Bone Crier's Dawn

by Kathryn Purdie

  He carefully lowers me to my feet. The servant he summoned is waiting for us and passes me my crutch. I reluctantly take it. I balance my weight on my good leg and stare down the long corridor, fidgeting.

  “What is it?” Cas asks.

  I turn and study him. He isn’t winded from lifting me down the flights of stairs. If anything, he looks rejuvenated. His cheeks have a healthy glow, and his posture is strong and stable. I bite my lip. “You could carry me again,” I say quietly. “I wouldn’t mind this time. But only until we reach the great hall.”

  His brows rise ever so slightly, and his mouth curves into a gentle smile. He steps closer and places his hand against the small of my back. My skin heats at his touch, and I release a tremulous exhale.

  “I regret that I’ll be unable to ask you for the first and last dance tonight,” he says, giving a nod at my crutch. “Perhaps this can be our dance instead.”

  Before I can answer, he sweeps me into his arms again. I let my crutch fall to the care of the servant. “And what is my part?” I ask with a teasing grin, hoping to establish a lighter mood between us. Cas keeps glancing at my lips like he has a mind to kiss me, but I won’t let him. I’m only consenting to this dance because it can’t really be considered dancing. “Doesn’t a dance require two partners?”

  “I suppose.” He carries me down the main corridor.

  “Well, my arms are free.” I smirk. “Should I wave them in the air, like this?” I sway them back and forth to the music.

  He chuckles. “Yes, perfect.”

  “What else should I do?”

  Both of his dimples flash this time. “You must clap your hands so my feet stay on rhythm.”

  “Very well. Try to stay on this rhythm.”

  I clap erratically, speeding up, slowing down, whatever I can do to make the beat more difficult. He grins and does his best to follow. He races and pauses and skips and hops. I can’t stop laughing as I jostle in his arms. The poor servant with my crutch trails behind us, struggling to stay in step.

  We keep “dancing” down the corridor until Cas runs out of breath. He laughs, almost wheezing, until he stops twenty feet away from the first garland-draped column of the great hall. The glow of bright candles shines from within.

  “We better compose ourselves,” I whisper, giggling. I motion for the servant to bring me my crutch. When he does, I thank him and he excuses himself promptly. “I think I’m his favorite person,” I say to Cas. He smiles, but doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t put me down, either. His eyes lower to my lips again. His head bends closer.

  My pulse quickens. My nerves spring to life. For the briefest moment, I want to truly understand why the gods chose him for me. I want to feel it in his kiss. But suddenly I’m in another place—a tunnel, not a corridor. I’m in the arms of another boy, one with sea-blue eyes and dark tousled hair . . . a boy who opened his heart to me when he had every right to hate me. You never needed to play a song for me, Ailesse.

  I turn my head before Cas’s mouth touches mine. His breath heats my cheek as he exhales softly and pulls away. “I’m sorry,” I say, sensing his disappointment. “You’re gentle and you’re kind, but—”

  A man steps into the corridor from the great hall. It’s Briand, one of Cas’s young captains. I recognize him from the cavern bridge a month ago. Cas takes one look at his troubled face and hurriedly sets me down. I lean on my crutch.

  “Have more intruders infiltrated the castle?” Cas walks forward to speak with Briand privately, but every word bounces back to me in the resonant corridor.

  Briand shakes his head. “It isn’t that, Your Highness. As your friend, I only wanted to prepare you before you joined the feast.”

  “Prepare me for what?”

  Briand sighs and combs his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “Your father . . . he isn’t here. He wasn’t able to attend after all.”

  “Did he take a turn for the worse?” Cas’s body tenses.

  “Not exactly. I spoke with his manservant. Apparently your father wasn’t even able to stand upright after bathing and getting dressed tonight. His physician insisted he continue to rest for a few more days.”

  Cas falls silent for a long moment. “I see.” His head drops, and the sight of his wilted shoulders makes my chest ache. More than anything, he wanted to please his father tonight. I understand that kind of yearning. I always wanted to please my mother, and I almost always failed. But Cas’s disappointment must be so much harder. Until now, he believed his father was recovering.

  “But you have my word there are no more intruders,” Briand says, in a weak attempt to comfort his friend. “No other accomplice was here but the thief.”

  My heart beats out of cadence. “Thief?” I hobble closer on my crutch. “What thief?”

  Cas stiffens. He won’t turn around to look at me. Briand shoots him a nervous glance and carefully replies, “No one that should trouble you. We’ve taken care of him.”

  “What thief?” I glare at Briand when Cas still won’t give me an answer.

  The captain swallows and looks to his prince for permission. Cas blows out a heavy breath and nods. “Bastien Colbert,” Briand replies. “But you are safe, mademoiselle.” His next words almost drive me to my knees. “The thief will hang. His Highness locked him in the dungeons.”

  5

  Sabine

  MY KNEES TREMBLE AS I guide the thirty-three Ferriers of my famille from our home at Château Creux to the cliffs above the arm-shaped inlet in the Nivous Sea. Everyone except for the five novices too young to ferry and the six aged Leurress too old to battle the dead are here with me . . . here to witness if I succeed or fail.

  The ferrying dress I changed into is dripping wet from the storm, and my arms throb from my grueling swim through the river below Beau Palais. The closer I lead the Ferriers to the land bridge, the more my doubts prey on my mind. Can I really open the Gates?

  I quietly hum the melody the silver owl imprinted on my mind.

  “Hush, Sabine,” Roxane whispers behind me. “That song must only be heard coming from the bone flute.”

  My cheeks flush, and I nod. The Leurress are forbidden to sing any ritual songs; Odiva taught us that our voices would defile the sacred music. But I have a tendency to hum or sing when I’m nervous.

  Once we reach the cliffs, we take the secret passage between two boulders to the carved limestone stairs that descend to a cave off the shore. We walk from the cave out onto the rain-drenched sand of the beach.

  My pulse beats faster. It’s midnight. It has to be. The tide is at its lowest, and the rocks of the land bridge have emerged from the water. They form a forty-foot pathway that runs half the length of the inlet. It’s already time to ferry.

  I let the Leurress pass me and take their places at even intervals on the land bridge. The skirts of their white ceremonial dresses flap about in the lashing rain, but each woman stands strong with her staff ready. They look to me to join them. I’m still on the beach, my feet sinking in the wet sand.

  “Come on, Sabine.” Isla shivers, her ginger hair plastered to her face. She’s taken position at the foot of the bridge for no other reason than to goad me, I’m sure. She’s the youngest Ferrier, aside from me—if I even count as a Ferrier. I may have three grace bones, but I never had a rite of passage.

  The Leurress spent the earlier part of the evening debating whether I should be allowed here. A small majority finally won because I have the only bone flute still in existence—and now I know the ferrying siren song. I had to prove it by awkwardly humming each nuanced phrase. Roxane didn’t chide me for defiling the music then. She deemed it necessary, and the other elders followed her lead.

  “What are you waiting for?” Isla asks.

  I look to the high cliffs jutting up from the shore. Ailesse isn’t anywhere. Which means Bastien wasn’t able to free her on his own.

  I should be relieved—the silver owl warned me what might happen if my sister ferried tonight—but my stom
ach won’t stop roiling. Ailesse would have thrived on this opportunity to lead the ferrying, while all I want to do is bury myself in the sand.

  Pull yourself together, Sabine. Do this for your sister.

  I tighten my grip on my quarterstaff, turn back to face the inlet, and take my first tentative step onto the land bridge.

  Isla arches a brow as I walk past her and move toward Maurille, the next Ferrier in line. The middle-aged Leurress places her bronze hand on my arm and squeezes. I muster a smile in return. She’s one of the few who have supported me from the beginning.

  I slip by her on the twelve-foot-wide rocky path and approach two of the elders, Roxane and Milicent. They step back to give me space to cross a more narrow section of the bridge. A generous action, though diminished by their wary expressions. They were ready to follow any order from Odiva, but not from a sixteen-year-old girl—a girl who isn’t even the matrone’s blooded heir. To them, I’m just the girl Odiva named as heir when Ailesse went missing. I’ve kept the truth a secret; otherwise, I’d have to explain that Odiva was my mother, as well as Ailesse’s, and that she had conceived me with a man who wasn’t even her own amouré. My famille doesn’t need one more reason to disregard me.

  I continue advancing toward the end of the bridge. The rain pelts my face as I walk by the remaining Ferriers: Isabeau, Vivienne, Alainne, Giselle, Chantae, Élodie, Jacqueline, Maïa, Rosalinde, Daphné, Fleur, Valerine, Adélaide, Orianne, Rochelle, Séraphine, Alette, Jessamyn, Nadine, Damiana, Joselle, Clémence, Laurinne, Cecille, Désirée, Zoelie, Bernadette, Dolssa, and Pernelle.

  All of them are older than me, more experienced, more committed—I never even wanted to be a Ferrier. My foot slips on the wet rocks, despite the agility from my salamander grace. I steady myself and take the last step to claim my position at the end of the bridge—the matrone’s position. I release a trembling breath and unwrap the bone flute from a piece of lambswool.

  Pernelle, closest to me on the land bridge, comes to my side. She smoothes the dripping honey-blond hair off her face and holds a woolen blanket over my head. That way my notes won’t burble in the rain. I bring the flute to my mouth, squeeze my eyes shut, and try to concentrate.

  “Relax, Sabine,” Pernelle says. At thirty-nine, she’s the youngest of the elders, and the only one who supports me. “This isn’t the first time the Leurress have ferried in a storm. I’ll stay beside you. For now, focus on playing the siren song.”

  A lump forms in my throat—from guilt, not gratitude. Pernelle trusts me, but I’ve told so many lies, even though I had good intentions. I haven’t wanted to make things worse for my famille. They’re still mourning Odiva, and they don’t trust that I can lead them. They don’t know Ailesse is in Beau Palais and soul-bound to the prince of South Galle. Or that Odiva sacrificed thousands of souls to Tyrus—the Unchained dead who deserved Paradise but who my mother ferried to the Underworld instead. They don’t even know I slaughtered the golden jackal we were all desperately searching for last month. I told them the flute I’m holding is Odiva’s, and that she found and killed the jackal, then carved this flute from its bone before she died, when in reality I was the one who did those things.

  Ailesse will take my place soon. She’ll make everything right again.

  But what if I can never bring her back? How will I tell my famille the truth?

  For now, focus on playing the siren song. I inwardly repeat what Pernelle just told me. I breathe in and out and start to play.

  The melody of the siren song pierces the roar of the rainfall. Each achingly beautiful note beckons and urges and instills desire. If more people besides the dead had ears to hear it, all might come and glimpse the dark wonder of the Beyond.

  The music sails high in its last measure, then dips low for a final reverberating note. I pull the flute away from my mouth and wrap it back in the lambswool. I think I played it right.

  “Well done.” Pernelle lowers her makeshift canopy. She points to the end of the land bridge, eight feet away, where the rocks drop away into the water. There, a low wave begins to froth and gurgle.

  My heart drums. I hurriedly stuff the bone flute into the sodden pocket of my dress. I’ve never seen the Gate of water before. I’ve only seen its strange counterpart, the Gate of dust, at the end of the soul bridge in the underground cavern. Each of those Gates, here and there, leads to the same place: Tyrus’s Underworld.

  The wave ripples higher without spilling over onto the land bridge. It keeps rising until it’s thirteen feet tall and hangs from the air like a billowing veil. The water continues rushing upward, but it never crests, and its midnight-blue color darkens to a sheer silky black.

  The purest siren song begins to play, not from my bone flute, but from both realms of the Beyond. It’s so captivating I’m almost breathless. Layered over the deep melody from the Underworld comes a soaring descant from Paradise.

  I glance to Elara’s Gate, which has just risen as well. It stands a few feet to the right, where it also adjoins the bridge. The Gate is barely visible, only a shimmer of silver, like a fogged-up window embedded in the slanting rainfall. It looks just as it did at the other soul bridge, except the spiral staircase beyond it, leading to Paradise, doesn’t disappear against a cavern ceiling; it extends all the way into the sky, past the storm clouds pulsing with lightning.

  A slow exhale purges out of me. My mouth curves upward. I’ve done what my mother couldn’t do last time she was here: I’ve opened the Gates. My siren song was accepted. Which means it’s also unlocked all the other ferrying Gates in the world. Now the Leurress, near and far, can perform our sacred work.

  For the first time in my life, I feel a flicker of pride at being born a Leurress.

  A shriek echoes off the cliffs surrounding the inlet. The warmth inside me vanishes. The dead are coming.

  I turn and hold my quarterstaff ready and ground myself on the bridge. My role is critical tonight. Beyond opening the Gates, I’m required to deliver each soul through one of them. The final act of ferrying is the matrone’s duty—my duty.

  Nearby, Pernelle also takes a defensive position. The other Ferriers along the land bridge do the same, every woman wielding a staff of her own. Swords and daggers would be pointless. We can fight the rebellious dead, but a soul can’t be killed; it can only be ferried.

  The cliffs start to light up with flares of chazoure. Without my nighthawk vision, I wouldn’t be able to see the glowing color of the souls. The other Ferriers also have sight to perceive it from their unique grace bones. Their heads turn and bodies shift, watching the souls scale down the cliffs and pour out from the cave off the shore.

  The first soul to reach the bridge is Chained, marked by the gods for his unforgivable sins. He’s a giant of a man—at least two feet taller than me. And he’s fast. He bolts down the bridge and dodges most of the Ferriers’ staff swings and blows. The hits he takes don’t faze him. He keeps barreling forward, his chazoure eyes clapped on mine. He’s after me because I played the flute. The Chained man, like all souls, can’t resist being summoned here, but he’s still desperate to avoid an eternity in the Underworld.

  Elara, help me. I’m not ready.

  Pernelle twirls her staff to span the twelve-foot width of the bridge. She’s trying to stall him and buy me time, but I’m only backtracking.

  Tyrus’s siren song thrums against the vertebrae of my spine. I glance behind me and gasp. I’m only inches from the Gate of water. I stumble forward to distance myself. The Chained giant shoves past Pernelle and lunges for me.

  “Feint, roll, and jab!” she shouts.

  I immediately fall into the counterattack pattern drilled into me as a novice. The movement works. I trick the Chained man long enough to somersault in front of him, then I swing around and slam the end of my staff into his back.

  His tangible body lurches forward, but then he digs in his feet. He growls and spins to face me—fast. He grabs my staff before I can strike again. His gaze drops to my grace bone
necklace. His eyes flash wide. I’m not sure what’s overcome him, but I yank my staff away and ram it into his chest. He tumbles backward through the silken black water of the Gate.

  I catch my breath. Nod my thanks to Pernelle. She nods back and runs down the bridge to help Dolssa wrangle a fitful child—Unchained, but still terrified of the afterlife. The other Ferriers are also busy encouraging, cajoling, and battling other souls. I wait at the end of the bridge for them to prod someone toward the Gates, keeping my defenses raised against the lure of the Underworld.

  It’s powerful, but ultimately resistible—at least for me. Ailesse’s struggle was undeniable, but she was always the thrill seeker between us, driven by her passion more than reason.

  “Sabine.”

  I frown. Where is the woman calling my name? She’s barely loud enough to be heard above the rolling tide and falling rain.

  “Sabine.”

  Her rich voice ripples like music.

  “Sabine, turn around. I am here.”

  My insides thread together. It can’t be . . .

  I turn. Look. Stare past the black veil of the Underworld. I feel blood trickle from my face. My mother . . . she’s standing just beyond the Gate of water.

  Odiva is still serenely—severely—beautiful. Palest white skin, a sheet of raven hair, lips red as blood. She wears her majestic grace bones, just as she did in life. Her three-tier necklace holds the claws and claw-shaped bone pendant of an albino bear, along with the tooth band of a whiptail stingray. The feather epaulettes on her shoulders rustle against the talons of an eagle owl. One of the talons, like the bear-claw pendant, is also carved from bone. Most intimidating of all, the vertebrae of an asp viper and the skull of a giant noctule bat form her matrone’s crown.

  But my mother can’t be . . . she can’t be alive.

  “You’re dead.”

  My hoarse voice is only a scratch of sound, but my mother must hear me, because she replies, “Do I glow with chazoure?”