Bone Crier's Dawn

by Kathryn Purdie

His expression brightens by a slight measure, a tiny lift of his brows and subtle softening of his lips. “The servants will bring you a dress for the occasion,” he says. “I hope it doesn’t cause any offense. I had it newly commissioned, so it never belonged to anyone else.” He glances at the string of pearls in his hand and returns them to the chest. He closes the lid gently. “What I’m trying to say is that the dress doesn’t come with any expectations.”

  He can’t really mean that, even if he wants to. Where there’s affection, there’s always expectation.

  “If that’s the case, then I’ll be honored to wear it,” I reply, careful to tread the fine line of being considerate but not giving him false hope at the same time. I’m protecting my heart, as well, keeping it safe for Bastien.

  My words spark a true smile from Cas, and I quickly glance away before I can dwell on his dimples. I rush out of the room on my crutch.

  It’s only a dress, Ailesse. No false hope given. No expectations.

  3

  Bastien

  I CAN’T STOP STARING AT one of the maids in the great hall. It’s her hair. Red. Nowhere near Ailesse’s perfect shade of auburn, but it’s long and waving like hers. Plus, every now and then when she stands in dim places, where the light of the massive chandelier can’t reach her so well, her hair seems a bit darker. Like right now. If I squint hard enough, she looks just like—

  “Everyone stop what you’re doing!”

  I suck in a sharp breath. A man marches right past my hiding spot. I slink backward from the edge of the tapestry into the space between the fabric and the wall. If the man hadn’t been carrying a crate that blocked his face, he would have seen my head poking out.

  I press my back against the cool stones. Flex my clenched hands. I’ve been stuck here for too long, waiting for the right moment to sneak over to the potted tree where Sabine hid the bone knife. But the great hall is crowded with servants preparing for the first feast of La Liaison.

  “We have an emergency!” the man declares. Thunk. He slams the crate down on a table. “Take a look for yourselves. Tallow candles, not beeswax.” He pauses, probably waiting for gasps to reflect his panic. None come. “Apparently the candlemaker never received our order, and all the other shops in Dovré are closed for the holiday.” Another pause. His toe taps the floor. “Well, are we to allow smoking candles to stink up the first occasion His Royal Majesty has attended in weeks—as well as insult the prince’s special guest?”

  Special guest? I hold back a scoff. Is that what Casimir calls his favorite prisoner? I picture Ailesse seated beside him tonight, a chain binding her ankle to her chair, then another image flashes to mind: Ailesse in the catacombs, her hands and ankles bound in the rope I tied her up with. My gut twists. Yes, I also abducted her, but I thought she was a heartless murderer then. I never pretended to be saving her, like the prince did.

  “The answer is no,” the man—probably the high steward—continues. “So here’s how we’ll salvage this travesty. Each of you will scour the castle for any beeswax candles in sconces, lanterns, and any taper holders. Take them even if they’ve been lit already. We’ll use the tallest ones for the head table and make do with the rest.” He claps his hands twice. “Be off, then! Make haste!”

  Feet patter. The murmurs of the twelve or so gathered servants fade as they scatter in different directions. The determined clip of the steward’s footsteps follows last.

  Now’s my chance.

  I sneak out from behind the tapestry, make sure the room is empty, and dart for the potted tree on the other side of the great hall. Thankfully no soldiers are in sight. Casimir has his guards searching the castle in case Sabine didn’t come alone.

  Sabine. My teeth grind together. Did she really need to leave so suddenly? She had the skill to fight off the prince and his men. She could have kept them distracted while I freed Ailesse. Now I have to do it on my own—after Ailesse kills Casimir.

  I grab the bone knife from the potted tree and whirl in the opposite direction. I head for the corridor that leads to the staircase on the third level. Sabine was supposed to check the royal apartments up there while I searched the dungeons. But after overhearing what Casimir said—that he wanted more wildflowers for Ailesse tonight—I’m guessing he’s made her a more comfortable prison in one of Beau Palais’s finer rooms. Doesn’t mean he’s considerate, just manipulative.

  Up ahead, the staircase comes into view, a hulking mass of limestone with marble posts and ironwork rails. A forest-green velvet runner lines the steps. Probably cost more than the food it’d take to feed every street kid in Dovré for a solid month.

  I jog up the stairs two at time. My stab wound throbs, but I don’t slow down. I can’t have much time before the soldiers and servants return and—

  A servant boy with a stubborn cowlick comes around the corner of the next flight above. Looks to be three or so years younger than me, maybe fourteen or fifteen. He hops onto the landing, five beeswax candles in his hands. His eyes are lowered as he idly hums.

  I freeze eight steps below. I’m holding the bone knife in plain sight. My arm tenses to hide it. Too late. His eyes lift. They’re a ruddy brown color, one shade darker than Ailesse’s burnt umber. I see her in everyone. But her face would never pale at the sight of an armed stranger. It would harden. She’d take a defensive stance and prepare to fight.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. “Just promise not to—”

  “Help!” he cries at the top of his lungs.

  “—shout.” My shoulders fall.

  Raised voices and trampling boots echo from above and from the corridor below.

  Merde.

  I spring up the stairs toward the boy. He pelts me with two candles.

  “Ouch!” The third candle bounces off my forehead. “Stop that!” I whack the fourth one away before it stabs me in the eye. I climb the last three steps and try to grab him. He beats my hand back with his last candle. I yank it out of his grip and toss it over the banister.

  “Help!” he shouts again.

  “Quiet now.” I pin him against the corner wall and raise the bone knife to his throat. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.” But I will have to take him hostage. Just for a little while. It’s my only leverage.

  He shakes violently. He’s thin and frail looking. He wouldn’t know how to fight me with his fists if he tried.

  The soldiers’ boots pound louder. They’re calling to warn Prince Casimir. The servant boy whimpers. His nose starts running. Please, he mouths. The tendons of his neck tighten as he cringes away from my blade.

  I flush with hot sweat. Adjust the hilt of the knife. My grip is clammy. I can’t do this again—take another person captive to get what I want.

  I lower the knife. Trip a step backward. Nod once. “Go.” My voice is thick and rough. How will I free Ailesse now?

  The boy tears away and rushes past me down the stairs. Two soldiers race up them, dodging him to get to me. Another three men storm down from the flight above.

  “Arrest the thief!”

  I glance up. From the third level of the castle, Prince Casimir leans over the railing. The lines of his shoulders are broad and hard.

  I whip out my second knife. Consider my odds of escaping. Not good, especially with my injured back. Here goes nothing.

  I quickly sheathe the bone knife and hold the second knife between my teeth. Just as the first soldier below reaches to grab me, I swing over the banister and hang on to the railing from the other side. The toes of my boots balance on the barely protruding edges of the steps. I pick my way down, hurrying as fast as I can. The soldiers have already wheeled around for me.

  Once I’m eight feet from the ground, I jump. My stab wound spasms when I land. I pull the knife from my mouth and force myself to keep moving.

  I bolt down the corridor, back in the direction of the great hall. The foyer across from it leads to the courtyard and the castle well.

  I’m sorry, Ailesse. My chest gives a shar
p pang. I’ll come back for you, I promise.

  Here’s hoping next time her best friend doesn’t ditch me and leap through a stained-glass window.

  Sabine better have survived that fall. I saw how far the drop was to the river. After Casimir and his guards left, I snuck to the edge of the shattered window and took a good look below for myself.

  The soldiers close in from behind. I run faster, passing the first column of the great hall. It’s wrapped in garlands with the wildflowers Casimir requested for Ailesse.

  His words to Sabine ring through my head. Ailesse isn’t my prisoner. I invited her to stay with me, and she agreed. I scoff and swallow a bitter taste in my mouth. What a smooth liar South Galle is going to have for a king.

  I run past the second column. A large soldier jumps out from behind it and rams into me. I crash backward onto the floor. My hand slams the stones. The knife falls from my grip and skids several feet away.

  I fight to breathe. My back is on fire. The soldiers from the corridor are almost upon me. The one who knocked me over stalks closer.

  Looks like I’m not escaping.

  I kick my heel into the shin of the nearest guard. Crawl back to the second column. Pull the bone knife from my sheath. Another soldier grabs my left arm. At the same time, I slip the bone knife under the garland at the base of the column. I won’t let them take it. Ailesse needs it to kill Casimir. She needs it to keep living.

  A third soldier yanks me up by my collar. His thick fist flies at my face.

  Pain bursts through my skull.

  Everything goes black.

  4

  Ailesse

  “IT’S A SHAME ABOUT YOUR crutch,” my maid says, passing it to me as she helps me stand. She positions me in front of the mirror that hangs from my bedroom wall. “Otherwise you would be able to dance tonight.”

  I squint at my reflection. A pool of still water would serve better than this sheet of polished silver, but I faintly make out hints of my maid’s careful work: white powder to conceal my scattered freckles, something called rouge she lightly dusted across my cheeks, and a waxy lip balm that smells like wine and looks the shade of wild berries. She failed at plucking my eyebrows thin. After she yanked out the first hair, my reflexes took hold of me. I grabbed her tweezers and hurled them outside my window into the pouring rain.

  I bend closer to the mirror. I’m not fond of how pale my skin looks or the darkened color of my lips—they remind me too much of my mother’s stark beauty—but I do like the way my maid has styled my hair. The top half is woven into a bun with ribbons that match my moss-green dress, and the bottom half falls into long spirals she formed around heated tongs. Sabine’s hair is this curly by nature.

  Sabine . . .

  A stitch of pain lodges between my ribs. I have to find a way to leave the feast early tonight. Sabine and my famille must be frantic about how to ferry without me.

  “I wouldn’t want to dance, anyway,” I reply to my maid, and turn my back to the mirror. Dancing means death—rites of passages and blood sacrifice on secluded bridges under a full moon . . .

  . . . though dancing also means Bastien’s hands on my waist and hips, my fingers tracing the planes of his face, and the softness of his mouth. I won’t diminish that memory by dancing with another boy, even if he is my amouré.

  My maid clucks her tongue. “You’re a peculiar girl, mademoiselle.”

  I shrug. “So I’ve been told.”

  Three knocks sound on my bedroom door. My maid startles. “It must be the prince!” She fusses with my brocade-and-velvet dress one last time. It clings off the edges of my shoulders, just like my rite of passage dress did. Perhaps Cas commissioned it to resemble that one on purpose. He saw me from a distance at Castelpont the night I lured him with the bone flute . . . the night I thought I had lured Bastien.

  Satisfied, my maid crosses to the door and opens it a few inches. “Your Highness.” She dips into a low curtsy. “Mademoiselle Ailesse is ready to accompany you to the feast.”

  The door opens wider, revealing Casimir. I grit my teeth and stand taller. Stop racing, I command my heart. Curse the gods for choosing such a handsome amouré for me.

  Cas is wearing a wine-red doublet that perfectly complements the green shade of my dress, and his strawberry hair is slicked back and held in place by a thin gold crown. His eyes rivet to mine, then slowly travel over my dress, face, and hair. He drifts forward, his movements tentative, like he’s walking on a bridge that might collapse at any moment. When he reaches me, he takes my hand and kisses it. Heat surges into my cheeks. My maid could have saved herself the trouble of applying any rouge.

  “You’re a vision,” Cas says, breathless.

  My toes curl in my fine slippers. There goes my heart again. “Are you hungry?” I ask, and his brow furrows. “For the feast, I mean.” Better to get this party over with so I can get back to the hunt for my grace bones.

  “Yes, of course.” He cracks a smile. “Ravenous, in fact. Shall we?” He extends his arm. I don’t know how to take it without abandoning my crutch. Besides, I don’t want him being my crutch tonight. I stubbornly hobble past him.

  We make our way out the door, down the corridor on the third level, and finally to the head of the staircase that winds down to the main floor. The rain patters on the mullioned windows as I stare at the flights of velvet-lined steps below. They seem to go on for miles. Curse my broken leg.

  Cas tilts his head at me. “Would you permit me to carry you?”

  My eyes fly wide. “Absolutely not.”

  “You should save your strength for the feast.”

  “How much energy does sitting and dining require?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to be exhausted when you meet my father.”

  “I’m fine.” I plant my crutch on the first step and hop down. “I’m more than capable of—” I pitch forward. Merde. My crutch is pinning the skirt of my dress.

  Just when I’m sure I’ll tumble and break another limb, Cas swoops me into the cradle hold of his arms. My breath catches as I stare into his eyes. I’m still in shock from nearly falling.

  “Careful.” He chuckles. “These stairs are notorious for twisting ankles.” He summons a servant to take my crutch and begins carrying me down the flights himself.

  My body is stiff, my jaw clenched. I can’t stop thinking about my carved crescent-moon pendant. I wouldn’t have been so clumsy with my ibex grace bone strung around my neck. I’d have been agile, perfectly balanced, even elegant.

  I will find where Cas has hidden my grace bones. Perhaps they’re in the great hall, at the very center of the feast. They could even be tucked under the throne—somewhere Cas would never think I’d dare to search.

  “I’ve already told my father so much about you,” he says. “I would have introduced you to him by now, but he can’t bear the indignity of being bedridden when you two become acquainted. Thank the gods he’s feeling better today.”

  My ears are only half open. I’m too distracted by the thumping of his heart against my shoulder. Perhaps the real reason I haven’t left this castle is because, deep inside me, I know what I must do. Kill Casimir. Stop that very heart from beating.

  “Did you know my mother’s favorite holiday was La Liaison?” Cas says as he steadily carries me down the stairs.

  Maybe I wouldn’t need a ritual knife. Any blade might do. He’s wearing a jeweled dagger on his belt. How difficult would it be to swipe it off him and complete the ritual?

  “Tonight will be a small gathering, I’m afraid, but when my mother was alive, she would open the castle to anyone who wished to attend the first feast. She’d offer them sweet breads and sugared almonds.”

  His words linger in my ears for a moment. I picture Queen Éliane alive again, her beautiful stone-blue eyes, so like her son’s, widening in horror as his life bleeds out of him. I picture Casimir’s father, King Durand, learning of his son’s death. Would his heart fail at the news? Would I just as well have killed hi
m, too?

  “The dancing lasted all night, until morning. My father would always reserve the first and last dance with my mother. The great hall would hush as everyone watched them.”

  What if I can’t kill Casimir? I promised myself I’d spare his life when I first agreed to stay here. If I don’t, I’ll be betraying Bastien. It would be just like I’d killed his father.

  “I was supposed to be in bed by then, but I’d sneak out of my room and hide under a banquet table.” Cas laughs. “I’d stuff myself with glazed tarts and spy on all the party guests. I’d smile, watching my mother smile. She was never happier than on the night of the first feast.”

  We’re on the last flight of stairs. My body has softened in his arms. I’m listening to every word he says now, enchanted by the story he tells of a loving family living in peace together. It’s easy to see Sabine in that setting, but not Odiva, maybe not even me. Perhaps I’m more similar to my proud mother than my tender sister.

  Cas slows his descent on the last few steps. “I wish you had been able to take part in the celebrations the way they were back then. What I’ve prepared tonight seems vastly inadequate by comparison.”

  “I’m sure it will be lovely.” The words are out of my mouth before I think better of them. It’s all the encouragement he needs, and his right dimple appears. My heart flutters.

  “My father will be there . . . and you will be, too. That’s all that really matters.”

  Strains of cheerful music drift down the main corridor from the great hall. My head turns toward the sound. I briefly set aside thoughts of my grace bones and deadly soul-bond. “Has the dancing begun?” I ask, curious to watch the guests. I only ever learned the danse de l’amant. What are other dances like?

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” Cas reaches the bottom of the stairs. “So has the celebration. Forgive me, but it was my intention to escort you in late. I’ve always found the beginning of the feast rather dull, and I didn’t want to bore you. Now all the heralding of the guests will have taken place, and the king should have received the homage of each noble. We won’t have to idle away any time before you’re able to converse with my father.”