The Bonemender's Choice (7 page)

As Féolan floated unseen in the dark, an oar blade, pulled with all the brawn and will of a fleeing seaman, struck the back of his head. The world dissolved into a tumbled black void, without up or down or any other clear direction. Without land. Without air. He floundered for the surface—and found nothing.

Eight dinghies clustered around the great ship. Chains rattled and creaked as the boats were hauled, four to a side, onto the deck. A whistle shrilled, and with a great flapping tumult the huge triangular sails were unfurled, raked back on an angle like a stooping falcon. From the long thrusting bowsprit a last sail grew up to the night sky—then, like a dream that fleets through sleep and is lost, the ship was gone.

T
RISTAN PACED THE
water’s edge, restless with the jangly energy that always remained with him after a battle. The small bundle he happened upon barely caught his interest—just some pirate castoffs, lost in the retreat. He prodded at it with his foot, spreading open the soggy cloth to reveal tall leather boots, supple and soft-soled.

“Dark gods, take me.” What were Féolan’s boots doing here? Tristan looked wildly around, hoping to catch sight of his brother-in-law. He hadn’t seen him since...His heart sank. He couldn’t remember seeing Féolan since midway through the battle.

Sharp with worry, he collared the nearest handful of men and sent them searching. But his mind nagged at him. Boots, stashed at the water’s edge...They could not, as he first feared, have been left by pirates who stole them from Féolan’s body. The Tarzines had had no time, in that breakneck retreat, for looting. No, Féolan had done this himself, and that meant...

Tristan set off again along the surf line, jogging now, his eyes scanning the dark waves. Once again the moon, beloved of Elven folk, was kind. Its silvered rays danced over a dark shape bobbing gently in the tide swell.

Dominic found his brother in time to see him struggling back to shore, his arms clasped around a limp body.

“Who is it, Tristan?”

“It’s Féolan.”

Together they dragged Féolan out of the water and laid him gently in the sand. Fear tightened Tristan’s voice.

“Dom, I think he’s drowned.”

I
T WAS A RECENT
recruit to the Blanchette garrison, the son of a fisherman, who pressed the water from Féolan’s lungs and brought him, coughing and retching, back to them. The young man stepped back, overawed by his brush with royalty.

“He should be all right now, sire...sires.” The poor fellow blushed and bobbed his head, and Tristan pulled his attention away from his friend long enough to rescue him. He got to his feet and clapped the soldier on his shoulder.

“My most hearty thanks to you. What is your name, my man?”

“Barnaby, sir. Sire.”

“Barnaby, I will see that the garrison commander knows of your quick action. You have saved my friend’s life. But you’d best report back to your unit now.”

“Yes, sire. I will.” And the shy fellow escaped at the speed of a retreating Tarzine pirate.

By the time Tristan turned back to his friend, Féolan was breathing more comfortably, and Dominic was fingering the back of his head.

“Tris, he’s been wounded. See if you can get a torch over here—it’s too dark to see.”

Féolan’s hand waved off the suggestion. “Never mind that.” His voice was surprisingly strong. He planted a hand
in the sand, pushed himself to sitting and turned to Dominic.

“It’s your children. They’ve been taken. I tried to save them, but I was too late. From the depths of my heart, I am sorry.”

H
OW LONG HAD THEY BEEN SHUT UP
in here? Madeleine squirmed on the thick coils of rope, trying to find space and air where there was none. The blackness smothered her, and the conviction grew that they would die here, shut up in a box, their nostrils filled with the reek of hemp and tar and rancid fish oil. Panic, kept at bay by a thin thread of will these long hours, swelled within her.

Turga had hustled them into the great storage crate as soon as they set foot on his ship. It was fixed to the deck, stocked with extra ropes and other supplies. Turga and a crew member had hoisted them over the side, pushed them down and lowered the lid. The sound of the lock clicking into place had frightened Madeleine more than anything that had happened so far.

At least their hands were now free, and the children had clutched at each other while they listened to the purposeful chaos that followed: the creak of chains and thud of dinghies being hoisted aboard, shouts and orders, whistle blasts and the sudden crackle and snap of sails. The gentle rocking of the anchored ship changed to a sensation Madeleine remembered from childhood trips to Crow Island—the breast and fall of a ship on open water.

“They got away,” she said. She had been waiting, she now realized, for a rescue, clinging to the belief that, however bad it
seemed, things would turn out right in the end. Now the bleak truth sank its evil claws into her heart. Some nightmares you don’t wake up from.

“They’ll come after us,” said Matthieu. “Don’t worry, Maddy. Dad will save us.”

“He doesn’t even know where we are!” Madeleine’s voice was shrill with fear and accusation. She clamped down on her lips before more spilled out: Why did you have to come here? Why couldn’t you listen?

“Maddy, I’m sorry.” Matthieu’s voice was a trembly whisper. “It’s all my fault this happened.” A sniff, and another, and then Madeleine felt Matthieu wiggle around and drag an arm across his face. “I was so stupid.”

Somehow, Matthieu’s penitence allowed Madeleine to be generous. She squeezed her brother’s hand. “You
were
stupid, but so was I. I could have stopped you, and I didn’t. We both decided to come. So now, at least we’re here together.”

They were brave words, and they felt even braver when Matthieu told his sister that he was sure Féolan had spotted them. But then time crawled on, and the black closeness pressed down, and despair whispered to her. Nobody knew where they were going. Nobody even knew where the Tarzine lands were. Nobody knew who it was who had captured them. There would be no escape.

But she would not, could not, die in this hideous cage. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t move. The dark had taken on weight and texture and it would press the life right out of her.

The first breathy sound that escaped her snapped her self-control. She screamed, and then she couldn’t stop. She was shrieking, kicking, beating at the box.

“Maddy, stop!” Matthieu tried in vain to pull down her hands. “Stop, you’re scaring me!” He was yelling now too, the fear a contagion.

Flooding light blinded them and silenced their cries. Madeleine blinked and squinted, grasping after her wits as the crate’s lid was opened wide. Strong arms hauled them onto the deck. The children stood dazed, awed by the sight that surrounded them.

The endless silver ocean stretched out to the horizon, lit up by a breathtaking red dawn that spread its glory over the world with no care for human struggles.

Madeleine had a confused view of a crowded but tidy deck and men in once-bright clothes, now faded from salt and sun, busy at their tasks. All busy but one, sitting cross-legged with an expanse of ochre sailcloth spread over his lap, who put down his needle and stared at her in hungry appraisal. She looked away quickly, but not before she saw the sly grin spread across his narrow face.

The two men who had freed them barely glanced their way. They grasped hold of the children and hustled them down a narrow ladder. It was dark below decks, lit only by the two shafts of light that pierced down from the fore and aft hatches. Shadowy rows of hammocks strung two deep, holds stacked with crates and barrels fastened down with rope, a roughed-in stall crowded with bleating animals—all these passed by as the children were marched the length of the hull toward the narrow forward hold.

There they stopped in front of a solid wood wall spanning the breadth of the ship, broken by a barred iron door. Their captors pulled back the bolts and pushed them inside. Madeleine listened to the dry grating of the bolts being shoved home. This was her life now, she supposed: the sound of locks.

She looked around the dim, almost triangular space. There was just enough floor space to walk a few paces, and a raised platform fitted into the tapering bow. It stank—she smelled urine, and that fishy smell that seemed to permeate the wood of the ship...and body odor.

Matthieu nudged her and pointed. Huddled into the narrow end of the platform, draped in a ratty blanket that made him almost invisible against the dark planking, sat a boy. He regarded them silently for a moment and then scooted to the edge of the bed—it served, it seemed, as a bed—and stood.

He was taller than Madeleine, a little older too, she judged. Rough-cut straw hair, rough-woven clothing with patched knees—a peasant boy. He, in his turn, was taking in the children’s fine cloaks and garments. He hesitated, cleared his throat and spoke.

“I guess we’re all equal here, whatever we are back home. I am Lucien.” His formality dissolved into a sad fleeting smile. “People just call me Luc.”

D
OMINIC COULD NOT
stop moving. Dawn was not far off, and still they had no workable plan. He needed to go after his children—
now—
and with every passing hour they drew farther away.

Dominic and the others had wakened the whole household on their return: just telling what had happened and everyone’s shocked reactions had taken up precious time. It had been terrible to watch the blood drain from Justine’s face, to see the soft edges of sleep transform into terror. That terror gripped her still, Dominic knew, though she had pushed it back enough to sit at the big table with the others, searching for some plan that would bring back her babies.

Derkh was not with them. His eyes had grown big on hearing the news, and then he had blurted out, “I’ll be back,” and bolted from the room. They had seen no sign of him since. Well, it wasn’t Derkh’s family or his problem. Dominic put the man from his mind.

“All right, let’s go over it again.” Tristan, sensing Dominic’s growing agitation, took the reins. “We have to go after them, that much is obvious. But there are two huge obstacles. The first, I would take my chances with: Our ships are designed for coastal waters, not the open sea, and our sailors aren’t used to sailing more than a day or two away from landmarks. But the second has to be solved: We don’t know where the pirate ship is headed.”

“We need someone who can guide us to the Tarzine lands,” Gabrielle said. “Can we pay one of the Tarzine navigators now in port?”

“I think Derkh is trying to find out just that,” put in Féolan quietly. He sat with a wad of cold toweling pressed to the back of his head. He was pale, taxed by the pounding pain that radiated through his skull, but Gabrielle had said there would be no lasting damage.

Tristan smacked himself on the forehead. “Gods, I am stupid! Of course, he has gone to find Yolenka!”

Dominic stopped his pacing. Yolenka had even less reason than Derkh to help them. Yet here was a thread of hope. If her heart was as expansive as the rest of her nature, surely she would at least translate for them and plead their case...

It was a long wait, long enough that Dominic was ready to ride down to the docks himself to speak with any Tarzine who had a bit of Krylian. Only Solange was able to persuade him to
eat breakfast first, with her usual practical sense: “You will not help your children by refusing food, Dominic. You must eat while you can.”

He had just forced in the first bite of bread when Derkh returned with Yolenka in tow.

She surveyed them with fierce amber eyes.

“So, we chase Turga. Take back your childrens. Is past time somebody stops this man.”

Justine beat Dominic to a reply. She stood, took Yolenka’s hands and asked, “You will help us do this, Yolenka?”

“I help already. You sail in good Tarzine ship, fast, with full crew. They do not fight Turga for you, only sail—is agreed?”

Dominic barked out a laugh that was dangerously close to a sob. Justine was already in tears, her arms tight around Yolenka’s neck.

“Yes, agreed! Absolutely agreed!”

“Good.” Yolenka pried open Justine’s hands and pulled them gently away. “Will cost you much money. Is risk for them, to go against warlord. You will pay?”

“Whatever it takes,” assured Dominic.

“Definitely,” agreed Tristan. “But just for interest—what will it take?”

The sum brought a momentary impressed silence to the room. Solange ended it.

“Consider it done,” she said.

L
UC WAS FROM
a Gamier fishing port north of Batîme. He had been captured when the pirates raided his town, some days ago. He didn’t know if his family had survived.

“They took one other besides me,” he told them. “Just a little guy, he was, still with his milk teeth. He was scared to climb the rope ladder up to the ship—he cried so hard when they made him go up. And then didn’t he slip and fall?” Luc fell silent and took to scratching at his wrists with fingers red and rough from outdoor work.

“Bedbugs,” he said shortly, noting their silent stares. He held out his wrist, dotted with raised red bumps. “Must be in the blanket they gave me.” He scratched again, thoroughly, intently, as though it were an important chore.

“What happened to the little boy?” asked Matthieu.

Luc said nothing at first. He stared woodenly past the iron door, and his eyes grew red with suppressed tears, and Madeleine understood he was reliving that moment. Finally he shrugged in baffled anger.

“They let him drown. They just sailed off and left him in the water.”

I
T SEEMED THEY
would never get underway. Dominic forced himself to clamp down on his impatience and think. Without a viable plan, they might as well be chasing after shadows.

“What guarantee do we have that these men are honest?” he asked Yolenka. “What is to keep them from selling us out to this...”

“To Turga,” she finished. “Is no guarantee.” Her level gaze challenged him. “You think is better, go in one of your little washtub boats.”