Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(44)

She takes another step, five feet from the drop-off of the pit, and another fifteen feet from where we’re standing on the opposite ledge. “That’s far enough.” I nod, pointing out the fragile ground at her feet. “Unless you want the princess to die where she stands.”

She stops without tensing and lifts a hand. The other Bone Criers halt. I look at each woman closer. A wave of hot then cold rolls through me. They’re all stunning and unique, with different shades of skin and impressive bones, especially the wreath of antlers on one woman and the rib cage necklace on another—though none are as striking as the queen’s. “You won’t kill Ailesse,” she says calmly, but her rich voice cuts the dense air and booms across the divide. “She must have told you that you would die, too.”

I give her a stony glare, though my stomach drops. She just confirmed my life really is tied to her daughter’s. “You’d be surprised how far I’m willing to go for revenge.” I bear down on my blade, and Ailesse sucks in a pinched breath.

The queen’s eyes linger on her. If there’s any love in her expression, I can’t read it. Maybe she won’t make this exchange. “What is it you want, Bastien?” she asks me.

I flinch at my name, startled she knows it. “The bones,” I reply. “All of them.”

“We are in the catacombs. You will have to be more specific.”

She knows very well which bones I mean. “The bones that give you magic.”

“Ah, our grace bones.” She folds her hands together. “The power you call ‘magic’ is a gift from the gods. It is not to be trifled with, lest the gods smite you. But if you insist—”

“I do. A small price for your daughter’s life.”

“My daughter and the bone flute,” the queen stipulates.

Ailesse opens her mouth to speak, but I hold the knife tighter against her throat, a silent warning not to reveal that Jules broke the flute. “Agreed,” I say, though I have no intention of keeping my promise.

The queen gestures to her attendants. They share troubled glances.

“One person at a time,” I order. “I want to see three bones from each of you.”

The queen lifts her chin, a challenge in her gaze, and nods at each Bone Crier. A basket lowers from a gap in the tunnel ceiling. The hidden pulley wheel screeches. Jules is up there doing her part.

The Bone Criers place their bones in the basket, and I count them. Some are set in bracelets, anklets, necklaces, earrings, and even hair combs. One woman blinks back tears, as if she’s passing over a child. Good. I want this to be painful for them.

I’ve lost track of the queen. She’s somewhere at the back of the group. She murmurs something to her attendants, and they part to let her pass. She glides forward to the basket, locks eyes with Ailesse, and removes her talon epaulettes, her claw necklace, and, last of all, her crown. It’s made from a twisting vertebra. Probably a deadly snake.

As soon as the queen sets her last bone in the basket, she grips the rope so it can’t be hoisted up. “We will make the exchange at the same time,” she tells me. “Lower another rope for Ailesse.”

“The terms are mine, not yours,” I counter. “Let go of the basket and come to the edge of the pit.”

Her black eyes narrow. She releases the rope and glances at the fractures on the floor. “I’ll do this alone,” she says to the other Bone Criers. They shift backward.

I hope Marcel is ready. There’s a second tunnel beneath us, a near copy of this one. At its end, the floor has also crumbled away into the chasm.

The queen slowly approaches the pit, her posture flawless. She’s four feet from the edge. Three feet. A hairline fissure cracks beneath her. She hesitates.

My chest tightens. The queen needs to come a little closer, where the ground is most fragile.

We only have one cask of black powder.

Two feet.

“A clap of thunder,” Ailesse murmurs to herself. Her body goes rigid with understanding.

“Run!” she screams at her mother. “The tunnel is going to rupture!”

The queen’s eyes fly wide. “Fall back!” she commands the other Leurress. “Roxane, the bones!”

“Now, Marcel!” I shout.

Roxane whips out a knife from a hidden sheath at her thigh. She cuts the basket free and races away with it.

I yank Ailesse back to the far wall of our small ledge and brace for the blow. My heart pounds three times. Nothing happens. How long is Marcel’s powder trail?

The queen grins. She hasn’t retreated like her attendants. She tenses to jump. I eye the fifteen feet between us. “She’ll never make it.”

“You’ve forgotten something,” Ailesse says to me. “A matrone wears five bones, not three.”

Five?

I never forgot—I never knew.

The queen leaps. Her arc is tremendous.

I release Ailesse and take a defensive stance. Ailesse rushes to the drop-off of the ledge toward her mother.

The queen is halfway across the chasm.

BOOM.

Chunks of stone burst in the air. I’m thrown on my back. Dust clouds choke my lungs. I push up to my feet, coughing. I wave away the smoke.

I can’t find the queen.

And Ailesse is gone.