The Bonemender Read online

  Elves, she mused, as she crossed the courtyard for the second time that afternoon. No wonder they seemed different. There were plenty in Verdeau who didn’t believe the Elves still lived, at least not in these lands. Even some who argued they were nothing but a fanciful legend, like dragons and unicorns.

  Can you call an Elf a “man”? she wondered idly as she headed into the castle.

  CHAPTER 2

  FÉOLAN watched Gabrielle settle Danaïs into bed, helping where he could. His friend was not yet out of danger, he knew. Danaïs had not regained consciousness, and his face had the yellowish cast of old parchment. And the wound still gaped; it would have to be cleaned and tightly bound.

  Gabrielle went about these tasks with a quiet confidence. It was clear that she was trained as well as gifted—well versed in herb-lore too, judging from the rows of neatly labeled jars on her shelves. Féolan held bandages, passed scissors and carried wash-bowls as Gabrielle went to work. For the moment, his confused questions about this mysterious woman would have to wait. He longed to ask how she had come by her ability. No Human he had ever met, and Féolan had walked more among men than most of his kin, had the gift of hand-healing. He had thought it a uniquely Elvish skill. Féolan’s thoughts were broken by the clatter of hurried footsteps. The door burst open.

  “Hey, Gabi! What’s this I hear about—?” The young man stopped abruptly as he took in the guest at his sister’s elbow and the gravity of the wounded man’s condition.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “I didn’t mean to disturb ... “

  “It’s all right, Tris,” Gabrielle said with a smile. “Our patient can’t hear your booming voice at the moment, and I’m glad you’ve come. Féolan, this is my brother, Tristan.” The two men shook hands. Tristan was not long over the threshold of adulthood, Féolan guessed, though Human age was still hard for him to judge, and with his unruly thick blond hair, boyish energy and friendly grin Tristan might have looked younger than he was.

  “Féolan came to us for help when his friend here was attacked by a boar,” Gabrielle said. “They’ll have to stay for a while. When you have a chance, can you have a room made up? And I haven’t had time to be a proper host. Could you introduce him to Father and Mother and make sure an extra place will be set for dinner ... “

  “Please, I don’t wish to be any trouble,” Féolan said.

  “Nonsense,” said Tristan. “No guest of Castle DesChênes ever went short of comfort. Right, Gabi?”

  But Gabrielle’s attention had turned back to her patient. “Why don’t you two go now,” she suggested, overriding Féolan’s protests. “Your friend—Danaïs, is it?—will be fine without you for a little while. I’m sure you’d like a wash and some clean clothes, at least. I need to sit with him now, and work.”

  Féolan could feel Gabrielle’s intense concentration as she bent over Danaïs. She was shutting out the world, and his presence would only be a distraction. Besides—he grimaced as his hand brushed a crust of half-dried blood on his tunic—he was, in truth, filthy. He allowed himself to be ushered out the door.

  “You picked the right place for an accident, anyway,” Tristan was saying. “Gabi’s the best. If anyone can fix up your friend, it’s her.” In the hallway, Tristan turned to him. “The servants are all abuzz over the mysterious strangers,” he said, laughing. “They say you two are Elvish. Is it true?”

  Despite his worry about Danaïs, Féolan found himself smiling and talking easily to the engaging young man as he was led through the castle.

  GABRIELLE STRETCHED, THEN winced as her neck protested. The room was dim. Outside the summer sky was the deepening purple-blue of late evening. She had pushed herself hard this day, testing the limits of her power and endurance. Only now that she had surfaced did she feel her own exhaustion. Danaïs, she could tell, was stronger, the wound in his leg mending cleanly and well. But her neck! Long hours bent motionless over her patient had left it with a horrible crick.

  Gabrielle rubbed the aching muscles gingerly. It was the price she paid for her gift; that, and the fatigue. She was reminded of a favorite saying of her teacher, Marcus: “See to thy own wounds.” Well, and so she would, if she could stay awake long enough.

  The warm light had barely kindled under her hands when Danaïs stirred on his pillow. She went to the bedside, ready to quiet him if he awoke in a panic. His eyes opened, eyes as remarkable as Féolan’s, she noticed. What was it that gave their eyes such depth and brilliance?

  Gabrielle smiled at Danaïs. “Hello,” she said softly. “It’s good to meet you at last, Danaïs. I am Gabrielle.

  “You must lie still,” she cautioned, as Danaïs struggled to push himself up from the pillow. “You’ve been badly injured. You will recover, but you should not move that leg.”

  Danaïs began to speak in a fluid, musical language that was strange to her. Elvish, she supposed. How lovely it sounded.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Elvish. I hope you can understand me.”

  He stared at her and shook his head. “But—how can that be?” he said in her language. His words, Gabrielle noticed, bore a stronger accent than Féolan’s, but it was the querulous tone that caught her attention. It was the voice of a sick man whose energy is overtaxed.

  Disorientation was not a good sign in a patient, but Danaïs did not seem delirious or even fevered. Perhaps the shock of the accident had left him confused.

  “This is a Human city,” Gabrielle explained. “You are at Castle DesChênes, the royal castle of the kingdom of Verdeau. Your friend brought you to our gates seeking help when you were wounded.”

  “But you are ... ,” he whispered.

  “A pretty good bonemender, lucky for you,” she assured him. “And you are still weak and must stop talking for now. Can you drink a little?” Gabrielle poured a careful measure from a beaker on the bedstand into a small glass. “This will ease the pain in your leg and help you rest.” She sat with him until his limbs relaxed and he drifted into sleep, then she stretched out on one of the clinic beds. She was desperately tired.

  A HAND ON her shoulder awakened her. Féolan. She sat up groggily, aware suddenly of how disheveled she must be. She had been in the same clothes—bloodstained clothes, now—since dawn.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” he said. “I brought your dinner.” He gestured to a covered tray set on the low table against the wall. “Your family seemed to think you might not have eaten all day.”

  “Thank-you, I guess I haven’t.” Gods of the air, she felt half-starved. Her quick breakfast, eaten at daybreak before an early ride along the river, seemed years ago. “Have they looked after you properly?”

  “More than properly,” he assured her. “I have not eaten so well in many long weeks, nor enjoyed such pleasant company. I had not realized that the King of Verdeau himself was our host. How is Danaïs? Has he awakened at all?”

  She saw his concern. “He fares well,” she said quickly, reaching for the tray. Even covered, it smelled wonderful. “The wound is mending cleanly, and he did awaken earlier and speak to me. The medicine I gave him will make him sleepy, though, and the rest can only do him good.” She tucked in, forcing herself not to gobble: venison in a rich gravy with oatmeal biscuit, the first potatoes of the summer crop, new carrots and a goblet of wine, heavily watered. That would be Tristan’s doing, she thought; he knew she steered clear of strong drink when she was working.

  “I will sit with him, then,” said Féolan, “so you can have a proper night’s sleep.” She began to protest, but a quick gesture of his hand forestalled her.

  “Please,” said Féolan. “Let me help in this small way. If Danaïs takes a turn for the worse and needs your skill, I will know it. Surely a servant can fetch you, if need be?”

  “Actually, if you pull the cord hanging in the corner there, it will ring in my room and wake me.”

  “Perfect. You can sleep in peace, then.”

  Gabrielle nodded in agreement. The room took on a
comfortable silence, while Gabrielle ate and Féolan watched his friend. An afterthought nagged at her. “How will you know?”

  “How will ... I’m sorry, what?”

  “You said you would know if Danaïs needed me.”

  “Oh. The same way I know that you are tired out.” He smiled. “I will feel it.”

  She stared at him. He shrugged. “We can feel other people’s emotions,” he said. “If Danaïs is in pain or ill or frightened, I will catch an echo of those feelings.”

  Blessed Mother, thought Gabrielle, with a thrill of recognition. She had experienced this herself but only in moments of deepest concentration, in her healing trance. Then the link between her mind and the patient’s body was seamless, intimate, and shadows of his feelings would sometimes gust through her as she worked. But here was a man—no, a whole people—who apparently sensed others’ feelings as casually as she herself might note the approach of rain.

  She longed to ask Féolan more about it, but he was right, what she needed now was a bath and bed. She finished her dinner, and after leaving dosage instructions for Danaïs’ medicine, headed for her chamber.

  FÉOLAN SAT LONG by his friend’s side, holding one hand between his own two. His expression was distant, as if listening to music far away. He was no healer like Gabrielle, but like most of his people he had some ability to lend strength or encouragement to another in need, especially to one he knew and loved. He did so now, letting his friend know even in sleep that a companion walked beside him still. He sat into the night, until the whole castle was quiet with slumber, until he was sure Danaïs rested easily.

  Then he prepared to rest himself. He hesitated, looking at the bed Gabrielle had slept in. Would it be considered improper among these people to use it himself? There were no other linens or blankets to be seen in the room. It seemed pointless, even laughable, to simply move the covers and pillow to a different bed—there were four in the little clinic altogether—and after days of sleeping in the bush he was ill-inclined to slump in a chair all night. In the end, he pulled off his boots and slept on the bed, but under the blanket only, leaving both sheets pulled up. He smiled wryly at this awkward attempt at etiquette—an attempt that was probably all wrong and that, in any case, no one would even witness unless he overslept.

  As he lay in the dark clinic, his mind idled over the day. He had been sure Danaïs would die. Though he hated to think of it, the memory of the boar charging replayed over and over in his mind, along with the nightmare struggle to staunch the wound and get Danaïs on the horse, for what? To ride aimless over the trails in search of a road, hoping against hope it led to a nearby settlement and a bonemender who could against all expectation ... And the trails had, against all hope, led him straight to Gabrielle. A Human healer.

  “Be honest,” he corrected himself, summoning to memory the lustrous copper and gold highlights in her dark hair, the warmth of her smile. “A very beautiful Human healer.” He fell asleep thinking of the intriguing young woman who had saved his closest friend.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE next morning Gabrielle found them both awake and talking quietly together in their own language. This time Danaïs smiled when he saw her.

  “Lady Gabrielle,” he said. “Féolan has told me what you did yesterday. You have saved my life, and if I can ever serve you it will be my honor.” Gabrielle thought he delivered this rather formal speech as if he had planned it out ahead of time. Probably he had, she realized. If you have to say something important in a language not your own, you probably do figure it out ahead of time.

  She smiled warmly. “You owe me nothing. To be able to do this—it’s all the reward I need. But I thank you for your courtesy.” She checked for fever, took his pulse and finally looked at the wound itself. Féolan, watching, gasped as the bandage came away.

  Danaïs tensed. “Is it bad?”

  “Nay, Danaïs,” whispered Féolan, looking from the leg to Gabrielle with frank astonishment. “Nay. ‘Tis healing wondrously fast.”

  Gabrielle’s long vigil by the bedside had been rewarded. The wound was clean, uninflamed and visibly shallower than yesterday. It was a long, long way from the life-threatening gash Danaïs had arrived with.

  “Could you eat some broth, or a little bread, do you think?” asked Gabrielle.

  Danaïs grinned. “I think I could eat almost anything!” he replied.

  “That’s what I like to hear from a patient. I’ll have breakfast sent down,” said Gabrielle.

  “Could you have them send a tray for me too, Gabrielle?” asked Féolan. “You go have breakfast with your family.”

  KING JEROME WAS lifting a rather large piece of ham to his mouth as Gabrielle entered the room. “So you decided to favor us with your presence at last,” he growled, fork suspended in midair. “Your family not worthy of your company anymore, is it?” Blue eyes glared at her from under wiry brows, and Jerome’s freckled complexion darkened to angry brick red. This performance had fooled many people, but not Gabrielle.

  “Good morning, Father,” she replied. “It’s good to see you too.”

  Tristan cackled. “Why don’t you give it up, Father? It never works.”

  Solange, Gabrielle’s mother, patted her husband’s shoulder. “There, dear. You do look very fierce, you know. Just not to us.”

  She turned to her daughter. “How is your patient, Gabrielle?” she asked. “We met the other one, Féolan, last night at dinner. He is quite charming. But he said his friend was terribly hurt.”

  “He’s doing fine, I’m glad to say.” Gabrielle helped herself to bread and eggs. “Eating breakfast even as we speak, I hope. Oh, and that young lad, Philippe, who fell off the roof, just a dislocated shoulder, after all. Though it’s my belief he jumped.”

  “You saved the leg, then?” asked Jerome. He looked at his daughter with open pride as she nodded. “It’s plain amazing, isn’t it? I don’t know where you come by that gift, girl, but you leave any bonemender I’ve ever met in the dust.”

  “It’s not a competition, Father,” Gabrielle said primly, but she was pleased nonetheless and she let it show.

  “And they really are Elves,” marveled Solange. Small and dark-haired, with neat, quick gestures, Queen Solange hailed from the north mainland, while Jerome’s sandy coloring, big bones and blunt manner all proclaimed his “Islander” ancestry. “I’ve never met one before, though my parents used to speak of seeing them now and again. I wonder what brought them our way?”

  “I intend to find that out today,” announced Tristan.

  Gabrielle snorted. “Subtle as ever, Tris.” She adored her brash younger brother, but their personalities could hardly have been more different.

  THAT DAY THEY fell into a kind of rhythm that set the pattern for the days that followed. Féolan stayed through the morning, helping his friend pass the long hours of recovery. When Gabrielle arrived with lunch for them all, he was singing, accompanying himself on a slim instrument he called a lythra, and the sweet lilt of it was so lovely that she could not bring herself to interrupt but stood by the door listening until the soup got cold. Tristan showed up at lunch too and, as Danaïs seemed to be doing well, was permitted to stay. “But no interrogations, Tris. The man needs peace.”

  By the time they had eaten Danaïs looked tired, and Gabrielle shooed the others away. Tristan was more than happy to commandeer Féolan. He offered to ride out with him and show him the surrounding estates, and Féolan was pleased to join him. Gabrielle, meantime, got down to business: first more medicine to relieve the relentless torment of the wound. Then she bathed Danaïs, changed his bandages, and while he napped, worked on healing his leg.

  Dinner they took in turns, but Féolan would not budge from Danaïs’s side through the long evenings. Gabrielle often joined them for a couple of hours, talking quietly or listening to them sing. Though she knew none of the words, the music seemed to speak directly to her heart.

  On the third evening, Danaïs asked after the horses.
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  “They are well cared for here,” Féolan assured him. “And I check on them daily.”

  “You seem very attached to your horses,” Gabrielle remarked. She remembered the day of the accident, when Féolan had seen to the horses even when his friend was near death. She loved her own horse, but not that much.

  “How not?” asked Danaïs. “They are loyal, patient friends, who give themselves to our needs. We must be friends in return.”

  “You talk as though they were Human,” said Gabrielle, then laughed at her own words. “Or should I say, Elvish?”

  Féolan smiled. “It’s true, though. We are careful of our horses in Human settlements because Humans do not see animals as we do and sometimes mistreat them. I have seen gentle beasts beaten with sticks more than once.”

  Gabrielle could not deny it, remembered her own hot indignant tears when as a child she had first witnessed such a thing.

  “You ride with no reins,” Gabrielle said. “How do you do that?”

  Féolan shrugged. “They carry us of their own will, and they understand what we ask of them. If there is trust between horse and rider, there is no need to be pulling this way and that.”

  They understand what we ask. Gabrielle’s mind refused to accept the phrase at face value, but in her heart she knew it was the plain truth. She remembered how Féolan had spoken to his horse at the gatehouse and how the horse had stood like a statue for so long.

  “You talk to them,” she whispered. They nodded. Gabrielle thought of her gray mare, Cloud, and felt unaccountably close to tears. She said no more.

  By the fourth day Danaïs was sitting up and gingerly moving the leg. As his body grew stronger, his cheerful personality emerged. So did his love of good conversation. His command of Krylaise, the language of Verdeau, improved hour by hour. Even Tristan, with his limited tolerance for sitting in any one place for long, was happy to take shifts in the sick room when its patient was awake.