The Bonemender (20 page)

And through the long night the other question, the fear that gnawed at the edges of her heart though she refused to give it words, shadowed her dreams: What if Féolan should not return?

G
ABRIELLE
woke in the thin darkness before dawn. She sat, hugging her knees, the day yawning empty and anxious before her. Already it was obvious she was not going to be much good at waiting.

But the day was not as difficult as she had feared. Celani and Eleara came by in the early morning, and from Eleara’s spirited charades and the bundled clothing they both carried Gabrielle understood it was laundry day. She gathered up her own soiled clothes and followed them first to the bathhouse, where Celani showed her how to draw and set water to heating, and then to a place about a half-mile from the settlement where the stream quieted into a deep pool, edged with flat rocks. Here they soaped and rinsed their clothes in water so icy their hands went numb. If my father could see me now, scrubbing away like a washerwoman, thought Gabrielle, surprising herself with a thought untainted by the troubled grief of days past. She had not laid eyes on a servant since her arrival at Stonewater, though someone must cook the meals that appeared under the large pavilion.

Eleara lay flat on her stomach, watching for crayfish and trout, hissing with the cold as she plunged her arm in to the shoulder after a frog. By the time the clothes were hung out, the baths were ready. Eleara’s idea of a good wash included much splashing, spouting and laughter. And though Celani seemed
to be apologizing for her playfulness, it was just what Gabrielle needed. She left their company having learned the words for “cold,” “frog,” “bath” and “stop it,” at least she thought that’s what they meant, and feeling better about her ability to get along without a translator.

She didn’t need to, though. In the afternoon she made her way to the Healing Lodge, nervous but determined to make some kind of overture with Towàs. He greeted her pleasantly, having apparently decided she wasn’t much threat after all, but without language it was difficult to make headway. She was leafing through the books of healing lore he had shown her—she couldn’t, of course, read the words, but there were illustrations of herbs and treatments—when an Elvish woman, dark-haired and about five months’ pregnant, entered the Lodge. She greeted Gabrielle in fluent Krylaise: “I am Nehele. I am one of Féolan’s scouts.” She patted her swelling belly and smiled. “Off duty, for obvious reasons. I would be happy to act as your interpreter in the days to come.”

Nehele and Gabrielle liked each other on sight, and the afternoon passed quickly. Towàs was happy to share his knowledge of medicinal herbs and their uses, and Gabrielle found that with Nehele she was not shy to try out Elvish words and phrases. As night fell, Nehele invited Gabrielle to dine with her. “It is Danaïs’ last night with his family,” she said, “and my first night alone. I would be glad of the company.”

The two women talked late into the night, and Gabrielle realized how much she had missed the company and confidences of women. Nehele recounted her first scouting ventures into Human settlements and asked about the customs and sights that had puzzled her. Gabrielle had plenty of questions in return. Before
they were done Gabrielle had told, for the first time, how she had met Féolan and the story of her birth. Nehele shook her head, her dark eyes bright with wonder. “Someone must make a song about this,” she declared. “It is like a tale from long ago.”

First let him return alive, Gabrielle thought. As if by mutual consent, neither had raised the specter of war that evening.

“I’ll walk a ways with you toward your dwelling,” Nehele insisted, as Gabrielle made to leave. The night was soft and misty, smelling of spring, and Gabrielle thought again how far away the Greffaire invasion seemed in this sheltered place.

“Have you attended a birth before?” Nehele asked Gabrielle as they paced along the dark pathway.

“Yes, many times,” smiled Gabrielle. “I love catching babies.”

“Perhaps,” offered Nehele, “if you are here, you will be with me when my baby comes. I know Haloan can do it, but there’s something about having another woman that’s more comfortable, don’t you think?”

“Many women feel that way,” agreed Gabrielle. Still, she was deeply honored that Nehele would entrust such a thing to her on such short acquaintance. She began to feel that perhaps Stone-water could, in time, become her home.

T
RISTAN NARROWED HIS EYES
and scanned the horizon again, searching for the dark smudge of dust cloud or glint of reflected light that would announce the Greffaire offensive. Gods, he needed them to come before he went crazy with waiting. Why the Greffaires had not followed on the retreating Verdeau troops’ heels was anyone’s guess. Three days it had been now since that disastrous battle—time to rendezvous with the Maronnais reinforcements, choose the most favorable site to deploy the men
and fine-tune their defense strategy. That extra time had been a godsend, but now the Basin defense force was as great as it would ever be, and Tristan lusted for revenge.

He was much changed in spirit. The trademark grin had not brightened his face since they had tallied their losses the day after the retreat, and his eyes were flat and hard. Jerome’s death had been a blow. No one could say why the king had been so deep in the field, or why he had remained after the horns had blown. The seeming carelessness of it rankled, but Jerome had come as a warrior, and a warrior expects to risk his life. It was the loss of Gabrielle that nearly undid him. Through the long, uneasy nights, Tristan wrestled with questions that had no answers: How had she missed the retreat? Why had he not watched over her more carefully, protected her more closely? How would he explain her death to Solange? She should have been safely away with the other bonemenders. That his sister, extraordinary as she was, could be killed through some random accident or stroke of ill luck ate at his natural optimism like a cancer.

Just that afternoon, Fortin himself had lectured Tristan about the importance of control in battle and the dangers of rage. Tristan knew his men studied him uneasily when they thought he took no notice. But he was not looking for his own death in the coming battle. He was looking for an accounting.

Tristan remained on the ridge long after the relief sentries arrived. He watched the sky deepen to indigo, watched the moon rise and spill its light down the road that lay like a river heading north. When the stars had defined themselves into cold white brilliance, Tristan headed back to camp. He would eat and rest, but he would take no pleasure in it.

T
HE CLATTER OF HOOFBEATS
caught their attention before the door of the Healing Lodge was thrown open. One look at the travel-worn Elf who stood panting before them was enough to make Gabrielle’s stomach clench: an envoy, and the word he brought was not good.

He strode over to Towàs, who looked almost comically startled, and thrust a roll of parchment into his hand. Then he sprawled in a chair to catch his breath. Gabrielle fetched the envoy a drink of water, and then another, while Towàs read the note. His expression was first bewildered, then panicky. When the parchment drifted unnoticed from his hand, Nahele took it up. Scanning quickly, she translated for Gabrielle.

“It says Haloan has taken ill with a high fever. They have brought him to Silverdeep, the nearest settlement. They ask that Towàs come now to replace him as the
Gref Orisé
army is already south of them and they expect to engage within the day.”

The two women looked at Towàs. He was trying to rise to the occasion, but it was clear he felt ill-prepared for the summons. His voice was strained as he spoke to the messenger. Nahele murmured a translation in Gabrielle’s ear: “He says of course he will come, but that he has rarely even set a broken bone by himself. That he is still but an apprentice.” Towàs turned now to the two women, eyes almost pleading. “He is afraid of causing harm through lack of experience,” explained Nahele. “He asks your counsel.”

Gabrielle looked at the young apprentice and saw herself at seventeen. However willing, he could not fill the place of a seasoned healer. Her path was clear. “Tell Towàs I will go,” she said quietly. “I cannot treat the people here properly. I do not know them or these medicines well enough. But I do have battle experience. It only makes sense that he should stay and I should go.”
In less than an hour, she was mounted on Arda, ready to ride with the envoy. Thank the stars there was a horse here who would take a bridle, she thought, as she settled herself on nothing but a blanket. Towàs strapped a pack of extra supplies across Arda’s back. He touched palms with her, his eyes troubled.

“Nahele,” said Gabrielle, her gaze still on the apprentice. “Tell Towàs he must have no shame in this. It is as Haloan taught me: A healer has to think first what is best for the patients. It takes courage to do that.” Towàs nodded, offered a reluctant smile. Gabrielle leaned down from Arda to embrace Nahele. “Will you tell Celani and Eleara that I’ve gone?”

The messenger urged her on, and they left the little settlement at a canter. Gabrielle was surprised to find she was glad to be going. With no saddle, she just hoped she could keep her seat long enough to get there.

F
ÉOLAN HAD BEEN
dogging the
Gref Orisé
army since late morning. He had been placed at the head of the chain of advance scouts in the hope that he might overhear something of value. However, he had only been able to get within earshot a few times. Since the Elvish raid, the
Gref Orisé
had become more cautious travelers, and mounted spotters now eyed the forested margins of the road.

The Elves would have been gratified to learn just how jumpy those spotters were. The
Gref Orisé
soldiers had been badly shaken to find that their powerful army, and even their feared commander, could be so vulnerable. Worse, somehow, was the fact that they had no inkling who their attackers were. One dis-oriented, rattled soldier had ventured the opinion that they were beset by the vengeful ghosts of their dead foes, and the notion
had spread and taken root among the normally tough-minded
Gref Orisé
. Many in the army found the narrow road and thick woodlands of the Maronnais highlands brooding and oppressive and marched with hidden unease.

Féolan, trailing behind the long column of men, did not at first take the meaning of the sudden shouting and jostling ahead. Only when the unit heads started hustling their men into position and soldiers went scrambling for their armor did he realize that they had made contact with the Basin forces. Silently he worked his way back to the closest scout to pass on the news. It was time.

T
RISTAN
stood up in his stirrups to catch his bearings. Two hours into the battle, he still could not judge who had the advantage. With the Verdeau and the Maronnais troops combined, the Greffaires were only marginally greater in force. It would not be a quick victory, either way.

There. He had been searching for a way through the sea of frightened conscripts in order to engage with the real soldiers who would decide this battle. Tristan shouted to his men and pointed. They formed up and charged, mowing a path through the conscripts toward the first wedge of armored men. Closing in, they abandoned their horses. They had found in the last engagement that fighting full-armored soldiers on horseback was not much use, except for those few who could use a bow effectively while riding. Mostly, it got the horses killed. Tristan’s men worked in teams of three, as they had practiced: two to single out and strip a warrior, one to watch their backs. Fortin would be proud of me, Tristan thought with grim amusement. He fought carefully, with cold determination. He cared about his men too much to give way to the recklessness that goaded him.

They fought thus for an hour, making slow but definite headway, until Tristan found himself drawn against a sword blade as like unto his own as a twin. He checked his lunge and looked to
his foe—and the eyes that stared back at him peered from a helmet bearing the green stripe of Verdeau, a helmet whose familiar crest pulled the breath from his body in a hiss of rage. With narrow, dangerous eyes Tristan examined the man who had picked over the King of Verdeau’s carcass like a carrion crow: Jerome’s sword in his hand, Jerome’s helm on his head—and jingling on a string of silver and gold trinkets slung over the heavy armor, the copper earring his father had worn for as long as Tristan could remember.

With a howl of fury he fell upon the Greffaire. Tristan’s sword plunged under the collar of the helm and up, and the man fell back, spouting blood. In the red haze that descended over him there was no thought of self-control or strategy. There was only his sword, the lust to drive it deep into the enemy and the wrath that fed his strength.

Tristan plunged into the Greffaire ranks like a madman, and none could withstand him. His sword rose and fell, cutting a swath through living men as though through a field of grain. His own men struggled to stay with him, both alarmed and stirred by the wild offensive.

W
HEN HIS HEAD
finally cleared, it took Tristan only a moment to see that he had engineered his own death. He and the little band fighting their way through to him were deep into the Greffaire lines—and they were all alone. For himself he was content to have cost the enemy dear, but he reviled himself for playing so free with the lives of the men who followed his lead. “Go back!” he yelled to them as the sea of Greffaire soldiers closed in around him. “Get back to your lines!” He set his sword and prepared to die.

The first soldier who came at him had more bravado than skill. Tristan easily sidestepped his headlong rush and sliced across the exposed back of the knee as the momentum carried the man past. The Greffaire crashed to the ground, the tendons severed.

But four leaped in to take his place, and Tristan was hard beset just to keep his feet and parry their strikes. All that was left to him was this grim and hopeless defense, until the inevitable error—or simple exhaustion—claimed him. Already his breath came in labored gasps, and his strength began to waver under the rain of blows.