ever say yes?

The memory of the stolen moments in the shadow of the bone wall, when I laid my head on his shoulder and dreamt of chickens and children drifts like smoke through my mind, and I am suddenly unsure. I think he did. He wanted a home and a hearth with me. And….if he didn’t agree to leave, not exactly, he would have. And I wouldn’t have gone without him. That much is true. I would never have willingly left Tahrik behind. If the price to pay is asking him for help occasionally, then so-be-it.

At the top of the boulder, once I am safe in his eyes, he moves ahead of me, scouting out the best path towards where Kaden is grinning and waving his arms. Rannoch’s presence presses into me from behind — though he’s not touching me, the air between us warms, the heat from his body pushing away the coldness around me.

We’re in a strange dance, Rann and I, and not a graceful one. Since we left the tunnels, my eyes have sought him out more and more often, pulled toward him every time I remember the way he held me in the caverns, shielding me with his body from the cutting stone. The way he kept my bleeding hands wrapped around Lorcan’s bones, though how he knew to do so, I’ll never understand. Lorcan told me that Rannoch cried the first time he took the blade from his belt and cut my palm to press into my necklace while Tahrik slept in the swallowing darkness. How he murmured broken apologies over and over to my unconscious form, stumbling over the words but forcing himself to paint Lorcan when I was unable to. I can’t imagine the stoic man’s eyes spilling tears, but my Protector would never lie.

Since then, though, he has been cautious; not unfriendly, not exactly, but just — waiting. And I don’t know what he is waiting for. He and Kaden are forming a friendship of sorts, their constant nagging and badgering of each other my daily entertainment, like watching an old married couple. At times I walk with them, exchanging stories or trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to learn Kaden’s language. It’s surprisingly easy to forget the world behind me during those brief moments; we never look backward, they never ask about bones, or souls, or talk about my place in the village. It’s more lighthearted distraction; once Rannoch realized I hadn’t heard most of the village fables, he made it his mission to tell me all of them under the guise of sharing the stories with Kaden. But I’ve noticed that the ones I nod along with always end quickly and in a rush. The ones I am quiet for, leaning in to hear the details — those he draws out and elaborates, and I lose myself in them the same way I used to lose myself in the bones.

Rannoch is a surprisingly good storyteller; I wouldn't have thought it based on how somber he normally is, but he puts his whole body and voice into them, puffing his chest or changing his tone for different characters. Even Tahrik listens from steps behind us, where he usually walks beside the horse. I can’t spend too long with Kaden and Rannoch though; Tahrik grows jittery and nervous when he’s alone, left with his thoughts by himself. He won’t join the others, always leaving space, and though he never reprimands me for walking ahead, he never relaxes until I am back beside him.

There’s a distance between us — between me, Kaden and Rannoch, between Kaden, Rannoch, and Tahrik, and now, even between Tahrik and myself. None of the pieces fit together quite right, but maybe that’s because there are so many variations to each. All the angles and curves that were so well known in our home are different in this new light, and it’s almost hopeless trying to put the two versions together into a single body. They shimmer over each other, a mirage of water in a dry field, impossible to tell which is real and which is a figment of the imagination. Am I still the girl who was gifted secret love songs played in ivory gardens? Or one who ate smuggled fruit in the shadow of a bone wall, where a man promised to lick its juice from my skin? Am I the child nestled in the curve of comforting ribs, protected by nothing but death and dreams, living in the space between waking and sleeping? Or the flash of a woman I’d never seen, completely bare of bone, spine naked in dancing firelight, learning a foreign tongue?

I’m not sure all of these fit inside me together, am suddenly petrified that if I try, they will burst from me, tearing me to pieces, leaving nothing behind. The thought sends a sharp shiver down my spine, enough so Lorcan sways on my back, where Rannoch hovers.

“That was kind of you, but…” he says quietly, and I don’t turn to face him. He pauses, and sighs, lowering his voice, a strange sort of hesitancy skirting his words. “Wren…you do him no favors by pretending to be something you are not.” His words are an echo of Lorcan’s. Mirror, mirror. I want to be angry, but the reluctance in his tone is clear.

Still, it is too much for me, uneasiness rushing through me in sickening waves. “You don’t know me.” The words are a snapping wolf, all fear, no bite, and the sorrow in his response is unexpected.

“I don’t. And I’m sorry for it. But…” I don’t want to hear what follows the break in his voice, have to resist the urge to cover my ears like a child. “But…” he repeats, then, so soft it is a gift, an offering, an invitation, “I am willing to learn. I am wanting to learn. Is he?”

“He does not need to learn. He knows me as I am.” The protest in my voice is too frantic, too desperate, and does not taste of honesty. And suddenly, irrevocably, I know.

Because, if I am being honest…

He knew me as I was.

As I used to be.

And the truth is, that skin was stripped from my bones like an Offering during a Rendering the moment I left the last bone arch of our village. I am all raw muscle, exposed tendon, glistening fat and shining bone now. There is no bone protection for me anymore, no structured days, no ivory armor. I am not as I was, but don’t have a path to what I will become. All at once, everything is untethered; I don’t recognize myself as I am, but am desperate not to return to the memory of the girl I left behind. Panic wraps around my heart in an icy, skeletal hand. The sallow light of day dims, and tiny fireflies spark then fade in the corner of my vision.

“Breathe, Wren. Breathe!” Rannoch’s voice is firm but worried, his hand rubbing hot circles on my back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He knows you as you are. You’re correct. I…I overthink things. I’m sorry.”

And he is. But not for his honesty. More for causing me sorrow. And my skin does not reknit.

AT THE RIVER

WREN

“Wren!” Tahrik calls from the rocks by Kaden, excitement clear in his voice. “Come see!”

We are steps behind him, so I can’t tell what is lighting him up, but his happiness becomes my own as I curve around the largest boulder — one the size of a house — and see a tumbling wealth of water, stories high, falling in an avalanche of foaming white, misty clouds into a large pool below. I’ve never seen so much clean water at once — it could fill the pitchers of our village a hundred times over, and strange, agonizing emotion pulls at me.

Kaden bounces down to the water’s edge like a mountain goat, surefooted and confident in his movements, and I’m reminded again how casual his joy is, how, like the waterfall in front of me, it never needed to be rationed out in careful portions. Watching him is like watching a wildfire spread — it flares to a painful brilliance and swallows everything around it, making it difficult to see anything else in its blinding light. He is almost to the low, not-quite-dirt stretch of smooth land at the perimeter of the water when he pulls off his shirt, exposing his naked back. In a heartbeat, the world around me narrows to his bare skin, and the beautiful, twisting patterns cut into it. It’s the clear work of a FleshCarver, though I’ve never seen any before, only heard of it in stories, and I can’t look away.

Down his spine, from the base of his neck to the low curve of his back just above his pants, runs an arrow straight series of intricate, slightly raised images — the full waning and waxing of the moon, from the new moon’s dark circle to the fading crescent, all in fascinating, glorious detail. Three carefully planned stars sit at the top, one higher than the other two, almost to his hairline, and a pattern of smaller stars and various curved lines dart in and out of the white and black of the moons. I step forward before I can think, hand outstretched, wanting nothing more desperately in this moment than to trace the lines of his carving, feel his skin against my own, to ask him what they mean, and how they came to be.

Only the strong grip of Rannoch’s quick hand saves me from tumbling down the rock face, and I come back to myself, flushing red in the late afternoon light. He is silent, watching me with an intent look, eyes darting back and forth between me and Kaden’s back, quick and glinting, like the fish in the river. There are questions there, resting on his sharp, full lips, and I know instinctively that I will not be able to answer whatever he is about to ask. I cannot bring myself to regret the memory of the taste of citrus in his mouth, the feel of his tongue licking its juice from my own. But I also can’t erase the image of a defined, muscled back, of an easy smile, of abundant happiness. I have made no promises anywhere, with mouth or mind or body, but the glacial valleys of Rannoch’s eyes send cold shivers along my skin. They remind me of where I am from, remind me that I was not born into the same joy that spills from Kaden like water from the falls. Perhaps it’s unfair of me to look at his carved skin and wonder what it would taste like under my tongue. I would draw shadows to his golden light, poison his pure water with my sorrow.

Tahrik makes an alarmed sound, and I jerk my gaze away from Rannoch’s pale eyes in time to see Kaden leap from the high edge of a rock, hover over the churning waterfall, then disappear beneath the surface. Rannoch releases me, sprints to the high boulders near us which overlook the pool, and, without hesitating, jumps from them — not nearly so gracefully as Kaden did, but with an intent focus. He hits the water and sinks, leaving me to scamble down the rest of the stones to the water’s edge in complete panic.

“I can’t hear them!” I cry, leaning forward to touch the cold water, then turn to Tahrik. “They must be alright. Would I even be able to hear them beneath the water if something went wrong?”

You can’t…hear them? Lorcan is shocked on my back, feeling almost newly anointed in the violence of the way he trembles on my skin. Wren —

It’s the first time that he has ever seemed afraid of me. Even when I told him about being able to taste and smell bone memories, he never sounded like this. He admonished me for keeping secrets, bit my spine in teasing rebuke, but once he realized I could sense him so deeply, he’s given me the best of his memories in the dark, storytelling hours, filling my eyes and ears and mouth with all of the things that he loved most as a child.

He never seemed frightened.

For you, Little Keeper. Only for you. Never, never of you.

His words loosen the iron band that had been constricting my heart.

I’m about to answer him when Kaden erupts up from the water, flinging his head back, sending tiny, glistening droplets to rainbow in the sun. He is laughing and gasping for air, followed seconds later by Rannoch, still fully clothed, who looks less amused.

“I’m sorry!” Kaden calls to him, swimming in a slow, lazy pattern. “I didn’t think you’d be concerned — or that you’d jump in after me! I must have grown on you! Admit it. You like me!”

Rannoch ducks beneath the water, then comes up again, his swimming more labored, face dark. “I don’t like you, Trader. You’re the only one who knows the way. What fool would jump into water this deep with no hesitation? And head first?”

“Even the youngest children do in my home, Rann. I am sorry. I was just so excited I forgot you don’t know our ways. We all swim where I’m from — truly swim, not just wade into deep water. And we dive off the low cliffs…I knew from the size of the falls that the pool would be deep enough for me to do it, and after the dust of the day, thought it would feel good.” He paddles easily to the strand where Tahrik and I are standing and walks out, shaking the water from his hair like an animal. Against my will the corners of my mouth tip up. I feel like one of the village women watching the men come home from the fields. His body is massive and defined, glistening wet, little rivers of water trickling along the paths of his muscles, and for a moment I forget how to speak.

“Would you like to come swim with me, Wren?” he asks, holding out a hand, and Tahrik steps between us, blocking me.

“She can’t. It’s not safe.”

She can’t. She can’t. The words echo and bounce off the surrounding stone. Kaden is patient, still holding his hand steady, waiting for my answer instead of my friend’s. He does not even frown; his face is eager and expecting.

“Did you not hear me?” Anger swirls in Tahrik’s voice, mimicking the whirls and spirals of the water that is kissing my toes.

“I heard you,” Kaden replies, dark eyes fixed on my own. “But I did not hear Wren.”

“I am answering for Wren,” Tahrik grinds out, and I turn to him, brows drawn.

“Tahrik!” I say in surprise, and he nods reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” he answers, clearly frustrated. “It is, of course, your choice. But it’s not safe.”

Turning to Kaden, I point at the pool. “Is it not?” I ask, desire and caution warring in my tone, and he shrugs.

“It’s fine. Well, it seems fine. But I’ll check it for you. The water is clear — I’ll be able to see any problems. And there is no pull from the falls. Let me look, and then I’ll take you in.”

“I can’t swim…” I whisper, voice teetering on the edge of hope. I’ve always wanted to swim, always, but never learned. Small barrels of brackish water were carted to my home for me to wash — an extravagance, most thought. A form of control, really. The luxury of a golden cage is no luxury at all. A prison is still a prison, no matter how beautifully decorated.

“I thought you all swam in the brackish pools?” Kaden looks between us, watching our interaction with careful eyes, like he is walking across a shaking bridge, unsure of which step will break and send him tumbling into the belows.

“She was not permitted. As such.”

Rannoch is standing in the deeper water, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin, hair dripping in dark strands over his forehead. He pushes them back casually, as though swimming beneath a waterfall in the depths of a green forest is something we did every day back home. He answers Kaden’s question in a flat tone, one I am coming to recognize as disguising some larger emotion. I wonder what he is hiding, to answer in such an uncaring manner.

“But I’d like to. I’ve…I’ve always wanted to.”

Kaden nods, as though my response is all he was waiting on, and leaps back into the pool with a joyful whoop of noise. He is under for long enough that I find myself unintentionally holding my breath, mimicking him, and finally let it out in a pained gasp when he finally surfaces.

“It’s safe,” he assures me with a smile, swimming towards me on the shore. “Come on. I’ll take you in.”

I watch him exit the pool for a heartbeat too long; he notices the way my eyes follow his movements, curling up the corners of his full lips in a slow, purposeful smile. Lingering in a languid, unhurried way, Kaden ambles from the water up the narrow beach to me, giving me space to drink him in. I can’t look away, tracing him until he is directly before me, towering over me, smiling down at me through soft eyes. They are full of a hesitant tenderness, and it shakes me.

Reaching out a calloused hand, he takes one of mine in his own. “Will you come swim with me, Flame?”

The words are low, not whispered, but not meant for other ears either. Tahrik has wandered to the edge of the water, poking at the surface doubtfully with his toes, and Rannoch is still as stone in the depths of the pool, watching Kaden approach me with a thoughtful expression.

I look down at my hand in Kaden’s — my thin, pale fingers so different from his own, my hand seeming tiny in his grasp. He doesn’t move, just stands patiently, waiting for my answer. Suddenly I realize how often he does this — gives me the room to figure out my own mind, with no pressure or impatience. I think back to our nights around the fire when he cooks — he watches me eat from the corner of his eye, seeing what I pick at, what I eat quickly, which I save for last as a special treat. I always thought it was just casual interest, like studying an unknown animal in the wild. It did not occur to me to think it might be…something different. He’s never moved to return to our time from the village; I thought it was because he had changed his mind, but maybe it is that he is giving me the space to make up mine instead.

“I…I don’t know,” I begin slowly, looking at the water, then back at Kaden. But I do know. If I don’t go, then I am the only one keeping me in my prison. “Yes.” This time the answer is firm, excited even. “Let me just⁠—”

In one swift movement, I shrug my tunic from my body, and then pull off my pants, putting them on the stones behind me. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and the clearing falls silent. When I turn back around, the weight of three sets of eyes feels as heavy as a yoke, all three men staring at me, unblinking. Flushing red with embarrassment, I shrug uncomfortably. “Is this…is this not…” Swallowing hard, I try again, more forcefully. “Isn’t this how the women dress when they swim at home?” I motion to the small shirt and undershorts that still cover my body, Lorcan’s bones trailing down my back. “We wash the clothes while we are in the water?” I must sound very unsure, and Kaden shakes himself, offering a forced, tight smile.

“You’re perfect, Flame. This is exactly right. In my home, the women wear even less. We are more casual with nudity there.”

I frown, looking down at my thin outfit, and pluck at the edges. “I don’t think I would be comfortable completely naked…” I say thoughtfully.

From the pool, Rannoch makes a choking sound and drops beneath the surface. All talk of clothing and nudity forgotten, I panic, pushing past Kaden, and rush into the water, slowing only slightly as the cold liquid curls around me.

“He’s drowning!” I cry out. Without thinking, I fling myself forward, hands flailing, trying to find some piece of him to grab and pull back to the surface. Kaden and Tahrik chase me, but I’m too far in, and, without warning, step off the edge of some underwater cliff, sinking like a stone to the bottom.

AFTER THE POOL

WREN

“You are an idiot.” Kaden’s words are teasing and bubbling with laughter from the far side of the clearing. They are low, and I know I’m not meant to hear them as I sit, still shivering, by the warmth of the fire.

“Well what was I supposed to do? You were sitting, talking her into stripping bare skin in front of the three of us like it would have been nothing…” Rannoch’s response is even more quiet, and it makes me smile into the folds of the blanket around me — a secret, tired, but very happy smile.

As soon as I’d hit the bottom of the pool, maybe even a half breath before, one of Rannoch’s strong arms had wrapped around my waist, and he’d pulled me to the surface, where I’d taken a strange, gulping breath. Then, without warning, I burst into laughter, bright, chaotic, and all-encompassing. I couldn’t even paddle — had just clutched Rannoch’s shoulders with slippery hands, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed, full joy pouring from me like a song.

Kaden and Tahrik had both looked poleaxed, and Rannoch strangely angry, but as soon as my feet found purchase in the pool, I’d spun in a circle like a child, before promptly falling down and submerging my head under water again. This time it was Kaden who pulled me up, but I’d shaken off his hands and jumped up and down, crowing with delight.

“Tahrik!” I called, splashing water his way, soaking his already wet shirt. “Did you see me?”

His face cracked into a reluctant grin as he shook his head and ran a hand over his face. “Did I see you?”

“I swam!”

He laughed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You sunk, Wren. You sunk.”

“Sunk, swam, what’s the difference?”

“Breathing, for one…” But my happiness was infectious, and he made his way over to me, taking my hands in his own. “If you’re going in, you at least need to learn enough not to drown yourself. Now pay attention,” he’d chided gently, and patiently taught me the basics of not dying whilst in a pool of water. Kaden and Rannoch had called out small pieces of advice as Tahrik walked me through the motions, but largely left the two of us to our own devices. It was the first time since we left the village that I felt like we were back to “us”, the us that existed before the rains and the fires, the Traders and the caverns. Where my laughter was a secret only he knew, and his words were songs for my ears alone. He’d done his best, carefully guiding me, only holding my hands or arms — years of not being allowed to touch me were hard habits to break.

When he’d gotten cold, lips blue and skin white, Rannoch had taken over. Much more of a taskmaster, much more brusque, he’d commanded my movements and I’d done my best to follow his instructions like a soldier, delight spilling from me, despite his glare, with careless abandon. I’d never felt so free with happiness. By the time the light of the day was dying, I’d managed to tread in place for a few moments before going under. He’d passed me off then to Kaden, who had wrapped his strong arms around me, and swam me to the center of the pool, him on his back, my body laid over his, using him to stay afloat. Every nerve of my skin was lit up in tiny, shivering flames where his naked skin brushed against mine.

Once we reached the deepest parts of the water, he’d shown me how to lay on my back and fill my lungs to stay on the surface. Unlike Rannoch and Tahrik, he wasn’t shy with his hands and touching me, correcting me with his body instead of his words, fingers brushing down the side of my torso, trailing along my arms, tracing my sternum. Every touch was an inferno, creating tiny sparks of warmth on my shivering skin. We’d stayed there, movements slowing ‘til we were just floating next to each other. It wasn’t until he’d heard the chattering of my teeth that he’d rushed me out to sit by the fire Tahrik and Rannoch had made. They’d wrapped me in blankets like a child, and then gone to prepare dinner, leaving Tahrik with me to watch over me.

The day, which had started with such desperation, had turned into a sort of euphoria I’d never known, never experienced, and even now a wild exhilaration fills my lungs, skittering along my skin, pushing at the corners of my mouth. Turning away from the dancing fire, I seek out Tahrik, eager to see a mirror of my own excitement in my friend’s face. But there is no echo of my emotion written in his eyes, just a sad darkness that seems at odds with the warmth of the fire and the smell of clean water in the air.

“Tahrik?” I ask hesitantly. He does not turn to look at me. “Are you alright?”

There’s a pause, and I wonder for a moment if he even hears me, before he finally sighs, deeply, as though exhaling his soul, and meets my eyes. It’s to his credit, I think, that he does not turn away from my questioning look. “I don’t know,” he replies quietly, a terrible rawness in his voice. “I don’t know.” Leaning back on his hands, he stares back up at the sky above us. It is open and vast, even with a forest around us, and seems to stretch to infinity. The moon is close to full, bright enough to cast shadows, and there are a multitude of stars, flowing in sparking rivers through the blue-black ink overhead.

It calls to me, as though it wants me to lift my arms up and embrace it, wrap my arms around the entirety of the night and pull it to me. I feel…I feel at home in this wild and wondrous space, where water pours from the world above us like a dream, where we can swim in a year’s worth of wealth for our village as though it was nothing, where there are tiny jeweled flowers and shimmering birds — where I can lay beneath the night sky and live until the morning. Something is being unleashed inside of me, something I never thought existed, and I don’t understand the expression on my friend’s face.

“The sky is so big here…” he whispers, as though to himself, and he rubs his face again with a trembling hand.

“It is the same sky, Rik,” I whisper back, almost silently. Whatever is happening here is between us, and not something for Rannoch and Kaden’s ears.

“Is it, Wren?” He is so sad, like a funeral shroud, like a lost soul.

And I think, I think, we both know it isn’t. Not really. It may be connected somewhere, maybe patched together with rough stitching somewhere closer to the borders of the Upper Kingdom — but this open sky, with all of its stars and promise — it is something different. Somewhere different. And we are both different as well, beneath it.

“I miss the stone of the mountains,” he says, voice so homesick it hurts my heart. I don’t know how to respond, because I…I don’t. And I don’t know how to comfort him. He came here for me — left the whole of his world behind at the beckoning of my pale finger, and I wonder if he’s regretting his choice. I can’t bring myself to ask him, don’t want to hear his answer. So we sit in silence instead, until the crackling fire settles, the pops of moisture burnt away, leaving only the dry, quiet wood.

“Will you sing to me, Tahrik?” I ask quietly. I don’t know why, other than I love his voice, that the music of our village is one thing we love together, that gives us both comfort. And it reminds me of a time when I would walk along the bone walls, speaking to the dead, lost in my own world, and Tahrik’s songs were the only shimmering line that tied me to the living world. Perhaps, in a way, I feel like I need that shimmering string connecting us tonight — that I will float away into the dark sky, never to return, if he does not tie me to himself.

He shifts closer, pressing the side of his body to my own, and I open my arms to pull him into my blankets, before wrapping us up again and leaning my head on his shoulder. This casual contact is new, and the feel of my hair tumbling down his back and my bare skin pressing into his own catches his breath, so he has to clear his throat and start his words over.

“I…I will always sing for you Wren. Whenever you desire, I am yours to command.” The words are a fervent promise, and he lifts one of my cold hands to his mouth, pressing a swift kiss to my fingertips, before leaning his head against mine, and singing quietly.

”The world was a song, the world was a flower…”

My heart clenches in my chest. I know this tune, although it is an old melody and rarely sung anymore in our village. An aching throb chokes my throat— the feeling of tears — and I wonder why he chose this to end such a happy day.

“The world was a whisper, the whisper your name

Your name was my heartbeat, my heartbeat your smile

I knew you an hour, you seared me as flame

Oh forever’s a moment, forever’s an eye’s blink

Forever’s a promise that cannot be kept

For Reaping or Render

For Silence or Ender

For tears of the Mother, for Maiden who wept.

I saw you as Summer, I watched you in Dancing

I dreamt you as Water, I loved you as Rain,

Forever’s a flesh cut, forever’s a blood oath,

To lose you forever, forever’s my pain.

You’ve gone to the Silence, or gone to the Dreaming

Gone far from the village, Gone far from our shores

Forever was nothing but mirrors and smoke tricks

I loved you forever, forever I’m yours.

I love you forever, forever I’m yours….”

His voice dips low, nothing more than a whisper, and then fades into the darkness of the surrounding night. Kaden and Rannoch have fallen silent under the spell of Tahrik’s aching, mournful song, each word sounding torn from his heart. I’m shaking against him, though not from the cold, and he wraps his arm closer around me. We don’t move or speak further in the dying light of the fire, and if I feel the rain of his tears on my cheek, I know better in this moment than to bring attention to the gift of his tears.

In our village you are born crying, and you die crying, but you rarely waste the water in between. The thought echoes in my mind. But here, far from our village, where tears were not a luxury we could afford, perhaps we can have something new. Something more open, where there is space for sadness and joy, for generous laughter, and casual tears. My eyes fill, and rather than swallowing back my emotions, I let them spill over like the falls near us. And I decide, sitting next to my first friend, far from everything we have ever known, perhaps we can spare the water.

DYING EMBERS

KADEN

Rannoch and I have been sitting in silence long enough that, when Wren and Tahrik’s breathing changes, when it slows and lengthens into deep sighs and then soft patterns, we hear it. The fire falls asleep at the same time, the occasional crackling of the banked coals whispering in the rapidly cooling night. Neither of us seems close to sleep or speaking, but things have been pressing on me since our swim today, and the safety of the darkness around us invites words I may not have said otherwise.

“Rann?”

He jerks his head up as though I’ve pulled him from dark thoughts, and meets my eyes across the small fire almost in confusion.

“Wha— I’m sorry, Kaden. I was just…” Scrubbing a hand across his face, he sighs. “It has been a long few days.”

“It has.” We fall quiet again, and I’m reconsidering…well, everything. Everything I’ve known, or thought I knew before the Trade; my chest tightens in something like panic.

“You had a question?” And now it’s Rannoch who grabs me from the mazes in my mind.

“I do. Wren—” He straightens, shoulders tightening. “Her chest and legs…” I’m not sure how to ask what I’m asking, but need to. “I thought maybe it was a tradition…but I saw your faces….what….”

He sighs again. “I don’t know. It looks more the work of your people than ours.” Swallowing hard, staring down at his hands, he murmurs, “Did she notice our reactions?”

I shake my head. “No. None of it. You were both quick to school your faces, and she was lost in the water. It’s not FleshCarver work, though it’s beautiful in its own way. You didn’t know?”

“No. It’s knees up, close and tight on her thighs—” Choking briefly, he clears his throat and continues. “I wouldn’t have ever seen her naked skin there. And I’ve only seen her chest once—” He barks a sardonic laugh at whatever expression he sees on my face. “Not in any capacity you’d ever think, Trader. Only the once, when she’d been attacked. I wasn’t exactly studying her skin that night.”

Settling back against the tree, I stare into the fire. “Why would she have done it?”

“You can always ask her.”

“I can. And will. But I wanted to know if maybe I was missing something. I—” Laughing in a strange echo of Rannoch’s, I shrug. “I misstep with her quite often. Almost from the first moment. I’d like to avoid that whenever possible for the foreseeable future. She’s going through enough right now with that one.”

Rannoch glances over where Wren and Tahrik lay next to each other, and his lips press into a tight line. “She is,” he agrees. “He’s trying, I think. And has her best interests at heart.”

“Does he?” I ask cynically. “You’d know better than I would, perhaps. But I can’t tell.”

“He does,” Rannoch replies, almost gently. “It may differ from your ideas of what is good for her, but I don’t think he’d do anything to hurt her. It’s—” He pauses for a long time, long enough that I’m not sure he’s going to continue, before he says, “It’s hard to describe to you how she grew up, Kaden. Whatever you think her life was, I can promise you it was nothing like that. She had no one. No one. Other than the bones. And…well. And I guess Tahrik. I don’t know for how long, or in what capacity, but…”

“Why did you let it happen?” The words burst from me louder than I intended, and we both jerk our heads around to where Wren shifts, then settles.

“You mean Wren? I’m only 26, Trader.” His voice is harder than I’ve heard before. “She’s 23, and first heard the bones at 4? Maybe 5? Young enough that I barely remember. I was named to the Council only a short time ago. What do you think I could have done at 9, or 10? Burst through the stone doors and rescued her against twelve grown men?”

The anger in his voice is justified.

“I didn’t know. I⁠—”

“You didn’t know,” he spits out, jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t watched her these many years, seeing the force of the Council bow her shoulders, seeing her fade day by day, stepping so far into the dead that I wonder sometimes if she’ll ever be able to come back fully? You have no idea what lengths Silas and I have gone to to protect her, what we had planned for this Storm sea—” He stops speaking suddenly, swallowing hard. “It’s Wren. Yes. It will always be Wren. But it’s our people as well, Trader. It’s the children who are starving. The Offerings. The dying land, the brackish water, the weight of stone pushing us down year after year. Traditions so tight they choke us and prevent us from seeing anything beyond our borders. You come from somewhere so different than our home they’re not even grown from the same earth. Your traditions are carved into your flesh. Ours are sunken into bone. So your judgment of my choices is…unwelcome.”

Nodding, I apologize. “You’re right. I don’t know your history, only a shadow of it. What I’ve been told differs so much from what I’ve seen it’s a different book in a different language. And I’m sorry. Just seeing her —”

He sighs. “I know.”

“Will you — would you help me understand, Rannoch? As we travel? Would you tell me so I understand?”

He tilts his head consideringly. “Not her story. That’s hers alone. And I don’t know nearly as much of it as I thought. But I’ll teach you our history as though you were a child in our schools. If you’ll do the same in exchange.”

“A fair enough trade,” I say, smiling and holding out a hand. He stares at it for a moment, then takes it in his own, expression serious.

“We’re making a pact of sorts here, Kaden. A promise of honesty. If I am forthcoming with our story, you have to do the same.”

Forcing the easy smile to stay on my face, I nod. “I will be as open as I am able to be.”

Gripping my hand, he shakes it once, firmly, then releases it. “We’ll start tomorrow. Tonight it’s too late, and we both need rest.” Standing, he grabs a piece of wood and throws it on the fire. “Get what sleep you can, Kaden. I’ll take first watch and wake you for the second.”

“And that one?” I ask, motioning toward Tahrik. Rannoch narrows his eyes and shakes his head in response.

“We’ll let him sleep. He’s struggling right now. I don’t think we need to give him more time alone with his thoughts at the moment.”

Staring at where Wren is curled up near the miller, I nod in agreement. “I know you said he’s trying, Rannoch. But…I think just be cautious. Sometimes our idea of what’s best for other people are in sharp contrast to what is real.”

I can tell he wants to protest, to defend the sleeping man as though my concern about him is a censure on the village as a whole, a commentary on Rannoch’s life and purpose, and feel a strange pity for him when he finally responds, sounding almost defeated.

“I hear you, Trader. And am taking your words to heart. Now. Sleep.”

But I am still awake hours later when Rannoch shakes my shoulder, calling me to the watch. And I know that, though he lays down in the dark silence of the night, sleep is not coming for him either.

FALLING APART AND COMING TOGETHER

WREN

The next morning the sun is bright, and the melancholy from the night before is washed off in the cold water of the crystalline pool. Tahrik, specifically, seems happier, as though he has shaken his homesickness through nothing but sheer willpower. He is smiling as he helps me pack up my few things, shooting little, playful looks my way.

“You’re all thumbs this morning, Wrenling!” he says teasingly, the openly cheerful cadence of his baritone oddly unfamiliar. It strikes me, for a strange, cold moment how much of our life together before this was spent in silence and secrets, shadowed whispers and hidden glances. He was possibility in a place where nothing was possible, and now we are somewhere new, surrounded by nothing but possibility; it’s no wonder he’s having trouble finding his footing. It’s no wonder any of us are; I smile back at his sunshine, at the peace that has settled on his shoulders like a cloak, not a weight. Holding his head despairingly, he frowns at me in joking exasperation. “Slow as tree sap. There’s no hope for you! We’ll be here ‘til acorns grow to oaks!”

This version of Tahrik is impish and light-hearted, and pulls at something deep in my heart where he has not been before.

“I’ll have you know,” I begin, with all the hauteur and grandeur I can muster while dripping wet from a morning wash gone wrong, “that I don’t have as much experience as you doing heavy labor.”

He grins at me and my heart skips in dancing movements. Happiness is a cloth Tahrik wears well. “Thank Sun and Earth for that. We’ve few enough clothes to spare, and lose some piece every time you decide to wash them. Eh, eh, eh—” Holding up his hands to cut off my protests, he motions to the fire, indicating a small blanket and plate of breakfast. “I laid your table, M’lady. Take your soft hands to the warmth.” Shaking his head, still smiling, he lowers his voice. “Seriously, Wren. You’re still damp from the wash, and the cool of the night is lingering this morning. I can do this. Go eat. Please. And drink your fill. Who knows when we’ll be near such wealth again.”

I look at him doubtfully, and the amount of work we have left to break camp. “Are you sure? I don’t mind helping. I…I actually like helping.” Surprise is clear in my voice and makes him laugh.

“You can help tonight,” he replies, motioning to the food again. “Go. Before it gets cold.”

The smell of hot bread and eggs is too much for me to resist, so I drop my side of the sleeproll before scurrying away.

“Sh’anks, Rik!” I mumble moments later through a full mouth, and he laughs at the sight of my puffed out cheeks. I chew, swallow, and look at my still surprisingly full plate. “Did you go hunting? This is more than I’ve had in a week!”

Rannoch’s curious voice breaks into our conversation. “No. We didn’t.” Stalking over to where I sit, happily eating away, he frowns down at my food. “Did you give her your rations again?” he asks Tahrik, chasing away the happiness from moments before.

A flash of darkness, quick as Storm lightning, crashes across Tahrik’s face, before the smile returns, though slightly more strained than it was previously. “I gave her some…” he begins reluctantly, and immediately I hold my plate towards him.

“I can’t take your food!” I cry, dividing what is left in half. “Here. We’ll share.”

“We already shared, Wren,” he says, sitting on his heels in front of me, cutting Rannoch from our conversation. “I drank too much water too quickly this morning,” he offers by way of an explanation, and I nod understandingly.

“In that case, I happily, though reluctantly, accept.”

Rannoch nudges me with his foot, trying to get my attention. “What do you mean?” he asks. Tahrik and I exchange knowing glances. It’s sometimes easy to forget that Rannoch is of the village, but not of the village, both an insider and outsider. His family was wealthy, in land and water, and though Tahrik’s family was well-off, they did not have the private well of the Council to draw from. Rannoch’s family were growers and Councilmen, and everyone knew that the growers in our village would take a small amount off the top to help their families get through the winter Storms, before delivering the rest of the grain to the millers. So Rannoch had the double blessings of tables with extra grain, and near unlimited water from the Council’s private well. Everyone else in the village, and I mean everyone, was rationed in careful measure, but each member of the Council could drink a family’s pour every day and still have water left over.

Tahrik’s family, as millers, worked in the grain mills, but did not grow the grain, and as such, had no extra rations they could sneak from the harvests. They had to weigh the grains before and after grinding, and had no space for mistakes, lest the Council hear. So while they earned more than many, and had some comforts others could not afford, they were the luxuries of softer beds, or larger homes, or heavier blankets. But food and water were the same for any member of the village. Any member other than the Council, the Renders, the Reapers, the Father, and the Justice that is.

As the BoneKeeper, though I rated more food and water than most, I did not have access to the private water the Council and their families had. I was fortunate enough to have extra rations, both of food and water, but even I had experienced the discomfort of drinking too much water too fast on an empty stomach — of drinking half a day’s ration in a wild, uncaring guzzle, chasing away a seemingly never-ending thirst.

Rannoch sees us rolling our eyes at each other, and bristles in annoyance. “What do you mean?” he asks again, frustrated, and uncomfortable at being left out of the joke.

“She means,” Tahrik replies, an edge to his voice and smile, “that you have never known the feeling of a stomach full to bursting from drinking water too quickly.”

Rannoch frowns, and goes to open his mouth, but Tahrik stops him. “Peace,” he says, holding up his hands. “Wren can have my rations this morning. I’ll eat tonight.”

“You do her no favors by acting as a servant,” Rannoch snaps back. “It handicaps her in an unforgiving world.”

Tahrik barks out a short, unamused laugh. “Do you even know what a friend is, Councilman?” he asks sarcastically. “Perhaps you’ve never had one so don’t recognize the symptoms?”

The hit was unexpectedly direct, and Rannoch almost flinches. I don’t think Tahrik meant to hurt him, not so deeply, but Rannoch doesn’t reply — just turns away to see to his own kit.

Tahrik sighs, staring after him for a long moment, then ruffles my hair as though I were a child. “Eat, Wren. I’ll fix it.”

Heavily now, as though a weight is on his shoulders, he scuffs away, towards the quiet side of camp where Rannoch and Kaden work in focused intensity. It takes a moment or two of quiet conversation, some hand waving and shrugs laden with meaning, the way men do, and then there is light laughter, the passing of a broken piece of bread, and peace. Tahrik works beside them, gathering scattered supplies, and they joke back and forth in deep tones, the words lost in the space between us, but the feeling clear, all tension forgotten in the common goal of our travel. The casual camaraderie is nice to see, and I watch them for longer than I normally would, full belly and warm fire making me lazy.

The men make quick work of the camp, and are almost done when Kaden calls out, relief and excitement brightening his shout, “One more day to the border, I think! If we move quickly at least. And then it will be comfort, and feasting, and real beds for the whole of winter. Think of the luxury!” Rannoch rolls his eyes at Kaden, who cuffs him on the head playfully in return. For a second Rannoch debates a response, and then, surprising me and Kaden, launches himself at the unwary Trader and takes him down to the ground, wrestling like children. They scuffle and snap at each other, barks of amusement, ear burning taunts scorching the air and earth around them.

I can’t help but laugh watching them; there have been so many days of tightness and worry that this effortless joy is catching. Kaden’s relief spreads through us like ripples on a still pond. I don’t think I realized how much he was carrying until he shed it, and it eases the anxiety that has been growing inside me. Still smiling, I turn to try and catch Tahrik’s eye to share this moment. His face is strange, very still, gaze fixed on the two men near him; it is impossible to tell what he is feeling, but something close to fear clenches my stomach. And then the look is gone as if it never existed, a blink of a moment and he’s laughing with them, is pulled into the fray, shouting and tussling, three brothers fighting over who is biggest, who is loudest, who is fastest.

But the fear doesn’t leave, curling like a sleeping snake waiting for its chance to strike.

And I wonder what shadows I’m missing while blinded by the sun.

THE END OF ALL THINGS KNOWN

WREN

Iawaken slowly, dizziness a cushion around my brain, protecting it from processing what is happening. My eyes won’t open more than a tiny slit, so the world is obscured through my lashes, cloudy and indistinct. If I stay this way — dazed, unfocused — I will not think about the fact that Tahrik is hovering over me with wide, wild eyes, the whites flashing in the darkness of the night, catching the dying embers in their reflection. I will not think about the fact that a musty, mudstained rag has been shoved into my mouth, choking me, nostrils flaring in panic. I will not think about my hands tied behind my back, about my feet bound together, about his unintelligible mumblings in the night. Because to think about that would put me on the edge of madness. Instead, I try to calm my racing heart. Perhaps. I force the word into my brain, a glimmer of hope. Perhaps he is…did he find me like this? That makes more sense. He is saving me. Tahrik. Tahrik. His name the call of the birds from outside the walls of the village. A short, sharp chirp, a trill, a song on my lips and in my mouth. Tah-REEK, Tah-REEK, an unexpected burst of music in a soundless world. But the birds here are different; they’re dark and wild. Hunters who scream in the skies, sharp, bone-breaking sounds that flood you with fear and uncertainty. Has that always been the sound of his name? A shriek, not a song?

He is muttering, testing my bindings. “...Won’t hurt you. I put wool under them…not too tight.” His face tightens, jaw clenched, as he stares down at my face, running a gentle hand along my cheek down to my throat. “It’s necessary. She’ll wake them if she speaks….She’ll understand once we’re gone….Hair needs to be tied up or it will show in the sun…put mud on her skin…she’ll understand…”

Did something happen? Maybe, did Rannoch and Kaden…? The question floats through my mind, then disappears, mist fading in full sun. I can’t believe that either would…but I can’t believe that Tahrik would….something is wrong in the world. He’s close to me — his breath on my skin as he pulls up my hair, wrapping it and fastening a cloth over it so it is hidden. Forcing my eyes to open, I meet his own, inches from my face. He startles back, looking around him like a thief in the night, before shaking his head and leaning back over me. “I’ll explain, Wren. I promise I’ll explain. But we need to leave.” His words are calm, soothing, a whisper on the wind, but when I turn my head, Rannoch and Kaden are slumped at odd angles against their packs near the fire, and a muffled moan fills my throat.

“They’ll be fine. They’re fine.” His voice is unsure. He’s trying to convince himself that the path his feet are treading is not one that leads to hell. “I measured carefully. Just the smallest amount of Devil’s Teeth. A drop. Not even a drop.” My heart seizes in my chest. Devil’s Teeth. “You shouldn’t even be awake yet. It’s too soon. Maybe I didn’t use enough.” He’s back to muttering, glancing nervously back at the unconscious men. “It’s time to go.”

Pulling me to my feet, he whispers quiet apologies as he slings me over the pack horse and binds me to it. I’m weak as a newborn, limbs unresponsive, so I can’t fight against him as he maneuvers me like a doll on its back. Hurriedly he tests my ropes one last time, then grabs the lead, and takes me from the safety of camp.

I must have passed out again, because I wake, sore and still tied to the saddle, when Tahrik stops the horse. My hands and feet are on fire, my back spasming in pain.

“I’m so sorry, Wrenling. I’m so sorry!” He’s hurried, frantically apologetic as he unties me and pulls me gently from the back of the animal. I try to curl away from his hands, but he holds me firmly, like a swaddled babe, and carries me to the curve of a swift stream, where he has set up camp. It’s twilight, the sky only just growing dark, so I must have slept an entire day at least. “I had to. You’ll understand. I’m sure you’ll understand.” He props me carefully against a small, twisting tree, putting a rolled up blanket behind me to protect me from the rough wood, and grabs a waterskin from his pack. Holding it up to my mouth, he moves as though to pour it in, but bumps my feet in the process and I make a muffled sound of pain.

“Oh!” Carefully, with soft hands, he pulls the rag from my mouth. It’s been in so long that it feels like it is peeling away pieces of my mouth with it, the dryness painful, leaving the taste of iron and blood behind. “Are you alright? Is it too bad?” The question is at such odds with his actions that I feel like I am in a shifted world, that I am asleep and having a nightmare. And perhaps I am, because I cannot fathom Tahrik doing this to me. He has been my safe space, my keeper of secrets, for so long, that this…this cannot be real.

He repeats his questions, but, seeing I can’t answer, dumps the stale water, and refills the skin up with cool, fresh water from the stream. The small courtesy is a knife in my heart. He’s careful when he tips it into my mouth, but the wet against the dry is too sudden; I choke violently, heaving coughs that wrack my body and leave me shaking. Tahrik is patient, he is kind, wiping my face, tucking back my hair, and goes more slowly on the second try. This time the smallest trickle of sweet water drips down my throat in soothing drops, easing me into what becomes feverish need. I try to grab the waterskin from him, but remember at the last moment that my hands are bound.

A rough noise of protest forces its way from my mouth; even that small sound is agony, raw and scraping. “Your bindings?” He frowns, brow furrowed, shoulders tight. “I don’t know. I don’t know….” Sighing, he glances at the black forest around him and the stream in front of him, and comes to a decision. “Fine. But just your hands. And just while I’m right here.” He makes quick work of unbinding my hands, and I flex them, slowly, lightning bolts of pain running whitewater rapid through my veins, pricking my nerves.

I drink too much, too quickly, the liquid pooling in my stomach, nausea churning against my ribs. Clearing my throat painfully, I force myself to be calm. “What is happening, Tahrik?” Despite my efforts, there is too much hope in my voice, and he hears it with too much sorrow on his face.

“We shouldn’t have left, Wren.” His voice is pleading, a twisting sound half-way between anger and a whine. It’s ice on my skin, a crawling, shivering coldness. “This is all wrong. You’ve changed since we started this. It’s not right for you.” He pours cool water on my hands, washing away the dirt, and dampens a cloth to wipe off my face, but it just spreads the dust to mud. “This world isn’t right for you. We should have thought it through more. You’re changing, away from the village, the mountains, the bones. You…what will happen to all our people with you gone? You’re fine sending all of them to Silence?”

“I can’t go back, Tahrik. You know that, don’t you?” I am earnest, almost begging, and his face hardens.

“You are not meant for this world. They do not respect you as they should, don’t treat you as they should. Asking you to help with the horses, with the fire, cooking food. That isn’t for you.” He pauses, face tight, and swallows hard, his voice a whisper when he speaks again. “The sky is too big here, Wren. Don’t you miss it there? Any of it? The comfort of the mountain overhead, the smell of the dust underfoot?” Longing fills him and he leans forward, pressing our foreheads together. “We built so many dreams together. It seems like you’ve forgotten them all. A hearth and home. Chickens and children.” His face gentles, smooths at the thought. “I’d be a good husband to you, Wren. Be at peace in the chaos of our little house, build it for you wherever you want. Fill it with laughter and songs for you, everyday.”

“Tahrik—” I don’t know what to say, how to respond. Something has happened to him, twisted and broken in him over the last few weeks. I’d seen him bending, fraying, but…guilt crashes through me, a landslide of sickening shame for missing how lost he had become, even as I’d been finding pieces of myself. Every new discovery along our way that had filled up my emptiness had been emptying his fullness, and I hadn’t noticed how hollow he’d become in our new world. “I can’t go back.”

Tahrik’s fingers trail down my face, rest on the bones of my throat. Lorcan is tense and anxious, but there is nothing he can do. It has been too long since his last anointing; I was due to paint him the last morning before we left, and we are in a time where every hour makes a difference to him. He doesn’t waste energy speaking unless he has to these days, even at the best of times. And there is nothing he can say in the moment. Just his weight is a comfort though; I won’t risk lifting my fingers to grasp him.

“Even here, where you think you have left your world and responsibilities behind, you can’t abandon your calling, Wren. You still keep bone by you. Don’t you worry what will happen to them away from the safety of our village?”

A shiver runs through me. Would I return to save Lorcan, if I felt him fading?

Never, Keeper. I’d Silence myself before I let you walk that path again.

His voice is a dagger, a sharp contrast to the needle of Tahrik’s entreaty. I’m pulled back to myself when Tahrik’s hand spasms along the column of my throat.

“Something has changed you, has been changing in you. Even before we left — if we can get you back to yourself — I will help guide you, Wren. I promise. Back to the time before everything went wrong. Before the Traders, and what you did to Nickolas….I know that wasn’t you. You wouldn’t have done that. But it happened. It happened.” His arms are shaking.

“The world is better for it,” I snap, no regret flavoring my words.

“Do you not remember what you did to him?”

“I would do it again.” My words are flat, and he chokes, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. “He had a child, Tahrik!”

His answer is too loud, too close to my face, the type of strangled scream you make when you are trying to be silent but cannot. “He was not our concern!” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and tries to calm down. “Was it worth a piece of your soul to save Marrin? Was it worth what you did to that poor man? Even had the child gone to Offering, you would have Guided him to bone. And Nickolas would have been dealt with by the Father and the Council.”

“You have too much faith in a poisoned system, Tahrik. Does it not matter that it would have taken a piece of my soul had I not done something! What if it was your sister? What would you have me do then?”

“Not that, Wren. Never that. And it will be never that again if I have anything to say about it.”

“Well. You don’t have anything to say about it. My life is not yours to decide.”

He makes a low humming sound in his throat, and turns away from me. “It’s this place…we need to get you back to the village.”

“It is not this place! You know what life was for me there. You can’t possibly want me to return to that. The Council…” My words drift away. I can’t continue the sentence, cold chills rippling my skin with tiny bumps. He turns back and rubs my arms gently, his hands belying his tone and words.

“I will protect you from the Council. You have my word.” A bark of bitter laughter bursts from my mouth, and his lips tighten in a thin line. The serpent is back. “You think I can’t? You think so little of me that you don’t believe I can protect you?”

“Even the Father couldn’t protect me, Tahrik. If I return, they’ll kill me. Or worse.” Death would not be the worst option. Even now, far away, I wake in the silence of the night, gagging on fear and horror at the memory of clawing fingers on my skin. Sometimes I think I can feel the ridges of prints left behind, ghost light, staining me with their whorls and curves. I’ve scrubbed myself to bleeding to rid my body of the memory of hands. The sound of Nickolas’ bones ripping through flesh is a comfort for me, a lullabye that soothes me back to sleep, not a horror. How can Tahrik not understand that?

I have missed something, being lost in my thoughts. His voice is hushed and biting, anger dripping like venom from his words. “I would not let them hurt you again, Wren. But you are losing yourself here. You are…you are different. Louder. Less gentle. Less…appropriate for your station. All of the things that made you you are being stripped away. You don’t…you don’t carry yourself as you should.”

“And how is that, Tahrik?” There is poison in my own words, but perhaps he cannot taste it; he is too far gone, and grabs my hands earnestly, looking into my eyes.

“You were a touch of sweetness, a song for my ears alone. The way you’d blush when I said your name, or look away if we locked eyes too long…. You wouldn’t argue with me, just share sugared secrets beneath the shadow of the bones. It was just you and I, with no one else. Where has that gone? I don’t wish this world to make you hard, Wren. You are not of it. You should be away from the toils of life. I can’t stand by the side and watch you drift from yourself.” Iron enters his voice. “I won’t stand by the side. The Council was right in some ways. You should be protected. For your own good.”

For your own good. For your own good. The words echo in my mind, and I shake my head violently, as if that will rid me of them. “I am not a child to be wrapped in wool and coddled, Tahrik. I am my own person, and I am telling you I will not go back.” Trembling, I try to steady my voice, to find the words that will pull him from the madness that seeped into him. This is not Tahrik. Something has slipped into him through the cracks formed when we left the village; if only I can find him, I know I can bring him back to me. Casting my voice low, I implore him. “I was unhappy there, can’t you see that? I was scared, and lonely, and miserable.”

He shakes his head in disappointment “You are important to the village, Wren. How do you think all of those people will feel without you there? Especially now! They need you! All of the children who can no longer speak to their parents or grandparents, the husbands who can’t hear from their wives, the mothers from their sons?” His voice hardens; there is a new judgment in it. “Do not be selfish, BoneKeeper. It does not become you.”

Tahrik has never called me BoneKeeper in this way, this way that makes me an “Other”. It is the tone of the Council, a pursed, sneering sound that only parodies respect.

“What has driven you to this madness? Where has my friend gone?” I whisper, a quiet plea in the darkening light.

Tahrik sits back on his heels and cocks his head, meeting my eyes with his clear, empty brown ones. “I will have you bend, or I will have you break. But we are going home where you belong either way. And you will have me to keep you safe, and I will bring you all the birds of the forest to fill your room with song, and I will scour the earth to bring you sweets to tempt your tongue. You will never be away from me, or me from you, and you will remember yourself once you are there.” His words are a chilling promise.

“The Council will claim me. Does that mean nothing to you?”

He shakes his head. “They will not want you.”

I do not know the meaning of his words, not the way he says them, but whatever is behind them is cold and fathoms deep.

“I will stop you if I have to, Tahrik.”

He smirks, an unfamiliar look on the face I thought I knew so well. The face that filled so many of my dreams, that got me through days of empty, empty life.

“You will not, Wren. I know you too well. I know what you are made of. Would you pull my bones from me, like you did to Nickolas? Would you see me ripped apart in front of you by your doing? I am saving you from yourself! You will understand that. You will understand…” His words fade, and he stares at me, a hunger entering his appraising look. “The Council wants you because they think of you as otherworldly. You are an untouched vessel of the Gods. Nickolas thought, and Raek believes, if he is the first to your fire, he will gain some access to that power.”

A small, distressed noise escapes my throat, and he croons to me quietly. “You are safe, Wren, you are safe. Raek will not want you if you have been claimed by another. He will see that there is no power to be gained, and will not want you as a man wants a woman. Would it not be better…” he swallows audibly, a sickening honeyed beseechment in his words, “to be with someone you care about?” It’s taking me too long to understand him; he leans close enough to me that we exchange breath, and I pull my head back as much as I am able. “I will be gentle,” he whispers. “I will touch you with a lover’s hands and not harm you. You must trust me. I will lay your body down on a bed of river grass and crown you with a ring of flowers. You will be my Goddess and I will worship at your altar, BoneKeeper.”

His candied words turn bitter at my title. I don’t want a supplicant, don’t want to be a Goddess. I want…I want..a small home on the water’s edge, far from the mountain peak, with a grass green roof and a small yard full of fruit trees. I want dust covered, calloused hands that smell of bread and cinnamon, worn furniture, an open door where people visit without ceremony, and a space where laughter is not a rare flower but a common weed. I do not wish to be worshiped. Just loved. And the two are as far from each other as the sun from the moon.

He leans forward slowly, so far that I cannot move away, and softly presses warm lips against my own. Everything in me curls away from him, from his cautious tongue tracing my mouth, from the low moan emerging from his own. “Wren,” he murmurs, such reverence in his voice that it sickens me, and the small, secret part of my heart that held our story dries and crumbles like a winter’s leaf. With less than an exhale, it is lost to the wind.

“No.” The word is torn from me, like tendons yanked through flesh. “No!”

Rocking back from me, his face creases in unutterable sorrow. “No? I…Wren. We have dreamed of this together…if we bind ourselves before we return, they cannot turn back time. They will have to let us — we will be as husband and wife. I would never take from you what you don’t offer, Wren, but— There is no one here to stop us finally. Just the world we will build together.” His hands caress my arms, and I shiver back from him, pushing him away.

“Wren?”

“We are dreaming differently now, Tahrik.” If the words were kind it would have seemed a lover’s song from one to another, our faces are so close and my tone was so gentle. But they are not. They are edged in fear, in regret, and it is as though I’ve struck him. Trying to soften myself for the memory of a boy beneath a bone wall, I whisper, “We are traveling different paths. Tahrik, can’t you see?”

“What is happening to you?” He is hurt, and the pain turns to anger; it is easier to deal with a bright flame of emotion than a sour stab. “I love you, Wren. You…You love me as well. You have just forgotten it, somehow you have forgotten us.” He is frantic, angry, and so, so lost. Helpless almost, beneath the weight of his plans, his expectations, and this bitter, foreign reality that he clearly never expected. “Are you trying to protect me somehow? Driving me away from you to keep me safe for some reason? You…do you doubt me?”

“I don’t doubt you, Tahrik.” He relaxes slightly until I continue. “But…but I cannot love you, not as you want. Not in the shadow of a black mountain, not in the poisoned Storm season. Not in a house on a village street, even filled with song.”

Rearing back, face like a thundercloud, his hands clench to white fists at his side. “Do not lie to hurt me, Wren. It is not a thing we do to each other.”

I have never seen him like this; if leaving the village changed me, it has changed him too. The gentle boy I knew who kept my secrets and treated me as a hearth flame is gone, leaving only this man made of anger and bitterness in front of me.

“I cannot go back. And you only love the girl I was there. I never lied to hurt you, Tahrik. The person I was…she was a lie. I just didn’t know it at the time. I cannot be her again, no matter where we go. To make you that promise would be a betrayal.”

He turns and slams his fists into a tree nearby, bruising and cracking his knuckles til they run red with bright blood. “A betrayal? Have you betrayed me?” The question is soul deep, thorns being ripped from his heart.

And perhaps I had. Perhaps I had betrayed him, because I always knew that the girl I was in the village was a muted version of myself, but I let him believe it was the truth of me. I let him be a safe space for me to feel a little free, a place where I could breathe. In such a barren place, he was a breath of life and possibility. Perhaps it was not fair of me to cast him in a role unfit for him, to have put so much of my hope in his hands. But, I think with a spasm in my heart, if he had stayed that boy, I would have loved him. And if I had stayed that girl, he would have loved me. That is the sadness of it all; we loved a passing version of each other, a brief moment of the other, and was it love at all then if it could not grow with the people we have become? What is love if not an experience of infinity?

“You were not mine to betray, Tahrik.” I say softly, raising a hand to his face, the lines of which I know so well I could draw them in my sleep. “We were never each other’s. Not really. We were stolen moments. And that could not last.”

I meant to be kind; I tried to be kind. But I could hear his heart crack, an audible sound like a boulder splitting from the top of the mountain. And like that, it starts a rockslide that was not planned and cannot be controlled.

“Wren!” He screams my name, pain breaking it to pieces. Hands to his face he tears at his hair, a wildness coming over him that scares me more than anything else to that point. Dragging his bleeding hands down his face, he stands over me, tears streaming ruby rivulets down his hollow cheeks. He has been giving me his rations for weeks, not trusting that I could survive without his help. Not seeing that, as he was wasting away, I have been thriving. Chest heaving, he stills, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. “Something has changed you. Some sickness is in you. You will remember yourself if I make you my own. You will forgive me for it, because you will remember what we are to each other.” Stepping forward, he reaches down and drags me up against his chest, shaking me, fingers pressing bruising ovals into my pale arms. “You will remember yourself!” he begs, and demands, and we are both crying rivers of sadness, for what has been, for what is to come. “You will forgive me,” he repeats, whispering against my lips, which I keep pressed firmly together, a wall against his poisoned affection.

I think back to the sweet taste of orange by a curve of bloodied thorns, and feel a pang in my heart for the things I have given, for the things that have been taken. “If you do this, you will raze my heart and burn all to the ground, Tahrik. What we were can never be again.” It is a prayer, a plea, and a promise.

He is trembling, vibrating against me. My feet are still bound; I cannot get away from him. He wrenches my hands behind my back, pressing me into him. I can feel his heartbeat through his chest, a stuttering rhythm, and he bends his head to my own, breathing deeply. “Wren,” he whispers, trying to calm himself, calm me, to settle the situation, to bring us back to center. “We have to go home. We are lost out here. I…I am lost. I won’t hurt you, I promise. But I have to take you home. Once you are there, we’ll find ourselves again.” He straightens, his voice hardens. “I won’t hurt you. But if you fight me, I will bind you and make you come with me.”

“You don’t want to do this. Please!” I am frantic, a trapped bird, trying to free my hands, but am no match for muscles built from years in the mill. This is worse than Nickolas. This is shattering pieces of me that cannot be mended. He is gone from his mind. I know him; he would not do this. But he is lost in some darkness, and cannot find his way out. “I can’t go back, Tahrik! I will die there!”

He pins me to the bark, face directly over mine in the darkness. “I will be gentle,” he promises roughly, voice raw with chaotic emotion. “I will protect you and keep you safe. But you will come home.” Tahrik forces my eyes up to meet his, and pauses, seeing the fear and pain written in my white gaze, the tears streaming down my face, and finally, finally freezes.

“You will be killing me,” I whisper, all of the broken pieces of me spread naked in front of him. “It will kill me.”

His eyes widen, a dawning look of horrified clarity appearing on his face. “What am I doing?” he whispers, pulling back, his hands relaxing, just slightly. “What have I done?” But before I can speak, his eyes flare open, a startled bewilderment on his face, and he stops, and looks down.

A small pinprick pushes into my chest, and there is a thin trickle of wetness followed by a rushing river of warmth. I look at Tahrik’s face in confusion — his eyes are wide in astonishment, nostrils flared, mouth gaping as he stares down at me. The mania drains from his face with all of his color, leaving a pale, desperately grief-stricken boy behind. “I’m….I’m sorry, Wrenling…Oh Gods…what was I…forgive me…forgive me…” he manages to say, a bead of ruby red spilling from the corner of his mouth. Our hands drop together as one, as he slumps forward against me, limbs shaking. Tears are running down his face, falling freely onto our intertwined fingers. He raises them to his mouth and kisses them gently, gently with his bloody lips. “Forgive…” he whispers, barely a sound at all, before slowly collapsing to the ground in front of me, sliding off the sharp tip of a sword gleaming red in his chest.

There is silence, silence, silence, then his soul bursts into muffled song from his crumpled body.

THIS BREATH AND NO OTHER

WREN

Here is the truth of a final breath. When you die, your soul sings a requiem, so sad and so beautiful it drowns out all other sound, and makes you weep for what has been lost. The soul hovers for the length of its song, above the body, wrapped in music and memory, waiting to be held and Guided home to bone. If you do not catch it in time, the soul will dissolve, like mist in the rising sun, gone forever. There is no way to rescue a soul once it fades. Tahrik’s soul sings in color, all of the memories he has of me since the first time he saw me in the village, before I even knew he was a heartbeat in my life. Memories are always most vibrant in those few minutes after death, and I am lost to the rest of the world as they flood me. If there is death around me, then I am not of this world for a time, but stepping between, and it is in this inbetween that choices must be made.

In the village there is no choice, not really. As Keeper I must bring the soul home to bone. It is the most sacred task I have. If I do not Guide the soul, it will be lost to the Absence, gone forever in the Void. There will be no gentle moments of memory, no passing of history from father to son, no time for recollections or remembrances. Nothing but emptiness. And I have mere moments to collect the soul, to command it to bone, to save it from being lost. Forever.

Tahrik’s memories flash before me, lightning quick, vivid pictures of my face and eyes in a way I have never seen them. Here I am smiling sunshine bright, all the happiness in his small world pooling in my pale eyes. Here I am bent over a small child, guiding her hand gently to a smooth bone. Here I am sharing a crust of bread with an old mother in the town, here I am holding Tahrik’s fingers in my own, in the shadow of the bone wall. Scattered through these are the sounds of strings plucked in quiet corners, the feel of cold nights, the warmth close friends — all these and more fall like rain upon my skin, burning and cooling all at once. Every second played in intricate harmony, layer upon layer of life and love shimmering in soul song. But even those cherished recollections seem dull compared to the iridescent moments where I existed for Tahrik — his life was a series of steps that mapped my own — and I realize how deep the fissure must have been when the girl he lived his life for was shown to be a phantom.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I whisper, and his soul echoes back to my own, I’m sorry, Forgive me. But when I try to grab it to bind him, it fights me, a bright ball of burning light in my hands. I have had souls fight me before, of course I have, but never like this, with a violent, desperate pulling away. Calm, calm, Tahrik. I try to soothe the soul. Be at peace. It does not hurt. It is going home. And I will keep your bones sacred. I swear it. I will weave you in my hair. I will wear you on my heart. I will hold you to my skin. Yet still he fights, his light dimming moment by moment, the liquid requiem fading further and further away. I know from experience that, once I can no longer hear his song, he will be lost to me forever. I have not made that mistake but once, and have never forgotten the loss of that soul. Do not fight me, Tahrik! I don’t have long. Yet still he pulls from my hands, water running through my fingers, the light of his soul dripping from my fingertips like golden blood.

Do not make me, Wren. His words are a whisper. I cannot hear him. I will not hear him. I am the BoneKeeper and his soul will do my bidding. Ah, my love. Let me go now. Do not keep me. He is pleading. Forgive me if you are able, give me peace and let me go. I cannot stay in bone, knowing what I would have done to you. It would be an eternity of pain. You would be damning me. Let me find emptiness in the Void. It would be a gift.

His song is so soft now, the sound of a newborn’s breath at night. Barely a noise at all. And still I grip him, refusing to let him leave.

Your song made me a promise, Tahrik. You promised your bones would sing for mine.

I promised a dream, Wren. A dream that faded when the world woke. He flickers. Forgive me. Forgive me. He is pleading.

I forgive you, Tahrik. It was not you. You were not in your right mind.

I am sorry, Wren. And I love you. I will love you until the Void takes me, and beyond.

I love you, too, Tahrik.

His soul flickers again, and pales. I know that is not the truth for what I am now, but it is a comfort that perhaps it was true for what I once was.

My heart thuds painfully. His soul is now a pale, frost yellow, barely a color at all. Shall I just tie the version I knew of you, and no other? I ask frantically. I will take you home to your sister, and you can whisper stories from your childhood.

Can you do that? His song is a breath, and nothing more. Can you split my soul and leave only what was good of me behind?

I don’t know, have never tried it, but I can see a faint grey ring around the brighter, central glow. He is almost gone, and I reach out, cupping the small, flickering ball in my hands, blowing away the grey like smoke, watching it dissipate, before trying to compel the small soul left to the bone blade at my waist. It…shivers…there is no other word, then rejects the Guiding Knife, dissolving in my hands.

Tears course down my face, small tracts of pain planted in familiar fields. Loss is a crop I have grown my whole life. But this loss is deep. It is losing the only joy of my childhood. Without him, I have no ties left to who I used to be.

In the last glow of his faint soul light, a barely there whisper, he tries to comfort me. Don’t be sad, Wren. I tied my soul to yours long before the rest of it drifted to the Void. I live on in your heart and memory, if nowhere else. Be at peace. Let me go.

And so, I do. I stop fighting him, letting him fall from my fingers like tears from my eyes. With that, there is a pulse of light and sound and color, and he is gone.

THE BLOODLETTER

WREN

All of this happens in the space of a breath, and, on the exhale, Tahrik is gone. He is nowhere in this world, his bones curiously silent in front of me. Tahrik, I whisper frantically, Tahrik! reaching out with my senses to run them along his cold, white corpse. Death has rarely been an Almighty where I live. It’s simply a funny little door that few have a key to, but it can be opened and, occasionally, one may step through briefly in the Dreaming. Unless you are an Exiled, marrow hollowed and burned, or Silent, death is just a moment away, waiting in the Nowhere for the Dreamers to visit. It is not…it is never this goodbye, not if I am close enough to catch its hand. When you mourn for the departed, it is a sadness of the day to day. Not a sorrow that leaves a scar on your heart. So the pain of this is unknown, and staggering.

A low moan presses against my ears, and I cover them, rocking back and forth like a child on the ground, not realizing the sound comes from inside me. I’m so lost in the moment, to the bitter taste of sorrow in the air and the winter memory of Tahrik’s soul slipping through my fingers like spilled wine, that it takes me a heartbeat, and then another to remember. The sword! A sword! And I look up, numbness and death warring on my face. To bring a soul home to its bones — to try to bring a soul home — takes everything within a BoneKeeper, and I have nothing left to fight. I am empty, and weak, and inexperienced in the crippling sadness that runs in my veins like poison, and, in this moment, can’t bring myself to feel anything at all, other than the void that has opened inside me.

In front of me, frozen like a statue, stands a creature I almost recognize. It is tall and broad, rippling muscles under stretched tight skin. His skin — it must be a male — is covered, every inch, with strange, swirling patterns in blacks and greys curling along bands, unfamiliar creatures' heads and bodies woven in the backgrounds. He is all darkness — dark boots, dark pants with a thick leather split skirt of some sort over the top, heavy leather vambraces on his forearms, and the fur of an animal I’ve never seen covering his shoulders.

But the chilling part, beyond the blood now covering his skin like paint, beyond the ornate dagger in his hand, sharp and gleaming with a curious twisting groove down the center, beyond, even, him sliding his sword from Tahrik’s unresisting back, is his face. I stare up, mesmerized, paralyzed. Above me is cold, exposed bone — a long, thin animal-like face with ridged, thick, twisting horns, and two gaping orbital sockets that house black, fathomless eyes. The…thing…studies me for a breathless moment, then tips his head back and howls, a long, liquid sound that pours from his throat and echoes in the darkness. There is a pause, and then he howls again, this time louder, almost ear-shattering; in the distance, answering calls rise up from all corners around us. It is almost musical, something wild and tempting in the sound, pulling physically at my blood, as though it would burst from my body to sing with him. I shiver, and he jerks his head around to look back down at me with careful consideration.

Cocking his head, he asks a question in a curling, dancing sound I’ve never heard before. His voice is deep, almost a purr, and holds secrets upon secrets. Confusion must be clear on my face, though, because he pauses, then tries again.

“You want to sing with us?” The words are unexpected, rough and raw, as though he rarely uses them. Squatting down in front of me, skull eyes locked on my own, he tilts his horns, considering me carefully before asking softly, “Have I caught a blind bird in my snare? Not the prey I was seeking.” He stares at me as though waiting for an answer, then sighs. “I’ll rid you of this at least before I leave,” and, reaching around me, moves to roughly shove Tahrik aside. In the movement I finally come to my senses.

“No!” I gasp, flinging my body over Tahrik’s. He’s no longer there, no longer anywhere, I know, but I can’t let…he can’t just be pushed aside, like a now empty sack. The creature rocks back in surprise. I take the chance to straighten Tahrik’s crumpled body, to fold his hands, to close his unseeing eyes.

“This…this man would have hurt you.” The creature spits the words out; they carry bitterness and judgment.

“He was not in his right mind,” I whisper, more to myself. “He stopped, just at the end, he stopped. He would not have…”

“He already did, Huldra.” The creature touches his knife to my wrists. Bruises mix with blood from where I was bound.

“He was not in his right mind,” I repeat again, tears choking my voice. I lost Tahrik twice in the space of a day — once when he attacked me and erased our history, and once when he abandoned me and erased our future. Grief, like a boulder, crushes me, and I sway under its weight.

The creature reaches a hand out to steady me, then passes me a skin of water. “Drink.” When I hesitate, there is amusement in his voice. “Had I wanted you dead, I would have pushed the sword harder; it would have cut clean through you both. I cannot be sorry for taking his life, only for causing you sorrow, however misplaced.”

“It is not misplaced.” I am shaking, from cold, from loss, from the effort of bringing his soul home, from the realization that I failed, I failed, and I would never see my friend again. That he took with him the only part of my life that had color in our village, that he took my secrets with him to Silence, and now there is no one alive who knows the pathways of history that led me to this moment. It is selfish of me, but I mourn for the parts of me that he took with him, that I cannot get back. My voice is slow-moving water, candlelight soft when I continue. “He was lost, but before he was lost, he would collect water for me before himself. He would bring me the better bread and keep burnt crusts. He would walk me to the caves and wait, if he could, til I came out unharmed.” My words drift away, and my shaking increases, almost vibrating. The words mean nothing to the strange creature, but I am reminded of our childhood, where he gave me the best of what he could, and my heart clenches painfully. “He sang me a future that was more than the coming Storms.”

He crouches before me in the last of the fading light from a dying sun, and cocks his bone head to one side. Though the expression is frozen, he manages to look curious, and considering. He’s on his heels, but, even so, towers over me. I feel as small as a child, and as lost as one, fatigue from the failed Guiding frosting my skin with cold fingers, pressing down on my eyes, trying to force them closed. Exhaustion suffocates me, thick enough to sleep, even here, death laying beside me and looming before me. In this moment I think, perhaps, that the creature before me did me no favors by stopping his blade before it entered my heart as well.

Suddenly and without check, tears course down my face, reminding me painfully of a day at a waterfall, of a boy teaching me to swim, giving me his meal, and singing me to sleep with a sorrow I did not understand.

I understand it now. I wish I had then.

I don’t move, just sit dumbly, waiting for him to speak. When he does, it surprises me.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he offers formally. “I can’t be sorry for my actions; I would not suffer a man who harms a woman to live. But your tears tell a story that was more than that moment, and you have my sympathy, for whoever he was. And for whatever drove him to become the man I saw.” He hesitates, then continues as though searching for the words, speaking more softly than I would have thought possible. “I offer no offense, but he had you bound to a horse. Gagged. He…your wrists are bruised and bloody. He had you against a tree. Had I known he would stop, my actions would have been different perhaps. But he…he did not stop before the strike of my sword.”

I nod dully. When the first tile is knocked down, it does not matter if the last wishes to fall. Once the movement is set in motion, they all tumble, whether they want to or not. Though I want to hate the creature in front of me, to lash out at him and drive a knife through his heart, as he did through mine, I know in my bones that it was not his actions which led to Tahrik’s death. Only I am responsible for the loss of his soul — no other. I swallow back tears, inhaling and exhaling on shaky, measured breaths. His death is on my skin, and my lips — I can smell the blood in the air, can taste the metallic red on my tongue.

The creature’s black eyes glitter in the last light of day, and he sighs, as though making a decision. “I’ll start a fire, and we’ll see what to do with you. I’m not in the habit of rescuing fairies, no matter how needy. They bargain in ways that cost more than you know you’re giving.” Shaking his horns, he tips his head back again, but this time to whistle, sharp stutters of sound, then a low chirr, and once more is answered, from much, much closer. “Don’t worry. They won’t approach. Not yet, anyhow.”

Turning, he carelessly gives me his back; some forgotten sense of self preservation rises in me, nothing but a small cat, but with claws and teeth none-the-less. I don’t know how his bones will answer me, but I call to them gently as I sip from the skin, just a soft greeting, and jerk back, spilling the water down my front as they burst into song at my touch.

Bone in body never sings. Never. I can hear it, a low pulse of sound under the skin, not full notes but still vibrant, even though muffled. It will answer my call if I command it, but until it has been pulled from its flesh with blood-red force, it will not sing to me. My throat closes in panic, and I choke on the water. The sound catches his attention, and he turns from the bright bonfire he has managed to create in a short time. The light casts shadows on his skull face, makes the patterns on his skin dance in the night, twisting and turning like living things along his muscled arms.

“Are you alright, Huldra?” he asks, voice gentle, though the words are sung out oddly — almost, but not quite, musical.

Am I alright? Is there any answer to that question, really? It is no, has always been no, and, with Tahrik cold beside me, will be no forever more I think. Tahrik, Tahrik, his name like a bird.

My eyes are drawn against my will to his empty body, still lying near me, and the creature nods in understanding. “I will cover him tonight, and he will be untouched until the morning, when we can decide what to do with him. If we are able, we will honor him in the ways of your people. If we are not, we will honor him in the ways of ours, as much as we can.”

There is a chirping sound from the edge of the black woods, a curious whistling, and the creature in front of me replies in a similar whistle-chirp. There are answering calls from all around us, by the trees, across the river, and somewhere in the distance, trills and warbles that are almost creature, almost human.

“Do you have a place to rest?” he asks me. I shake my head mutely. “I have a sleep roll of sorts I can spare.”

Shaking my head again, I clear my throat, and am finally able to reply. “There is a bower for my bed.” A bower your bed and the night sky your home… “It will suffice.”

“I—” he begins, but I hold up my trembling hand.

“It will suffice,” and he nods in reply.

“Not too far from the fire,” he cautions. I shrug in tired response. What is there to fear in the night now? I have had the whole of me stripped away. What do I care for wolves on the wind?

The creature looks at me, bone face cold, but raises a hand as if to comfort me, before changing his mind, and dropping it back to his side. Without further word, he begins quick work of setting up his bedding. I struggle to my feet and stumble towards the river, clumsy in my grief, tripping over stones and roots, but the pressing need to wash off the blood from my hands doesn’t leave any room for caution. The bank is slippery; I lose my footing, sliding down the muddy slope until I’m almost submerged, waist deep in shocking cold water, fighting against the desire to walk forward until I disappear beneath the surface altogether. I stay in the icy water much, much longer than I should, scrubbing my skin with the sand and gravel until it is red and raw, silent sobs suffocating me. I don’t know how long I’m there; my face and hands are numb at least, all feeling washed from them in the endless water before me. I do know that I’ve made no noise — I am too practiced in stifling my emotions for that — but eventually there is a clicking sound from across the black river, and almost immediately I sense the creature approaching me from behind, bones humming in the darkness.

“It is enough, I think.” He is trying to be kind, but I cannot have it. His kindness is misplaced. I should have just forced him to bone, I think, regret curling through me.

“I still smell blood,” is my only answer, and he sighs.

“The blood is gone. Come to the fire. You should eat something.”

There is nothing left in me to protest, so I let him lead me to the warmth, which sends painful needles through my waking skin. Fighting the urge to cry out, I stare down at the ground as he moves around, setting a small plate in front of me, wrapping my hands around the edges. It is fully covered in some strange fruits, cheese, and a soft bread, and I trail a finger over the curious rinds and crust.

“It’s not much,” he offers, almost apologetically, but the look on my face stops him.

“It is a feast,” I answer, dividing it in half. I may be dull with grief, but I can’t take the creature’s rations. “Here.”

“Your cheeks are hollow with hunger, Huldra. Take the food and be done with it.”

His words startle a bitter sort of laugh from me, and he tilts his head, a silent question in the movement.

“Hollow with hunger?” I ask, a strange sort of hysteria in my voice. I am coming undone. At home I would sleep for a full day cycle following a Guiding; it makes me too tired for caution. “I am rounder than I have ever been before, I assure you. I cannot take your rations.”

“I have my own,” he replies thoughtfully, showing me his plate. “Eat.”

And I do, though it tastes like dirt in my mouth, until a bite of something sharp and sweet floods my mouth and I choke on the taste and the memory of Rannoch. Quickly I push the food away, gulping reflexively, then wash my mouth with the rest of the water from the bag.

“I…I am full. Thank you.” There is nothing more I can say, and he asks no more from me, so I walk to the soft, downy cushion of grass and curl up like a child by a fireplace in the Storm months. I wonder for a moment if I’ll ever sleep, but the day has been too much to bear, so when darkness comes, I drift away on it like woodsmoke.

FOREVER AND MORE

WREN

Iam woken from a dreamless sleep by the sound of a soft scuffing from the far side of the fire. I’ve lived too long in caution to not come fully awake in the night when threatened, so my senses are on high alert the second I hear the strange noise. All is stillness and darkness around me until my eyes adjust to the midnight blackness, and can just make out the outline of a large horse by the shivering light of the dying embers. I’ve truly never seen a creature so big — it seems almost a different species than the horses of our village, but its velvet nose and liquid eyes are the same as our smaller, heartier ponies.

Creeping over quietly, past the noiseless place where the horned creature sleeps, I approach the horse cautiously. It lifts its head to look at me, then returns to a small pile of hay in front of it. I don’t know where it came from, can only assume it is the creature’s mount, and I missed it in the earlier chaos. Reaching out a tentative hand, I stroke its dark neck, at first hesitantly, and then, when it does not react, lean my full body against it, wrapping my arms around its neck, the warmth of its muscles bright and alive under my skin. It is patient with my affection, just flicking its tail and ears in response.

“How will I go on?” I whisper against its side, a quiet desperation in my words. “How will I go on?”

It has no answer, just continues eating, and I breathe against it, slowly, slowly, until it picks up its head, hearing something beyond the reach of my ears, then walks off into the inky blackness. I am awake now, though, and on edge. I know there is no sleep left for me in these waning hours, and move numbly to sit by the fire, my eyes fixed on a shadow in the shadows.

Tahrik’s empty form is covered in a draped cloth of some sort — another unexpected kindness from the horned man. He was not left exposed to the night chill — though he would not feel it my mind reminds me — and I shake away the thought. The horned one said we would have time to honor Tahrik in the morning, but there is no promise strong enough to make me wait. If I have learned anything, it is that nothing is certain, and if the moment exists, you must seize it or risk losing it forever. Gliding silently past the fire to the far side of our makeshift camp where Tahrik now lays, I try to think of what I can do for him. Honoring the dead in our village is such a different thing than I’m now faced with — as different as the Storms from Forgiveness — and I am cripplingly unsure of what to do.

Our people sing to the sleeping soul, and then again to the woken bone, once it is ready. There are few final goodbyes during the time of a BoneKeeper, so I am not as familiar with our practices when our village is without one. If I am near, the soul goes to bone. I’ve never been at a ceremony for a soul lost to Silence; it’s not a place I would be welcome. Casting my mind back, I search through other’s recollections, trying to think of the best way I can honor my lost friend. But there is nothing. The bones tend to share their best memories with me, the things they loved and long for from their living days. Very rarely do they linger on sorrow, and even then, over time, the sadness drains from them and they are left filled only with mist-covered moments of warm earth beneath their feet and the open sky of the Dancing Month. Time takes all heartache eventually; even mountains of pain are worn to pebbles at the end. So I don’t know how to do this; even if he’s empty, he deserves something.

All that comes to mind is the first song he sang to me, when I was lost and scared and he saved me just by seeing me. It is a howling agony in my soul that I could not repay the favor, that somehow I missed the turning of his heart, the loneliness in him that I, in part, helped create, when he was the one who pulled me from my own. But his world existed in a glass vase; everything he wanted and needed held carefully within fragile walls. And it was the cruelest trick of the sun and stars that the only woman he loved was the one who was destined to crack that glass, who wanted everything outside that shattered boundary. I don’t know if I ever would have broken the vase if I had known its walls were his mind, and, by fracturing one I would fragment the other.

My voice is shaky when I start, choked with sadness, my vision blurring enough that the night is viscous, and gives me back Tahrik for one, agonizing moment. His memory turns to me with a shining smile, eyes fixed on my own, and holds out a hand. I try to take it, unthinking, but mine passes through his, as futile as holding pure water in cupped fingers. So when he whispers, “Well, Keeper? Shall we begin?” I know it’s a crushing trick of light, just a lingering fragment of a beautiful friendship, and something more, that was born in the speckled sunlight of the childrens’ garden. For everything that happened since, his music and smile had been the bright threads woven in heavy cloth of my life for so long that the thought of never hearing him again is suffocating, singing almost impossible. But I have to try. I couldn’t Guide him to bone, but I will at least sing him to sleep.

His voice marked every waxing and waning in my sky, almost every dawn and dusk of the people in our village. It seems fitting, then, to say our final goodbye with our beginning, the first he ever sang to me.

“Quietly, quietly, walk in the shadow

Quietly, quietly through the dark door

Quietly, quietly, young starlit maiden

And there will be peace for you

Water and shore.

Quietly, quietly shimmer like stardust

Quietly, quietly hope on the wind

Quietly, quietly tell me your secrets

And I’ll keep them safe for you

Shall we begin….”

I never sung in the village — had only the once taken part in the Dancing or the celebrations of life there. My presence was a reminder of death, and I tried hard to not weigh others down with my attendance. So I watched from the edges, and whispered the words to myself when the rest of the village shouted them with joy. No one had ever heard me sing, so this once it will be a gift to Tahrik’s memory, and though his bones cannot hear me, perhaps he is right, and he bound a piece of his soul to my own, because here in the silence of the coal-black night, I swear I can feel him, somewhere, just a breath beyond my own. So I sing, voice low and unsteady, whispering the dream he wrote for me so long ago.

“Shall we begin a brand new adventure

Will you walk with me, will you take my hand,

Shall we have dreams we share with each other,

Speak in a language none but we understand?

Quietly, quietly meet me in shadows

Quietly, quietly whisper my name,

Quietly, quietly I will come to you,

Drawn by your presence as moth by a flame…”

Tears are thick in my voice now, but I finish the song for him, changing the words.

“Quietly, quietly, I’ll Guide you through shadow

Quietly, quietly I’ll open Death’s door

Quietly, quietly, my star-crossed lover

And there will be peace for you

Water and shore.

And I’ll always love you, forever and more.”

My voice fades, and I bow my head, hands pressed before me, kneeling by the side of his body. The world is nothing but sorrow and regret for so very many heartbeats; in the morning, as he asked me to, I will let him go. But tonight, in these lost, quiet hours, I’ll stay by his side and maybe, if I am wrong about the Silence, then somewhere some echo of his soul will know I didn’t leave him alone. Slowly, painfully, like an old woman, I lay on the cold ground next to his covered body and stare for a long time at the flickering embers in the fire until my eyes grow heavy. Just as they shut, I think I see the faint outline of a curved horn in the shadow of the trees beyond Tahrik’s body, but am lost to sleep before I am sure.

A GHOST AND A GIRL

AXTON

She is still asleep in the light of a cold sky that matches the color of her skin, her eyes. Such a strange little creature to find in the middle of nowhere, more of a sylph than anything human. Made of wind and breath — not someone or something we have space to care for.

Even if her hollow cheeks and red-bruised eyes make me stupid with rations.

Even if her scrubbing at her muddy skin in the river for what felt like hours made me uncomfortable in ways I refuse to study too carefully.

Even if her voice in the night, singing to her fallen…companion…pulled me from my sleep into a curious, waking dream.

No.

She is a feather of a woman. A bird with hollow bones — the thought of her on horseback riding with my people over the miles we need to cover in the next month, before the cold descends and the wild pastures die off…she would never make the journey alive. She barely looks alive now, her skin almost blue in the morning sun. And blind — she must come from a soft people who would let a sightless child live. It’s a cruelty we would never indulge in; a quick death is far better than the slow one the child would have suffered in our lands. Perhaps she wasn’t born lacking vision, had it drain from her eyes too late to address it. She is far from graceful — the number of times she almost fell on the short walk to the river was laughable — but she did make it there on her own, so she must have some ability to survive. Though how someone who speaks in the Common Tongue, not our language, got so close to our lands, and why she’s here — those are answers I should take from her…those are answers that will be wrenched from her if I bring her with me. The Elders find anything abnormal…distasteful…and do not suffer its presence lightly.

I can’t let her go, not exactly. Too many of my people have seen her, curious questions whistled on the wind throughout the night. Why are we stopping for a girl? Who is she? Where is she from? Why was she bound? There would be no way to keep the story from ears used to finding meaning in the sounds of skittering rats in walls. But if there is a way to leave her behind without it being obvious…Suddenly, and with a speed that startles me, between one breath and the next she is up and standing, hand dropped to her side as though searching for a missing blade, white eyes wide and wild, nostrils flared.

“Peace now, Huldra,” I say quietly, trying to gentle my voice as I would for a spooked horse. “There’s none here who would hurt you.”

“Where…what?” she mumbles, confused, breath fast and shallow, before memory and grief wake in her sleep-clouded mind, and her face crumbles then smooths, all emotion pushed away, hidden so quickly it tells of a lifelong practice. Perhaps her people weren’t as gentle as all that.

“Food first. Questions can follow.” Stoking the fire back to life, I turn and rummage through my pack. We haven’t had much luck hunting, but there’s enough for meals if we’re not careless. Most of my supplies are at the main camp; I didn’t anticipate sleeping away from our encampment last night, so I only have small snacks, easy to eat while traveling.

“Here,” I offer shortly, holding out an oated nut and honey bar. It’s my last, one of my favorites, and I’m suddenly angry at myself. Sharing the one luxury I have with a fragile little snow mouse. She tries to wave it off, and I shove it in her hands. “Just eat. Stop being obstinate. This is all we have.”

“Oh.” The single word trembles, and she bends her head down, long white neck curved like a bird’s, then takes a miniscule bite, clearly forcing herself to chew. All I want to do is apologize for causing that small, hurt exclamation, for her shaking fingers, for her furrowed brow, and it makes me furious.

“You’ll find the other food less to your liking, I’m sure. This is the best there is; no use holding out for better.” It’s senseless to have her think that there is anything ahead of her but hardship. I won’t willingly make things difficult for her, but I don’t have time or space to make things easier, either. So I try to ignore the sickening lurch in my stomach when she breaks the bar in half, holding some out silently toward me. “Stop trying to feed me, Huldra. I’ve enough.”

The spark of defiance that tightens her jaw at my words is…surprising. And concerningly alluring. “You said this is all we have. If you didn’t lie, then it means we share. So which is it — are you telling the truth? Or are you speaking with a forked tongue?”

Choosing not to answer, I simply reach out and take the offered bar from her hand, pressing my lips together to not respond to the smug look on her face. The hint of fire disappears as quickly as it flared though, and she collapses back into herself as she nibbles on the food.

We eat in silence until she clears her throat; questions obviously fill her mouth, and I roll my eyes silently behind my helmet. “Ask what you want. Loose tongues rarely loosen blades. Though I make no promises.”

“What is it you keep calling me? Huldra?”

The careful way she says it almost makes me smile. Almost. “It’s what I assume you are. You’re clearly not human, so⁠—”

She reacts like I’ve slapped her, eyes flaring wide, breath stopping, nostrils flaring, and then it’s all gone and she’s empty, empty, empty. “Ah,” is all she says, flat and bland. “I see.”

I don’t know what I’ve said; something in the way she’s erased herself creates a storm in my chest, and I want to reach out and shake her until she comes back, or feed her sweets until she smiles.

This is why we don’t pick up strays, I remind myself. Less than a day and you’ve changed plans twice. Lose the girl, leave her behind with the body, and let her find her own way.

A series of sharp clicks and whistles from across the river brings me back to my senses. It’s too late for that; there’s no way now but forward.

“You’ll have to come with me. There’s no real choice in the matter. Can you ride that thing?” I point to the ragged looking horse her friend had her bound to, barely a horse at all. More of a child’s mount; I’m dubious it could bear even her scant weight.

“I’ve never ridden, and it’s been lame of late…” she offers haltingly, and I throw up my hands to the skies.

“Of course you haven’t. Of course.” Frustration sharpens my words, and though her face doesn’t change from its placid blankness, she’s not quite as skilled at keeping the barest hint of an edge from her voice.

“I’m tremendously sorry to disappoint you.”

“Obviously, Huldra.” My response is dry, but I’m incredibly grateful my face is hidden behind my masque; not for her sake — she couldn’t see it anyway. But for those watching from the copse of trees with interested eyes; it would be whispered around the campfires in hushed gossip that the Commander had lost his mind, grinning at a moon-pale spirit when everything around was chaos and disorder. “Well, then we kill it and you’ll have to ride with me for the time being. I’ll figure out the rest tonight. But we can’t stay here.”

“Kill it?” She’s shocked, and I frown.

“We can’t take it if it has no use. I see that offends you, but I can’t apologize for it. Every piece must be of some good to the whole when we travel through the wild pastures. Every part must earn its keep. Perhaps if we were closer to home; it looks well enough to carry children or some such thing, despite its size. But for the next month, we have no time or space for a lame, deformed horse.”

Jaw clenched, she gets to her feet and dusts herself off before turning and walking over to the shaggy pony. “Then free it,” she says firmly, running her hands down its neck and crooning to it softly.

“It won’t survive, Huldra. I’m sure you think I’m being casually cruel, but you’re condemning it to a slow death. I offer it mercy.”

Turning back to face me, she locks her empty eyes on the sound of my voice, and though they are wide and unseeing, I still feel the weight of the moon on my shoulders, as though the TriGoddess were judging me through this tiny creature, and finds me lacking. It’s unsettling.

“A chance at life and freedom is mercy. To be the justice and judgment all in one only based on a passing thought is unwise.”

“You clearly don’t understand our lands or our people. This is the way of things.” There’s no room for argument in my tone; once I’ve declared something, it happens. That is also the way of things.

“Hmmm.”

Turning from me again, she leans against the pony, burying her face in its thin side, rubbing its ears with a gentle hand, completely ignoring me. Sighing, I pull my blade from my belt. I’ll have enough trouble with just her; I can’t bring two stumbling useless creatures with me. I’d never live through the Elders once we return to the Crimson City. Better to deal with it now than scramble for explanations later.

A sharp, almost amused whistle jerks me from my thoughts; while I debated with myself, the sylph had loosed the pony, disguising her movements in the petting and stroking, then patted its rump hard enough to cause it to startle and scatter away. The same whistle from the woods asks me if she should chase it down, but I reply with a short, angry chirp of sound, and try to ignore the whistler’s obvious delight in what just happened. It would be a waste of energy to hunt the little pony only to kill it, but such obvious defiance to a direct command also can’t go unpunished.

“What…what?” Excellent response, Axton. Clearly starting with your bladehand.

“Ooops?” she says, almost a question, almost a taunt; not enough of either to cause real offense, but just enough to let me know it was purposeful. Nothing shows on her face other than a masque of apology — if I went off that alone, it would seem completely accidental. “What a terrible mistake,” she continues blithely, pitching her voice low enough that none but me would be able to hear. Walking toward me, she pauses after a few steps, tilting her head in a pantomime of contriteness. “I’m so sorry,” she says, now more loudly, as though wanting others to hear, each word seemingly entirely sincere. Hands flapping helplessly in front of her like a fledgling, she casts her wide gaze around her, and I narrow my eyes at her theatrics. “I was going to bring him to you, but when I was tightening the halter, it slipped. I am unskilled with ponies.” Looking down at her feet, she is every inch the penitent; no one would doubt her.

“When I speak, Huldra, my words are law.” Blade and blood are clear in my tone; I see them flicker across her mud-stained skin.

“I am certain you are used to being obeyed.” Again, her words are unoffensive, but burrow like needles beneath my skin, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from replying in kind. Different tactics, Axton, I think. If the path is blocked, what use is it to continue to try and climb? Go around.

I step toward her until we are near enough to each other that no others, even with hawk’s hearing, could listen, and soften my voice. “Huldra, it does you credit in a way. You have a tender heart, that much is clear.” Only her shoulders respond to me, sinking down on her exhale, but it’s enough. This close to her I can see what I’ve missed; a fine, almost imperceptible trembling running along her skin, her shallow, hitched breathing, her flexing fingers. Ah, I think, some unfamiliar pity filling me, leaving no room for anger, only a strange sadness and, surprisingly, a faint admiration. This creature is barely keeping her skin on her bones — she is moments from dissolving into pieces — but is hiding it with every muscle in her body. Ah. Perhaps one more death would have been too much in the moment. And I understand. In a way I understand. I, too, have known deaths that carved canyons in my soul, and it takes longer than a single sleep to learn to navigate that new terrain.

“We leave soon. We have some spare clothing, though scant, and there won’t be a chance to wash again for several days. The river is cold, as you learned last night, but if you want to take a moment, this is your only chance.” Longing flashes across her face, warring with uncertainty, and I continue, interpreting her worry. “I’ll walk you to the water, leave the clothes there with you. One of the women will be on guard from across the river; I’ll be breaking camp and give you privacy. You have my promise. There will be no…accidental slipping of halters.”

Her full lips curve up in surprise at my teasing; in the single movement, her entire face changes. Words form and reform, but there is no answer to the starlight that flickers across her face then disappears. I am beyond thankful that she can’t see the length of time it takes me to look away. Though others can, I suddenly remember, and hurriedly straighten, stepping back from her.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I can tell it is a hard kindness to delay.” She pauses and sighs. “It’s not worth the asking, but will you not just leave me here?”

“That I cannot do,” I reply. “Others with harder hands than I have would hunt you down if you tried to leave in this moment.” I can’t help but put emphasis on the words, despite what I know to be the correct path forward. She hears my meaning, nodding once in reply.

“A hard kindness,” she repeats, then holds out a trembling hand. “If you are sure we have time enough, I would like to rinse off.” Swallowing hard, she steals her neck, clearly fighting the impulse to turn toward her fallen companion. “I…the clothes would be welcome as well.”

Taking her pale fingers in my own, I try to ignore the way they feel engulfed in my larger hand, and lead her to the water. “Here,” I offer gruffly. “You don’t have long. We can’t delay for more than an hour. At most.”

Nodding, she walks straight into the river, not bothering to remove even her outerwear. “I’ll be quick, in any case. It’s freezing!”

I watch her for a moment too long, then tear my eyes away, calling out in our language to the woman across the river, and return to camp, troubled and entirely unsure of everything I was certain of yesterday.

OF BINDING AND BLADE

WREN

The water is as cold as it was yesterday, but the heat of the day is rising rather than fading, and I lose myself for a few minutes, trying desperately not to think of what has been or what will be, only what is in this singular second. It helps that the freezing river doesn’t leave much room for thought; I focus on the simplicity of scrubbing my skin, stripping off my outer layers in quick succession, leaving my undershirt and shorts. For a brief, agonizing moment my mind flashes back to a lazy, happy day spent learning to swim beneath a tumbling fall, but I push it to the side, burying it deep until I can breathe again.

Knowing eyes are on me from some direction, I make sure Lorcan stays beneath my shirt, but brush him casually with my fingers as I loosen the wrap on my head that has been hiding my hair. Worry clenches my stomach when he is slow to respond; something close to terror seizes my throat at the sluggishness in his tone when he finally speaks.

Little Keeper?

He is confused and drifting, but is there still. I haven’t lost him. Not yet. I have time to find enough space to anoint him; perhaps in the darkness tonight, wherever we settle. The thought of leaving him go that long makes me uneasy, but I can’t think of how to do it any sooner. I know, with everything in me, if I pull my Guiding Knife from where it rests at my waist against my skin, that it would be taken from me. Tahrik left all my bones on me, but we are not in our home anymore, and the memory of Kaden’s initial response to my jewelry is enough to make me cautious.

Sleep, Lorcan, I whisper back. I was just checking on you.

He ebbs away without responding, and I know I’m running out of time.

Quickly now I duck my head beneath the rapid water, rinsing and rinsing again until all the dirt and dust from travel has been washed away, before wrapping it back in the cloth to keep it out of my way while doing the same to my face, the skin exposed on my arms, my legs. When I’m finally something close to clean, I turn and wade from the water, shivering, and wrap myself in the strange clothing as rapidly as possible. The shirt is easy enough, a loose fitting tunic that drops from an odd, broad leather collar at the throat to a flowing fabric at mid-thigh — softer than our wool in the village, but not as soft as the Traders’ cloth. Its sleeves tighten from elbow to wrist; if I were any larger my vertebracelets wouldn’t fit beneath it. Even as it is they press against the seams. There’s a harder binding full of buckles that goes over the top; I try to fasten it several times, but eventually give up, leaving them to hang. A thick, wide belt wraps and ties snuggly around the middle. I’m grateful for it, as it presses my Guiding Knife firmly to me and hides its edges beneath the folds of the cloth. And last are tight fitting, almost hard leather pants, difficult to pull on over damp skin. I fall twice trying, making every effort to ignore the quiet huff of amused sound from the hidden guard across the river.

The moment I’m fully dressed there’s a birdcall, and the bone-faced man reappears, head tilting curiously as he studies me for what feels like a year of time. “Well,” he finally says, clearly attempting to keep some unknown emotion from his voice, “none of that is correct.”

Frowning, I run my hands over my makeshift outfit. I’m oddly offended, which seems to be a special skill of the horned stranger. He’s entirely confusing, fluctuating from unexpected kindness to unearned anger in lurching steps. “I tried—” I begin, only to be interrupted by his stifled laugh, which he endeavors uselessly to disguise as a cough.

“It’s no judgment. But if you’ll allow me, I’ll assist.” Without waiting for an answer, he moves close to me, adjusting my tunic, rewrapping the belt, adding on and tying down the odd cross piece on my chest. His movements are rapid and practical, and though I feel a bit like a child’s doll being dressed, he never alarms me with his hands; in fact, he seems almost overly cautious, as though purposefully avoiding any hint of misinterpretation. One last pull on the strap crossing my chest tightens a surprised “Oof!” of sound from me, and it seems for all the world like he is grinning beneath his masque.

“It will loosen as we ride, sylph. But at the start it’s best to be snug. You can breathe, though?” He asks it casually, as though the answer won’t change the fit of the cross piece on my chest, but I nod anyway. “Good.” Pausing, he steps back and looks around consideringly, before sighing. “It won’t be comfortable for you no matter what, I think. We’re used to hours in the saddle and have no wagons other than those for supplies. None can be spared for human cargo. My mount can carry us both but it won’t be pleasant.” Humming softly under his breath, he continues to stare at me appraisingly, before nodding finally and turning away. Taking two steps, he pauses, then retraces his path until he’s next to me, and picks up my hand. “It’s pointless to have you stumble and fall on the way back to camp. Then I’m dealing with an injured mouse, not just a useless one.”

Only years of practice keep me from snapping back, from showing teeth, but after a beat I calm slightly. In some ways I am useless at the moment; this new world requires skills I’ve never acquired. There’s very little I can offer at the moment to assist in any way. I’ve never hunted, never ridden, can’t make a fire outside of the hearth — despite the way the words sting, it’s more because they’re true, and less because they’re unkind. Sighing, I relax my hand in his and let him lead me back to the camp.

“Thank you,” I offer quietly, surprising him I think, judging by the quick tilt of his head to look at me.

“For what, Huldra?”

Trying not to frown at the name, I grit my teeth before answering as peacefully as I’m able to. “For the many kindnesses you’ve shown me in a short time.”

His hand flexes around mine, pressing my fingers tightly together almost painfully, but I don’t react.

“I killed your friend. Not such a kindness, I think.” His voice is placid, but his grip belies his passivity.

There are shards of glass in my throat when I swallow, but I force the words out anyway. “It was not done in malice.”

“Even so.”

It’s like he wants me to be mad at him, is anticipating what he will say when I scream, or cry, or fight him. And it would be the easy way, a choice that would give my heart false comfort and my anger focus. But false comfort is the first bloom in the Month of the Maiden, beautiful and poisonous. You fill your belly with food after months of aching hunger and for a lightning flash are content. But it curdles, curls deep in your stomach, and the fullness turns to flame, burning you from the inside. At some point the rains come, no matter how desperately you may wish them away. You either prepare and accept them, or they will hit you with a force a hundred times more vicious when they finally pour from the mountain.

Stopping, I pull him to a reluctant pause next to me. Raising my face to his, I keep my eyes blank and unseeing, looking just over his shoulder. I owe this stranger little, am unsure of my place and, to some degree, my safety. But Tahrik’s death isn’t a burden for him to bear; the wheels were set turning long before the blade entered his heart; I carry the full weight of Tahrik’s soul in my own. There is nothing left for this man to hold.

“It was not your fault,” I say as firmly as I am able, and though my voice trembles, the words are sincere. Lifting one of my hands, I rub my chest, trying to ease the stabbing pain at the memory of Tahrik’s wide eyes, of the horror that dawned on his face a heartbeat too late. “I’m not saying it to be…He was walking a path — it was not your fault.” The man just stares at me, and I sigh. “Trust that I would happily blame you if I could. It would ease something in me. Only, sometimes the first tile is knocked down long before the piece in front of you falls; there is no escaping it. I just—” My throat spasms, and I inhale sharply, biting my lip hard so the pain clears the way for words. “I just missed the moment where they started to topple. I didn’t realize…” Shaking my head, I can’t go on, and he doesn’t ask me to. He just turns and pulls me along, hand loose on mine. After a few steps his fingers tighten around mine, just once, in a soft squeeze and release that is meant, I think, to offer silent sympathy. I can’t be certain though, as nothing else changes about him, so I don’t respond.

The fire is almost dead by the time we return to the clearing; he gave me longer than the promised hour at the river. The rest of the camp is completely bare. There is no hint that we were ever here, other than the small, scorched ring of earth, and he glances at it, and then me.

“If you need to dry your hair or braid it, this is the last of time I can give you. No longer than enough to wring out some of the water and fasten it so it’s not blowing in my face the entire ride. If you have hair under that thing, in any case.”

Lifting my hand to my head, I realize that I still have cloth wrapped around it, and nod. “I’ll braid it quickly. You can put out the fire.”

He turns and pokes at the last of the coals with a stick as I pull the wrap from my head and begin combing through the tangled locks with my fingers, trying to smooth out the worst of it. From the woods there’s a harsh bark of sound, unlike any of the previous chirps and calls, and it whips the man’s head around in a split second, the last of the fire flaring behind him. It shows me in full, illuminating me completely for the first time, white hair, bruised skin, and he stares down at me in apparent shock, a hiss of sound escaping his mouth.

“It…it is not possible…” he says under his breath, and darts forward, a grooved knife appearing from nowhere, flashing in his hand. I rear back in fear, but he grabs me, and, like a bee sting, pushes the tip of his dagger into my skin. It is a pinprick, no more, but a thin trickle of my blood flows down the curves of the strange blade, pooling in a small, circular indent at the bottom. Still holding me still, he locks eyes with me as he lifts the blade to his skull. The light is flickering in and out, so I cannot see well, as his back is to the fire, but the tip of a pink tongue dips into the small pond of my blood, tasting it delicately. He inhales sharply, then rips the skull from his head, brings the knife to his now exposed mouth, and licks the blade, drawing his tongue along the edge to the point, drinking every ruby drop left, before grabbing me and pulling me to my feet in front of him.

His eyes are still dark, just more visible in his now exposed face. There are three black lines from forehead to jawbone; unlike the markings on his arms, these are smeared slightly, as though they are temporary, and not carved into his skin. The sides of his head are shaved bare, but long, pale hair runs down the center of his scalp, a mixture of braids and elflocks that disappear behind his back. His cheekbones are high and sharp, his lips full and stained with blood beneath a slightly crooked nose, as though it was broken, reset, and broken again. His is not a gentle face, and I wonder, for a moment, if I preferred the skull masque, if it were, perhaps, less scary.

Staring at me, jaw clenched, his eyes narrow, he inhales deeply, like he is scenting me. Then slowly, so slowly it feels like time stretches, he picks up the arm he stung with his blade, and brings it to his mouth. Again his tongue darts out, this time to taste my skin, licking the line of blood that is drip-drip-dripping down, tracing from my wrist to the curve of my longest finger in one slow, unstopping movement. Shivers wrack my body as I stay frozen in his grasp, until he is done and drops my arm, pulling my face close to his.

“SoulBinder,” he spits out, eyes narrowed, voice tight, then tilts his head back, inches from mine, and shrieks to the sky, no wolf howl now, but the short bursting sound of a fox scream, and the cacophony that answers him is now just outside the circle of our firelight.

“I thought you a Huldra, but you are a demon. Do not worry yourself, Cursed One,” he whispers. “I shall happily return you to your home in hell.”

CAPTURED HAWK

WREN

It has been four days in a hawk’s hood. Or something so similar I can’t tell the difference. It’s better than being gagged and bound at least. They are being suspiciously careful with me, but the hood that covers my face does not come off. I have learned not to speak — the first day I tried, but water was withheld until I fell silent, and then I was rewarded. Little do the People of Blood know how long I have gone without water, how, high in the mountains where only brackish streams and oil flow, our bodies have adapted to exist in hardship. But I have grown soft in this green land, and have nothing of value to say in any case.

When he first bent my head back and slipped the hood over my eyes, I was too shocked to protest. I was caught by his words, tried to cut the net of them before he dragged me down.

“You are wrong…” I start to say as he pulls his bone masque back over his face, horns curling out from the sides, eyes disappearing again into its depths. Trying not to panic, I count my breathing and think back to the stories the oldest bones told me about the world of the others. This is one of…what is he? A BloodTaster? The word is correct and not correct — I know I have heard the oldest bones whisper of BloodTasters, but it’s not what they call themselves. BloodTaster feels like a curse in my mouth, and I wrack my brain for his name.

BloodLetter a voice whispers, faint, a feather on the wind, and tears come unbidden to my eyes.

He is growing so quiet; the spark of soul that could set fire to a forest is now barely enough to light a candle. I don’t know what to do. And suddenly I feel lost, terribly, irrevocably lost, almost paralyzed by my stupidity, by my selfishness, by the decisions that I’ve made that have brought me to this point. Had I not fought so hard would the Hunter still be here? Had I returned with Tahrik, would he still be alive? Had I tried more in the tunnels, could I have gone back, saved so many souls that spiraled into Silence with no one to Guide them? Had I not been so drunk on what freedom meant for me, would Lorcan…I can’t think. I can’t think. My father was strong enough to step away from a life he loved, from the Guiding Knife and Bone Crown, giving up everything for a future he had no part in for the good of the village, for their souls, for their history, for me.

I am not half the BoneKeeper my father was.

Lorcan’s only hope is my unbound hands.

So I try again, confident in his name now, lending strength to my words. “You are wrong, BloodLetter. Your tongue is not tasting truth.”

There is a gasp around me, a collective indrawn breath, and all is silence. I can’t see him, cut off from the world by a hard, dark leather covering, but I can feel him towering over me. The space between us warms, his calloused fingers wrapping around my own. Dragging me to him, he presses his body against mine and whispers viciously in my ear.

“I am not wrong, Binder. I could tell your flavor from a drop of blood in an ocean of water.” He shivers, skin rippling with goosebumps. “But I will taste you again, if you give your wrist willingly.”

He yanks on my hood, rough enough to scrape my skin, and exposes my face to my forehead, then pushes me back from him and stares at me coldly. I think he wants to see my reaction, make some judgment based on how I respond. Calmly, I hold my hand out, palm up, and again, he puts the point of the dagger to my skin. Again the river of blood flows directly to the tiny pool at its base, almost as though it is pulled from my skin there, again his tongue darts out to taste it. He runs a finger along the edge, cleaning any blood from the blade, and sucks it from his skin. “SoulBinder I said, and SoulBinder you are.”

“I am a BoneKeeper,” I reply firmly. It is the only thing I have ever truly known about myself. “I have never heard of a Binder, but it is not what I am.” Truth is clear in my words, and his eyes narrow, before he sings out a command in his liquid language. Something is thrown to him from beyond my periphery, but it is too quick for me to see, and I keep my colorless eyes locked on his own black ones.

“BoneKeeper you say?” His voice is water on hot rock, and, as he takes a step forward, I unintentionally curl into myself. “What is this word, BoneKeeper?” He pauses within arms reach of me, but comes no closer.

“It just is…I speak for the bones. For their memories. Make their wants and desires known.”

Singing out again, he waits until two of his people bring him Tahrik’s covered body, and lay it on the ground beside us. He nudges Tahrik with his boot; sickness surges in my stomach, the world spinning around me. “Speak for this poor soul, then. You bound his unwilling soul to his body, and left both to rot. You are demon-born.”

Eyes wide, I frantically blink back tears. I will not cry in front of this man, I think, and shove my grief into the center of my heart, where it cannot be touched by word or sword. “I did not.” My voice is low, distressed, but steady.

“Then it would not bother you if I drive my sword into his corpse, hmmm?” Lifting his long blade over his head, he watches me as he brings it down, stopping it just before Takrik’s unresisting skin.

“He is no longer there, BloodLetter,” I say, a sob forcing itself through my throat before I can swallow it back. “He asked to be let go. And so I did. I failed him. I failed him. Your sword will make no difference. He is Silent.” Burying my face in my fands, I offer a silent prayer to the Sun God and the Earth for forgiveness, and deeper still, from the shadows of my heart, the tears of a child to the TriGoddess.

The man above me cocks his head curiously; though I can’t see his face, I can hear almost angry confusion in his voice. “You will come with us.” Before I can respond, the hood is back and being tightened, only my mouth left free, the rest completely covered. “You won’t drink our souls with your empty eyes, Binder.”

Raising my hands to my head, I try to adjust the hood, shift it to some sort of comfort, but he barks at me sharply and I jerk my hands away instantly. “You don’t need hands where you’re going. I suggest behaving. You will be presented in the Crimson City, but aren’t required to be whole for the Elders. Only alive.” His voice drops to a dark whisper of caution, not quite hesitant, but not meant to be overheard. “Not all around you are as patient as I. This is your only warning.” Raising his voice again, he commands, “Come!” and tows me along behind him. I trip and stumble, the pace too quick for my unseeing eyes; a swirl of howling races through the air around me, as though wolves are darting in and away from me, snapping their teeth at my skin. “You choose how you are to be treated, Demon. If you are wise, it will be a quick death on a steady blade once we are home. If not…” he trails off, but does not need to elaborate.

“I am not a Demon, and not a SoulBinder,” I offer helplessly. From my side, unexpectedly close, is a warm, feminine laugh.

“She thinks she is telling the truth at least, Brother.” The woman’s voice is tired, fatigue heavy in her words, but edged with amusement.

“It’s of no concern to us. We cross the pastures, we return home. And the Eldest will know what to do with this one.” He nudges me, and I sigh. “Mount up. We have been here too long,” he commands, and there is a flurry of activity around me. He pauses close to me — I can feel the heat from his skin, can smell warm grass and water from him. “What should we do with your companion, Binder?” The question is unexpected, and it takes me a moment to reply.

“He is not there anymore,” I repeat in a whisper. The BloodLetter starts to move away before I can force more words from my tight throat, “but…he dreamed his entire life of water. It would be a great kindness if you would leave him at the water’s edge. I think he would have wanted that. To sleep by a river, in a bed of grass.” The words catch on my tongue. I can’t continue.

“Do you wish to say goodbye, Demon?”

I shake my head blindly. “I said my goodbyes when he slipped through my hands.” Then, more softly, “Thank you.”

There is movement of shifting, quiet grunts of movement and the scuffle of shoes on dirt, then I am lifted onto a horse with no ceremony, with a monstrous hard body wrapped around me.

The same amused voice from before speaks quietly from our side. She must be mounted as well. “Strange Demon, brother,” she notes sardonically. He grunts in return, thighs tightening around me to urge the horse forward. “Strange way to treat a Demon,” she calls after him, though her voice is pitched low enough that perhaps only he and I can hear it. The laughter that follows after, however, echoes clear like a bell as we ride away.

I have been hooded since, can only track the time by sleeping and waking. There is no room for sorrow or fear in my aching body; it takes every ounce of willpower to stay silent, to stay upright, to not cry over spasming muscles cramping so painfully it feels like I will never know peace. I never realized in the village how weak I truly am. I told Kaden once we are not a soft people, and perhaps as a whole we aren’t, but I…I am not made of the mountain’s rock as much as I thought. After the first night, when the BloodLetter lowered me from his horse and I collapsed on the ground to a chorus of amused laughter, I vowed two things — that I would stay silent no matter the cost, and I would keep my feet beneath me no matter the effort.

The disappointed silence the second night when I wavered but stayed upright was tremendously gratifying.

And now we are at the end, I think, of the fourth day. The horse’s quick feet finally slow from a jolting bounce to a slower plod, and without thought, I let out an audibly relieved sigh. The body that has been wrapped around me for the entire way tenses, hard thigh muscles pressing against me, and he huffs under his breath, directly addressing me for the first time since we started this journey. He has made pointed comments in the Common Tongue, scattered vague insults, joked with friends about my many apparent failings, but has not spoken to me specifically.

“Too much for you, Binder? Weak from lack of souls to drink?” There’s a grim satisfaction in his tone, as though he’s been waiting for me to crumble.

I’ve bitten my tongue for days, refusing to reply to any of his baiting, but I’m too tired to be cautious, and laugh bitterly. “How would you even do that, BloodLetter? It’s a ridiculous thought. Drinking souls? Only one of us here has sipped anything out of the ordinary, and it might surprise you to realize it wasn’t me.” Sarcasm is not a spice I use often, but its flavor is better than bland acceptance. He is silent against my back, arms tense at my sides, but I don’t care anymore. Snorting derisively, I shake my head. “Drinking souls. Absurd.”

“The little mouse is squeaking at you, brother.” The same amused woman from before is beside us again, and he inhales slowly, I think searching for patience before responding. “Is she saying anything of interest?” Clearly I’m meant to understand the back and forth; no one has spoken the Common Tongue for days except to poke at me. I’ve been surrounded by nothing but whistles and chirps, words close to singing and sounds like a hawk’s cry.

“I find her incredibly annoying,” he replies as though I’m not here in front of him. “It’s difficult to listen to her chatter.” A thoughtful pause, and then, “Perhaps you’d take a day with her in your saddle?”

“Ooooh no, Axton. You caught the stray. She’s yours to feed and keep; I want no part in it. I’ve enough on my plate to deal with at the moment.” Obvious annoyance laces every laden syllable.

He sighs heavily. “I suppose you do. How are your unexpected guests faring?”

“They are refusing to speak at all, other than to ask after a white haired woman. We haven’t bound them, but they are under watch for the moment. They are getting restless, though. I don’t know that I’d want to be the one they’re searching for, to be honest. They seem…very angry.”

All breath leaves my body and I freeze, ice running through me. Who is looking for me? There is no thought of hope, only fear at the words, and I almost feel the looks exchanged silently between the siblings at the shudder I can’t hide. Is it someone from the village come to find me? To take me back? How far did we travel? If it’s Silas… but if Silas didn’t make it… Terror seizes my heart. If it’s Raek, the Hunters… It’s impossible to keep my breathing level; my inhale and exhale pulse in staccato rhythms.

“Interesting.” The woman hums thoughtfully, and then, “Perhaps we’ll alter course on the plan? Tonight at the fire?”

He nods in reply, his chin brushing my hair, and then chirrups softly to the horse, encouraging it to pick up its bouncing pace again. The movement sends sharp shocks of pain up my already aching spine, but I can’t force my muscles to relax. The jolting is enough to spark tears in my eyes. I blink them back furiously, willing them not to fall. Unexpectedly though, after a few minutes, the horse slows again, this time pulled to walking by the BloodLetter’s hands flexing on the reins. I hear others around us still moving ahead at a quicker pace; many, many more than I realized were here pass by without comment until it sounds like it is just us alone.

The BloodLetter is quiet for a time, long enough for me to wonder if he is planning on dealing with me as he did the pony. A benevolent favor. A quick death. Maybe this time I would accept it as such. I’m being chased by unknown Hunters, am already caught by a people I know nothing about, and the only ones I’ve ever cared about are all just dreams in the night. The weight of Tahrik, of others whose names I can’t even think, left poisoned, motionless on the ground, left alone inside a crumbling city…it crashes down on me. Suddenly, I’m bent to breaking. All fight drains from my body at once, and I sink forward.

A frustrated rumble of sound vibrates against my back; seconds later I am off the horse, held up by rough, strong hands. “It’s tremendously uncomfortable riding with you when you’re stiff as a board, Demon.” The BloodLetter — Axton, his sister called him — is clearly angry, but I have no response. “Well? Stretch. Move a little. We can’t stop long just because you’re weak.” I don’t know what to do. Being out of the saddle, free to move by myself for the first time in days, seems like a gift. But he’s furious, as though I demanded this, as though I made him give something he was unwilling to. “I told you before that my word is law. You barely have minutes. Use them wisely instead of being a willful child.”

“I…” The words stick in my throat. “I thought you were going to…mercy, you called it.”

SIlence, more silence, and then, surprisingly, an almost gentle answer. “I told you there are none here who would harm you, Demon. Well. Not without reason. You have until the Crimson City.”

“That was when you thought me a woman, BloodLetter. Not whatever it is you call me now.”

“Incorrect. I never thought you a woman at all. Huldra, I named you first. Demon I name you now. But a reason would still have to be given for either.” His voice hardens, as though he’s realized how much it softened before. “Go stretch. If you have need of the wood I’ll take you. The women went ahead, so you’ll have to manage yourself, even hooded. But don’t think to run. You wouldn’t get far, and there are things worse than being blind. My people have a…broad definition of what constitutes harm sometimes.”

Nodding, the tiniest spark of hope flares in my heart. “I give my word not to run. And I would appreciate a moment in the forest.”

Grabbing my arm in almost bruising fingers, he leads me stumbling forward, then lays my hands against a rough trunk after several steps. “Your word is meaningless, Binder. Fifteen paces, no more. I won’t be able to see you. But you don’t have long; I will come after you.” The warning is clear even as he waits patiently until I have my feet under me to release me. Some battle is being waged inside him, and it’s making me unsteady, this ricochet between coldness and kindness.

There are more pressing things than the BloodLetter, though. Fifteen steps later, after tripping through brush and over rocks, I fall heavily to my knees, wrench up my tunic, and yank my Guiding knife from against my waist, where it has been pressed for so long there is an indent above the curve of my hip. Quickly, quickly I chant in my head, and set the knife between my knees. There’s no time to be careful or cautious — I won’t get a second chance for this, so I slice deeply into both palms before frantically reaching up to my neck to find Lorcan. He has been completely mute for two days; I haven’t tried to wake him at all, lest he burns what little energy he has left and fades completely. Cold dread coats my heart and lungs as tangible as the warm blood that covers my hands. There has been no time where I’ve been completely alone, able to anoint him, and I’m paralyzed with desperation and hope.

His bones drink

and drink

and drink.

But still he doesn’t wake. And so I cut more lines, and more still, until I risk severing something and pieces of skin hang in ragged strips. I coat him, paint him completely, over and over and over. And then, almost as an afterthought, anoint the Guiding Knife as well, not looking too closely at why. The memory of its voice at the Blood Tree shivers through me, and the Knife pulses strangely in my stained hands, but does not speak.

Little Keeper? He flares to life from nowhere, vibrant and brilliant all at once, like a shooting star in a dark sky.

Lorcan. It’s all I can say, a whisper, a prayer of thankfulness, and then I cry, and cry, and cry, rivers of tears, oceans of tears. I cry until my breath hitches, until my tunic is wet, until I can’t breathe, but I never take my hands from him.

Wren. Wren. It’s enough. His voice is so gentle, so clear, but I can’t take my dripping fingers from his bones. I promise, Little Keeper. I’m here.

Lorcan.

“Binder!” Axton’s furious bark of sound is too close to me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here in the woods, but obviously my time is at a close. Shoving the Guiding Knife back at my waist, I wince as it slices my skin, then yank down my tunic and hide Lorcan down my back again. “Binder!” He shouts again, and Lorcan smiles wryly down my spine.

Clearly there are things going on that I don’t understand, Wren.

On my hip, the dagger is still drinking.

Clearly there are things going on that I don’t understand, either.

A CHOICE AND A CHANCE

AXTON

She’s sitting across from me in the dancing light of the fire, pale and mute, circles dark as bruises beneath her snow-stained eyes, and I’m furious at how guilty I feel at the look on her face. It’s a trick, Axton. She’s a SoulBinder. Give her a chance and she’ll steal you before the next breath. Pressing my lips together in annoyance, I stoke the flames, then walk her over a plate of food, ignoring the fact that I’ve loaded it with the best of what we have. I should just dump it, give her nothing but crusts and water, and want to scream to the heavens at the quiet, “thank you,” she murmurs gratefully in her surprisingly low voice, so I don’t respond.

For a long time we sit in the comforting noise of snapping, burning wood and the restless music of night creatures. It’s a peace I cherish, that I long for when I’m away from the summer months, kept inside the Crimson City with all the luxuries it holds. A peace that is being disturbed by a scuttling little mouseling resting silently in flickering shadows. Casting my eyes back to her, I watch her for too many heartbeats; at least she can’t tell how closely I’m studying her, but she confuses me. Which infuriates me all the more. Not a SoulBinder she claims, even believes. A BoneSpeaker. No. BoneKeeper. Her hands tremble as she lifts a bit of cheese to her mouth, and she winces.

“A branch?” The words burst from me without permission, and her head jerks around to face me.

“We’ve been over this, BloodLetter. I don’t know what else I can say to you.”

And we have. Many, many times since I found her sprawled in a heap on the forest floor, tunic pulled one way, legs another, both hands bleeding profusely from her palms. I immediately examined her hands, then pulled off her hood to see if there had been any other damage done. Her eyelids were wet and red-rimmed, matching her strange birthmarks, standing out like blood against her skin and colorless eyes. “A branch,” she’d explained, voice shaking. She’d stumbled, fallen, went to save herself by putting her hands down and had sliced them open on sharp wood. Everything made sense; she’s ungainly at the best of times, is in a foreign place, can’t see, and was likely rushing. But some tiny fish darts in my thoughts rippling the quiet waters. It wasn’t a branch; of all the things she’s told the truth of, what a useless thing to lie about. Why?

She sat so placidly when I’d straightened her clothes in quick, unforgiving movements, when I’d cleansed and wrapped her hands, never complaining, never flinching. Just wan and numb, and frustratingly accepting. Infuriatingly accepting, as though doing it on purpose. Doing what on purpose, I argue with myself. What you ask her to do? And yes. That seems to be the problem. When she does what I ask her to do, when I ask her to do it, I find it…incredibly aggravating. So when we got back to the horse and she’d turned her pale face up to mine, waiting for me to put the hood back on, I found myself unable to do it. Her obedience seemed a trick, and I just lifted her up on the horse instead, ignoring her wary look. And if anyone in the caravan questioned it, they were at least wise enough to keep their thoughts to themselves. We’ve stayed back from the main camp anyways; at least for the time being it seems to be wise to keep her as separate as possible. Though it has meant long days for me — when she falls to sleep at night and one of my Riders can guard the area, I travel to the main camp and meet with the rest of my band, reviewing the day, planning the next. We can’t continue like this, but I need to be sure of my footing before I step forward.

From the woods there is a familiar rustling noise, a quick sharp chirp. A curious look flashes across the Binder’s face — it’s like she almost recognizes the sound, and I narrow my eyes. “Binder…” I ask slowly, “if you had to guess, who would you say made that sound?” I’ve thrown her with the question, can see the options racing through her mind as she tries to figure out the answer. “The truth, Binder. I’ll know if you’re lying to me.”

Sighing, she shrugs. “Your sister, I’d say.”

Surprise flares in my chest. “My..sister?”

“I assume so. The one who calls you brother. Axton.”

The way she says my name is delicious.

“How in the world can you tell?” Forcing everything but suspicion from my words, I pull anger around me like a cloak. SoulBinder.

“She speaks to you most often. Her sound has become familiar.”

Snorting, I shake my head. Her softness and sorrow are tricks. All Binder tricks, but she slips in moments like these, showing who she is. Knowing Kyla’s whistle from others when she doesn’t speak our language? You are growing weak because of a moonlight face. Her throat should have been slit the moment she emerged from the womb.

“Come, Kylabet.” The command is barked out. She’s not here as my sister at the moment, only my subordinate. Though the highest ranking one, which she never lets me forget.

“Alone?”

“No. Bring your companions.”

“I’ll send Teo for them. They’re back a ways. We have kept them comfortable and fed, but I wasn’t sure…” As she’s speaking, my sister enters the clearing, her feet as silent as owl wings. You would only ever know she was there because she let you; Kylabet is a born hunter. When the Gods split us in the womb, they were more generous with her gifts than my own. I would never admit it to her face, but things I struggle with are easy as breath to her; it is difficult not to be jealous. Not that you’d ever know we shared a mother; twins aren’t a welcome oddity in the Crimson Walls. Nothing is a welcome oddity in our lands. So it’s not well known that we’re real siblings rather than cousins. My mother’s sister was pregnant at the same time and both she and her babe died in a dangerous birth — fortune under a bad star for my mother. To lose a sister and a niece in one moment and gain a son and daughter in the next; the balance of the scales is never even, no matter what some might say.

Our father was away when my mother gave birth to us. She and her sister were to each midwife the other; instead my mother was left alone, brought us to this world alone, presented us to the Elders as cousins and asked for permission to raise us as siblings. I’m not even sure our father knows we share more than half-blood; he certainly doesn’t treat Kyla like a true daughter. Not that he’s cold, but there is more duty and less love with her, and I know she feels it. Chance favored us at least in looks, close enough to be family but different enough to keep the story. Kyla is tall for a woman but still shorter than me, lithe and muscular from years in the saddle. Her hair is darker than mine by a good bit, hints of red in burnished bronze, her nose straighter, mouth and cheekbones sharper. Cousins is an easy story, though everyone acknowledges her as my adopted sister and treats her as such. There is no real difference now in what would have been anyways, had our people taken twins as a blessing rather than a curse.

Kyla is standing silently, waiting for me to acknowledge her, playing the part of my second-in-command with surprising patience. “Speak,” I command tightly, and her lips twist in a wry smile.

“The rest are bedded down for the night. You’re going to have to figure out what to do with this one soon though. Not that there’s any poison yet, precisely, but there is murmuring, especially given the current pace. Enough faith in you that there are no questions, but curious cats show claws if left without answers for too long, hmm?”

Nodding, I inhale deeply. She’s not wrong. There are decisions to be made; I’m just unsure of the correct path.

“We don’t have an end-choice, brother. Only the middle. The story finishes the same no matter how it’s written. The last page is inked by the Elders. The rest is written by your pen.”

“She is a SoulBinder, Kyla.”

An infuriated huff of sound fills our small camp. “She is not a SoulBinder,” the demon almost growls in exasperation, and Kyla’s lips twitch in response.

“Is she not, BloodLetter?” Kyla asks me, as though she already knows what answer I’m going to give, but still wants to hear it.

“Do you doubt me?”

Straightening immediately, she walks over to me and lays a quick hand on my shoulder. “Never, brother. Never.” Switching to our tongue now, she stares at the creature ebbing in and out of focus in the shadows of the flickering fire. “But I do doubt that she knows what she is. She seems very convinced that she’s something else. I wonder if it would be useful to us in some way to have a Binder who is not a Binder. If there is some sort of play to be made that we aren’t seeing at the moment. The Gods left her there for you to find, blind and indebted to you, no? Is there a way to, I don’t know, tame her for our people? I worry that if we continue this treatment of her, by the time we get to the city to ask those who may have answers, she may have turned against us. That we will have lost some advantage we were gifted.”

“What do you suggest?” I ask, feeling completely irritated that she’s seeing something I missed, but still needing her counsel. “Treat her as an honored guest of our people?” Snorting derisively, I shake my head. “They would ride off a cliff after me, Kyla, but that would be…” Letting my voice drift, we sit in silence for a moment, staring into the fire. It takes too long for the wheels to start turning in my brain, but she sits without speaking, waiting for me. “Perhaps…” I begin slowly, thinking it through. “Perhaps there is a halfway point. A guard, a mount, no hood. She will be a horse on a picket line. Enough freedom to show herself, to earn us some favor. But on a choke chain, you understand? And a blade through her heart the minute anything goes sideways. I’d rather explain a dead Binder to the Elders than one we let steal souls.”

“It’s your taste we’re going off, Axton. Is she lying when she says she doesn’t bind souls?”

“She isn’t, not exactly, but it’s a muddy flavor, Kyla.” I know I sound troubled, but I feel troubled. Nothing is clear about the Binder; blood tells no lies, but hers tells no truths either. “She believes she isn’t a Binder, that much is certain.”

Kyla makes a low, humming sound at the back of her throat, a thoughtful, cautioning vibration of noise, and we cease talking immediately. Moments later, from the woods, I hear a rustling, then Teo emerges leading two strange men behind him.

The instant their faces show in the firelight, the pale woman, who up until now has been silent, surges to her feet, hands clasped at her throat, eyes wide and wild. “Oh!” she says, and there is so much in that one, tiny word, it feels like a book of meaning. “Oh!” she says again, her throat closing on the sound, entire body trembling, shaking as though the earth beneath her is unsteady, and she collapses back onto the small stump where she had been sitting. Heartbreak and hope flash across her face, emotion crashing into her in a lightning strike.

They are across the clearing before Kyla, or Teo, or I can move. Across the clearing, around the fire, and kneeling in the dirt in front of her.

“BoneKeeper,” one says, and if she can’t hear the sunrise of sound in the way he says her name, then she is deaf as well as blind.

“Flame,” the other murmurs at the same time, and it’s as though he had the executioner's blade on his neck, only to be spared in the final second.

Whoever they are, she is a compass point in their world. Whoever she is, they are a light in the darkness to her. Kylabet and I exchange long looks; Teo glances at me for guidance, and I wave him off in abrupt dismissal. Whatever happens here, the less eyes the better. He obeys immediately, fading back into the shadows soundlessly. I trust him with my life, but secrets spill when they fill more than one mouth.

Nothing more has been said by the peculiar trio, the silence thick and heavy, at odds with the looks on their faces, at the furious restraint of their bodies. So it is a shattering sound when Kylabet speaks, voice tight and carefully considering.

“SoulBinder, how did you see them when they entered the clearing?”

Three heads whip around to face her, three faces completely blanked of emotion.

“Yes indeed, my little blind demon,” I whisper, teeth and talons clear in my words. “The truth. Or I will know it.”

SoulBinder.

CAREFUL STEPS

RANNOCH

Wren. Wren. The world breathes in and exhales, everything constricting and releasing around me. Wren. If I never step away from her side again, it will be too soon. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face waxy and tallow white. She doesn’t look bruised, or bloodied, but something is wrong, something is hurting her enough that it is written in the lines of her body. Where is Tahrik? Where is Tahrik?

Wren is pieces loosely strung together, tiny tremors along her skin showing the cracks of where she has broken, and I want to kill whoever fractured her, but we are in a foreign place with unknown people, and as long as we are alive, I have to step carefully. Pushing every other emotion aside, I focus only on her, reaching out to take one of her now tightly bandaged hands; questions regarding those will have to wait. There are other, more pressing ones filling my throat. Kaden does the same beside me to her other, and her frantic, white-knuckled grip belies the emptiness of her face.

“I thought you were dead,” she says, voice so hollow there is an echo in it. Turning away from the man and woman who stand near us, hands on blades, violence carved in every sharp movement, she stares at us, breath rapid and shallow. “I thought…” Swallowing hard, she tries to force the words out, sorrow thick in her mouth, nails digging into my skin. “You were so still. I couldn’t see…”

“What happened?” Kaden asks gently. The man beside us steps forward, clearly angry at being ignored, but the woman lays a cautioning hand on his arm and he stops, muscles taut with barely restrained fury. “We woke to an empty camp, a dead fire…you, and Tahrik, and my horse gone.” The Trader attempts to smile, shaking his head ruefully. “Raging headaches. And sick as dogs. We came after you as soon as we could. I promise.” His voice stutters; he clears his throat and continues. “The first few days we were too weak to do anything other than stumble along like fools. Thank the Sea and Sky Rannoch is such a good tracker, or we would have missed you altogether.” No hint of the chaos that consumed us laces his words, no shadow of our howling madness, of the blinding panic that seized us in the helpless hours, drove us to walk until our feet were blistered and bloody, pushing on until our muscles failed. Eyes darting quickly to the strangers near us, he lifts a sardonic brow. “There were many, many trails. And all led different ways. For a group this size, such deception of movement is impressive.”

“What happened?” I feel stupid, but we’ve been frantic since the moment we woke up, cold and shivering, mouths painfully dry, heads filled with shards of glass. Kaden is smiling now, but threw up blood for the first hours of being awake. For a time I thought he wouldn’t make it; he was close to the shadows between life and death until his stomach was empty, until he could finally keep down water, until I had a fire built. Even then he shivered uncontrollably near enough the flames that I had to pull him back to keep him from burning himself. And it still took all my strength to prevent him from leaving immediately, from killing himself to find Wren. The nights stretched to eternity without her, not knowing what happened, if she was even alive. Now she’s here, in front of us, and the person we’ve been dreaming of looks like she is trapped in a nightmare.

There is only so much we can do under strangers’ watching eyes; I don’t know what move I can make that is safe for her.

She’s quiet. So completely quiet, and I know whatever she is about to say is what changed her, what caused the canyons in her to open.

“Tahrik.” Her eyes fill, and though she blinks frantically, she is unable to stop the tears from falling, cascading down her cheeks in shimmering tracks. And can’t continue on, though she tries.

From behind us, the man speaks, steady, emotionless voice at odds with his tense jaw and tight shoulders. “Her companion had her bound and gagged, thrown over a lame pony. He grabbed her, pressed her against a tree, though she fought.” He pauses, as though reluctant, in some way, to continue. “We don’t suffer that treatment of women in my land, not that violence. And so I interceded. I don’t regret my actions, only that my blade moved too quickly to realize that he was correcting his course, that whatever madness had overtaken him was draining from him. I could only see half the picture, his back, her face, his hands, her wrists.” Jerking his head towards Wren, he frowns. “She says the end of him was not the whole of him, that he lost himself beneath open skies and horizonless pastures. But that he was, on balance, a good man. So we did our best to honor his body as she directed.”

“Wren.” Her name in Kaden’s mouth is velvet sympathy, but what else can be said? Tahrik did this? It’s unthinkable. That he would harm Wren in any way is…unthinkable.

“He drugged you, not to hurt you,” she whispers, staring down at our intertwined hands. “Just to take me home. He was so desperate to go home. And so desperate for me to go with him, thinking that we’d return to who we were. That everything would fit back together inside our walls.” She’s grief-stricken; there is more that can’t be told in the company of many ears. I want to take her in my arms, to wrap myself around her and comfort her, give her solace where she is safe to shatter, but this is not the place, and now is not the time.

“It wouldn’t have, no matter how hard you tried,” I murmur sadly, thinking of how far he must have traveled down a dark path alone, and she shakes her head.

“It wouldn’t have. And he knew it at the end, though I…” Her voice trails off again, and throwing off caution, I raise my hand to wipe the tears from her cheek.

“I am certain you gave him comfort in his last moments,” I offer, locking eyes with her shimmering ones, but the words are somehow wrong, and new tears spill over.

“Only the comfort he would let me give him. But I couldn’t hold water in a sieve,” she replies cryptically, fingers flexing against mine, shaking her head in a minute, barely there motion. Kaden’s brow is furrowed in confusion, but he is not of our people and doesn’t understand. Ah, Tahrik, I think, a knife in my stomach. We hadn’t been friends, may not have become friends, but we had a common night sky, the same moon lighting up our darkness, and I can’t help but feel real sorrow at the choices he made, and anger at the ones he forced upon Wren.

“Oh, Wren,” I whisper, and she leans her head forward to rest it on my shoulder, letting go of Kaden and wrapping her arms around me. I freeze for an instant; she’s never done something like this before, but then return her embrace, pulling her into me, murmuring soft, meaningless sounds meant to be soothing. She’s cold in my arms and I tighten my own around her. “Kaden, your cloak?” I half-ask, half-command. It’s tucked against her almost before I finish speaking. “There was nothing you could have done. Nothing.” I am as sure of this as I am of my own skin. If she could have saved him, she would have, at any cost to herself.

She is quiet against my chest, not crying, just breathing, curled into me as though she’s been carrying a heavy weight that she has finally been able to release. And maybe she has. Maybe this, the sharing of this with someone who understands, will give her some room for respite. Kaden shifts beside me, rests a gentle hand briefly on Wren’s back, then turns to the other man, face surprisingly hard. I haven’t seen the amiable Trader look like this before; he sheds his smile like a snake skin, and the violence simmering beneath his surface has me rapidly reassessing what I thought I knew about him.

“You did this?” he asks the man, almost conversationally, so casual it makes his tone all the more threatening. “Killed her friend? Stabbed him through the back? Caused this hurt to her?” Kaden is staring at the man, something dancing in his voice that the other recognizes. The stranger drops his hand to the hilt tucked in his belt. Beside him, the woman does the same, and the air crackles with the promise of blood.

Wren sighs deeply against me, then lifts her head slowly, as though it weighs a thousand stone. “Peace, Kaden,” she says softly, surprising him. “There’s no blood on Axton’s hands. He wasn’t at fault, at least in that moment. And he doesn’t carry the weight of Tahrik’s actions. In this alone I’ll defend him.”

Kaden stares at her, face troubled, but nods in response. Clearly Wren’s word is law for him, and he rocks back on his heels. “Apologies,” he offers dryly to the man — Axton. Even in such a serious moment I have to fight not to grin — it’s obvious to any listening that there is little sincerity in his tone. The woman’s lips twitch in response; Axton is more inscrutable — he looks as if something is puzzling him. All humor drains from Kaden; there is a warning in the wary confusion of Axton’s expression that puts the Trader on edge. Slowly, as nonchalantly as possible, he rises to his feet, clasping a seemingly friendly hand on my shoulder that tightens down in silent warning. Schooling his face almost forcibly back to the good-natured, pleasant look that I’m beginning to think is a masque as much as Wren’s empty, emotionless one is, he smiles at the strangers.

“Well,” Kaden says lightly, “thank you for…caring…for Wren. But we are here now, can take her from you. I’m sure you have roads to travel that don’t require our plodding feet. Our way is slowly north, yours looks to be quickly south. This seems a pleasant place to part.”

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Axton replies, a cold smile on his face, no humor reaching his eyes. “I’m really afraid not. Somewhat surprisingly, we’ve been enjoying the SoulBinder’s company, and would like to extend our visit. At least for a little while. It’s been a long time since we’ve had the… pleasure of someone with her particular talents. And the two of you now add in a rare amusement. It would be a shame to lose such entertainment so quickly.”

“SoulBinder?” I ask Wren, and she shrugs in tired reply.

“I don’t know,” she says, a hint of frustration in her voice that gives me unexpected comfort. There are still some sparking embers inside her; Tahrik’s passing hasn’t snuffed the flame completely. “They keep calling me that. Well, that or Demon. Neither of which sounds particularly pleasant, to be completely honest. I find it…annoying.”

The woman lets out a quick bark of laughter, before attempting to cover it unsuccessfully in a cough.

“What is this, ‘SoulBinder’?” I ask Axton. “I know Demon, and the BoneKeeper is neither. She is a gift. A treasure.” Indignation and astonishment war in my tone, but I can’t imagine anyone thinking Wren is a…a demon. Even those in our village who understood her least thought her a vessel of the Gods. Never, never a tool of the Ender, or any other of those chained in the deepest fires of the earth.

Wren smiles up at me, and though it’s wobbly and wavering, it’s beautiful.

“Why, Rannoch,” she teases gently, a quiet caution shadowed in her attempt at humor, “be careful, or someone will think you care for me.”

“Of course I care for you, BoneKeeper,” I reply respectfully, staring into her eyes, hoping she sees the truth my proper tone belies. “All from our home hold you in highest esteem. None would see you come to any harm.”

Her lips twist into a wry, barely-there smile at my words. “Thank you, Councilman.” The title is almost affectionate; for the first time in my life, I don’t mind it.

Axton watches our exchange intently before turning to the woman beside him. She chirps at him — there is no other word for it — and he says something back in a tongue I’ve never heard. Shrugging, the woman looks back at us, then silently and without warning lunges toward Wren, blade exposed. Kaden shouts in alarm, flinging his arms out, and I surge to my feet, body fully in front of Wren’s. They took our swords when we caught up to the tail of their camp, but my bones and life will be shield enough to stop the attack. Wren, though, doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, just sits placidly as though she isn’t inches from certain death.

The woman halts her sword a hair’s width from me, then laughs, completely unexpectedly. “Binder, you are an unexpectedly amusing puzzle. But answers must be given. How did you know your companions were entering the clearing?” The question is a whiplash; the back and forth of the last hour a winding mountain path.

Wren sighs, face blanking, eyes unseeing, and I’m suddenly fiercely glad, some unrealized tension inside me easing. I know that look, know that she is seeking advice from her Protector, and wait patiently for her to speak.

Finally, she shrugs. “How else? The bones.”

THE BINDER AND THE BONES

AXTON

Cold sickness surges from my stomach, choking my throat. The bones? Kylabet is frozen death, blade still exposed.

“The…bones?” she asks quietly. Only one who knew her from the womb would hear the fear dancing in the shadows of her question. “Explain.” Any hint of comradery has dropped from her; she is every inch the Flank Commander, a lethal dagger that does not feel pity or remorse. “Explain,” she commands again, the word whipping out, sharp enough to slice tendon from muscle. The Binder — Wren — raises a single brow in reply.

“I’ll trade secrets for favors, BloodLetter’s Sister,” she offers infuriatingly calmly.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to barter, Demon,” I almost growl, stepping up beside Kyla. Both of the men across from me bristle, but the threat in my tone does nothing to affect the pale woman.

“I suppose that depends on how badly you want answers, BloodLetter.” She’s not smug; if anything, her voice is devoid of any meaning, but the lack of emotion is a stick prodding the anger simmering in my lungs. “I’ll trade and give you information willingly, or you can try to force it from me to no avail, I promise you.” She believes her words to be true, and it’s maddening.

“You’ll do as you're told,” I say darkly, “or a penalty will be paid.”

She is disconcertingly unconcerned. “Then I’ll pay it. But there are answers none here but I can give. So make a choice.”

Kylabet sinks to her heels in front of the other woman. “What favors do you wish from us, Binder?” Anyone else would think that she is entertaining the offer, but her fingers are playing on the edge of a small dagger, and I know she’s weighing the balance of the Binder’s life in her hands. If the Binder’s life is forfeit, Kyla will be the one who takes it, and the punishment for the loss of it as well, to protect me. And that is something I can’t allow. Which changes the substance of any threat I make.

“Nothing that you haven’t already given,” the Binder says simply. “Just a promise to continue what already exists.”

“Go on then.”

“I assume asking for release is futile.”

“You assume correctly.” Kyla is amused again, though her fingers still dance on her knife; she has no care for her own skin at times, letting herself be entertained by strange things.

“You said you have fed them, housed them? That they’ve been kept comfortable?” Wren inclines her head toward the two men, both of whom are suddenly wary.

Kyla replies slowly, carefully, as though waiting to see where the Binder is leading. “Just so.”

“Keeper…” one says, almost in warning, but she ignores him.

“Is that true?” She asks them, and both give their reluctant agreement.

“We have, Flame. It hasn’t been velvet couches and honeyed mead, but we haven’t been mistreated as such.”

Wren nods, and looks back at my now confused sister. “As long as we travel together, then, a promise for their safety and protection. That they won’t be harmed or poorly treated, that they’ll have enough to eat, a place to sleep, and that you guarantee their safety in your names.”

“And for yourself?” Kyla asks, and Wren shrugs.

“Would you grant me anything, or is it wasted breath?”

Kyla makes a low, indistinct humming sound that is not quite an answer. “I suppose I can only say that the promise I make for them, I am unable to make for you. I can swear effort, but nothing more. A place to sleep, food, yes. I’m unsure about your safety, given that you’re a SoulBinder.”

“BoneKeeper,” the white-haired woman replies in clear exasperation. “And what is the use of asking for pure water from briney ponds? So. Their continued safety, and I suppose, for me, just an attempt to not have me murdered in the middle of the night.” She’s infuriatingly indifferent to the thought that someone could slit her throat in the dark hours; despite my assurances that we don’t treat women that way in our society, many will not see her as a woman as such, and I can’t account for every blade, no matter how I try to.

Kyla nods, and turns to me for approval. “It’s not more than we would have done already, brother,” she says in our language. “And if it gets us answers without spilled blood, it will be worth it.”

“Do you trust my word, Binder?” I ask, surprising her, and she cocks her head like a curious little bird. “If given, you will accept it as a promise?”

She purses her lips, makes a low, considering sound. “I’ll take her word, I think, BloodLetter. She seems the sort to keep it, to the best of her ability.”

The words shouldn’t sting; she hasn’t insulted me, not exactly, and she complimented my sister, but it takes everything inside me to not react. Kyla is trying not to laugh, which is even more aggravating.

“In blood, then, SoulBinder,” Kyla says, and cuts her non-hilt hand, then holds it out to the Binder. “You have a blade? It’s the way of our people. Three drops for a vow given. And a vow broken can only be rectified by the blade that took the blood.”

Wren’s face doesn’t change, but her shoulders tighten, and she shoots a quick, questioning look towards one of the men, the one who calls her Keeper. He shakes his head minutely, either in caution or censure. The other is clearly confused; these three may be companions in some way, but there are other things at play that aren’t clear yet. It’s obvious two share more history between them than they do with the third, but the third isn’t breaking rank in any way, which is perplexing. A weakness, perhaps, to be exploited.

“Binder? I’d prefer not to waste more blood than necessary.” Kyla’s tone is joking, but her eyes are narrowed, watching the interplay.

Eventually Wren sighs, then pulls up her tunic to expose smooth, pale skin marked by a single, bright red slice along her side. Tucked between her belt and hip is a strange, jagged, ivory knife with a segmented handle. She wraps her hand around it quickly and holds it out toward Kylabet, but in reverse. The tip of the knife is pointing towards Wren, almost as if she’s about to stab herself in the sternum. Kyla hums under her breath; the Binder is clearly attempting to be non-threatening in the presentation of her blade, which is an unexpected thoughtfulness in a tense situation. Quickly, Kyla reaches out and carefully lets three drops of blood fall to the strange weapon.

It is only because I’m watching so carefully, only because nothing about this entire situation feels right, that I catch the almost imperceptible widening of Wren’s eyes when the blood hits the blade, that I see the brief flare of her nostrils as though she’s inhaled sharply in surprise or alarm. But then it is gone as if it never existed, and I’m distracted by Kyla’s question.

“Alright, Binder. You have your promise. Now. How could you tell your companions entered the clearing?”

In answer, Wren pulls off her tunic in a swift motion. Both of the men yelp in alarm, almost leaping towards her, hands outstretched as though to stop her, but halt when they see she is still covered by a short shirt underneath. And then I see what I haven’t before, what I somehow didn’t notice in our time together. I knew she wore bracelets or arm guards of a sort of course, could feel them on her when we rode together and I had her pressed against me over long days. But I spent most of my time with her trying to ignore the feel of her body, cool and distractingly soft, trying to block out the curve of her between my thighs, the brush of her braids on my skin. So I pushed everything about her to the sides, other than her binding, other than the curse of her moon hair and snow eyes. Now I could kick myself; running the length of her forearms, from wrist to elbow, are bracers made entirely of bones. Sickness surges in my stomach, mirrored on Kyla’s face, and the Binder sighs.

“They volunteered,” she offers quietly, which explains nothing.

“Binder,” I reply, voice tight, “we will need more than that, or you will die by my hands here and now, promises be damned.” Kyla’s head whips around to face me in alarm; it was not my blood on the blade, but hers, and I grit my teeth in frustration. Fairy bargains, poorly made. Even a starving demon gnawing my skin couldn’t make me risk Kyla, so my sword will stay sheathed. The creature in front of me doesn’t need to know that, though. “Explain.”

The Binder nods, and shakes her forearms. She is thoughtful, almost hesitant in the way she speaks. Clearly she is choosing her words carefully. “In our village, when the home of your body grows old or cannot support the weight of your soul, you are brought to your second life in bone. To share your memories, to remain a part of your people, your family. Over time I have had souls who wished to do more than reminisce on old stories, and was asked to wear them for protection. Those who asked I accepted gratefully as eyes and ears. So I wear bones close to me—” here she points to her ears, where I realize the jewelry decorating them are tiny, white bone fragments, to her hair, where there are small, white bones that look like beads, and to her arms, where bones are woven together in bracelets tight against her skin. “They have been with me so long they are a part of me now. And the bones tell me what I need to know. I’ve never forced a soul to live against my skin — any there now are there willingly, and I’d release them from that duty immediately if ever asked. I’d never compel…” Her voice catches slightly on the last sentence.

Kyla stares at her for an uncomfortably long time before turning to me, unspoken question clear on her face. Nothing makes sense; this is the work of a SoulBinder, that much is clear. She is openly admitting to being a Demon, a cursed, malignant spirit who should be purged from the earth, blood boiled to powder and scattered to the winds to avoid poisoning our people. But as with everything up until this point, all of the Binder’s answers are muddy. They are truthful, but not cleanly so. I can taste the vagueness on my tongue. There is no bitterness of falsehood. She clearly believes what she says, that she has done no harm.

“BloodLetter?” The Binder’s empty gaze is fixed on me, her voice soft. It’s a trick, Axton. It’s all a trick. “Is there a way I could reassure you of this?”

Exhaling sharply, jaw tense, I pull my Letting Knife from its sheath. “If you offer your arm willingly, then repeat your words. Perhaps. Though I make no vow.”

The men near her vibrate with animosity, but the Binder is placid. She calmly removes one of her bracers; at least she is honest that she has worn these for a long time. There are smooth, shining grooves against her skin that tell the tale of how tightly these have remained against her flesh. If I had to guess, it has been years to cause this kind of permanent tattoo, and the thought is like worms in my stomach. The curve of her face in the flickering light of the fire makes her look younger than her years, and I have an uncomfortable flash of the child she must have been when she first put these on. For protection, she said. For protection.

She is still sitting patiently in front of me, arm extended, and it takes everything in me to step forward, to put the tip of my knife against her flesh. Suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, the prospect of tasting her, no matter how willingly presented, makes me nauseous. I can’t press the point in further, can’t step back, and so we remain in a frozen tableau, the Binder as still as a statue, arm extended, and me towering over her.

“Axton?” Kyla is trying to mask the worry in her voice; it is enough to press the knife into pale flesh, and I hate myself, I hate myself when she makes a small, swallowed sound of pain, when the crimson liquid is pulled from her vein, when it flows down the curves of my blade, when I lift it to my mouth and drink it.

The Binder waits, no judgment on her face, just peaceful acceptance. Once my knife is clean, once there is no remnant of dark ruby staining it, she speaks without prompting.

“There is no living bone against my skin who was forced to be there.”

Truth.

“I would release any who did not desire to be my Protector.”

Oddly phrased, but truth.

“I am not a SoulBinder. I am a BoneKeeper.”

Truth, somehow. Or something she believes is true.

Kyla stares at her, watching our interaction, then asks, “Will you agree not to bind any souls while with our people?”

The woman shrugs almost helplessly. “I don’t know what you mean. I would never do a thing to harm a soul if I could prevent it. I cannot agree to what I don’t understand.”

Truth.

“Why did you come to our lands?”

“Against my will, I can assure you.”

Truth.

“Who are these men to you?” The question bursts from me; I want to bite it back. It’s a reasonable piece of information to desire, but the way it sounded when asked…Curiously enough, though, it’s the first one that seems to disconcert her. She doesn’t answer quite as readily; the two men are both leaning forward almost against their will, trying to hide their interest in what she will say. Ah. I think. This is the way the wind blows.

She darts a quick, almost nervous glance at them from under thick, pigmentless lashes, then presses a hand against her throat, rubbing her neck as if for comfort.

“They…um…I would say that….” Her face, which until now has lacked any hint of colors, flushes a pale, pale pink, and my heart clenches in my chest.

The two men exchange a wordless glance, and the one who calls her ‘Flame’ smiles at her gently. “We are friends, Wren. Will that suffice?” The latter part of it is directed towards me, and I shrug.

“Only from her mouth.”

The Binder is staring down at her hands, fidgeting with the bone bracer she is fastening back against her skin. It is quiet for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, and then she looks up, not at me, but at the two others, and smiles. It’s not wide, her full lips are tremulous, and it’s almost impossible to tell the emotion behind it, but whatever they see in her face is enough to pull answering affection from them.

“We are friends,” she says quietly, a little chirp of happiness and near astonishment in her voice.

Truth, but a muddy truth.

“Just friends?” I ask, almost against my will. There’s nothing to be gained from the question. But for some reason I have to know.

“Yes,” she replies, almost absentmindedly, still looking at them, hesitant smile turning her lips up at the corners. “Just friends.”

Lie.

A BLADE AND A BODY

WREN

The blade pulsed when her blood hit it. It pulsed, thrummed in my hand when it drank the one, two, three tiny crimson drops. The hum was almost audible, a confused sort of hunger that had me trembling. But there’s been no time to consider it, no time to think about it since, and it gets pushed aside, put in the steadily growing pile of later, later, later. Later, where Tahrik’s memory is tucked away, where Silas’s face is hidden, where the sound of crushing rocks and screaming villagers is muffled. Where everything goes that threatens to overwhelm and consume me. When later finally arrives, there will be a reckoning that will free or destroy me. But it’s not for this moment.

Last night ended too quickly, too suddenly. One second Rannoch and Kaden were there, smiling at me from across the fire, and I felt, for the first time in days, as though I could breathe again. The next they were being led away from me before I could even speak to them, before I could — I don’t know. I don’t know what I would have done. But I didn’t have a chance to do anything. Kylabet whistled sharply, there was a rustle from the trees, a man came out, and then they were gone.

“They’re safer away from you,” she said cryptically once they were taken from the clearing. I didn’t respond, just kept my eyes fixed on the forest wall where the shadows had swallowed them, and she shrugged. “A caution, SoulBinder. No one will be happy you’re here. No one. And any who are associated with you would be rotted grain from the same field, you understand? It will be hard enough for me to keep breath in your body; if you value their…friendship…I would not make it widely known.” Then, almost as an afterthought, added, “And that is the only kindness I will do you for free. Don’t expect more.”

I heard her, took her words to heart, but it didn’t ease the aching longing for their presence, for their familiarity and steadiness to help navigate the chaos of the past week. The emptiness was all encompassing — having them so close, yet unable to be with them — and coated my tongue with the bitter taste of first blooms in the Month of the Maiden. So I sat mute, staring at the fire, unmoving, for a long time, while Kylabet and her brother argued in terse tones. The normal liquid, musical sound of their language was spiked and curt, crackling back and forth until he made a sudden sharp, dismissive motion which silenced her instantly. She straightened immediately, snapped her heels together, and walked away without further discussion. And though Axton watched her, face troubled, he didn’t stop her. So when he turned to me and pointed at my sleeping roll without speaking, dark with anger, with frustration and confusion, I knew well enough to bite my tongue. He seemed surprised when I went to my bed with no protest, but I think even my silent obedience made him suspicious, because I could feel his heavy gaze on me until I finally drifted to sleep. I wanted to wake Lorcan, to rouse him for some kind of selfish comfort, but was too worried about when I’d next be able to anoint him, so I took what solace I could in the feel of him wound against my neck.

This morning started early, before the birds rose, before night had faded, before the fire had fully died. Kylabet appeared from nowhere, silent as an owl on the wing, leading a massive horse behind her. Axton was already up and about, tying up packs and loading his mount. They exchanged terse words, the conversation from the night before clearly bleeding into this morning, then approached me together.

Axton sank to his heels by me, entire body tense. “Wake, Binder. It’s time to join the camp.” Kylabet made a small sound at the back of her throat at his words, and he held up a hand to stall further objections. “Enough,” he snapped. “We cannot continue at this pace, and I need to be in the main encampment. Binder, this is your mount for the time being.”

My brain was still sleep-addled, and I’d responded in stuttering surprise. “My…my mount?”

Rolling his eyes, he slowed his speech as though talking to a child. “Yes. Your horse. You can’t continue riding with me. You’ll be assigned a rotating guard. Every day one of my Riders will accompany you, but from this point on you will be responsible for yourself, your horse, your bedroll. Even the children in our land can manage those basics; we can’t expect less from you.”

Stiffening, I sat upright, curiously affronted. “I’ll manage,” I ground out, and tried not to smack him when he raised a disbelieving brow.

“We’ll see. Kylabet — yours to instruct, then pass her off and report.” With no further words, he turned and vaulted smoothly onto his horse, the movement startling an unintended gasp from me.

Kylabet studied me, then shook her head almost in disappointed acceptance, lips pursed. “You’re not going to survive this, Binder. That’s not a threat. It’s just an observation. Do what you can to make peace with it.”

“I’m more capable than you give me credit for, BloodLetter’s sister,” I snapped back, and she laughed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. Up and mount. I will help with your supplies this first time, if only for brevity’s sake. But after this morning, it is up to you.” She’d motioned toward the massive beast; it had taken everything in me to walk to it without hesitation, to clamber onto it awkwardly as it shifted, snorting, beneath my graceless attempt to pull myself up from the stirrup to the saddle. Kylabet watched the entire time through an amused and knowing gaze.

“If you can’t even mount a horse by yourself, Binder, there’s no hope for you.”

“I can…mount…a…horse…” I huffed under my breath, and though it took longer than it should have, eventually I found myself on top of the surprisingly patient animal.

“You will have to move faster than that next time,” she smirked, then leapt on her own ride with enviable dexterity. “This quick. Or as close to. Walk on,” she chirped to her ready animal, who pulled at the bit, obviously eager to go. My own…well. After some encouragement in the form of firm heels to its side, and a brief struggle between its desire to eat the small bushes beside the road and my fairly weak attempts to pull its head from them, eventually it moved, muscles curling and uncurling in barely constrained power. The horse beneath me was as different from our village ponies as pure water from salt; something unexpected and wild seized my throat as we emerged from the forested area into an open field. The thought of leaning over the horse’s strong body and letting it gallop to the horizon, or further, filled me with strange longing.

An echo of it must have shown on my face, because Kylabet tilted her head when she looked at me, and for the first time a hint of approval crossed her sharp features. “You’re not totally without sense, I see, Binder. We have half of an hour, perhaps slightly more, until we’re with the main group. This is the length of time I have to give you enough information to keep you safe. Or at least, to keep my word that I tried.”

Nodding silently, I made every effort to focus on her while also doing my best not to fall off my mount and snap my neck.

“The BloodLetter is the Band Commander. You will not refer to him as anything other than BloodLetter, or your veins will be opened without question. You should have no reason to see him, unless he calls for you. Next are Flank Commanders. He has two. I am one of them. Once we reach the Band, you will not address me at all. The familiarity we have shown ceases immediately. There are things for the forest that are not for the field. Below Flanks are Riders. They are divided into two companies — those who are Blood Bound, and then following, those who are simply sworn. Any of these you may approach if you need something.” She hesitated, glanced back at me, and sighed. “If it comes to it, I would try to find a Blood Bound Rider before an Oath Rider. But I would also try very hard not to need anything.”

For the next few minutes, she’d rattled off a rainfall of facts about the encampment, ration expectations, where I would sleep, and, above all else, what not to do. The last list was longest, and included “don’t speak often, don’t stare at anyone, don’t draw attention to yourself, and try not to be a burden.”

“No one wants you here, Binder,” she said frankly. “You’re kind does not survive birth in our home. It’s only by the grace of blood that your throat hasn’t been slit from ear to ear in a pretty necklace, hmmm? But here you are, so we adapt.”

She’d sounded calm, almost unconcerned at the time, but as we approached a massive cloud of dust kicked up by a hundred horses or more, she’d grown silent, and now, though her body is still loose in her saddle, her jaw is tight. The languid, amused woman from the day before is disappearing with every step we take closer to the camp, replaced by the gleaming edge of an exposed blade, deadly and decisive. I don’t recognize the woman on the horse next to me anymore, and I wonder which is nearer to her true self, or if she’s just two equal sides of the same coin.

As we enter what seems to be the outskirts of the large band, the people nearest to us, all on foot, dart careful glances our way, first curious, then fearful, though surprisingly I can’t tell if it is me or Kylabet that has them shying away like skittish deer. Either way, they press back from us as unobtrusively as possible, trying to make their dropped eyes and stiff bodies seem natural. Most walk next to heavily laden pack horses, in between groaning, wooden wagons that look nothing like the Traders’. These are more utilitarian — long, open rectangles loaded with bags and what looks to be rolled hay or grass, pulled by massive, muscled horses with flowing manes and hooves that glint with iron on the bottoms.

Many of the people have a cloth pulled up over their mouths to keep the grit from their faces, but the area around their eyes is coated with a thick layer of dirt, a testament to how long they’ve been trudging behind the storm kicked up by the riders in front of us. Their clothing is similarly covered in greyish-brown dust, as are the packs every single person has strapped to their backs. I don’t notice any weapons or belted blades, though perhaps those are easy to disguise. They do seem well fed, and not unhappy, just meticulously aware of Kylabet, or myself, and desperately desirous not to draw any attention to themselves.

I want to ask Kylabet a question about the people around us, about the camp, the structure, but she has already pulled up her horse to move closer to me and is speaking before I can open my mouth, voice dropped low enough that only she and I can hear it.

“I will take you as far as the center, and assign you a Rider for the day. Stay close. The BloodLetter sent the news through the Band yesterday; all should know the guidance regarding you by now, but even open pastures hide venomous snakes.” Kylabet shows no emotion, could be discussing the clouds in the sky or the color of the ground, but something about her posture, the way she constantly surveys the crowd around us, fills me with trepidation. Everything here is a cliff’s edge on a storm day when the wind is blowing strongly enough to sweep you from your feet into the belows, and I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe smoothly. Fluttering wings of panic stutter my lungs, piercing claws of anxiety sinking into my temples. It’s enough to darken the corners of my vision, the world narrowing down to a single, steady point.

Lorcan?

His response is thankfully both immediate and vibrant.

Little Keeper? And then, more anxiously, Be on guard. There is a hum of violence here. Please. Be cautious.

He’s electric and uneasy along my spine, and for once I don’t tease back. There is nothing in this place that has the flavor of anything other than fear; I’m not scared of death, but there is something in the passing expressions of the surrounding crowd that reminds me there are worse things than dying. Uneasy stillness marks our progress through the bustling company; my presence, like a shadow, steals noise from everything it touches. Heavy stares press against me, and though I don’t meet anyone’s eyes, even my mount can sense the growing tension, hooves skirting nervously at any sudden sounds. Kylabet ties her reins in a casual knot on her horse’s neck and casually pulls a small dagger from her belt. It takes a surprisingly long time for us to reach a place she evidently deems safe; the scope of this group is significantly larger than I’d assumed.

Suddenly, in a swift, unexpected movement, she pulls up her horse and turns to me. “Dismount here, Binder,” she commands, and I hurry to obey. “Eyes down,” she mutters, troubled gaze surveying the area around us. “The eyes are the worst of it. The rest they may get used to. Possibly. But the eyes…”

Voice drifting off, she passes me a tether tied to her mount, and leads us both on foot. Following mutely, I act as her shadow, turning where she turns, stopping when she stops. I keep my eyes on the loamy soil at our feet, so I can only sense, not see, when a crowd of horses and humans surrounds us. The sound of many, many people dismounting comes from every direction — behind us, beside us, in front of us — and I realize we’re in the center of a circle. A tangible weight thickens the air, bodies pressing close enough that my nostrils are filled with the scent of sweat, hay, and a deeper, rich earthiness that is laced with water.

“Blood Riders, Oath Riders,” Kylabet acknowledges calmly. There is no hint of anything other than steel and sword in her voice. Nothing is left of the woman who was laughing in the forest yesterday; here she is someone entirely different, something different. The response to her call is immediate, a loud thumping of multiple fists pounded against multiple chests in one, singular movement. And then full silence, not disturbed by the sound of even a single breath or the shuffle of shifting feet. All attention is focused completely on the lithe warrior in front of me. “I assume you were all passed word?” They must have answered in some way, though I don’t hear anything, and don’t raise my eyes to see.

Calm, Wren, calm. He is trying, but his voice is taut, stretched thin with barely masked emotion.

I want to be, want to steady my racing heart, but Lorcan’s worry swirls with my own and sends shivers of panic down my back. In the time it took me to force air into my lungs, I’ve missed something, the pulsing of blood in my veins deafening my ears. “There is no room for personal feelings here. This…we will call her a guest of sorts for now…does not believe she is a SoulBinder. She and her people call her a BoneKeeper, or Keeper, and have no knowledge of what a SoulBinder is.” Now, for the first time, there is an uneasy shifting, a murmur of dissent. Kylabet continues as though no one has made a sound. “This was confirmed, tasted as truth by the BloodLetter.” A rustle of surprise ripples through the Riders; the world is shimmering with the static before a lightning strike.

“It’s not right,” a deep voice calls out, disgust dripping from each word. Kylabet stiffen next to me; I think she expected it, anticipated it, but the dissent still surprised her, or perhaps just disappointed her.

“The crop that is planted is the crop that is grown,” she replies cryptically, and the man snorts derisively in response.

“You can’t honestly expect us to ride next to a damned Binder, Flank Commander. Word is that we are to use our blade hand to protect it? Protect that… that thing?”

She exhales sharply, is about to speak, but is interrupted by Axton’s gravelly voice, coming from the far side of the circle as best as I can tell. “Was there confusion in my guidance, Dagan?”

“Was there confusion on your tongue, BloodLetter?” The intake of breath from the people around me is immediate and audible. There is evidently a hatred of SoulBinders here that runs so deep it counteracts common sense, because even I can sense the taste of death on the breeze.

Axton laughs, actually laughs, the sound reminding me of the hollow clattering of the bone fingers hanging from the gates of our village. When the winds blow hard, the chattering and rattling is a warning to us — go somewhere safe, they say. The Storms are coming. That is the music of Axton’s amusement — a caution to go somewhere safe. The dancing notes of blood and bone. But Dagan is deaf to it.

“What a question,” Axton replies softly, and if the circle was stone still before, it is beyond that now; a single movement could collapse a mountain in this moment. “But no, Dagan. No confusion on my tongue. The Demon sincerely believes she is a thing called a BoneKeeper. She doesn’t understand what she actually is, came to our lands against her will and is indebted to us, does not know what binding is, and is convinced that she intends no harm. She is a…curiosity. And one I think the Elders will find…useful.”

The energy of the surrounding crowd changes, almost a relaxing of tension. Something Axton has said is enough for most of the people, although it does nothing to ease my concern. If anything, the shiver of sound when he says ‘Elders’ is laced with venom and vitriol, and it is all directed my way. Clearly, no love is lost between the BloodLetter and myself; there is nothing but cold appraisal in his words, nothing but the emotionless consideration a warrior would have when choosing a weapon. And his lack of concern for me other than as a tool calms the Riders.

Well. Most of them.

“As useful dead!” Dagan shouts. Out of nowhere, there is a staggering lurch of motion that jerks my eyes up in alarm. A bearded man shoves through those around him, a long, thin blade, needle-sharp, drawn and pointed straight at my throat. It all happens in a flash, in the space of a heartbeat; one moment he is across from me, the next the tip of his sword is pushing into my skin, stopped only briefly by the leather collar of my tunic. And then his eyes flare wide, face almost comically astonished, a sort of disbelieving shock tilting his head before he exhales once, and slumps to the ground. His soul bursts from his body in a quick, bright blaze of unfamiliar music, but sparks and fades so quickly I don’t have a chance to even raise my hands to him. I can’t bring myself to regret it, though, and am only troubled by the speed at which he dissolved. Even at my best, I would have been hard pressed to have held him long enough to guide him.

Kylabet is calmly unconcerned beside me, wiping off her dripping blade casually on the edge of the dead man’s clothes. Then, with real annoyance in her voice, she calls out to her brother, “Well, my blade is notched from hitting bone, BloodLetter. Ruined.” She might as well be discussing a lame horse or a cracked vase rather than a dead Rider bleeding out into the earth below us. Her indifference to his body is chilling. “I liked this one,” she continues, clearly irritated, and clearly speaking about her weapon rather than the man at her feet.

There is a quick scuffling of the Riders in front of us, and several step forward at once, a variety of swords and weapons being offered to her, hilts extended.

“You’re welcome to mine, Commander…”

“This one has an excellent balance, Flank Commander…”

“...made by Harald, so you know it’s a strong steel, Commander…”

Voices overlap as Kyla stares down at her apparently damaged weapon and huffs in aggravation. Then, with careful consideration, she takes her time looking over the many, many pieces of sharpened steel gleaming in front of her before choosing one. “Thank you,” she says quietly to the man, who straightens with pride. “I’ll return it as soon as I’m able.” Fastening it to her belt, she addresses Axton, displeasure lacing each word. “I expect mine to be fixed, BloodLetter. What a waste.” I’m not entirely certain if she is speaking about Dagan or her blade.

“Of course, Flank Commander.” And if there is a hint of sarcasm in his tone, all are wise enough not to call attention to it.

“Commander?” An almost cheerful voice, completely at odds with the current situation, draws Axton and Kylabet’s attention immediately. Whomever is speaking is someone they value, that much is clear. Axton nods sharply, giving permission for the speaker to continue. “Why didn’t the Binder move? Or defend herself in any way? He must have nicked her at the least — I can see the blood from here. A disastrously poor Binder if she can’t even keep herself from death’s door.” And it’s true; Dagan had sliced the thin flesh over my collarbone deep enough that the fabric below it is damp, though not soaked. Perhaps it would be fully wet if Lorcan’s bones weren’t tight against my skin under my clothing, if they weren’t pulling my seeping blood into them as though drinking from a cup.

Kylabet laughs in response, rolling her shoulders and stretching, turning her back to me if I posed no more threat than a fledgling bird that fell from its nest. She does it naturally, no theatrics in her movements, but it sends a wordless message to those watching. Axton raises a dismissive brow, shrugging in apparent apathy. “That one? Defend herself?” He snorts. “She’s blind, and, as I said, doesn’t know what she is. A baby kitten, complete with kitten claws. That’s not to say not to take care around her, Riders.” They straighten at his suddenly somber tone. “Do. Even children can harm unintentionally. For now, we have captured a nestling mountain hawk, still downy. Be wary of its talons, but let’s see what we can do to hood it and tame it. And if we need to cage it, then we will. But honey catches more than vinegar.”

There is a murmur of agreement; it seems to be enough for Kylabet and her brother, because she immediately turns to me and tells me to mount back up on the horse beside me. I try to, truly I do, embarrassment writhing in my stomach like snakes, but the horse is less patient now with the crowd pressing around us, and skitters away from my ungainly attempts over and over.

“Oh for stars and sky,” Kylabet bursts out in exasperation after multiple failed attempts. The Riders are too well disciplined to laugh, though several clear their throats in obvious attempts to avoid doing so. “You need a different mount. This is ridiculous.”

“See to it,” Axton commands, waving his hand dismissively in her direction. “And take care of that in whatever way you see fit.” He points to the body on the ground in front of us, then turns and walks away. Kylabet’s face is set in an inscrutable expression watching her brother go; none of the Riders around us move though, obviously waiting for her orders. When Axton is out of eyesight, she directs her attention towards me, brow raised, lips twisted in wry amusement.

“We need a matron’s mare for you, Binder.” With Axton gone, several of the men closest to us laugh openly at her words.

“No ponies available, Flank Commander. And no mules.”

She grins back, though it is more savage than smile.

“Perhaps a child’s saddle?” Shaking her head, she rubs a hand across her eyes, and studies me again, before sighing. “Or do we just give up and put her in a wagon?”

The last sends a wave of astonished amusement through the Riders, relieving the tension that has built around us. Even those with suspicion still covering them like flesh over bone snort in response.

“A wagon,” one calls, mirth and ridicule dancing in his voice, mirrored on the smirking faces of the men around me, and they all laugh again. Evidently riding in a wagon is an unheard of insult, and the fact that she is even considering putting me in one has me bristling, though I try not to respond. I understand, or at least think I understand the game she is playing to keep me safe. But like everything else here, I am unsure.

“What would you like us to do with this one, Flank Commander?” One of the men approaches respectfully, edging away from me but not obviously so, and motions down to Dagan.

Staring down at his body consideringly, she nudges it with a toe, then shrugs dismissively. “Leave it,” she replies carelessly. “We don’t honor those who don’t keep the code. He did little good in life, in death at least he can give the beasts of the land full bellies. But strip him of anything useful before we go.”

Nodding, the man and several of his companions make quick work of it, and it’s only a few moments before the crumpled form is left almost bare to the sky and the Riders leave without a second glance to their fallen companion.

“Too much time wasted now,” Kylabet says, suddenly serious, looking around at the Riders. “Mount up and move.” Around us is a flurry of activity, of instantaneous response. As the gathering dissipates, she purses her lips thoughtfully, then calls out, “Teo, you have your packhorse maybe?” I can’t see the Rider she’s addressing, but there’s an answering sound of assent, and she nods. “I’ll take it if you’re not using him, and figure out some compensation should anything go wrong. Come along, Binder. Leave your ride. Someone will take him and bring you an easier creature.” With all the grace of a dancer, she swings up into her saddle, and smiles coldly down at me. “You’ll have to walk a bit until we have time to waste on you.”

She waits for me to walk to her stirruped foot, until the Riders have all disbanded, until the area around us is humming with movement and motion, then drops her voice, bending her head toward me. “Well, Binder,” she says, satisfaction barely disguised in her tone, “you’ve managed to make it through the first hour, more or less. If we can keep you alive until the end of the day, it will be a miracle. But the BloodLetter has said you’re to be taken to the Elders, so I have my marching orders, whether or not I agree with them. Still, you’re entertaining if nothing else. Just try to avoid being stabbed next time. I didn’t like Dagan much, so his blood on my blade was a welcome whetting. There are others I won’t move so quickly against, you understand?”

“I understand,” I reply tightly, and she laughs again.

“You really are a curiosity, SoulBinder. It’s almost a shame you have Demon blood. Things will be boring once you’re dead.” She is so certain, so sure, that the panic from earlier returns, and I stare up at her, waiting until she focuses on me, a single brow raised in curiosity. “What, Binder?”

“My death doesn’t release you from your vow, BloodLetter’s sister,” I say as firmly as I’m able, and her eyes widen in surprise.

“My vow?”

“To keep Rannoch and Kaden from harm. Sworn in blood, so you are not released from your word even with my passing.”

She tilts her head, staring down at me consideringly, then nods once, sharply. “Just so, Binder. But you should be more worried about your neck than theirs at the moment.”

Shrugging, I look away from her. “That is not my way. As long as you hold your promise, I am content. Death is an old friend. It doesn’t scare me.”

“Does it not?” she asks thoughtfully. “Then I suppose we shall have to find something which does.”

And I suddenly, terrifyingly realize I’ve made a disastrous misstep.

THE LONG JOURNEY

AXTON

She is infuriating. Absolutely infuriating. And nothing like she’s supposed to be, or like I expected her to be, which makes everything worse. Fingering my blade for the fifth time in an hour, I stare after her, watching the way she sits on her horse, the way she sways in her saddle. The first few days were easier, when I could mock her awkwardness silently in my head, when I could laugh at her attempts to make it through a day on the road. When I waited for her to give up. Wanted her to give up. But she remains mute and uncomplaining, and though she struggles to stay on her feet when we dismount, she makes sure to carefully take care of her horse before herself, feeding and brushing it with exhausted, trembling hands. She’s unusually gentle with it, hesitant in a way none of our people are with their horses, double and triple checking its harness and water before disappearing for the night. A Binder shouldn’t be so…so soft.

And she’s too compliant, lulling me into a false sense of security with her obedience. Since the first night, after one of my Rider’s gave her terse, annoyed instructions, she has set up her own tent, though it takes three times as long for her as for anyone else. She gets her own rations, under a Rider’s careful watch, packs her own gear, tacks up her own mount, and keeps her eyes on the ground the entire time. Even her riding has gotten better, some natural gracefulness lending her ease in the saddle, making it harder to scorn her in my head. Instead, I find myself fighting against some kind of reluctant approval of her, and it sets my teeth on edge. Even some of those who have switched out guard on her have come away less aggressive in their hatred of her, less alarmed by her presence.

She is larkspur, fragile, delicate, beautiful, and deadly. And the longer she is with us, the more she seems like a frail flower, the less like a SoulBinder. I wonder if I should just take some of my Riders’ advice and “arrange an accident” along the way so we’re not all weighted down by her presence.

“I can see your scowl from here, Axton.” Teo’s amused voice breaks into my dark thoughts; he is an absolute nuisance.

“You can’t. I’m helmeted.” And I am, bone horns fastened firmly to my head. It’s rare I wear them this long outside the boundaries of the Crimson Walls, but there are too many watching eyes, too many considering looks, so the reminder is overt, but necessary.

“It sits in your shoulders more than anything. Is the little demon getting under your skin?” He’s teasing, laughter lacing his words.

If it were anyone other than Teo, I wouldn’t take the tone, but he’s been a friend for longer than he’s been my Blood Rider, so I forgive him. Mostly. Still, he straightens in his saddle when I turn to him, pressing his lips together in silent apology. Things changed between us when I was named BloodLetter, for better or worse, and you can’t rethresh pastures you’ve already harvested.

“A SoulBinder’s presence should get under anyone’s skin, Rider.” If my tone is cooler than normal, well. It’s a warning for his sake; it’s best to practice on the grazelands what is necessary in the city. The Elders don’t always approve of Teo’s easy nature, of his openness. He’s a son of the Crimson City, but has a way that is somehow foreign. He gets away with it because he’s so well loved by the people, and because he is my first Blood Rider. But he’d never be allowed to be so casual anywhere else, and can’t become a Flank Commander if he doesn’t tamp down some of his exuberance.

“Acknowledged, BloodLetter.”

There’s a long silence between us that never used to exist. A place that once was filled with friendship there is no space for now.

Still, years can’t be erased easily, so he doesn’t react when I finally break the stillness, the words bursting from me with unintentional emotion. “What should I do?”

“Has the Flank Commander given you an opinion?”

We both know he’s talking about Kylabet. My other Flank Commander is a grizzled veteran of the trail — honest, stalwart, loyal, and completely without pushback in any way. This is his last summer with the Band; I’m due to name a new Flank Commander before year’s end. It should be Teo. I need it to be Teo. But he makes dangerous choices sometimes. Reckless and dangerous choices.

“She has.”

“And?”

“What do you think she said?”

He’s quiet, knowing it’s a test of sorts. Then, slowly, thinking it through, “She sees advantages where others see obstacles, BloodLetter. So I’m guessing she suggested some way to use the Demon, or tame her.”

“Just so.”

“It would make a difference if she knew she was a Binder. I wouldn’t support Kylabet in that case. But you say she doesn’t? That she thinks she’s something else?”

“A BoneKeeper. Her companions address her as such as well, or ‘Keeper’, and seemingly haven’t heard of a SoulBinder.”

“Did you take her blood? Or did she give it willingly?”

“Both. And the truth holds either way.”

He hums under his breath thoughtfully. “Do you have a plan, then?”

“At the moment? Follow Kyla’s suggestion. Keep the Binder tied like a hawk, but with enough leash to fly a little. Try to figure out the puzzle before we get to the Crimson Walls.”

“A hawk?” He laughs again, shaking his head. “More a blind sparrow.”

“That’s what I mean, Teo,” I say, frowning. “Easy enough to dismiss her that way. But she’s not as blind as she seems.” Looking around me, I drop my voice, and he leans in from his mount in order to hear. “The bones she wears see for her.”

His response is immediate, horse shying away at Teo’s startled movement, though he tries to muffle it. “The bones she wears speak to her?”

“It’s privileged information, Rider,” I command, and he nods seriously. “Worn like jewelry on her arms.”

“Her bracers? Are human bone?”

The difference is important. We wear animal bones as helmets, as armor, and, on occasion, as decoration or for ceremonial adornment. So most people in our camp didn’t look closely at the Binder’s bracelets, not wanting to let their eyes rest too long on her. But the long cuffs running up her arms, flashing white beneath her sleeves, would draw little to no attention in our home in any case. You would have to know bone very, very well to tell the difference from a quick glance. Her tiny earrings, the bones in her hair, while not commonly worn that way in our homeland, are the same. Different, but not different enough to be alarming. If anything, they pull her into our people, give her something that feels like them in a way. And familiar things are rarely frightening.

“Human bone. She says they see for her, that there are souls trapped in the bones that give her information.”

Teo looks sick to his stomach, though he tries to school his face. This is why he’s not a Flank Commander yet, I think. He is not careful enough. And someone needs to be named by the time we return home. “Control, Teo,” I can’t help but caution softly. “Please.”

He nods, and inhales deeply. “She bound them?”

“She says they were willing, and again, tasted of truth.”

Frowning, he shoots a quick glance my way, before staring ahead again. “Is it possible she is able to lie to you, BloodLetter? I don’t doubt your tongue,” he adds quickly, cutting off any offense before it can be taken, “but maybe there is something different about her that…I don’t know.”

“I’ve thought the same. Repeatedly. But her lies have been very clear, thistle bitter. The taste is…unpleasant.”

He nods again, forcibly relaxing his body on the horse. We could be talking about the price of wheat now with how he looks, and I can’t help but feel a bit of hope. He’s trying. He’s learning. “I trust you more than almost anyone, Axton. If she says they are there of their own volition, and you know that as truth, then it is truth. And perhaps her society is different than we know in some way. Even if it is objectionable to us.” He sighs, shrugging, and smiles. Anyone watching would think we were speaking of nothing but the road ahead. “How can I help?”

And that is why I need him as Flank Commander. Because I know, with the offer, he will ride wherever I tell him, even if it is off a cliff. That he trusts me and my judgment. With Teo, I will never have to guard against my back.

“Just watch for me, Teo. Just watch. And listen around the camp. You hear things I don’t, that even Kyla doesn’t hear.”

He snorts in response. “There’s little that Kyla doesn’t hear, BloodLetter. But my eyes and ears are yours in any case.” He focuses in front of us, a ways ahead where the SoulBinder rides next to her guard, and frowns. “This is a dangerous game we’re playing. If she is what you say. And if she isn’t, for whatever reason, then what have we caught in our nets that wears human bones and holds souls inside them?”

“Exactly so, Teo.”

He is quiet for a long, long time, the dust kicking around our horses feet, the noise of the Band around us filling the air, until, “What will the Elders do, Axton? I’m worried for you.”

Sighing deeply, I shake my head and give him an honest answer rather than a calculated one. “I don’t know. I truly don’t know. Bringing a Binder into the Crimson City? Purposefully? It’s a death sentence. But they can’t kill me, so what am I risking, and for what reward?”

Teo’s eyes jerk to Kylabet’s distant form, recognizable even though she is far enough away to be featureless. “They would punish you in the easiest way they’d see fit.”

“They would,” I agree calmly, steady voice belying the turbulence in my heart.

“Axton.” He tries to keep judgment from his tone, but fails.

“What risk,” I repeat again, focusing on the Binder, “for what reward, Teo? If you plan only one move ahead, you’ll lose the game every time. What will they grant us if we figure out this puzzle in time? What will they take from us if we don’t?”

Censure is clear in his response. “It’s not worth it.”

Turning to him, I pull my horse to a stop, forcing him to mirror my movements, waiting until he is completely focused on me. “This is why I’m Commander, Rider, and you are not. Because at the end of the day, I see the final move on the board and am willing to do what it takes to get there. If you are not, you will never win. And if you think Kylabet would make a different choice, then you are wrong.” Teo tilts his head, eyes locked on the bone sockets surrounding my own, not speaking. I refuse to break the silent standoff, until finally he drops his gaze, shrugging.

Turning my horse from him, I kick it into a trot, leaving Teo at a standstill behind me. And ignore it when he calls quietly after me, “I’ll give you my ears and my eyes to help you make decisions, BloodLetter, but I’d rather give you a heart.”

It’s only unfortunate that there is no space in my chest for one.

MAKING CAMP

WREN

The traveling band around me spend so much of their time chirping and almost singing to each other that it makes it difficult to be miserable, even while surrounded by people who clearly resent my presence. Hatred sounds different when whistled on the wind, and while it’s obvious from their expressions that I’m not welcome, it’s easier to disregard musical insults. No one meets my eyes though, and I’ve learned to stare over their heads at the horizon, or just at the neck of my horse. It’s one thing to ignore hostility, it’s another to provoke it. I am in a cushioned cage at the moment, and am very certain that if I press at the bars, any comfort, however false, will disappear.

Sighing, I glance quickly at the man beside me, close enough to run a sword through me should I try to bolt, far enough that I can’t reach him without being obvious. This morning’s escort is not one I’ve had before — his posture is too stiff in the saddle. I don’t know what any of them look like — any Rider assigned to me always wears a bone helmet, hiding their individual faces as though the ivory masques will protect them from my soul stealing eyes, but I’ve learned some of their ways. Certain guards have relaxed slightly around me — never friendly, that would be a bridge too far — but less wary. Today’s deer-faced Rider is tense, however, studiously ignoring my presence while being overly alert at the same time. It’s almost funny, every little twitch of my fingers causes my current guard’s hands to flex on his reins, his horse chomping on the bit in annoyance with each tightening and releasing.

“Rider, you’re dismissed.” The cool voice behind me has the man knife-straight in an instant, as though he were not already before.

“Commander?” He sounds wary, worried that he’s done something wrong.

“Flank Commander,” Kylabet replies smoothly, and moves her horse up beside me. “The BloodLetter has asked me to have a…conversation…with our guest. Thank you for your time.” It’s a dismissal, but a gentle one, and the Rider sketches a sort of bow before dropping back from us, unable to hide his relief. Kylabet watches him leave, then turns to me, frowning. Though her face is exposed, no bone covering it, she has it painted in what I am coming to recognize as the way of her people. A heavily smudged black band stretches across her eyes from temple to temple, dripping down her cheeks, with a single line leading up to her forehead where an angled, multi-lined design is carefully detailed.

“Binder,” she says, exasperation clear in her voice, “I’d appreciate it if you stopped terrorizing my men.” Whatever I was expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.

“I—”

“Don’t, Demon. Just don’t. I saw your wiggling fingers from a city wall away. You hide your face well, but not well enough.”

Forcing my lips not to turn up in response, I stare ahead blankly. “I’m not used to riding, BloodLetter’s sister. Perhaps you mistook anxious movement for something else.”

She snorts in response, barking out a short, sharp laugh. “Perhaps. But if they twitch again and torment any Rider, well. I’m happy to tie your reins to fingerless hands, hmm?”

There is a promise in her words I can’t ignore, so I simply nod. “I shall endeavor to be less distasteful in the future.”

Raising a single brow, she considers me, clearly amused. “So formal, Binder. You’ll fit well in the walls at least.”

“You have questions for me?” I ask, and she shakes her head.

“Not as such. I just felt pity for the Rider, and it’s an emotion that makes me uncomfortable. I thought it best you and I have a little chat before a new guard takes over. How do you find your stay so far?”

It’s my turn to slip, her inquiry so innocuous I can’t help the grin that flashes across my face before I can control it. “My stay? It’s been lovely, thank you.”

I don’t want to like this woman who would cut off my fingers as easily as she would slice my throat, but in some ways can’t help it.

“Delighted to hear it.” She could not be more dry in her response, and does not seem to require an answer, so we ride in silence for a few minutes. “You have been remarkably little trouble, Binder,” she notes after a time, the barest hint of suspicion flavoring her considering tone.

“I am…used to not being trouble, I suppose, Flank Commander. In the past I’ve found it’s best for my continued health to not be an issue.”

“Mmm. Other than tormenting my Riders, you’ve seemed…less Binder, more barn mouse.”

“I’m nothing if not accommodating, I suppose.” My face doesn’t reflect the wry tone in my voice, and I’m thankful for it because I’m able to keep it emotionless when her attitude changes abruptly, a whip crack from smirking to serious.

“That is the problem in one, Binder. You are accommodating, and I suspect it isn’t in your nature. Either way, it is not what we’ve been led to expect from your type. I find it disquieting. Curious, yes. But it rings untrue. And I don’t tolerate liars.”

Staring down at my reins, I shrug, suddenly feeling every mile I’ve ridden in every muscle of my body. “I’m too tired to waste energy on lies. Ask me your questions if you have any. I’ve already given you my word I’ll answer you as best as I can. As long as my friends are safe. Are they safe?” Despite my best efforts, I can’t hide the worry in my question, or the relief in my exhale when she nods.

“I made a promise, Binder. They’re not visiting dignitaries by any means, but they’re fine enough. Behave, and nothing will happen to either.” I startle a little, and she smirks. “I told you I would have to find something that scares you. You should be careful of your phrasing in the future.” She mimics my voice uncannily, “‘As long as we travel together’ you said ‘a promise for their safety and protection. That they won’t be harmed or poorly treated, that they’ll have enough to eat, a place to sleep’.” Shrugging, she smiles at me, a feral edge in the way she clenches her teeth. “And I will keep to it. But that vow is released the moment they are, so in a way, you should be thankful they are our guests and under my wing. Because if we let them go, well. That is a different matter, isn’t it?”

Ah. Stupid, stupid Wren. “When can I see them?” Thankfully, the longing in my heart isn’t echoed in my flat voice.

She considers me before replying cryptically, “I suppose that depends on how long you want to guarantee their continued well-being.”

“As long as we are with you, at the very least.”

“Then you’ll have to get used to being away from them, Binder. There’s no love lost here for you, despite this sort of truce we’ve reached. If people know they’re important to you, it will make my job markedly more difficult. Right now they’re barely curiosities. Attached to you, they become something much more significant. You’ll just have to take my word that they are cared for.”

“You gave me your blood oath, so I trust you. Though,” I add thoughtfully, “Your word alone would most likely have been enough. I have confidence that you don’t give it lightly.”

Her eyes flare slightly, just enough to show I’ve surprised her in some way, and she’s about to reply when her brother’s deeper voice interrupts our conversation.

“Flank Commander, an odd place to find you.” He’s clearly displeased, and isn’t bothering to hide it. Kylabet’s body tightens to readiness in an instant; this is not an exchange of siblings, but of ranking officer to subordinate.

“The Binder was scaring the children,” Kyla replies almost tentatively, as though testing the waters. Nothing about him changes though, and she nods in understanding, reporting in a more serious voice, “It has been several days, BloodLetter. I thought it best to check in and see how we are faring.”

“And?” he snaps in reply, more impatient than angry.

“And she seems to be well enough for the moment.”

“Mmm.” His reply could mean anything, making me vaguely nervous. I exist on the edge of a sword’s blade here; Rannoch and Kaden’s existence prevents any reaction on my part, keeping me docile. Even if they were safely away from here, I don’t know how I would escape in any case. There is no time I am without a guard, no chance to drift off into the darkness. And, if threatened, it wouldn’t be me against a single man, but an army, and I don’t know if I have the strength to pull the bones from a hundred bodies or more.

You undersell your ability, Little Keeper.

Lorcan!

Despite the looming presence of the BloodLetter and his sister, Lorcan’s voice saturates me with almost radiant happiness, filling my veins, impossible to conceal. I wanted to anoint him daily now that I have my own tent, but he argued fiercely against it.

We know that time is coming, Wren, he had said. Until then, I will conserve energy, remain silent if you don’t absolutely need me. I will consent to it when necessary without argument if you agree to leave it for now.

So I did, willing to buy his acquiescence with my patience. It means that I haven’t heard his voice as often, haven’t felt his presence as strongly, and I miss him the way I would miss a limb, the phantom pain of an essential part of you being empty. If it were entirely up to me, the moment I was given my own tent I would have filled every inch of my thighs with thin filigree lines until no uncut skin remained. But it is not. Not yet, in any case. So we wait, space between us, until this can be solved. To hear him now, so unexpectedly, is a gift.

I don’t undersell myself, Protector.

You sound incredibly cheerful for a bird in a cage surrounded by hungry cats. If a raised eyebrow were a sound, it would be his voice, and I can’t help the curl of my lips in response.

Then don’t speak to me. I’ve missed you too much to be anything other than happy to hear you.

Wren… My name curls up in his bone voice, cozy and warm, a hearthfire.

“What is this?” The BloodLetter’s rough tone pushes through my conversation with Lorcan, and I startle, coming back to the living side of the veil, but don’t respond, assuming he’s not addressing me.

“SoulBinder? What was that?” He is suspicious, and it makes him angry, easy to see even behind his bone masque.

“What was what, BloodLetter?” I ask, furrowing my brow in apparent confusion.

“What just happened?”

“I’m sorry…I don’t understand.”

He turns his horned head to Kylabet, who is watching me through narrowed eyes, but shrugs slowly in response. “It could just be tiredness. I’ve seen it happen before. Or a quirk of her that we don’t yet understand.”

“That is precisely the problem, Flank Commander. There can be nothing that we ‘don’t understand’ about the creature by the time we get to the Crimson City, or—” he cuts himself off, but clearly she understands his meaning.

“I am a woman, not a creature,” I mutter tightly under my breath, and he whips his head back around to face me.

“Say again?” he asks, almost a taunt, and goddess help me, but I let it raise my hackles, despite my better judgment.

“I am a woman, BloodLetter,” I bite back. “As such, I feel it prudent to warn you that you will never understand everything about me, as any other woman could tell you.”

Kyla coughs, turning her head to disguise her smile, but Axton is all fury and force. “Are you mocking me, Demon?”

“How in Sky and Earth is it mocking you to call myself a woman, BloodLetter?”

His reply is lost in a tumult of sound from behind us, where there is a sudden chaotic flurry of movement and alarm. In an instant, the problem becomes clear. One of the massive horses that is tasked with pulling the hay wagons has spooked for some reason and is barreling through the line of people and animals behind us, dragging a splintered wooden wreck behind it. The horse is panic-stricken, foaming at the mouth, shoulders wet with sweat, its eyes wide and wild as it crashes through the camp. Kylabet wheels her mount away from us, barking out commands to the Riders who appear as if from nowhere, trying to gain control of the terrified animal, but it backs up and rears, legs clawing at the air before coming back to earth. Tremors run down its body, its skin shivering in ripples as the Riders surround it; it snorts and almost screams, turning its head this way and that, startling as it bumps into the broken wagon still attached to it.

Being fenced in is clearly making it more nervous, and though it can’t move forward, it’s stomping and shaking, flinging its head. Beside me, Axton inhales deeply, then dismounts and slowly approaches the massive beast on foot, hands out and voice low. I don’t understand a single word he’s saying, but the sound is soothing, singing, calming, and the horse stills, even though the white rings remain around its eyes and its nostrils still flare open with heaving breath. Most of the people around us seem to take this as a sign that everything is now under control and back away, checking on those who were pushed to the side of the path, calming their own skittish mounts. Only Kylabet and a few of the Riders remain as Axton reaches up to the horse’s bridle, still using that same, sweet voice, almost a lover’s tone, velvet dark. It’s extraordinary to watch the calm settle over the horse, despite huffing with rapid breath, chest straining against its harness.

After a long moment, Kylabet turns her own mount away to survey the damage, and the Riders in the circle also relax as Axton leans his forehead against the horse’s nose. It’s only through sheer, dumb luck that I’m still staring at the BloodLetter when a piece of the wagon that had been precariously attached finally falls off. It is enough to send the horse wild again, jerking its head up from Axton’s grip and hurling him back onto the ground a few feet away, flat on his back. The BloodLetter hits hard, is stone still, chest unmoving, when the horse rears up a second time, iron-shod hooves glinting in the sun. It’s a death sentence for the bone-masqued man — one massive foot would crush him — and I kick my mount forward without thought, placing us in the small space between the rearing animal and the BloodLetter.

Stupid, Wren, STUPID! is all I have time to think before the hooves come down, catching on my horse’s back and tack before dragging down its side and yanking me from my saddle headfirst to the unforgiving ground below. By the time I hit, Kyla is already there, her blade through the wild horse’s neck, her body between it and her brother, between it and where I lay sprawled in the dirt. Every bone in my body feels like it snapped in two, and I’m sticky with blood, though I can’t tell if it’s mine or the dying animal beside me. For a moment it is completely silent, and then there is total pandemonium, the unrelenting noise sending lightning bolts through my brain. Riders are calling and rushing toward Axton, helping him sit up and giving him water. Someone grabs at my limping mount, who snorts and pulls away from their hands, turning to nudge its soft nose against my cheek as though it’s checking on me. Lorcan is frantic on my back, voice pulsing in and out with the sound of my heartbeat, and it’s difficult to breathe. All I can do is lie on the ground, completely still, just trying to force my eyes to focus and my lungs to expand. Both efforts seem completely useless.

So it’s only the fuzzy outline of Kylabet’s face I see when she stands over me, and only a faint echo of her voice I hear when she addresses me. “Barn mouse did I say? More cat, perhaps. You are showing fierce claws, SoulBinder.” Then, lower, more somber, “I owe you a life debt.”

My eyelids feel as though they are weighed down by a mountain, and my lungs are only just beginning to remember their purpose, barely stuttering back to life, so my reply is thin and reedy, more of a whisper than anything. “My head…works best…attached to my shoulders,” is all I can manage, and even bruised and bloody, the answering sound of her roar of laughter is strangely gratifying.

“So it does. So it does. Alright, Binder. We’ll see what we can do to keep it that way.” She pauses, then crouches beside me, wiping some of the blood from my face. “He won’t be happy that you’ve added to the riddle, Binder. You’ve put him…well, us… in a very strange position. I’m letting you know as a mark of gratitude. I wouldn’t expect any from the BloodLetter.”

My head hurts too much to keep my eyes open, or to waste energy on replying, so I just lay in the dirt, not acknowledging her words. She takes a few moments to run her hands over my arms and legs, to turn my unresisting head from side to side, then hums in apparent approval. “It’s not as bad as all that,” she murmurs. “Nothing broken, just the wind knocked out of you, and some bruising. You’re lucky. Your horse took the brunt of it, but is also fine.” I hear her stand beside me, hear her whistle to someone in the distance, and then feel reins wrap around my unresisting hand. “We move on shortly, Binder. Mount when you’re ready. Head, shoulders, and all.” Nudging my body with her foot, she encourages me to respond, amused now that everything seems to be settled. “Don’t be lazy. Children take that sort of fall all the time when learning to ride. On your feet.”

For a brief moment I contemplate pulling her bones from her flesh, dreaming about how satisfying it would be, then sigh, and struggle to sit up, wondering why I couldn’t just have let the pack horse stomp Axton into pulp.

Stupid, stupid Wren.

MEETING TEO

WREN

The dust kicks up around my nose, tickling it, the smell of fresh hay and grain sweet in the air. Leaning my head against the sweaty flank of the horse in front of me, I try to hide my smile. There’s no reason for me to feel this happy — perhaps I’ve lost any wits I had with the fall and the knock to my head. The horse shivers flies off its skin, and knickers softly, turning its head to me and huffing curiously against my skin.

“What are you looking for, hmm, you brave boy?” I croon softly, rubbing my nose against the velvet soft white patch at the end of its face. I never had a horse, never was allowed to near them for fear of my safety. But, and I do not say this lightly, I think I’m in love with this giant, gentle creature. “You sweet baby. I don’t even know your name…” I whisper against its cheek, and jump when an answering voice comes loud from behind me.

“This one hasn’t been gifted a name yet, BoneKeeper.” He’s laughing but respectful; most of the Band around me don’t speak to me directly, or, if they do, it is with disgust dripping from the word Binder, as though I am a disease. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Oh Blood and Stone, I forgot your eyes.”

Turning, I see a vaguely familiar face come into focus, and shake my vertebracelets lightly, rotating my wrists to dispel some of the tension. His nostrils flare in surprise, but he steels himself to stay still, carefully unmoving as I take him in. He’s tall, like all the People of the Blood seem to be, and I frown in sudden annoyance.

“Are you all from a race of giants?” The words burst from me unconsciously, and the man roars in amusement.

Little Keeper…

Lorcan whispers against my back, but the words are a laugh and not a caution.

“I’m sorry,” I offer helplessly, pressing my hands to my lips. “I’m perhaps more tired than I thought.” And I am, my skin feeling heavy on my bones, but it’s more than that. After a lifetime of an iron spike pressed against my tongue, I find, without its weight, the thoughts I was swallowing previously are now hummingbirds in my mouth. I sigh, but he smiles broadly, white teeth flashing in a dirt stained face.

“Teo,” he offers, holding out a hand and waiting patiently.

Slowly I extend my own, and he meets me halfway, swallowing my small fingers in his much larger grip. “Wren,” I give back, and his eyes widen briefly.

“A pleasure.” Releasing my hand, he turns to my horse, clapping its neck firmly before running his grip down its legs, checking its legs for scrapes and hooves for stones. “He seems to be well enough for all the ruckus the other day. No limp? And his cuts are clean. You’re taking good care of him. Have you had one before?” When I shake my head, he raises a surprised brow. “Quick study, then.” I don’t want to be proud of myself from the throwaway comment, but can’t help the little glow of satisfaction that flares in my stomach. I’ve been trying very hard, and it’s surprisingly gratifying to have someone acknowledge it. “Can I ask you a question, Keeper? Wren?”

Ah. Here we go. I should know not to trust smiling faces. Making a non-committal sound, I shrug in response, which he takes as some sort of agreement, though he seems to sense my reluctance, and smiles at me.

“It’s not as bad as all that, BoneKeeper. I’m one of the BloodLetter’s Blood Riders, and he shared the secret of your bone wear with me.” Startled, I jerk my head to face him, and he mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key. “You’ll find, over time, that I’m a beautifully carved treasure box.” Grinning at me, he flexes his arms. “Emphasis on the beautiful, of course. And your jewelry causes me no distress, nor does your presence. I’m an oddly cut piece of weaponry here, too useful to be thrown away, but not made in the same forge as the rest. So you are safe with me.”

I don’t reply, and his grin widens somehow, though it wouldn’t seem possible. “Clever, not giving things away for free. Alright, what if I promise you a secret of equal value? I’d have to think on it, but you have my word. Sworn in blood, if you need.” He grabs his dagger from his belt quickly and casually, holding it out to me. After a moment, I take my Guiding Knife from my waist and extend the blade. Tilting his head, he narrows his eyes, though his face remains open. “You really are a quick study. Here, then. I promise you a secret of my own, from my heart, which will give you the same reach over me I would have over you. By the end of the day today. Does that suffice?”

Before I have a chance to reply, three crimson drops fall to my blade. They stay on the surface; no strange pulsing, nothing more than blood on bone.

“So, a question?”

“Alright,” I reply slowly.

“What…Gods. I’m not even sure how to say it. How much can you see? How much do they tell you? If you were to describe me, for example?”

I tilt my head. Lorcan? I ask, unsure of the correct way forward.

I’ll describe him, Keeper, and you can just relay the words. That should be enough.

“Too tall by half. 6’3 maybe? Shaved sides to your head with — I don’t know the word here. What we would call something close to elf-locks. Brown, twisted almost braids to a knot on the back of your head, then hanging down past mid-back. Scarring around the right temple, just thin, and left cheekbone, thin again. Strong jaw, straight nose. Kind eyes.”

I did not say kind eyes, Wren. Lorcan is wry, and I smile.

At least I didn’t say handsome.

There’s a pause, and then, cautiously, Do you…think him so?

His eyes remind me of yours in a way.

Little Keeper…

A woman’s voice interrupts our exchange.

“Fairly accurate,” she calls, “though you missed ‘obstinate ass’, and ‘smug expression’.” A girl, maybe twenty, so not significantly younger than me, comes around the side of my horse, fingers trailing through its mane. Though thin, she has a rounded, happy face, with full cheeks and flashing grey eyes. Her hair is in long, blonde tangles framing her face, with a single small braid down one side. “And ‘weak forearms’.” She’s teasing, affection clear in her voice, and the man in front of me rocks back on his heels, affronted.

“Woman!” he barks at her, mock outrage in his voice, “Know your place! Weak forearms!” But his face softens as he looks at her; hers does the same for the length of a heartbeat before shuttering to distant camaraderie.

Ahh. I think to myself. This is a puzzle of sorts.

Waving at me cheerfully, she does a half-curtsey once she reaches my side. “BoneKeeper! I’m Ellie. I’m assigned as your maid, in a fashion.”

“Wren.” She looks surprised when I offer her my hand as Kaden taught me what feels like an eon ago. “Please don’t…I don’t know what…we don’t curtsey. It isn’t necessary. Please.”

Shooting a quick, uncertain glance around her, she takes my hand very quickly before releasing it almost nervously. “I requested the position,” she states quietly, still smiling, “so please don’t be afraid around me. I don’t have the same…well. I’m of a different class, so to speak, so you don’t need to be…I know you haven’t been ranked yet, but obviously you’ll be in the upper tier if everything plays out in your favor. I can help you figure things out until you become comfortable. If it’s not overstepping,” she offers hurriedly at the end, at some kind of silent prompting from Teo.

She trails off at my confused expression. “Class?”

“Um. Yes? Does your…do you not have…I’m not sure of the word in the common tongue…” Ellie looks helplessly at Teo, whose brows have knitted in an indecipherable emotion.

“Like a hierarchy, Keeper,” he offers slowly. “Do the People of the Bone not have the same?”

“Oh! Of course. In a way. The Council sits above all but the Father, of course. And then there are three Rings of the city–” I stop abruptly at their twin expressions of disappointment.

“So it would be the mirror here. Just called class instead. We have five classes, not three. Ellie is the Fifth Tier, so of course doesn’t have the same view of certain things. If you accept her as your servant, you can expect loyalty from her. Anything less would be unthinkable. Even while working for the scariest of SoulBinders.” This last is said with a teasing smile. “But volunteering for the position…well…” His voice grows tight, even though he tries to keep it casual and friendly. “It is up to you, of course, Wren, but it would be kind of you to treat her well. Even as a Fifth she is a good person to have in your corner.”

Ellie shoots him a quick glance, lips pressed together in a caution.

“Though whatever you’re comfortable with, BoneKeeper. The Rider isn’t suggesting…” Her voice trails off, and she looks to him for guidance again.

“No! I didn’t mean—” Stumbling over his words, he glances around him warily, then turns to my horse, rechecking its sides, more to have something to do with his hands than anything else. “I’m sorry if I gave any offense. I did warn you that I’m an odd weapon.” He forces a self-deprecating laugh. “You haven’t been with us long enough to know…it’s just…occasionally things that are permitted while outside the city — a certain level of camaraderie or leniency — that wouldn’t be advisable within the walls.” This last is clearly a direct message to the girl beside me, who wilts slightly at the words, which in turn causes Teo’s face to tighten in silent apology. “Ellie and I were raised close to each other — her parents worked on our lands — and our parents were often absent, so we have a history of incautious friendship which…has been…difficult…to outgrow. But please be assured we know our ranking.”

“I don’t understand…” I respond slowly, feeling stupid. He stands, stretching, avoiding my eyes. The subject is uncomfortable for him.

“I’m sorry, Keeper…I…You said it was the same for the Bone people.”

“We have three Rings, Rider. But the way you are saying things — why would I not be friends with someone from the Third Ring?”

“Are you not divided in things like schooling, or work, or–” His voice stutters to a stop, and he swallows hard to continue, forcing his words to be deceptively calm, only casually curious. “Or marriage?

I laugh, a short, surprised sound. I can’t help it, and offer an immediate apology. “I’m so sorry. No, of course not! I can’t even imagine. We have a Third, and Second, and First Ring school, but for practical purposes. If you are smart, you can move through the Rings; there is nothing to prevent you. It is more for, oh, I don’t know — distance from the outer Ring to the central school, harvest times…things like that. Any job is available to any person, though it’s admittedly hard to get the more desirable ones. If your father was a baker, and you were raised as a baker, the skillset you have would be difficult for an outsider to learn, so it’s not an easy task to take over from one raised in the bakery. But if you are a talented baker, you bake, First or Third Ring makes no matter.”

“And your Council?” Ellie sounds astounded. “Surely they are only…First Ring men?” The terms are odd in her accent, and I shake my head slowly.

“No. Any man can be called to Council. Rannoch isn’t even full blooded of the Bone, and he is the youngest Councilman we have. The Village Father is not from the First Ring, and the Bones called for him well before his 21st name day.”

“I’m sorry, Keeper, but…are you telling me that–” Teo’s words are choked. “For example–” Ellie’s eyes widen in sudden concern, but he pushes forward. “Let’s say Ellie wanted to marry a Rider. If she and a Rider were in love. They could just apply to be married, and it would be approved? It would not be a death sentence?”

“Death sentence? Approved?” All their words are so strange. “I don’t…they would just…they’d just marry. What approval?”

The looks on their faces are incredulous. “You don’t apply to the Council for permission to marry? You would not be sentenced to death for stepping outside your tier?”

“No! That’s…that’s…” Staring down at my bracelets, I try to give them a moment. They are uncautious around me, perhaps because I am foreign, because I am universally hated, because they think me blind. “I could never support such a society, Rider. Love is a blessing. Were two people ever to find themselves in such an unfortunate circumstance, then my home would be a haven for them, my lips shuttered windows, my hearth a place for shared meals. There is such little peace in life; I would consider it an honor to help anyone find moments of happiness in this desperate world.”

The silence is filled with staccato breathing. Hope after a lifetime of hopelessness is paralyzing. I know. It seizes your throat, stops your heart.

Possibility is painful.

“And Ellie, I cannot accept you as a servant, but would gladly take your advice and guidance in navigating a new culture. If we need to keep things a certain way for appearances, I understand. But within my tent, perhaps we can…follow the social customs of my people? In all aspects?”

She is trembling, and presses her face against my horse's neck. Teo’s hand glances down her arm, and she turns to him, just slightly, enough to exchange heavy looks. It is clearly a stolen moment, and I quickly adjust my bones, so when he looks at me, it seems I am simply distracted and did not witness anything.

“Well. What an interesting sort of place you must be from, Keeper,” he finally says, voice falsely light. “It sounds very intriguing.”

I shrug in response. What is golden in one light is brass in another, and there aren’t words enough or time to describe the differences.

A horn blares in the distance, and Ellie turns back to me, face pale, but composed. “That’s the count, Keeper. I’ll go start to sort your things for the night. I’ll get the tent started, and your sleeping roll set up.”

“Where do you sleep, then, Ellie?” I ask curiously. She shifts awkwardly at the question.

“Most of the Fifth will find a nice patch of moss, don’t you worry. Cold nights and fresh air are good for the soul.”

Pulling Lorcan around to the front of my neck, I grip my necklace for comfort.

Protector? I ask, unsure of what I’m saying, and wait for his advice.

I think…in this situation, perhaps it would actually be wise, Little Keeper. Yes.

Nodding, I address Ellie, who looks confused and slightly discomforted.

“It seems like rain is coming, Ellie,” I begin slowly, and she nods.

“And lovely if it does, Keeper. It will cool things off.”

“I would…I would feel more comfortable if you were to share my space. Rain in our land is not something…it would be a favor to me. Which you are free to decline.”

Ellie and Teo wear twin expressions of astonishment.

“I’m sorry, Wren,” he says. “Are you…inviting Ellie to stay in your tent with you?”

“Will it get her in trouble?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not if it is for your comfort…” he says slowly.

“Is there an extra bedroll for her?”

“They would not give her one.” He is frustrated, but smooths his voice at a gentle, brief touch of her hand on the back of his own. “You’d have to ask Axton, Keeper, which I couldn’t in good conscience recommend doing…and it would have to be for your purposes.” He heavily stresses the words, and I nod in understanding.

“How would one go about doing that?”

“Talking to the BloodLetter? For you?” He and Ellie exchange a quick look that holds an entire conversation. “Go through his sister. Only Kylabet. No one else.”

“I don’t think she cares for me much, Rider.”

The expression on his face lets me know that I’m not far off the mark, but that there’s no other choice, and he doesn’t answer me.

Ellie glances back and forth between us. “Until I have word, I’ll just work on your things, Keeper. If you let Teo know what the BloodLetter says, I’ll go from there.” She moves away, then pauses, looking back. “You…I hope you don’t mind, and it’s a compliment, but you’re not exactly what I expected, BoneKeeper,” she says, before turning and scurrying off.

Teo stares after her, face inscrutable. “She’s uncautious, Keeper,” he whispers, almost to himself. “It makes it difficult to keep her safe.”

Trying to distract him, I pick up a brush to groom the tired horse in front of me. “Rider, how does my horse get a name? I feel ridiculous continuously calling it ‘horse’.”

He glances down at me, a small smile playing on his full lips. “Well. Only the owner can give him a name — and it’s a he. A gelding, too gentle for most purposes. Too gentle for me, anyway, so I’m not sure what to do with him. I only brought him along because my usual pack horse pulled up lame right before this adventure.”

“Oh! He’s yours? He’s magnificent.” I can’t help the longing in my voice.

“He’s almost useless to me, Keeper.”

I scoff, offended for my mount. “Useless!”

Teo grins. “He’s unsteady in the smell of blood, Keeper. And we are the People of Blood. So you can see why, for me, he’s useless. A good horse, yes, but…perhaps, perhaps you would be willing to help me, and take him off my hands. I will sell him to you.”

Happiness, like a spark, singes my heart, but then dies out. “I have nothing of value to give you,” I reply sadly, but Lorcan laughs, catching my attention.

We’re not in the mountains anymore. Open your pouch and offer him a gem. Just one, mind you. The way they value things here, that is fair and more than fair.

I would have thought you’d be against me getting a pet I snark back, and can almost feel him roll his eyes in response.

Not a pet, Little Keeper. Gods above and below. A mount. A way to escape.

Teo clears his throat respectfully. “It’s strange,” he says. “I can almost see you talking to them. Whichever you are speaking to now is clearly your favorite.” He says the words casually, as though he is making conversation, but a cold shiver goes down my back, and I grab the pouch from my hip, trying to distract his narrowed eyes.

“I’ll offer a single stone in trade.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t deal in stones, Keeper, but I’d take a favor at a later date. Nothing huge, of course.” He cannot hide the hunger in his voice. He wants the promise of a favor from me, but is trying to hide it.

Just pour them into your hand, Wren Lorcan commands, and I follow his direction, suppressing a smile at Teo’s response.

He whistles through his teeth in astonishment, then bends over my hand. “Stones?” he asks, incredulous. “Stones?” Laughing, he pokes at them with his finger. “I’d be robbing you to take even one of these for a horse.”

“Then the horse, the saddle and tack–”

“And?” he asks, prompting me, letting me know how much more room I have left.

“And…an extra bedroll, and maybe….an extra ration of food a day.”

His eyes narrow. “You drive a hard bargain, Keeper. I…I cannot do the extra ration. An extra bedroll, though? “

“I get cold?” I almost squeak, trying to keep my intentions quiet.

His grin is the sun rising after the Storms.

“Done,” he says, surprising me when he chooses a small, glittering blue stone from amongst the larger ones. “He’s yours to name and keep. It has been, and I mean this from my blood, a truly unexpected pleasure.” He pauses, grinning down at me. “And I haven’t forgotten I owe you a secret.”

Raising a brow, I tilt my head and smile back. “Oh, no need, Rider. I have your secret already.” Color drains from his face, real alarm flashing in his eyes at my words, but it fades as I mimic his earlier movement, locking my lips and throwing away the key. “You’ll find I’m a treasure box, too, Rider,” I murmur, and he nods slowly in reply.

“A truly unexpected pleasure,” he repeats, but this time somber, and much more serious.

As he walks away, I wrap my arms around my horse’s neck, and smile from my soul.

BARTERING

WREN

Yesterday had ended on an odd note. After my conversation with Teo, I’d approached Kylabet cautiously and asked her to take me for an audience with her brother. Her mouth had twisted into a knowing smirk, and she’d sighed.

“Finally. Are you giving up?”

“Giving up?”

“Yes. This whole–” She waves her hand around at me vaguely. “I don’t know. The fighting him thing. It would make the trip back so much easier.”

“Ah. No. I wanted to ask him a favor.”

“A…favor?” Her face was incredulous. “You have a death wish.” Raising a single brow, she studied me, finally shrugging carelessly. “Well, it’s your life I suppose. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

“We…is he unavailable now?”

“SoulBinder, despite what you may think, I don’t purposefully like getting people killed if I can help it. So I can take you now if you push the issue, and you can learn how to breathe without a head attached to your body, or you can simply thank me for my unenthusiastic help, and walk away until tomorrow.”

Her tone was bitingly dry, but for some reason, I had to fight to keep from grinning at her, and to keep my tone level when I answered her. “As I value the rise and fall of my chest, I thank you for your unenthusiastic help, and I’ll be ready when you call tomorrow.” I’d caught her just as she was sipping from her flask, and she’d coughed for a good minute at my reply

“I get such little entertainment here, Binder. This should be good,” she snorted, and waved me away.

Today all traces of amusement are absent though, her face stone. Since the moment she arrived at my tent she has been a taut bowstring; even now, walking across camp, she keeps looking back at me like she wants to speak, but says nothing, so I silently trail her until we are standing in front of a massive tent, bone masked guards on either side. I can’t help but notice how quickly they straighten as Kylabet approaches the entrance, though they weren’t lax before, now they are nocked arrows.

“He’s inside?” She doesn’t ask; somehow it is a command more than a question. The sentry on the right nods sharply without speaking.

“And?”

The guard on the opposite side glances at her before jerking his face forward again. “I’d risk little today, if I had the option.”

She nods, sighing. “Ever forward, I suppose, though the fields be wet with blood.”

The one who had spoken warns softly, “Careful with your footing, Commander.”

“Flank Commander. Eyes front as always. No entry after me.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Kylabet snorts, rolling her eyes, then calls to me. “SoulBinder? Come now.”

I step forward, and only a moment later, quickly enough that I feel the rush of air from the movement, the two guards have crossed their long spears across the entrance to the tent, barring anyone else from following. Kylabet is already halfway across the dim tent, and I hurry to follow.

“Brother?”

His face is storm dark as he studies the maps in front of him, and he snaps at her in reply, clearly not wanting to be disturbed.

“What?” he bites out without looking up.

She motions to me mockingly, whispering, “Well?”

“I…I have a request,” I begin hesitantly, almost stepping back as his head jerks up in response to my voice.

“Binder.” The word is a purr and a poison all at once. “What could you possibly have to ask of me. Sincerely. I don’t do kindnesses for demons.” His jaw clenches, a rippling of muscle, and he glances over my shoulder, dark eyes glinting. “Sister.” The word is a censure, dripping with disdain and disappointment.

Steady, Little Keeper, Lorcan whispers against my spine. His words belie his actions. He has unbound you, given you a tent, let you have a mount, a full measure of food. He assigned you a servant. The man is torn. Be careful, be cautious. But be brave. His bark is not his bite, I think.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, BloodLetter,” I begin respectfully. His eyes narrow in suspicion at my tone, but I’m not sure how else to approach him. “I…I wanted to thank you for the offer of a–” The word servant sticks in my mouth. “An attendant.”

I wouldn’t say he’s surprised, not exactly, but it’s obviously not what he’s expecting to hear. “Oh. Your gratitude wastes my time. However. You’re welcome.” He nods, waving his hand to dismiss me, already looking back down at his maps.

“But.”

Again his head snaps up. “But? BUT? What more do you need, Binder?” Kylabet groans under her breath and shifts on her feet, her hand drifting to the weapon at her waist.

“There is rain coming again tonight.” I can’t hide the slight tremble in my voice; he cocks his head instantly, curiosity riding him like a hunter seeing unexpected weakness in his prey.

“Yes?”

“Rain where I am from is not…I am not used to it yet.” Pullingl one of my braids over my shoulder, I play with the ties on it.

Brave, Wren. You are not a child. Lorcan chides gently.

Straightening, I drop the hair and take a deep breath. “I would like Ellie to be allowed to be in my tent with me. I’m…uncomfortable…allowing someone I feel responsible for to stay outside in harsh weather.”

Kylabet shifts again behind me, clearly surprised.

“Ellie?” Axton asks, and Kylabet murmurs a response.

“Her servant. The Fifth Tier.”

“I’m sorry, you’re…what…requesting permission to have a…a servant stay in your lodgings? With you?”

I nod firmly. “Yes. I won’t be able to sleep if I think she’s out in the rains.”

“To be clear. You want a Fifth Tier to share your shelter.”

“Yes.” There’s a long pause, long enough that I wondered what lines I’d actually crossed by asking.

“Granted.” His tone is odd; it’s clear he’s trying to make it harsh, impatient, but it comes out more perplexed than angry. “Kylabet. See to it.”

“Please,” she replies sarcastically but so quietly if I hadn’t been a toe’s length from her I’d never have heard it. “And thank you so much, sister.”

But Axton’s attention is back on the table, and she says nothing else to me as she turns to leave the room. I don’t move to follow, however, wondering how far I can push things before they fall off a cliff’s edge. I can see in his body the moment he realizes I haven’t moved away, the sinew forearms flexing, long fingers pressing white against the table, and he breathes deeply before slowly raising his dark gaze back up to meet my own.

“Yes?” The single word holds so much caution and bite I have to force myself to respond without shaking.

“Um.”

Um, Wren? Little Keeper. For the love of Sky and Earth.

If Lorcan could bury his face in his hands, it is obvious that he would.

“Yes?” He asks again, and it is very, very clear that I am treading on thin ground, but I don’t anticipate getting to have an audience again anytime soon.

“There are two more requests,” I manage to say, somehow keeping my voice placid despite the chaos churning in my stomach, and his eyes widen in surprise.

“Two more requests, Binder? Do you think yourself a welcome guest here? Poisoned blood. You are a breath away from being bound and gagged, and you’re asking for favors!” His astonishment would be amusing if it weren’t also laced with such violence. “I can’t wait to hear, Demon. Please. Enlighten me.”

“Ah. First, I’d like to know if I can purchase extra rations.”

“Are yours not satisfactory? You came to us looking like a skeleton. I’m sure they’re more than enough. Has your brief time with us made you greedy?”

“I would feel…it’s not right that—” My voice wavers slightly, just the shimmer of heat on a long road, but the bones on my spine nip into my skin.

Calmly Lorcan warns, and I clear my throat before trying again. “Having the…generous amount allotted to me, when there is another who does not share my abundance, would be—” I trail off, unable to figure out the correct words.

Axton looks perplexed.

“I’m– are you speaking of buying rations for the Fifth Tier, Binder?” Kylabet's words are slow, as though the thought is so foreign to her that even voicing it seems impossible.

“Yes.”

Axton stares at me, unblinking, not bothering to look at his sister. “You want to buy extra rations for your Fifth Tier. That you’ve just met.” The flatness in his tone should be an omen, but it’s a prod instead, electric along my skin like lightning from the Storms.

“Yes,” I say again, this time with teeth in my answer.

“With what?” It’s dismissive, and direct. It’s clear what he means — I have nothing of value, I am nothing of value. But I ignore the barb and pour a few little stones from my pouch into my hand, holding them out in front of him.

“I’ll trade. One for extra rations for the whole of the trip. And…and…” His eyes are fixed on the little, shining pile in my hand, so he does not see Kylabet step close behind me, voice so low that were she not almost at my ear I would not have heard her. “And a second set of traveling clothes,” I finish firmly at her near silent prompt.

“And the second request?” he asks, still staring at the stones.

“I don’t know how to act correctly here, with your people, and it’s frustrating. I constantly misstep without intent, wound without knowledge.” Finally, he looks back at my face. I meet his eyes directly, clearly making him uncomfortable. “If I cut with a blade, BloodLetter, I like it to be a purposeful strike. I wonder if I might have a tutor of sorts, to teach me whatever you would approve for me to know. Nothing more — I am not looking for secrets or stories. Just enough to navigate so my only offenses are intentional.”

His lips curl up before he can stop them, and then press into a thin line, as though he’s angry at himself for the small display of emotion.

“I’ll think on it. Surprisingly, it’s not an entirely stupid request. Perhaps Kyla⁠—”

The words aren’t out of his mouth before she interrupts him. “Not ‘perhaps Kyla’, BloodLetter. Kyla has more than enough to do without you continuously adding to her plate.”

“Ky—”

“No,” she snaps. They stare at each other, twin expressions of stubbornness and exasperation lining their mirrored faces.

“Ah…There is a Rider who sold me a horse…I don’t recall his name, but Kylabet may know it? He does not seem to entirely object to my presence here. Maybe he would be willing, with your encouragement?” I am studiously blank.

Axton breaks away from the silent war with his sister, glancing at me. “Kylabet? You know the Rider?”

The pause before her words is so heavy entire songs could be written in the space; when she finally speaks, her voice is an echo of my own from moments before — carefully considering, but empty, as though the answer were not at her fingertips. “Which horse did you buy, SoulBinder? I only know a few that would be willing to part with their mounts. The bay? Or was it the dappled one? Or the small mare?”

“A brown one. A gelding, I believe he called it. With a soft nose, and a white star on its head, and one white sock.” My voice softens unintentionally when describing my horse, but I can’t help it. “Oh. And a little patch of white on’—”

“We don’t need its birthday, Demon.” Axton sounds impatient, but his lips are pressed together again in that same thin line, forcing them not to curl up. “That sounds like Teo’s? His supply mount. He sold him to you?” Axton has trouble masking the surprise, and oddly, worry, in his response.

“Teo! Yes! That’s the Rider. Would he be an acceptable tutor?”

“Why Teo?” Axton asks, leaning forward on the table, arms now flexed, fully focused on my answer. I can tell whatever I say will have second and third order effects I don’t see at the moment, so I’m very careful with my reply.

“He called me Keeper instead of Binder or Demon,” I say softly. “That is all.”

“That is all?” Axton echoes my words, listening for something in the answer beyond what I am giving him.

“It was just nice for a moment not to be hated for something I cannot help, BloodLetter.”

The tension leaves his body in a single, sudden motion, like a bird taking flight. “And why again do you want extra rations for a Fifth Tier?” he asks abruptly, as though he is trying to startle the truth from me.

“It would make me feel awkward and uncomfortable to eat in front of someone that had less. It would make my meal…less enjoyable.”

Nodding, his lips twist in an ugly smile. “It makes sense now, Demon. It is selfishness. You are uncomfortable with rain, so you want a baby blanket in the form of a human being. You don’t want your enjoyment of a meal ruined, so you are willing to buy extra. You don’t want to experience the truth of your station, so you ask for someone who will not give it to you. Fine.” Waving his hand carelessly, he turns back to his maps. “Granted. Leave now before I change my mind. You’re worse than I thought, SoulBinder. I don’t care to be in your presence.”

From behind me, Kylabet grabs my arm, pulling me along before I can say anything, even a thank you. Rushing me along, she glances right and left constantly, checking on the movements in the camp, the people scattered throughout, clearly making mental notes even as we finally reach the rough canvas flaps of my temporary home. She doesn’t speak until I move away from her, until I am halfway inside, the door already falling shut behind me.

“You play a dangerous game, SoulBinder,” she says. My back is to her, hand frozen on the entryway, not letting the flap close completely. “A very dangerous game. You are lucky that he is blind in certain areas. A warning that I am not as blind. Not by half. But in this specific instance…well. Ellie will be told to report to your lodging, and Teo will be commanded to give you an hour a night of…tutoring. Ellie will remain as chaperone during these sessions, so do not think to ask her to do any chores during that time. Should anyone ask, that is a guidance from my lips directly.” There is a long pause, and then she laughs, an unexpected low gurgle of sound, like water over rocks in a stream. “You are…surprising, Keeper,” she says finally, her use of my name catching my breath in my throat. “But we are, in general, not a people who appreciate surprises. Be a bit more careful, hmmm?”

I don’t have a response, but she isn’t waiting for one anyway, and has walked away before the tent flap closes.

Wren… Lorcan’s voice is an amused groan. Are you never cautious?

“I am always cautious!” I reply, indignant, and his answering laughter is the music of a sunrise along my skin.

You are anything but.

I shrug weakly, and he laughs again, almost helplessly, before the sound trails off.

A warning, though, in a day full of warnings, Little Keeper.

“What now?” I ask, exhaustion settling on me like a shroud.

He did not take a stone as payment.

Opening my tightly clenched fist, I realize Lorcan is right, that Axton never took one of the tiny jewels for the extra rations.

I do not think him as blind as his sister does. Just…be careful.

“I am careful, Protector.”

I can feel the raise of his eyebrow, the expression of disbelief from him. Be more careful then, Little Keeper. I have serious concerns for you if this is you trying to be cautious, his tone causing something in me to snap.

“Yes, Lorcan. Whatever you say, Lorcan. You’re the boss, Lorcan,” I mutter sarcastically, rolling my eyes, then freeze statue-still as his answering growl curls along my skin, rough like a lover’s calloused hands, raising the hairs on my arms.

You would do well to remember it, Little Keeper. Now rest for a bit.

Swallowing heavily, I sink back onto my bedroll, oddly aware of the drape of his bone necklace down my back.

Eyes shut, Wren, he commands.

“Yes, Lorcan,” I whisper, this time softly and obediently.

And if the path of his fingers on my spine feels like fire at my answer, well. We’re both wise enough to ignore it.

BRAIDING AND BINDING

WREN

There is an odd, slight scratching sound at the edge of my tent, and only years of listening to whispers lets me hear the noise above the muddy scuffle around it. Camp is being settled for the night, a ritual I’m becoming more and more familiar with as time passes in erratic, staggering motions. In the distance, the soft nicker of horses being given grain, then closer, deep laughter around crackling fires, and closer still, the steady, pacing steps of guards walking. I am not a full prisoner, but neither am I free. The soft scratch sounds again.

“Yes?” I flatten my voice purposefully. There is no use in showing myself as a mouse, even if that’s how I feel. Around my throat Lorcan snorts.

A mouse, Littler Keeper?

I did not think that out loud, Protector.

He falls silent. Strange lines were crossed the day I was dragged to the Blood Tree, and as though we pretend things are as they once were, we both know, I think, that we are on some previously unknown borrowed time. The longer we are gone from the village the more it takes from me to keep him with me, the tighter I am binding him to me in ways I don’t understand, in ways it is best that I don’t examine too closely.

“BoneKeeper?” It is Ellie’s voice, hesitant and respectful, and I call her in, feeling significantly more cheerful than before.

“Ellie! Come, come! Thank you for humoring me.”

She enters cautiously, looking around her with careful eyes. My tent is large, and won’t be cramped with two of us — would not be with four, even. There is room for the small fire, a bedroll on the far side, a folding, low table for meals, and a second for odds and ends. She shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, her hands full of blankets and a bedroll.

“Are you certain, Keeper?” Her voice is low, and she seems uncomfortable.

“It would be a favor to me, Ellie, but don’t feel you have to. I’m…the coming rains make me…I don’t feel…” I let my words trail off and leave them open to her interpretation, but it’s enough, and she regains some of the confidence I saw earlier in the clearing, far from the hierarchy of camp.

“In that case, I’ll set up. Here? Or…where do you prefer? By the door?”

“Absolutely not! By the fire? Or, it’s actually warmer back by my bed. You can set up by me if you wish?”

“You’re very strange, Keeper,” she replies cryptically, and stays hovering by the flaps of the tent before making a decision and rolling her eyes comically. “In for the frying pan, in for the fire,” she mumbles, then walks forward and quickly and efficiently sets up her little sleeping area near my own. “What?” she asks, clearly worried by the look on my face, and I shrug.

“It still takes me ages to get everything packed up and unpacked, and you’re doing it in an eighth of the time to better effect. I find myself oddly jealous.”

Grinning, she shakes her head. “Well, Keeper, I’m here now, so I’ll give you all the tricks of my trade, as it were. Unless you’ll just let me do it for you? No? I thought not. You are unexpected.”

“You keep saying that. I feel like a horse with six legs the way some of you look at me.”

Surprisingly, she frowns, before tilting her head and looking me over carefully. “Keeper, I mean no offense, but have you had a full bath since you’ve been with us?”

“We haven’t stopped at a pond, so no. Am I terrible?”

Laughing, she looks around the tent for something. “No, of course not. No worse than a full ninety percent of the camp. But I mean a bath. A soak.” The confusion on my face must be obvious, because her answering grin is like a candle. “Oh, blood and stone. You’re in for a treat then. I can wash and braid your hair as well, if you’re not too tired? Just leave me to it. I’ll sort it.”

WIthin an hour, there’s a round sort of pot in my tent, brought in by three very reluctant men who were clearly bullied into the task by an oddly confident Ellie. They fill it with steaming hot buckets of seemingly endless water before she shoos them out and studies it critically. “Do you have any oils or soaps, Keeper?” she asks thoughtfully, then shakes her head, amused at my obvious confusion. “It’s fine. Even Fifth Tiers have some. I’ll give you some of mine.” She holds her hands up at my protests. “Think of it as a favor to me. I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you smell like horse and hay.”

Digging through her small pack, she pulls out a sachet of dried leaves, and a small vial of oil and empties both fully into the water, nodding in satisfaction. “This will do. Into the tub.”

I…don’t move.

“Keeper?”

Feeling absolutely ridiculous, I bite my lip. “I…I’ll be cooked like a chicken, no?”

Ellie bursts into laughter, the bright, startled sound of a starling. “No, Keeper!” She chortles, tears streaming down her face.

“You’re crying!” I say, shocked, and she wipes her face, breath hitching.

“From laughter only. I promise.”

“The waste of water…” My words trail off, and she tilts her head, face soft, not pushing for any answers to her obvious questions.

“Is joy ever a waste? Now, then. Off with the clothes. I’ll have them washed overnight. Into the tub. I promise you you will not cook.”

It takes me a long moment, but eventually I start to strip down before pausing again. This time she says nothing, just turns her back to give me privacy as I quickly remove the rest of my things and clamber awkwardly into the steaming water.

An eternity later, wrapped in a length of heavy cloth, skin scrubbed to pale pink, eyelids feeling heavy enough to crush mountains, I’m more relaxed than I have ever been in my known life. Ellie is silent behind me, running a comb through my hair in slow, careful movements.

“Ellie?” I mumble, feeling as though all my bones have melted. “If I die now, I’ll leave this world in sheer happiness.”

Her voice is quiet in response. “What a small thing to give such joy. There are hardships in your home that I don’t even have the questions to figure out.”

“The pure water in that tub is enough to fill five families' wells for a week.”

“Perhaps…perhaps during the quiet times in our days, you’d be willing to tell me more about your home. Not tonight. I can hear the sleep pressing against you. But sometime.”

“Of course. I’d be happy to.”

The comb catches on my necklace, and she huffs slightly under her breath. “Are you sure, Keeper?” she asks again, changing the subject, and I reach up quickly to pull Lorcan around to drape down my front.

“I will not remove it, Ellie. It is not worth asking again.” The caution in my words is enough to silence her protests; she asked during the bath if I would take him off, and was surprised at my firm refusal. There is a warning now that she heeds immediately.

“It’s fine. I’m done now anyway. Would you like me to leave your hair, or braid it in the manner of our people?”

Her words are cut off by a knock of sorts at the tent door.

“Yes?” I call out, pulling my blankets tighter around me, but the answer is respectful and no one pushes inside.

“It’s Teo,” his deep, warm voice answers back. Ellie stills behind me. “I have the items you requested, and have been told to report to your tent for the purposes of educating your barbarian mind.”

“Come in,” I invite. Ellie’s hands flex briefly in my hair as Teo enters, dropping the door flap awkwardly behind him. His arms are full of a jumble of items, which he dumps unceremoniously by my sleep roll.

“Ah. Extra dry rations for this week,” he starts cataloging the pile. “Extra fresh rations will be delivered with yours daily. Extra set of traveling clothes. Some odds and ends that everyone is given when they join our camp. Soap, though I can see I’m late for that. A second flask. A pack. Well, you have Ellie. She’ll guide you through it all.”

“It all goes to Ellie’s bedroll, please,” I murmur quietly, ignoring the startled silence in the room, before he finally replies in a choked voice.

“Yes, Keeper.”

Ellie has started combing my hair again, lulling me into a dreamlike state. “Have you decided, Keeper? In the manner of yours? Or ours?” she asks, and I sigh.

“Can you just call me Wren, Ellie?” I ask. “And I think braids like yours, please. If it’s not too much trouble. Just…leave the stands with the bones alone, perhaps.”

She doesn’t answer, but begins twisting and sectioning my hair, so I know she hears.

“And me? Should we have our first session tonight, or are you too tired? I can leave and come back tomorrow.” Teo is studiously polite, but longing edges his words like the first touches of burnt orange on autumn leaves.

From behind me, Ellie makes a small sound of distress before catching herself. “I’m sorry, Kee…Wren. I just bent my fingers strangely.”

“Mmm. Would you stay, Teo? I’m far too tired to participate, but maybe if you and Ellie just tell stories, I’ll pick up on something. I’ll…make a mental list of what to ask you for tomorrow. You two talk and I’ll listen, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Again, silence, and then again, Teo’s warm voice, like a sunlit patch of grass in the Harvest Month. “I’d be happy to, if Ellie doesn’t mind. Should I start with the story of when she tried to save two abandoned kittens by hiding them in her dress pockets?”

“Don’t you dare!” Ellie answers, laughter bubbling bright in her voice, echoed moments later in Teo’s.

“Too late, Lolly-girl.” What is clearly a pet name slips without either of them noticing. “She was six, and already a hellion⁠—”

Ellie roars in protest, and the three of us dissolve into uncautious laughter, even if mine is muted by exhaustion. They bicker back and forth within the relative safety of my tent walls, far from the rest of the camp where few can hear, and I drift off to sleep in the comfort of quiet voices and affectionate amusement.

I am roused to a heavy darkness by quiet voices.

“Is she safe, Teo? This seems a dream.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. But life can’t continue like it was, Ell. This is…this is a chance. At something.”

A pause.

“Perhaps if she leaves…we could go with her…”

A pause.

“Ellie…” His tone is anguished.

“You will have to make the choice someday, Teo. You cannot have it be both sides of the coin forever.” She is unexpectedly hard, his reply unexpectedly low.

“I promised him my blood.”

“At ten, Teo. You were a child.”

“I was only eight when I promised you my heart.”

“You will have to make the choice.”

The air is thick with emotion, the tent dark. It is no effort to keep my eyes shut and my breathing soft, giving them this private moment.

“We at least have this time now. She’s doing this purposefully. Gods know why.”

“It will be easier for everyone if you can feign a friendship of sorts.” A half-laugh escapes her. “No one will think it odd. You’re already seen as a bit different. It’s only that everyone loves you that lets you get away with it.”

He huffs with faux indignation before saying quietly, “I won’t have to feign a friendship. She’s nothing like I was told. I…I think I like her. Just as a person.”

“No one will look twice at me trailing behind you two, that’s for sure.” She pauses again, and the fire crackles, a piece of wood breaking off, shifting the small stack enough that the light flares even through my closed eyelids, then dies again. Her voice is very quiet when she speaks again. “Kylabet likes her too.”

“Oh for Gods’ sakes, Ellie!” He’s clearly exasperated, though amusement wars in his words. “Is it physically impossible for you two to be careful?”

His tone reminds me so much of Lorcan’s earlier that I have to fight to keep my lips from curling up.

“I am careful. She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. But she let me come, and she let you come, and that’s enough.”

“He let us, too.”

There is no immediate response, and then

“Well. At least we have this. For as long as he lets us.” She swallows audibly, then, “It scares me though. To be given this, then have it taken away…I don’t know if I’ll survive that. To be given you, then to have you ripped from me…”

Silence, so long that sleep almost takes me again, so long that the fire is quiet by the time he speaks, his voice low enough to sound like the rumble of the mountains, like the bass of thunder, like the pulse of blood in your ears when you have run too far, too fast.

“I will choose you, Ellie. It’s not a choice in the end anyway. Where you go, I follow. There is nothing else for me. I promised you as a boy, but now I promise you as a man, erasing everything before this moment. Blood to blood.”

“Blood to blood.”

My false sleep tricks even me, and their words fade as the night takes me again.

TIME AND TIDE AND TRAVEL

WREN

“Really, Wren?” Kaden is laughing quietly, and it sounds like music, like waterfalls and rushing streams. “Horse?”

I’m feeling particularly mulish, and glare at him, despite his amusement pulling at me like puppet strings. “It was harder than I thought, and I’ve been calling him horse for so long that…” Rannoch is grinning too, which is just the water in the well, and I give up, tossing my hands in the air, and rolling my eyes. “I know! I know! But everything I came up with seemed incredibly stupid. Didn’t it, Horse?” I croon gently, and he walks to me, resting his chin over my shoulder.

“You’ve trained it to…cuddle you?” Kaden asks, and I bury my face in Horse’s mane.

“Not intentionally,” I mumble, and am caught between worlds when Lorcan’s laughter is echoed by Kaden and Rannoch. “I just didn’t know they were only supposed to have limited treats.”

The way they grin at each other clenches my heart.

We’ve been here almost two weeks, maybe longer, and the camp is getting restless. No one is sure, at least from what I gather, why we’re sitting still so long. Ellie and I wander the perimeter daily, as far as we’re able without getting reprimanded. It’s surprisingly big; the central area is small, of course, maybe kept to thirty tents and twice as many people, but the outer camp has the pack animals and servants, and is another hundred or so people, spread out in a wider circle. It seems more than a hunting party, less than a war band, and is a curious array. It is always a careful, winding walk, and despite my best efforts, I’m not sure I could retrace my steps to find half of what we’ve seen. I have freedom to fly with a hawk’s hood, a false comfort of carefully controlled movement. I am allowed to go anywhere, as long as anywhere is on a preordained path.

It hadn’t taken long to get used to the weight of suspicious eyes on my every movement; to be honest it doesn’t feel much different than when I’d walk through my own village. And if a hidden set behind a skeleton mask followed more often than others, well, things can be ignored when you are full, and warm, and your throat is wet with fresh water. Teo walked with us constantly at the beginning, having little to do if he wasn’t in a meeting with Axton, and his presence helped lessen the glares from sharp edged knives into confused, almost interested glances as we explored the camp. He and Ellie were generous with their knowledge, sharing everything from how to set up a bedroll to the types of plants surrounding us. Their happiness being near each other was contagious, but uncautious, and was, at first, difficult to cover. It poured out of them like water off a fall, despite their best efforts, and more than a few eyes narrowed in their direction by our third day together.

They tried, of course, but it is hard to hide a heart that beats outside of your body. It was only when Axton approached on the fourth or fifth day, shoulders tight and body tense, that Teo became worried, and Ellie fell back a step, head bowed.

“You are laughing often here, Teo.” Axton’s voice was heavy, a warning and a blade exposed, all at once. The two men flanking him on either side had white knuckles gripping their sheathed daggers, faces hidden behind bone masks, bodies indecisive. It was clearly not a place they wanted to be for some reason, caught between the blood in their leader’s voice and the smile on their friend’s face.

Teo shrugged uncomfortably, hands up in supplication. “It is a funny assignment, Axton,” he replied placatingly, but Axton did not move.

“How so.” There was no question, but Teo tried anyway.

“She gets excited over simple things, and it alleviates my boredom. It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

Teo opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, prompted by Lorcan, I’d crowed in delight, a happy, childish sound that felt strange in my throat, but seemed real enough to the men around me. All eyes jerked my way, as though on a string, and I grabbed for Teo’s hand, ignoring everyone else.

“Rider, I can smell the…oh…what are they called? The berries? Are there some? Oh, I’m sorry, BloodLetter. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Teo was tight with forced cheer, following my lead. “You and your berries, Keeper. The stone berries? Yes. We’re by the patch.”

“Do you…do you need us here, BloodLetter?” I’d asked respectfully, purposefully letting longing fill my voice. “Or perhaps Ellie could walk me to the patch?” My feet were already drifting that way, body leaning, tugging lightly on Teo’s hand. Axton glanced between the two of us, where our fingers crossed and palms met, clearly confused. “I’ll give you some as well, BloodLetter,” I offered when he did not respond, then, “A full half of what I pick.”

Axton snorted, and tried to cover it with a cough, the men behind him loosening their grips on their knives. “I don’t need berries, Demon. For Blood and Stone. You’re a simpleton.”

“They’re good, and I’ve never had anything like them before.” I’d whispered stubbornly. “Ellie, do we have a basket? Would you get one?”

She’d wavered, unsure of what to do. “Rider?” She addressed Teo, seemingly for permission, voice hesitant and respectful, and he’d shrugged casually in her direction, not even turning to look her way, eyes fixed on my face with a sort of amused fondness.

“Did you not hear her, Fifth? A basket.” His dismissal of her was clear and unmistakable as he’d pulled me closer to him. “Alright, Keeper. Give me a moment with the BloodLetter and I’ll walk you to the patch. Axton?”

“I’m amazed you can stand it, Teo.” The it he was referring to was obvious, and it took everything in me not to snap back, but needs must, so I kept my face hopeful and stupid. Axton settled back on his heels, some of the tension leaving his body. “It seems…almost intolerable.”

“You assigned me, Ax. Say the word and I’m happy to go back to training, where I belong, and stop playing nursemaid.” Truth was undeniable in his tone, but affection bubbled underneath. “Though she’s a funny little thing in her own way. Like watching a newborn colt trying to find its legs.”

“You’ve always had a soft spot for things that amuse you, friend.” Axton sighed, worry tinging the sound. “But she’s not a pet. You’d do well to remember there is no good ending to this story for her.”

Teo laughed in response. “I don’t need a good ending, Ax. Just things to keep me preoccupied during the long hours on the road. You know me. I take what I can get in the moment to take the edge off. I’d rather have blood than boredom, but in the between…at least it’s a better assignment than the latrines.”

Axton huffed a half-laugh, half-cough in return and nodded, missing the bitterness flavoring his friend’s voice. “Go get your berries with your pet, Teo. Just be smart. And careful.”

“When am I not, Ax? When am I not.” We’d walked away, hands clenched tightly to each other, with the feeling of having just missed the executioner’s blade, the whisper of steel passing close enough to our throats that our skin was raw and red.

Nothing was said of that moment afterwards, but since then Teo had skipped our afternoon walks. Ellie and I still wandered, but she’d been more respectful, at least outside the walls of our tent. Inside we still fell into casual comradery, but we’d all heard and heeded the warning. At night, around our small fire, she’d comb and rebraid my hair, laughing quietly with Teo, telling me stories from their childhood, of how they’d hidden in cupboards together, how Teo had taken the blame for Ellie’s antics more than once, how Ellie had comforted Teo during his Rider training, wrapping his sprains and washing his wounds. Their stories, more than anything else, built the framework in my mind for the People of the Blood. Teo still gave me the official structures and explanations, but it was their shared history that let me drink in the culture, rather than sip.

They were more careful in what they asked me, however, often exchanging long glances after I answered a question for them, a full conversation in their silence.

“You ration the water? Even for the leaders of your city?”

“No restrictions on schooling?”

“What happens during the Storms?”

“Why are you not married?”

A bark of sour laughter burst from my throat at the last question, and I’d simply shaken my head.

The only times they were ever evasive were when I asked about Rannoch and Kaden. Ellie and Teo would just change the subject, not even carefully, with enough purposefulness that I understood, eventually, that I would get no answers from them. In all the time, all of the walks and exploration, I had never seen Rannoch or Kaden. Not until this morning, when, for the first time I’d woken up before the sun, before Ellie, and slipped from the tent, leaving Ellie sound asleep behind me.

Something had been different with Teo last night, some anxiousness coating his skin and transferring to Elllie and me. He hadn’t wanted to remain, but hadn’t wanted to leave, so we’d stayed up into the thick of the night, past the fire’s death, before he’d finally gotten to his feet.

“We move out the day after tomorrow, Ell.” She’d stilled, like a deer in a hunter’s sights. “There’s nothing I can do. Not right now. We’re already over a week into the Month of the Earth. I don’t know why we’ve delayed so long as it is. In any case, he’s decided.” Turning to me, he’d dropped to his heels, and took one of my hands. “There’s still time, Wren. The road home isn’t quick, and he’s battling what he knows with what he feels he knows.” Rubbing his face with a tired hand, he’d sighed deeply. “He’s a good man. It’s hard to remember at times, and you haven’t seen it really, but what he has to be and who he is are two different things. I don’t know if you can understand that. I hope you’ll remember it in the days to come.”

Standing, he’d turned back to Ellie, her face damp with tears. “We knew it wouldn’t last, Lolly-girl.” She didn’t reply, and he’d glanced at me before shrugging. “I love you, Ell. We’ll figure something out.” Her intake of breath was sharp and sudden enough that he laughed sadly, shaking his head. “Aw, now. Wren knows. I don’t think it’s a surprise to her.”

“Wren is fast asleep and can’t hear anything,” I whispered in the dark, and could feel more than see their answering smiles. “If you give Wren a quarter candle, she’ll be so lost to the world that an earthquake wouldn’t wake her.”

Which was true. Faster than expected, worn out from the day and the late hour, I’d fallen asleep. I don’t know how long he’d remained, what promises were made once I was out, but Ellie was still lost to the world when I’d gotten up, sleeping like the dead. For the first time since I’d been taken by the People of the Blood, I stepped outside alone.

Mist was still thick on the damp ground as I’d made my way to the pickets where the horses were tied overnight. My own lay lazily in a patch of wet dirt, and I curled up beside him, face pressed against his velvet coat, breathing in rhythm with the slow in-and-out of his body, eventually falling back to sleep there until Rannoch and Kaden’s voices woke me like a dream.

“No wonder we never see her, if she’s spending all her time sleeping with the livestock…”

I’d come awake immediately, feeling on the edge of tears at the familiar tone. I’d missed them more than I could even acknowledge to myself; to look too closely at their places in my heart would open doors that couldn’t be closed again. But their absence in the last two weeks had left more space inside me than I knew.

“Horse isn’t livestock,” I’d replied without opening my eyes, desperate to keep them, to not let them dissipate with the morning mist. “He’s my…I don’t know. Friend.” I finally opened my eyes to glare at him, but as soon as I’d seen the angles of their cheekbones, the familiar shapes of their lips and eyes and faces, everything softened into excruciating, daggersharp yearning. And it hasn’t faded since, sitting here with them, voices quiet in the waking morning, feeling like we’re stealing time.

“Where have you two been, anyway?” I ask curiously, unable to hide the longing in my voice, still leaning against Horse, trying to ignore the way my lips want to tilt up at the sounds of their laughter.

Kaden scrubs his face with a hand tiredly. “We’ve been put to work, Wren. Morning to night. We’re in an odd position. Not quite guests, not quite prisoners. And since we’re not together, per se, we’ve completely befuddled them. So our days are tasked, but cautiously so — nothing too hard, or below what the Second Tier do here. But we’re not left to our own devices.”

The easy way he says Second Tier catches my attention. “Second Tier? Is that something you have too, where you’re from?”

For the first time since I met him, he looks…almost nervous, although I feel like I must be wrong.

“Ah…well…”

A scream shatters the air around us, a dagger in glass, and the shards fall down, cutting my ears with its sound. I know that voice. I know the voice that calls out with her; Ellie is singing with death, and I am off running before I know it, chasing down the music, praying I am wrong.

“What? Wren, what?” Kaden and Rannoch are racing behind me, cannot hear the change in the cry, and I run faster.

But I am too late.

Her soul is a bright star above her body, where a snake lies, headless and bloody by her bare feet, two small holes clear on her ankle.

Her eyes are open and empty.

Above her crumpled body, Axton is wrapped around Teo’s body, whispering frantically in the shaking man’s ear, pressing a hand over his mouth to muffle the agonized sounds pushing through the BloodLetter’s fingers.

Axton looks around, clearly panicked, eyes flaring wide when he sees us. We are the first to the clearing, but can hear others following closely behind, though they aren’t in sightline yet.

“Take him. Quickly. Somewhere far from here, where sound will be swallowed,” I command Rannoch and Kaden. Thank the Goddess they respond instantly, stepping carefully around Ellie, prying Teo from Axton’s embrace, and physically pulling the collapsing man along between them.

“I’ll follow her, I’ll follow her!” Teo is moaning, wailing, the sound of an animal being slaughtered, and Rannoch’s face is blank when he turns to me.

“BoneKeeper?” he asks, waiting for approval; shivering, I press my hands to my eyes.

“He must be silent, or he’ll be silent forever.”

Rannoch nods, and, with the blunt end of his dagger, knocks Teo out in a quick, decisive movement. Kaden groans under the sudden weight, but then helps shoulder Teo’s body, and they stagger into the heavy wood just in time.

“What happened?” Kylabet’s horrified voice pushes through the brush just before she appears, flanked by several of Axton’s men. Her face drains of color, and she wavers briefly on her feet before steadying herself.

“Some kind of serpent. I don’t know. I’ve not seen its like before.” Axton’s voice is careful; there is some kind of conversation, but I can’t hear it over Ellie’s song.

Stepping forward, I kneel beside her body and take her soul in my hands, where she flows like water.

What is this, Keeper? She sings, astounded.

This is the Guiding. I can bind you to waiting bone, have you sleep until you are woken again in your own.

It is not painful…It is…so much different than we’ve been told. Will I be safe?

I will keep you safe, Ellie.

Will Teo know? Will I see him?

Once you are home again, yes.

Thank you, BoneKeeper, she whispers, and I quietly guide her to my bone blade.

“What are you doing?” One of the men beside Axton snaps like a feral beast. I raise my eyes to him, confused.

Caution! Caution, Wren! Say ‘grieving’ and nothing else! Lorcan is frantic on my back; I can feel his teeth bite, his fingers scrape.

“Grieving,” I reply dumbly. The man narrows his eyes.

“A Fifth Tier?”

His tone, so doubting, ignites anger in me so deep and bright it sears. “Does life hold so little value in your world that you don’t even spare sorrow for the classes below you?”

Disgust is clear in my voice, my lips curling into a sneer and snarl, and he steps back, looking to either side of him as though for support. “We grieve. You are a Binder. Did you steal her soul, Demon?”

Axton looks, for the first time since I met him, entirely unsure, and I’m ridiculously and stupidly disappointed in him, though I have no idea why.

“I would never, never guide a soul without its request or permission, Rider. To do so would be unthinkable in the face of the Goddess.”

Truth rings in my words, undeniable, and it seems answer enough, because he falls reluctantly silent.

Axton finally opens his mouth to speak, clearing his throat first. “This Fifth was the Binder’s maid. They have a bond of sorts. It is different in the Bone Culture.” It is no real explanation, but for some reason is enough to calm the men behind him. He inhales deeply, then forces himself to continue, voice cool and emotionless. He turns to me, clearly thinking he’s offering some sort of comfort. “We will call her friends to prepare her for burial. We won’t break camp until she is safe in the ground.”

The men behind him move silently, but I am caught on his comment, tilting my head in confusion. “What does that mean?” I ask hesitantly, the warmth of her sleeping soul safe in the Guiding Knife.

Kylabet answers beside me, careful and blank. “Her burial. We have to dig deep enough that the wolves won’t scavenge her body. It will take time.”

“Dig?”

“Yes, Binder.” She is exaggeratedly patient, as though speaking to a small child, her grief making her short. “We put our dead below earth, then cover them. We’ll mark her deathbed, though.”

As her meaning becomes clear, sickness seizes my heart, and I am suddenly and violently ill, rushing to the edge of the small glen and bending over the thick brush.

They bury their dead beneath the ground.

Beneath the ground.

THE BURIAL

KADEN

“It’s an abomination. An abomination!” she barks, pacing back and forth in the small clearing, her body trembling with rage.

The Rider, Teo, is sitting on the ground, face mute of all emotion, eyes locked on the grass in front of him where the blades of glass are still bent, bearing the weight of memory, flattened to the earth. She hesitates at his side, reaches out a fragile hand to hover over his bent head, before pulling it back and resuming her furious movements.

I don’t understand anything about her. And it scares me how much I want to learn.

“What do I do?” The words are raw and rusted, tasting like iron. I’m not surprised; Teo screamed himself hoarse when we finally got him far enough away from the clearing that his agony wouldn’t be heard. It was heart wrenching, watching him wake up, watching him come back to himself, and then, seeing the crashing despair break him, watching him drain away, leaving just this shell behind.

She sinks to her knees immediately before him, but does not reach out to touch him, and I am reminded again how deeply ingrained some things are to her.

“Where is she, Wren?” He leans forward and grabs her hands, squeezing them in his own. “She was there, and then she wasn’t. The serpent was far, but I was farther, and I couldn’t make it in time. One step closer and the path of my life would have veered right instead of left.” Wren murmurs, some indistinct sound of comfort, and his face collapses. “And now she’s gone. Just…gone. I will never…” He moans, his pain so sharp it stabs into everyone around him.

Wren…freezes. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t react in any noticeable way, but I have been watching her so long now that I can hear any change in key to her music. Rannoch clears his throat softly from the far side of the clearing, drawing her gaze up to him. He tilts his head, then sighs at whatever answer he sees on her face, and nods reluctantly.

Teo catches the exchange, eyes darting between Rannoch and the pale woman in front of him. “Wren? Is she…where is she?” It is a plea and a command, full of fear and sudden, desperate hope. Her eyes distance briefly, a flash of difference I am coming to realize means she is speaking to the bones on her body, and she frowns, shaking her head in response.

I know that face, I think grimly. Someone is telling her to be cautious, and she is ignoring him.

“...sing a song of their life…” Her voice is sweet and soft. Soul and spirit, pay attention, Kaden! I chide myself, focusing in on her words. “And they come to my hands, to be Guided to sleep in empty bone until their own bones are ready to receive their soul.”

“And then what? What?” He’s distraught, argumentative, pleading — a maelstrom of emotion loosed by the death of his woman. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be tied to someone so tightly that being cut loose from them would set you adrift in an ocean of grief forever, never to return to port again.

“And then, when I have naked bone from their body, I can guide them home to themselves, and wake them there. Wake their soul, Teo, into their bone life. But I would never force someone to bone who did not want to go, and I won’t wake a soul in bone that isn’t their own…” Her words trail off, a little catch of sound, as though there is truth but also a lie in them. It catches my attention as her face collapses then reforms.

Teo is silent, a silence so full of hope it is sickening, a fist to the gut, fingers wrapped around a throat choking the life from you.

“Do…do you have her?” Wren hesitates, eyes blanking again, hand drifting to her necklace, and Teo reaches out to grab her fingers in his own, knuckles white. Rannoch steps forward at her small sound of pain, but Teo has already loosened his grip, pressing his wet face against her palms. “Please, blood and stone, please Wren. Do you have her?”

Everything, everything is balanced in this moment.

Tilting his face up to meet her own, she sighs, and nods. “I do, Teo.”

At her words, all emotion, all movement, all breath drains from him, and he turns to stone in front of her, eyes locked on hers without blinking. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he’s about to do. Rocking forward on my toes, I ready myself, and from the corner of my eye see Rannoch mimic my motion. It’s unnecessary. After a long, long pause, Teo jerks his head sharply, once, and simply says, “What do I need to do?”

Wren surges to her feet again in a sudden burst, and begins pacing. “I don’t know. I don’t know! You…you put your dead beneath the ground, Teo!” She chokes on the words, sounding like she’s about to be sick. “I can’t wake her to foreign bone. Why would you do that?”

Teo’s face is empty, completely blank. “What do I need to do, Keeper?” His voice is respectful, but strange, and she looks at him, worry creasing her brow.

“I need naked bone from her body. No flesh or tendon. Just bone. You can’t…I can’t ask you to do that. Outside the Rending and Reaping, cleaning bone is….it’s not a pleasant task.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much bone?” He’s conversational now, as though discussing the weather, or what supplies need to be packed, and she shivers unintentionally in response.

“Not much. If it’s a single bone, there is a large enough one at the back of the foot, at the heel.”

“You don’t need more? It is big enough to fit souls? Just the heel bone?”

“It will take her soul. Yes.”

“But your necklace⁠—”

Wren’s face darkens, and Teo immediately stops speaking. Even in his grief he can see the change. There are evidently questions that just can’t be asked. And most seem to center around the bones on her neck.

“How long do I have?”

She tilts her head consideringly, panic tightening her voice. “I don’t know. From my end, I can keep her safe for long enough. From yours, I don’t know.”

Teo nods. “I will bring her to you. If you will consent to…guide her home, Keeper.”

“Wren…” Rannoch is hesitant, reluctant. It is an odd emotion coming from the usually confident man. “If they catch you, if they suspect anything, it is not the Rider whose neck will be on the block.”

Teo growls, literally growls at him, teeth bared, less man than animal, but Wren quiets him with a raised hand.

“Rannoch, it is all I am made for.” Her voice is quiet and immensely sad, but firm, and he sighs.

“It isn’t, but I understand. I’ll help if I can,” he offers. Teo just looks at him, face eerily empty of emotion.

“I won’t need your help. But thank you. Ellie is mine to…Ellie is mine.”

Rannoch shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re in for, Rider. Take the help. It’s a descent into darkness you’re not prepared for; you weren’t raised with this.”

Teo stands, walks over to Rannoch, and stares at him for a long time before speaking. When he finally answers, his words are so quiet I can barely hear him, but the clearing is still enough that I manage to catch them, even in the whisper.

“You will find that, someday, for love, there is no hell you will not burn in willingly, happily even, if it is for her.” I can see Rannoch’s body tighten, muscles flexing against movement, but he can’t help the quick flicker of his eyes, just a dart of motion to a moon-pale face and back. If I’d have blinked, I’d have missed it. But I didn’t. And neither, it seems, did Teo.

“Ah,” he says, and nothing more, before clasping Rannoch’s shoulder briefly, and silently leaving the clearing.

A TWISTING ROAD

WREN

The camp is curiously untouched by the grief that has consumed Teo. If we were at home, in our village, I would not be surprised; life does not end with breath there, and though there is sadness in a loved one passing, there is also the knowledge that they will wake again. Here death is something different; I can’t understand how everyone is walking as though the ground beneath their feet hasn’t shifted. From my tent I’ve even overheard quiet complaints about delaying the camp’s breakdown for the burial of a Fifth Tier, more laced with confusion than any actual anger. It seems inconceivable to most of the people here, at least in the First and Second Tiers, that the death of a servant would affect their movements.

After leaving the clearing, I separated from Rannoch and Kaden and came straight back to my tent, where I have remained since. It seemed safest, given the strange morning, but everything feels too large without Ellie’s presence here. I’m about to start cleaning and packing when the tent flaps separate and Kylabet walks in with no notice. Moving quickly, without speaking, she ties them shut behind her, then pauses, holding up a hand to silence the questions hovering on my lips. It takes three, perhaps even four minutes for her to be satisfied, before she turns to me, careful eyes taking in the layout before her.

Over the course of the past two weeks, Ellie had become more comfortable within our little home. At my encouragement, she’d laid out her bedroom near the fire, where she’d preferred, and had set a small bag with her new clothes next to it. She had a second flask there as well, and a small rations pack, all neatly lined up, in sharp contrast to the chaos on my side of the tent. In the center, closer to the opening, is a small table with two sets of plates and cups; it had taken me several days to convince Ellie to eat with me, and several days more for her to relax enough to do so, but for almost a week we’ve been sharing our meals. We had. We had been sharing our meals. Kylabet’s brow raises, mouth pursed, as she looks over the tent, and then she sighs; moving forward abruptly, she almost collapses to the ground on Ellie’s side of things, all of her lethal grace deserting her, leaving her leaden with grief.

“I suppose you know we were friends.”

Whatever I expected to hear, it wasn’t that. “I know she thought well of you,” I offer cautiously; Kylabet’s lips twitch in response.

“Loyal even in death. I can see why she liked you.”

“Not everyone who deserves my loyalty is dead, BloodLetter’s sister,” I reply flatly.

“Ah. They’ve been schooling you well, hmm? So proper.” She smirks, then rubs her eyes harshly. “Would it put you more at ease for me to say I know about Teo and Ellie? Teo and I have been friends a long time. Longer than he and my brother. And I don’t have the same…hang-ups…as the BloodLetter does. I couldn’t help them as you did, but I didn’t begrudge their happiness.”

Shrugging noncommittally, I simply hum a response of sorts, not agreeing or disagreeing. She almost smiles this time.

“Well. It seems they weren’t wrong about you anyway.” Jumping to her feet, she walks restlessly around the small space, picking things up and putting them down, touching the wall, seeming to be full of barely caged energy. “He can’t be seen grieving, SoulBinder. You understand that?” She glances back at me, then continues pacing. “They told me it’s different in your home, but our hierarchy…it goes so much deeper than you know. Even if she’s gone — and she is gone, Binder…” She pauses, staring intently at me, before continuing, “...Even though she’s gone, it wouldn’t change things. Our justice is swift and brutal. It’s one thing to have a…casual encounter…with a different Tier; that’s not unheard of. But just — you can’t have a relationship. You understand?” Moving to Ellie’s bed, Kylabet starts quickly and efficiently rolling up her things, tucking her clothes away and packing her small personal items. “Teo is fine with you, at least for right now, because you are an unknown. People think it is part of the BloodLetter’s plans. Use Teo’s charm against you, have you tame for him like a dog on a leash. No one believes he actually cares for you, but you’ve been trailing him around camp like a lovesick child, and everyone thinks the BloodLetter a bit of a genius. It’s a good plan, to be honest. Teo is famous for his flirtations, his wit, and yes, his kindness. It is not inconceivable that you would fall for him, and he could keep you in a cage of your own making.”

She lays out a shirt, folding it with careful hands that shake enough to belie her casual tone. “Teo speaks of you with a sort of irritated affection, making you seem like a lovable annoyance more than a demonic spirit. He has played a clever game, a very clever game. Every time someone has objected to your ongoing presence, he has teased them, rolled his eyes, pointed out your scuttling feet, your odd attachment to your Fifth Tier—” She chokes, then continues. “Even your stupidity of trading an unflawed gem for a gelding scared of blood. He’s taken the monster in your blood and made you a rabbit with teeth. It removes your power. Which keeps you alive. He cannot…it needs to continue as it has, or neither of you will survive it.” She smooths out a blanket, then stops, inhaling sharply. “I cannot lose him. He’s the brother I never had. And Ellie was a sister. I have no other siblings. Not like you’d think.”

Turning to me, eyes bright, face set, she steps forward, crowding my space. I don’t move, so we are uncomfortably close, but it makes her smile again, approval clear on her face. “If he is to stay alive, which I think is important to you, though I’m not sure why, you must pretend as though Ellie was just a shadow to the sunlight shining on Teo. You understand? Nothing changes. He comes at night for your…tutoring. You walk the camp with him during the day, or ride by him. You look for him. Keep your attentions on him. And keep him focused until we are somewhere safe where he can scream his sorrow to the stars. Be tame for him, SoulBinder. Be a mouse. And in return, I will make sure your friends are gone from here before we reach the Crimson City. I can only give them a chance, you understand? No other help. But you have my word that at least they’ll have a better odds escaping this, if they take it.”

“I want to see them before they go.”

She shrugs. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”

“I disagree.”

Grinning now, she gathers up everything she has folded. “You’re surprisingly funny. Alright. If I can.” Looking around one last time, she lets her eyes rest on the now empty place where Ellie’s things had been. “I…it is not something I thought I would be saying, not to a SoulBinder. But I suppose…I want to thank you. You gave two people I love very much some happiness that they would never have had otherwise. For no purpose. And I may not understand why, but…anyway. Be smart, SoulBinder. You may survive this yet.”

And with that comforting thought, she unties the tent and slips out, quiet as a shadow.

BINDING

WREN

Idon’t see Teo again until camp is fully broken the next morning. He shows up with a rictus grin, laughing over his shoulder at some Riders who are calling out good natured teasing.

“Hello, Keeper!” he almost shouts, loud enough to catch the eyes of those around us, and I’m reminded of Kylabet’s caution.

“Hello, Rider,” I mimic, but meekly, keeping my gaze on the ground.

“Ah,” he says, voice softening, a play being performed for those around us. “You are sad still. Don’t deny it. I can tell. We buried your friend with a marked grave. Does that give you some peace?” He pauses, then calls, “Jasend!” and another Rider I haven’t seen before approaches.

“What.” He’s not unfriendly, just guarded, glancing between me and Teo in confusion.

“The BoneKeeper is still mourning her servant. I am trying to comfort her by telling her we buried the Fifth Tier with a marked grave. Isn’t that right?”

Jasend half-nods, half-shrugs. “An unusual thing for a Fifth, Bind— I mean, Keeper. So any who pass will leave offerings where she lays, to help ease her soul. The BloodLetter said your culture is different, that you would take it as an affront otherwise. And Teo here did not want to see your sad face for the rest of our ride to the Crimson Walls. You should thank him, really.”

“I just find excessive sadness boring when there is so much joy to be found in the world, Jas,” Teo replies jokingly, though his voice is close to shattering it’s so brittle, and I realize I have to say something or his masque will break.

Raising my blank eyes to his face, I try to smile tenderly, to mirror the look of a lovesick girl from my village. “It was kind of you, Rider. To do such a thing for me.” My voice is tight but comes out breathy, and I can see the Riders in the near distance are exchanging knowing glances.

Jasend laughs, and knocks Teo lightly on the shoulder. “That’s Teo for you, Keeper. Kind through and through. Go take a last walk around the camp. We leave shortly and you won’t be on your feet again for a long time.”

Teo grabs my hand, pulling me alongside him. “Will you tell the BloodLetter I’m taking a quick stroll, and will be there shortly?” he asks, raising a knowing eyebrow.

Jasend shakes his head, laughing again. “You’re impossible. There’s not time for anything but a walk, Rider. Go on now.”

It’s a full five minutes before we’re alone in the woods, far enough that we can’t see anyone, but close enough that we can still hear the shouts and sounds of the gathering Tiers.

The moment we’re safe, all emotion drops from his face; he becomes almost scarily blank. “I have a gift for you, BoneKeeper,” he says, voice so empty of emotion I don’t recognize it. Pulling out a small leather pouch, he opens it carefully and empties a beautifully white, smooth heel bone into my hand. He reaches out to trace its lines reverently with a single finger. “Is it right?” he asks, suddenly cautious, finger trembling for a moment before clenching his fist. “I don’t think I can do it ag—” Choking, he inhales deeply, then forces himself to continue. “Just tell me. Is it right.”

“It’s perfect,” I almost croon, holding the bone gently. “Should I Guide her now? Do we have enough time? She’ll be so happy.”

Teo freezes, breath coming in sharp, quick pants. “What if it doesn’t work?” All the emotion he has buried, has kept at bay for the past twenty-four hours, comes rushing in at once, suffocating him, and he wavers on his feet. “What if⁠—”

I pull my gaze away from the bone to look at him, almost astonished. “Of course it will work,” I say simply, taking my Guiding Knife from my belt. Ellie’s soul is curled up inside, and I pull her gently from it, as softly as I would hold a newborn. She shivers slightly, leaving the warmth of her sleep, then wakes fully when sliding into her bone, bursting into bright light, her voice loud and strong.

Teo!

Smiling now, I press the bone into Teo’s hand. He’s reluctant at first, almost pulling back, when a kind of wonder spreads over his face. “It’s…the bone is warm?”

I nod. “She’s shouting, over and over, just your name. It’s surprising, actually. Usually a soul takes a few days to wake to their bone life. Perhaps it’s because I moved her so quickly from one to the other. She only slept a short time. But she’s singing for you. As she settles, I can speak for her, if you’d like.”

“Can…can she hear me?” he asks hesitantly, and I smile.

“Oh yes. She can hear you. I won’t always be nearby to interpret for you, but if you’re unsure, you can ask her to warm the bone for you. Just a little, mind. And not too often. It takes quite a lot of energy for the soul to do that. But she’s new to bone, and I think won’t even have to be asked for a while.”

“What should I— how do I keep her?” He looks so lost, but so hopeful at the same time.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you do anything special for your necklace? Is there some way you—” I don’t like the question. I don’t like any questions about Lorcan; my chest tightens. Teo immediately lifts his hand in apology. “Keeper. No. I just mean, is there something I need to do? What if the bone breaks? What if it’s crushed? How do I⁠—”

I interrupt his panic, voice flat. “If the bone is crushed and I am not there, there is nothing to be done. It is like death, but more permanent. Only her bone will take her soul, and this is the only bone we have for her.”

He nods. “I’m sorry for any offense, Keeper.”

We are cut off from further conversation by a shout in the distance. Teo quickly puts the bone back in the pouch, then hangs it from his neck under his shirt.

“Coming!” he yells back, then turns to me. “Thank you, Wren. Thank you.”

Taking my hand, he leads me from the woods. I follow, but the uneasy feeling comes as well.

Lorcan? I whisper to him, searching for comfort, but he is quiet.

Lorcan? I ask again, this time pulling him from rest, something I rarely do, and he surges awake.

Little Keeper? Is all well?

I don’t know how to tell him that…I don’t know. Instead, I just say I missed you. I’m sorry.

Never be sorry for missing me, he replies, voice warm on my back, and it’s enough to calm my nerves.

I’m sorry, I say again. Go back to sleep.

If you need me, I’m here.

Maybe. Maybe just for a few minutes.

For as long as you need, Little Keeper. I will be here for as long as you need.

A SLOW SLIDE

WREN

“Have you never seen something like this?” Teo’s voice is flat, empty, but he is making an effort, trying so hard it almost breaks my heart.

And so I try back, even though I want to be silent, to enjoy the rare moment not surrounded by people and animals and unceasing noise. “I have, but only in bone memories. They called it a lake, I think. It wasn’t quite like this, but similar enough.”

Stretched before us is a wide, still body of water, five or six times larger than the biggest pond from my village. You can see the other side, more or less, but it’s obscured by early morning mist and gives the impression that the water stretches forever. The air smells of damp soil and newly lit campfires, and an almost intoxicating denseness of crushed pine needles. It’s cold, colder than any day yet, enough so I’m close to shivering even under the fur lined traveling cloak Teo dropped off at my tent last night.

“What is it like, Wren? Hearing their voices?” A tiny spark of life drifts through his words, and I grab it, trying to tether him back to the earth. Teo has been nothing but unceasingly kind to me the last week; we’ve formed a strange alliance, a pattern of odd habits. He laughs and teases me in the open camp, then collapses to my bedroll and falls into a deep, tumultuous sleep the moment he enters my tent for ‘tutoring’. I wake him after a couple of hours and he stumbles away, back into skin he wears like a costume for the rest of the Band. To any who would study us, even with careful eyes, we are forming a friendship of sorts, and the longer Teo is around me, the easier it makes it for other people to tolerate me. Even Binder is said with less venom and more disdain, as though the people have come to realize the threat inherent in the word is more a nettle sting than a viper’s bite. But he is struggling, in the moments where he thinks I don’t notice, where he thinks he’s unseen. I missed it with Tahrik and failed a friend; I don’t want to fail Ellie as well.

This is the first time he’s really asked about the bones. I attempted the first night he came to me after I Guided Ellie, offered to speak for her but he held up a hand to quiet me, almost choking on the words he was trying hard to swallow, and I realized that, even though he has her, it’s impossible to overcome a lifetime of misinformation in a moment. He is battling what he knew to be true since childhood with what a stranger is telling him is true for a week. Something in him is unsure; did he commit her soul to binding and whatever that means for their people, or has she simply been guided home, where she is safe and sheltered, and waiting to speak to him?

Purposefully letting my voice warm, I smile at him, a real smile, unmasked, and tell him the truth. “It’s wonderful, Teo. It’s a gift. They’re always so excited to tell me their stories, to get to pass along information, or reminders.”

“Reminders?” He’s curious despite himself, and I grin.

“Ooooh, yes. Bone life doesn’t change who you were in flesh life, not by half. It’s the same soul, just a different form. Which is fortunate for many, many people, hmm? But some wish their relatives would mellow in bone.” A little gurgle of laughter escapes my lips, an echo of the water lapping at the shore in front of us. “There is one woman back home who thinks her children absolutely cannot function without her. I think perhaps she was too used to ruling her roost when in flesh, and couldn’t release it in bone. So every time her family would visit, she’d task them — ‘have you been moving the wardrobe to sweep behind? I know you skimp on that.’ Or, ‘did you do the spring cleaning yet? We’re only a month out from haymaking!’. And they would nod and agree like children being chided. Grown men with hats in hands and toes tracing lines in the dirt.”

Teo’s mouth sketches the barest hint of a smile, and I feel victorious. I’m trying, Ellie I promise her in my mind. He’ll speak to you soon, I’m sure.

“Is it enough for them though,” he asks softly, staring out at the water. “Aren’t they lonely?”

“The families?” I ask, confused, and he shakes his head.

“The bones.”

“Oh! No. Not at all. They can all talk to each other, Teo. So they chat all day.” Sighing, I stare out over the water, losing myself for a moment in tangible memory. “The noise fills my skin until it’s taut sometimes. Ceaseless conversations that vibrate in my marrow, even when I try to ignore them. They’re all connected in a way, though the connection is always stronger between those who have been Guided by the same BoneKeeper.”

Wren. Lorcan is quiet and cautious around my neck. Be careful giving away your secrets.

Is that a secret, Protector? And it’s a real question; I don’t think of the bone interactions as a secret, but perhaps I’m wrong.

Any of our people’s ways are a secret here, Little Keeper. Any information can be used against you. Even friendship wears many masques.

I…I saved Ellie for him, Lorcan. Don’t you think….

He is silent, which is reply enough. He doesn’t agree with me, but Teo is speaking again, distracting me from my Protector’s warning.

“Will you—” He swallows hard, picks up a stone, then throws it out into the lake, where it skips once, twice, and more before sinking, sending ripples across the water. He doesn’t speak again, so I lean over to pick up a stone, similar to his, then throw it, trying to mimic his movements. It sinks immediately.

“No, Keeper. With the wrist, like this.”

He repeats it; for the life of me, I can’t see the difference between what he just did and what I tried to do, but I grab another, and another, and another, all of them plonking beneath the surface the moment they touch.

“You are unaccountably bad at this, Wren,” he says, sounding almost, but not quite, like himself again, and I huff in exasperation.

“I didn’t grow up like this, Rider. I happen to think my efforts are extraordinary.”

And now a faint smile, a shake of his head. “Pretend you are the rock, Keeper. And the water is the world. Cast your stone out, not down. You skip lightly across the top, sending ripples out across the places you touch, but I don’t think you ever dive in completely, hmm? Something is driving you forward, keeping you moving, keeping you from resting in one place.”

“I would rest if I could, Rider.” It is too quiet to disguise the sadness in my voice, so I am surprised by his answer.

“Would you though?” He is thoughtful, not trying to insult me, just questioning. “I’ve seen the way skipping stones move, Wren. You, Axton, Kyla. You are the same in many ways. I hope you remember that, if ever it comes to it. That sometimes what you are seeing, feeling, are only the ripples of the moments the stone hits the water. That many times all the stone longs to do is sink, because that’s what they are meant to do, made to do. That it is only because of some greater force hurling you along that you are unable to stop.”

I have no reply, so I just bend down and gather more stones in my hands.

There is a comfortable silence between us; when he turns to me, his face is soft with peace found somewhere in the hush of the dawning world around us. “Will you help me? With Ellie?”

“I’ve simply been waiting for you to ask,” I reply softly, smiling. Tucking most of the rocks in my pocket, I hold out a now empty hand. Looking around carefully, Teo reaches into his shirt, pulling out the pouch, and gently pours Ellie’s bone into his palm.

“It’s…I’m sorry. She’s very warm today.” He looks incredibly worried, as if something has gone wrong, and wraps his fingers around her when I reach out to take her.

“That’s because she’s being very loud at the moment,” I say, laughing lightly. “Earth and Sky, Ellie. I can hear you. Teo can almost hear you at this volume.” Tilting my head, I listen for a moment, then look back at him. “I can either interpret for her, meaning I’ll pass her words along for you, or I can try to let her speak through me directly to you. I should warn you, many people don’t enjoy the latter the way they think they would. It can be unsettling.”

“Maybe just for now speak for her, BoneKeeper. That alone is still too much for me, but I’m trying.” He’s strangely formal, after all of our back-and-forth, but I know this is more than he ever thought he could do, and just nod in return.

Leaving my hand out and relaxed, I wait for him to unclench his bloodless fingers from around the smooth heel bone, and place her in my palm. The moment he does, he turns from me again and picks up another stone, sending it out across the glass-like surface of the water. This time it only jumps twice before sinking.

“She says that was a poor attempt. That in the past you’ve skipped a stone five times that far, and your forearms must be weakening in your old age.”

He startles, whipping his head around to face me, mouth agape, almost comically stunned. “She, what? She can see that? Me? This?” Waving his arm around vaguely, he looks poleaxed.

“Mmm. Mostly, yes. More as a sense? It’s hard to describe the way bone souls see? But yes.”

“Tell her I’m not weak,” he replies, almost affronted, and I grin.

“I don’t need to tell her anything, Teo. She can hear you. I’m going to step back, and let you two talk. So she’s not speaking through me, but it will confuse you to go back and forth with us. Just talk to her, and I’ll give you her words.”

“Ell—” He’s awkward, unsure, but pushes on. “Are you…is it painful?”

“No. It’s warm, like being wrapped in a blanket in front of a fire. Like sitting in the — I’m sorry, Teo, I don’t know this word. Picture it for me, Ellie, please.” Humming softly, I focus on the image she’s building, and nod. “It’s harder between languages than I thought. I apologize. I’ll get used to it. Ah. It’s a sort of chair, just one I’ve never seen the likes of before. Very full arms, full back. A sort of worn out red color? With a patterned rug in front of it. It looks soft, and there’s a quilt on it. Does that help?”

He nods, smiling with something close to wonder. “It does! That’s Kyla’s grandmother’s chair. Ellie, Kyla and I used to sit on that rug and listen to stories when we were little. Axton too sometimes. But that grew less and less as he was pulled away for BloodLetter duties. So it doesn’t hurt you?”

“No. It feels like home. It’s different from what you were told as a child. How are you, Teo?”

His voice drops, whispering secrets to her. “Not well, Lollygirl. The world has faded without you.”

“Keep your promises to her, she says, and she’ll keep hers to you. You skipping stones reminds her. Do you remember a cold lake in snow-touched mountains, a broken cabin door, and a⁠—”

Teo barks out an almost alarmed sound, clapping his hand over mine, over her bone, and flushes red. “That is not a memory to be shared, Lolly!” He’s half-chortling, half-embarrassed, fingers wrapped tightly around mine as though that alone could silence her voice.

“And a roaring fire? What did you think I was going to say?” I tease, voice brimming with barely contained laughter at his complete loss of composure. He turns to me, a mock-threatening look on his face.

“Woman! You’re impossible!” He groans dramatically, and though it’s not clear to me whether he’s talking to Ellie or myself, we’re both grinning, faces tilted toward each other, shared affection obvious. I’m about to answer when the rustle of pine needles draws my attention.

It is both the luck of the Gods and the curse of the Ender that Axton chooses this exact moment to walk out of the dense woods and into the open shoreline, Kylabet trailing on his heels. Both are barefaced other than the typical paint that the People of the Blood wear, so it is easy to see Kyla’s astonishment, and Axton’s anger.

“What is this?” Axton is trying to keep his tone level, as though he recognizes his fury is disproportionate to the moment, and is making an effort to tame it. Kyla’s eyes are narrow, brow furrowed; she studies us in a way that is uncomfortable. There is nothing that should be too unusual about us, other than our surprising closeness, but Teo’s nostrils flare in barely contained panic, and though he attempts to keep his breathing casual and calm, his chest is rising and falling in shallow, almost panting motions. Ellie’s bone is hot, trapped between our palms. “Such an unexpectedly…friendly…scene, Blood Rider.”

Teo nods, not looking away from my face; if eyes could ask for help, his would be begging. Lorcan whispers a suggestion against my back, and I smile softly at Teo, before pulling my hand from his, Ellie still in my grip.

“I’m being taught a skill, BloodLetter,” I say, purposefully keeping my tone light, unbothered. There is nothing suspicious in this moment I repeat to myself. “But being made fun of, despite my many admirable endeavors.”

“A skill?” Mistrust drips from his words like rain from the trees, and he strides towards us.

“Of sorts,” I reply, reaching into my pocket and pulling a few small stones from it while leaving Ellie behind, hidden. “Teo says a pastime. But it seems to require more effort than that.”

“You’re wasting time on skipping stones?” Axton directs to Teo, voice hard with judgment, and Teo bows under the weight, casting his eyes toward the ground.

“Is joy ever a waste?” I ask softly, remembering the words that were said to me by a kind woman who laughed so hard she cried. It seems an innocuous thing, but all three look at me sharply before Kyla replies slowly, “What an odd saying, Binder. Is it something from your people?”

There’s a sort of prompt in her voice I don’t completely understand, but accept, so I’m careful in my response, vague memories of Axton talking about ‘tasting truth’ shaping my answer. “It is something someone very dear to me used to say.”

Nodding tightly, she turns to her brother, lips pressed together. “BloodLetter? Our meeting?” she asks, but he doesn’t move away.

“And something in this moment made you think of it?” He is staring at me, face disturbingly blank; I wonder how much they heard before coming from the copse.

“Simple candles light fires, BloodLetter. I am curiously happy at the moment, despite everything. And when I’m happy, I tend to think of those who contributed to it.”

“Hmmm. My Blood Rider contributes to this…happiness?” The question is curt, somehow dangerous, and demands honesty.

“He does, though he laughs at me.”

“Show me,” he commands.

Startled, I tilt my head at him, completely baffled. “Show you?”

“Your stones. How you skip them.” It’s not a request; he is looking for something, and it makes me nervous, but I nod.

“Alright, BloodLetter. Prepare to be impressed,” I say, my voice firm and earnest, and his brow wrinkles in confusion.

“I can’t tell if you’re serious, SoulBinder. Why in the world would I ever be impressed by a child’s game?”

“BoneKeeper,” I reply, attempting and failing to keep frustration from coloring my words. “And you asked for a demonstration.”

“And you are nothing if not accommodating,” Kyla interjects dryly.

“Just so,” I reply somberly. Then, picking a promising rock from the bunch in my hands, do my best to cast it across as Teo instructed, rather than down. It skips once, twice, and then tumbles towards a third before sinking, and I don’t bother to hide the small flash of satisfaction on my face. “Ha! Three times! You see? I am entirely undeserving of your Rider’s censure of my abilities.”

“Three is a matter of pride?” He sounds so dismissive, which somehow, as always, sparks my temper.

“Small victories add up over time, I suppose.”

Nodding, he walks over to me, Kylabet just behind him. “Shall I instruct you on how it’s done, SoulBinder?” He towers over me, too close to be casual — a purposeful show of strength or power, and I try not to let myself be intimidated. “My Blood Rider may have given you ideas on the way things work which aren’t accurate. And it’s always best to follow the rules, even in things as seemingly inconsequential as skipping stones.” Face dark, he stares down at me, and says softly, almost threateningly, “I’ll choose from the ones you’ve already picked. Empty your pockets as well, hmm? So I know you’re not keeping the best of the bunch from me.”

I don’t think he expects me to do so so willingly, but I shrug, and pull the entire lot out. Teo is practically vibrating behind me, his attempts to disguise his near-panic doing more harm than anything else. There’s no reason for him to be so edgy in the moment, and Axton knows that, eyes flicking between me and his Rider. Kyla is silent behind her brother, hand resting on her sword, leaning forward slightly, as if at the ready for confrontation. The air, which only moments before had been so serene and soft, is now tense and sparking with uncomfortable energy.

“Take your choice, BloodLetter.” I offer, shaking the rocks in my hands before him. Ellie’s bone is almost indistinguishable from the rest — I’m overwhelmingly grateful that Teo didn’t choose a vertebrae or something similar, where the marrow is exposed and can’t be disguised in a pile of stones.

“Most of these are useless,” the BloodLetter grunts, poking discontentedly at my hand, and I frown up at him.

“Then choose your own if you find my selection so lacking,” I snap back, and he raises a sardonic brow at my tone, still staring into my open palm.

“Touchy, touchy, Binder. Are your feelings hurt?” A moment later, he freezes, then slowly, slowly raises his eyes to Teo. The muscles on his jaw tense from his clenched teeth, his full lips curled in something like disgust or disappointment. When Axton finally speaks, it’s almost a snake’s hiss of sound. Without looking away with Teo, the BloodLetter very purposefully picks a misshapen rock from my hand and shows it to me. “You shouldn’t let your feelings get involved in things like this. But don’t worry, Binder. I’ll fix the situation. Teo clearly didn’t explain what makes a good skipping stone. First, they should be flat.” The BloodLetter tosses it into the lake with a careless motion, then picks up another. “Second, not too large.” The stone follows the first, and Teo’s breath is now stuttering, though his face is unchanged. Kyla’s eyes dart from Teo to my hand to her brother; she opens her mouth slightly, as though she is going to speak, but then presses her lips together, her chin jutting forward. “Third,” Axton continues, “not too roughly shaped.” Here, he grabs Ellie’s bone, and still staring at Teo, throws it into the water. Teo makes a strange, swallowed, almost-sound, just a brief exclamation in the back of his mouth that disappears as soon as it starts.

I watch where she sinks beneath the surface, watch the ripples spread and fade, then turn to Teo, smiling reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Rider. I trust your instruction still. As you trust my abilities.” A pause. “To follow them.” He looks at me, confused, then nods, shoulders relaxing, and forces an answering grin.

“It’s alright, Binder. The BloodLetter has always been better at games than me, from skipping stones to shooting bows. I rarely beat him when I was a child, and now, as an adult, never. He’s willing to sacrifice pieces and make plays that I am not. He’ll probably skip the silly thing fifteen times if he gets it to skip once.”

Shrugging, I reach out a hand and rest it gently on his shoulder. “What we are willing to give away says more about us than the things we are willing to keep, sometimes.” Glancing back at Axton, I throw the rest of my handful of stones into the water all at once, smiling faintly at the raindrop sounds they make when hitting one after the other. Then, raising a dubious brow at the BloodLetter, wave a hand at the lake. “Show me, then, if you’re so perfect.”

He’s been knocked off-balance somehow, something about our interaction, my lack of response against Teo’s more emotional one confusing him. Grabbing a flat, oily colored piece from the shore, he turns to the lake without a word and sends the rock jumping across the mirror-surface. Twelve times it hops, ripples upon ripples ruffling out from the brief moments it hits the surface. It goes so far that the mist covers it just as it finally sinks beneath the surface. Axton makes a small, almost child-like sound of delight before catching himself.

“That is how you play, Binder. With unwavering purpose. If I had hesitated, doubted myself, I would have pulled back at the last moment and it would have sunk. Even in something as small as this, it’s important to know oneself.”

“Isn’t it fortunate then, BloodLetter, that I know exactly who I am,” I reply flatly.

He hums a low sound deep in his throat, some hint of savageness and anger swirling in its music, and studies me carefully. “You believe you do, Binder. You certainly believe you do. Kyla!” The sudden, snapped command has us all straightening; though she steps forward immediately, her hand doesn’t drop from the hilt at her waist. “Since the Binder here and my Rider have formed such a bond, perhaps she doesn’t need her bone eyes anymore. She’d need them removed before the boundaries of the Crimson Walls in any case; this will give them a chance to practice. My Rider seems unaccountably interested in her survival, so it shouldn’t be an issue.” Mouth twisting into a mirthless grin, he jerks his head towards Teo. “Perhaps you can be her eyes and ears,” he commands his Rider, a strange emphasis in his words that passes me by, but it strikes Teo like a punch, his face draining of color.

“Whatever you direct, BloodLetter,” Teo replies cautiously. “I’m at your disposal entirely.”

“Are you.” There’s no question in the statement, but Teo answers anyway.

“As much as I’m able.”

Axton ignores his response, turning to Kyla. “The bracelets? And, as a courtesy, her blade as well. For safekeeping, of course. We should have taken it before, come to think of it.” There’s a censure in his tone, which she acknowledges with a brief inclination of her head before approaching me.

“Binder, your things.” There is no apology flavoring the demand; Kylabet obviously doesn’t disagree with her brother on this, or, if she does, perhaps she’s simply wise enough to hide it.

Sighing heavily to cover my worry, I start untying my vertebracelets. I haven’t removed them since I’ve been with the People of the Blood, so when I try to take them off, they almost peel away from me, the scars of smooth skin they leave behind nearly shimmering in the morning sun. Kyla stares down at them, at the way the bones pull from my forearms, at the grooves that whisper my secrets to her, telling the tale of how long they’ve been a part of me. Questions fill her mouth but she swallows them back, simply holding out a small leather bag for me to drop my bracelets in.

“The earrings,” she prompts quietly once my bracers are off. “And the hair…I don’t know what you call them.” It takes several minutes to divest myself of the sesamoids curving on my ears, to untangle the knuckles and carpals from my braids. When I’m done, my hair is wild around my head, loose and unbound, the rising morning wind twisting and knotting it. Axton is watching us with a strange, almost hungry expression from the far side of the small clearing just on the edge of the trees.

“Is that all of it?” she asks, and I nod; I’m not sure if he can taste deception in actions or if it’s only words, so it seems safest to not speak.

“Is it?” he calls, and I nod again. “A verbal answer, Binder.”

Ah, I think, and bite out,“Yes!”, trying to be firm. His face twists, and he spits to the side.

“Lies.”

Kyla looks back at him, then turns to me again, considering, before her expression clears. “Your blade,” she demands.

“I—” Almost panicked trepidation consumes me. I may not like the Guiding Knife, the way it absorbs my blood, the way it is curiously Silent and yet not…to be without it….

“Your blade.” Kyla interrupts my thoughts, distracting me from the feeling of coming dread that creeps along the hairs on my skin like spider’s legs. Every part of me is shivering with a phantom fear, vague and nebulous, but insistent and unrelenting. Seeing my clear reluctance, she drops her voice, almost mouths her next words. “It’s either going to me or to him, and I have given you a blood oath.”

“Kylabet?” Axton is impatient, and his terseness becomes hers as she shakes the bag in front of me.

“Now, Binder. There is no choice for you here.”

“I wouldn’t let the blade cut you, Flank Commander,” I can’t help but caution, pulling up my tunic and wrapping my fingers around its exposed hilt. Her eyes flare wide in surprise and alarm before she narrows them, cocking her head.

“Is that a threat?” she asks quietly, and I shake my head immediately.

“No. It’s a warning.” The knife fights against being loosed from my belt, dragging along my skin, cutting a deep line which instantly wells with blood, covering the exposed edge.

“A warning you should take for yourself, apparently.”

I sigh. “As you said, Commander, there is no choice for me here.” Yanking the blade firmly from me, I try to hide the tremor in my hands when it pulses almost angrily in my fingers, the way the bones of its handle bite into my skin, sticking like hooked needles. I have to grab the jagged blade to tear it from me; my hands are a bloody mess by the time I drop it into her waiting sack.

Axton snorts derisively, shaking his head. “Perhaps we should have left you your rough little dagger. You’re so incompetent with it, it does you more harm than good. Kyla? Come.” Turning, he disappears into the darkness of the trees. Kylabet doesn’t follow him immediately, despite his clear demand, just stands and studies my shaking, dripping hands.

When she finally speaks, she is, if not fearful, at least apprehensive, and it gives me some hope that she’ll take my words to heart. “I will keep it as safe as I am able, Binder. I cannot say the same for you. Promises made are not always promises kept, and if Axton commands me, I would have to go against any oath, blood-bound or not. I suspect that you have made choices which have changed your path, and thus mine. But perhaps the…lesson in stones…is enough for you. For both of you,” she adds, now directing her words to Teo, who is curiously silent behind me. His emptiness ignites something in her to action; dropping all pretense of being uninvolved, she steps forward, pushing past me, and takes his hands.

“I know, my friend, I know you have lost something irreplaceable — we both have.” Voice vibrating with barely suppressed emotion, she glances at me, then back at his blank face. “But there are fields we cannot thresh, crops we cannot grow. He will never forgive you if you have done…if what he thinks you have done…” She reaches a hand up to rest on his cheek; he does not respond. Her voice is low, so quiet it is barely sound. “Teo. Please. You are breathing. You are moving. Time will heal this loss, though it seems insurmountable. I had no true family but you and Ellie, and now just you. I need you here. She is gone. You need to let her be gone. Grieve, seek comfort in safe meadows, take time to ease your heart. I am on your side, as much as I’m able to be. But there are things that cannot be condoned, even here, far from the Elders’ eyes. One of these choices alone would be a death sentence, and you…you seem to be chasing down nails for your coffin, rather than avoiding the open grave.”

Teo reaches up and removes her hand from his face. Even though he is gentle about it, I can tell it hurts her. She folds back into herself, her face settling into a well-worn masque. “You can’t understand, Bet. You will never understand. There are things more important to me than duty; you have too much of your brother in you to fully know the depths to which the soul descends when all light is snuffed and there is only darkness left.”

“I loved her as well, Teo. She was a sister to me.”

He stares at her, no emotion lighting his expression, and lifts a single shoulder. “You did. In your way you did. But we all have hard truths we must face. If it came to it, in the moment, you would raise your sword for Axton rather than your shield for Ellie. And that is the difference between us. I don’t blame you for it, don’t hold it against you. You were a good friend to her in the ways you were able to be. But no, you don’t understand me. Not anymore. If you ever did. Because thinking that time will heal this?” He shakes his head, unable to continue.

“And this one?” She turns her head to glare at me, but I have no part in this, and keep silent. “This one does?”

“I don’t know, Bet. But she did more for us, and with less reason. She gave us a gift of time that I’ll never be able to pay back, though I can’t fathom why. And she knows loss, knows it well enough that it is as natural to her as breathing.” Kylabet is desperately trying to maintain her composure, but is obviously close to breaking, the strain of the last week or more wearing on her.

“I know loss, Teo.” Anger sharpens her tone, truth heavy in every syllable, and he bends his head in acknowledgement.

“You do, Bet. I’m sorry. You do. I don’t mean to disparage you. Just not the sort that rips you from your tethers, that takes you from your very home and casts you out.” Something flickers in his expression, a sort of thoughtfulness that is almost scary in its lightning quick flash. Kyla and I both see it, but it sparks hope in her, rather than fear.

“You are still there, Teo. And I will prove to you that I am not duty above all else.”

“Bet…” he begins slowly, and she looks up at him eagerly, hearing a door opening in his words. “If you…if you are my friend, truly, then do not begrudge me where I may find solace in the coming months. Even if it is in a place you would not approve.” Two sets of eyes dart towards me in unison, then back to each other.

“Teo…”

“I will be careful. I give you my word. If the offer is even taken. But give me yours in return that you will accept it, without reserve.”

She shakes her head, and sighs. “I would never betray you. That is the most I am willing to give. The choices you make —”

“Are mine, and mine alone. And if any were to go against me, I want you to hear me now, If any were to go against what I feel I need to do, I would not let them stand in my way. Do you understand?”

Kylabet nods slowly, then glances behind her nervously. “I need to leave before he comes back, but Teo, we will finish this conversation later. Without listening ears.” Turning to me, face threatening as a stormcloud, she lifts her blade and places it gently over my heart. It is less a threat than a caution. “Even a whisper of this conversation and I will cut out your tongue, Binder.”

“In most instances, Commander, I think you will find me mute as well as blind.”

She exhales heavily, but doesn’t reply, and starts to walk away. After a few steps, though, she pauses almost reluctantly, then calls out over her shoulder, “And Teo. Don’t come back to camp at all wet. He will see it and know. Any stones lost beneath the surface must stay where they are. However pretty or precious they may be to us.” Though regret and sorrow choke her words, there is no room in her tone for argument. “You have no time to linger, in any case. He will be looking for your footsteps in the shadows of mine.” She waits a heartbeat for a response, but when none comes, her shoulders curl forward, and she trudges away.

The moment she is gone, Teo lurches toward the lake, where small, white-capped waves have started rolling toward the shore, the morning wind now blowing steadily. Throwing out my hands just in time, I grab the back of his tunic and yank him hard enough to pull him off his feet, though the moment he connects with the ground he is up again. “I have to...Ellie…” His voice is a death rattle, a moan from beyond the veil; I have to throw my arms around him to force him to be still.

“Stop! Stop, Teo!” I plead, and it’s only by the grace of the Gods that he stills for the briefest of moments. “I can get her.”

Little Keeper? For the first time in my life that I can remember, I am reluctant to hear Lorcan. He can tell, somehow he can tell, and worry suffuses him so intensely I can feel it drip out of his bones, down my back, along my spine.

“What do you mean?” Teo asks, struggling against me again. “It would be just as bad if you went back to the camp wet, Wren. It is a death sentence for either of us. At least I want to be gone. Put me with Ellie if you can.”

“Stop!” I say again. “Just trust me. She’ll come to me if I call her. Just stop! Give me a chance.”

It is enough to calm him, though his chest still heaves and his eyes are wild. I let him go cautiously, making sure he is still and unmoving before walking to the edge of the shoreline, carefully keeping my feet from the water. Crouching down, I put a hand beneath the cool surface, and call out to Ellie’s bone.

Come, Ellie. Come here to me.

It only takes a moment, maybe two, before I feel her respond, her bone tumbling towards me, then I catch her and pull her from the water, drying her on the edge of my tunic. She is confused, but not upset, just looking for Teo from the second she emerges from beneath the waves.

Lorcan is tense on my skin.

Someday, he says slowly, someday perhaps you will trust me with all of your secrets, Little Keeper. He’s almost disappointed, or hurt, and his pain becomes my own before I am even aware of it.

Lorcan…

I won’t take what you’re not willing to give, BoneKeeper. You’ve had enough of that in your life. It keeps life interesting, I suppose. These little surprises.

But he doesn’t feel right, and I’m trying to think of how to explain it to him, how sometimes I’m not even sure of what I can do until the moment it happens, when Ellie is grabbed from my hand.

“Loll...” Teo breathes against her surface in such relief it is painful, pressing the rough bone to his cheek, eyes closed. We are silent for a heartbeat, maybe two, when his lids open and his gaze lands unerringly on mine. “What would have happened to her?” he asks. “Had you not been here. Had I been unable to find her. What would have happened?” There is something eerie in his tone, an echo I don’t know how to identify, and for the first time since I met him, I am scared of Teo. Rocking back on my heels, I start to take a step back, but he holds up his hand to stop me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Wren. I just…what would have happened? Please.”

“She was asleep in her bone, Teo. I think, though I can’t promise, that she just would have remained asleep.”

“Asleep and alone, lost forever beneath the waves. Trapped.” He stares down at her, cradled protectively in the curve of his palm.

“We have her though. She is safe.”

“For now. With you as her Keeper and her voice.” He is hollow, hollow, hollow, winds whipping through a mountain cavern, and the fear I had of him from moments before turns to fear for him.

“It is more than most have. And she is happy to be near you.”

“Is she.” It’s not a question, and demands no answer. “It’s time to return to camp, Wren. There is nothing good that will happen to either of us if they have to send someone after us.” He pauses, staring out over the water, then glances back at his hand before tucking Ellie against his chest. “If I don’t get the chance to later, I want to thank you, Keeper, for saving her. Both times. I know I don’t seem grateful at the moment, but please know that I am. You risked much for us while Ellie was alive, and then more to bind her soul to bone. I — I do appreciate you, more than you know. It’s just…” His voice drifts off, smoke on the breeze, then he shakes his head and tries to smile at me, more a baring of teeth than anything else. Taking my hand, he tucks it into the crook of his elbow, and urges me forward. “Come along, Wren. A poor pair of eyes I’d be if I let you stumble through the woods.” Glancing down at me, gaze thoughtful and considering thinking I can’t see him anymore without my bones, he nods once, as though coming to some sort of decision. “I am indebted to you, BoneKeeper,” he says somberly. “And I always repay my debts.”

Squeezing my hand gently, he leads me down the rough path into the trees, away from the water and the brief moment of peace we found before the day broke. Murmuring soft guidance, he warns of roots and tripping hazards, helping me over the rough ground with nothing but gentleness and patience. So there is no reason for the chill that suddenly surges forth in my heart, the frost of fear filling my lungs.

Nothing other than the fervent promise of a debt repaid, and the empty brown eyes of my only friend in this camp.

TERRIBLE CHOICES

WREN

“Iwant you to know how sorry I am to force this choice upon you, Wren. And how, I hope in my deepest heart, that the gift I am trying to give you to thank you for your kindness towards me works in the way I desperately want it to.”

The room is blurry around me, and my head is pounding a strange, syncopated rhythm, vision pulsing in and out with my heartbeat.

“Oh, Wren.” His voice is so sad, so apologetic as he approaches me and sits down on his heels in front of me. “I didn’t think you’d inhale that deeply. Here, have some water.”

He holds up a cup to my mouth; despite my better judgment, I drink, the cool, crisp taste still a marvel to me, even after all this time. It helps a little, and I’m finally able to focus on his face.

“Teo?” The aching betrayal is clear in my tone, and he sighs in response, then wipes a warm cloth over my face before retreating to the far corner of the room. My body is still numb, but I can move my head and neck, and turn to take in my surroundings. I’m at one point of a very strange triangle, the other two being made up of a small table with a tiny vial on it, and Teo, sitting on a thick mat on the floor. Nothing about any of this makes sense. “What…what is happening?”

He tilts his head, considering what he’s going to say, then sighs. “I’ve rehearsed this a hundred times, but now that we’re in the moment, nothing seems like enough. If you’ll just listen, give me a chance to explain…” He waits for permission, but I’m too confused to respond. “Ah. Well. I…I am tired.” And I can see the truth of his words on his face. There are bruises beneath his eyes, deep lines carved between his brows. “I’ve been tired forever, because of a promise I made to not give up, to find a solution. Then, for a heartbeat, suddenly there you were, like an answered prayer before me and Ellie, and…Wren. I –” He stands and starts pacing, before coming to sink in front of me again, taking my hands in his, staring down at our fingers. “To be given a chance, and then have her taken…it is beyond all bearing.”

I don’t know what to say, just sit, staring at him blankly, my head feeling like it’s encased in sand and stone. I’m not bound in any way, but my body is leaden, even small movements feeling impossibly difficult.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, not exactly. But maybe at the end of this…”

“What have you done to me?” Fear coats my tongue, thick and bitter. “I thought..I thought we were friends…” The words are childlike, plaintive, and I feel desperately stupid for saying them, but it’s true. I thought we were friends.

“We were. We were when I was still here.” Shivers of ice dance down my spine. Meeting my eyes, he takes a deep breath, before continuing, tone strangely formal now, a strange look on his face. “Before we go on, Keeper, I need to tell you something. I need you to understand. I have not felt at home in this body since Ellie died. I felt my soul detach when she passed, and it has been untethered but trapped since that point. I am letting you know because…it is a house for me, but not a home. Do you hear what I’m saying? I hold no attachment to this…casing…for my soul. Perhaps — perhaps another would. And I would have no objection.” He puts strange emphasis on the words. “Because I do not feel as though it is mine, anyway.”

“You’re scaring me, Teo.”

He sighs. “And more before we’re done. But at least I know you’re listening. And I hope you remember when the time comes.” Rocking back on his heels, he looks back at our hands, face softening in a memory. “Do you know Kylabet and I have been friends since we were children?” His voice is studiously casual, an abrupt change from moments before; we could be discussing the weather. “She’s a deep well, BoneKeeper. An unexpectedly deep well. And she knows many, many things. When she was little, and I think even now, though we’ve grown apart in some ways, she would sit at her oldest grandmother’s knee and would listen to stories that can’t be written down.” His eyes dart my way, their intent gaze belying his careless tone. “What a curious thing, to live in a world where even whispered stories are sometimes enough to send you to the gallows. There was some small room for mistakes as children; that space does not exist for adults. So it has been years since I’ve heard any of the tales she used to tell me.”

This is too much, too quickly; I’m trying desperately to follow the stone skipping across the water.

“You should ask her, though. Sometime when even butterflies aren’t near enough to have the question drift to their wings. Nowhere inside the Crimson City.” A rush of air escapes his lungs in a tight exhalation before he forces his breathing back to normal. “Leave, if you can, before you reach its walls, Wren.” His fingers tighten around mine, spasming. “But not before you speak to Kylabet. She is…she is a safe friend. One that is hard to make, but also hard to lose.”

A distant clanging startles him to his feet, and he silently glides to the tent door before turning back to me, full lips pressed into a thin line. “We’re running out of time.” Teo is suddenly short, almost brusque. “How many souls can fit into a single bone, Keeper?” He asks as though he already knows the answer.

“Just one, Teo.” My heart is skipping beats, shuddering in my chest, and I’m filled with a wild sort of terror I don’t understand.

“Are you certain?”

“As much as I can be.”

“Keeper—” He is back before me, kneeling, and pulls the piece of Ellie’s bone from the pouch around his neck. Even as close as he is, though, I can barely hear what he says next. “My soul isn’t whole. It is a fragment. Just a piece, and Ellie is the other half of it. She is in a half-life, as am I. You — you could put us together. If it only fits one soul, that’s fine. We’re one soul split.”

“It doesn’t work the way you think, Teo.” Suddenly I understand, and feel such suffocating pity for him that it leaves no room for anger. “I don’t know how to say it. There is room enough for the soul that belongs to the bones. No more.”

“Do you not think Ellie will make room for me?” He smiles gently, almost amused by my answer, looking down at the bone in his hand, thumb stroking it lovingly.

“I…I am sure she would…” I reply haltingly. “But…Teo. It…to put a soul into bone that isn’t its own—” I bite my tongue, the pain sharpening my muddied head. Careful, Wren. Careful! I caution to myself. To tell him would be to confirm all the fears they’ve whispered about our people, about me, about BoneKeepers and SoulBinders, revealing secrets that are not mine alone, but those of my people as well. To tell him would be a death sentence.

“What happens, Wren?” His voice is low, hesitant. “You know. I can see you know. What happens?”

I’m scared for him, for what he’s considering. For what he thinks will happen, because he does not know the whole of the story. Biting my lip hard to force back tears, I shake my head, voice thick with sadness. “They — it’s called Exile, where I am from. And it is sentencing a soul to unceasing, never-ending pain. Not like you could ever imagine, Teo. Agony, and it echoes through all time. It doesn’t fade, doesn’t ebb or flow. It simply is. To bind a soul to bone that isn’t its own — it is unrelenting torture. And I won’t do it. Especially not to you. You understand? Or to Ellie. Who knows how it would affect her?” Reaching out my hands as much as I can, I place them on top of Teo’s in as much sympathy as I’m able to give. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry, Teo. But I can’t. Isn’t it enough that you have her here?”

He stares down at our fingers and at her bone, and, after a long pause, shakes his head. “It will never be enough, Wren. Her words through your mouth are cold comfort. I’m grateful to you — of course I’m grateful to you, could never repay you for saving her until I could join her. But…” Swallowing hard, he rubs a hand across his eyes. “I thought maybe, if you guided my soul to hers, that she would anchor me in her bone, help keep me there with her. And we would have some peace together. Which is a gift most people never feel.” His lips quirk into a sad, almost smile. “She’ll make room for me, Keeper. And maybe it will be different for us because she will welcome me, her bone will welcome me.”

“Teo. You can’t…I can’t take your soul from you to place in bone. And I can’t condemn you to Exile. You can’t ask that of me.”

“You are leaving tomorrow, Wren.” It is a statement of fact, not a question. Pins and needles running like tongues of fire along my waking skin; he narrows his eyes thoughtfully watching the way my body jerks as the numbness fades, and exhales deeply. “I won’t have another chance. I don’t want to be here anymore, Binder!” Frustration, but also pleading, is thick in his throat. “I haven’t wanted to be here since Ellie left. I carry her, but what good does it do either of us? I can’t hear her, she can’t speak to me…it does nothing. Nothing. Just leaves us on two sides of the door with no way to open it between us.” Surging to his feet in sudden motion, he turns his back on me and walks to the mat on the floor across the room. My eyes follow him helplessly.

“I’m sorry, Teo. Truly I am. I don’t know what to do. My hands are tied. I can only promise that, when your time comes, I will be beside you if I am able, and will put your bones to rest by hers?”

“There is no surety that you’ll be by me when I pass, even if I am able to stay with you in the Crimson City. Death could take me silently in the night, and I would have missed my chance. Forever. There is only one way that is a promise.”

“What you want me to do — there is no guarantee, Teo. You can’t ask me to do that. To risk you, and Ellie.” Swallowing convulsively, I shiver. “You’re asking me to risk more than myself. If your people found out…oh Gods. And the BloodLetter took my Guiding Knife. I have no Silent Bone to keep you, anyway. Only Lorcan –” My eyes flare wide in panic, sudden realization hitting me and sending a lightning bolt of fear through me. Reaching up, I fumble at my neck, which is completely bare. “Teo!” Sheer terror floods me when I look back at him, and see how he is sitting now, so calmly, Ellie’s bone fragment in one hand, a hammer and my bone necklace in the other. “Teo!”

“I’m not asking you, Wren.” His voice is unbearably gentle. “I am not giving you a choice.” Putting Lorcan’s bones on the floor in front of him, he motions to a small pile of jewel-red berries beside him, which I am only now noticing for the first time. “Sunseed. It grows in the wild here. Our children are taught not to touch it from birth. Sunseed, Moonseed all in a row. Eat of the fire and away you will go. Drink down the moon and home you’ll return, moonseed for dreaming, but fire will burn.”

“What —”

He points at the tiny table with the small white vial on it. “That is moonseed, pressed to juice. If you pour it in my mouth quickly enough after I eat the fireseed, it will nullify the poison. But Wren,” his voice darkens to a warning, “if you try to put me back, I will only keep doing this, over and over and over, until you are forced to accept it.” My eyes flicker frantically between him and Lorcan’s bones, piled awkwardly on the cold stone floor.

“What are you doing, Teo?” I can barely breathe. A hammer and bone. A hammer and bone.

Teo shrugs, lips pressed together, clearly regretful. “I had to have a guarantee of some sort. I’m not a bad man. But I am desperate. You…you won’t have much time, I think. For what is to happen. You will have to move quickly. Very, very quickly if this is to work.”

Pushing myself to my feet, I stagger forward a step before collapsing, hands outstretched. Begging, I try to drag myself to my necklace. “I don’t understand. But…give me Lorcan. Please. Gods. Give me Lorcan!”

“I’m trying to, Wren,” he replies, lips twisting into a secret smile, eyes shining. “Goodbye, my friend. Thank you. And good luck.” With that, he lifts the hammer, smashing the necklace of bones in front of him over and over and over until it is nothing but dust and needle-thin shards too small to ever hold a soul. A piercing wail bursts from my throat, raw and jagged, and I claw mindlessly at my face, tearing my hair in agonizing helplessness. It’s bloody and vicious, the sound of an animal caught in the steel jaws of a trap, the sharp teeth biting through flesh and snapping bone, a wild, crazed sound of pain, pain, pain.

Lorcan’s soul hovers above the wreckage, pale and silent.

There is no place I can Guide him.

There is no way for me to save him.

So he does not ask, somehow swallowing his song — a thing I didn’t know possible. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to add to my suffering.

Teo stares down at the powder before him and nods once. He inhales deeply, then glances at me, face soft and affectionate, his lips tilted up in a sweet smile, so incongruous with the chaos inside me that I feel like I have lost my mind, that I am watching life through a mirror, or from the other side of the veil. Everything freezes in the brief, bright moment — Lorcan’s soul a paused shiver, Teo’s face still the friend I knew, and me, trapped on bloody knees wondering if I have it all wrong, if maybe I missed something. If I am given enough space in this stolen second, maybe, maybe I can figure a way out of this.

But time surges ahead on his exhale. Shrugging almost carelessly, Teo reaches down, grabs the entire pile of fireseeds, and shoves them into his mouth. His body stiffens immediately in one sudden, jerking motion, his eyes flaring wide, whites flashing before they roll back in his head. It is as though he’s been struck by lightning — he is electrified, every hair on end, then, without warning, he collapses, completely still, on the thick mat.

The room is grave silent for what feels like a millennia but is only the space of a breath, before his soul bursts from his body in bright, chaotic song. Quickly quickly Teo sings, QUICKLY! and feeling suddenly surges through my petrified body. Flinging myself toward the small table, I pull my body forward, scraping skin along the rough floor, leaving a trail of crimson behind me. My fingers fumble frantically at the tiny vial on the table, hands shaking so hard I almost drop it twice before finally finding purchase. Crawling on shaking elbows, I make my way to where Teo’s body lies, vibrating but empty, on the mat.

Faster, faster! You must go faster! His soul commands. Shuddering with the effort, I pour the moonseed into his mouth.

His body relaxes.

But Teo’s soul does not return to it as it should.

Any other soul I have ever seen thrown from its body, however briefly, is forcibly pulled back if its body is still able to hold it.

Any hint of life keeps it tethered there.

Teo’s…is not.

Instead, in front of me, two souls hover unbound.

Making a quick decision, I reach for Teo, fumbling as he fights me unexpectedly, slipping from my grasping hands over and over until I am finally able to grab him in a bruising grip, his soul flickering white where my fingers press into him. Breathing hard, tears pouring down my face, I try desperately to force him to obey. Teo to his body, Lorcan to bone, then you will figure out the rest, I recite over and over in my head, looking frantically around for anywhere, anywhere I can bind Lorcan. Where? WHERE?

But there is nothing. The room is studiously empty; it is only me, two souls, a body, a fragment of bone, and the dust of my heart beaten into an unassuming pile on the floor.

Lorcan is fading quickly, a glint of candlelight now instead of a torch in the night. As he dims, he finally sings to me, almost an echo of a sound. I can feel his sorrow ringing through my bones when he whispers Goodbye, Wren. I am sorry I could not stay. I would not have left you. I would never have left.

Teo is still vibrating in my hands; I frantically look between his soul, and Lorcan’s, and Ellie’s bone, which is calling now, almost as loud as Teo’s. In sheer, blind panic, I grab Lorcan in one hand, barely keeping control of Teo in the other, and turn to Ellie’s bone.

Make room, make room! I command with every ounce of power within me, but she refuses.

I will not take him, Keeper. Even for you.

Lorcan flickers, is so pale his soul is the butter yellow of the sun in our village. The pale wheat of our crops. The cold light of a winter dawn.

Goodbye, goodbye.

The world closes in around me, cavernous and dark, every moment a blink, every moment an eternity.

Make room or I will rip you from your bone and silence you forever. It’s not an idle threat — I’m already tearing at her soul, peeling her away from her binding. I am a rabid wolf, foaming at the mouth, ready to pull the world apart to find a place for Lorcan to rest. He is almost gone, barely a shadow at all.

It is only for Teo, Binder! There is only room for Teo.

Screaming, head tilted back, neck cording, I curse the Gods. I curse the Earth and the Sun that have brought me to this moment, every Rending and Reaping, every Guiding, every storm-lost soul.

I bend.

I break.

And I shove Teo in beside Ellie, where they burst into song together, so loud and bright it pierces my marrow with sharp, jealous pain.

Lorcan is a breath in my hands, my fingers cradling him.

Binder! QUICKLY!

It is the last thing Teo is able to say before he and Ellie ignite in a bright white flare, the echo of their meeting so powerful it knocks me sideways into Teo’s empty body.

His empty body.

It has been only a few seconds. Not even a minute.

His empty body.

My knees are bloody.

Eerie calm settles on me like a shroud; I don’t waste a breath to consider the implications of what I’m about to do. There is Lorcan, and there is the rest of the world, and no space for nuances between. Reaching down with one hand, I rub my raw skin, getting my fingers as bloody as possible, then pass Lorcan’s soul to it, before bloodying my other.

In my dripping, crimson hands, his glowing soul strengthens, just for a moment, long enough that I am able to guide him to the bone in Teo’s waiting body. There is nothing to battle against me, and I am meticulous, filling every bit of marrow with Lorcan’s soul light, binding him as I have never bound another before, weaving him into spiderwebs of vein, sinking him into rivers of red. I guide him to bone, then, using my blood as ink, trace my sigils on his brow, his cheeks, his lips.

By blood and by bone I have bound you, Lorcan. Come back to me. Come back. What am I missing?

As quickly as the thought strikes me, I am moving, sifting through the bone dust to grab one of the tiny, razor sharp shards that the hammer did not completely destroy. It cuts my fingers as I pick it up, slicing a thin, neat line, but I don’t feel the pain. Turning back to the body, I flip his hands palm down, and on his exposed flesh, carve the symbols of the TriGoddess deep into the unresisting skin in matching patterns. Blood wells from the cuts in ruby lines along the curves of the three moons.

Finally, rocking back on my heels, I look down at him, checking and checking again to see that the guiding will hold. Everything looks right, everything is clean.

But he is not breathing.

I have blood.

I have flesh.

I have bone.

What more? What more?

Words surge forward in my mind, forcing my lips to whisper a quiet prayer I have not said or heard since I was a child, when my mother still held me against her in the night and gave me all of the love in her heart for as long as she was able. Placing both of my bloodied thumbs on his closed eyes and pressing gently, I murmur,

“Blessings of the Lady upon you.

The eyes of the Maiden who loves you.

The eyes of the Mother who birthed you.

The eyes of the Crone who guides you.

The passion of the Maiden for your heart,

The protection of the Mother for your soul,

The wisdom of the Crone for your mind.

Blessings of the Lady upon you,

From now until the end of time.”

There is a long pause,

painful,

unending,

soul-crushing.

Lorcan.

Please.

please

And then…

And then…

His chest heaves, a stuttering, shaking expansion, the first breath of a new child. Again, deeper and smoother, and again, until it is a natural movement. I can’t quiet my shaking hands, can’t stem the tears pouring like waterfalls down my cheeks. In a sudden, startling motion, his eyes fly open, wild and wandering until they catch on my face, confused and disoriented. I meet his gaze, can’t look away, so I watch as they change. Watch as the dark brown softens, brightens, and changes to a clear hazel, like watching daylight move over a forest floor, soft greens, rich browns, and flecked gold. These are not Teo’s eyes.

Three, four more breaths…inhale, exhale, inhale, and awareness floods him, clear and undeniable — sun breaking through the clouds.

For a brief moment, alarm and astonishment war on his face before he finally focuses on me with unerring precision, a hint of amused affection glinting in his eyes.

“Little Keeper…what have you done?”

Lorcan.

TO BE CONTINUED

in

The BloodLetter’s Sister

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elise Fry is a Midwestern-born Anglo and Hibernophile. She earned her undergrad degree in Irish Studies from NUIG, and her Graduate degree in Scottish Literature from St Andrews. Elise has always loved literature and will read almost any book about almost anything! She currently lives in Ohio with her husband, three amazing kiddos, crazy dog, and placid tortoise. She moves on a regular basis, and has been lucky enough to live all over the world, which is good, because she gets itchy feet staying in one place too long. Elise is a hot mess of chaos, because she loves creating things, but gets distracted easily, so is constantly surrounded by half finished projects. She works from home, and spends her free time drinking coffee, going to the beach, reading, and trucking kids around to various activities. All her info is on https://linktr.ee/elisefryauthor !

ALSO BY ELISE FRY

The Babylon Project Series (RH Contemporary Paranormal)

Rise of Kronos

https://books2read.com/u/3nx2kR

Gates of Tartarus

https://books2read.com/u/3L2yq7

Shores of the Lethe

https://books2read.com/u/4Arplq

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I once said, “This is the first book I’ve ever written entirely on my own”, and then immediately had to backtrack. Because, if I’m being entirely honest, I couldn’t have done it without the help and support of a truly amazing group of beta readers. I don’t think I can stress enough how vital this team has been to this entire process, but I can confidently say that without the late night messages back and forth and the relentless cheerleading, I would never have finished writing BoneKeeper. And while I have no idea how I got lucky enough to earn the generosity and time of the following people, I am eternally grateful for them. So to Jennifer Lynn Larson, Trina B, Melissa Talboy, Bri Rodgers, Melissa Hickman, Patti Guarnieri Pace, and Maria Floresguerra, from the absolute bottom of my heart, thank you all. I appreciate you beyond belief.

I would like to take a moment to give special recognition to the outstanding Colleen Kidder. When she volunteered to beta read for Kate and me years ago at the start of Babylon, I honestly had no idea how much I would come to depend on her, and how much I would value her as both a reader and a friend. She is truly the best of human beings, and, while I don’t deserve her unending support, I will (very selfishly) never turn it down. Colleen, you are a treasure. Thank you so much for everything. I hope you know how wonderful I think you are, and how grateful I am for your patience with my Random Capitalization Choices and, at times, overuse, perhaps, of commas. Don’t even get me started on my em dash choices.

I’m sure you all know this by now, but nothing ever happens without Kate.  Let me tell you a little something about my sister.  She’s.  Freaking.  Awesome.  And if anyone thinks I could have written this without her, you’d be wrong.  Her support, careful eyes, feedback, and phone calls have kept me going in a pretty rough time.  Every time I thought, “I may as well just stop and give up,” Kate has been there.  She may have to stretch across an ocean to provide comfort, but somehow she does it, and I’m forever grateful for her.  We didn’t choose to be sisters, but we definitely chose to be friends, and I’m very lucky she’s made space for her little sister her entire life.

Lastly, while I know I dedicate every book to him, I want to send a little note to my husband, Chris. This past year has been relentless in what it has thrown at us. Every time we thought we had space to breathe, another castle collapsed, and suddenly we were suffocating all over again. But I’d rather be trapped in this chaos with you than be free in open air without you. You are my every heartbeat. You are the light when I wake up, the safe place where I fall asleep. Every sunrise and sunset in my life has color because you’re with me. There’s no adventure, however small, I want to take without you. I love you to the edge of forever and beyond.

Finally, to those who picked up this book and took a chance on it, thank you for your support and the gift of your time. I hope you consider it well spent.

With love,

Elise