Bone Crier's Moon

by Kathryn Purdie

  I push away from the altar and rush for the tall double doors at the front of the chapel. The bruise on the back of my head throbs, and my vision starts to spin like it did last night.

  I reach the doors and fumble with the latches. They’re stiff and won’t budge. I ram my shoulder against the splintering wood. Once, twice. Perspiration wets my brow, but the effort is worth it. The door budges open.

  I stagger out into the street just as the air shudders with a crack of thunder. A few drops of rain splash on my face. I release a heavy sigh and curse my bad luck. The thickening storm clouds dilute Elara’s starlight even more, and only a feeble measure of strength steals into me.

  I turn in a circle, trying to decide which way to go. My eyes widen at the looming structures all around me. Nothing is green or leafy. Everything has hard edges and stinks of refuse. This area isn’t pristine like the buildings towering above the city wall near Beau Palais. It’s decrepit and filthy. My chest pangs for Bastien. He spent his life on these streets.

  On a whim, I run left. More windows are lit from within in this direction. It makes it easier to see where I’m going. I wouldn’t need the help if I had my tiger shark vision. The sky flashes with lightning, and rain pelts the cobblestones. The few people still outside run indoors for cover.

  “There she is!” a woman’s voice hisses from an alley to my right.

  “Finally,” a man grumbles behind me.

  I whirl around and shove my wet hair off my face, but I don’t see either of them.

  “We’ve been looking for you.” Another voice. Male and bodiless and right in front of me.

  I jolt and whip out the small knife I stole from Marcel. I don’t know if these souls are Chained or Unchained, but they definitely shouldn’t be here. “You need to go back to the inlet with the land bridge,” I tell them.

  “Why?” I startle at yet another voice. Robust and female and crowding in on my left. “So you women in white can herd us like dumb sheep?” A cold finger slides up my cheek. I gasp and jump back. “The land bridge is gone.”

  “We like it here.” Icy breath prickles in my right ear. “So much to feast on.”

  My nostrils flare. I swing my knife out. The soul shrieks as I slice into it. I quickly jab to my left, then slash in front and behind me, anticipating a group attack. But my blade only grazes one of them. Two others slam into me and knock me to the ground. Pain erupts from the back of my head. I’ve hit my bruise again.

  I kick and thrash, blindly fighting with my knife, but too many souls converge on me. More are coming. Their growing roars rise above the thundering sky.

  “Ailesse!”

  Bastien.

  A jolt of adrenaline rushes through my body. I’m not alone.

  I wrest my right arm free and drive my blade into what feels like ribs. With a shrill scream, one of the souls slumps off of me. Rain pummels my face. I sputter and gasp, but keep attacking the others. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bastien seize an abandoned cart and run it toward me like a battering ram.

  “Get off her!” he shouts.

  Most of the souls let me go. I roll out of the way just as the cart barrels through the rest of them.

  Bastien is immediately at my side. He hauls me up and grabs my hand. We race down the street and away from the chapel.

  Invisible hands claw at us. Bastien veers for the sun-symbol flag of Dovré. Its pole extends from a bracket on a building. He yanks it out and swings it behind us, using its pointed iron tip like a spearhead. It thuds as it strikes a few unseen opponents. “I told you that you were a beacon to them,” he says to me.

  I pick up a loose cobblestone and lob it through the air. It stops halfway in its arc and strikes one of the souls. “Did you find Jules?” I ask. There’s no point in wasting more breath by telling Bastien he was right.

  “No.” Rain streaks off his flexed jaw muscles. He swings the pole again. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  My stomach rolls. “What do we do now?” The dead are swarming us, backing us up against the wall of the building.

  Bastien rapidly assesses our surroundings. “Follow me.” He races into a slit between buildings, an alley so narrow I didn’t notice it before.

  I chase after him, my knees shaking as my weakness threatens to overwhelm me. My shoulders bang and scrape against the alley walls. The dead rage behind me, but at least here they can only pursue us single file.

  The rain falls in angry sheets as we emerge into a courtyard and dash through it to a stable. Bastien kicks open the gate, breaking the lock, and passes me the flagpole. I whirl around and stab at the air. I hit a soul. The heavy rain bounces off of the contours of an invisible body.

  A moment later, Bastien bursts out of the stable on a large gray horse and reaches for me. Anxiety and anticipation trip through my veins. I’ve never ridden a horse before. I spear another oncoming soul, then grab Bastien’s hand.

  He hoists me up behind him on the saddle and straightaway gallops out of the courtyard and onto a wider road.

  “Come back, thief!” someone yells from an open window.

  I find myself laughing. I can’t help it. Despite my fatigue and the vicious cries of the dead, the thrill of actually riding an animal and feeling its strength pound beneath me is exhilarating.

  Dovré rushes past me in flashes of lightning as the storm rages on. Bastien weaves aimlessly through street after street, trying to outrun the dead. I glimpse arched façades and domed towers and humbler dwellings with thatched roofs. The rebelliousness of being in this forbidden city sends another shiver of elation through me. I don’t even care how furious this would make my mother. I wrap my arms tighter around Bastien’s chest.

  He steers the horse into another alley and slows the stallion to a walk before he stealthily slips around another corner. The rickety spires of the chapel that we started from rise above the cluster of rooftops in front of us. Bastien swiftly dismounts the horse, and then pulls me down with him. “From here we go on foot,” he says. “Quietly.” He yanks off his dripping cloak, wraps it around my shoulders, and draws up the hood. “Do your best to stay out of sight.”

  I stare into his sea-blue eyes and the raindrops collecting in his lashes. Maybe it’s my bruised head, but my knees go a little wobbly. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to my hideout under Chapelle du Pauvre.”

  “The catacombs? Again?” All my euphoria vanishes, and my chest caves inward.

  “I’m sorry, Ailesse.” His brows pull together. “I don’t know anywhere else that you’ll be safe.”

  I look away from him and slowly run my hand over the stallion’s neck. I could leap up on this strong horse and ride away from here, back to Château Creux. But the horde of the dead would only follow me and endanger my famille. The Leurress can’t attempt to ferry them for another month, not until the next new moon. Can I last that much longer in the darkness?

  “We’re not giving up, all right?” Bastien tentatively touches my shoulder. “I’ll keep searching for Jules. She and Marcel are off somewhere working to break our soul-bond. You and I can do the same thing. I bet we’ll even have better luck. Marcel might be brilliant, but I have you.” He blinks, catching what he just said. He lowers his eyes and bites the corner of his lip. “You have me, too, Ailesse.”

  My heartbeat steadies. A flood of warmth calms the tension in my body. Maybe I can bear the darkness. I take Bastien’s hand and hold it tight. He meets my eyes, and his mouth gently curves upward.

  We set off for the chapel.

  33

  Sabine

  I STAND IN A MUDDY four-foot hole and scoop up another handful of sodden earth. I push a dripping curl off my forehead with filthy hands. The rain is relentless. I should have buried the golden jackal right after I killed him, but when I dragged him into this hollow, I couldn’t bear to look at him, let alone touch his limp body. I covered him with fir branches and did my best not to cry while I set off on another vain search for Ailesse.

&
nbsp; That was yesterday. By evening today the jackal’s body has started to stink. Someone without a graced sense of smell might not notice, but I do, and that means others in my famille will, too. They’ll track his scent here. They must be hunting for him again, and I’ve gone directly against the matrone’s wishes by killing the jackal myself.

  I slop out one last handful of mud. The pouring rain masks the odor of decay for now, so I have to hurry and finish this. I climb out of the hole and rush over to where I stowed the jackal’s body. I pull the fir branches off him and swallow the bile in my throat. The jackal is rigid now, and a milky substance is filming over his eyes. “Forgive me,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. I pull Ailesse’s bone knife from the belt of my hunting dress and start to hack at his hind leg.

  I shut my eyes as much as possible. I’m grateful that the loud rainfall covers most of the noise. The tendons are tough and require me to twist and yank the bone. Elara, give me strength.

  Finally, the bone breaks away. I’ve severed the jackal’s whole leg, from his femur to paw. I have to bury what I can’t use—and I just need the femur. I’ll carve a pendant from it for my necklace. I wrinkle my nose and start hacking again. I whimper. This is torture.

  My hands are trembling by the time I’m done. I drop the knife and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. Thank the gods this is my last grace bone.

  As soon as I’ve had the thought, my stomach twists with guilt. Should I really claim this bone for myself? I could still give it to Odiva so she can carve a new flute.

  The sky crackles with thunder. A shrill cry rises above it. At first I think it’s a red fox, but then the rain at the edge of the hollow glows with chazoure.

  An icy chill grips me. I duck low, praying the soul will pass by without seeing me, but then he speaks in a rumbling voice, like another clap of thunder. “Don’t bother hiding. I sense the Light inside you.”

  The hair on my arms lifts. He has to be Chained. And I have no time to cover up the jackal again.

  I look up, and the Chained man bounds into the hollow. I drop the femur. Grab my knife. Jump to my feet just in time to stab him in his chest. He growls and shoves me down. I tumble backward once, then spring up, but I don’t attack again. I can’t kill him. I need to evade him. “You want my Light? You’ll have to catch me first.”

  I race out of the hollow, more grateful than ever for my nighthawk grace. My legs are light, and my speed is powerful.

  The dead man bolts after me and stays within reach, surprisingly fast himself. He’s tall and lean-muscled, and his chest is wrapped in five rows of chains. Most Chained I saw at the land bridge had half that many. I’m going to have to be clever, as well as quick.

  I weave through trees and change directions often, trying to lose him, but I steadily make my way toward the Mirvois River, the prominent river in South Galle.

  The rain doesn’t let up. I barely keep my footing on the downward slope of a grassy hill. The Chained man isn’t so lucky. He slides and tumbles down the wet grass. For a moment, that puts him ahead of me, and I narrowly dodge him as I race onward.

  Another hill looms ahead. At its top is the bluff above the river. I know this spot well. I hunted a stag here while I deliberated about my second grace bone. The current of the river runs wild with white water. If it weren’t for the pounding rain, I’d hear the sound of it raging.

  I dig in my feet as I race up the muddy hill. The Chained man swipes for my leg and grazes my ankle. I shake him off. My muscles burn, even with my graces. I need the jackal’s strength.

  You’re almost there, Sabine. Keep going.

  I pant, reaching the top of the hill. The edge of the bluff is masked by a row of trees, the torrent of rain, and the dark of night.

  I pray my graces will be enough. I need agility on the slick ground from my fire salamander, the power to vault through the air from my nighthawk.

  I sprint for the tree line and eye a sturdy branch that overhangs the bluff by twenty feet.

  I slow my speed just enough that I’m barely beyond the Chained man’s reach.

  Fifteen feet to the tree line.

  Ten.

  Five.

  One.

  I plunge off the edge of the bluff. The Chained man’s arms reach for me. His fingers claw the skirt of my dress, but then slip off the wet fabric. He plummets off the bluff with a guttural scream.

  I fly through the air, drawing my legs up to stick my landing. My feet skid onto the thick branch. I’m balanced, but the branch is too short. I’m going to slide off it.

  I crouch forward and grab the branch with my arms. It’s too wet for me to gain any traction. I squeeze harder and cry out with exertion. My legs topple off. I slide onto my stomach, desperately clinging on to the branch. It’s getting thinner, flimsier, as I near its end. I fumble for a forking tree branch. I grip it, and my shoulder yanks hard as I finally come to a stop.

  I slump with relief, hanging on to the bending end of the branch, and look below.

  The Chained man has fallen into the river. The rapids are sucking him downstream at a helpless rate.

  A weighted breath purges from my lungs. Thank you, Elara.

  I take a moment to recover my strength, then crawl off the branch and onto blessedly solid ground. I waste no time. I run back for the hollow, soaked and shivering but resolved.

  I have to give the jackal bone to Odiva. The dead can’t be ferried yet, but maybe she can lure them with the song and herd them into a cave. We can seal it up with large rocks. The Leurress can guard them there until the next new moon.

  My lungs are on fire by the time I reach the hollow. I don’t stop to rest. I pull out the bone knife and skin the flesh off the jackal femur. I’m going to present a clean and ready bone to my matronne. It might help her forgive me for slaughtering the beast.

  My hand slips, and the blade of the knife nicks my palm.

  Something gives a rasping screech six feet in front of me. I suck in a sharp breath, expecting to see another Chained. But it doesn’t glow with chazoure. It isn’t human in form either.

  It’s the silver owl. Here of all places. Feathers drenched as the rain pelts her.

  My stomach hardens. I pull the bone onto my lap with my uninjured hand. “We need a bone flute,” I say defensively, assuming that’s why the owl has come. She helped me kill the jackal, after all, when she prevented Odiva from doing the same.

  She hops nearer, tilting her head at me. She blinks her beautiful eyes. Somehow I know what she’s trying to communicate. That I need to trust her. That she’s well aware that the dead are swarming South Galle. And Ailesse already has a bone flute—the true flute. She played it on the cliff above the land bridge.

  Claim this grace, Sabine, and use it to save your friend.

  The thought comes like another voice in my mind. It showers me with calm understanding.

  I stare at the owl. The rain doesn’t let up, but I don’t shiver. “Will you help me find her?”

  The owl bobs her head, and my heart thumps faster.

  I inhale a deep breath and open my palm. The rain washes away most of the blood from my nick, but it’s still bleeding at a steady rate. It will be enough.

  I grit my teeth and press the jackal bone against my blood.

  34

  Ailesse

  I SIT CURLED UP NEXT to the relief of Château Creux in Bastien’s hideout, my finger idly tracing the towers that no longer exist there. My famille didn’t always live beneath the castle; we used to dwell in secluded glens of the forest and caves off the shore, but I don’t remember those places. I was a baby when King Godart died from an unnatural death. That was the same year a fierce storm swept the land and battered Château Creux, adding to the rumors that the castle was cursed. But Odiva held a fondness for the place. She moved our famille there when it was abandoned.

  I look around me at the room off the quarry where I’ve lived these last ten days. I’ve grown comfortable here—as comfortable as I can be with all my
strength leaching away and my desire to help my famille eating at my nerves.

  The scaffolding at the edge of the quarry pit creaks, and my limbs tingle with warmth. Bastien is back.

  He steps off the scaffolding and into the room with a satchel slung over his shoulder and something tucked beneath his arm. The lantern light catches the angles of his strong jawline and the fresh gleam of his hair. He had time to shave his stubble and bathe while he was above. A sign that the search for Jules and Marcel was uneventful. Again.

  “Any luck?” I ask, still clinging to vain hope. Maybe my grace bones and the bone flute are in Bastien’s satchel, and he cleaned up to celebrate.

  “Jules wasn’t in the attic over the brewery,” he says, and my shoulders fall. He’s already checked all the places he and his friends ever took refuge in, and now he’s combing through random spots in Dovré. It’s all starting to feel pointless. “Don’t worry, I’ll find her.”

  I study the forced grin on Bastien’s face and the lines beneath his tired eyes. He’ll never give up searching—he’s just as stubborn as I am once he sets his mind to something—but that doesn’t mean his hope isn’t failing, too.

  “And the dead?” I ask. “What’s happening with them?”

  He sighs and walks closer to me. “More of the same. Rumors of people hearing bodiless voices. Some of them plead or apologize. Some threaten. But none of them are as violent as they were around you and the other Bone Criers.” He lowers his satchel on the ground, as well as a cloth-wrapped bundle. “Seems like the dead are more cunning around ordinary people.”

  “But not any less dangerous.”

  He nods, sitting down to remove one of his boots. “I overheard a couple men in the tavern mention friends who have fallen sick.” He shakes out the dust and pebbles. “But those friends don’t have fevers or rashes or any obvious symptoms.”