We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  A cold wind blows across the theatre, rustling the puppet’s clothes and causing the hairs on the back of my neck to prickle. As Alana and Ruggio start to fight, their swords clashing as the music rises once more, the scene feels too real to me. I want to scream as Alana’s sword severs Ruggio’s hand, a spurt of red blood – not blood, silk – flying on to the stage. Next to me, Ofelia gasps in delight, claps along with the rest of the audience. I dig my nails into my clenched palms to remind myself what is real and what is not.

  The sharp pain in my hands is real. The cold wind in my hair is real. The story played out onstage is just that – a story.

  The energy building again inside me isn’t, can’t be real.

  Alana kneels in front of Ruggio, lays her hand on his forehead. ‘May your memory desert you, my sweet, until you are safe again.’ The air shimmers with her magic.

  Despite my efforts, the sick feeling grows – the energy returning twofold. A shiver of electricity runs through me, and I breathe deeply, focusing on the stage. I can’t look at the puppets, not any more. I focus on a blank piece of the curtain, trying to calm myself, but instead my heart beats fast as a spark appears out of nowhere, right where I’m looking …

  And curls quickly into flame.

  Before I quite understand what I’m seeing, the flame is spreading fast across the old curtains, and soon others notice and rise to their feet in alarm and point.

  ‘What the …?’ Ofelia breathes beside me.

  ‘Injured and safe, my love, is better than dead,’ Alana says, standing over Ruggio’s unconscious form as two bronze-armoured men join her on the stage – her guards. ‘I shall conquer Fate. Take him—’ Her voice falters, stops. The puppets continue to stand for a few moments, edged in flame ripping up through the fabric curtains – and then the stage itself ignites, the tower shimmering with sparks. The puppeteers must drop their strings, because the puppets slump down suddenly, lifeless, with a rattling bang that I already know will haunt my dreams.

  I think of Elina and Zia, my breath tight and fast in my throat.

  A woman at the front screams and starts to run – and that is a spark of a different kind. A spark of panic that spreads through the audience faster even than fire.

  I did this, I think. I started the fire.

  Suddenly I’m being pushed along the aisle by Ofelia, but there’s someone in front of me, and there’s nowhere for me to go. The puppets themselves are burning now, and I catch a horrible glimpse of the Alana puppet, hair a blaze of gold, the paint on its face crinkling and browning before the flames catch, and it’s too bright to see.

  People are climbing over the seats, drawing knives and slashing through the material of the marquee to get outside. The flames are spreading so fast, it doesn’t feel possible, arcing up the walls and ceilings in a roar of yellow. I spot the Contessa being ushered down from her box, bowed over her grandson’s arm, before Ofelia tugs me over the back of a seat, and another, and then we’re moving towards the marquee opening and fresh air, just as smoke starts to clog my lungs.

  The panic continues to rage in the square. People are fleeing in every direction as the Contessa’s guards struggle towards the marquee, bearing laughably small buckets of water. Billows of black smoke are blown all around us, and I clutch Ofelia’s hand almost as tightly as she’s clutching mine. All I want is to be home, but we’re being borne in the opposite direction and there’s nothing we can do to stop or turn around. People are jostling me now and I keep stumbling over the hem of my dress, but this time I don’t like it – this time I wish people would leave us alone like they usually do. Suddenly there’s a violent jerk as someone crashes into my back and I lose Ofelia’s hand. I’m coughing, black smoke surrounding me as I am carried helplessly along with the crowd. A woman next to me is sobbing. Somewhere further away, there’s a scream.

  ‘Ofelia! Ofelia!’ I shout, my voice hoarse.

  And then her hand clasps my arm. Her eyes are wide and frightened, her face streaked with tears.

  ‘We need to get home,’ I say to her.

  But she shouts in my ear, ‘We won’t be able to fight through. Let’s just go into the city. We’ll loop back later when it’s quieter.’

  A child is crying nearby as we shuffle along with the crowd down into the city streets. It takes a long time for the roar and heat of the fire to fade, and I can still see it if I glance over my shoulder, still hear a muffled continuous groan like the fire is a suffering beast. The crowd around us thins as people peel off to other streets, but we push on, wordless, until we reach the sea.

  THIRTEEN:

  The Fire

  Livio

  Scarossa is burning. My city is burning.

  Outside the marquee, Grandmother clutches my arm and panic fills my heart as the crowd heaves around us, pushing us forward, carrying us like a great, slow wave. Smoke writhes through the air, my eyes stinging, and the night is punctured with screams – behind us, the roar and heat of the fire is growing. I hold Grandmother close, try to ease us forward in the direction of the palazzo – but the way is blocked by hundreds of panicking people.

  ‘Livio, where are our guards?’ Grandmother says, her voice ragged.

  I blink. She’s right. We were slow escaping the marquee – Grandmother had struggled down the steps from our box – but I swear a second ago, we were flanked by yellow liveries. For a few long moments, unbelievably, it’s as if we are alone: the Contessa and her heir, forgotten in a shuffling, shoving crowd of their people – our guards, wealth, power and status vanished in the smoke.

  ‘A shield, Livio,’ she says with a gasp. ‘Now!’

  My heart lurches as I realise what she means: she thinks the fire is Shadow’s work. She thinks any second an attack will part the cloud, hidden until it strikes and kills us both. My heart pounds with adrenalin as I shakily attempt to summon a shield around us, breathing deeply as I try to draw on my magic. A weak film of pale light shimmers in the air … Useless. If a spell bursts through the smoke, my shield will shatter in an instant.

  I have to get us out of here.

  I cough, my throat burning as I attempt to stagger forward, holding Grandmother close. We must reach the palazzo before the assassins reach us.

  Then, the crowd is roughly parted. Yellow-liveried guards push people aside as they head towards us, alternately revealed and concealed by black smoke, unheedful of treading on a woman’s foot, knocking a child prone.

  ‘Careful!’ I say as the foremost guard shoves an elderly man aside. The guard is Hal, mask snarling over his face. Why is Hal wearing his mask in a crowd of non-mages? To intimidate?

  I angrily let go of Grandmother’s arm and step past Hal to help the man to his feet. ‘Are you all right?’

  The man doesn’t have a chance to reply. ‘Lord, we have to go,’ Hal says, tugging me towards Grandmother, towards the other guards – and I find myself tightly escorted in the direction of the palazzo.

  Once we’re in the gardens, the sense of space is overwhelming – in spite of the smoke wreathing the trees. The guards start to shut the gates as Grandmother begins to climb the six marble steps up to the door, her hand tight on the banister.

  ‘Wait!’ I say, my voice hoarse. ‘We should let people in here – until the fire is put out. To relieve the crowd. People can barely move out there.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Grandmother turns on the middle step, draws herself up and meets my eyes. ‘Are you mad, Livio? You want to let hundreds of people into the palazzo gardens, without knowing who is among them?’

  Her lack of compassion angers me. ‘Weren’t you just out there? People are going to get hurt – crushed in the panic, choking on the smoke. And we can hardly tackle the fire if we can’t even access it. I should be out there – I should be—’

  ‘We are going inside right now, Livio. I can assure you the fire is being dealt with – there is no need for your assistance.’ Grandmother’s icy tone is the kind I wouldn’t have dared argue with a few short
days ago. But now, for some reason, it makes me even more determined.

  ‘They’re our people – we have a duty to help them!’

  Grandmother glowers at me. At last, she turns to one of her True Masked guards – the sneering Grotesque mask now removed from her face. ‘Please supply my grandson with a full status report.’

  ‘My lady.’ She bows to Grandmother and then turns to me. ‘My lord, we are following the city procedures for fire emergencies. The temple of Imris is already dousing the fire from a safe distance, as well as supplying medical aid to those in need. The temple of Faul is evacuating the nearby buildings and transporting the weakest to safety by air enchantment. Our own palazzo guards are bringing water to assist in these efforts.’

  I swallow, wetting my burning throat. Of course. Of course they’re doing something. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be out there, showing the people that we care. Grandmother turns to me. ‘Good government is a series of precautions and procedures, set in motion for every eventuality. It is not a knee-jerk reaction, however compassionate the motives for that reaction. Now, go inside, Livio.’

  I bite my tongue. I can’t win this fight. I can’t seem to win any fight that isn’t with my fists. I step past Grandmother – but she rests a hand on my arm, stopping me halfway up the stairs. ‘I’ll see you after your studies with Hal,’ she whispers, ‘as we planned. There’s no time to lose.’

  I nod curtly, pull away from her, and climb the stairs to my room.

  Half an hour later, I’m standing on the rooftop, Hal at my side, gazing out over the palazzo square. The fire is under control now, but an angry orange glow continues to burn against the huge library, reflecting in its great glass domes, and smoke spews into the night. The air smells acrid.

  I watch the figures bustling to and fro, the crowd now dispersed: the mages sending magical streams of water to quench the blaze; the fire-fighting machines brought up from the lower town. From a distance, they’re so tiny it’s nearly unreal. A voice floats up here, now and then – but it all sounds so far away.

  I should be down there. I should be helping.

  Hal’s voice pulls me from my inner turmoil. ‘Time for our lesson, Lord – remember?’

  His voice is gentle, almost apologetic, but I’m not in the mood to humour him.

  ‘Not tonight, Hal. Not after everything that’s happened.’

  ‘But, Lord—’

  ‘It’s my lord, Hal,’ I hiss. I know it’s petty, but I turn towards him and continue through gritted teeth. ‘You keep saying “Lord”. But it’s “my lord”.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You are mine.’ A slow smile, the familiar glint of the jewel on his tooth, and I feel my heart beat faster from a different kind of emotion. ‘If I’d known it meant so much to you …’

  I turn away, watching as the fire finally dies out. An oily flag of smoke is snaking into the sky, still, like the banner of a defeated enemy. But it’s darker, all of a sudden, colder. ‘Whatever, Hal,’ I say quietly. ‘A lesson it is. As you wish.’

  I close my eyes, replaying the vision, the heat, the melting puppet face. It happened. It wasn’t a mistake: I had seen the future, after all. I am an astromancer. The stars appear to dance around me as I realise this … and then I feel something cold and sharp against my throat. A blade. Fear jolts through me as I remember last time, the assassin …

  ‘Lesson two. Don’t stand on an exposed rooftop with your eyes shut,’ says Hal, his mouth so close to my ear, I can feel the heat of his breath. I’m relieved it’s him … but for a few seconds I just stand there, my heart pounding, as if I really think he’ll do it. But then he lowers the knife from my neck. He doesn’t let go of me, though – not at first. I can’t help the way I like his arms around me, the way I wish I could sink into his warmth, turn and …

  He steps away at last, keeping one hand on my arm as if he’s afraid I might fall.

  Reluctantly, forcefully, I shrug him off me and turn to face him. I want to say something mean, something to push him away, but nothing comes. I just look at him: his smooth black skin; his dark curls nearly silvery in the moonlight; an odd intensity in his eyes. He’s looking at me – really looking. For some reason, I think of Elisao.

  ‘So … the lesson?’ I manage hoarsely.

  ‘Right.’ He teases a flicker of red-purple magic between his fingers, breaking eye contact and taking a step backwards. ‘Your problem is control. You’ve got a temper on you. I saw it a lot at Jok’s temple, back in Port Regal.’ Jok – the god of warriors. ‘Full of hot-headed mages like you. My theory? The temple of Mythris doesn’t know how to deal with control issues. The character of a Mythris mage is usually control-obsessed, you see?’

  Like Grandmother, I think ruefully. ‘That’s where you trained – Jok’s temple? Not with Mythris?’

  He’s wandering away from me now, twirling his dagger in his palm. ‘Mythris’s temple was an apprenticeship at first. Couldn’t decide which path to choose. Mythris got me in the end – better jobs. Better pay.’ He shoots a smile at me over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, lots of Jok’s disciples are like you – aggressive. You’ve got to focus all that energy.’

  ‘I’m not aggressive,’ I protest. ‘I can fight, but I’m not aggressive.’

  ‘Right.’ He raises an eyebrow as if he doesn’t believe me. I feel myself colour. ‘But you have to admit you get aggressive when you’re nervous. First thing you do is tense up for a fight, Lord. See?’

  He reaches down, takes my hand – clenched tight – in his. I blink, uncurling my fist. I suppose he’s right. As my hand relaxes, he lets go.

  ‘You see an attack coming and you panic. You try too hard. Half your energy just flies from your fingers in sparks. Same with other spells, I reckon, though I haven’t seen you try. If you think you’re being watched or tested, you’re bound to fuck up.’ He sits down on the edge of the roof, cross-legged, smiling. ‘And you’ve picked up bad habits as a result. Relying on your body. You’re strong, Lord, but no human body is as strong as magic.’

  I bow my head, rub the back of my neck, ashamed at how well he’s summing me up. ‘I don’t know. My magic doesn’t feel strong at all.’

  ‘You’re better than you think. All you need to do is relax,’ he counters, nodding down at my hands. I’m clenching my fists again – didn’t even realise I was doing it. I sit down opposite him on the wide wall, cross-legged, like him. The city sprawls to my right, the palazzo rooftops to my left. We’re sitting close. Not touching, but close enough to do so if we wanted. Why did I sit so close to him? I nearly shuffle away, but then he says, ‘Now, do you trust me?’

  I blink. ‘I …’

  But he’s already reached out, and then he’s holding both my hands in his. He is so warm, his skin dry and calloused. I can feel power coursing through him along with his blood. ‘Shut your eyes. Breathe deep.’ I do as he says, although part of me is afraid and wants to pull away.

  I feel the warmth of him spreading through me, relaxing me as I focus on the air moving in and out of my lungs, tugging at my hair, caressing my skin. I can’t tell if this is magic or simply the way he makes me feel. He turns my right hand palm up. ‘Keep breathing,’ he whispers. ‘Just keep breathing.’

  We stay like this for a few minutes that feel like hours, my heartbeat slow and steady, my breath echoing the sea’s. And then he says, ‘Now, let magic flow into your palm, Lord.’

  And then, for perhaps the first time, I sense that the power doesn’t slide away from me. It feels different, smoother, as I draw on the place my magic sleeps and let it trickle through me into the open palm of my hand resting in his.

  ‘Very good. Take a look.’

  When I open my eyes, I see a light violet flame flickering there – steady, bright and true. I hold on to it, keeping the flow of my magic. I’m afraid to shut my eyes, or move, or breathe, in case I break the spell. At that thought, there’s a flicker.

  ‘Just relax. Turn it into a globe.’

  I do as
he says, and the flame steadies again, evening out. Euphoria fills me. I’m doing it. I’m really doing it. A ball of purple light is floating between us.

  ‘See?’ he says softly. ‘That’s as good a mage-light as I’ve ever seen.’

  I close my hand and the globe remains, hovering beside me in a physical manifestation of my power. Tears sting my eyes. It’s a small thing, a simple mage-light – the sort of spell I should have mastered in my first year as a novice. But it’s also something I’ve never been able to accomplish properly or reliably. I pluck it out of the air, hold it in my hands.

  ‘Your magic is a nice colour – so pale. Unusual,’ says Hal softly. ‘You should do an apprenticeship at Regis temple, no? Where the magic is white.’ But it’s me he’s looking at. Not the glowing mage-light.

  Gently, instinctively, I extinguish the light by closing my hands around the globe. Only then do my eyes meet his, my vision bursting with colour as they adjust to the darkness once more. Hal is so close to me that I imagine I can hear his heartbeat – so close that I can’t help gazing at him.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That was … I haven’t been able to …’

  Tentatively, he reaches out for me. His hand grazes the stubble on my jawline, brushes through my hair. A voice in my head warns me of danger, but I can barely hear it over the eager thudding of my broken heart. It broke so quietly, in such a storm of life-changing events, that I hadn’t realised it until this second. I think of Elisao again: of the life I have lost with him, the life I never had.

  I need this. If I can’t have that life, I need this. My heart seems to say, Yes, yes, yes.

  I lean a little closer, feel Hal’s breath on my lips. Now, it’s the fire that’s rushing through my mind. The stars. The Raven’s burning gaze, the mascherari sisters with their black veils pushed by the wind, the sandwolf’s yellow eyes. I’m staring into Hal’s, now, and they’re the brightest blue I’ve ever seen, and I wonder if he’s looking at me – the real me – like Elisao did. Can I ever be in love with someone the way I was with him, even when I didn’t realise it?