The Gate of Bones

Table of Contents

 

Button, button, who's got the button?
Bailey turned in a slow circle. She could almost hear Lacey panting. She'd run in the same direction, however wildly it seemed she'd been going.

She had to be somewhere about, and close. Maybe . . . Bailey slid her palm along the wall in front of her, looking for a crack or unfastened panel. Somewhere about here . . .

The wall clicked.

Bailey blinked as it suddenly swung open into darkness in front of her, and at the same time, something swung into the back of her, knocking her through!

She went headlong into nothingness, and the wall solidly thudded into place behind her.

“I think,” said Bailey quietly, standing very still, “I found that secret passage.”

And worse, as she strained her magickal senses, it was blacked out, warded, against any kind of magic whatsoever.

She was trapped, with no way for anyone to hear her!

Also by EMILY DRAKE

The Magickers

The Curse of Arkady

The Dragon Guard

The Gate of Bones

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2004 by Rhondi Vilott Salsitz.

eISBN : 978-1-101-16616-1

 

All Rights Reserved.

 

 

DAW Book Collectors No. 1304.

 

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

All characters in this book are fictitious.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

 

 

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

First paperback printing, September 2005

S. A.

I'd like to dedicate this book to friends and family who have enriched our lives tremendously.

 

Wayne Allen

A tall, lanky and self-made man whose hard work and thirst for knowledge continues well into his nineties. A man who never fails to share his insight and advice, with sincere thanks.

 

Uncle Sam Stein

Another self-made man whose hard work is exceeded only by his generous heart and inventive mind. May we toast your one hundredth!

 

Bernard Couch

A plain-spoken gentleman who brings light to our home every time he crosses the doorstep, with sincere gratitude for the pleasure of knowing him.

 

Larry Stone

A gentle giant with a sense of humor exceeded only by his sense of fair play. Thanks for the opportunities he's bestowed upon our family.

 

To Alexander, Tyler Jo, and Adrian With a thank you for being young readers and magical people yourselves!

 

And to my mother Barbara and my aunt Criss, for sharing with me their love of books, reading and adventure. You shall both be greatly missed and your memories treasured.

A
FULL HUNTER'S MOON rose over the fields and forest of Avenha, its golden shine almost as clear as the sun through the cloak of night. Avenha itself slept, the villagers weary from days of busy harvesting and storing for the coming winter. Signs all around them had warned of a long, harsh season awaiting them. Like villages all over, they prepared as well as they could. Now, as the moon rode the evening sky, the hunters it had been named for were out to catch those unwary creatures who grazed under its brilliant light. Newly harvested fields brought them all in: deer, boar, hill sheep. The next weeks would be spent curing meat and tanning hides as the days of autumn trekked toward winter.

Renart shifted uneasily at the chieftain's gate, trying to stretch his long legs without disturbing the others as he sat silently. He did not know why he'd been summoned and wondered if he was finally back in favor. He rubbed his hands together, the tattoos dappling the curve of his thumb and index finger marking him as a member of the Trader Guild. All he'd ever done was what he'd been born and trained to do, barter and trade.

Except he'd chosen invaders to do it with.

But how could he not? They'd seemed so harmless, so confused when they'd first arrived. Defenseless, even. Renart had rarely been more wrong. Of course, there were those who later understood his attraction to them. The new arrivals did seem somewhat out of the mists of tall tales, people who'd just awakened to the world. Yet the others who'd followed them had none of the helpless charm of the first group. He'd made friends with invaders. Traded with them. Given them knowledge and supplies through which they survived . . . and some of them survived well enough to hunt down his own people. Renart couldn't blame any of the chieftains who had later refused to deal with him when the Trader Guild pulled his license and demoted him to the lowly position of clerk for his mistakes. No, even if there hadn't been trouble, he could see the problems he'd caused. He'd established trade with a new people, without the consent of his own master and guild. Now, he realized, it looked like a shameless grab for power on his part. It hadn't been, though, it had been done out of curiosity and pity. He'd testified to that, over and over. Surely, they would eventually realize the truth, and he would regain their trust.

Surely? He stared at his shoes, odd things, invader things . . .
sneakers
he was told they were called. Certainly, their strange soles made walking very quiet. He wore them like a badge of honor despite all the trouble they had caused him. He didn't think he was truly wrong for what he'd done. He could never have predicted that the invaders would be the same people, yet two distinctly different groups. Like good and evil, two sides of the same coin.

Torches at the gate burned low. In the chieftain's hut, glowing coals were banked against the growing chill of the night, and a hooded lantern cast little illumination beyond its immediate circle. The chieftain sat on a sagging hide chair, his legs folded comfortably, the dappling of the tattoos across his cheekbones and forehead that marked his line and position little more than shadows in the room. He tapped a pipe against the stones banking the coals, and tiny sparks flew out. Renart gathered his wits about him.

A guardsman stirred in the gatehouse. “How much longer do we wait?”

“Night after night,” Mantor answered. “Until the trap is sprung.”

“And if they do not come?”

“Then our ambassadors have greatly misunderstood our new guests. But I think not. And I think our wait will end tonight. What do you think, Renart?”

The young trader flushed. “I—I wonder both how I can help and why you called me. Chieftain Mantor, there is no one better than you at what you do, but . . .” Renart shuddered in memory. “The Dark Hand is unstoppable. They use sorcery. I can only advise one way to meet that.”

“Good thoughts. I need a scribe to help my daughter with the warehouse records. As for it being you, specifically, well . . .” He paused for a long moment. “I do not wear the tattoos of chieftain because I am a good painter, eh? I look at people and judge them. At seasons and harvests, I judge them. I think you deserve a second chance.” Chieftain Mantor looked across the tiny flames licking up now and then from the red-hot coals, gazing at his daughter, her faced marked the same as his, as she took notes on the conversation, her hands busy with ink and paper. Her eyes were better than his in the dim light.