The Bonemender (2 page)

“G’day, Lady Gabrielle. That Delacroix boy going to be all right, is he?”

“Yes, Yves. Just a dislocation, luckily. It looked worse than it was.” Crusty old Yves had kept the gate for as long as Gabrielle could remember and seemed to know the news almost before it happened. How he had learned about Philippe’s accident was anyone’s guess.

“That lad’s a spunky one. I’ll wager you’ll be tendin’ him again afore he’s grown.”

Gabrielle laughed. “You may be right. Only eight years old, on the roof!” She started across the courtyard and was nearly at the castle doors when a clatter of hooves and a startled cry from the gatehouse made her turn around.

A man—no, two men on a single horse were cantering up to the gatehouse, a second horse trailing after. One of them shouted as he approached.

“Please help me! My friend’s been hurt; he’s bleeding badly. Please, is there someone who can help?”

Gabrielle saw then that the forward man was slumped against the other, his leggings black and dripping with blood. She was back at the gatehouse and clipping out orders before the bemused Yves had spoken a word.

“Yves, get three or four men to help move this man. We need a litter. Get one to bring my bandage case from the clinic. Make them hurry!”

“What happened to him?” she asked the stranger, hardly pausing for breath.

“Boar gash in the thigh,” he answered. If he wondered about her credentials, he held his peace. “He lost much blood, and more when I pulled him on my horse.” She saw now that he pressed a pad against the wound with one hand—a bunched-up cloak, it looked like. That was well.

“Yves, I need your stool,” ordered Gabrielle. Turning again to the horseman, she asked, “Will your horse stay quiet if I approach?”

“He will if I ask him to,” he replied, and, oddly, he placed his hand on the horse’s neck and murmured to him. Gabrielle had no
time to ponder this. She dragged the stool over to the beast’s side, stood on it and steadied herself against the broad shoulder.

“I want to have a quick look at the wound, see what we’re dealing with,” she said, and the stranger nodded. Gabrielle lifted the cloth and saw a deep, ragged puncture, oozing dark blood the minute it was exposed. A vein damaged then, not an artery, or the man would likely already be dead, his heart pumping the blood right out of his body. She clamped the soggy cloth back down and pressed hard, checking the unconscious man’s pulse with her other hand.

“Your friend is alive but dangerously weak from loss of blood,” she explained. “If we move him off this horse now, it will open the wound and make him bleed more. I’m going to stabilize him right here, seal the cut blood vessel, before we move him. It will take some time, all right?” She glanced up, looking the stranger full in the face for the first time.

He looked ... different. There was nothing she could put her finger on, though he was disconcertingly handsome. Long dark hair, straight brows, luminous gray eyes, a grave manner. Nothing you couldn’t find in any local village—well, except maybe those striking eyes. Yet Gabrielle was oddly sure he was not from Verdeau.

He stared at her and his brow cleared. He smiled with a kind of wonderment. “You’re a healer.” A statement, not a question. “I never hoped to find such a one in a place like this.”

The men arrived with bandages and a stretcher, and Gabrielle applied a pressure pad to the gash. Then she braced herself as best she could on the horse’s shoulder, placed her hands against the wounded man on either side of the bandage and stilled her mind.

Here was another difference. Usually there was an effort involved in “getting in” to another person’s body—a kind of invisible barrier or resistance that had to be felt and eased through. This time, the barrier felt strange, like grasping silk when you were expecting wool. Gabrielle’s mind fluttered along its edges as she tried to attune herself to her patient. And then suddenly, effortlessly, she was there, seeing with the inner vision that she alone, of all the people she knew, possessed. She traced the path of the injury, searching for the source of that relentless bleeding. There. The great vein descending from the groin was sliced almost through, but not quite. That was lucky; it meant both ends were still in place. Gabrielle concentrated deeply, summoned the light, channeled and directed it through her hands. It was infinitely more difficult than mending Philippe’s shoulder: the boy had been full of life and health, the tissue damage minimal. This man was weakened, the wound lethal and angry, the vein gaping apart. Speed was vital, yet she couldn’t rush. The work was painstaking; cell by cell, she had to rejoin the ends of the severed blood vessel, and it had to be strong enough to hold while the injured man was jostled off a horse and onto a stretcher. He hadn’t enough blood left to withstand a mistake in judgement.

Time passed, but Gabrielle was unaware of it. She barely seemed alive herself, so motionless and quiet was her trance. The servants with the stretcher shuffled their feet and fidgeted; they knew her reputation and knew better than to disturb her, but inaction in the face of an emergency galled them.

Féolan, however, was almost as still as Gabrielle. He supported Danaïs patiently, though his back and arms began to burn with fatigue. At times his own eyes were closed, his expression one of
deep concentration rather than sleep. Other times he watched Gabrielle intently, though there was little to see. His horse too could have been carved in stone. It was only later that onlookers remarked on how strangely the horse had behaved.

Nearly two hours passed before Gabrielle lifted her head and looked around, her expression glazed. The world rushed back as her senses awoke, and she nearly fell off the stool as the cramping in her calves—she had been standing half on her toes the whole time—took her by surprise. Yves had to jump forward and help her down, keeping an arm under her elbow as she stamped her feet, wincing.

“All right,” she said, looking at her waiting helpers. “Thank-you for waiting. We need to slide this man off the horse and onto the stretcher. He mustn’t be jostled or his leg pulled, or the wound will re-open. Can—” she broke off, looking up at Féolan. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I am Gabrielle DesChênes, and this is my father’s castle.”

“Féolan, of the Elves of Stonewater,” he replied. “My companion is Danaïs. We are deeply in your debt.”

A muttering broke out among the men, but Gabrielle merely gazed at the young man gravely. “You are most welcome here,” she said, “but I’m afraid further courtesies will have to wait. I was about to ask, Can you help support your friend off the horse? Your muscles must be even stiffer than mine.”

He smiled ruefully. “They will do anything required, I think, to move freely again.” Still, Gabrielle made sure there was a man at each of Danaïs’ shoulders to take his weight, with the others supporting his hips and feet. As Danaïs was eased from the horse, one of the servants cried out.

Gabrielle’s attention snapped to his face: “What happened?”

The man mumbled in apology, but his eyes, and those of his fellows, never left Danaïs.

“His ears, m’Lady. I couldn’t help myself.”

The Elf’s blond hair had fallen back from his brow, revealing delicate ears that ended in a subtle but distinct point.

Gabrielle’s mouth tightened in disapproval. “We have more important things to worry about right now.” A quick check showed the bleeding still under control. “Let’s go,” she said shortly. The men carrying the litter started off, but Féolan hesitated.

“Our horses ... “

“Yves will have someone take them to the stables,” she replied, slightly irked to see him lingering by the animals instead of staying with his friend. She started after the litter.

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.

F
ÉOLAN
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.

G
ABRIELLE 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.”