“Did the boy die, too?”
Pernelle nods, her face darkening. “We can thank the gods for that. Odiva said his life ended the moment Ailesse’s did.”
I frown. “You didn’t see it happen?”
“We were already gone.” Roxane joins us. Milicent and Dolssa hover nearby. Their grief is almost palpable, pressing a great weight on my chest. “The tunnel was unstable, so Odiva commanded us to leave.”
I shake my head slightly. Everything they’re saying hinges on Odiva’s word alone. It isn’t enough for me.
“Go inside and rest.” Pernelle rubs my arm. “You can join the hunt tomorrow.”
She means the hunt for the golden jackal. Ridiculous. “No, I’ll go today. I’ll go now.” I shrug away from them, but I still feel their worried eyes bore into the back of my skull.
“What about your bird?” Dolssa asks.
Dazed, I glance down to see my nighthawk limply dangling from my hand. Oh.
On wooden legs, I walk to the ruins of the garden wall. Flop the bird onto a stone. Withdraw Ailesse’s bone knife.
Thwack.
I take the severed leg. Cut my palm with the sharp bone so it meets my blood. There. The ceremony is finished. I close my fist around the leg, its claw still attached. The elders watch in strained silence.
I cast the nighthawk aside on the stone. I leave the elders, the overgrown garden, the rocky grounds of the Château Creux. I run. Away from the sea cliffs, across the plateau, into the forestland, past webbing streams and rivers, across bridge after bridge after bridge. I keep going, pushing myself past my limits, until I’m numb to the burning in my lungs and the cramping in my side. Until the cut in my palm stops stinging and my eyes run dry.
I’m almost to the catacombs entrance. I have every intention of blazing inside, but when I near the edge of the ravine, I come to an abrupt stop.
All my breath leaves my lungs. My heart shoots up my throat. I waver on my feet.
The beautiful and knowing eyes of the silver owl are staring back at me.
She’s here. Under the stark moonlight. On the ground, not in a tree. She’s perched on the cusp of the ravine.
She’s a sign I was right.
Ailesse is alive.
I move another step closer, and the silver owl spreads her wings and points them downward in a defensive stance. She doesn’t want me to pass.
My racing heartbeat slows. I register the ache in my muscles and trembling limbs. Blood drips from my fisted hand. The leg and blunt claw are still curled inside and digging at my wound.
I never received the nighthawk’s graces, I realize.
Did I offend the gods? It was a kill made in rage and a grace bone taken thoughtlessly.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Tyrus and Elara, but I’m looking at the silver owl. “I did it to save Ailesse.”
The owl folds her wings.
Warmth rushes over my skin, and I startle. The world around me changes like another sun has risen, only it casts a faint violet glow. I know what I’m seeing—Ailesse described this after she killed her peregrine falcon. This is vision with an additional color. I haven’t seen the color yet. But I will whenever I first see the dead. Every Ferrier needs this grace.
The gods have forgiven me.
“I will save her,” I tell the silver owl, like we speak the same language. “I know I’m the only one who can.”
She screeches softly, almost a purring sound.
“And I’ll be wise when I choose my next kill.” The nighthawk’s graces aren’t worthless, but they don’t give me strength, which is what I need most. “I’ll also be clever and strategic.” If Odiva and four elder Leurress couldn’t rescue Ailesse, I’ll need to plot as carefully as Bastien and his friends have done.
The owl bobs her heart-shaped face, forward and back, side to side.
My resolve forges bone-deep. I’m going to have to exercise patience in order to succeed. I can afford a little time. Ailesse must have told Bastien by now that their soul-bond ties them in life and death, and he must believe her or he’d have killed her already, especially after losing his chance to kill her mother.
“I won’t fail.”
The owl opens her wings. My vision changes again. This time it isn’t cast in violet, but shimmers with silver, like the ring around a full moon. Whatever I’m seeing, it can’t be from my nighthawk grace.
An image appears in my mind. Or maybe I’m actually seeing it. It’s translucent and struggling to take shape before me.
I gasp. It’s Ailesse. She’s sitting on a stone bench, tied up by her wrists and ankles. Her head droops to the side as she listlessly leans against a wall. Her auburn hair is matted. She’s scraped up and filthy, and her eyes look hollow. All her fire is gone. “Oh, Ailesse,” I whisper, my chest aching.
As soon as I speak, her gaze lifts. Our eyes meet. My heart quickens. “Sabine?” Her voice cracks with shock and hope.
I smile with desperate relief. I believed she was still alive, but it’s another thing to see her. “Stay strong,” I tell her. “I’m coming for you.”
A tear streaks down her face.
I reach out to touch her arm. She’s that close. But as soon as I try, the vision ripples like disturbed water. Ailesse disappears.
My heart gives a hard pound. “What just happened?”
The only one listening is the silver owl.
She beats her wings. Lifts off the ground. And flies away.
20
Bastien
MARCEL HISSES AS I PICK another bit of gravel out of his wound. “Almost done,” I tell him. We’re back in our chamber, and he’s sitting on an overturned mining cart we use as a table. His right sleeve is rolled back, exposing a gouge mark that runs the length of his forearm. A rock struck him during the explosion; he misjudged how far away he needed to be from the cask of black powder. “Jules will be back soon with the water. We’ll wash this up and help it heal into a proper scar. Birdie will find it irresistible.” I wink at him.
Marcel forces a grin past clenched teeth. “You think so?”
“’Course.” I pluck out another piece of debris. “She already knows you’re brilliant. This will make you look tough, too. She’ll be smitten.”
Ailesse gasps in amazement, and I bristle. But as soon as I turn to where she’s propped up on the limestone slab, I see her expression, and it isn’t mocking. She’s sitting up, body rigid. Eyes wide. Face pale. My stomach tenses. Is she in pain?
I rush over to her. She croaks out, “Sabine!” A tear rolls down her cheek. She isn’t looking at me. She’s staring straight ahead. She gasps again and blinks a few times. “Sabine?” She shakes her head a little. “Where did she . . . ?” Her eyes take focus on her surroundings. Then me. Tears cling to her lashes. “Bastien?” she asks, like my name is a desperate question.
That’s when I realize I’m on my knees beside her, my fingers woven through hers. Her grip is as tight as mine. Just as tight as when I dragged her out of the pit.
“Is everything all right?” Jules asks.
I startle. Ailesse and I release each other’s hands.
“Just checking her ropes,” I answer quickly. I give the knot at Ailesse’s wrists an obligatory tug. “She was thrashing.” My face burns at the lie. “She’s a bit delirious.” That much is true. “I think she hit her head when she fell into the pit.”
Ailesse sags against the slab wall, like she’s considering my words. She does have a nasty bruise on the side of her forehead.
Jules says nothing. I can’t meet her eyes when I get back up to my feet. The chamber is unnervingly silent as I walk over to where she stands by the door. I reach for the bucket of water she just brought in, and she takes a step away from me. “I’ve got it,” she says, her voice clipped. She shrugs past me to move to her brother.
I sigh. I hate this tension between us. Jules was far from happy when I dragged Ailesse out of the pit, but what choice did I have except to save her? I run both hands through my h
air and stroll over to a stack of Marcel’s books. I grab one at random and hunch down on a stool, trying to make myself useful. Though I don’t even know what my end goal is anymore.
“What now?” Jules asks, as usual in tune with my thoughts, even when we’re at odds. She dips a handkerchief in a bowl of settled water and gently dabs Marcel’s wound. “The queen isn’t going to be fooled next time, and the catacombs didn’t cut off her power as much as we thought.”
Marcel nods, watching Jules work. “I’ve been thinking it must take a little time—perhaps a few days—for a Bone Crier’s strength to sufficiently weaken down here. Take Ailesse, for example. She didn’t lose her vigor all at once.”
“Makes sense,” I reply, and sneak a glance at Ailesse. If she’s listening, she makes no sign of it. She just stares at her limp hands.
“At least the queen knows she isn’t dealing with simpletons,” Jules says. “We’re as dangerous as she is.”
I don’t know about that, but I’ll let Jules have her show of confidence. She couldn’t cut through the pulley rope before the queen climbed out of the pit. She’s lucky the queen didn’t have time to find her hiding place. When another section of the tunnel broke away, the queen ran off with the other Bone Criers.
“How soon do you think she’ll return?” Jules wets the handkerchief again.
“She’s not coming back,” Ailesse murmurs. We all look at her. A tremor runs through her chin.
Jules’s gaze hardens. “Are you Bone Criers mind readers, too?”
“I’m not what my mother came for,” Ailesse replies on a weak breath. Even her tone has no fight in it.
Jules scoffs. “Then what did she come for?”
Ailesse’s eyes shimmer. She turns her head away.
“Are you going to answer me?”
“Leave her alone,” I mutter.
The look Jules shoots at me is the same look she gives Dovré boys when they leer at her. A split second later, they’re on the ground with broken noses. “Why are you defending her?”
“I’m not defending anyone. I just want a moment’s peace while I figure out how to get the three of us out of this mess.” I jab a page of my book for emphasis, even though I’ve found nothing helpful. Reading isn’t my best talent.
“This is your mess, Bastien,” Jules snaps, “not ours.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’re not the ones caught up in a magic spell with a siren. We could leave you to deal with it any time.”
I stare incredulously at her, completely blindsided. From the first moment I met Jules and Marcel, we’ve been in this together, no matter the complications. Don’t they still want revenge for their father? “Go on, then.” My voice shakes with hurt I try to pass off as anger. I make a shooing motion for the door. “I never said you two had to do anything for me.” I just trusted they would, like I would for them.
Marcel raises a finger. “If I may, I’d like to say two things: one, my sister doesn’t speak for me; and, two, for the sake of common decency, Julienne, will you please go easy on my arm? I do have a nervous system.”
She winces and pulls back from punch-cleaning him. She drops her handkerchief in the bowl and sighs. “We’re not going to leave you, Bastien. That’s not what I’m trying to say. It’s just that”—she nibbles on her lip—“we never bargained for you to be the soulmate. That’s knocked everything off balance. I mean, are you two really even soulmates? That was never proven.”
“She has a fair point,” Marcel adds. “We based that conclusion on the fact that no one else showed up at the bridge. Ailesse’s true soulmate could have been too ill to come, or maybe he was farther away and hadn’t made it there yet.”
I gape at them, amazed we’re even having this discussion. “What do you suggest, that we test that theory by killing Ailesse to see if I die, too?”
Marcel lowers his eyes. Jules bites her lip again.
“Bastien is my amouré,” Ailesse says quietly. “If you could feel what he does, you would have no doubt.”
I frown. “You can’t know what I feel.”
“No, but I can see it.” She finally lifts her umber eyes to me, and I swallow hard. I picture those same eyes staring up at me from the pit. She looked terrified and alone, the same way I felt after losing my father.
I slam my book shut. Ailesse isn’t the victim here. “I don’t have any affection for—”
“Affection has nothing to do with it.” Her voice betrays no hint of emotion. She’s listless, almost indifferent. “You were designed for me, and I was designed for you. You feel it as well as I do, Bastien.”
Heat rises in my cheeks.
Jules shakes her head in disbelief. “She’s insufferable.”
Ailesse shrugs and turns away.
I rub my hand over my face. “Can we get back on topic, please?”
“What topic is that?” Marcel leans back.
“What we do now. We need to rethink our strategy.” I don’t mention another plot to bait the queen. I agree with Ailesse that her mother won’t return. “We’ll continue to stay down here—that’s a given—and we’ll make runs for food and supplies. As for breaking the soul-bond, we already have Marcel’s books handy. We’ll comb over every passage a hundred times until we find the answer. Even if it takes weeks.”
“And then we kill her?” Jules crosses her arms.
My pulse jumps. I want to look at Ailesse, but I don’t. Instead, I stare at Jules. For years we’ve been hell-bent on revenge, but the Jules I know isn’t this bloodthirsty. She’s only callous when she’s hurting inside. I have to prove I won’t forget the pact that sealed our friendship.
“Yes,” I reply, though my stomach twists. “Then we kill her.”
21
Ailesse
SABINE LIES BESIDE ME ON her back. We’re in a meadow near Château Creux, gazing up at the Night Heavens. The stars are brilliant, the Huntress and Jackal constellations shining down on us in perfect clarity. “It’s the new moon,” Sabine tells me, one arm tucked behind her head. “This should have been your first ferrying night.”
“Yes.” A deep ache rises from the back of my throat. “But no one can ferry now, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Are you sure? Don’t give up, Ailesse. There’s always something you can do.”
“But the bone flute is broken.” I turn to her, but my best friend is gone.
I’m staring into the eyes of the silver owl.
“Ailesse.”
Someone nudges my arm. My eyes crack open. Jules leans over me. “I’m heading out on another supply run. You want me to take you to the privy first?”
The thought of that reeking corner of the catacombs isn’t what startles me wide awake; it’s the tone of Jules’s voice. Calm and straightforward. No temper. It reminds me she and I have come to a gradual acceptance of each other over the last few days. It reminds me I’ve been a prisoner down here for more than two long weeks. And my mother never came back for me.
“No, I’m fine.” I slowly pull up into a sitting position on the limestone slab while Jules watches, unconvinced. Even that simple movement takes muscle-cramping effort. My captors have been feeding me and giving me water, but I’m almost completely starved of Elara’s Light. “Marcel?” I call over to him. My weak voice is barely loud enough to grab his attention. He looks up from the wreckage of books he and Bastien are poring over on the overturned cart table. “When is the new moon? Have you been keeping track?”
“Yes, in fact, I have.” His grin is lazy with delight as he digs underneath his books and pulls out a sheet of parchment, marked up with his scribbles. “I’ve been charting the days by the hour down here. Whenever one of us comes back from our trips to Dovré, I compare what time it is outside to my calendar, and so far it’s been accurate.” He taps twice on the parchment. “The new moon is tonight.”
Bastien looks from Marcel to me. “Is that significant?” His gaze roams over my face, and I try to s
mooth away any trace of anxiety. “What happens on the new moon?”
I shake my head. “Nothing . . . I just . . .” I glance away from him. His concern confuses me when I know he plans to kill me. “I had a bad dream, that’s all.” I can’t hold myself upright anymore, so I scoot back to the corner wall of the slab and lean against it.
Now Jules stares at me with worried eyes, too—which is even more disconcerting. “How much strength do you have left?” she asks, and lowers her voice. “Does it run out on the new moon?”
I have no idea. “I’m fine,” I reply, though I know it’s really Bastien that Jules is distressed about. Who knows how much longer I can stay alive once my last spark of Elara’s Light is gone?
She shifts her weight onto her left leg. Her knee has finally healed. “You should rest while I’m gone, all right?”
I give her a halfhearted nod. That’s all I do, anyway.
She grabs her empty pack and heads for the door, stopping when she reaches Marcel. “We’re running out of time,” she murmurs to him. “You need to figure out how to break the soul-bond now.”
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do every day?” He gestures at his piles of notes and books all over the table.
“Well, try harder,” she snaps. He frowns, and she drops her head with a sigh. “Sorry, just please . . . try harder.” She kisses his cheek, then turns pained eyes on Bastien before she ducks out of the chamber.
Try harder. Her words remind me what Sabine said—or what the silver owl said—in my dream: Don’t give up, Ailesse. There’s always something you can do.
What does it all mean? Am I having visions? I brushed off the flickering image I saw of Sabine two weeks ago as a hallucination brought on from my head injury. I haven’t seen another one since. But now I wonder . . . has she found a way to communicate with me? Hope sparks in my chest.
Bastien walks over with a tumbler of settled water. His footsteps are cautious, his gaze averted, his expression blank. It’s how he usually handles being this near me. He passes me the tumbler, and our fingers graze. My skin prickles with warmth, and I release a shaky breath. Being this close to him is no small task for me either. I balance the tumbler between my hands—a tricky endeavor because they’re still tied—and drink until the water runs dry. “Thank you.”
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