“Well done.” I fight for breath. “That was beautiful.”
She bursts with manic laughter. “If you tell Marcel about this, I’ll kill you.” Her words slur around the coin in her mouth.
“Fair enough.”
She draws back to see my face. Our noses are almost touching. She juts up her chin slightly. She’s inviting me to take the coin. I peel one hand from her waist and pluck it from her teeth.
She licks her lips. “Well?”
I give it a little bite of my own. “It’s real,” I say with a sheepish grin.
Her lashes lower. She looks like she’s about to kill me.
But then she’s kissing me.
I’m so taken off guard I lose my balance. This time it’s Jules who anchors me to the beam. Her mouth doesn’t break from mine.
I can’t help but give in to her. She’s too good at this. My hand digs into her waist. Her breath falls in gasps, fanning warmth across my face. I start to deepen the kiss, but then my stomach tangles in a hangman’s knot. I’ll cheat and steal from anyone in Dovré, but not the two people I care about most. And that’s exactly what this feels like—cheating, stealing. It took me every day of the six weeks Jules and I were together to figure out why: I’m giving what I don’t have to give.
“Jules . . .” I gently push her, but she doesn’t budge, a fighter to the core. It’s why I love her . . . just not the way she wants me to. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever. “Jules, no.” I scoot back. Her hands drop to the beam.
She searches my eyes. Her own brim with hurt. I can’t go down this road again. She’ll only grow to hate me. I wish I could tease her and slink away, my hands in my pockets. Instead, we’re stuck in these rafters together.
I sigh and drag my hands through my hair. It needs washing and a good cut. Usually Jules handles the shears. “Keep the coin,” I say, and place it between us. “Buy that silk dress. You can wear it to the spring festival.”
“I’m not going to buy a dress, idiot.” She snatches the coin and shoves it in her pocket. “What we need is food.”
“Well, in nine days—”
“In nine days, what? You’ll clean up your act? Find an apprenticeship? Suddenly gain a good reputation?”
I shrug. “In nine days we can leave Dovré. Start over in another city.”
“That’s what you say every full moon,” Jules snaps, then shakes her head, trying to rein in her quick temper. “We’ve been doing this for over a year, Bastien. We’ve watched every bridge. It’s time we own up to the fact that Bone Criers probably died out or moved on somewhere else—like we should.”
My eyelid tics, and I tighten my jaw. “South Galle has more Bone Crier lore than anywhere. The earliest myths come from here, not somewhere else. They haven’t died, Jules. Women like that don’t just die.”
Her gaze narrows into the glare she’s mastered. “Why, because you wouldn’t have a reason to wake up every morning?”
I’m done with this conversation.
I swing my legs up and stand on the beam. Jules stays stubbornly put. “Come on.” I extend my hand, but she ignores me. “Fine. Good luck up here.” I turn to leave.
“Wait,” she groans, and I look back. “I want to avenge my father’s death, too. You know I do, but . . . what if we don’t? What if we can’t?”
My ribs squeeze against a sharp pain in my chest. I can’t think about failing. How can she? Jules and Marcel didn’t watch their father get murdered on a bridge like I did. Théo still died, but he died slowly.
Years after their mother passed away, he brought home a beautiful woman. She mended their clothes, sang them songs, and slept in their father’s bed. They called her heaven-sent. She helped Théo in his work as a scribe, smoothing the parchment with pumice, marking out lines with a ruler and awl. When his income doubled, they ate sweetmeats and drank high-country wine. Then one morning Jules found the woman standing over her sleeping father and holding a knife carved from bone. The woman startled at Jules and ran from their cottage, never to return. Théo soon grew ill, and his bones turned as brittle as glass. Each time he fell, another bone broke. Finally, one injury was so terrible it ended his life.
I glare at my friend. “I will get my vengeance. Give up if you want, but I never will.”
Jules bites her lower lip. The small gap between her two front teeth is her only feature that reminds me of the girl I met when we were twelve. We’re eighteen now, old enough to worry about what comes next in our lives. What we’ll do after we give our fathers peace. I can’t think about anything else just yet.
“Who said you were the stubborn one?” Her smirk masks the worry on her face. “I was just testing you. Put me on solid ground come the next full moon, and I won’t be running away. You’ll get your kill, and Marcel and I will get ours.” I’ve told my friends about the second woman I saw when my father died. Marcel searched through all the books he’s stashed around Dovré—those he salvaged from his father’s library—and he figured out Bone Criers always travel in pairs. Convenient for our one night of murder. “Now help me down from here before I shove you onto that anvil,” Jules says.
A warm chuckle bursts out of me. “Fine.” I guide her to the crossbeam, where she can climb down. She’s nearly to the ground when the lock on the door rattles. Jules curses and jumps the rest of the way. I follow after her and roll to break my fall. The door flings open. We’re caught in a bright square of sunlight.
Gaspar gapes at us in a drunken haze. One of his suspenders has fallen, and his gut bulges over the waistband of his patched trousers. We dart past him, and he bellows, grabbing one of his fire pokers. He’ll never catch us. Jules and I join hands on the street, and our strides fall in perfect rhythm. I laugh at our near escape—we’ve had so many—and she flashes me a dazzling smile.
I could kiss her right then, but I glance away before I let myself.
Nine days. Then I can think about Jules.
4
Sabine
“I SWEAR ON MY FATHER’S bones,” Ailesse growls, tripping over the hem of her dress again. I grab her arm to steady her, and she lifts her skirt off the dusty path in the forest. “Isla made my dress too long on purpose. She’s determined to make tonight as difficult as possible.”
Odiva asked Isla to sew Ailesse’s white ceremonial dress, and I’ve never seen a finer one. The wide neckline clings elegantly to the edges of her shoulders, and the snug sleeves flare at her elbows. Isla took careful pains to fit the bodice, but Ailesse is right about the skirt. Its excessive train and front hem are hazardously long. Isla is too talented a seamstress for it to have been a mistake.
“Maybe she did you a favor.” I shrug. “Your amouré might find you more alluring in an impractical gown.” When Ailesse shoots me a skeptical glance, I add, “Remember the painting we saw carted into the city last autumn? The lady in the portrait was nearly drowning in her ridiculous dress, and the men guarded it like it was the most valuable treasure in Galle.”
“Men must be attracted to defenseless women,” Ailesse grumbles, but then her dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight. “Won’t I give my amouré a surprise? He’ll be luckier than the other dense men of Dovré.”
Luckier. I grin, but my stomach sinks. Like the rest of our famille, Ailesse believes the man the gods choose for her tonight is fortunate. One day when Ailesse dies, her amouré will greet her with gratitude for taking his life, and together they’ll live a better life in Elara’s Paradise. I wish I could stake my faith in that. Tonight would be so much easier.
I shiver as a mist creeps into the forest and disturbs the warm air. “What do you imagine he’ll be like?”
Ailesse shrugs. “I don’t let myself imagine anything about him. What good would that do me in this life?”
“You’ve never once daydreamed about your amouré?”
“Never.”
I level a hard stare at her, but she maintains her stubbornly impassive expression. “Well, I think you should take a moment to dream before
you go through with your rite of passage. Maybe the gods will pay attention, and you’ll help them make their choice.”
She scoffs. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Humor me, Ailesse. Dream.”
She squirms like her rite of passage dress is suddenly itchy.
“Would you like him to be handsome?” I prod, linking arms with her. “Let’s start with that.”
She grimaces. “I’ll allow him to be handsome if he isn’t in love with his appearance. Nothing’s less attractive.”
“Agreed. No vanity will be tolerated.”
“Speaking of looks . . . I wouldn’t mind if he had dimples and curls.”
“Dimples and curls—do you hear that, Tyrus and Elara?”
Ailesse shushes me. “Don’t be irreverent, or they will summon me a troll.”
“Don’t you worry. Trolls are a myth. We’re the only creatures to fear on bridges.”
She giggles and leans her head on my shoulder. “My amouré must also be passionate and powerful.”
“Naturally, or else he’d be no match for you.”
“But he should balance that strength with tenderness and generosity.”
“Or else he couldn’t handle your mood swings.”
She laughs, elbowing me. “In short, he must be perfect.”
I rest my head against hers. “You wouldn’t be dreaming if he were any less.”
We round a bend in the path and intersect a seldom-used road outside the city walls. Twenty feet away is Castelpont, the bridge Ailesse has chosen for her rite of passage. Our smiles fade. My heart thuds. We’re here. Ailesse is really doing this.
The full moon hangs over the bridge like a white eye shrouded in mist. Night insects buzz and chirp, but the sounds diminish as we leave the forest, travel down the quiet road, and advance to the crown of the bridge.
Castelpont is old and made of stone, built in the days when King Godart’s ancestors ruled the land. Back then, the Mirvois River transported inland goods to Château Creux, and the bridge’s high arch accommodated passing vessels beneath. But now the riverbed is parched and desolate. After Godart died without providing an heir, another royal family declared their right to rule. They built another home, Beau Palais, on the highest hill in Dovré, and rerouted the river. Castelpont gained its name because, looking to the west, you could once see the towers of Château Creux. And now, looking to the east, you can see the newer castle, Beau Palais. Ailesse and I have never been inside that castle, and we never will. Odiva forbids the Leurress to enter Dovré’s city walls. Discretion is essential to our survival.
“Are you sure about the bridge?” I ask. The windows of Beau Palais are like another pair of eyes staring down at us. “We’re too exposed.” This is nothing like our pastime of spying on travelers from the safety of careful hideouts in the forest.
She leans her folded arms on the half wall of the parapet and surveys the limestone castle. Her auburn hair flows soft and loose on the breeze. Concealed beneath it is her ritual bone knife, sheathed in a harness on her back. “No one can see us from this distance. We’re perfectly safe.”
I’m unconvinced. Ailesse chose Castelpont for the same reason she killed a tiger shark. Out of all the bridges in South Galle, Castelpont presents the most challenge: it’s closest to Dovré. A rite of passage here will impress the other Leurress. Once Odiva forgives Ailesse, it might impress her, too.
Ailesse twirls around and takes both of my hands. “I’m so happy you’re with me, Sabine.”
Though her smile is radiant, her hands betray a slight tremor. “I’m happy I’m with you, too,” I lie. Whether I hate this rite of passage or not, she’ll never back out of it, so I wish her to be sure and swift about her kill. If it’s clumsy and her amouré suffers a slow death, Ailesse will regret it for the rest of her life.
She unclasps her necklace, slips it off her shoulder, and passes it over to me. “Shall we begin?” The rite of passage is the only time a Leurress can access her power without wearing her bones. But she must stay on the ritual bridge.
I inhale a deep breath and offer her a small yew chest. She opens the lid. Inside, the ancient bone flute rests on a bed of lamb’s wool. Ailesse reverently withdraws the instrument, and her fingers run over the tone holes and trace the engraved symbols. The Leurress claim the flute was made from the bone of a golden jackal, but the sacred beast is mythical, at least in my mind. No one in my famille has ever seen one in Galle.
A sudden gust carries the sound of faint voices. Something rustles in the trees, and I glance behind us. “Ailesse”—I grab her arm—“someone is here.”
As she shifts to look, a silver owl swoops from the branches and arcs overhead. A nervous laugh spills out of me, but Ailesse grows solemn. Owl sightings portend either good or bad fortune. You don’t know which until the inevitable happens.
“Go, Sabine,” Ailesse says, as the owl screeches and flies off. “We can’t delay.”
I kiss her cheek and hasten away to do my part. “Good luck.” A witness does more than bear record of the ritual sacrifice. I must also bury Ailesse’s grace bones beneath the bridge’s foundations and retrieve them afterward. When she plays the siren song on the bridge, the gods will choose a man for her. Whether her promised lover is near or far, whether he hears the song or feels its music inside him, the two of them will be bonded, and he’ll be drawn to meet her. Our famille has been known to attract amourés from all quarters of Dovré, and even miles outside the city walls.
Ailesse kneels on the bridge, closes her eyes, and lifts her cupped hands to the Night Heavens. She murmurs a prayer to Tyrus’s bride, Elara, separated from him at the dawn of time by the mortal world that formed between their kingdoms.
I steal a glance at Elara’s milky veil of stars and offer up a prayer of my own. Help me endure this night. I rush away, fumbling with Ailesse’s shoulder necklace. All three of her grace bones are tied onto it with waxed cording. I feel none of their power.
I unravel the knots, remove the bones, and I climb down the steep bank of the riverbed. The soil at the bottom is cracked and dry, so I grab a jagged rock to dig the first hole. I bury Ailesse’s first bone, the wing bone of a peregrine falcon, then hurry to the second foundation corner. I’m grateful I don’t have to get wet. If Ailesse had chosen a bridge over water, I’d be swimming right now. I’d have to tie her bones to the foundations beneath the waterline.
Every flutter of the wind makes me flinch and scan our surroundings. If anyone other than Ailesse’s amouré comes this way and grows suspicious, Ailesse might not be able to defend herself—not until I’m finished down here and she plays the siren song. She can’t wield her graces until then.
I bury the second bone and rush to the other side of the riverbed to bury the third bone. Each hole is shallower than the last, but I don’t trouble myself to dig any deeper. I leave the fourth corner undisturbed, reserving that spot for the man Ailesse will kill. It will be his grave—the last honor he’ll receive in this life. Yet another reason to be grateful this isn’t a bridge over water. Casting a dead man in a river, to be washed up who knows where, seems a poor form of thanks after taking his life.
“I’m finished!” I call, and throw one more handful of earth over the last grace bone. “You can begin.”
“I’ll wait until you’re back up here.” Ailesse’s clear and relaxed voice echoes back to me. Her prayer must have calmed her. “Otherwise you won’t be able to see me.”
I stifle a groan and start climbing the riverbank. “It’s not as if your amouré is going to materialize when you play the first note. He could live on the other side of Dovré for all we know.”
She lets out a loud sigh. “I didn’t think about that. I hope this doesn’t take all night.”
As much as I want her rite of passage to be done with, part of me wishes her amouré never comes. The gods demand enough of a Leurress over her lifetime. They shouldn’t ask us to make a sacrifice like this, too. But Tyrus is said
to be exacting. His cape is made from the smoke and ash of oath breakers and cowards, the worst sinners in the Underworld, those caught in the eternal fire of his wrath. Even murderers suffer a better fate on the Perpetual Sands, Tyrus’s scorching desert where thirst is never quenched.
I finally reach the top, panting, and brace my hands on my hips. “I’m here. Go on.”
Ailesse rolls back her shoulders. “Let’s see if I can kill a man without getting his blood on my dress.” She winks. “That will show Isla.”
My stomach folds on itself. I don’t smile back. This is really happening. Ailesse is going to meet her match, only to slaughter him. “Be careful,” I say, even though her promised lover is the one who’s in danger. Still, I can’t shake my sense of foreboding.
“I’m always careful.” Her daring grin betrays the very opposite and doubles my worry. A little fear is wise.
Resigned, I retreat to the nearest tree and stake my place behind it. I’m partially hidden, but I can still see my friend.
Ailesse brushes her hair over her shoulder, neck tall like a swan, and brings the bone flute to her mouth.
5
Bastien
TONIGHT I’LL HAVE MY REVENGE. I feel it deep inside, past the jittery energy that’s kept me awake the last twenty-four hours. After tonight, I’ll sleep in peace.
I tighten the strap of the sheath harness on my back. Both my knives are hidden there. The Bone Crier will ask me to dance—part of her twisted cat-and-mouse game—but I won’t reveal I’m the cat until the time is right.
“I still vote we attack from the trees,” Marcel says, the last to crawl out from the cellar tunnel of La Chaste Dame. The brothel is near the south wall of the city. We could have taken the path through the catacombs, but this tunnel—the one Madame Colette turns a blind eye to if I toss her a coin—leads out of Dovré on the way to the bridges we’ll scout tonight. Last full moon, Jules, Marcel, and I started west and worked our way east. This time we’ll travel down from the city to the royal shipyard on the coast. South Galle is webbed with water and bridges.
Bone Crier's Moon Page 4