The Bonemender (5 page)

“Yes, of course.” It was nice of Danaïs to make the suggestion for her. “Féolan, if you’d like to, you’re most welcome. I’m going to ride into the upland pastures east of here.”

I
T WAS A PLEASANT RIDE,
first through the southern tip of the town of Chênier, which sprawled in a rough semi-circle at the castle’s feet and crowded up against the Avine River’s eastern bank, and then east along a country track through open farmland. Gradually the orchards and ploughed fields gave way to rougher, hilly country, scrubby woodlots and livestock pasturage. Gabrielle turned off the track and headed up a farm lane.

They met the farmer himself repairing a break in the fencing. Squinting up at them, he scrambled to his feet and managed an awkward bow.

“Hello, Luc. How’s your family?”

“Very well, I thank ye, m’Lady. Come for the hawkweed and that, have ye?”

“Yes, if it’s still all right with you. Is it thick in that back pasture again this year?”

“Whole field’s orange with ‘em. You’re more’n welcome.”

Thanking the man, Gabrielle turned her horse and led Féolan past the farmhouse and through a series of fields, until they reached an untrimmed pasture snugged up against a strip of woodland. Sure enough, the hawkweed glowed orange and golden in the sun.

They worked side by side for about an hour, snapping off the flower heads and packing them into Gabrielle’s big gathering bags.
Later she would dry and grind them. The flowers eased inflammation and fever and were mildly sedating, and Gabrielle used them both as a poultice for wounds or sprains and in medicinal teas.

As the two bags filled up, Féolan turned to Gabrielle.

“How much do you need?”

Her face darkened. “I don’t know. Normally I just take the one bag. This year, though ... maybe we’ll need a lot more.”

They filled a third bag together and stopped for a break. Gabrielle had packed ale and cheese and strawberry pie, and she stretched out on a smooth, sunny outcropping of rock and savored the rich fruit. “That’s the taste of summer,” she sighed.

As they ate, Féolan asked, “How did you learn your craft? You have a rare gift.”

“I suppose I do,” Gabrielle replied. “I have never met another who could do it. But then, I have only met three or four bone-menders in my life, and there are many more than that. I see no reason to assume I am unique.”

“Did someone teach you the hand-healing?”

“I discovered it quite by accident,” Gabrielle laughed. “I fell off my horse when I was fourteen, landed on a rock and cut my knee pretty badly. The blood scared me a little. I clapped my hands over the cut, wanting to cover it from sight. But then I felt something start to happen in my hands. And even though it was so strange, it didn’t feel frightening. It felt right. So I just let it happen. And my knee stopped bleeding.

“I didn’t dare tell anyone at first. And it didn’t occur to me it would work on another person until over a year later, when one of our sheep dogs was savaged by a wolf.” Gabrielle remembered it vividly. The poor dog had dragged himself home, barely able to walk, and fallen in a bloody heap.

“He was all ripped up, and Jacques, the kennel master, was going to kill him. Oh, it broke my heart, such a brave, loyal dog he was. I knelt beside him and stroked him, and I felt it in my hands again—you know, they feel warm and bright and sort of tingly as the healing flows through them. My heart started just hammering in my chest at the thought.”

“And you saved him?” said Féolan.

“Yes. The hardest part was getting rid of Jacques. Imagine this haughty stripling of a girl, staring him down and ordering him off. The poor man turned nearly purple and stormed out. I was sure he was off to fetch my mother and have me dragged home.”

Féolan snorted, and Gabrielle grinned. “I know, it wasn’t very diplomatic of me. But I was frantic.”

“You must have caused quite a stir when you healed that dog.”

“Well I didn’t totally heal him, of course. I didn’t know how to stitch or dress a wound. Even now it takes ages to seal a wound fully the other way. But I did stop the bleeding, and I managed to perk him up considerably. When Jacques came back, a long time later, the dog looked more alive than dead, rather than the other way around. He took one look, sort of hissed between his teeth and disappeared. A minute later he was back with an armful of bandages. And I was so worn out I keeled over and fell asleep in the straw beside them.”

“How did your parents react?”

“Oh, they were wonderful,” said Gabrielle. “Well, eventually. Not at first. At first they didn’t believe it. They thought I must have tricked the kennel master somehow, though they could hardly believe that either. Practical jokes weren’t exactly my style.

“There was some shouting from my father and tearful protests from me, and finally I grabbed a kitchen knife and cut my arm
and proved what I could do. Rather melodramatic, I’m afraid. There was dead silence then. My mother burst into tears, and so did I, and when everyone calmed down I told them I wanted to study to be a bonemender. I couldn’t have such a gift and not use it. They agreed. The day after my sixteenth birthday, I started my apprenticeship with the Chênier bonemender.”

Old Marcus had not been eager to accept her, Gabrielle recalled. He had taken her, in the end, only because his king and queen had requested it, expecting to be saddled with a spoiled princess indulging a passing whim. In the first weeks her teacher had taken pains to strip away any glamorous notions she might have held: Gabrielle had scrubbed bedpans, vomit, soiled bedsheets and the clinic itself, ground herbs until her arms ached and healed not a single person. After three months, Marcus had acknowledged that she was serious; he soon discovered she was also quick to learn, and the years of her apprenticeship had been deeply rewarding for both of them.

Gabrielle shook herself out of her reverie. Marcus, and the other bonemenders too, should be alerted to the coming danger. Probably the whole country should be stockpiling extra bandaging and herbs. She would speak to her father about it.

“I’d better get back to work. I want to harvest the comfrey while we’re here,” said Gabrielle. “It grows all over these hills. This is dirtier work, I’m afraid.” If there was war, then this herb, known for its virtue in helping bones knit and wounded flesh regenerate, would be essential. For this she needed the whole plant, roots and all. Féolan helped her dig the hairy, rambling plants from the stony ground.

“I know this one,” he exclaimed. “It grows in our woodland too. We call it, oh, I guess it might translate into ‘knitbone’.”

“Some people call it ‘ass ear’,” she said, smiling as she stroked the fuzzy leaf. “But knitbone is a very good name.”

As they worked, Féolan told Gabrielle about the Elvish healers and what he knew of their techniques and medicines. The time passed quickly, and as they rode home the late afternoon sun slanted over the fields, illuminating each blade of grass. The sight set Féolan to daydreaming about Gabrielle’s eyes: a softer green, they were, but with that same impression of golden light under the surface.

F
IRST
Harvest drew near. Festivities were planned through- out the country for the high summer festival celebrating the early crops’ bounty, but in Chênier the biggest event was the King’s Feast. The castle hall would be especially crowded this year. Jerome had “invited” the territorial regents and garrison commanders, taking advantage of the opportunity to hold a full tactical meeting without causing undue alarm.

Gabrielle and Solange had been working with the household staff for days to prepare for FirstHarvest Feast. Feeding well over a hundred people lavishly was no simple task, especially in high summer when food spoiled quickly in the heat. Whatever could be done ahead of time was, but when the day arrived, the cooks would still have to start before dawn.

Now it was late afternoon, and Gabrielle was dressing in her chamber. From a young age she had been trained to be a gracious host, sitting at high table with her parents at all the feasts and festivals that marked the cycle of their life, and despite her natural shyness she enjoyed these duties. In the small kingdoms of the Krylian Basin, the royal families were not distant, awesome figures but practical leaders. Their participation in festivals and other public events was expected, not that they hid themselves away at other times. Even Gabrielle’s work as a
healer, though it stretched the boundaries of custom, was not considered unseemly. Kings and queens were meant to care for their people. Gabrielle’s gift was Verdeau’s good fortune, and only strengthened the people’s loyalty to the Crown. But medical emergencies aside, she was still a royal daughter, with all the demands and formalities that entailed. Tonight Féolan and Danaïs would be their guests, and Gabrielle was looking forward to that too.

She dressed with care, aware that she wanted to look attractive. Standing in front of the glass, she eyed herself critically. The simple dark green dress she had chosen set off her chestnut hair and fitted her willowy figure perfectly. She wondered now, though, if it was too plain, and whether she should have chosen a more elaborate hairstyle. She had had her maid braid the sides and fasten them with a jeweled clasp at the back but allowed the rest to fall in natural waves down her back.

She sighed. It was unlike her to fret over her appearance. Who are you trying to impress? she asked herself peevishly.

Like it’s not obvious, a sly voice whispered in her mind. A teasing girlfriend’s voice it was, and just as relentless. Like you haven’t noticed him.

Gabrielle gazed at herself, startled. Was she attracted to Féolan? She had to laugh at her own huffy mental protests: I enjoy his company, that’s all. I’m interested in his abilities.

Oh yes, his abilities, mocked the girlfriend’s voice. And his eyes. And his smile. And that feeling you get when he talks to you alone. And ...

Enough. At twenty-seven, she was well past the usual age of marriage, resigned to a single life. It had been years now since she had considered any man as a potential mate.

Strange how that had happened. She had certainly had suitors once she came of age at seventeen; she was, after all, the daughter of a king, and no one had ever called her ugly. Her days had been dominated by her training with Marcus, but still she had gone with the hopeful young men for walks and horseback rides, chatted through dinners and teas and games of four-spot or chiggers. There had been visits to her father’s people on Crow Island and to her mother’s people in the interior and even to the neighboring kingdoms of Gamier and Barilles. At twenty she became a qualified bonemender with no serious prospects of marriage, though everyone was careful to add “yet.” By the time she turned twenty-two, the suitors had stopped calling.

It was her own fault, if fault could be laid for such a thing. She just hadn’t been interested, not in any of them. She had let the ones she liked best kiss her, hoping to feel the stirring of desire the troubadours sang about. But she hadn’t. One by one, the young men, and a couple of older ones, had drifted away, puzzled and discouraged. There had been only one marriage proposal, from a widowed Barilles nobleman, and though he tried to hide it she knew he had been relieved by her polite refusal. There was something in Gabrielle too, despite her gentle manner, that men found forbidding.

She had been surprised, and grateful, that her parents had not pushed her to marry, though Solange had given at least one speech about how married couples “grow into love.” They might have been less accepting, Gabrielle thought wryly, if her older brother, Dominic, had not already produced an heir.

Since there were no men Gabrielle wanted, it had been easy enough to give up on marriage. Much, much harder was giving up the hope of children. Running like a secret rising tide of panic
through her youth had been the growing fear that she was barren. As it turned out, the problem was nothing more than a dramatically late puberty. But who would ever have believed it could be so late? On the night of her eighteenth birthday Gabrielle had wept until dawn, sure that if she had not started her moon cycles by now she never would. She carried the sorrow alone, unable to bring herself to confide even in Solange. Almost a year later, her cycles had started. Not that they had been much use, after all.

And now here she was, trying on jewelry and worrying about her hair. Wanting, why not admit it, Féolan to find her pretty.

She couldn’t decide if she liked the feeling or not. It doesn’t matter anyway, she chided herself. It’s just a dinner, and he’ll be gone in a few days. Fastening the silver clasp at her waist, she strode out of the room.

F
ÉOLAN AND
D
ANAÏS HAD
also dressed with care, if less indecision. Their choice was simple: the travelworn clothes they had been living in for weeks, or the one good outfit each had stuffed at the bottom of his pack. As guests at an occasion of some importance, they knew they should look the part. With the help of a young maid, who had steamed the wrinkles out of tunics and cloaks, they were presentable enough.

Féolan knocked on Danaïs’ door. “Ready to go?”

“In a minute,” came the muffled reply. “I just have to get this miserable boot on.”

Féolan knew better than to offer his help. Just last night, Danaïs had been declared no longer a patient and moved into a proper guest room. Féolan suspected Gabrielle had done it to enforce a new exercise regime: now Danaïs would have to labor up and down the curving oak stairway several times a day. Danaïs,
however, had been extremely pleased, and with his private quarters had come a determined return to independence.

Soon Danaïs emerged, and Féolan did help him with the stairs. They walked down the corridor, opened the double doors to the Great Hall and entered a scene of genial pandemonium. The massive room had been transformed; rows of tables and benches filled the formerly empty space while a dozen overhead chandeliers flickered with candlelight and reflected off the glass goblets set at each table.

Nobody was seated, though most of the guests had arrived. The Great Hall was congested with people, clumped along the edges of the room or threading their way between tables to shake hands and slap backs. The hubbub of conversation was punctuated with frequent shrills of laughter; Féolan thought it likely that a good number of the guests had kicked off the feast, at least the drinking part of it, before leaving their homes. He caught site of Tristan’s blond hair by the far entrance; Tristan appeared to know everybody there and was making a brave attempt at greeting them all. Féolan scanned the room and picked out Jerome and Solange in another corner, smiling and welcoming the guests. There was method underlying this apparent madness, then. And—