Bone Crier's Moon

by Kathryn Purdie

  “Maybe—if I run fast enough.” It will mean traveling out of these catacombs and to Château Creux first. My grace bones should help. “That’s why I need you to hurry.” I touch his arm. “Please, Marcel. Do you know what’s really happening to the sick people in Dovré?”

  “The dead are harassing them.”

  “It’s more than that. The dead are growing stronger by stealing their Light—the vitality that feeds their souls. Innocent people will die if we don’t act quickly.”

  His brows draw together. “Do you think Jules is sick like that? She’s been wounded this badly before, but now she’s starting to act strange.”

  “It’s possible.” Though I don’t really know how a Chained goes about stealing Light. “If that dead man comes back for her, there’s a very good chance he’ll kill her. And when he does, he’ll kill her soul, too.”

  Marcel’s eyes widen. Now he understands.

  “I need that flute.”

  He swallows hard. “Right. I’ll be quick about it.”

  He shakes out nervous hands and ambles back into the chamber, assuming his usual nonchalance. I watch him and stand back from the open door to keep out of Jules’s sight.

  He makes his way to the wall of shelves.

  “What are you doing?” Jules growls.

  “Getting some food, unless I need your permission.” Marcel brings down a sack of rough-spun cloth. With his back to his sister, he rummages through it while he walks past the shelves. He suddenly stops, seized by a coughing fit. He leans his shoulder against the wall, and his fingers creep toward a protruding limestone brick. It must be a little hollow on top, because when he reaches inside, he knocks something slim and white into his sack. He straightens and pounds his fist on his chest. “You hungry?” He pulls a chunk of bread out of the sack.

  “Not hungry enough to eat that mold-ridden rock.” Jules’s voice shakes like she’s convulsing again, even though it’s warm and she’s wrapped in blankets.

  “Fair enough.” Marcel drops the bread back into the sack and strolls out of the chamber with it.

  We hurry several feet away from the door. He withdraws the bone flute, and my blood quickens. I reach for it, but he pulls it close to his chest.

  “You have to keep your promise and never return for Bastien,” Marcel whispers. “He’s Jules’s best friend and also mine. We don’t want him hurt.” Or killed, he might add for the grave look in his eyes.

  “I will,” I reply. Then my stomach knots. “Will you tell him I know he loves Jules and that I”—my voice cracks—“that I wish him the very best?”

  Marcel looks at me blankly. “Huh?”

  “You saw them tonight.”

  “Well, yes . . . I mean, Bastien’s always cared for Jules, but you’re his soulmate.”

  My chin trembles. “That doesn’t mean he never had a stronger attachment to begin with.”

  “But—”

  “Bastien will be safer with Jules, Marcel. You know that. Promise me you’ll keep working to break the soul-bond.”

  His shoulders fall. “Of course.” He gives my arm an affectionate squeeze. “I wish you the best, too, Ailesse.” With a heavy sigh, he looks down at the flute. I know he’ll miss its mysteries. “Oh.” His expression brightens. “I forgot to tell you. You know that bridge I mentioned—the one in the caves beneath the mines?”

  I nod, curious.

  He turns the bone flute over and points to the symbol of a bridge over earth. “This was engraved on it.”

  40

  Sabine

  THE FULL MOON SHINES DOWN into the courtyard under Château Creux. Ten or so women are still awake and conversing in the corners of the open cavern. They whisper about the Chained stealing Light and growing stronger. They debate about what can be done before the next new moon.

  Maurille smiles as I rush by her. “Good evening, Sabine.” Other women notice me, too. I’ve come home twice to satisfy Odiva after she spoke with me in the hollow. Most of the Leurress bow their heads, acknowledging me as the matrone’s heir. Some frown and cross their arms. Isla, Ailesse’s rival since childhood, gives me a look that could freeze the entire Nivous Sea.

  I give her a cold stare of my own. Do you think I want this? I want to say. If Isla is jealous, she should have tried harder to be kind. I was chosen because I’m Ailesse’s best friend, the closest link to her. At least that’s what Odiva told everyone.

  I hurry into the tunnel that leads to the ruins of the castle’s west tower. Odiva’s bedchamber is the only room within it. I race up the winding stairs, pull the bone flute from my pocket, and rehearse what I’m going to say.

  I’m sorry, Matrone. I thought you’d be pleased I made the flute. I wanted it to be a special gift for you. You’re my mother.

  I hope my words will calm her anger. Odiva was supposed to be the one to kill the golden jackal, and I directly lied to her about my newest grace bone. She’ll piece together soon enough that it never came from a black wolf.

  My footsteps slow as I near her room at the top of the crumbling tower. Murmurs rise on the air and resonate from within, like Odiva is praying. I shouldn’t disturb her. I’m being bold even coming to her room. I barely know my mother. She distances herself from our famille, and she isn’t involved in our everyday tasks. She only speaks to us out of necessity. Truthfully, I’m not sure how much I want to know her. My whole life is a lie, thanks to the choices she’s made. Despite that, I can’t help creeping closer to the door. What is Odiva like when she’s alone? Maybe the unguarded version of herself is one I can learn to love.

  The door isn’t shut all the way. I can see about a foot-wide space around the center of the room, and a little more to the left and right if I angle my position.

  The matrone is kneeling in the middle of the floor. She looks so small and vulnerable—she’s removed all her grace bones.

  They’re laid around her in a circle: the claw-shaped pendant of an albino bear, as well as the talon-shaped pendant of an eagle owl; the tooth band of a whiptail stingray; the vertebrae of an asp viper; and the skull of a giant noctule bat. She spoke truthfully about her crow skull not being a grace bone, because it isn’t set out with the others; it’s still hanging around her neck.

  Odiva’s eyes are closed, her arms outstretched, and her cupped palms turned downward—the strange way I saw her praying on the night of Ailesse’s failed rite of passage.

  I study her straight and silky raven hair, her chalk-white skin, and vivid red lips. I look nothing like her. How can she be my mother?

  But then, with my keen vision, I take a harder look. The slope between her neck and shoulders has the same curve as mine. Her eyes are black, not brown, but the shape is similar. Above all, her smooth hands are my hands, her long fingers my fingers. Even the way her smallest finger angles away from the others is a mirror of mine.

  She opens her eyes. I startle and pull away from the door. Once my heart stops pounding, I tiptoe forward and peer inside again. There’s a bowl within the circle now. And a bone knife. This isn’t a prayer. It’s a ritual. And bone weapons are only used for sacrifices.

  What does Odiva mean to sacrifice?

  She picks up the knife, and I wince, watching her cut a line across her palm. I shouldn’t cringe. This is a standard part of sacrificial rituals. I had to cut myself with the bones of the animals I killed, as well. If Ailesse had completed her rite of passage, she would have cut her own palm with her bone knife, wet with Bastien’s blood.

  Odiva reaches into the bowl. She doesn’t retrieve an animal bone or any blood; instead, she pulls out a lock of auburn hair, tied together with a white string. I cover my mouth to hold back a gasp. Ailesse is the only Leurress in our famille with hair that color.

  Odiva drips her blood over Ailesse’s hair.

  A sick rush of dread fills my stomach. What is she doing? This could be a ceremony to honor my sister’s life—maybe Odiva regrets not saving her—but that doesn’t make any sense. Odiva’s grace bones a
re placed around her, just like Ailesse’s were placed at the foundations of Castelpont so the bridge could represent her body.

  I break into a cold sweat. What I fear can’t be happening.

  My mother can’t be capable of murdering her own child.

  My legs shake. I’ve lost all feeling in my arms. I can’t raise my hand to push open the door. But I have to. I have to stop this. I can’t let—

  “This is my hair, Tyrus. This is blood I share with my mother.”

  I flinch back slightly. That isn’t how a sacrificial prayer begins. That isn’t how any prayer begins.

  “Hear my voice, Tyrus, my soul’s siren song. I am Ailesse, daughter of Odiva.”

  My heartbeat slows. Odiva isn’t trying to kill Ailesse. She’s trying to represent her before the god of the Underworld. It doesn’t matter that she didn’t raise the timbre of her voice to sound like Ailesse. The blood and hair must be enough to appease Tyrus.

  “I revoke my birthright, my claim as my mother’s heir.”

  My eyes widen.

  “My word is my bond. Let it be so.” She releases a heavy sigh, and her posture wilts. Tears stream down her face, and she runs her fingers along the lock of Ailesse’s hair. “There, Tyrus. The ritual is done.” She places the hair back in the bowl and clutches her bleeding hand to her chest. “Let that satisfy you. I am speaking now as your servant Odiva. Accept my many sacrifices these past two years. Let them make amends for the two years I shared with my love.”

  Heat burns through my face. I hate that I’m the offspring of her betrayal to the gods.

  She opens her eyes, but keeps her head bowed. “I have given you the Light of thousands of Unchained souls, Tyrus, instead of ferrying them to Elara.”

  A wave of dizziness slams into me. What did she just say?

  “Now I ask you to honor your end of our bargain.” She swallows. “Release my love from the Underworld. Let him hear my siren song and become my true amouré.”

  I blink, trying to scatter the black spots in my vision. Am I really understanding her? Did my mother really make thousands of souls wrongfully suffer—for eternity—in order to resurrect my father and bind their lives together?

  She strokes Ailesse’s hair again with trembling fingers. “As for the child of the man you and Elara chose for me, I have all but done away with her.” Her breath shudders. “I beg of you, Tyrus . . . please alter the requirement you first gave me. Do not make me kill my firstborn daughter.”

  My ears start to ring. Bile scalds my throat. Just when I thought Ailesse might be safe from our mother—just when I had the tiniest measure of relief, knowing even though she lost her birthright, she hadn’t lost the power of her graces—I finally understand the depths of what Odiva has done, why she’s committed such terrible crimes against the Unchained.

  She gave Tyrus everything she could think of, if it meant Ailesse might live—everything except retracting her bargain. And that’s the worst crime of all. Because I believe she’d kill my sister in the end, if it was the only way to bring my father back.

  “Grant me a sign that I may spare Ailesse’s life.” Odiva spreads her arms and cups her hands downward toward the Underworld once more. “Grant me your golden jackal.”

  But I’ve already killed the golden jackal.

  Which means Odiva will never receive the sign she needs. She’ll grow desperate and resort to the final task necessary to appease Tyrus—what he asked of her when she first struck this bargain.

  Killing Ailesse.

  I trip backward from the door. I can’t draw air. Light-headedness seizes me all over again. I brace my hand against the stone wall so I don’t buckle over. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m not learning to love my mother; I’m growing to hate her. I’ll never give her the bone flute. If she uses it to ferry my father back from the dead, Tyrus might claim Ailesse’s life, anyway. The silver owl showed me my friend is already close to dying as it is.

  The silver owl.

  My stomach tenses. If she leads me to Castelpont again, I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .

  The answer shoots through me like a thunderbolt.

  My hands ball into fists. My muscles tighten in readiness.

  I’m going to become Ailesse’s proxy.

  Odiva has shown me how—though I have a different ritual in mind.

  I inhale and set my jaw, just like Ailesse would. I leave my mother to her vain pleadings and creep down the winding stairs until I reach the caves. I race through branching tunnels to the room Ailesse and I used to share. Her tortoiseshell hairbrush rests on a small table with her belongings. Only a few auburn strands are left on the bristles. Odiva must have taken the rest.

  I stuff the brush in my hunting pack, along with my simple bone flute. Ailesse’s ritual knife is already sheathed on my belt. I throw on a cloak, draw up the hood, and leave for Castelpont.

  I finally know how to save my sister’s life.

  41

  Bastien

  I HURRY BACK THROUGH THE catacombs as fast as I can. My father’s knife jostles at my hip, secure in its sheath again, but I’m still a mess of nerves. I hate being separated from my friends, especially after Jules got attacked under the quarry dome. And I hate being apart from Ailesse, especially after I almost kissed her.

  I wasn’t supposed to fall for her, but I did. Hard. Deep. I don’t know how I’ll ever explain it to Jules.

  When I reach the wall of skulls, a guttural scream pulls me to a stop. That was Marcel. Who never screams.

  I burst into the room with my knife drawn. “The Chained man—where is he?”

  Jules presses her back against a wall. Marcel holds a clay pot defensively.

  “What’s happening? Where’s Ailesse?”

  Marcel hurls the pot at Jules. She ducks, and the pot shatters above her head.

  “What are you doing?” I exclaim.

  “He’s in her!” Marcel points and grabs another dish from the shelves.

  “Who’s in her?”

  “The dead man! He’s taken over her body.”

  My eyes flash to Jules. She glares at her brother with a look of pure hatred. She’s holding a knife in each hand—hers and Marcel’s. “Jules, wait!”

  She lunges for him. Marcel throws the dish. He hits her this time, but it glances off her shoulder. I race over as she slashes out for him. I wrench her backward just in time. She drops one of the knives and screams, but it’s guttural and unnaturally low. I’ve accidentally seized her injured arm.

  “Don’t let go of her!” Marcel says, but I do on instinct.

  “I’m hurting her!” My hand is wet with her blood.

  “We have to hurt her to stop her. Just try not to kill her.”

  Try?

  Jules reaches for the knife she dropped. I kick it away and scramble backward, unsure how to fight her. “When did this happen?” I ask Marcel.

  “Back in the quarry, I think.” He gropes the upper shelves for another makeshift weapon, but they’re empty. “She’s been acting strange ever since she returned. Little signs at first—convulsing, becoming more and more irritable. I blamed it on her injury, but once we were alone together, she got worse, like she was struggling to suppress him. She became weaker and he became stronger and”—Marcel’s voice catches—“what if she’s not even inside herself anymore? What if he’s killed her soul?”

  My stomach flinches. “She’s still in there. She has to be.” I pace a half circle around Jules, tensing up for her next attack.

  She snarls. “Your Jules is weak and delusional. She’s still fighting against me, but her attempts are pathetic.”

  I grind my teeth. I need to get the Chained man out of her. Now. “We’ll see how strong she really is, if you dare to put it to a test.”

  Jules mirrors my pacing. Her posture doesn’t belong to her, with her shoulders bunched up and her head jutting forward on her neck. “What kind of test?”

  “Jules is the best knife fighter I know, but she wouldn’t wa
nt you to kill me.” I steal a glance at Marcel. He’s sneaking up on her from behind. “Throw that knife at me, and if you miss your target, I’ll know you’re still the weaker one.”

  Jules’s eyes narrow. “And if I’m the stronger one?”

  I shrug. “Then I’m dead.” In the corner of my vision, Marcel’s gaze widens. Hopefully he’s catching on.

  Jules’s mouth curves into a vicious sneer. “I like this game.”

  “Good.” I covertly slip my knife up my sleeve, plant my feet, and spread my arms open. “I’m ready.”

  She spits on the ground. Lifts her knife. Bends her knees and takes aim.

  My heart beats erratically.

  She pulls her arm back.

  My knife slides to my hand.

  She throws hard, and I swing my knife with practiced speed. Her blade hits mine. Metal clashes against metal as I knock her knife away.

  “You’re stronger,” I admit. “But Jules’s throw is more deadly. I could have never blocked it.”

  She growls and springs for me. Marcel jumps on her back and wraps his arm around her neck. She thrashes violently. He grapples to hang on.

  I rush over to brace him. Jules jerks and flails with both of us on her, like she’s kicked a hornet’s nest.

  “Squeeze tighter!” I shout. Marcel shakes with exertion.

  Jules rams us against the nearest wall. A bright burst of pain hits my back. Most of the air leaves my lungs. I manage to croak out, “Don’t let go!”

  She wheels around to ram us against the other wall. But just as she comes near it, she staggers to a stop and suddenly goes limp. Marcel releases his hold at once. I catch Jules so she doesn’t crash on the ground. Together, we gently lower her on her back.

  Her eyes are shut, and her face is blotched red. Marcel winces. “Please tell me I didn’t just murder my sister.”

  “She’s breathing,” I reply. “Do you have any rope?” He finds me some, and I drag Jules onto the limestone slab. We tie her up and anchor the end of the rope under the large stone, like we did with Ailesse when we— “Ailesse.” My pulse races. “Where is she? Did another Chained attack her?”