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

People only say such things when it probably is. “The matrone is rescuing her,” I reply. “She’ll be back with her soon.”

“You must be eager to see your friend again.”

I give a small nod. I am, but I should have been part of the rescue. I should have already obtained all my graces. The nighthawk grows heavy, and I immediately regret the thought.

Maurille comes closer. I shuffle back a step. “What is it you have there?” she asks me.

My muscles tense to run, but I root my legs. I returned home because if Odiva does rescue Ailesse, she won’t be of any comfort to her. Ailesse needs me. “A bird,” I confess.

“Sabine, you’re shaking.” Maurille frowns. “When is the last time you ate?” She reaches for the nighthawk. “Let me help you cook that.”

“No!” I whisper-shout, and pull away. “Please, I don’t want anyone to eat it.” The elders say we must honor our kills by not wasting any part of them, but I can’t bear the thought of the nighthawk becoming a meal. “I chose this bird.” Because he was unfortunate enough to cross my path.

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.