Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(47)

Maurille’s eyes widen. “Oh.” She peers around me to take a better look. “You killed him for his graces?” Her brows crinkle. Sacrificial animals are rarely this small, though my fire salamander was much smaller.

“He’s a nighthawk. He’ll give me better vision in the dark,” I say, compelled to justify myself. His other abilities—increased speed, jumping farther, and having the sight to see the dead—are obvious. All birds see with more color than humans, and one of those colors is the color of departed souls.

“Well . . . that’s wonderful.” Maurille’s smile is too wide and tight. “Would you like any help preparing the grace bone?”

A flush of nausea grips me. “No. I’d like to do it myself.” It’s the only way to salvage my dignity.

Maurille sucks in a breath. At first I think I’ve offended her, but then she turns to the tunnel leading outside. She’s sensing something. Her bracelet of dolphin teeth gives her keen hearing.

“Are they back?” I ask.

She nods.

My heart leaps, and I race for the tunnel—then through the tide-carved corridors, up the ruins of the castle, and under the collapsed archway to the crumbling stone staircase. I stop halfway up the flight. Odiva stands above me. Waning moonlight shines down on her. The ends of her raven hair are coated in chalky mud.

I forgo the usual courtesy I pay the matrone and call out, “Ailesse?” I crane my neck to look around Odiva. I wish I already had my night vision.

“Is that for supper?” she asks flatly, eyeing my nighthawk.

I don’t answer. There’s no point. “Where is she?”

The four elders step into view. Their faces are drawn. Pernelle’s eyes are wet. I don’t see Ailesse. She should have been the first in their party; she would have run down to see me. Unless she were badly hurt or— “She didn’t escape?” I sag back a step. No one denies it. “What happened?”

Odiva raises her chin, but slightly averts her gaze. “We need to focus on what will happen—ferrying night is in thirteen days. We must find a way to fulfill our duties.” She looks at each of us in turn. “We are going to craft a new bone flute.”

Milicent exchanges a pensive glance with Dolssa. “Forgive me, Matrone, but how will we make a flute without the bone of a golden jackal? They’re all but extinct.”

“They aren’t even native to Galle,” Dolssa adds. “We would have to leave these shores. How could we do so and return within thirteen days?”

“Where is your faith?” Odiva lashes out in a sudden burst of anger. “Tyrus will provide for us. He demands his souls, and this is the last time I can . . .” She briefly lowers her head. The prayer I overheard her whisper last night surfaces to mind. The time is nearing an end. Grant me a sign, Tyrus. Let me know you honor my sacrifices. The feverish gleam in her eyes cools as she smooths out her sleeves. “The golden jackal is sacred to Tyrus. We must appeal to him.”

Pernelle openly stares at Odiva. Roxane and Dolssa hold themselves statuesque and tense. Milicent gives a curt nod. “Of course, Matrone.”

Odiva’s chest broadens with regained composure. “We must make haste. We cannot neglect the next ferrying night. A war has broken out in the north of Dovré. Rumors of many dead are running rampant. Every Leurress of able age will hunt until we find the jackal and make the new flute.” She descends another step and levels her black eyes on me. “That means you, Sabine.”

“But . . . what about Ailesse?” What’s the matter with all of them? Why are we even talking about wars, golden jackals, and bone flutes?

Roxane presses her quivering lips in a tight line. Pernelle wipes at her eyes. Odiva looks up at the Night Heavens like she’s searching for the right words. “Ailesse is dead.”

“What?” Every muscle in my body turns to ice. “No . . . you’re wrong. That can’t be.” A gust of wind whips through the skirts of the elders’ dresses. My heart squeezes, struggling to beat.

“I am sorry, Sabine.” Odiva places a hand on my shoulder. “It might have been better for you if Ailesse had never been . . .” She shakes her head.

“Born?” My eyes narrow. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Her raven brows pinch together. Milicent hastily steps forward to prevent another outburst. “You forget yourself, Sabine. You mustn’t talk to the matrone that way. Of course she doesn’t regret Ailesse’s birth. Ailesse was her heir, the child of her amouré.”

“That does not mean I loved him,” Odiva murmurs, so quietly I wonder if any of the elders’ graced ears can hear. She brushes past me to the castle, but not before I catch her pulling out her hidden necklace. I glimpse it clearly for the first time—a bird skull with a ruby caught in its beak.

If this were any other moment, I’d question why she has another bone—she should only have five—but all I can do is gape in amazement as she walks under the archway of Chateau Creux. How can she be so heartless about her own daughter? How can any of this be happening?

Ailesse can’t be gone.

“Oh, Sabine.” Pernelle comes down and embraces me. My arms hang stiffly by my sides. “We did our best, but Ailesse’s amouré made the tunnel collapse, and it was Ailesse who fell. The matrone tried to save her, but it was too late. The pit was deep, you see, and . . .” Her voice hitches as her tears spill over. My eyes sting, but I hold back my own tears. None of this makes sense. Ailesse isn’t dead. I would know it. I would feel it.