The Bonemender (12 page)

The cell door would creak. He would have to make his exit in one swift spring. Now! Féolan sprinted—through the door and past the table in a bound—and had planted his knife in the guard’s throat before his confused cry could rouse the alarm. Stopping only to grab the guard’s cloak off the chair and throw it over his own shoulders, he eased out the main door of the brig.

Pressed against the back wall of the building, Féolan took stock. No one moved in this part of the camp, though he knew the sentries would be pacing out the perimeter. Silent as a shadow, he worked his way from one pool of blackness to the next.

He would have to get rid of a sentry as well as the guard. He needed time to cross a large plain unnoticed, and for that he needed a hole in their sight lines. He had already picked out a spot at the northeast corner of the garrison on the far side from the road to the pass; it offered better cover than the closer sentry points and would give the impression he was running back into
Gref Oris
. He planned to circle widely around the garrison and pick up the road to the pass in the foothills.

It was quickly done. Féolan waited in the lea of a building until the sentry came by on his rounds then stepped up to the man with a mumbled, “Excuse me, Sir.” The wrapped rock in his hand made a muffled thud; the fellow slumped to the ground, a welt rising on the back of his head, and Féolan was over the barricade, sprinting for cover. He lay flat in a ditch, peering through
a screen of shrubbery and rain, until he was sure that he had not been noticed. Then he got to his feet and ran as only an Elf can run, light and tireless, elated despite the danger to be free again under the night sky.

G
ABRIELLE WAS READY
. It had been easy, in the end: She said no more to her father and simply prepared to go along. She had borrowed some clothes from Tristan so as to blend in better as the muster prepared to head out, but the king, busy with his own preparations, would pay little attention to the bonemenders trailing at the end of the procession along with the provisions and gear. There was a good chance she and her father would never cross paths during the entire journey.

Justine and the children were staying at Castle DesChênes, though they were prepared to retreat to the Island if need be. Gabrielle was glad. She had not felt right about leaving Solange to worry alone at home. Now at least Solange and Justine would have each other.

But Gabrielle still had an awkward conversation ahead of her. She had wavered for days about whether to tell her mother. Was it unfair to ask her to keep a secret from Jerome? What if her mother felt duty-bound to tell? Yet Gabrielle could not disappear without a word of explanation. And so, the morning before their departure, she asked Solange to walk with her to the back garden.

Sitting on the stone bench under the rose trellis, Gabrielle steeled herself to begin. But Solange did not wait for her careful speech.

“You are riding out with the army, aren’t you?”

Gabrielle was amazed. “How did you know?”

Solange gave her a small, sad smile. “I guess I really am your mother. I know you, Gabrielle. When have you ever allowed convention, or even your father’s authority, to govern your own conscience?”

Am I really that headstrong? Gabrielle wondered. She had always seen herself as a dutiful daughter. But when she believed her convictions really mattered, then yes, she was that headstrong.

“If you have such a compelling feeling that you must go, then I think you should,” Solange continued. “But by all that’s holy, be as careful as you can, Gabrielle. When I think of the danger ... “

The two women embraced.

“Does Tristan know?” asked Solange, wiping her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Good. You can keep watch on each other.”

“I didn’t know if I should tell you,” confessed Gabrielle. “I didn’t think I should ask you to keep a secret from Father.”

“And so you shouldn’t,” said Solange tartly. Then, grinning, “But you’d be surprised what I’ve kept from Jerome over the years.”

Gabrielle couldn’t help laughing through her tears. There was certainly more to her mother than met the eye.

T
HE RAIN STOPPED
just before dawn, and as the sun rose Féolan was through the foothills and heading into the first fingers of the mountains themselves. He was soaked through, hungry and sore from the “lessons” he’d been given—by fists and booted feet—before being locked up, but he meant to put as much distance as possible between himself and the
Gref Orisé
before stopping. The footing was treacherous, mud and half-melted snow slicked over rock, and he walked now, trotting
over the firmer places. Impossible not to leave footprints in such ground, especially in his heavy military boots. If they followed him this far, they would know where he went. Would they bother? They might. Deserters would likely be hunted diligently as an example to the other men.

By late morning the sun was actually warm, and Féolan shucked off the wet cloak. He found a length of deadwood about right for a staff and slung the cloak over it, to dry as he walked. He hoped the sun would shine long enough to dry the clothes he was wearing too. With a pang of regret, he thought of the food and clothing he had stashed in his pack and then had to leave behind.

The sun had just edged past its zenith when he heard hoofbeats. Checking all paths, Féolan thought grimly. You had to hand it to the
Gref Orisé
; they were thorough. He glanced around, checking the site. Better, he concluded, to face them here than risk being overtaken in a cut with no cover. Climbing up the rock face on his left to a wide ledge, he hunkered down behind a large boulder. He would see who he was up against, then decide whether to fight or flee.

Two horsemen trotted into view, only partially armored with helmets and breastplates. One was extremely muddy, as was his horse. Neither looked happy. Bad footing for horses, Féolan mused. Only two men. How he wished for his bow!

One of the men swore under his breath and pointed to where Féolan’s footprints suddenly ended. Both looked around uneasily.

“What in hellfire is he goin’ this way for, anyhow?” burst out the muddy rider. “We ain’t enough to take down a deserter! They send half a bloody regiment the other way, where he ain’t, and only us two fer a ‘precaution,’ they says, up here. He must be some
kinda maniac to be takin’ the same bloody path as the army he’s sneakin’ away from!”

“Just shuddup and look sharp,” snarled the other. At that moment Féolan made his decision. He sighted quickly, flicked his wrist and a second later his knife blade had buried itself in the back of the muddy soldier’s arm. Féolan ducked down and set his back against the boulder, heaving it into the trail, then leaped lightly over the ledge. The scene was bedlam, the spooked horses rearing, the soldiers sawing at their reins and cursing. Darting in at his shield-arm side, Féolan dragged the second soldier to the ground and grappled for control of the sword. He could not prevail without it, but the man was strong and gripped onto his weapon like a limpet.

Féolan bucked up and came down with his knee raised, thrusting it hard into the little scallop in the breastplate that allowed a man to bend at the waist. It was a painful landing—the area was still protected by chain link mesh—but worse for his opponent. The wind whistled from the man’s lungs in a rush, and in that moment Féolan dared to clap both hands to the sword-arm, give it a quick lift and twist, and bring it down hard, thumb first, on the rock below. He heard an agonized grunt, and the hand shuddered open. There was no time for nicety. Féolan snatched up the sword and ran the man through. He turned to face his remaining foe.

The soldier was pale with fear and confusion. Féolan’s shaggy hair and rough clothing could no longer conceal the fact that this was no cowardly runaway; his Elf’s eyes blazed and he came on with complete confidence. Shaking his head frantically, the soldier dropped his sword and raised his arms in surrender. Féolan walked on until his sword was inches from the man’s face.

“By rights I should kill thee,” he said. “Yet perhaps your wound is enough to keep you from battle, and that serves my purpose well enough. I will spare thee, at least until you disobey my word.”

Speechless, the soldier simply nodded.

“Drop your knife.”

“I have none,” blurted the soldier.

Féolan narrowed his eyes. “I will search it out with my sword if you cannot find it. Your knife.”

“I have none, truly,” the man insisted, his voice desperate. “I lost it in a game of tiles.”

Féolan saw that the soldier spoke true. “Off your horse, then. You must walk.”

Wincing from the knife-wound, the man slid awkwardly from his horse.

“Good. There is but one last thing, before you go. I must have my blade.”

“Your ... “ The soldier’s eyes strayed to his right bicep, where the hilt of Féolan’s knife hung. It angled toward the back, making it awkward for the soldier to grasp it himself.

“It is not a thing for the likes of you to possess,” said Féolan. “If you will trust me, it will be better if I pull it.”

“Trust you!” The soldier found his voice and managed an incredulous laugh. Yet as he searched Féolan’s face, he must have found something, after all, to trust, for he gritted his teeth and presented his arm. Féolan pulled the knife as smoothly as he could, and sent the soldier stumbling down the road back to his garrison.

Now for the horses. The black seemed the calmer of the two, but something in the chestnut mare called to him. She was skittish now, but he sensed within her a more responsive heart.
The chestnut, then. Féolan stepped up to her softly. She back-stepped a little, rolling her eyes. He did not reach for the reins, or hinder her in any way, but spoke quietly in his own tongue. Reaching his mind out to hers, he offered friendship in place of the domination she had known. He stood before her, still and calm, and little by little she sidled up to him. Soon he felt her soft nose against him as she gingerly snuffled and blew against his clothes and hair. Still, he did not move or attempt to touch her. He let her see what he was: a friend. The ripply shivers up and down her hide slowed, then stopped; the nervous snorting relaxed. At last she laid her head against him, and he stroked her neck and velvet muzzle, murmuring gentle reassurances. Calmly he moved around her, stroking and talking. He unbuckled the heavy saddle, lifted it from her and laid it aside. The reins he left for now, hateful though they seemed to him; she would not yet understand his guidance and would feel more secure with them. The black’s reins he took, cutting through one end to make a long thong that he tied to his belt. He hadn’t time to gentle both now, and he couldn’t let a horse return free yet.

He came back to the chestnut, laid his hand on her forehead, and asked her simply: Will you carry me? When he settled on her back, she tossed her head a bit at the unfamiliar feeling, then steadied. With the black in tow, they followed the twisting path leading into the clouds.

T
HEIR
departure was not how Gabrielle had pictured it. She had imagined the brave Verdeau troops, rank on rank, charging out of town at full gallop. And they had, eventually, marched out of town in ordered ranks, but only after a long, noisy, crowded gathering in the fields outside of the castle. The army was three thousand men strong, one-third on horseback, followed by endless carts of food, weaponry, medical and other supplies. It takes a very long time to get three thousand men all en route along a road wide enough for three horses, Gabrielle discovered. The bonemenders, among the last in line, stood in the field for over half the day before they finally got underway.

She had been right about the need for leadership. The bone-menders did not all consider themselves to be under military command. During the long wait, some became frustrated and angry, as if their time were being wasted deliberately. Some had decided to wander into town for a last pint while they waited. It was Gabrielle’s diplomatic insistence that kept them in their places, ready to move out when their turn came.

They marched until dark, then set up their camps strung out along both sides of the road. Without the bottleneck effect they had experienced on first setting out, their departure the next morning was swift.

After three more days, traveling north on the River Road from dawn until dark, the army had passed Ratigouche and crossed over the border of La Maronne. By then Gabrielle, like everyone else, was weary and footsore. That evening she sent the bonemenders throughout the camp, treating blisters and pulled muscles, knowing these small complaints could lead to serious problems if ignored.

At Gaudette, the royal city of La Maronne, they learned that the bulk of the Maronnais army, some twenty-five hundred men, had marched out two days previous to take up position at the Eastern Gateway. On the sixth day they crossed the Smoky River, and Gabrielle felt a thrill of recognition. The Smoky, and Otter Lake beyond it, had been among the landmarks mentioned in Féolan’s note. Foolish though it was, she couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment he might wander out of the woods and step onto the road before her eyes.

The land grew rough and the road narrower. They were entering the Maronnais highlands, leading up to the Krylian Mountains. Still, they made the approach to the pass before noon on the eighth day. The troops were given leave to rest where they were while Jerome and his general took stock of the terrain and developed their battle plan. Gabrielle and her bonemenders took shifts, leaving one on duty for the steady trickle of patients with blisters, sprains, cuts or colds. She forced herself to roll in a blanket and rest, though her instinct was to see to these men herself. She did leave word that any serious sprains should be sent to her for healing. Sprains could take days to resolve on their own, and the soldiers needed to be fit for active combat.

By suppertime, officers were making their way to all units, instructing them to set up camp behind the ridge of hills they
were now sprawled along. Gabrielle braced herself. If she were to encounter Jerome, it would be now, as he toured the area to ensure the men were all placed as he wished. Instead, a happy surprise: Tristan himself appeared just as the last peg for the medic tent was hammered into place. Gabrielle was rummaging in a crate of medical supplies when she heard his voice. She stood, flipped back her long braid and grinned a welcome. “Come to have your blistered feet treated, my lord? Surely not, when you ride such a fine steed!”