Page 36

THE BLOOD TREE

WREN

B y the time Silas slows his pace, we are far from the center of the village at the north-western corner, the towering mountains curving above us. He has not looked over his shoulder once to check my progress; perhaps he can hear the stumbling sound of my feet in the dirt.

Or he has more faith in your abilities than others do Lorcan comments wryly, still wrapped around my neck in a collar, and I startle.

Protector?

Did you not — did you not speak to me, Little Keeper?

But we both know I did not, and Lorcan falls silent.

Unease creeps on my skin like Blood Moth wings, and my hand drifts to the Guiding Knife of its own accord, caressing the edge as though it could provide some comfort.

My nerves make me careless, and I nick myself, the smallest drop of crimson pearling on my skin.

The bone knife absorbs it instantly, and it feels like a low low purr of sound vibrates from its depths.

Jerking my fingers away, I surreptitiously wipe them on my hem.

Too much is changing, and I understand none of it.

It is not until we approach the curving north-west gate at the very outside edge of the village that Silas finally stops.

He still doesn’t turn around, just stands staring at the edge of our city — civilization on one side, wilderness on the other.

The path turns sharply from the gate, so from our position we are unable to see the Blood Tree.

“BoneKeeper,” he begins, and the caution flavoring his words sets the small hairs on my arms to standing.

“Some advice. There are more things at play on the board than you understand, I think.” I bristle instantly, wanting to argue, but he turns to me, silencing me with a sigh and a raised hand.

“Peace. For the love of the Goddess, peace.” Shaking his head, he scrubs a hand across his head, frowning.

“It’s not an insult, but Keeper. You are barely of this world.

The petty politics of normal men are not in your scope.

Or have not been, to this point.” Running my fingers over my bracelets, I debate responding, but remain quiet when he continues.

“Your silence buys you safety in this moment, do you understand?” He pauses, and says, almost wryly, “That means no scavenger hunts or fighting. Just — be yourself. No. Perhaps I should say be as you were. Before I left on the hunt. Not whatever you have become in the space of a month.”

The Father looks at me, waiting for an answer I think, but I remain silent and empty, and he nods. “Perfect. Just…do that. And listen.” Turning back to the gate, he exhales forcefully. “Forward to battle, I suppose.”

It is not comforting.

The Blood Tree is just outside the gate at the top of our village, a twisting, clawing obstacle on an anemic path fading out into pale green and gold, the dust of the road stopping suddenly where it meets the vegetation— almost at the cliff’s edge.

It grows a stone’s throw beyond the curves of a massive, bleached white archway, ribs for shape, femurs for strength, empty eyed skulls to keep watch, long sides coming to a pointed top high above the rest of the wall.

The Northern Arch is as imposing as the Council House in its own way; made completely from Silent bones, there have to be two hundred or more villagers used in its formidable structure.

I have never passed through its limits — even approaching the arch makes me nauseous.

There are so many Silent in it that I can feel it pressing against me even from a distance.

It is mirrored in the south by an identical edifice, and the eastern and western walls, making the very edges of our society.

No feet but the Hunters’ go behind the faded brown pebbles and dirt.

In a strange twist of fate, my only family is walled here, resting just outside the interior of the village, their bones nestled in the wilds-facing perimeter.

It is considered by many in the village a position of honor, guarding us from the night; to me, it is a position of exile, far from the heart of our people.

I tried once to lean against the wall nearest the archway, at the very limit of where I was able to go, one hand grasping tightly to prevent me from falling, the other stretching, fingertips straining to touch a familiar humerus, and was just able to brush it, skin to bone, before I was violently ill from the pressure of the Silent.

It was my grandfather’s, my skin recognizing the dips and grooves that comforted me on long days after he went to the Sun God.

He was the first of my family I Guided when I was old enough to hold souls — I was seven when the Council called him to Offering.

For a long time, even though I could guide souls and hear bone, I would get sick at the turning of every month, and would be unable to name the Offerings.

The Council was always more than willing to do it in my stead, and called my grandfather, my uncle, and my cousins in rapid succession.

The final roots of my family were torn from the ground and thrown to the fire when I was ten and I cradled the soft, shining soul of my mother from her Rendering, leaving me the last of our broken tree.

It was a brutal and breaking series of Offerings, my young hands trembling more each time I carried the bright weight of another I had loved.

I learned my lesson early, it settled into my marrow, became part of my heart — anyone I loved would be given as Offering. Any person who showed me kindness, however small, would somehow be named not long thereafter.

After I woke him in living bone, my grandfather would tell me stories of my mother as a child, of my uncle — her only sibling — and of my family.

I would curl up with him in the pale twilight and listen to his whispers, feeling tied to something greater than myself, a history of my blood that kept me attached to the earth.

But when all of my bloodline were gone in Offering, I was taken to train permanently with the Council.

My family bones were moved outside my reach, far down the perimeter walls past the Northern Arch.

As a reward, they said, for my hard work.

An honor, they said, for my ancestors. A punishment, they meant, for me, and suddenly I had nothing to connect me to this place anymore.

So I began to drift, and drift, and drift.

The only thing that caught me and kept me were skeletal fingers and ivory arms, and I built a new home for myself where the people who love me could never be taken from me, and comfort, however cold, was a constant.

After the day I tried to reach him, I woke, sore and shaking in my cottage, to bone dust in a pile on the ground beside my bed. The threat was clear.

I have not returned to the Northern Arch since.

“Are you ready?” SIlas asks, interrupting my thoughts, then, taking my silence for acquiescence, walks forward and through the archway.

I pause behind him, still on the inside, looking at the scene before me.

A mixed selection of Council, Renders, Reapers, and Protectors are already gathered around the Blood Tree — more than Raek and Nickolas normally have in their little snake pit.

At the sight of him, the simmering, nervous group of men by the tree fall silent.

“I heard you called a meeting, Brother Raek.” His voice darkens as he glances around the gathering.

“Nickolas. Aleksander. What a surprise to see you both here.” Silas turns back to address Raek directly.

“I thought you’d appreciate my presence, if we are having a meeting of the Council.

” Silas’s words are measured and weighted; Raek and Nickolas look stunned, and furious all at once.

“Of course, Father,” Raek replies, oily and serpent slick.

“We just didn’t want to bother you as you have only just returned.

It is a simple discussion of the silos and the Storms. Not worth your time, I’m sure.

But we welcome your presence, your making space for these small problems.” He has a way of speaking that makes it seem as though he’s permitting the Father to be there, as though the Father does not care about the village, as though power here is in Raek’s hands.

I can see Silas’s shoulders tense at the condescending tone.

He waits a beat, perhaps two, debating, perhaps, how to answer, then notices I have not followed him, and turns to command me.

“Hmm. BoneKeeper? Attend.” It is sharp and biting compared to his tone from moments before, but even a lifetime of following orders cannot force me through the arch. I feel sick to my stomach even being this close, wavering on my feet.

“You have brought the BoneKeeper?” Nickolas’s words are a hiss, venomous and flashing. For the first time, Raek looks truly concerned, but I don’t have time to consider the meaning.

“I…” Swallowing hard, I try to make my feet move, do any thing, but I cannot. Silas is frowning, as though I’m doing this purposefully to test his patience, ignoring his advice. The rest watch through considering eyes, and I’m unsure of the best play in this moment.

“Keeper?” Silas starts toward me, but is pushed aside by Nickolas, who stalks from the tree to my side.

“This is no time for your insolence, woman,” he snarls, lips curling into a sneer. “You would do well to keep your mouth shut and not get involved in men’s issues.” Grabbing my arm in bruising fingers, he twists the skin and yanks me forward through the gate in a violent, careless motion.

The bones of the village scream as one — high-pitched, agonized wails of sound, a tortured, crazed shriek of noise loud enough to shatter eardrums, and then, all at once, fall silent.