Two rope fibers break. Only one strand remains. I saw with more urgency.
A scrape sounds, followed by a burst of orange light. My chest deflates.
“A valiant attempt to escape,” Bastien commends me. He’s no longer lying on the slab; he’s standing over me, and he’s managed to light an oil lamp. The flickering glow catches on every sculpted muscle of his chest. More proof he’s stronger than me without the graces I’ve worked so hard to obtain. I bless the bats for every scratch they gave him.
“I wasn’t trying to escape.” I return his smirk with a spiteful glare. “I was trying to kill you.”
He snorts and sets his lamp on a stool-sized stone. Enduring the bats has strengthened his confidence. He crouches and opens his hand, nodding at my shard of limestone.
My fist closes around it. It’s a pitiful weapon, but it’s the only one I have.
“Jules,” Bastien calls. My gaze darts to her. She’s huddled against the far wall beside Marcel, both of them freshly awakened.
She rises to her feet. Her light golden hair is a mess of tangles, and claw marks cover her skin, but the steady glimmer in her eyes says she hasn’t been defeated. She limps to the knife I lost last night—resting near the open door—and kicks it to Bastien. He snatches it up and points the blade at my shard, a silent command to relinquish it.
I hate him.
I throw the shard at his face. He dodges it with ease.
Tyrus and Elara, why did you give me this boy?
Marcel pulls something from his pack, and Bastien groans. “It would have been useful to know you had more rope in there all this time.”
“Spare rope wasn’t foremost on my mind.” Marcel tosses it to Bastien. He tends to his bleeding lip while Bastien and Jules drag me onto the stone slab to bind me up again. I don’t resist them; Elara’s Light is already dwindling inside me. Curse Bastien for being right about me needing to reserve my strength.
“Aren’t you going to join me?” I ask with a smile I hope is sultrier than Jules’s. If I can’t fight my amouré, I’ll goad him. “There’s room for two on here.” I pat the slab. “You certainly took advantage of that last night.”
Jules freezes. “What is she talking about?”
Bastien shrugs. “I had to hold her still, didn’t I?”
“Is that what you call that full-body embrace?” I arch my brow.
Even by the light of one lamp, I see his ears flush red. He scoffs and looks between me and Jules, then abruptly strides away. “Help me with these lamps, Marcel,” he grumbles. He grabs his dry shirt, yanks it back on, and steals an uncomfortable glance at me. I grin and wink at him.
Jules’s teeth set on edge. “I’m going to make a run for food.”
“Not on your bad leg,” Bastien tells her.
“I’m fine,” she snaps. “I need the fresh air.”
“A supply run? Excellent.” Marcel slowly nods, which I’ve come to understand is a sign of excitement. “Get the rest of my books, will you?”
Jules pulls a face. “I’m not carting a library down here.”
“I only need my Bone Crier collection.”
He has more than one book about the Leurress? I didn’t realize any existed. We have a few books in Château Creux, thanks to Rosalinde, who learned to read from her amouré and taught all the novices. But none of the books are about us.
Marcel rights a tipped-over lamp and pours more oil into it. “I came across a passage once about ritual soulmates, but I can’t remember the exact phrasing. If I can find a way to break the bond between Bastien and her”—he waves an idle hand at me—“then we can kill her. Problem solved.”
Jules smiles. “In that case, I’ll happily be your pack mule.”
I bite my tongue. Their efforts will be pointless. The gods forged the bond I share with Bastien; no mortal can break it. But the longer these three are preoccupied by trying, the better my chances will be to outsmart them.
“One book is in the loft above Troupe de Lions,” Marcel says, stifling a yawn like he’s had the most uneventful night of his life. “Two are in the threadmaker’s cellar, and the fourth is in the abandoned stables behind Maison de Chalon.”
Why are Marcel’s books scattered throughout the city instead of in one place? Doesn’t he have a home? Do any of them? Or are they always on the run?
“Got it.” Jules heads for the door. I fidget on the slab. I hope I won’t have to relieve myself while she’s gone. I’m not asking one of the boys to take me to wherever it is that passes as a privy chamber down here.
Bastien lights another wick. “Pinch some more lamp oil if you can.” Pinch? As in steal? Why am I not surprised? “And be back before nightfall. The queen will come tonight, and we need to be ready.”
Jules nods. “Be careful while I’m gone. That Bone Crier is shiftier than the three of us combined.”
“I won’t take my eyes off her.”
Jules frowns like that’s exactly what she’s afraid of. She ducks out through the low door and pushes it closed. The air is a little lighter now. Until Bastien spins around to face me with folded arms. His biceps flex beneath his sleeves. I sit up straighter and square my shoulders, showing him I have plenty of my own strength left. “Do you intend to stare at me until my mother comes?” I ask, offering him a honeyed smile. “What a brilliant strategy.”
His eyes narrow. He rolls his tongue in his cheek. “Marcel, open your book again.” He turns away and scrubs a hand over his face. “We have work to do.”
“Good luck.” I settle back against the slab wall. “You’re going to need that and a miracle.”
14
Sabine
I TREMBLE AS I REACH the bend in the forest path, intersecting the road to Castelpont.
Please, Elara, let Ailesse be alive.
I take a steeling breath and step onto the road. Twenty feet ahead, the ancient stone bridge and dry riverbed beneath it look stark and desolate in the morning sun, no longer mysterious under the full moon or foreboding in surrounding fog. Now they’re only a painful reminder of Ailesse’s overconfidence and my own inadequacy.
My feet pad the ground as I force my quaking legs closer. No sign of Ailesse yet, but her amouré could have stashed her body in the shadow of a parapet.
I set foot on the bridge. I don’t see Ailesse lying on the stones. I glance at the riverbed below. She’s not dashed to pieces down there either. Swallowing, I tentatively press forward to the high arch of the bridge, craning my neck so I can see down its other side. No sign of her. My legs give way with relief, and I lean against a parapet.
Ailesse is alive.
She has to be. Her amouré wouldn’t have taken the pains to drag her anywhere else, only to kill her when he could do it here. He abducted her, like I suspected. Which is terrible, but at least her heart is still beating.
A glimpse of white snags the corner of my vision—five feet to my right, tucked up against the parapet.
Ailesse’s bone knife.
I move to pick it up. This isn’t the ritual weapon she used to kill the tiger shark; it’s the knife she crafted for her rite of passage. Every Ferrier before her has done the same. I’ve never been taught if that’s because of custom or necessity. Will Ailesse need this knife to make her sacrifice acceptable to the gods? I slip it under my belt, just in case.
I hurry off the bridge and climb down the riverbank, praying I’ll see another flash of white. Odiva’s warnings flood my mind.
The Chained need to be ferried. If they aren’t, they’ll feed off the souls of the living. Innocent people will die an everlasting death.
I walk the width of the riverbed, then back again several times, scanning any area where the bone flute could have fallen. I turn over rocks and kick the loose earth where I buried Ailesse’s grace bones. It’s no use. The bone flute isn’t anywhere. The lie I told Odiva must be true—Ailesse’s captors took it. I have to find them.
I race up the riverbank, but stop short when I see an elder Leurre
ss peek out from the forest, using a different trail than mine. “Sabine,” Damiana calls quietly. Her wolf fang bracelet glints in the sunlight as she motions me closer with a rapid wave of her hand.
I rush over to her. “Where are the others?” I glance around for the six elders she set off with last night. “Have you found Ailesse?” Desperate hope fills my chest.
She steals a look at Beau Palais over the wall of Dovré and pulls me off the road, under the cover of the trees. “We’re still searching for her. We followed her captors’ trail for six miles, but they kept changing paths.” Her deep-set brown eyes lower. “We eventually lost their tracks where they merged into a stream.”
I give her hand a comforting squeeze. Damiana tried her best, but I hope the other elders didn’t give up so easily. “Didn’t anyone pursue them down the stream?”
She nods and rubs her wrinkled olive brow. Damiana is almost sixty years old. I can’t imagine she’ll ferry much longer—or spend many more nights joining search parties for the matrone’s missing daughter. “The stream soon met a wide river, you see. Pernelle, Chantae, and Nadine are still there, doing what they can, but when I left, Nadine still hadn’t picked up Ailesse’s scent.” Damiana shakes her head. “Her sense of smell is powerful, too.”
I nod, picturing Nadine’s eel skull hair comb. “What about Milicent, Roxane, and Dolssa?”
“They set off in separate directions in a blind search for Ailesse. Meanwhile, I traced the captors’ trail back here to make sure we didn’t miss any clues as to where they could have gone.”
“I’ve already searched Castelpont and the riverbed.” I say. “All I found was Ailesse’s ritual knife.”
Damiana releases a heavy exhale. “None of us want to return to Château Creux until we’ve exhausted the search, but we finally agreed to meet there by nightfall to report to the matrone. You should go there now, Sabine. You can tell her what I’ve told you.”
“No.” I shrug a step back. “I can’t. Not without Ailesse. Not without more graces.” My brows pull together. “I should have had them to begin with.”
Damiana tilts her head and pats my cheek. “It’s best not to fight your life’s design for you, Sabine.”
“And what is that?” I force a shaky smile. “To be a killer?” Every Leurress who survives has the same destiny.
“No, my dear.” Damiana leans closer. Her silver-streaked braid slips in front of her shoulder. “An instrument of the gods. Neither Tyrus nor Elara can walk this earth, so they trust us to guide departed souls into their realms. We must do what it takes to rise to the occasion.”
I meet her fervent eyes, and a measure of courage steals into me, as strong as a heady breath of Elara’s Light.
I need to do what she says—rise to the occasion and be the person I’m meant to be. Someone capable of rescuing Ailesse. My friend won’t be saved without me. It isn’t just stubbornness that tells me so, but a deep sense—an innate grace all its own—that warns me her life is in my hands. The elders haven’t found Ailesse yet, and who knows if the strange ritual Odiva performed last night resulted in anything? I don’t trust it. Or her.
I need more graces. It’s as simple as that.
I give Damiana a parting embrace and hurry away into the forest. My focus for now must be hunting.
The hours pass swiftly as I search for the right animal—maybe a pit viper for heat vision or a wild boar for muscle—but I only come across small birds, martens, and rabbits. I shoot two arrows at what I hope is a fox, but it’s only the wind howling through the tall grass.
Twilight descends, and I’ve still found nothing satisfactory. I’m somewhere in the forest, maybe two miles outside Dovré. I weave through the trees, my senses alert. I don’t have Ailesse beside me to warn when the breeze shifts and I should move downwind of my prey. I’ve never had a gift for hunting. I traveled with her and mimicked her stealthy movements, but I put off learning the art of killing for myself. Now I must learn. And quickly.
Sweat collects on the back of my neck. I wipe it away and readjust my grip on my bow. Despite my resolve, every tense muscle in my body whispers what I’m doing is wrong. Why should an innocent creature pay for my mistakes? But Odiva’s voice rings louder in my mind: You are not a child anymore. If you had obtained more graces before tonight, you would have been able to overpower your assailant. Ailesse would have had a fighting chance.
The branches close in around me, and I tread deeper into the woods. A dull ache throbs through my head; my wounds have almost healed. If only my fire salamander grace could give me endless energy. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, but I can’t stop now.
I blow out a shaky breath. You can do this, Sabine. If I’m killing creatures to save Ailesse, I can forgive myself. I will forgive myself.
Something rustles above me. I flinch and glance up. My eyes grow wide.
A silver owl.
I fumble for an arrow in my quiver. Elara is finally smiling down on me. An owl will give me heightened hearing, as well as talon-grip strength.
I nock my bow. Swallow. Fire my arrow. The silver owl is too quick. She swoops from the branches and dodges my clumsy aim.
A few feet ahead, she lands on another branch. I grab a second arrow, but when I move closer, the bird screeches and flies another two trees away.
I stare at the owl. She stares back with her striking black eyes. A prickle of familiarity runs through me. Is this the same owl that flew over Castelpont before Ailesse’s rite of passage?
No. What a ridiculous thought. Many silver owls must live near Dovré. Still, I can’t take another owl sighting lightly. Ailesse and I didn’t heed the owl’s warning at Castelpont. We should have left when we saw the bird.
What if this is that same owl?
The owl doesn’t blink or move. If she were telling me to abandon the hunt, wouldn’t she leave here and not come back?
I take one step. Then another. On the third step, the silver owl spreads her wings. She flutters away until she reaches the edge of my vision in the darkening haze. She lands again, but this time on the ground. Uncharacteristic for an owl. It’s almost like the gods are giving her to me.
I tentatively press forward, my fingers tingling with the urge to string my bow again, but I resist. This isn’t the way a hunt works. An animal shouldn’t make herself an easy target.
Conscientious of each swish of my dress and snag of my hem on the brambles, I reach the owl, stopping when I’m six feet away. My pulse thrums. The bird and I are standing in a small clearing. Twilight has passed, and the waning moon showers a soft glow over us. Elara’s Light funnels into me and straightens my spine.
The silver owl tilts her head, as if she’s waiting for me. I finally withdraw another arrow. Like all ritual weapons, each one in my quiver has an arrowhead carved from the bones of a stag. Death at its strike will mark the owl’s soul and give her greater glory in Paradise.
That doesn’t ease my conscience.
Gather your courage, Sabine. Smother your reservations.
Tears sting the back of my throat as I nock the arrow. The moment I do, the owl flies in my face. Her claws tear into my shoulder. I hiss and bat her away. She circles me and swoops off in the same direction as before. When she’s almost out of view, she lands and peeks back at me. My rushing heartbeat slows.
She doesn’t want me to kill her. She wants me to follow her.
I do, although none of this makes sense. Animals can’t communicate with people. Not like this.
The owl moves deeper into the forest. Sometimes she flies short distances. Sometimes she skips from one spot to the next. The moon rises higher in the sky. The warm air grows a little cooler. At length, the owl brings me to the top of a grassy ravine. I wait for her to lead me onward, but she screeches three times and launches off her tree branch. She zooms away, straighter than the shaft of my arrow, and darts deep into the distance. She doesn’t come back. Strange.
I glance around me and wrap my arms around myself. Wh
y did the silver owl lead me here? The warm humidity drapes over me like a damp cloak. My skin itches from my dried blood. I’ll bathe tomorrow while I boil the flesh off the animal I kill. Somehow, I’ll endure it.
I hear a scuffling noise and freeze. I duck to the ground and grab another arrow. Maybe the owl brought me here to hunt the best prey.
I creep to the edge of the ravine. Halfway down to the bottom, a shadowy figure crawls out of a burrow. That’s all I can make out from my twenty feet away.
The creature turns and starts climbing the steep hill. I backtrack a little. I don’t want to spook it.
I nock my bow and flex my hand on the grip. I have to aim true. A smart creature will run or attack before it gives me time to shoot twice.
My heart pounds faster. Perspiration drips down my temples. Ailesse is the better archer, the better huntress, the better Leurress.
Enough, Sabine! You were born into this famille, just like her. Your mother was a fierce Ferrier. Be the person she’d want you to be.
The creature rises above the crest of the ravine like a black moon. I hold my breath.
I let the arrow fly.
Too late. It’s seen me. It quickly flattens to the ground. My arrow whizzes into the empty air.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” a deep and throaty voice calls. Feminine. Human.
A shock of cold hits me. I know that voice, that girl. She mocked me beneath Castelpont.
I suddenly understand. The owl didn’t bring me to kill a creature. She brought me to the girl I fought under the bridge.
She brought me to Ailesse.
Her captors must be holding her in some kind of cave.
I nock another arrow and aim low at the grass. “Watch me.”
My arrow flies wide. I hoped to hit her arm or leg—injure her, not kill her—but she’s hidden too deep in the grass.
“Do you want your daughter?” she shouts.
I instinctively duck lower. She thinks I’m Odiva.
“Good luck. You’ll have to walk past thousands of scattered bones. If you aren’t brave enough to do that, then we’ll kill your daughter slowly. We’ll cut her into pieces, limb by limb, until she begs to die.”
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