We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  I shrug slightly, not meeting her eyes. Of course my heart isn’t in it. My heart is with Elisao, in the city, in the fight. My heart is Vico.

  ‘Some of us may not have been born with a great deal of natural power. But this kind of spell is more about concentration and focus than raw energy. Any mage has enough power for them to achieve a simple illusion.’ Her voice isn’t without kindness – but somehow, her words sting like an insult.

  ‘Any mage but me,’ I mutter, hating how sullen I sound.

  Her mouth flattens in disapproval. ‘I suspect part of it is confidence, Lord Livio. You have to believe you can do it. We all know you can – but you have convinced yourself you’re not good enough.’

  ‘I wish it were that simple,’ I say. I try to smile, but it falters on my lips. ‘Look, I understand what you’re saying. Confidence would help. But it’s a vicious circle, isn’t it? I’m not confident, so I can’t do it. I can’t do it, so I’m not confident.’

  ‘Exactly. But it’s up to you to break that circle, my lord. No one can do that for you.’ She leans forward on the table, forcing me to meet her eyes. ‘You look tired. And something tells me you weren’t up all night practising your spells. Perhaps it’s that injury of yours.’ She raises an eyebrow, and I lift a hand self-consciously to my nose.

  Is it still that obvious?

  ‘I’m sorry, Lord Livio, but poor performance comes with consequences – I can’t make exceptions, not even for you. You’ll work in the library for an hour today. And might I suggest you put what’s left of the evening to better use? Sleep should definitely be a priority.’

  Relief floods my body. Working in the library is a regular punishment for poor performance – but for me, it’s ineffective. See, I actually like the library. ‘Very well,’ I say, trying to sound disappointed. I hold my books to my chest and head for the corridor, glancing over my shoulder before I leave – but Priestess Brora is staring at the blackened corpse of my cactus, frowning as if in puzzlement. I shut the door behind me.

  Outside, in the bright courtyard, Carlotta is holding court among a group of her admirers. Her hair is shining copper, the breeze turning it to flickering fire. She’s the daughter of the Cardinal, the head of the masked god’s temple in Scarossa. She stands out, like me – but unlike me, she turns it to her advantage. She is nearly as tall as I am, though slender and pale as bone.

  Jurah’s tits, I hate her.

  I try to slide past towards the library staircase, but she catches sight of me and says loudly in an exaggeratedly affected accent: ‘Lord Livio, of course, prefers battling plants to practising illusions.’ Carlotta’s admirers snigger, hardly bothering to hide their smirks behind their hands. ‘Fighting a cactus is probably the only way he can guarantee victory,’ she adds in a lower tone, but perfectly loud enough for me to hear.

  Normally I’d ignore her. But today is different: I’m too tired, maybe; too mixed up between Livio and Vico to resist the urges of the night. Rage pulses through me and something snaps. I step forward unthinkingly, my shoulders squared and fists clenched. ‘Speak like that about me again,’ I say, heat simmering through my voice, ‘and I’ll—’ I break off as I catch sight of the shocked faces of my classmates. I’m suddenly flooded with cold and let my shoulders drop. I try to think of the right words, but nothing comes.

  ‘Were you about to punch me?’ Carlotta says, raising an eyebrow.

  I turn away, breathe deep. I’m not in the Battaglia. I’m not Vico. I’m Livio in the temple, surrounded by mages who are stronger than me in the way it really matters: magically. Besides, it might not be public knowledge yet, but I’m heir to the Contessa. I can’t threaten the Cardinal’s daughter. I shake my head and set off towards the library again, the jeers of my classmates following me like wasps.

  And although my fists are clenched so hard my nails bite into my palms, I don’t let myself turn back.

  I start to relax a little as I climb the spiral staircase, leaving behind the bustling courtyard in exchange for a cool, stony silence. Even so, I hesitate outside the huge double doors, leaning hard against the wall. As an ineffective mage, I’ll never command the respect of my peers in the temple. Perhaps that’s all right, for the second in line to the Contessa. But that’s all changed, now that I’m the heir. When I am Conte, I cannot be trampled upon. The temples are themselves political bodies with their own agendas, headed by the Holy Council in the northern capital. And then there’s the King, to whom I shall swear fealty – he has his own interests to consider. I rub my forehead. If I am not respected, if even novices speak to me as Carlotta did, how will I stand up to the temples, to the Holy Council, to the King himself, and protect the interests of my city?

  Enough. I cannot think of this now. I stand up straight and push open the doors.

  The temple library is in an ancient part of the complex, set in the tall archway over the huge wooden gates. Enchanted windows – charmed to protect fragile books from the sunlight – range across the curved room, the slanted glass panes spilling a steady but oddly glittering light on to the tall shelves. Steps separate the room into three different levels.

  The space is tiny compared to the huge library in the palazzo square – however, every tome in here handles the subject of magic. And if I shut my eyes and breathe in, I can smell the paper and dust and the indefinable scent of knowledge.

  The librarian – a stern-faced high priest in late middle age – barely nods at me these days as I enter. As usual, he’s hunched over a huge ledger spidered with blue-inked handwriting. He glances at the wheeled case of books, which it is my task to shelve, and returns to his accounts. Without bothering him further, I start to push it down the first row.

  I’ve replaced around ten books before I pick up a slim volume missing a label on its spine. I turn it over and blink in shock, my breath catching in my throat. The emblem embossed in silver foil on its cover is the Santini sun, but without the nine stars. Exactly like the graffiti and the pendant on the mysterious figure. I flick it open to read the title: The Queens of the Wishes. The book was published a hundred years ago, and there is no slip of paper inside to show who has checked it out and when. In fact, I don’t think it’s a library book at all … But if that’s the case, how did it get here?

  I open the plate section, curiosity piquing. The first image depicts a mage, his robes a deep, brilliant blue, dotted with stars. The caption reads: An Astromancer in traditional Scarossan garb. Evidence of ancient Astromancy is rumoured to be hidden in Dark Scarossa.

  Astromancer? I frown. I’m aware of myths about a native magic to the Wishes, of course. A different source of magic, they say, unrelated to Chaos – a magic drawn from an old goddess known as Fortune … but those stories have long since been proved nonsense. Before the time of the gods, magic was inherently varied and Chaotic; little wonder some called it by different names.

  Dark Scarossa. That’s the second time I’ve heard those words in as many days, I think, as I recall Old Jacobo’s rumours about Shadow.

  I flick over to the next plate: a crowned woman surrounded by stars. Fortune, the goddess worshipped by the ancient peoples of the Wishes, says the caption – but it’s at that moment I hear a light cough from behind me. The librarian has risen from his desk and is glowering at me. He says nothing – he never does. The spell of silence in this place is seldom disturbed. I smile apologetically, replace the book on my trolley and continue in my task.

  Once I’m alone again, I reopen the book and flick through the front trying to locate the contents page – but it’s a small line of pencilled handwriting across the top of the page that captures my attention.

  This book belongs to Sera Lupina. Do not steal or I will CURSE YOU.

  I raise my signet ring to my lips in shock. Sera Lupina. Serafina Santini. My mother.

  I glance over my shoulder, but I’m alone in the history section, the light from the sinking sun turning into molten gold as it hits the enchanted glass. Was this simply chance? Or,
more likely, did someone leave this book for me to find? If so, who? And why? All my life, the only scrap I’ve had of my mother is the signet ring, tucked in my cradle the night she left. And suddenly, this.

  One thing’s for sure … someone is watching me; someone knows my life is changing. My mind spins as I hold the slim book close to my chest: the cloaked figure, the Battaglia, the sandwolves, the mascherari Inheritance …

  I don’t know what it all means yet – but it means something.

  I slide the volume under my robes and continue my duties.

  I return from the temple sore and exhausted and late, the book hidden, pressed against my stomach. As I step from the carriage and hurry up the palazzo steps in the long evening shadows, longing for my room and the privacy I need to study my discovery, I notice a servant waiting for me inside.

  Grandmother wants to see me.

  She is sitting alone at the tall windows overlooking the south side of the gardens, where every variety of bone rose imaginable grows in tightly ordered beds. Bone roses are naturally a kind of fleshy pink – that’s how they appear in the wild. But they can change colour depending on whose magic nourishes them – and my grandmother’s gardeners are assisted by mages who hail from each of the nine temples. The result is a rainbow of golds, ochres and reds, velvety blacks, purest brilliant whites and smoky greys, bright greens and deep, azure blues – flowers echoing the colours of each god’s magic. The sun is sinking, and the shadows stretching over the garden are staining the grass like grey ink.

  The roses she has chosen to grow on the trellis outside her window, so tall and so close they are pressed against the glass, are a bruised, thunderous purple. Like my magic, hers, Constance’s … and my mother’s too, so I hear. The people of these islands have a unique connection to the temple of Mythris – nowhere else does the masked god dominate the magical population as he does in the Wishes.

  Despite the warm day, the window is only cracked slightly, allowing the barest breath of fresh air inside the room, carrying the roses’ cloying smell. As usual, Grandmother is wearing a long-sleeved black dress and layers of dark shawls, and Patience’s mourning ring is on her finger. Today, she wears a second ring, nearly as large. Instead of hair, it contains a likeness of my cousin in profile – I can tell who it is even from a distance by the pale skin colour and the severity of her expression: Constance. How did she have it made so quickly – or does she have boxes of these mourning rings ready-made, lying in wait for the next of us to die?

  ‘Sit down,’ she says, gesturing at the chair opposite hers. I lower myself on to the overstuffed silk cushions. She sighs and I feel a sudden pang of remorse that I am not the grandson – or heir – that she longed for, or deserved.

  Her face is drawn and pale, her wrinkles deep – I never think of her as an old woman, but today she looks every one of her eighty-five years. I think of what Old Jacobo told me, about the threats facing the city – about Shadow. I suspect she knows as much or more than I do – but I’m reluctant to introduce the subject. Grandmother knows I’ve been sneaking into the city, but if she guessed the extent of my involvement in the criminal underworld … She may look older than usual, but even as I watch, she draws herself up, her eyes hardening as she fixes me with one of her stares. I am still afraid of her, as much as I love her. I still seek her approval. Finally she speaks. ‘You like book-learning, Livio. So tell me, what do you know of the early origins of our house?’

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, surprised by the question. Has she really summoned me here, after all of last night’s upheaval, to talk about history? I think of the book tucked under my clothes – I’m burning to open it again, to discover what secrets it holds. Does she know, somehow? I’m sure she has plenty of informants in the city and the temple … I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as I attempt an answer. ‘I know we are one of the two mage families that have been here since even before the nine gods: us and the Lupinas.’ The Lupinas: my mother’s family. I stroke the signet ring, tracing the outline of the sandwolf with my thumb.

  ‘And what magic did those Ancestors practise? Before the gods, that is?’ Grandmother asks.

  Before the gods …? No one really talks about those times. Where is she going with this? I clear my throat. ‘Is this really …?’

  She smiles slightly. ‘I promise you, there is a point.’

  ‘Well … it is said that they practised an older magic … called astromancy.’ I don’t think I have spoken the word aloud before – it feel alien on my tongue, uncomfortable. I try it again. ‘Astromancy was rumoured to be the native power of this island, separate from the powers of the nine gods. It was drawn instead from their mother, Fortune, who is said to have died here, her magic infiltrating the soil itself – creating the strong magical energies of the Wishes.’ I shake my head. ‘But astromancy was disproved long ago. There is no magic but that which we draw from Order and Chaos.’

  ‘Even so,’ she says, leaning back. ‘Tell me more about the two families.’

  ‘They were rulers of Scarossa, but not in the way we now know. The Santinis were queens. And the Lupinas were generals. They ruled side by side, and both used the old magic in different ways – the Santinis had the ability, they say, to determine and manipulate the future, and the Lupinas to fight and suppress their enemies.’ I glance up at Grandmother, and she gestures at me to continue. I grope around for the rest of what I’ve learned. ‘When the gods made themselves known to mankind, they established a loyal king on the mainland to the north. And the King started a holy war with the Queen of Scarossa. The Queen at last surrendered, accepting the King’s and the gods’ supremacy, who in their mercy granted her the title Contessa …’ I stop, casting another look at Grandmother.

  ‘That is certainly the story we’ve all been told,’ she says. ‘But you must know there is more to it than that. What of the god Mythris’s role?’

  ‘It is said that Mythris brokered the peace, striking a bargain with the Queen against the wishes of her Lupina general, who wanted to continue the war. The Queen agreed to pledge allegiance to the gods and to the King, demoting herself to Contessa, and to build a temple for Mythris, the greatest temple on the Wishes. And in return, Mythris granted her the power of the True Masks – the greatest assassins and spies in the world were to be under the new Contessa’s command. The line of mascherari sisters was started.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  I nod slowly. ‘That’s all I know.’

  Grandmother smiles. ‘Now … as my heir … the knowledge of what truly passed between Mythris and our Ancestors can be passed on to you.’ She sets down her cup and stands up with some difficulty, leaning on her cane. ‘Come – this is best seen, not told.’

  She leads me across the room towards a curtained alcove I’ve always assumed led to a dressing room or wardrobe. The room grows hotter as we leave the window, and I realise there’s a fire burning in the small grate. Even so, when Grandmother holds out her hand for me to support, her skin is cold.

  Grandmother reaches up with her other hand and pulls the curtain back, revealing a narrow door. She stops before opening the door.

  ‘Of all the gods, Mythris was the most sympathetic to the magic of our Ancestors – to astromancy. There is power, Livio, that runs deeper than the energies of Order and Chaos – the colourful magics we draw from the nine gods. They don’t teach you this at the temple – but perhaps you have known it all along, somehow. It is in your blood, after all. There is more in this world than the gods care to admit.’

  I feel a thrill run through me as we hesitate on the threshold. Another path. Another magic. Another chance, perhaps. How many times have I longed for someone to tell me that there are more than two choices in this life – magic or none? Livio or Vico? But instantly I quash my excitement, not daring to hope. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Just listen,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘One of these other magics is this – a power that threads through time itself, connecting the p
ast, present and future. It is the force we once worshipped as Fortune and manipulated through the stars. A force drawn from the very earth of this island, where Fortune’s remains lie.’

  She can’t be telling me that astromancy … is real? ‘Grandmother, believing the non-magical parts of the histories is one thing, but this is—’

  ‘Impossible, I know.’ She smiles tightly. ‘Ridiculous, even? Everyone knows that there is only Order and Chaos, and the gods to help us navigate their waters. I said the same thing to my own mother when she brought me here, nearly seventy years ago.’

  She slips a silver key on a long chain out from under her clothes, inserts it into the lock and opens the door. I catch a glimpse of a blue gem on the key’s bow as she hides it again. Beyond the door is a narrow spiral staircase leading upwards. Grandmother turns away from me, holds on to the metal banister determinedly and starts heaving herself up on to the first step, then the second, slowly. I know better than to offer to help, but I can tell this journey is causing her pain. When she continues to speak, her voice is rough with it.

  ‘Our Ancestor agreed to bow to the nine gods, yes. But Mythris wanted something from us too – knowledge of the magic we used to pull the strings of fate. And that gave us some bargaining power. The negotiations lasted for days, but at last, a bargain was struck. Mythris granted us the True Masks. His power was to be divided among three human girls, triplets to be born on the Wishes – Mythris feared bestowing the power on a single person, so he divided it, hemmed it in, gave it to what he saw as the weaker sex.’ The tone of her voice perfectly conveys what she thinks of this notion. ‘The triplets would be confined to the palazzo grounds, too. There could be no overlap between two generations – when one sister died, the others would too, and the power would pass on to the next generation. The masks were permitted to be used as a weapon for the protection and furtherance of the Contessa’s power.’

  She pauses to catch her breath, and I notice we have nearly reached the top. When I gaze up, I realise we are climbing the largest of the spiralling glass towers in the palazzo. I didn’t know it was even possible: from the outside, the glass is tinted such a bright shade of blue that you can’t see inside at all.