Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(73)

We set off for the chapel.





33


Sabine


I STAND IN A MUDDY four-foot hole and scoop up another handful of sodden earth. I push a dripping curl off my forehead with filthy hands. The rain is relentless. I should have buried the golden jackal right after I killed him, but when I dragged him into this hollow, I couldn’t bear to look at him, let alone touch his limp body. I covered him with fir branches and did my best not to cry while I set off on another vain search for Ailesse.

That was yesterday. By evening today the jackal’s body has started to stink. Someone without a graced sense of smell might not notice, but I do, and that means others in my famille will, too. They’ll track his scent here. They must be hunting for him again, and I’ve gone directly against the matrone’s wishes by killing the jackal myself.

I slop out one last handful of mud. The pouring rain masks the odor of decay for now, so I have to hurry and finish this. I climb out of the hole and rush over to where I stowed the jackal’s body. I pull the fir branches off him and swallow the bile in my throat. The jackal is rigid now, and a milky substance is filming over his eyes. “Forgive me,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. I pull Ailesse’s bone knife from the belt of my hunting dress and start to hack at his hind leg.

I shut my eyes as much as possible. I’m grateful that the loud rainfall covers most of the noise. The tendons are tough and require me to twist and yank the bone. Elara, give me strength.

Finally, the bone breaks away. I’ve severed the jackal’s whole leg, from his femur to paw. I have to bury what I can’t use—and I just need the femur. I’ll carve a pendant from it for my necklace. I wrinkle my nose and start hacking again. I whimper. This is torture.

My hands are trembling by the time I’m done. I drop the knife and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. Thank the gods this is my last grace bone.

As soon as I’ve had the thought, my stomach twists with guilt. Should I really claim this bone for myself? I could still give it to Odiva so she can carve a new flute.

The sky crackles with thunder. A shrill cry rises above it. At first I think it’s a red fox, but then the rain at the edge of the hollow glows with chazoure.

An icy chill grips me. I duck low, praying the soul will pass by without seeing me, but then he speaks in a rumbling voice, like another clap of thunder. “Don’t bother hiding. I sense the Light inside you.”

The hair on my arms lifts. He has to be Chained. And I have no time to cover up the jackal again.

I look up, and the Chained man bounds into the hollow. I drop the femur. Grab my knife. Jump to my feet just in time to stab him in his chest. He growls and shoves me down. I tumble backward once, then spring up, but I don’t attack again. I can’t kill him. I need to evade him. “You want my Light? You’ll have to catch me first.”

I race out of the hollow, more grateful than ever for my nighthawk grace. My legs are light, and my speed is powerful.

The dead man bolts after me and stays within reach, surprisingly fast himself. He’s tall and lean-muscled, and his chest is wrapped in five rows of chains. Most Chained I saw at the land bridge had half that many. I’m going to have to be clever, as well as quick.

I weave through trees and change directions often, trying to lose him, but I steadily make my way toward the Mirvois River, the prominent river in South Galle.

The rain doesn’t let up. I barely keep my footing on the downward slope of a grassy hill. The Chained man isn’t so lucky. He slides and tumbles down the wet grass. For a moment, that puts him ahead of me, and I narrowly dodge him as I race onward.

Another hill looms ahead. At its top is the bluff above the river. I know this spot well. I hunted a stag here while I deliberated about my second grace bone. The current of the river runs wild with white water. If it weren’t for the pounding rain, I’d hear the sound of it raging.

I dig in my feet as I race up the muddy hill. The Chained man swipes for my leg and grazes my ankle. I shake him off. My muscles burn, even with my graces. I need the jackal’s strength.

You’re almost there, Sabine. Keep going.

I pant, reaching the top of the hill. The edge of the bluff is masked by a row of trees, the torrent of rain, and the dark of night.

I pray my graces will be enough. I need agility on the slick ground from my fire salamander, the power to vault through the air from my nighthawk.

I sprint for the tree line and eye a sturdy branch that overhangs the bluff by twenty feet.

I slow my speed just enough that I’m barely beyond the Chained man’s reach.

Fifteen feet to the tree line.

Ten.

Five.

One.

I plunge off the edge of the bluff. The Chained man’s arms reach for me. His fingers claw the skirt of my dress, but then slip off the wet fabric. He plummets off the bluff with a guttural scream.

I fly through the air, drawing my legs up to stick my landing. My feet skid onto the thick branch. I’m balanced, but the branch is too short. I’m going to slide off it.

I crouch forward and grab the branch with my arms. It’s too wet for me to gain any traction. I squeeze harder and cry out with exertion. My legs topple off. I slide onto my stomach, desperately clinging on to the branch. It’s getting thinner, flimsier, as I near its end. I fumble for a forking tree branch. I grip it, and my shoulder yanks hard as I finally come to a stop.