Starbright: The Complete Series

by Hilary Thompson

  Pacem nods, then looks to me again. “We can work out the route now so I know exactly where you’ll be when I catch up. I know it’s a delay, but…”

  I only nod again, becoming numb to the inevitability of what is happening.

  It just has to be this way. Balance in all things – my quest to save lives in Asphodel cannot be at the expense of other lives we could save along the way.

  So Pacem and I help the others. We make litters and carry the wounded through the deserted streets of Tartarus, depositing them in the vehicle one by one. They unload much of the supplies to make beds for those too ill to sit or stand.

  Pacem gathers several boxes of gleaming metal parts and wires as we re-pack as much of the food and water as possible, even bundling some and strapping it to the roof. It is finally agreed that at least three of them will need to walk behind the vehicle, and I suppress a groan at how much slower this will make their journey, and, by consequence, my journey.

  But there simply is no other way.

  And as the sun works its way toward the western horizon, I watch the vehicle hover away at a snail’s pace, trailed by three hooded figures.

  All I have is the pack I carry, my bow and arrow, and as much food and water as could reasonably be carried.

  And a map. I have a map drawn by Pacem’s skilled hands, showing a detailed route for me to follow, marked into daily increments.

  I know he’ll stay true to his promise to find me and help me travel faster, but I try not to despair at the distance between my home and where I stand now: a tiny ant next to the walls of Tartarus, cast in the shadow of the Destroyer even months after his death.

  EIGHTEEN

  ASTREA

  February 9, 2067

  Lakessa read me a beautiful story from one of Charles’s astrology books, about the sun and moon, and two stars.

  I think it’s romantic - waiting. Being patient, following the path the gods laid out for you while keeping faith that they will reward you one day for that very faith in their plans.

  Lakessa just laughed at me when I told her, and called me stupid. She thinks she knows everything about love now that Charles is around.

  From Aisa’s personal journal, saved from before the Cleansing

  I can’t drink the water.

  I can’t not drink the water.

  I glare at the seven skins of water waiting for me. Taunting me with their potential for both refreshment and misery.

  I mutter a few more curse words, because after all, there is no-one to hear my rudeness.

  I wonder what happened to Irana. Surely they wouldn’t do something like this to her. She’s probably being pampered and well-fed. Sure, she might be in some pain from the womb, but that’s nothing compared with this.

  I snort. How in Hades is this ever supposed to help me find my inner temple? Styx.

  Using a curse that is so close to Hade’s name causes a bit of unease to leak into my veins, and I wonder what will happen when night falls.

  I can’t stay awake forever.

  Eventually I’ll sleep, and with all the blackness of the water below me, and the velvet, star-pocked night above me, I’m sure Hade will find me wide open for invasion.

  Again, my brain’s choice of words makes me cringe, and all the anger drips away, replaced drop for drop with fear.

  Fear which strengthens in the same degrees as the setting sun, and my thirst, which is quickly becoming unmanageable. Eventually I will drink that water, because I have no other choice. Although, logically speaking, it would be better to be through with the pain before the sun sets, so I can row east, toward Elysium, all night.

  I grab the skin and tilt it back before I can think another thought. I drain the pouch and collapse on the bottom of the boat, gritting my teeth through the torture.

  Tears roll down my face, and I regret them, if only because they make me more dehydrated. But eventually the pain recedes and I sleep, exhausted. Thankfully, I don’t even dream, and when I wake, the sun has slipped to a low spot in the sky.

  Now I know where west is, and I can put it behind me. The only satisfaction of the whole day comes from knowing I figured out a solution all by myself. Just like I’m supposed to.

  I can barely sit, as each of my muscles is so cramped from tensing through the pain. I stretch them one by one, and drag the oars into the water. Rowing is a pitifully slow exercise for a long time, and I can’t tell if I’m really even moving. But I have to row – the boat won’t return itself to Elysium from this far away.

  As the sun disappears and the moon’s brightness takes over, I notice my muscles working together more naturally, and I’m able to increase the pressure I put on the oars. I fix my eyes on the stars, studying each constellation – both for navigation and to take my thoughts off any lingering pain or the difficulty of the task ahead.

  With no landmarks, though, it’s impossible to see any progress. I row until my arms and legs cramp, rest and massage them as best as I can, and repeat the cycle.

  Even in the middle of the night, it is the hottest part of the entire year, and I am surrounded by water I cannot drink.

  It isn’t nearly close enough to day two, yet I find my eyes wandering to the skins resting in the bottom of the boat. I dread them and crave them all at once.

  Finally the stars begin to fade into a murky mix of midnight blue and lighter gray, and a few weak rays slit open the horizon directly before me. Relief washes over me at the reassurance that I’ve been navigating correctly, and I am indeed still rowing toward Elysium.

  I let the oars thunk back inside the boat, and I reach over the side, splashing some of the ocean water on my face. It cools me for a few seconds, but as it dries, the salt left behind feel stiff and dries my skin to an uncomfortable itchiness. Even so, I wonder if this might be a good thing for my body, so I shed my clothes and dip them in the water. Splashing more water over my skin and donning the wet clothes is a welcome comfort.

  I lie back in the boat, my head resting on the edge, and watch as the sun climbs its way into the sky, gathering strength as it goes.

  Mother’s stories begin to scroll through my mind, of how the sun was jealous of the moon’s love for the stars. I’ve long been taught to pray to the Goddess Moon, but now I wonder if maybe I’m not more like the sun himself. I’m jealous of Tariel, if only because she cares for Lexan and he treats her with respect.

  This is a childish thing, and I can see it now.

  Lexan loves me, that much is certain; even when he is not near enough to touch, I feel his spirit. I sit upright suddenly, and the tiny boat rocks dangerously low, a bit of water spilling over the rim.

  The Prophet’s question from earlier now has an answer: Lexan didn’t swear a false oath. He is definitely still with me, protecting me by loving me and believing in my strength.

  If he were here, he would tell me I am capable of anything, especially of surviving this test.

  I begin to row again, working through the different sort of pain that comes with muscles that have been overtaxed, then rested just short of enough.

  I row and row and row until the sun has climbed high enough for me to be uncertain of my direction, and then I reach for the second water skin.

  The first pouch is a bright red, like freshly spilled blood, and after drinking it, I had felt the crystal’s power scorching through my veins like my own blood was boiling within me. I pick them up and examine them more closely. The skin for day two is dyed a pale, whitish gray; three is a rich red, though not as bright as the empty one; four is a dark burgundy, nearly the brown tint of dried blood; five is the golden tone of my tanned skin; six is a dingy concrete gray; and the last is faded, swirled pink.

  I have no idea what to expect from these other pouches, but I believe now that this is indeed part of the test. I must drink them all, row until I see land, and hope the tide is strong enough to pull me the remaining distance back to Elysium.

  It’s not a bad metaphor for life, I think wryly as I tip th
e second skin to my cracking lips.

  The water slides into my throat and down my gullet in a blessed wash of cool relief, and I am able to lie back in peace for barely three seconds. Then the pain starts – a much different sort of pain from any I’ve experienced.

  This pain is not sharp and agonizing, but a dull ache that grows from within my very bones, pulsing with each beat of my heart as it pushes blood through the channels of my limbs. I feel as though a blunt knife is at work in the marrow of my bones, scraping methodically away at any impurity.

  As though I’m being hollowed out.

  Eventually the sun rests directly above me, for what seems an eternity. I soak the first day’s skin in saltwater and place it over my face for relief from the heat of the sun glancing off the water.

  But I finish the water in thirds, and by the time the sun is low in the sky again, I’m beginning to regain my presence of mind. The hollow feeling is almost nice – like the feeling I get when I soak and scrub so long in the tub that my skin is raw, but clean.

  I allow myself a few more hours of rest – until night has settled around me – before attempting to move. My arms and legs refuse to respond at first, and I have to start smaller. One finger, then another. My big toe, then my ankle.

  All the while, I recite prayers and meditations, barely thinking of the words that slip from between my parched lips.

  You are strong enough for this, the voice echoes in my mind. At first I think it is the memory of Grandmother’s voice, encouraging me in my meditations.

  Your strength is in your heart, the voice continues, sounding now like Mother as she said her last words to me, the morning of Choosing Day. The words I now realize were her goodbye. She knew she would die that day.

  And your strength is also in me, the voice says, its pitch lowering, pulling the dark of night into my mind. Hade. I know it’s Hade – but how can it possibly be Hade?

  I’ve survived the pain for two days without one sign of his presence. I’ve made it through the lonely sleep and the scorching heat and the blood-boiling and bone-aching effects of the crystal-laced water. So how can I still be open to him?

  The panic rises in me as the whispers continue.

  You’ll never be rid of me, Trea, he laughs softly. Not as long as you’re alive. And maybe not even when you pass into the afterlife. For the underworld is in my domain as well. Do you think you could possibly do enough penance to escape the fire when you die?

  This question somehow terrifies me even more than the reality of his voice in my brain. I’ve caused others so much pain – I’ve killed a dozen or more innocent people with my own actions.

  Even more through my inactions.

  I’m not sure there is enough penance on the earth to absolve those acts.

  “There’s too much darkness in my soul, isn’t there,” I say to the night sky.

  Yes, Trea. The fact that you finally recognize this means that you are following the path as you should be.

  “The path to what? This isn’t the same path the Sisters have laid for me.”

  You’re right. But it is your true path. The one you were meant to follow. If you stop fighting it so hard, the pain will slip from your body. The pain you suffer from is from the fight of good and evil, the struggle for dominance. Choose the side you know you were meant for, and everything will become easy.

  “Choose evil, you mean.”

  He doesn’t answer, but the silence around me is filled with affirmation. I could give in to the evil swirling in my soul, and all of this doubt and emotional pain would go away.

  I believe him.

  But I’m not ready to make that decision. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. Instead, I pick up the oars, and fix my sights in the stars. I begin to row again, gritting my teeth against the pain.

  I deserve this pain, and more, for what I’ve done.

  As the whispers of daylight begin again on the horizon, a sliver of a thought enters my mind.

  What if I could use Hade? I banish the thought immediately, before he can notice it. But the feeling of hope swells in my chest.

  I begin to row a little faster, excited by the prospect of growing stronger, but not giving in. Maybe that is the key I’ve been waiting for – the incredible strength Hade obviously possesses, but without the whole Destroyer part.

  I’m so lost in my concentration that I don’t realize I’m pulling harder and harder on the oars. A sudden cracking bursts into the still air, and my right arm loses purchase on the water – all the weight is gone from my fingers. I stare in disbelief at the handle I hold, which is no longer attached to an oar.

  Swiveling on the narrow bench, I see the broken piece floating a few yards behind me already. Hopelessness and blasphemy rise in my lungs like I’m drowning, and I gulp air, thinking fast.

  I can still row with one oar, right?

  I’ll just have to switch sides every few strokes to stay straight. I stare back at the piece, wondering if I should retrieve it. But a breeze begins, almost from nowhere, and begins to whip the waves as high as the sides of my little craft. Soon I can’t see the broken oar anywhere, and I’m struggling just to keep the remaining one in my grasp.

  The sky darkens with clouds, and raindrops begin to fall. I brace my feet against the sides of the boat, wedging the water skins under my thighs, and struggle not to vomit as I’m tossed side to side, then up one crest and down the next.

  Eventually I just close my eyes and focus on breathing.

  Somehow I make it through the storm unharmed, and as the clouds recede, I see I’ve lost nothing. I lick the rainwater from my lips, but it still tastes salty.

  The sun finally appears, directly above me again. I sigh, then lean back in the inch or so of water now in the boat. I reach for the third skin and drink half of it in one go. Immediately my lungs begin to seize, then my stomach, and all the parts in between I don’t have names for. This water is cleansing my gut.

  Blood, bones, gut – I wonder what is left for the next four days. Then I close my eyes and wait for a time when I can feel something besides pain. Hours pass, and I finish the water, bringing the skin mechanically to my lips.

  When the pain finally does lessen, I’m suddenly hungrier than I’ve ever been – ravenous. I could gnaw on the leather skins themselves.

  I begin to watch the water, hoping to glimpse a fish I might somehow catch. But there is nothing. So I scan the skies, searching for a bird. Again nothing.

  True terror begins to set in, and I row like mad, flinging my single oar across the boat as I switch sides over and over again. The day enters night, and still I row, desperate to be making progress.

  At some point in the night, I pass out, because when I open my eyes, it is noon again. The oar is clutched so tightly in my hand that I have to use my other fingers to pry it away.

  After drinking the fourth water skin in one, long draught, I realize I won’t be rowing at all today.

  This water is testing my muscles. As I curl in the bottom of the boat, every muscle I have ties itself in knots. I begin to pray, reciting the words in the short huffs of breath I can manage.

  A rhythmic flapping wakes me from my stupor, and I open my eyes to see a bird circling the boat, and the sun setting just to my left. I sit, excited – perhaps land is closer than I think, if a bird can find me in this expanse of ocean.

  The thought of roasted bird nearly makes me cry.

  Then the orange sunset glints off its body and the rage bubbles up inside me before I barely realize what is happening. Throwing my hand up, I shoot the bird down with my flames, and it thuds to the bottom of the boat. I nudge at it, but the metal of its wings are too hot, and I burn my fingers. Glaring at it, I splash ocean water on it until it is cooled.

  I push every button and nearly rip the wings off, but the bird is carrying no message. It is a spy, reporting back to the Sisters on my progress, no doubt.

  I toss the bird into the ocean and smile in satisfaction as it sinks immediately out of sight.


  I begin to row, but I have a dreadful feeling I’m not gaining any ground at all, and the Sisters were beginning to wonder if I had died. That must be why they sent the bird.

  Day slips into night. I’m so tired. Part of me wishes I were dead, just so I wouldn’t need to work so hard to stay alive. I close my eyes to rest, trailing my fingers in the water.

  “Hade?” I whisper to the night air, before I can fully reason why I would invite him to talk to me. But there is no answer. I know I need to make use of the cooler night and the stars to navigate my way back, but instead I sink into sleep, all my strength gone.

  When I wake up, I don’t know if it is sunrise or sunset. I’m disoriented and my brain is not processing anything. I close my eyes, too tired to even drink the fifth bag of water.

  Hours later, when the darkness has begun to arrive again, something nudges my knee.

  “Darling, you must wake up. Drink this.”

  I struggle, but my eyes won’t open. I can’t even resist when a gentle hand slips behind my head, smooth fingers push my lips apart, and water pours down my throat. I cough weakly and sputter, but the water goes down – all of it in one go.

  My head is carefully laid down on something soft, like a pillow. I feel someone running fingers through my hair, like Mother used to do when I was a young child.

  Then the pain starts. My skin feels like it’s being peeled away from my body in long strips. The pain pulsates up and down my body, and I shake so hard I can barely catch my breath. I start to claw at the light fabric that wraps me, intent only on relief, but it’s too difficult for my cramped fingers.

  “Shh, it will be over soon. You are so weak now, but you are getting so much stronger,” the voice coos in my ear. It’s comforting to have someone with me, even if somewhere in my brain I realize it’s a hallucination.

  Day six dawns and I cannot move. Instead, I notice that I still feel cradled in someone’s arms. I open my mouth to speak, but no voice comes out. I’m pushed gently to a sitting position, propped against the side of the boat. When I open my eyes, a dense fog rests on the ocean’s surface. I see light beyond, but even the far end of the boat is blurry.