Starbright: The Complete Series

by Hilary Thompson

  Like a coward, I stand and leave the tent without another word. Irana is not long for this world, and I have no idea how to process that. I will miss her, and the people would be desolate – she is their favorite.

  But the real fear this thought awakens is for my mortality. If Irana believes she can die, so can I.

  And I’m not ready to change my perspective – I want to keep my sights in the stars above me, too.

  Not looking down on the earth as it turns below me.

  I watch everyone sleep, a finger-length flame weaving between my own fingers as I listen idly for any movement in the darkness outside the tent. Every night we watch, and thankfully every night this week has been quiet. Even the elements have calmed recently.

  The sky above us in the vent hole is just between dark and dawn, and as the few visible stars begin to fade, a shadow passes over the tent. I hear something like the flapping of wings, and I’m on my feet in an instant, not even taking the time to wake the others. I grab my bow and arrow and check the knife in my waistband, then push out of the tent.

  Perhaps it’s a bird from Stian or the Prophet. Circling the clearing, I see nothing, but I can sense something.

  I build a flame higher in my palm and shine the light toward the trees beyond. The shadows play with my imagination, and I shudder, thinking of Hade’s magic out there somewhere, waiting for the right time to slay us all.

  “Astrea,” a whisper comes to me on the breeze. It’s breathy and feminine, not chucking like Hade.

  I turn in slow, tight circles, following the sound as it repeats, going farther from the tent than I’m supposed to go alone.

  Just as I’m about to turn back and wake the others, I see them.

  “Erinyes,” I say, my voice soft, yet still too loud in the early morning air. There’s no reason to avoid their name now: the Three Sisters stand before me in their true form, eye sockets dripping black blood, wings beaded with silvery moonshine and water from where they’ve been bending to drink from our newly-created stream.

  “Astrea, you four have done well here,” one says, who I think must be Tisiphone. She’s the only one who ever complimented us, anyways.

  “The Garden is nearly as it should be. I can feel its rightness calming my judgment,” another one says. “You have worked well together and used your powers over the elements for good, and not for evil.”

  “And what of our tests?” I ask.

  “Two of you have passed, and two of you have not,” the third one grins, and I realize of course, this is Alecta, who always seems to take a perverse sort of joy in any failure I have.

  “Zarea has learned to work within a group, and she has overcome the paralysis of grief and self-blame for the deaths of her sisters and many others. She trusts the strength of her power, and she trusts others to be strong when it is needed,” Tisiphone says, focusing her gaze behind me.

  I turn and see Zarea standing behind me. This is the first time she’s seen the Sisters in their true form, I realize, and her eyes are unnaturally wide with fear, though she doesn’t back away.

  Lexan waits a few feet behind Zarea, Irana huddling into his side.

  “Lexan has managed to blacken his soul with murder and revenge, but without tipping into the darkness of self-pity or the craving to kill again. His desire to be perfect has been sufficiently replaced with his desire to protect those he loves, even as he realizes his imperfections may prevent this very protection. Lexan, as the autumn star, you may still be tested by the Goddess, but know that you have passed our training.”

  He nods, bending deeply to them. “And what of Hade?” he asks, straightening.

  The Sisters hiss as a single being. “He lives,” they say, their voices an ugly chorus of disharmony. Several seconds slip by, and they add nothing else. My chest feels tight with the knowledge that I alone brought him here – my own weakness brought the darkness into our paradise.

  Then Tisiphone turns to Irana. “You, child, have not yet passed your test. We were responsible for taking your Pacem, and I am deeply sorry for that, but you are at fault for letting grief steal your peace.”

  “You?” she whispers. “You killed Pacem?” She suddenly darts forward, her fingers twisted like claws as though to tear the bloody eyes from their faces, but she is knocked to her back by a mere flick of Alecta’s wrist.

  “Pacem was mortal. His death is inevitable, as are all mortals’ deaths.” Megara looks pointedly at Zarea, and my stomach flips as I think of Stian, fighting the Lost on his own. Turning back to Irana, she continues, “You know the prophecy, and yet still you tie yourself to the strength of others with cords of fear and weakness!” Megara says, her words even harsher than her voice.

  Irana starts to tremble, but she says nothing in return, and gradually she finds the strength to stand again, though she shrinks back to Lexan.

  “And Astrea…” Megara turns to me. I don’t feel fear, but guilt, which is so much worse. So much less manageable. “The most difficult student of all. Your lesson is not so different from Irana’s, but you have yet to realize that the cords of your destiny were never tied to Lexan. No, stupid girl, you allowed yourself to become entangled with the selfishness of the dark. You barely know which thoughts are yours, and which are his,” she spits.

  Her words hit me in a place I’ve almost managed to forget here in the Garden, with hard work and prayer. My chest feels like it’s crumpling inward, my ribs squeezing all the breath from my lungs. I sway on my feet, but I refuse to fall to my knees.

  I know in my heart that she’s right, just like I know what I’ll have to do to pass my test.

  “No,” I say, hating how weak my voice sounds. “Hade will be defeated, even if I must trade everything I have for it.”

  Megara smiles then, and the sight is sickening. She nods, and the Sisters snap their wings open, startling all of us. Megara jumps into the sky first, then Alecta.

  “You will succeed,” Tisiphone whispers to me before joining her Sisters, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s a statement of faith or a command. “The travelers begin to arrive today!” she calls back down. Then they beat away the remaining traces of night with their wings, sailing into the sunrise as we watch, stunned.

  “Today?” Zarea echoes. “But we aren’t ready!”

  “Then let’s get to work,” Lexan answers, his voice grim. He doesn’t even glance at me as he turns back to the tent.

  Just as the sun is tipping into the second half of the sky, Zarea spots a single person on the edge of the cliff, just where the Lost appeared to take Pacem. She strings an arrow and shouts at him, and he raises both hands, showing no weapons.

  She scrambles up the path to the ledge, and within minutes, we’re welcoming a young scout into the Garden.

  “The first caravan is right behind us,” he says as he washes his hands and face in the stream. “If I hurry to get them, they can be here by nightfall.”

  “Sit and eat a bit first,” Irana says, smiling and sitting next to him. “Have you had many troubles on the way?”

  “Well, the elements were a constant problem. We lost a few people in the flooding rivers, and others in the earthquakes. I don’t know how many. There are several caravans, all traveling a few days’ distance from each other. The last one is filled with sick and injured. They move slowly.” He pauses to take several gigantic bites of the meat and fruit Irana offers him.

  “Do you know Stian?” Zarea asks, her voice laced with dueling hope and fear.

  He nods, swallowing. “I’ve seen him, but not lately. He travels the length of the caravans, hunting the Lost. We haven’t had any attacks since he joined us. Before that…” he trails away, filling his mouth again.

  I exchange a glance with Lexan. I hate that Stian isn’t here with us – that he’s in danger – but it sounds as though his instincts were true.

  “We haven’t had any attacks from the Lost here, after the first day,” Lexan says, glancing at Irana. “And the elements have calmed significan
tly as we’ve built up the Garden. We’re ready to begin building.”

  We quickly show him the four quadrants, the piles of stripped tree trunks ready for sawing into lumber, the ribbons of fresh water reaching every corner, and the abundance of fruit and meat available to gather and hunt.

  “The people will be so grateful,” he says, his face shining with happiness. “The journey has been hard, and this is truly a paradise.”

  “I’ll return with you,” Zarea says, and within minutes, they’re climbing the hill again to fetch the first caravan.

  The hours slip into days as we receive more and more travelers into the Garden. People choose quadrants, plots of land we’ve marked off for homes and farming, and they begin to build. Zarea and I provide more wood as needed from the vast, mountainous forest that encloses us on the north side, running the stripped logs down a slim river Irana built just for that purpose.

  As each family arrives and spreads out, Irana pushes herself deeper into exhaustion each day, ensuring they each have pools for fresh water, bathing, and washing clothes. The council reforms, and Lexan and the Prophet begin to lead prayers and meditations. Lexan also uses the quiet hours to re-count the census family by family, learning names, and marking in his book which ones already need a monument in our graveyard.

  “I still want to have a celebration when everyone gets here, and I think we should call it the Night of Peace. For Pacem,” Irana tells me one evening as we gather fruit under the stars, even after a full day of work. “Working with the people has reminded me of what peace should be. Helping them is helping me...heal.”

  “You’ll always miss him,” I say, and she nods, her eyes filling with tears.

  She blinks them away and smiles. “But I can do this.”

  FOURTY-ONE

  LEXAN

  January 28, 2068

  Clota is more than just mad. Maximus has pushed her into crazed obsession.

  She laughs all the time about how the whole world will burn and burn.

  She wants to destroy everyone who had a part in Mother’s death – in all the senseless deaths since this war began.

  Aisa tries to tell her that more death won’t change anything, but it’s a child’s logic. Revenge always helps, and if this world needs to be cleansed, Clota is the right one to do it. I only warned her to give me time to seal

  Asphodel before she seals the fate of those left outside.

  From First Leader Lakessa’s personal journal

  Included in Firene’s secret papers

  The last caravan arrives on the first day of July – only fifteen days from the eclipse, if all our calculations are correct.

  They have lost many of their wards due to injury and occasional sickness, but they also bring joy with them, as families are reunited again, and a sort of relief as loved ones can be accounted for and their losses mourned.

  I can’t help but keep a mental tally of those we weren’t able to save: those who refused to listen. Madna. The group of young people I met by the river. I guess part of saving people is letting them save themselves – something Trea’s been teaching me for months now.

  The last few people enter the gate we’ve created – more of a symbolic entrance than a useful measure of security. Zarea stands next to me, watching and waiting.

  “He’ll come,” I say to her.

  She shrugs her shoulders as though she isn’t actually worried. She almost manages to turn away, but just then a lone figure trudges to the ledge and through the gate.

  I grin and laugh as Zarea breaks into a flat out sprint, tackling Stian to the ground in a fierce hug just inside our fledgling city. He rolls her beneath him, completely uncaring of all the people nearby. Bending his head to hers, he murmurs something, and she kisses his lips and laughs.

  “Yes! Yes, I will,” she says clearly enough for all to hear, and he bounds up, whooping, his arms in the air like the winner of a battle.

  “My future wife!” he yells, bending to pick her up and swinging her in a full circle. Everyone nearby begins to clap and cheer, and I say a prayer of thanks as I watch their happiness spread through the Garden in the way that the sunshine touches each leaf and flower.

  A hand slips into mine, and I look down to see Trea, smiling up at me. Her eyes are hooded in shadows, though, as she watches Isa being unloaded from one of the small wagons. She walks with a slight limp, but appears otherwise healthy. Aitan walks beside her, but she doesn’t even acknowledge him. He sees me and offers me a weary, wry half-smile.

  “Now that everyone is here, I want to scan all their souls again,” Trea says, turning away from the scene before us. “I need to be absolutely certain they’re all cleansed – Elysium’s path can only do so much. We cannot let him win,” she adds, and I don’t have to ask who she means.

  “Okay. I’ll help you. We have the names from the census.”

  “I want to start now,” she insists.

  I nod, leading her back to the center circle, where several men are building a temple with a raised platform from which to address the people. I pull several of the younger boys aside and instruct them to begin gathering the first group of families from my list.

  “I’ll go start checking the names from the last caravan,” I tell Trea, and she nods, settling in a chair to wait for her first group.

  As the afternoon progresses, I check off every last name from the census papers, and Trea scans hundreds of people’s souls, balancing more people than I expected.

  “Not even all the people I cleansed remained in balance,” she tells me worriedly when we lie together at night, watching the stars through the hole in the top of our own tent.

  I’m not sure how to answer – I hadn’t expected them to, not really. But I don’t know what this means for the prophecy. Sure, we’ve gathered most of the people – everyone who would come. And we’ve cleansed the people, some more than once now. We’ve used the elements to build the Garden into a viable community and protected everyone from the Lost.

  But what if it isn’t enough?

  Trea sighs. “I wish we could just ignore the whole world, like we did back at Madna’s,” she says, running her fingers along my arm, bringing me back to the present.

  “We will one day. After the eclipse,” I say, stubborn in my belief that we can somehow make all of this work.

  “Maybe.” But I hear the disbelief in her voice, the resigned sort of doubt that she will ever see the sort of happiness we both dream of.

  “You’d come back for me, right?” I ask abruptly. “You wouldn’t just leave, like Irana?”

  She rolls to face me, concern wrinkling her forehead. “Are you still worried about that prophecy your mother told you about? I thought you hadn’t seen that vision in months.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s changed. Trea, I can’t just stand back and let Hade kill you.”

  She glares at me, and I regret even bringing up this topic – it’s the one topic we never, ever speak of. But there are so few days left.

  “I came back for you before,” she whispers, rolling away. It’s just not a comforting answer, but I don’t want to push her any more tonight. I’ll just have to keep praying and hope that I get a new answer.

  We lie side by side in silence, and I wish I had a way to convince her that we’ll find our happiness together, but I don’t

  “I have something awful to tell you,” I say instead, knowing I need to tell her this last bit of news. I’ve avoided it all day. “Brenn wasn’t with the last group either. They said he went on a scouting mission and-”

  “I know,” she whispers, saving me. “Zarea told me.”

  I can hear the tears in her voice, and she doesn’t resist when I hug her close to me, but she still seems so distant.

  Several days pass as she checks each person for an imbalance of light and dark, I update the census, and everyone else works harder than ever to build their future. I’m surprised each day at how well our diverse population works together. Sure, some are already pl
anning to leave once the danger is past, but we have truly created an oasis of safety in this vast country.

  The night Irana chose for her Night of Peace celebration is the most beautiful weather we’ve had since the people arrived in the Garden. The air itself is peaceful and calm. The moonlight reflects off the water and the whitened sand, and every star in the sky has come out to watch us dance.

  I wonder briefly if there are others up there now, watching us – other stars who one day might be called on to help the people like we were. The Prophet still assures Trea and me that we were, indeed, once stars in that vast night sky, as were Irana, Zarea, and her sisters.

  The more I learn about this web of prophecy, the more faith I need to believe in any of it. It contradicts the way any other knowledge works.

  Trea and I sway absently to the lively music, forming our own rhythm, and I wish our other celebrations had been this full of calm joy. The awkward Choosing Ceremony, Hade’s duplicitous parties, even our Partnership Ceremony: none of them gave me the serene contentment I feel tonight.

  The food is simple but plentiful, and there is more than enough music to dance to. Nobody bothered with decorations, although the children have picked vines of flowers and are braiding them into wreaths to fling into the ocean, and necklaces to wear. Aside from a quick prayer by the True Prophet, we have done away with all the constraints of ceremony and people everywhere are just having fun – many for the first time in a long while.

  Even the Three Sisters have relaxed a bit, if only for a night, ceasing the hawk-like ways they watch our every movement.

  Irana dances alone on the other end of the beach, people gathered to watch her as she performs. Something is different, though, in her dancing. She isn’t really performing. Trea leans her head against my heart.