Bonemender's Oath

HOLLY BENNETT

Copyright © 2006 Holly Bennett
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system
now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Bennett, Holly, 1957-
The bonemender’s oath / Holly Bennett.
ISBN 1-55143-443-1
    I. Title.
PS8603.E5595B66 2006        jC813’.6        C2006-902526-6
Summary:
In this sequel to
The Bonemender
, Gabrielle and her brother Tristan
fight to keep safe those they care for and to find a place for love in their lives.
First published in the United States 2006
Library of Congress Control Number:
2006926564
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing
programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of
Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and
the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia
through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover artwork, cover design, interior map: Cathy Maclean
Typesetting: Christine Toller
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Printed and bound in Canada.
09  08  07  06  •  5  4  3  2  1
Printed on 100% old growth forest free paper that is 50% post
consumer waste, 100% recycled and chlorine free.

This one’s for my dad. We miss you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Authors do not squeeze writing into their “spare time” without their families feeling it, so I want to thank my husband John and three wonderful sons for their enthusiasm and support, even when I spend the entire weekend hunkered over the computer or am only half at the dinner table because my other half is wandering around in la-la land. Thanks also to my editor, Maggie de Vries, who makes the hard work of revision
almost
painless and claims to cry at the sad parts of my stories.

H
IS
father had done it better, Derkh thought. As usual. To be killed all at once, have it done with—that was Col’s style. A soldier’s death. And Derkh? He would die slowly, without honor, forgotten in a cart at the arse-end of a battlefield.

The surgeons, busy with casualties from the night raid that killed his father, had not thought to check on the wounded boy they had given up on days before. No one had even brought food or water until sunset of the following day. He had asked that man to fetch a surgeon.

“I’ll tell ‘em,” the soldier had promised, but the accompanying shrug suggested, Don’t get your hopes up.

The next morning the fever was back—a hot/cold ache in his joints and behind his eyeballs—and a hungry flame licked at his belly. Still no one came. Derkh thought about trying to change the bandaging himself. He even forced himself to sit up despite the knifing pain and dizziness—but he would never manage to strike a fire and brew up the herbs Gabrielle had left him.

By the time a surgeon appeared in his tent, Derkh’s thoughts were drifting, unconnected fragments, but he tried to pull them together and relay Gabrielle’s instructions.

“There’s no time, soldier,” the surgeon replied. “We’re heading out now.”

Derkh hoped Gabrielle had made it out alive. It was the only hope he had left.

“D
ERKH?
A
RE YOU
all right? Are you in pain?”

Gabrielle’s face, rocking back and forth with the motion of the cart, was inches from his. She must have been recaptured, he realized with sorrow. Then his head cleared, and he was in the present again.

“No, I’m fine. Sorry. I was dreaming, I guess.”

But was it a dream? Dreams were nonsense; this was memory so vivid it seemed real. Derkh wasn’t even sure he had been asleep. He knew he would just as soon forget the things his mind insisted on reliving.

But now he was waking, and it was the present that loomed large. They were nearing Chênier. Gabrielle had conveyed this news cheerfully, as though he should be glad of it. She didn’t seem to realize that the end of this long journey south was not a homecoming for him.

Derkh had seen the hard looks from the Verdeau men—not those who served under Gabrielle’s brother, Tristan, but others. They wondered, and rightly, why a prisoner of war was cosseted like a long-lost relative. He was a Greffaire soldier and before long would have to answer to that charge. And what then? Prison? Slavery? Execution, after Gabrielle’s long labor to save him? The rule of Verdeau and the will of the king’s officers would decide; a healer’s friendship would not be enough to protect him.

Derkh pushed himself to sitting, ignoring the protest in his belly. He would walk for a while, for as long as Gabrielle would allow, and he would savor each painful step. Whatever his fate, it seemed certain his days of walking free under the summer sun were coming to an end.

T
RISTAN HAD TO
rein in his horse at the sight of the familiar towers of the castle, gray stone outlined against the perfect blue of an early summer sky. Home. The banners bearing Verdeau’s green and white were playful in the breeze.

Only a season it had been since Tristan had headed out with the Verdeau army to meet the invaders from the north. One brutal spring, filled with more horror and loss than he had ever known. He had thought coming home would be the easy part.

But nothing he had faced had been harder than this: riding into his own courtyard a day ahead of the returning army, so that his mother would not have to hear from a messenger that her husband, King Jerome DesChênes of Verdeau, would not be coming home at all.

The road approaching Chênier was studded with sentries, Tristan noted with approval. No doubt his brother Dominic had undertaken the defense of the city with his usual competence.

Then it was his own gatehouse before him, and Yves coming forward to meet him. Yves knew better than to press for details, but Tristan gave him the basics: “It’s over, Yves. We won.” And then he looked ahead, to the wide oak doors that would lead him to his family.

“M
ATTHIEU, LOOK, THERE
are lots of ripe strawberries. Come and try some.”

Matthieu DesChênes glanced over at his mother where she knelt among the low plants. He didn’t know why she liked to be in the garden so much. Matthieu’s father, Dominic, would be king one day. His mama could have servants bring her strawberries anytime she wanted, but there she was, pulling them off their stems and holding them out enticingly.

Matthieu liked strawberries, though, so he joined his mother and filled his mouth with the succulent fruits. A dribble of red juice escaped his lips, and Justine wiped it away with her thumb and smiled. “Yummy, aren’t they?” Matthieu nodded, but he wasn’t thinking about strawberries. He was thinking about the war. He leaned over and carefully disgorged the red, runny pulp onto the inside of his wrist.

“Matthieu! What in the world—?”

“If I got wounded in the war, it would look like this,” he said, admiring the effect. “But if your whole arm got cut off, that would be blood everywhere, wouldn’t it Mama?”

He had gone too far. He could tell by the way Justine’s face became closed in and hard. “That is enough, young sir! This is no kind of talk for a five-year-old boy.” She pulled a hankie from her skirt pocket and scrubbed the red stain from his arm.

“Mama.” Matthieu’s voice had gone all choky and quiet. It meant he might cry. He hated to cry, but he couldn’t help it. Justine heard, and her face softened. Her hands became gentle, smoothing open his clenched fingers.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“I want them to come home: Grandpa, and Uncle Tristan and Gabrielle.”

Matthieu still didn’t know exactly what the war was or where it was. But he knew he didn’t like how quiet and empty the castle was, how the grown-ups were always talking together in low, worried voices and then giving him pretend smiles when they saw him, like the ones painted on the faces on the dumbshow players that he saw last winter. He didn’t really like thinking about swords cutting off arms, either.

“Oh, lovey.” Justine knelt and held him close. “We all do.
We just have to keep hoping they will come back soon. And safe.” Matthieu nestled against his mother’s shoulder, but his eyes, curious and alert as ever, were drawn to the gatehouse. Old Yves was talking to somebody.

Matthieu squinted as a figure came into view. Maybe it was another messenger.

T
RISTAN HAD TAKEN
only a few steps across the courtyard when a small shape came arrowing toward him over the broad lawn. Matthieu didn’t stop running until he barreled into Tristan’s legs and wrapped both arms tight around his uncle’s thighs.

“Whoa, boy! You’re going to knock me right over!”

The boy gazed up with shining eyes. “Uncle Tris! Is the war over? Did you win? I’m five now, and look!” He grasped his lower lip and pulled it down to his chin. “I lost a tooth!”

Matthieu’s chatter stopped as he took in Tristan’s plaster cast. Silent, eyes wide, he touched it with a tentative finger. “Did you get your arm chopped off?”

Tristan guffawed, a heartfelt laugh that made him feel, for a moment, that perhaps nothing had changed after all, that the banners had every reason to fly gay and carefree in the sun. He ruffled Matthieu’s brown hair. “No, Matthieu. It’s just a break, and Gabrielle fixed it. When she takes off the plaster, I’ll be right as rain.”

“Ohhh,” the boy breathed, looking, Tristan thought, just a little disappointed.

But Tristan’s attention had turned back to the doorway, opening even now. It was time. He bent down to the tousled head. “I have to go talk to your grandma now, Matthieu,” he said gently.