Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(38)

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.”

My heart rises in my throat. I can’t find my breath. Ailesse isn’t in a cave. Her captors took her to the catacombs.

I cast aside my bow and yank the bone knife from my belt. My hands shake with adrenaline.

Ailesse can’t be in that place. She’s brave, but it’s unholy. It will strip her of her Light. Kill her.

Elara, help me.

I launch at the girl. A furious but terrified cry peals from my lungs.

The girl’s face comes into focus as I race nearer.

Her smile slips.

I swipe my blade out at her. Her blond braid whips as she whirls aside to dodge it. Her wounded leg hasn’t slowed down her reflexes.

“Your queen sent you?” she asks incredulously. “Well, tell her Bastien won’t bargain with a servant. The queen must come herself.”

“Bastien?” I slash out again, driving her backward to the edge of the ravine. “Is that the name of Ailesse’s amouré?”

The girl’s eyes tighten with hatred. “It’s the name of the boy who will kill her.”

Blood roars through my ears. I try to stab her, but she takes another backward step and drops out of sight.

My breath catches. I dart to the edge of the ravine. The girl is tumbling, but her fall is strategic.

Halfway down, she straightens her body and pulls to a stop near the burrow hole. Without another glance at me, she slips feetfirst inside.

No! I can’t follow her there. Not because of the Leurress’ rules, but common sense—the one gift I have that surpasses Ailesse’s. If I crawl inside that burrow, I’ll face three opponents instead of one. I’ll enter darkness devoid of Elara’s Light, and with only one grace to aid me. It will mean my sure death. I’ll have no hope of rescuing Ailesse.

“Sabine?”

The distant sound of my name stops my heart. Ailesse?

I jerk around and scan the moonlit forest. A silhouette comes into view. I make out the clear-cut outline of a crown, and I stiffen. It’s not Ailesse. It’s my matrone.





15

Ailesse

JULES STILL HASN’T RETURNED TO our catacombs chamber, even though it must be nearing nightfall, maybe later. Bastien takes a break from rechecking his supplies and pacing. He sits with one knee bent to his chest and draws serpentine patterns on the dusty ground, then grumbles at his pictures. I know what he’s doing—plotting a strategy to kill my mother with his knowledge of the mazelike catacombs—though he doesn’t look like much of a killer at the moment. He’s chewing on the end of his tongue, the way a little child does, and it softens every harsh edge of his expression.

He sits back and runs his hands through his dark hair. His sea-blue eyes trail over to where I’m bound up on the limestone slab, ten feet away. His brows furrow. Too late I realize my gaze is soft on him and my lips are curved upward. I immediately stiffen and school my features.

Bastien picks at his fingernails, then scoots over to Marcel and whispers something in his ear.

The younger boy peers up at me. “All right,” he says, and shuts his book. He stands and stretches, then picks up a tumbler of settled water and brings it over to me. My throat parches at the sight of it.

This was Bastien’s idea? I glance at him, but he’s studiously avoiding my gaze.

“It isn’t poisoned,” Marcel says, when I don’t touch it. Of course it isn’t poisoned. My captors wouldn’t risk killing Bastien by killing me. “Although you do have to grow accustomed to the taste,” he adds.

I accept the tumbler, sniff the water, and take a tentative sip. The mineral taste of limestone is heavy, but at least no grit coats my mouth. I drink the rest in one long gulp and release a small sigh.

“Thank you.” The words spill out before I think better of them, and Bastien’s brows lift and wrinkle again. I pass the tumbler back to Marcel.

“So . . . how many of you are there?” Marcel asks.

“What are you doing?” Bastien frowns at him.

“Until I get my other books, I’ve no better resource than her. I might as well try to learn something. Jules will be back any time now, which means the queen will be, too.”

Bastien snorts. “Good luck getting her to talk.”

Unruffled by the challenge, Marcel crosses his arms and stares me down. He doesn’t look as though he’s trying to intimidate me. Maybe that’s why I answer him.

“Forty-seven.” Or maybe I answered because Bastien said I wouldn’t.

Marcel’s eyes fly wide. It’s the most animated I’ve seen him. “So many?”