Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(57)

“Have faith, Sabine.” élodie squeezes my hand, but her trembling fingers reveal she’s not as certain as she’d like me to believe.

She joins the other Ferriers, and they wade out ankle-deep in the water as the tide slowly recedes from the rocks of the land bridge.

My Leurress sisters look beautiful, all clothed in ceremonial white. Most of them wear the dresses from their rites of passage. I’ve mended holes and torn seams after their ferrying nights. I’ve also watched new Ferriers dry their own tears. These are the same dresses they wore when they ferried their own amourés after killing them. I feel sacrilegious and starkly different in my rough-spun hunting dress, and with two grace bones instead of three. I pray the souls of the dead won’t notice.

I look back to the sea, and an amazed breath escapes me. The land bridge has almost fully emerged. Only a few webs of water spin around the rocks. From where I stand, the path looks like a cobblestone road on a rainy day, cutting through the current. Odiva is the first to set foot on it, and the others follow without beckoning.

The Ferriers spread along the length of the bridge in even intervals and hold their staffs ready.

The elders choose the more precarious places—areas where the rocks are more uneven or the twelve-foot width of the path narrows to six feet. Odiva assumes her post at the end of the bridge, at least forty yards away, half the expanse of the inlet. Thanks to my nighthawk grace, which not only gives me better vision in the dark, but also far-reaching sight, I can see her in detail.

The matrone sweeps her raven hair behind her shoulder and lifts the new bone flute to her mouth. An eerie but lovely song rises above the sound of the lapping water. I’ve never heard this melody. It’s different from the one Ailesse learned for her rite of passage. No one practices the song for the soul bridge, I suppose, since Odiva is the only one who plays it.

I brace myself against being lured to the bridge myself—each initiated Ferrier has labored for the strength to resist it—but the temptation only feels like a weak itch. The song, however, is enough to bring the dead.

I gasp as the first soul appears at the threshold of the cave I came out of. A little boy. His transparent body is the new color I’ve been told about, neither warm nor cool. The Leurress call it chazoure.

He walks onto the shore, wearing the nightclothes he must have been buried in. His eyes are round, like he’s been startled awake from a deep slumber. He trips forward toward the bridge, though he looks afraid.

Vivienne is the first to greet him. Her chestnut hair fans around her shoulders as she crouches eye level to him. “It’s all right.” She offers him a kind smile. “We will help you.”

The boy shyly takes her hand, and Vivienne guides him to Maurille, the next Ferrier in line.

I blow out an exhale. That wasn’t so bad. Hopefully most of the dead are like this boy, earnest and sweet.

I’ve had the thought too soon.

I flinch when I see the next soul, a grown man. He scales down a cliff headfirst like a spider.

Chazoure glows from the forged links wrapped around his neck and torso. He’s Chained, marked for eternal punishment in Tyrus’s Underworld. He’s committed an unforgivable sin.

Vivienne’s smile vanishes. She touches her wildcat jawbone necklace and holds her staff with both hands in a defensive stance. The man approaches the bridge, but stops at its head. Vivienne’s frown mirrors my own. élodie told me that all souls would at least ascend the bridge.

The man paces back and forth, muttering under his breath and tugging at his chains. At the end of the bridge, the siren song warbles on an off-note. Vivienne glances back at Maurille, who shrugs, as baffled by the man as she is. Vivienne cautiously steps off the soul bridge and approaches the Chained. As she reaches for his arm, he shoves her back. I’ve been taught how souls grow tangible, but I’m still shocked to see someone transparent make physical contact with a living person.

Vivienne’s eyes flash, and she flexes her grip on her staff. She’s a Ferrier. She’s ready.

Almost faster than I can see, she feints with her staff and sweeps out her leg. The man is thrown on his backside. Before he can react, she hauls him up and swings her staff, driving him onto the bridge. His boots slide on the slippery rocks. He doesn’t have Vivienne’s graced balance. He finally escapes her hold, but Maurille is prepared. In one great leap spanning twenty feet, she lands in front of him and strikes her staff hard on his jaw. He staggers back, but she grabs his chains and drags him farther down the bridge. I don’t see what happens next. A streak of chazoure draws my eye out to the sea.

The soul of a young woman is in the water. She swims toward the middle of the bridge. I can’t see the rest of her body to know if she’s Chained.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle.”

I yelp and spin around. A chazoure man I haven’t seen yet is three feet away. Unchained, thank the gods.

He takes off his hat and holds it to his chest. “Can you tell me about that path running through the water? I wonder if I should cross it, but, well, I don’t know if it leads anywhere.” His chin twitches beneath his beard. “You see, there’s nothing at the end.”

What is he talking about? I look at the bridge and focus where Odiva is guarding the Gates of the Beyond. Except there are no Gates. The bridge ends with nothing but the sea.

My mouth falls slack. I don’t understand. I thought the Gates were supposed to appear when the siren song summoned them. I’m not surprised that I can’t see Elara’s Gate to Paradise—it’s said to be nearly invisible—but I should be able to see the Gate to Tyrus’s Underworld. According to the Ferriers, it’s made of water and hangs on nothing but air. Some describe it as a waterfall; others say it’s more like a flowing veil. But the man beside me is right—it’s not there. Which means Elara’s Gate is missing, too. The song of the stag-carved bone flute wasn’t powerful enough to raise the Gates.