The Bonemender (8 page)

Justine arrived in the late afternoon, tired from the journey but otherwise well. Her belly sailed in the door before her and was exclaimed over and patted in the flurry of greetings. Gabrielle marveled to think that on her last visit, back at FirstHarvest, the new baby had been a secret life still hidden from view. The children, four-year-old Matthieu and his sister, Madeleine, two years older, were restless from the long carriage ride and squirmed away from their grandmother’s hugs, galloping off to explore the castle grounds.

“They’ll be back,” Justine said wryly, allowing herself to be installed on a long settee in the library. The family often gathered here instead of in the formal salon, for in addition to a wall filled with treaties and histories and the map case, the room boasted an oversized fireplace, games tables and vastly more comfortable (if less elegant) seating. “They didn’t eat much at mid-day.” Gabrielle pulled off Justine’s boots and propped her swollen feet up on a deep down cushion at the end of the settee. “Mmm. Careful, Gabrielle, I’ll fall asleep if I get too comfortable!”

At that Solange ordered “tea with luncheon” and sent Dominic out to round up his children. Leaving Justine with a cup of tea on the table beside her, they shooed the two youngsters into the small dining room where they ate their less formal meals. Madeleine slipped her hand into Gabrielle’s as they walked.

“My mama says you’re the best bonemender in all of the Basin,” she chirped, swinging Gabrielle’s hand.

Gabrielle laughed. “I’m sure that’s not true, but it’s nice of your mother to say so, don’t you think?”

“No. It’s not nice. She means it. And I said I think you’re the prettiest of all the ladies, and I mean that too. I said I bet you could have lots of handsome husbands! Then Mama was cross and said people only have one husband. But Jeanne our cook had two husbands, so I think she must be wrong.”

“Perhaps Jeanne’s first husband died,” suggested Gabrielle, steering away from the subject of her own marriage prospects.

“He did,” confirmed Madeleine. “He fell off a ladder, and then he died. Jeanne cried for three weeks. I saw her crying in the kitchen. And then she married Leo. But you didn’t marry anyone, did you?”

“No,” said Gabrielle. “No, I didn’t.”

Solange rescued her. “Madeleine, sit up and eat now. Your mother said you didn’t eat today, you two. How come?”

“The carriage made me throw up,” said Matthieu cheerfully, loading up his plate.

D
OMINIC’S ARRIVAL HAD
triggered a new series of meetings. The coast was the best defended part of the country, and the question of whether to move all the coastal troops into the interior, leaving the Island and Blanchette virtually unguarded, was a vexing one.

Gabrielle overheard her brothers, still in heated conversation, as they emerged from one of these sessions. She was heading toward the clinic, her mind on the wet, fevered cough that was flaring up all over Chênier. Winter was a hard season, especially for the old ones.

A door clicked open, and Tristan’s voice floated into the tiled hallway ahead of the two men. “I just don’t think we should discount the Elves completely,” Tristan was saying. “They live up there. They know the country.
Their
scouts didn’t get captured. They should be our allies.”

“Tristan, I doubt there are even enough of them to make a difference,” replied Dominic. “And you said it yourself—they keep apart. We can’t count on them. If we can’t count on them for sure, then we shouldn’t count on them at all.”

“Féolan and Danaïs said they would try to persuade their Council to join in the defense,” said Tristan stubbornly. “They believe the Elves should be part of this. I think we should at least invite them to a strategy meeting.”

“I know they are your friends, Tris, but who knows if they have any influence over this Council? In any case, how would we
contact them? Their settlements are secret, right? You could ride all over the Maronnais highlands and never find them.”

Their voices faded away as they rounded a corner.

Gabrielle stood motionless for a minute. Then she turned, the clinic forgotten, and hurried upstairs to her chamber. She crossed the room to her bureau and took down the carved wooden box that sat there. It had been a gift from Dominic for her thirteenth birthday, and it still moved her that as a swaggering young man he had chosen something so right: a beautiful adult thing, with an elaborate key to appeal to a young girl’s desire for secrets of her own. Tristan, only eight at the time, had given her a gaudy necklace, and she had been able to please both by declaring it would be the first treasure kept in her box.

Now she sat on the edge of her bed with the box on her lap, turned the key and lifted the lid. Tucked at the back was the scrap of parchment Féolan had left with her. Gabrielle took it out, unfolded it and smoothed it with her hands. How many times had she sat looking at the words he had written there? They gave directions—not right to the Stonewater settlement, “for that is forbidden without Council’s permission,” wrote Féolan—but to a sentry-point where a messenger could make contact.
If you ever need me
. Did Féolan mean for her to pass it on to the War Council? She thought not. But what if there was great need? Was not Verdeau’s need her need also?

By then it will be too late for messengers, her mind replied.

T
HE
Elves of Stonewater had not been idle. They and the other Elvish settlements were not just well hidden; they had been well armed to start with, and over the winter the stores of weaponry grew steadily. Unlike the Humans, many Elves who had fought in the last war still lived, and their experience guided both training drills and strategy meetings.

It was all provisional, however; at this point the Elves intended to fight only if directly attacked, and they doubted the
Gref Orisé
would bother searching out their small territories.

Féolan was not able to counter these decisions, because he was not there. He was deep in
Gref Orisé
territory, attempting the most perilous scouting expedition of his life.

I
T WAS A MISTAKE, OF COURSE.
He knew it even as he was setting out, though he would not admit it to himself. A dark recklessness had come over him after leaving Gabrielle. Nothing much had seemed to matter, certainly not his own safety. But a deep anger had come over him on his last foray into the mountains when, instead of the enemy camp he had thought to observe, he had found only the remains of the five Human scouts who had arrived before him, their bodies hanging from the autumn trees like obscene fruit. The sight of those defiled bodies twisting in
the wind had pushed him to it. He must do something against the tide of destruction poised above them.

The leaders of Stonewater Council had thought him mad.

“Féolan, it doesn’t really matter if we don’t know which pass they will come through. We prepare to defend our settlements only.”

“But the Humans need to know. They have a long border; they can’t possibly meet the
Gref Orisé
with enough men if they don’t know where they will come over the mountains.”

“Let the Humans scout out the information they need. It’s ridiculous for you to take this risk.”

“I might find out something important.”

“More likely you will be captured and killed. You will be over there until snowmelt.”

They had been right, but Féolan was deaf to their arguments. The truth was, he needed to go. The thought of spending the winter in Stonewater, cooped up with his own thoughts, was more than he could bear.

“Do you seek your own death?” Danaïs had demanded angrily when he heard of Féolan’s intentions.

“Perhaps I seek a reason to live,” Féolan replied softly, and Danaïs, who alone of his friends knew his sorrow over Gabrielle, sighed and touched his arm.

“May you find it then,” he said, “and return to us safe.”

Of course as a free citizen Féolan could travel where he would, and when Council saw he was determined, they had agreed to his one request, which was to have the clothing and equipment of the two
Gref Orisé
soldiers who had been taken prisoner the day he first discovered their camp. He spent weeks preparing, studying the
Gref Orisé
dialect from old accounts and the few Elves who had some knowledge of it. It was a form of Krylaise, but so
far from Basin Krylaise as to be nearly another language. Féolan knew he would be many days in
Gref Orisé
before he could hope to speak without giving himself away as a stranger.

He left on a blustery, dark morning in tenthmonth, wearing the clothing but not the armor or insignia of one of the prisoners. The other outfit and a month’s worth of travel biscuits were stored in a nondescript bag over his shoulder. He didn’t dare carry anything as conspicuous as a sword, but a
Gref Orisé
knife was strapped to his belt, and he wore his own Elvish blade hidden against his skin. He had only his own cloak and blanket, which would have to be replaced in
Gref Oris
by something of local make. Danaïs rode with him into the foothills, leaving him at the mouth of the Skyway Pass.

“Will you not reconsider this fool’s journey, Féolan?” asked his friend before they parted. “If you really want to help the Humans, why not lend your bow to their forces? I could stand beside you there.”

Féolan replied with a grim smile. “This is ground we have trod before, Danaïs. Give it up now, and wish me all the luck and Elvish stealth I shall need.”

“You know I do.” The two men clasped hands, and Féolan slipped from his horse and began the winding climb through the mountains.

G
ABRIELLE PRESSED THE
flared end of the little horn against Justine’s belly, bent over, put the narrow end in her own ear and listened. Nothing. She moved the horn slightly, tried again. Yes. Faint but steady, faster than an adult’s pulse—the baby’s heartbeat. Eyes closed, finger keeping time so Justine could see, she listened to the rhythm for a full two minutes.

“Perfect. Banging away like a bell.” She smiled at Justine. “Everything seems fine, Justine. I expect this birth will go as well as the others.”

Justine smiled back, but Gabrielle could tell she was anxious. “Could I ask you to ... you know, do that thing you do, Gabrielle? Check things out, just to be sure? I have the oddest feeling about this baby.”

“Of course. Let me see if I can sense anything.” In this situation sense was a more comfortable word for most people than see, which is how Gabrielle thought of it herself. She cradled her hands around Justine’s belly, closed her eyes and focused deep inside herself. Slowly her “vision” shifted, and she was inside Justine. She looked for infection or other problems and found nothing. Then she moved on to the baby. So strange how you could feel yourself moving within a separate being, a person within a person. Hello, baby, she thought, wondering if the baby could be aware of her presence. She let her inner sight rove over the unborn child, looking for trouble spots: the spine, the brain, the heart. The baby kicked and stretched under her hands, and the feeling she got from him (it was a boy, she knew, though she would keep the news to herself) was of robust health.

“Justine, the baby seems very well; you too. I can’t promise I didn’t miss anything, but I do have a strong feeling that you are both fine.”

Justine searched her face. “You would tell me if you found anything?”

“I swear it. I’m as sure as I can be that the baby is healthy.”

Justine relaxed visibly. “Thank-you, Gabrielle. Maybe I’m just nervous. This is the gloomiest winter, and who knows what is to
come? Still, I feel a lot better knowing I’m having the baby here, with you.”

A
LMOST THREE WEEKS
later, a voice woke her in the night.

“Gabrielle? I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Gabrielle opened her eyes to find Justine, huge in her white nightgown, standing by her bed. She sat up, groped for a lamp and lit it.

“What is it, Justine? Is the baby coming?”

“I’ve only just started having pains. They aren’t bad yet. But, Gabrielle, the baby’s not right anymore. Look!”

“Let’s get a bit more light first. Here, sit down.” Gabrielle eased Justine down on her bed, then moved around the room lighting as many lamps as she could find. She brought them all over to her bedside table, then asked Justine to lie down. Even by flickering lamplight, she could tell at a glance that the baby had somehow got himself sideways. Justine looked like she had a watermelon wedged across her stomach. It was a comical sight, but Gabrielle knew this was no joke. A baby could be born bottom first, at need, but there was no way he could get out like that.

“Oh, you silly baby, what have you done,” she murmured, trying to loosen the grip of Justine’s fear. Justine was hovering on the edge of panic, but she gave a breathy little laugh.

“How on earth did he get like that? He seemed fine when I went to bed.”

“I can’t imagine.” Gabrielle noticed that Justine was calling the baby “he.” Her mother’s intuition was right on two counts, then. “Maybe you’re going to give birth to a contortionist rather than a prince or princess.” She ran her hands slowly over the awkward lump, calming Justine and figuring out what part of the baby
was where. Her mind was racing. She would have to act fast. As Justine’s labor progressed—and it was likely to progress quickly with a third baby—her womb would tighten up until the baby was bound in that position, immovable. Even as she thought this, she felt Justine’s belly ripple and tighten under her hand. Just a short contraction but a clear warning.

She would have to move the baby. She knew the risks: if the birth cord was pinched, the baby could be harmed. If it was pulled away from the wall of the womb, it could cause bleeding that would endanger both Justine’s and the baby’s lives. But if Gabrielle could shift him back into place safely—and she did have an advantage over ordinary midwives on that count—then once labor was well underway, he would stay put.

She explained the situation to Justine. Justine looked pale in the dark room, her eyes wide and frightened. But she nodded at Gabrielle’s proposal. “That’s why I came to you.”