Dead Bones Read online

  “Keep heat out at day,” he’d said confidently, “and heat in at night.”

  All but two of the beds were occupied and if Gabe’d had a say in the matter, he would have spent the night in one of them.

  Dina and Nacio patrolled the hospital, walking up and down between the beds, ready to fix a broken stitch, to dry a sweaty brow or sooth away the pain with their small magic skills.

  Some people were born with a natural talent for magic and some were able to be implanted; though of the five castes of magic, bone could not be implanted. Either you were born with the talent for bone magic or you weren’t. Be it natural or implanted, the strength of the magic was unpredictable. People with strong magic became mages. Qualified and ratified by the church of their saint. Those who underwent church sponsored training but didn’t have the strength to pass the qualifiers most often became Named practitioners—Sacerdios, Engineers, Flyers, Smiths and Diviners. And those with talent who couldn’t afford church training remained unqualified, working without sanction from their church, utilised by those who couldn’t afford anything better.

  Gabe was very strong. He’d passed his training and qualifiers with ease—too much ease, his teachers had claimed. If he’d had to struggle a bit more, suffer a setback or two, he might not have turned out so arrogant. Back then, Gabe had scoffed at them. He wasn’t arrogant, he was just that good. Of course, such belief had seen him pack his bags and head to Ibarra just to prove his critics wrong.

  He’d been an idiot to think he wasn’t arrogant. His first two weeks with Tejon Company had cured him of that misconception. His critics had been right. He’d never been so exhausted. Not during his training or qualifiers or even working for Master Mage Carrasco in Roque City. He had all but killed himself in Ibarra healing Evellia but even that hadn’t prepared him for war.

  It was a rare day he didn’t work on at least a half dozen grievously injured soldiers. Soldiers who would have died without him, men and women who would get to go home and see their families again, to hold their children and loved ones, to chat with friends over hot coffee or cold beer. Men and women who would get up and go back to the frontline for another bout of warfare. It ate at him, mentally and physically. His magic was strong but Gabe wondered each and every day if he was strong enough.

  It humbled him to watch the Sacerdios work. They didn’t have his power but they had abilities beyond his. They were gentle and tender but at the same time, cool and distant. They tended to the wounded every day, eased their pain, mended their hurts and when the healed left to fight again, the Sacerdios moved on as well. Gabe wished he could put it all behind him and move on, but he wasn’t that strong.

  “Mage Castillo.” Nacio came to stand beside Gabe. “We didn’t expect you in this morning.”

  “Thought I’d see how Palo de Torres was doing.”

  “Very well.” Nacio pointed to a bed on the far side of the ward where Dina sat, checking the patient’s pulse.

  It took Gabe a moment to reconcile the fresh, blushing skin of Palo’s round face, the sparkling eyes and the cheeky smile, with the torn and bruised pulp of yesterday. The chest and guts that had been little better than a plate of butchered remains were whole, a thin smattering of dark hair already emerging from the new skin.

  “He’ll be fit to return tomorrow,” Nacio said. “Your skill is amazing, Mage Castillo. Few Bone Mages would have been able to save him, let alone make him fit enough to keep fighting.”

  Gabe’s stomach churned in confusion at the compliment. Once, such praise would have made him proud, but now, he had to wonder if he’d done the right thing by Palo.

  Undecided, he muttered, “Yes, I’m fucking brilliant.”

  Leaving a shocked Nacio behind, Gabe approached Palo’s bed. The soldier had his hand on Dina’s arm, beckoning her closer. She leaned in so he could whisper in her ear. It wasn’t an unusual sight. The healed soldiers, relieved to be free of pain and injury, often expressed a gratitude bordering on inappropriate. The Sacerdios were skilled at diverting the attentions, though occasionally they didn’t. Gabe had never seen Dina encourage a patient.

  It was no exception this time. Dina listened to what Palo had to say, then gently removed his hand from her arm.

  “I’m not what you think I am,” she said as she stood. Turning, she saw Gabe at the foot of the bed and a flush coloured her cheeks. “Mage Castillo, I didn’t realise you were there.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

  Dina glanced at Palo, her blush deepening. “You didn’t. I have to clean the surgery.” She slid past him, not quite hurrying but eager to be gone.

  Gabe cocked an eyebrow at Palo. The boy laughed, the eternal good cheer of the young and not-yet-cynical.

  “She’ll admit it sooner or later,” Palo said. “Thank you for healing me again. I really appreciate it.”

  “About that.” Gabe sat on the stool Dina had abandoned. “Palo, this time when I healed you, I felt a hint of magic. Did you know you have earth magic?”

  Palo shrugged. “Yeah. It’s pretty weak though.”

  “Did you ask about an implant?”

  “My family couldn’t afford one. I did go to the local Smith, though, to see if she could help me, but after a while, I decided I liked wielding weapons more than fixing them.” He grinned. “Why be a Smith when I can be a soldier.” It wasn’t a question because clearly there was no choice in Palo’s mind.

  “But becoming a Smith is a far less dangerous way of earning a Name.”

  “You’re assuming I want a Name and citizenship.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I’m a soldier because I’m good at it. And I like it. Not everyone thinks a Name is vitally important to having a good life. I’m happy being a soldier. I like testing myself against an enemy and as long as I’m able, I’ll be happy to be a soldier. None of that requires a Name or right to petition the Council of the Second Estate. Only those of you with more names than you need think they’re so important.”

  Palo had a point, even if it was one most nobles would dismiss as uneducated opinion. It also made arguing any further pointless. He had come with the intention of giving Palo an escape from returning to the front, and failed.

  Gabe left, teeth gritted against his rising anger. He’d done all he could and it wasn’t enough. He didn’t save lives here. He just prolonged the inevitable.

  The rain was coming down harder, the wind firing it against his exposed skin like a hundred needles. Gabe pulled the collar of his jacket up and hunched his head down into its pathetic protection. People rushed about under cover of water-proofed canvases, trying to stay dry. Gabe didn’t care. He walked with slow, deliberate stomps, splashing mud up the legs of his pants, relishing the cold water running down the back of his neck. If only he could get sick. If only he could let the rain soak into his bones, let some disease take hold and make his body fight to survive. But just as Fire Mages couldn’t be burned by their own fire, a Bone Mage would never get sick. The magic simply didn’t allow it.

  At the mess tent, he shoved open the door and let a good gust of rain and wind in with him.

  “Hey! Watch it,” someone snapped, reaching for papers the wind blew off the table by the door.

  “Sorry,” Gabe said and let the door close.

  As the man collected his papers into a neat pile, Gabe shook like a wet dog and sprayed rain across the table.

  He moved on before the man could protest again. The mess was crowded with late breakfasters and lingerers, people who didn’t have to face the rain just yet, taking another mug of coffee as medicine against the doldrums. Gabe scanned the tent, looking for a face that might be sympathetic. Vendaval and Suelo sat in a corner, heads bowed over a map of the region, probably discussing the weather and how the earthworks would cope. Ruben and the Water Mage, Jacinta, were nowhere to be seen. The lieutenants sat at another table with a couple of chosen sub-officers, laughing and slapping each other on the back. Pio and his three
Engineers sat with the two off-duty Sacerdios, Agata and Manuel. The rest of the tables were filled with the rank and file of the camp, and the fully recovered wounded from the day before.

  The only spare seat was at a small table in the far corner where Ismael Donato Rios Gaitan de Ibarra, Dean of the Church of Ciro and Tejon Company’s spiritual guide sat, eating his breakfast. Gabe went to the dispensary, turned his nose up at the fried toast, looked away from the sausage before he could vomit and took a mug of coffee instead. Shedding mud as he went, he joined the Dean, sitting without asking and sipping his mildly warm, overly bitter breakfast, wishing with all his might for a cigarillo and lighter that worked.

  “Good morning, Mage Castillo.” The Dean patted the sides of his mouth with a fastidiously folded napkin.

  “Morning, Ismael,” Gabe said.

  The Dean shook his head. “I’ve asked you many times, Mage Castillo, please address me as Dean Rios.”

  “And I will, as soon as you address me as Gabe, or if you want to be formal about it, Gabriel.”

  Ismael was about Gabe’s age, at least no more than thirty. He was young for a Dean and, like Gabe, he’d arrived at the camp with a secret. One night, delirious from the day’s work, Gabe had stumbled into Ismael’s tent, looking for someone to distract him from the agony tunnelling through his bones. He’d found the Dean more than half drunk, sobbing over a bundle of letters. Refusing to discuss the issue, Ismael had helped Gabe by sharing a bottle of Talamhian liqueur. The next morning, nursing a monumental hangover, Ismael had retreated behind the wall of formality and despite Gabe’s repeated attempts, had not opened up again.

  Ismael sighed and put his spoon down. “I understand yesterday was rather difficult on you. More wounded than they estimated.”

  Gabe gulped down the horrible coffee. “More wounded, yes, but that wasn’t the problem.”

  “It never is with you, Mage Castillo. You’re not military trained, you were never supposed to be put in this situation.”

  “Nobody should ever be put in this situation.”

  Ismael ignored the snappy interruption. “You work yourself too hard. You’re constantly tired and therefore grumpy and self-destructive. You don’t sleep, you fall unconscious. You’re exhausted.”

  “Then go tell Meraz we need another Bone Mage.”

  “We don’t need another Bone Mage.”

  “Why did you need me, then? Didn’t Mage Alvarez have an episode? Isn’t that why I’m here? Because she broke like an old bone?”

  “Mage Alvarez was close to retirement and it was decided she would better serve her last years in Ibarra rather than in an active protective campaign.”

  “Protective campaign.” Gabe snorted. “If you admit Duke Ibarra and Abbess Morales are just protecting their own interests, then I’ll admit this is a protective campaign.”

  Mouth open to defend his duke and church, Ismael didn’t get a chance to utter a single word.

  “I saw Mage Alvarez before she left,” Gabe said, reasonable. “She was here, what, four months? So, that’s two months I have left before I start wearing my robe backwards with the sleeves tied in back. Interesting.”

  Ismael took several deep breaths, stirring his congealing porridge. “We weren’t talking about Mage Alvarez. We were talking about you and your inability to hold back. I do believe there have been no deaths since you took over the post of Bone Mage. Every wounded soldier to come through Tejon Company has either returned to the front or to their homes in Ibarra. A truly remarkable effort. Captain Meraz has sent a glowing report to General Baez regarding your work with us.”

  “Excellent.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Ismael continued. “It’s commendable, but also foolish. Captain Meraz told me what you did in Ibarra with that girl.”

  Gabe stiffened. A secret wasn’t a secret if everybody knew it.

  “Don’t worry,” the Dean said gently. “I won’t tell anyone. But if I didn’t believe it when the captain told me, I would now, having seen the lives you’ve saved here.”

  The bad coffee moved in ugly circles in Gabe’s stomach. Dear Luz. Talk about building your own crypt.

  “And that’s your problem, Mage Castillo.” Ismael looked Gabe in the eyes. “Everything in the military is about balance. From rationing food to taking and securing another valley from the enemy. You have to know when to let something go in order to keep hold of something else more important. This is what military mages learn and what you fail to see. You can’t save them all. Some of them need to be let go so that you don’t fail those with a better chance at survival. Do you remember that night you came to my tent and I was, regrettably, a trifle drunk?”

  A little startled by the topic change, all Gabe could say was, “More than a trifle.”

  Ismael brushed it aside. “Do you recall what we spoke about?”

  “Before or after you wouldn’t tell me about those letters, and that black pouch you kept fondling? I remember what you called that bag. Your life. Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “No, Mage Castillo. Let me refresh your memory. As I am now, I counselled you about your lack of restraint. About how it isn’t healthy to take on so much of what the soldiers are suffering. Your duty here is to make sure those soldiers capable of returning to the front get back there. My duty is to ensure those you deem physically ready to return are spiritually ready. I speak to every person you heal. I know how much you do for them. You give every part of yourself to each and every healing and you’re exhausting yourself unnecessarily. If you don’t learn to keep some distance then you will go the way of Mage Alvarez, and in a shorter amount of time.”

  Ismael’s lecture didn’t sit well. The Dean was right. Healing Palo the day before had been the first slippery step on the steep decline. It had been a battle to move on to the next soldier, the next intestine sliced to pieces no bigger than sausage links, the next lung turned inside out. If he’d just sent Palo to the death-hut he might not have collapsed later.

  But the Dean was also wrong.

  “No one should be dying here,” Gabe said. “This war, this protective campaign, is ridiculous. Duke Ibarra can shout about the Alarians invading the poor, defenceless savages all he wants but we all know the truth. The Valleymen didn’t ask us to come protect them. Alarie wasn’t marauding through the valleys, pillaging and raping as it went. There wasn’t war in the Valley until Duke Ibarra made one. The only invaders here are us. So don’t tell me that some people have to die. No one has to die here. No one should die here.”

  Silence had fallen across the entire mess. No one drank or ate, staring at Gabe, who had stood. His right fist was planted on the table, left hand raised in its black glove, one finger pointing at the Dean.

  No one looked at him with understanding or agreement. To a person, they were shocked at his audacity in stating what they all knew but suppressed. Second-Lieutenant Botello’s face was screwed up with anger, his white-knuckled fists resting on the table, his impotent fire talent revealed by tiny curls of smoke rising from his skin.

  “But none of you will ever understand,” Gabe continued. “You can’t feel the pain you cause with every decision. Each sword thrust, or bullet or explosion is just a mark on your tally sticks. You look at it all in terms of ground gained or lost. Numbers of lives to be spent like coins in the market. But as long as it all balances like a budget then the amount of blood lost doesn’t matter. And it won’t matter to any of you until you can feel it yourselves.”

  At their tables, the healed soldiers lowered their eyes. Gabe regretted including them in his little speech, but until one of them stood up and said he wouldn’t fire another rife or set another charge, then they were just as guilty.

  Gabe gave Ismael an apologetic smile. “So don’t tell me I need distance, Dean Rios. I’m not the one here lacking something.”

  He turned and left the mess tent. The rain still came down, the ground was still muddy and in the next valley, the war carried on and Gabe had gained n
othing. He rummaged in his wet pockets and found a waxed-paper packet of cigarillos. None of his other pockets surrendered up a lighter and he cursed himself. Pio had been part of his audience and was probably no longer willing to make Gabe a lighter on the sly. Ruben had already proven a dead-end for a flame and Gabe resigned himself to lighting his cigarillo off a lamp like some desperate beggar.

  About to return to the hospital for a light, Gabe saw the Smiths gathered under the awning of their tent. Where else but in a smithy would you find a flame?

  Gabe hurried through the rain to the smithy. None of them noticed his approach, watching a group of Valleymen rethatch a leaky roof on a hut.

  “Stupid bastards,” Tonio Martillo par Covadonga, the Head Smith, said, thick cigar clamped between his teeth, arms crossed over his chest, muscles bulging. He was shirtless, his massive shoulders and chest glistening under a sheen of sweat. “Can’t even thatch a roof proper. Someone should explain to them about water-proofed canvases again.”

  “Why waste the air?” Quico said. “They don’t understand ‘bout anythin’ civilised. Have you seen them eat? All their fingers in the same bowl of slops. And they don’t let their women hunt or anythin’. Shut them up in their huts to cook and clean all day. I say let the savages get wet.”

  Lobo, the smallest of the Smiths, grinned. “You know, I’m not sure the Dean’s tellin’ the truth when he preaches about the Fuerza Oscura. I ain’t never seen a demon, but them right there,” he pointed to the Valleymen, “they sure are ‘dark forces’.”

  Quico laughed and slapped Lobo on the back, but Tonio shook his head.

  “Nah. Those savage bastards ain’t demons,” he said. “The church reckons Fuerza Oscura can pass for human. Such dark skin? So dumb they don’t even know when they been invaded by Alarie? No inclination to fight back? They will never pass for human.”

  Stepping under the awning was like coming into a different world. It was dry and warm, glowing with the light of the banked forges. Gabe took out his cigarillo packet, shook one free and flipped it between his lips.