We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  SEVEN:

  The Masked Guard

  Livio

  I wake at dawn, which is highly irregular at the best of times – but especially after a night such as mine. I blink in the washed-out yellow light arcing through the half-closed window. Half-light, really. My head throbs in protest, and the air swirls with dust, but for some reason I resist the urge to let sleep pull me down, and I prop myself up on my elbows.

  There’s a noise on the balcony – a hiss or a whisper, so quiet that I’m not sure how or why I separated it from the ordinary sounds of early morning over the city. In the semi-light I can see a shape – a low, shifting form between the flimsy curtains. I sit up further, the bedcovers sliding from me. Instinctively, my muscles start to tense. The shape edges closer and as the curtains blow in, I glimpse it properly. It’s the size of a fox, but it’s nebulous, see-through – like a ghost. A miniature sandstorm in black. If I squint, I can make out two yellow pinpricks, glowing.

  A sandwolf.

  ‘You again?’ I whisper softly. Instead of fear, a strange calm envelops me, just like it did in the warehouse. The creature and I regard each other, its glowing eyes steady. Is it the same sandwolf I saw last night? I don’t know for sure, but I wonder if it caught my scent, somehow, and traced me here. It’s sitting – hovering, I suppose – and watching. It’s as if something about me has caught its attention … or as if it’s waiting for me to say something, to command it. I don’t know where that thought came from …

  I stroke the signet ring I always wear, feeling the graven mirror image of the wisping creature. I’m on the verge of stepping out of bed towards it when a second shape drops down from the rooftop – a man in the Contessa’s yellow livery, his face hidden by a snarling, living mask in the image of a wildcat, glittering with shards of gold in the dawn light. It roars, a high, unnatural sound like metal blades clashing in the night.

  A True Mask.

  The mage flings an unnaturally amplified spell at the spinning sandwolf, which lurches to one side, suddenly thrown off its axis. My heart lurches with it. The creature swirls into nothingness as a second attack zips towards it, reforming with a hissing noise a few paces to its right, leaving a wisp of curling sand in its wake. I run towards the balcony.

  ‘Stop!’ I shout at the guard. ‘Don’t hurt it.’

  I’m too late to stop a third spell exploding on the balcony in a shower of reddish-purple sparks, the colour of a storm at sunset – but the creature spins free. In spite of my command, the guard raises his hand to attack again.

  ‘No! Don’t you dare!’ Anger fills my voice. I don’t know why, but I can’t let this sandwolf die. The guard stops, obedient to my command, and the sandwolf appears to be unharmed – or at least unharmed enough to survive. It lingers for a second, gazing at me again.

  ‘You need to let me kill it, Lord,’ the guard says, his voice low, tinged with an accent I recognise as northern, from the mainland. The wildcat mask’s lips move along with his, its whiskers glowing silver. ‘It’s dangerous.’

  The sandwolf and I stare at each other, my heart beating fast. I step closer towards it, reaching out my hand – but then, its yellow eyes flicker and it disappears, reappearing a second later down in the gardens, then whisking itself off towards the city in a whoosh of sand.

  The guard stands for a moment, watching it go, then turns towards me. He lifts his mask. As soon as it’s separated from his face, it grows solid and stiff, like the painted eggshell face of a puppet. But I’m not looking at the mask any more. I thought he’d look angry or confused, but the man grins unexpectedly, a jewel on his tooth shining, his cropped black hair gleaming like a precious metal. From his accent, I was expecting him to be light-skinned, like most northerners – but his skin is a deep brown. He can’t be much older than me, but his shoulders are broader, his body tightly muscled. I feel suddenly hot.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me kill it?’ he asks when I don’t return his smile. ‘Were you … going to pet it?’ There’s a slight mocking tone to his voice. No other guard has ever spoken to me this way.

  ‘I … No … Well …’ I feel blood rush to my cheeks. What had I been thinking? I decided to focus on his first question. ‘I didn’t let you kill it because … because it wasn’t doing anything.’ I clear my throat. ‘Why is your first instinct to kill something as soon as you see it, whether or not it’s a threat?’ I’m glad to hear my voice is stronger now, more confident.

  He shakes his head, as if I’m a foolish child he’s indulging. ‘Can’t trust a sandwolf, Lord. They look harmless, like they’re made of nothing but thin air and dust, but I’ve seen ’em kill a mage in ten seconds flat. They’ll suck the magic clean out of you given half the chance. Trust me – the more of those bastards we kill, the better.’

  I remember the dead girl – but of course, I can’t reveal that I too have seen that a sandwolf is capable of killing. ‘Sure,’ I say, lifting my chin. ‘It certainly looked threatening, what with all that … sitting.’

  I expect him to be chastened – but instead he grins again, laughs. ‘You’re mad, Lord,’ he says. It’s very overfamiliar. I should berate him. Instead, I feel an unexpected tingle of joy running through me, and I don’t mean to, but I smile back.

  ‘Well, I’d best return to my duties.’ He bows slightly and turns away before I realise I don’t know his name. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him before – and I don’t remember seeing his True Mask either. He jumps, and his purplish-red magic carries him up to the roof.

  By the time I rush outside, craning my neck to find him, he’s gone.

  EIGHT:

  Triplets

  Beatrice

  It’s still light when I’m woken by the sound of voices downstairs. I try to ignore them, sleep tugging me back into its embrace, but the noise is insistent.

  I get up and step out on to the landing in my nightgown. Something makes me hover out of sight, listening. I can hear three voices: Anna-Maria’s; our cook, Marta’s; and a male voice I don’t recognise. I lean a little over the stairway, catch a glimpse of purple robes edged in gold. I start backwards, my heart hammering. The mages of the masked temple all wear purple robes, but one man alone has the gold trim: the Cardinal.

  ‘… due in less than a month,’ the man is saying. ‘The room will have to be prepared.’

  ‘But the mascherari have barely assumed their new duties,’ Anna-Maria protests. ‘My lord, surely a different room can be arranged at the palazzo? This will be a terrible disruption for the girls.’

  ‘You know how it is done – how it has always been done,’ says the Cardinal firmly. ‘Tradition cannot be disputed.’

  Valentina opens her door, which is opposite mine. I manage to catch her eye and press a finger to my lips. She stops and listens.

  Marta’s speaking now in her low, hesitant voice – she’s much older than Anna-Maria, in her sixties, and has served three generations of mascherari. ‘He is right. It has always been the eldest sister’s room in which the new generation of mascherari are born. And so it must always be.’

  I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp. I finally understand what they’re talking about. They’ve found the next triplets. They’ve already found the next triplets. When I meet Valentina’s eyes, they too are wide with horror. Our predecessors were mascherari for well over a decade before they found us. Katherina was in her late forties by the time she died, bringing her sisters with her. How old will we be when the masked god deems it time for the next generation to inherit and strikes us down?

  When Anna-Maria speaks again, it’s like she has read my thoughts. ‘But, my lord … can this really be right? It is so soon. The mascherari are … so young.’

  I hear the swish of robes and risk a glimpse over the banister, noticing Valentina echoing my movements. The Cardinal has stepped closer to our housekeeper, exerting his authority. ‘The masked god has commanded it, and he will not be tolerant of your questioning,’ he says, his voice low and tight
with warning.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Anna-Maria replies, though anger burns in her voice.

  ‘Now … can I trust you to make the necessary preparations?’

  ‘Of course.’

  When the door shuts, and Marta has returned to the kitchen, Anna-Maria calls up to us. ‘I know you’re there, Mistresses. I heard you.’

  Valentina and I exchange a glance then both step to the top of the stairs. Anna-Maria gazes up at us.

  ‘You heard everything?’

  We nod slowly. Our housekeeper’s eyes are full of pity and it makes my skin crawl.

  ‘Is there anything I can get for you?’ Anna-Maria asks.

  I’m about to refuse when Valentina says, ‘Perhaps some fresh mint tea, if you wouldn’t mind. I don’t think I will be sleeping again today.’

  Valentina and I linger on the landing when Anna-Maria disappears into the kitchen.

  ‘She’s not going to like it,’ Valentina says, glancing at Ofelia’s door.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  She shakes her head but doesn’t reply at first. After a pause, she says, ‘But … if Mythris wills it, then we must try to be joyous. The cycle is beginning again.’

  I feel my mouth pinch in annoyance at her empty words. ‘I’ll tell Ofelia,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t need …’ – your empty platitudes. Your complete lack of feeling. But I don’t finish my sentence. ‘I’m going to try and get some more rest,’ I say instead, rising to my feet. ‘It’s a few hours until dusk.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Valentina says, her eyes tired-looking. She lifts her chin at me, rallying. ‘I will be in my room with the tea if you find you can’t sleep. You are welcome to join me.’

  Sometimes it feels like Valentina and I are little more than polite acquaintances.

  I don’t bother trying to go back to sleep – but I don’t join my eldest sister either. I potter around my room, tidying away some books and cautiously tending the bone roses on my windowsill, my mind calmed by these manual tasks. I love Valentina, but I can’t face any more of her before breakfast. I’ve always felt different to her – and to Ofelia, in other ways. As identical triplets, I think, we’ve all tried hard to focus on what makes us distinct. But ever since the Inheritance, I feel more adrift than ever. It feels like my sisters are walking confidently along a misty path, and I’m stumbling behind, afraid to lose them, longing to surrender to … To what?

  I wake Ofelia a little earlier than she’d usually like, sitting on her bed and shaking her shoulder gently. Her dark hair is splayed out on the pillow, tangled and wild. I set a cup of weak coffee on her bedside table – with two sugars, as she likes it. She’s a heavy sleeper, and I doubt she’s stirred since she rested her head on the pillow.

  She stretches out, blinking at the fading sunlight spilling through her curtains. Her room is far prettier than mine – strung with glass beads and candles and colourful swathes of silk. I admire how quickly she’s transformed it, though I don’t care for the puppet stage she’s had brought in from the nursery. She’s hung three puppets there – the others stored in a tall wooden chest at the foot of her bed, which she long ago painted with scenes from her favourite plays. The puppets on stage sway gently in the breeze from the window. The new one is a fine lady in a green gown with pink cheeks and unnervingly realistic golden hair. I recognise the fool with his colourful patchwork, and the knight dressed in tin, darkness behind his visor, from the nursery set. As they sway together and apart, subtly, I realise that part of the reason they frighten me is that they are a little too lifelike. I would not like them watching me as I sleep. There is a kind of knowing there, behind their painted faces.

  I think of how our True Masks will spring to life with the touch of their wearer, and I shudder.

  ‘Beatrice?’ Ofelia says, finally waking up properly. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I have some news,’ I reply. ‘A woman in the city is bearing triplets. The Contessa has decreed them our heirs.’

  All at once, she is fully awake – sitting up and raising a hand to her mouth.

  ‘It’s early, yes,’ I say, unable to hide the tension in my own voice. ‘Apparently she’s due in under a month.’

  ‘The cycle starts again …’ Tears fill her eyes. ‘Bea … If the masked god deems them ready to inherit when they are our age, we will be dead before we are forty,’ she says, voice thick with despair. ‘We will barely have lived at all!’

  I nod, but really I don’t agree. For me, it should be how we live, not for how long. Ofelia longs for more time to live … but I want a different life altogether. I want to see other places, other peoples. I want to taste the air on the open sea. I shut my eyes. I always knew it was impossible, but now it feels even more so.

  Fate is closing around us like a fist.

  NINE:

  A Book

  Livio

  ‘Now, draw on your magic,’ says Priestess Brora, her dark robes flaring as she stalks along the front of the class of fifteen purple-robed novices, her iron-grey hair pinned up in a tight bun. ‘You have each been supplied with an inanimate object upon which to base your illusion. Inanimate objects, as you know, are relatively simple to imitate.’ She casts an unimpressed glance at the novice seated at the far end of the room, who is struggling to reproduce a long, curled pipe. The glowing magic on his palm is slug-shaped and spitting purple sparks, but it’s better than anything I’ll be able to produce. A small cactus in a terracotta pot sits on the table in front of me. I hold out my hand and frown at it. Come on. Magic writhes in my belly like a cat slinking away from an outstretched palm. I sigh.

  ‘Stop! Let’s go back to basics, again,’ says Priestess Brora, pursing her lips. I lower my hand, flexing my fingers – as if that will help. ‘Your magic is an energy inside your body. You were born with it – as you were born with legs and a voice. But, exactly as you had to learn to walk and talk, you have to learn to use it. With practice, you will use your magic with the same effortless ease that you speak. But it takes time. Don’t try to run before you can walk – draw on your magic slowly, carefully. Now try again.’

  I hold out my hand a second time, frowning at the cactus. Is it my imagination, or is it frowning back?

  Priestess Brora is sweeping down the long bench again – now, she glances at the novice next to me, who is attempting to tame a fizzing ball of sparks, which bears a passing resemblance to the orange in front of him. ‘Helton, start again – there’s no use building on uncertain foundations.’ She clears her throat, raises her voice for everyone’s benefit – and to my relief, turns away to stalk towards the opposite end of the room. ‘The art of spellcraft is subtle and requires great delicacy. Yes, we are practising an illusion – a trick. But the skills you exercise here will be applicable to multiple spells. Pay particular attention to the details as you work on your replica.’ She stops in front of a novice halfway down the long bench. ‘Beautiful, Carlotta. Novices, can you see the detail of the creature’s wings – its sharp, pointed beak?’

  The crow on Carlotta’s outstretched hand shines with a faint magical glow, lighting her pale, sharp northern features, her copper hair. Otherwise, it is indistinguishable from the taxidermy creature on the bench in front of her – right down to its beady black eyes. I glance along the row, nervously hoping someone else has entirely failed at the task: but no – every one of them now holds an illusion of varying quality in their outstretched hands. A cut bone rose in a vase – imperfectly replicated in a novice’s hand as a trembling outline of purple light but still, recognisably, a bone rose. A beautifully decorated teacup stands on the palm next to it – the pattern isn’t quite right, but it’s nearly there. Even the pipe is looking less slug-like.

  And then there’s me, empty-handed, glaring at the cactus on my bench and then at my hand as if I can do this by pure force of will. But there’s more to it than that – far more. Magic fizzles inside me, but it won’t obey my commands. The harder I try, the more it shrinks away – down, down furt
her into the pit of my stomach – and the more frustrated I get … I swallow as Priestess Brora stops in front of me, her face settling into a familiar exasperated frown as she watches me try harder, sparks flying from my fingers. Come on. COME ON.

  There’s a whooshing sound and, all of a sudden, the cactus is burning with a tall purple flame. I lean back in my chair and try not to let tears sting my eyes as snorts erupt around the room.

  Priestess Brora waves a hand casually over the cactus, the fire flickering out, leaving a blackened accusatory carcass. She turns away, wordless, and I slump down on my desk. Gods, why is it so hard?

  *

  At the end of the session, I start to gather together my books hopefully. Priestess Brora is one of the good ones. She’s firm but fair. Sometimes, on a good day, she cuts me some slack.

  ‘Lord Livio, stay behind,’ Priestess Brora says, laying a hand gently on my pile of textbooks. The huge ring on her middle finger catches the sunlight – a purple stone carved with the likeness of the cloaked, hooded masked god. My heart sinks. Today isn’t one of the good days, I guess.

  I’m so tired. By the time I had climbed up the trellis for the second time last night, I had barely half an hour to sleep, fully clothed on the bed, before dawn and the sandwolf woke me. I’m used to managing on a few hours’ sleep, a few times a week – but this? I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out by the night.

  When the long chamber is empty and silent, golden evening light spilling through the arched windows, Priestess Brora sits opposite me and quietly talks me through the spell again. I try to do as she says. I really do. But apart from another lone spark spinning up from my fingers, nothing happens. Even the eviscerated potted cactus looks disappointed in me.

  ‘Lord Livio, I can tell you’re trying. But I’m not sure your heart is in it.’