We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  What is he doing? Another realisation jolts through me: an assassin.

  If I have any advantage, it’s surprise. Not allowing myself to think, I launch myself out of Ofelia’s bed and at the figure. He turns towards me at the last moment, and I catch a glimpse of the darkness beneath the hood before my shoulder barrels into hard flesh and the light in his hands extinguishes. He staggers, grunting, but I’m not heavy enough to send him toppling. I grab the oil lamp from the table next to Valentina’s bed before he rights himself.

  I raise the heavy lamp – still-warm oil spattering on to my arm – and swing it round … into thin air. I wasn’t fast enough. Valentina has sat up in bed, scrambling back towards the wall. Ofelia screams. She flings the curtains open, shouting for help into the night, cold moonlight spilling into the room.

  ‘Ofelia, go!’ I manage.

  Our attacker is unfazed. I swing the lamp round again, hoping to connect with his head. But he ducks easily, catching my arm mid-swing. Power pulses through his hand, burning my skin – red sparks flying into the air. I shout out in agony. My arm feels like it’s on fire.

  My vision is fading in and out, but from the corner of my eye, I see Ofelia lowering herself on to the trellis that trails up to our bedroom window, climbing down.

  I force myself to stand up – I’m half raised, and the mage is already stepping towards me, his hands aglow again.

  Valentina flings herself at him with a shout of anger, her hair flying out behind her, but he sends her sprawling with a casual sweep of his arm – the air glimmers. I hear her head bang hard against the wall and she sits there on the floor, clutching her skull, dazed and blinking. Anger sparks inside me as the mage returns his attention to me. His magic flashes, and in the split second before the attack hits me in the stomach, I realise he’s wearing a mask – a black mask that covers his entire face, even his eyes hidden by a semi-transparent film.

  Then, I double over in horrible, blinding pain.

  Something is fizzing up inside me, some energy – it’s surging through my blood, tingling on the skin of my face. I fling out my hands on instinct, and the air crackles as if it’s full of static. When I breathe, it feels thick and cloying in my lungs, like the moment before lightning strikes. And then – a release. The mage staggers backwards, clutching his mask as if it’s burning him, and I hear a muffled noise of pain.

  Did I do that?

  I drop my hands in shock and the noise stops, replaced by soft, laboured breathing.

  The mage straightens and for a moment, he regards me from behind his mask, and there’s a strange silence over everything. Even Valentina lifts her sore head to gaze at me in confusion. ‘What …?’ she says, her voice thick as she echoes my thought.

  Then, we hear hurried footsteps on the stairs. The mage runs softly towards the window, swings himself up and on to the sill, fearless. A cloud of magic glitters under his feet, and all of a sudden he is on the roof, running out into the night.

  The door bursts open. Four of the palazzo guards rush into the room, followed by Ofelia. Clutching her nightdress tightly, her hair unbound and her face streaked with tears, she looks about four years old.

  ‘He went on the roof,’ I blurt, sending the guards after him … even though – in my heart – I know he’s long gone.

  When I wake, it’s late – the golden light arcing through the gaps in the curtains is high and bright, the sun past its zenith. Ofelia is in her bed, the covers pulled over her head, but Valentina’s is stripped and bare.

  In the bathroom I wash in the basin, fed with steaming water from the hot springs beneath this island. When I glance down at my stomach, I see livid red lightning-like marks spreading across my torso – from the assassin’s magic, I think, remembering the burning, all-consuming pain. I touch the marks here and on my arm with slightly trembling hands: the skin is sore with an echo of the attack.

  I dress quietly in a fresh black dress from the identical outfits in the single nursery wardrobe and head downstairs. Valentina, her hair pinned in a tight, neat bun, sits at the dining-room table, eating a bowl of plain rice and reading the daily bulletins, a collection of cheap printed pages produced at the palazzo and delivered each day to every household in the city. She glances up at me as I enter, nods, returns to her reading. Despite her composure, her eyebrows are slightly furrowed and there are dark circles under her eyes.

  Everything looks normal – but it isn’t. All of this is like stage scenery, obscuring the churning horror that unfolds unseen below the surface. After last night, everything has changed. I sit down, feeling like I’m part of a surreal dream.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask my sister in an attempt to distract myself.

  ‘My head hurts,’ she says, her voice light, barely glancing up from the bulletin. ‘And I couldn’t sleep.’ She fills up her cup of black coffee from the jug on the table.

  ‘Anything in the bulletin about … what happened?’

  ‘Not really.’ She points to a paragraph at the bottom of the front page: A New Generation of Mascherari. ‘It says we’ve inherited, but nothing about the attack. My guess is the Contessa doesn’t want anyone to know.’

  ‘It was horrible,’ Ofelia says from the door. She’s in her white nightgown, her hair wild and loose around her shoulders, and her face tear-stained. She comes and sits at the table and buries her face in her arms in one smooth motion, continuing in a muffled voice. ‘When I climbed down to find guards, there were bodies everywhere. Mage guards, too. There was this smell … like burning and blood.’ She raises her head from her arms as a thought appears to occur to her. ‘What I don’t get is, how did he kill all those people but not us? What happened after I left?’

  Valentina shrugs. ‘I ran at him, he flung me aside, and I knocked my head, hard. Everything went fuzzy then.’

  I feel a squirm of discomfort at the silence that follows, my sisters both looking at me expectantly. I’ve been turning what happened over and over in my mind – the energy that filled me, the sense of electricity, how the assassin had doubled over in pain – but I haven’t found an explanation. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think the fact I woke up, that we were fighting back, must’ve thrown him off. When you went to get help, he must’ve thought it wasn’t worth it.’

  Ofelia nods slightly, doubtfully. Valentina raises an eyebrow. But our housekeeper Anna-Maria opens the door, carrying a tray of food and saving me from further conversation. She’s a young woman – only a little older than us, I think – and pretty. She has curling black hair and dark skin, and always wears a silver necklace strung with nine stars to represent the gods.

  As she sets the food down on the table, Anna-Maria says, ‘We’ll be setting up your new rooms today. I wondered if there was anything each of you would like? The Contessa has provided a small budget for any extra comforts.’

  ‘Oh!’ Ofelia sits up straighter, her face brightening. ‘Could I have the puppet stage from the nursery? If there’s enough for an extra puppet …?’

  Anna-Maria smiles warmly. ‘Of course. Valentina, how about you?’

  My eldest sister frowns. I feel certain she’ll refuse the gesture, but instead she says, ‘Books. I can give you a list.’

  ‘Very well. And Beatrice?’

  I swallow, uncertain. ‘I … don’t know.’ I gaze out of the window at the garden, the lemon trees laden with early greenish fruit. ‘Maybe a plant … flowers of some sort,’ I say, on impulse. ‘Yes, flowers,’ I say, firmer.

  ‘Flowers … all right.’ Anna-Maria smiles uncertainly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  We spend our first night as mascherari in the temple, in the huge main building where an altar towers over a gleaming dark pool, and a high priestess leads our prayers. We’re supposed to be mentally preparing ourselves for the task that will consume our lives – a task which starts tomorrow. But all night my knees are sore from kneeling, my neck stiff, and there’s a strange fizzing feeling in the pit of my lungs. It’s like there’s a was
p trapped in there, desperately knocking up against my bones in its attempt to escape. All through our prayers I feel restless, distracted. Nerves, I suppose. In contrast, Valentina and Ofelia appear glowing and calm.

  At last, we step out into the dawn, passing a lacquered black carriage coming from the palazzo, wheels rattling against the paving stones. Four guards wait for us, silently falling into formation as we start walking. The square is quiet, but I can hear the distant sounds of the market setting up somewhere. A young man peers out of the carriage at me as I hunch my shoulders against the wind. He’s dark-haired and dark-eyed, a rash of stubble across his jaw, and for some reason I feel compelled to watch him pass by.

  ‘That’ll be Livio Santini, the Contessa’s grandson,’ Valentina says, hanging back as the carriage clatters past us towards the temple, watching the direction of my eyes. Because Valentina has stopped, the rest of us do too – even the four guards. ‘He’s a novice at Mythris’s temple – but word is, he’s not very talented. I heard it from Anna-Maria, who heard it from her friend who works at the temple. He barely attends his classes, and when he does, he always places at the bottom.’

  Of the three of us, Valentina has the keenest interest in affairs of the state, which occasionally leads her to engage in a pastime she otherwise despises: gossip. I like to encourage this pursuit.

  ‘He’s not the heir though, is he? So it doesn’t matter,’ I suggest. ‘He can do as he likes.’

  ‘No … but the heir has never actually been here. Constance Santini isn’t really a Santini at all – she’s Constance Rathbone, daughter of a northern nobleman. She won’t understand us. She won’t know the ways of this island like a native would.’

  ‘So people think he should inherit?’

  Valentina gives me a withering look, as if I’ve suggested that a lemon might rule over us once the Contessa is gone. ‘No. He’s a boy, Beatrice. That would be far from preferable. I can’t vouch for Livio Santini’s knowledge of this city, but they say he returns home stinking of panacea.’ She raises an eyebrow at me archly. I love how much she’s enjoying this. ‘You’ve got to think he’s not spending his time in the library.’

  ‘I see,’ I reply, watching the carriage disappear. ‘But there have been conte before, haven’t there?’

  But Ofelia is bored of our talk and is scuffling the ground pointedly with her heels, yawning and fiddling with her hair.

  We start to walk, Valentina answering my question as we go along. ‘Yes … men have ruled these islands a few times. But it has never ended well. The last conte managed to inflame a short and disastrous war with the north. That’s the problem with men – they’re too aggressive, impulsive. They’ve got no self-control.’

  And with that thought, she steps ahead of me – taking her proper place.

  We walk in a line behind Valentina, surrounded by our silent guards, and for the rest of the short journey home, we are silent too. A beggar pulls a dirty blanket over his face as we pass, and a young man setting up his stall of oranges outside the palazzo turns his face to the wall. They know who we are, the mascherari sisters all dressed in black, our fates like chains marking us out and binding us together. It is bad luck to set your sights upon us – we’ll take your face for a mask, they say, steal your identity for Mythris.

  Look away, or our three shadows might creep into your eyes.

  By the time we reach the house, the chill of the night is gone and the sun is warming me through my black veil, despite the wind. Our house is large and old, and it near-tumbles into the wide sandstone city walls on the edge of the palazzo complex – like it was discarded by a rich courtier long ago. A line of tall wispy trees with silvery leaves separates the house from the square, and it appears to turn its back on the world, facing towards the garden at the rear. We pass through the archway between the trees and into cool shade. The house is in the shadow of the city walls for the majority of the day – a purposeful choice, for mascherari sleep in the daytime – and the front windows catch the evening sun, calling us to work.

  Katherina once told me that, long ago, the house, the mask room and the temple were connected by tunnels. The mascherari sisters of old would walk these passages to their work, she said, and into the temple to pray, while novices selected for the honour of a True Mask would travel to the mask room underground to make their selection. But those ways are long lost.

  I’m glad. I know I will treasure the few minutes each day we are allowed outside, savour the rising or falling sun.

  Since last night, the guard around our house has doubled – I don’t know how many men patrol the grounds in the Contessa’s yellow livery, but it feels like we’re living in a garrison. As we approach, I feel my spirits shrink. Our guards peel off as we reach the first line of defence surrounding the house. The soldiers here avert their eyes as we pass, exactly like everyone else. How are they supposed to protect us when they won’t even look at us? I wonder. We’re walking up the path to the door when a ghostly high-pitched noise rings through the air. I stop in my tracks.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I ask Ofelia, who nearly walks into me. Valentina carries on at a brisk pace, as if she hasn’t noticed.

  The sound keens over the roof of our house again, plaintive and rasping, thin as the sliver of moon clinging to the sky far above. We’ve never heard them before, but Nurse described the sound to us and it’s totally unmistakeable. She said they were bad omens, harbingers of misfortune …

  ‘Do you think … do you think it’s a sandwolf?’ I whisper to Ofelia.

  Ofelia catches my eye, nods, the strengthening breeze tugging at her veil.

  ‘So what if it is?’ says Valentina, turning on the top steps. ‘Sound carries over the sea when it’s calm. The creature is probably miles away, on Cantella.’ Cantella is the southernmost inhabited island of the Wishes – you can glimpse it on a clear day from the cliffs, past the hulking shapes of our neighbouring islands, Silver and the Twins. ‘Now, are you coming?’

  As I follow Ofelia through the open door, Anna-Maria is waiting for us next to a tray of fresh mint tea and figs from the garden.

  ‘I thought you might like some breakfast … or supper, I suppose,’ she says, smiling. ‘And your new rooms are ready for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Anna-Maria, but I am far too tired to eat,’ Valentina says, climbing upstairs with barely a glance at the refreshments.

  Ofelia can be trusted never to turn down food. ‘Figs! My favourite,’ she says, grinning and lifting one of the steaming cups and a plate from the tray. She hurries upstairs as fast as her tea will allow her.

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ I say to Anna-Maria, taking my own meal.

  ‘I’ve put your flowers in your room,’ she adds to me before I start climbing the steps. ‘I tried to think of something that didn’t need much light, as I supposed you’d likely have the curtains closed during the daytime.’

  ‘That … really is kind,’ I say, although I would have kept the curtains open for my flowers – my bed has curtains, after all – and now I’m wondering what kind of plant doesn’t need daylight. ‘Thank you – you didn’t need to.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she says, although it isn’t. ‘Sleep well, Mistress.’

  I set my food aside to open the door to Elina’s old bedroom – I struggle to think of it as my room. The door creaks slightly as it opens. The smell of vinegar and lemon lingers in the space beyond. I blink at it, hesitating on the threshold. Anna-Maria and a group of servants from the palazzo have clearly swept through the room like a whirlwind while we prayed, stripping the sheets and beating the rugs and shaking out the curtains, burning incense and scrubbing everything ritually clean as if to erase the very existence of our predecessors.

  I’ve never set foot in Elina’s room before – only glimpsed the large four-poster with its heavy green curtains when the door swung open – and as I step inside I feel like I’m intruding. I pick up my tea and figs and put them on a side table by the door.

  I spot
the potted flowers on the windowsill, and I can’t help it – my heart sinks. Of course, she gave me bone roses. They don’t need much light because they feed on magic – or at least, that’s what I’ve heard. The Contessa grows hundreds of these things in her hothouses to sell overseas – you can’t find them anywhere else in Valorian, and people will pay handsomely for a potted bone rose. She has a whole private garden full of the things, nourished with different types of magic to bring out their myriad of colours. The King has several, too – they’re a curiosity, over on the mainland, because they wither and die in ordinary soil. But here, where the very earth is magic, they thrive like weeds.

  I walk over to them now, their pinkish petals veined with purplish grey. They rustle as I near them. The flowers are half closed, like heavy, sleepy eyelids. I’ve never liked how they look – their slender and bare black stems with thorns the size of fingernails, rising to oddly large and fleshy blooms. They are sad-looking flowers, I think: heavy-headed, closing and opening to the strange rhythms of magic, not the sun and earth and wind.

  Nevertheless, I stroke one of the petals and am surprised to find it slightly furred and warm to the touch. I notice it revive – opening a little as I run my fingers over it – and I frown, snatching my hand away. If they thrive on magic, and this flower is reacting to my touch, does that mean there’s magic in my hands? I stretch out my fingers, flex them gently. The masks we create from now on are infused with magic. Mythris’s power is in my blood. Even so, I feel unsettled and draw quickly away from the strange blooms.

  I fall into bed and pull the covers over me. My mind is racing at first, and I stare at the strange room, wishing Nurse were here to tell me everything is all right, to assure me there will be no more assassins, no more inexplicable powers flying from my fingers. Where is she now? I wonder. At the market, perhaps, buying food and flowers for her apartment. But soon my thoughts grow sluggish. I fall asleep watching the bone roses on my windowsill sway gently in the breeze.