The Gate of Bones Read Online Free Page A

fire as well as cooking food filled the air, while a thin fog curled away from the ground. Breakfast was always served in the outdoor camp, to feed the wanderers who helped with the construction, for Gavan and Bailey’s mother Rebecca couldn’t help but take pity for the thin, tense faces of those who’d come to help build the academy.
    The hardest part of leaving home and coming to Haven was trying to understand the new people they eventually met.
    Quiet and wary and seemingly shy, it had been months before they’d actually met anyone face-to-face—and that first one had been Renart, the young trader who’d bartered items with them from the shadows. Some days they’d find a shirt folded up on a rock, for which they left small things of their own, the next they’d find a basket of eggs. Eventually, one day, Rebecca had been startled to find Renart himself, sitting cross-legged, awaiting them, his six-fingered hands folded in his lap, his eyes bright with curiosity, with a new sack of trade offerings at his side. They taught him to shake hands and he taught them how to “sketch a bow.” Gavan and Tomaz painstakingly made “Talker” crystals, crystals that they had imbued with a kind of translating ability, and they’d shared their first words with the native of a new world the Magickers had, basically, invaded.
    Rebecca Landau turned from a great pot, hung on a cooking rod, and waved her spoon in the air. Bailey beamed at her mother in pride. “Who’d have thunk,” she whispered to Ting, “that someone who hates camping would be doing so well in Haven?”
    Indeed, Rebecca glowed. Or maybe it was just reflected heat from the campfire which kept her cauldron of oatmeal bubbling. One tiny streak of charcoal etched the side of her face and Bailey grinned, wondering if she should tell her mom or not. Old, naturally, and a mom, of course, but Rebecca still looked slender and pretty, her light brown hair pulled back from her face in French braids, and her long skirt swirling down to sweep the ground. Yup, old Mom looked pretty good in Haven gear.
    Over the hubbub of the workmen, Madame Qi’s imperious voice could be heard, and the thump of her bamboo cane. “Shoulders straight, arms out, eyes closed . . . I want you to breathe deep!”
    Ting’s mouth opened in a soft laugh at her grandmother’s drill sergeant tone. She nudged Bailey. “She’s got them at it already.”
    â€œOur turn will come tonight,” Bailey groaned. She was still sore after yesterday’s exercises.
    â€œIt’s good for you,” Ting protested.
    â€œSo is cod liver oil, but that tastes like tuna fish gone bad, very, very bad, and you don’t see me taking it!” Bailey wrinkled her nose, freckles dancing.
    â€œOh, you shush.” Ting put up her hand and ran to the small, wrinkled Chinese woman who held a line of young men at her command with nothing more than the crack of her voice.
    Bailey veered away to the campfire. “Need help, Mom?”
    â€œNo, no. Qi and I got everything going this morning.” Rebecca pulled at her shirtsleeves, then dished out a bowl of steaming oatmeal, or what passed for oatmeal, and gave it to Bailey. “I have a little bit of brown sugar and raisins saved aside for you . . .”
    â€œWow!” She beamed at her mom. “Is Henry going to bring back more?”
    â€œIf he has the money. It’s difficult for him and his family . . .”
    Bailey sat on a stump, wooden spoon in hand. Actually, it was more like a miniature pancake turner than a spoon. Someday she’d have to explain the concept of spoon bowls to a Havenite and see what they could come up with. “Being an ambassador between two worlds isn’t all it’s cut out to be, huh?”
    â€œOne could say that.” Rebecca frowned. “He’s also worried about being watched.”
    â€œUmmm.” Bailey