Page 97 of The BoneKeeper's Daughter

And yet, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Until a tiny, pale mist drifts up from her body.

There is no soul-song.

There is no vibrating, joyful light of memory.

There is no…Grace.

Only a soft grey smoke the likes of which I’ve never seen before.

But I still reach.

I still try.

And I can almost,almostfeel her. Almost hear her, lost somewhere in the cloud hovering over her body, my fingers glancing off her time and time again. And I swear she is stretching for me, that I’m so close to catching her I can taste it, when a screaming wind tears down from the mountain, shrieking through the trees, sending people staggering back from its force. It’s brutal and blinding, ripping breath from bodies, sending small stones like glass fragments into skin. It’s a storm wind, sulfurous and noxious, full of ash and poison, and it races around the square like a living creature, a wolf on the hunt, searching for prey.

Everyone turns from it, cowering, covering themselves with their billowing cloaks, wrapping themselves around their loved ones. Even the Council on the stage bends back from it, shielding their eyes from the dirt and debris being flung in the churning air. So it is only Raek, and Silas, and Rannoch, and myself, who see the howling gale stutter, almost pause as it skirts across my skin, and then fully cease for a heartbeat when it nears the mist still floating over Grace’s body.

Flinging myself forward, I shout in alarm, hands outstretched,fingers grasping at empty air, desperately trying to find her. Because I know, somehowI know,if the wind takes her, she will be lost forever.

But I’m too late, if I could have reached her at all.

The moment the storm wind touches her it absorbs her, all at once and with no warning. Her greyness flares briefly, just a blink, then is swallowed by the storm, and is gone. The wind thickens until it is almost tangible, choking and suffocating, then roars away in a rush of chaos and flurry.

Everything is still

Everything is silent.

And then a single drop tumbles to the earth.

And another.

And another.

AFTER THE SACRIFICE

WREN

Water falls like memory from the sky.

Something in our deepest souls knows this event, this kiss of rain on skin.Rain. The word feels foreign on my tongue — it’s a flavor from the world before, a spice, or sweetness that we have never tasted. But I know it like I know the taste of my tears. This israin, real rain, that has not been seen in centuries or longer. There is none alive now who has felt this before, who knows anything other than oil and iron, brackish rivers and briney ponds. We drink from sulfurous cups, we grow from poisoned soil.

Men and women are like children, falling to their knees in the wet clay, water carving valleys in the dirt on their faces, and they raise up their voices in songs that have only been whispered by fireplaces until now. Children are running, kicking puddles of standing water, the ground so parched that it will not accept the downpour, so the liquid runs along the surface until it finds cracks and burrows to seep through into the barren earth below. Even the Protectors and Keepers, the Renders, the Reapers, the Councilmen, are all standing, hands outstretched, closed eyes tilted to the rapidly darkening heavens above.

People are calling Raek’s name as a blessing, embracing him,thanking him over and over, the horror of the last hour washed away in the miracle of the last minute. He’s passed from hand to hand, pulled from family to family, welcomed with open arms across the breadth of the crowded square. Grace is all-but-forgotten, lying crumpled in a congealing pool of blood on the stage. The gentle downpour rinses her stained body clean, red rivers pouring from the platform's edge; they run pale pink and then clear, until she looks only as though she’s sleeping. Rannoch and Silas exchange a long, silent look, then move as one to straighten her empty body, folding her arms and closing her eyes, their careful hands pulling at strings deep within my heart. No one else gives any notice; they are too busy smiling, faces creaking under the strain of expressions long since forgotten. These are not the Storms of acid that sweep down during the winter months, the biting cold that flays you alive. This iswater. Pure, clean water, and the village as one heaves a sigh that seems to shake off centuries of burden.

Have we been forgiven?

It is a running whisper through the people, an echo over and over so it becomes one voice, one word.Forgiven forgiven forgiven?It cannot be believed. Water has been a myth, a story for so long, that to have it appear unceasingly in refracting teardrops feels like a fever dream. The peoples’ laughter turn to tears, to gasping sobs of relief tearing from their stomachs in painful, heart wrenching cries.

To want a thing so desperately, for so long, and to finally receive it carries its own type of pain.

I have not left my place in the shadow of the Council House, tucked back beneath a heavy overhang, dry. Parched, even. My skin and throat are calling out for the promise mere steps from me. If I were to reach out a hand, just stretch the slightest bit, I could touch it, but something is holding me back. Something is keeping me from it, and I fight to move forward with every ounce of strength in my body, rocking back and forth on my feet, heel-toe-heel-toe, but I cannotmove.

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