We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  I stagger towards the door, leaning hard on Elisao as the ground lurches, guilt swirling inside me. Those bodies on the ground … I can’t just leave them. We’re nearly at the doors when I hesitate.

  ‘Vico!’ Elisao hisses.

  ‘Wait for me outside,’ I say, and I turn back, trembling.

  ‘Vico, the sandwolves are probably still in there,’ he says, pleading now. ‘Get back here!’

  I ignore him.

  The first body, near the door, is a woman’s. She’s in her middle years and dressed in practical trews and a tunic. As I turn her over, I see her eyes flicker. There’s a wound on her head, a raised red bruise – but she’s all right. My relief feels like a living thing.

  ‘Wolf?’ she says doubtfully, as she focuses on my face. At first I think she’s mistaken me for one of the creatures – then I realise that’s how I’m known here. I help her up. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Sandwolves, we think,’ I say, offering her a hand and heaving her to her feet. ‘You must’ve got knocked down in the rush to leave. Go, quickly.’

  I see her eyes widen and guess my accent has startled her. I can’t help it: as much as I try to hide who I am, I can’t speak like the people here do. Even through my broken nose, my station is obvious from the way I round my vowels and pronounce my consonants. She must be wondering what a rich boy is doing fighting in the Battaglia under the name of ‘the Wolf’. But she nods, finding her way to the door.

  I approach the second body, lit by a single lamp fallen, skewed, on to the ground. In the unsteady light I make out the face of a young girl – and even from a distance I can see her open, vacant eyes, the tell-tale lightning marks of a magical attack across her cheeks. The sandwolves didn’t hurt this girl as collateral damage; they drained the magic clean out of her. No mage can survive that.

  I can tell that she is dead. Even so, I kneel at her side, bend over her. Blood from my nose spatters on to her pale yellow dress. I drop the soaked handkerchief on the sandy ground – the bleeding has slowed anyway. The girl is around twelve or thirteen years old – dressed in civilian clothes, not temple robes. It’s likely her powers hadn’t even manifested yet. She might not have even known she was a mage, holding a feast for sandwolves inside her body.

  There’s nothing I can do for her now. My hands are shaking as I pull her cloak gently over her face.

  ‘Vico?’ Elisao is calling me from the door. ‘What are you doing? Get out of there, you idiot!’

  But there’s movement from the opposite direction – deeper inside the building. I raise my head, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. In the darkness of the warehouse, I see two pinpricks of yellow light. My heart flutters like a bird in a cage as the sandwolf swirls slowly towards me. A calm comes over me as the unsteady light falls on its strange floating body, a dust devil of sand curling into the ground, with the head of a wolf. A fur-like consistency surrounds its ears, and its eyes glow a bright, intelligent yellow. I’ve never seen a sandwolf before. Never seen any magical creature. I can’t help the way my breath catches in my throat.

  Then I snap out of it, anger rising inside me. ‘What? Aren’t you full yet?’ I whisper, my voice mocking and cold. ‘You want to eat my magic too? I’d like to see you try.’ I stand up, draw myself tall. ‘Go!’ I say.

  We hold each other’s gaze for a few moments, then suddenly the sandwolf disappears, flickering into thin air, leaving me blinking in surprise. I glance around, half expecting it to reform nearby – but it doesn’t. I stand up slowly, expectantly, but nothing happens.

  I glance down at the girl one last time and then hurry towards the wide door where Elisao is waiting.

  ‘Thank gods, Vico. What were you doing in there?’

  ‘Sandwolf got someone. A girl,’ I say thickly. ‘She can’t have been more than thirteen. Drained her magic completely.’

  ‘Ah …’ His expression softens. He starts to draw me away from the door, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t think sandwolves killed.’ My voice is shaky as we step away from the warehouse. I hate how powerless I feel. ‘Aren’t they scavengers?’

  ‘It’s not unheard of for them to kill if they’re desperate … but you’re right – wild sandwolves tend to feed on scraps of spells, old enchantments, that sort of thing. They don’t tend to attack people.’ Elisao is frowning. ‘And what were they doing round here, anyway? Sometimes I hear of them on the isle of Silver, where it’s less built up. But in the heart of the city, with Faul’s temple of huntsmen right nearby …’

  I lean against the wall of the warehouse as a dizziness suddenly comes over me.

  ‘We should get out of here before the huntsmen come,’ says Elisao. ‘If they find out about la Battaglia—’

  As if on cue, the bells of Faul’s temple start to ring, cutting Elisao off. The grey-cloaked mages, sworn to protect mankind from magical threats, will hunt the sandwolves down – if the creatures haven’t already disappeared beyond the reach of their tracking spells. But if we’re not careful, they’ll be hunting us too: the Battaglia is strictly forbidden.

  We hurry towards the water, then back round into the shadows of the docks.

  ‘I’ll take you to the infirmary,’ says Elisao.

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll make my own way home.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Eli, seriously. There’s a physician in my building too. It’s just a broken nose.’

  He nods, but his jaw is set tight, and I feel a stab of familiar guilt. He’s only trying to help – and I’d love to let him. I hate keeping secrets from him – sometimes it feels like that’s all I do.

  Soon we reach the high defensive wall at the edge of the docks. Elisao says, ‘Oh my …’

  I turn to see what he’s looking at. On the ten-foot wall, black paint shimmers in the moonlight. The graffiti is painted so large that it takes me a moment to recognise the spiral surrounded by stylised flaming beams.

  The symbol on the cloaked figure’s pendant. But it’s not just that … ‘The Santini sun,’ I say under my breath – it’s the sigil of this city’s ruling family. ‘But it’s incomplete – where are the nine stars?’

  Elisao presses his finger to the paint. ‘Still pretty fresh,’ he says. ‘Maybe they didn’t have time to finish it before it’s the sandwolf attack. Or maybe …’

  ‘What?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, the Santini sun existed on its own as a sigil. Before the faith of the nine gods arrived on these islands. Back when the rulers of the Wishes were queens in their own right. And look, there’s more.’

  Under the sun, close to the ground, a line has been written in crude dripping capitals: THE REVOLUTION IS COMING.

  ‘Probably just some crackpot. Gods know there’s enough of them in this city,’ says Elisao.

  But I’m not so sure. The back of my scalp tingles with cold fear. ‘I need to speak to Old Jacobo. There was someone in the crowd today … cloaked, hooded. Wearing a pendant with this same symbol. It can’t be a coincidence.’ I glance over at him. ‘Did you see them?’

  Elisao shakes his head. ‘You think Old Jacobo will know who it was? You know he’s not the strictest when it comes to spectators …’

  He’s right. Old Jacobo sells tickets to whoever will pay – he doesn’t necessarily ask questions, but he is well-informed, even so. I shrug. ‘He might. If not, he’d probably be able to find out. I’ll ask him.’

  Behind us, voices cry out in the night. Magic flashes silver through the alleys of the docks as the mages start their hunt. We can’t linger any longer. We hurry through the gates into the city.

  TWO:

  The Inheritance

  Beatrice

  In the tall cellar beneath the mask-maker’s house, everything is quiet but for the low drone of Priestess Alyssa’s voice. The elderly mask-maker is instructing us in the art of decoration from her wing-backed leather chair. ‘The quality and category of the gems is one of the factors that determine the power
s available to the wearer and the character of the mask’s movement.’ She wavers. Her old hands are swollen and sore, folded in the lap of her purple robes, never to practise her craft again. Instead, she watches, she judges and she speaks.

  Her words wash over me in a familiar, irritating drone.

  The three of us sit at our desks in a semicircle facing the Priestess at the front of the room. My elder sister Valentina shoots me a bored glance as she threads a feather through the headdress of her latest practice mask. We stopped learning from the Priestess years ago. We aren’t like the other mask-makers in the other temples: when we inherit our full powers, our masks won’t merely be decorative or ceremonial.

  ‘Remember, girls, yours will be living masks,’ Priestess Alyssa says. ‘The masks you perfect now, your practice masks, are the models for creations that will hold deep and lasting influence over the people of Scarossa and beyond. Each mask has one wearer. One match. And your practical skills determine how effective, how powerful your masks will be.’ I mouth along with her next words, I know them so well. ‘This is crucial, for every mask plays a role in defending and furthering the interests of the state.’ She coughs drily.

  Yes, when we inherit our powers, our mask-making will be threaded with magic. Our blood will be like strings, our fingers like tools – and a divine puppeteer will pull the scarlet cords that flow through us like stained lace. And our puppeteer? The masked god, Mythris. One of the nine, but the one few people know or understand – after all, he’s a cloaked, faceless, ageless, genderless figure. He is no one. He is everyone. The patron god of the Wishes.

  My future master.

  I shiver. Part of me longs for the Inheritance, for change from this monotony. A bigger part of me has always feared it.

  ‘The art of decoration is not to be taken lightly,’ Priestess Alyssa continues, her coughing spell now passed. Her eyes are shut, as if she’s speaking in her sleep. Perhaps she is. Perhaps she’s spoken her various lectures over and over until the very memory of her words is physically imprinted on her lips and tongue, her brain utterly disengaged. ‘When you inherit your full powers …’

  My mind drifts. When we inherit. In other words, when the eldest mascherari sister is on the brink of death, the Contessa will arrive at this house and speak the words of the Inheritance ceremony. Mythris will transfer the full magic of his powers from Katherina, Elina and Zia, the current mascherari triplets, to Valentina, me and Ofelia … and the cycle will start again. Some day, years later, new triplet babes will be born in the city, destined to inherit the powers after us … after we …

  All those dead sisters. Years upon years of them.

  I force my thoughts back to the present. My dummy mask lies out on the desk – a laughing face, already painted a deep forest green. I decided to ring the lower part of eyes with silver gems, like tears brimming, and a cloud of bruised purple-grey hangs over the forehead. My fingers burn with glue. The gems in the cellar are cheap cut glass, reused again and again, unsightly where old glue has crusted on their edges – but somehow it doesn’t matter. In the moonlight shafting down from the high windows, augmented by flickering lamplight, even my humble practice mask looks a little bit magic.

  Of course, were it ever worn, this mask would remain hard and still, like it is now. But all that will change when I inherit my powers. Then, whatever magic lies in my hands, it will react with the magic of the wearer, and the masks I make will live. That’s what makes a True Mask. That’s what makes our masks special. The other temples of Mythris have masks too, but they’re only ceremonial – at best, they’re enchanted. But these ones grant the wearer potent powers.

  As the middle sister, it’s my task to create Grotesques. These are masks that draw power from expression, and they are named things like Joy, Sorrow, Fear, Mirth, Jealousy … The magical effect, I’m told, is the manipulation of emotions.

  I glance over at Valentina. Her masks, the Bestials, are the most powerful, drawing from the faces and abilities of animals. She’s finishing off the feathered crown of a bird-like visage contorted into a fearsome screech of rage.

  And then Ofelia. Her masks are to be more subtle in effect. They’re called Ornamentals, and each one is a human face with the same blank expression but decorated with gorgeous variations of abstractions. The one she’s working on is a swirl of darkness, like ink running into water. I wonder what its impact would be on the wearer. We’ve been told that Ornamentals can grant smaller enhancements – sharpened vision or hearing, increased delicacy of spellcraft.

  Everything in the cellar is designed to mimic the life for which we were destined – a life we will spend in darkness, eventually working only while the city sleeps. We’ve been enduring later and later nights down here – gradually transitioning as we’ve grown older. Tonight, we will work until midnight – but we’ve hours to go yet. Suddenly I shiver, feeling as if a god were treading over my soul.

  Something is coming.

  Priestess Alyssa’s cane tap-tap-taps across the stone floor as she rises to inspect our work. ‘Good, Valentina,’ she says, bending over her desk. My eldest sister despises the Priestess, but somehow Valentina is still her favourite. ‘Ofelia, your decoration could take a little more delicacy. Remember, Ornamentals are supposed to be particularly beautiful.’ My younger sister’s cheeks burn, and I see her open and then shut her mouth as if deciding against protesting. ‘Beatrice … that is an unconventional combination of colours. Remember, it is not your task to innovate. And your gem-work is a little uneven.’

  I was about to argue that it was supposed to be uneven – like tears trembling on the brink – when I hear footsteps at the front door above us, and I drop a glass bead on my table, my hands frozen. Nobody ever calls on us: silence in the mascherari house is normally complete at this time of night, when the three sisters are at their work. I glance at Ofelia, who shrugs in confusion. Footsteps hurry across the hall overhead, the floorboards clacking, and I hear high, panicked voices.

  I run upstairs before Priestess Alyssa can call out to stop me – Valentina and Ofelia close at my heels. I gasp as I reach the top, emerging into the hall. Katherina is suspended in the air, her body supine, floating in through the front door. Her brown hair is feather-like as it wisps in the light breeze from outside. Her eyes are closed, and her face pale as marble, but her chest rises and falls gently. Next to her, a high priest of Imris – the god of healing – is casting the floating spell, muttering under his breath as he slowly lifts her upstairs. The priest in his long blue robes is focused on his work and appears not to notice our entrance. Katherina’s sisters, Elina and Zia, are following in her wake like a pair of black shadows.

  On the bottom step, Elina turns towards us – I expect disapproval, as usual, but her face is tight with worry as she holds out her hands to stop our hurried steps. I notice a slight tremble in her fingers.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ I ask, before Elina has a chance to speak.

  She does not respond at first, casting down her eyes. Valentina is stoic next to me, but I hear Ofelia stifle a sob.

  ‘The Priest …’ Elina’s voice is uncharacteristically soft – and it crackles slightly, like old paper. ‘The Priest of Imris tells us she will not last the night.’

  I let her words sink in like ink through blotting paper, darkening everything it touches. Tonight is the night. Tonight we inherit our powers. But I’m not ready. It’s too soon. I glance at Valentina, who stands up straighter, pulling her shoulders back as if readying herself for battle. Beside me, Ofelia leans hard against the banister, as if she has been struck a blow, struggling to keep herself upright.

  Elina composes her face into a mask of bravery – and when she speaks again, her voice is strong and clear. ‘What she needs most of all, now, is peace. And that’s what Zia and I need too. You can come – should come – but … be quiet and calm, please.’ Her eyes rest on Ofelia for a moment, who nods, her hand pressed to her mouth.

  Elina turns and climbs the
rest of the stairs, her black dress lapping the steps behind her one by one like a dark wave climbing the shore. The three of us say nothing, but both my sisters’ hands find mine as we follow her into Katherina’s room. Maybe there’s been a mistake. Maybe she’ll be all right.

  But she isn’t. Katherina lies propped up on her many cushions in the high bed we were born in, the blue lace curtains pulled back and tied with golden cord. Candlelight flickers across her face. I linger by the door, just close enough to listen to her shallow breath – in and out, in and out – like the whisper of the sea on this calm night. Her skin is flushed with fever, tight with some pain I don’t understand and which appears to have no source but living itself. The Priest of Imris lays a palm on her forehead. For a few moments, a ghostly blue glow fills the half-lit room, and the tightness in Katherina’s face lessens slightly, the tension fleeing from her brows.

  The Priest speaks to Elina in a low voice – but I listen, hanging back from the bed.

  ‘I have relieved her pain. She should regain consciousness long enough for you to say your goodbyes. That is all I can do. But I will remain in the hall in case I’m needed.’

  My heartbeat rises in panic as I realise it’s really happening. She’s really dying.

  ‘Will you send word to the Contessa?’ Elina asks.

  ‘It is all in hand, Mascherari. Gods be with you and your sisters.’ His voice is gentle. He bows as he leaves the room, and as the door clicks shut, Katherina’s eyes start to flicker open.

  ‘Sisters?’ she gasps with great effort.

  Elina is at her side; she leans in. Katherina squints to focus on her sister’s face, the momentary panic leaving her eyes. ‘Katherina,’ Elina whispers gently. ‘Easy, now. Mythris is calling us home. Soon, the Contessa will arrive, and your pain will end.’

  Zia presses her hand between hers. ‘I am here, sister. We are all here.’ She glances over her shoulder at the three of us – hovering awkwardly in the shadows. ‘Come,’ she mouths.

  We draw closer. One by one, we perch on the bedside. This was always meant to happen. It’s the natural order. But no matter how many times I tell myself this, I can’t help the way grief and terror are rushing through me in equal measure, molten and stinging, the way my fists clench on my lap. I shut my eyes and breathe, but the whole room smells of death.