Page 12

THE SOUND OF HOPE

WREN

H e is unmoving, a world and a breath away from me, face now peaceful and respectful, as any villager should look when regarding the BoneKeeper, and I am sick with longing for the secret smile from moments before.

The distant reverence is unwelcome and unnerving.

But it is not worth the risk to either of us to say what can’t be said, so my eyes and face are blank and empty as the Silent bracelets around my wrists. My heart, though, cannot be quiet.

Tah- REEK . Tah- REEK . The sound of hope in a soundless word.

“BoneKeeper. Are you well?” He cannot help the curl of his full lips, tilting up at the corner.

In a city of death and dust, he is unexpected happiness, and it is always a gift to me, even though it is guarded and careful.

Reaching out to the bone wall near me, I run my fingers along their surfaces, wondering how to respond.

They’re waiting, noiseless, as I study him surreptitiously.

If our village were made human, it would be Tahrik.

His golden skin is the color of the wheat fields in the light of the setting sun, his ebony hair, tumbling in wild waves to his shoulders, a mirror of the mountain rock.

The gleaming doors of the Council House are his eyes, so brown they are almost black under heavy brows.

His jaw is sharp, and his cheekbones high over hollow shadows; there is never enough food for any of us to be rounded, even for the millers and bakers.

Nose straight and neck long to thin but powerful shoulders, everything about him is a map of our people.

He looks no different from any other in so many ways, but my eyes are drawn to him even in a crowd of a hundred.

I know the way he folds his cloak, how he laces his boots, and, if he is our village, then he is all of the shining moments with none of the despair.

“Well enough.” My voice is cool and calm. My heart is chaos and lightning.

“Are you free for visitations today?” His eyes dart to either side like the tiny brush birds that live in the pale brown scrub bushes outside of the Southern Bone Arch, making sure we are alone.

I am about to answer him when the bones call out sharply.

Keeper! Keeper! and I shake my head, elf-locks echoing out a wooden sound from the bone fragments entangled in my hair.

Tahrik looks briefly alarmed, then nods in understanding, quickly disappearing from the curve of the Garden, turning the far corner just as a Protector enters the small clearing from behind me.

I do not move, don’t turn around, but call to greet him, the Living Bones trailing down my back letting me know which of the Council’s guards has come for me.

“Ollendar.” It is not a question, not a welcome, just a statement.

Of the Council’s Protectors, he is not one I actively dislike, but I would not willingly seek any of them out.

Before…before, the Protectors were like family to our people.

They were for us , not the Council. Things have changed, though, and I would no sooner trust a Protector than kiss an adder.

There is a gentle, but mirthful, protest from the bone necklace running down my spine, and I can’t bite back a quick grin, sending a silent apology to the line of living fingers and teeth.

I forgot for a moment, I whisper to his bones. Forgive me.

His answering emotion is wry, and, for my bone Protector, surprisingly amused. Kiss the adder over Ollendar, he murmurs back, a rare verbal response. And then, more seriously, I do not trust him.

Two full sentences? You’re positively loquacious today, Lorcan . I tease him gently, but sense him frown, so immediately heed my Protector. If Lorcan doesn’t trust his old friend, then I will not either, and mentally move Ollendar from the list of “annoying but tolerable” to “be cautious”.

“You’re needed.” The words are bitten out, sharp and edged.

Turning, surprise clear in my movements, I raise a single brow at his tone, and focus my white eyes unerringly on his tense form.

“Apologies. BoneKeeper.” He inclines his head, hands pressed before him. “The Council calls for you to attend. If you are not otherwise occupied.” Ah. They must have realized how loose they left my leash.

Sighing, I shrug. I have no choice, not really.

Unless the bones command me, the Council’s request is my law.

Running a hopeful hand along the white wall, I send a quick thought to them, but they all shiver and rattle, loudly enough that my head whips around to face them in alarm.

My sudden fear puts Ollendar on guard, his body tensing, hand dropping to his sword as he looks for the threat.

The bones want me to go with him, but cry out from all around me in a confusing cacophony You must go Keeper.

Be watchful, be wary. Be watchful, be wary.

There is change coming, Keeper. The End or the Ender.

Stay close to the bones. Keep close to the Knife.

Wear the Crown. The End or the Ender. It is rare for the bones to speak so clearly of things outside of their memories unless to warn me of danger, and their cold voices scrape along my skin like teeth made of ice.

“Coming, Ollendar,” I reply, voice level and blank, as always when I speak, no hint of dawning dread audible.

But when he turns, I move my bone knife forward on my belt, and pull the living bone strands in my hair forward over my shoulders.

It is not my Guiding Blade, but is reminiscent enough that it provides some comfort of protection.

We are here, Keeper, they whisper. You are not alone. We are here.

Running my fingers along their smooth surfaces, I take dark comfort in their words. They are here. They are always here.

And I am never, never , alone.