We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  Soft light.

  A body lies here: a woman laid out as if for a funeral pyre, hands folded over her chest, eyes shut. Roots twist around her body, gems gleaming in the walls of her berth. She’s dressed in a long blue gown, and although faded by time, I can tell it’s embroidered with silver and gold stars. She is beautiful, her dark hair falling long around her body in tiny, lapping waves – and the soft light spills from her skin. Her eyelids flicker as if she’s dreaming. Thousands of chains fall into her body – no, I realise, they are drawn from her body, like beams of light. And they’re not chains at all.

  My vision shifts. Each link is an event, a decision, a turning point – leading to the next. The chains are paths. Choices. Opportunities.

  Her eyelids flicker. Her eyes open, staring at me. She sees me. And in that moment, I see what I have to do.

  The Cardinal. Shadow. Grandmother. Images flash before my eyes in a sequence, a chain of events, of decisions, leading into the future. My future. I feel possibilities narrowing, fading into darkness, leaving three options open to me: a future under Shadow’s command; a future under the Temple’s; and … another path.

  The path isn’t clear. In fact, it’s faint, shimmering in the darkness like a distant planet. But it’s something.

  And as suddenly as I plunged into this dream world, I’m flung out of it. I’m not surprised when I find myself on the floor, gasping as if I’ve been drowning, but filled with the knowledge of what I am capable of – what I have to do to win.

  I can’t hesitate – I have to try. I sit on the floor and draw on my other astromantic power – the one that feels warm, rough and sandy, in contrast to the cold, smooth chiming sensation when I read the stars. I pull, a siren call of magic echoing through the air. A sandwolf swirls into existence in front of me, like a dust devil rising from the earth grain by grain. As it builds itself up, taller and taller, my breath hitches in my throat. When they open, flickering into existence, the sandwolf’s eyes glow not yellow, but red.

  ‘Silas?’ I whisper. The huge, golden sandwolf bows its head, slightly, in assent. I’ve not bound him to my will. I’ve asked for help – and he has come. I reach out, stroke the impossible furry sand of his body, press my forehead to his. I feel his hurt, his pain, his power. His desire for revenge on the woman who held him captive.

  ‘Soon,’ I say softly. ‘But not yet.’

  I shut my eyes. Fortune slumbers far beneath my feet – connected to me, to the watching stars, to Silas whose head rests against my own. I probe my power, wondering at how Astromancy fills my heart with purpose, its power fizzing through my blood, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Silas grumbles, softly, as if he feels it too. Running away isn’t an option, not any more. My work here is not yet done.

  TWENTY-EIGHT:

  Home

  Beatrice

  I pass two people in the sewers dressed in the plain dark clothes I associate with Shadow’s gang – their eyes widen as they meet mine, their gazes quickly dropping to the sewer floor in deference as they acknowledge my presence and hurry past.

  I’m glad Hal’s face inspires fear. Nobody challenges me. Nobody questions why Hal is staggering, stumbling as if drunk, one hand trailing on the wall. This face, this body is protesting my control, and I don’t know how much longer I can fight it.

  At last I find a ladder to climb, slowly, painfully. At the top, I shoulder open the metal drain cover, glad of Hal’s strength as I crawl out into the night, out of Shadow’s territory. I’m surprised to find myself right outside the house I grew up in, the mascherari house. I hear no sound but the tall trees hissing in the wind and the sea crashing beyond. All of a sudden, I feel like crying. I roll on to the paving stones, unable to muster the energy or will to check if anyone is watching. My muscles are burning, the mask pulses with pain as I shift the drain cover into place. I clasp my hands to my face. I can’t bear it any more. I’ve left Dark Scarossa now – and no one knows my true face anyway. I rip the mask away with a gasp of relief.

  The pain that follows is hot, intense – running through my body like a magical attack – but mercifully brief. I lie very still for a moment, glad to feel a familiar body, an identity closer to the one I’ve grown up thinking was my own. I sit up and tuck the mask into an inside pocket of Hal’s now ludicrously oversized yellow uniform. I bend forward to roll up the legs and then the sleeves – then I lift my eyes and finally notice lights flashing from the direction of the palazzo. If I listen closely, tinny cries and distant explosions sound beneath the waves and the wind. A fight.

  Hopelessness fills my heart. Where do I go now?

  But then, I notice a faint glow in a downstairs window of the mascherari house, a mere chink of light between the curtains of the dining room. I shiver, imagining my sisters sitting at the table, Valentina reading out the bulletin, and Ofelia sipping black sugared coffee and telling her everything is boring. What if I could simply slip into the seat between them? If everything could go back to how it was before?

  I creep up to the house, keeping low in the undergrowth. The window, I notice, is slightly ajar. I press my eye to the gap.

  An old woman is tied to one of our dining chairs, sagging into her ropes, her eyelids flickering. At first, I don’t recognise her. Then it hits me – it’s the Contessa. Diminished, weak. I feel an unwelcome stab of pity for the woman who stole my life.

  I peer around the room, checking for guards. When I see none, I ease the window wider and climb over the sill into the room.

  Despite her sorry condition, the Contessa’s eyes are alert as she lifts her head and watches me drop quietly to the floor.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, drawing herself up until she’s sitting up straight. ‘There’s no one here but me. I’m too weak to escape. And nobody wants to come to the mascherari house.’ Her eyes twinkle. ‘Except the mascherari, of course. Beatrice, isn’t it?’

  I blink, shocked. ‘How do you know my name?’ I swallow, suddenly nervous. Somehow, despite the fact that she’s the one tied to a chair, she is in control of this conversion, not I. She flexes her hand, pinned to her side, the great dark mourning rings stark against her wrinkled skin. Her voice trembles as she speaks again.

  ‘Even after all these years, I know your true face, girl. You should have fled when you could.’

  My resolve hardens. I step closer, sit down on the chair beside hers. ‘I couldn’t run away without knowing the truth. I need to know who I am. You stole me from the life I was born into. You failed to protect my sisters. You at least owe me this.’ I steel myself. ‘So tell me – who am I?’

  The Contessa leans forward as best she can, her dark eyes glowing with a strange intensity. ‘You think it matters whose blood you hold in your veins? You think it matters what face lies beneath the mask?’ Although tremulous, her voice is full of conviction. ‘Well, you are not the only one in disguise. We all wear masks, Beatrice. You won’t find a person here who shows their true face to everyone they meet. And perhaps that’s how it should be. Our greatness is determined not by blood, or fate – but by actions alone … by what we choose to present to the world. A mask is a truer reflection of our soul than anything we are born with.’ She sags back against the bars of the chair as if the speech has drained her of energy. It’s more than age and exhaustion, I realise. She’s ill. Her face is damp with fever; her eyes unnaturally bright.

  I can’t follow the thread she’s spooling out for me – part of me wonders if she’s all there, or if her mind has unravelled under the pressure of her suffering. I bow my head, frustrated, then lift my eyes again. ‘Please. You have to tell me.’

  And she does …

  I blink at the revelations. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps I thought everything would slot into place. But knowing the names doesn’t change a thing: I still don’t know who I am. Instead, I feel fragmented, broken.

  ‘Now, I know I have no right to ask anything of you,’ says the Contessa. ‘But please, take me to my grandson
. I want to see him … one last time.’

  My heart softens. Suddenly, she isn’t the Contessa. She is simply an old woman, asking me for help. Her breath is at once shallow and heavy as I lean forward to untie her ropes.

  TWENTY-NINE:

  Dawn

  Livio

  In the hallway, the battle is as fierce as ever, dawn streaking the morning sky red through the huge windows over the staircase. When I peer down from the banister, I see the floor below is littered with corpses and injured mages.

  The majority, I realise, are in purple robes.

  Seven remaining Mythris mages, including the Cardinal and the True Masked mage at his side, fight ten of Shadow’s people. Shadow herself is a blur of magic and blades. An orange-eyed sandwolf swirls in and out of the battle at her command – a new weapon for her to control. Silas growls at my side.

  Shadow lets out a high battle cry and presses her advantage. She’s so fast, I can’t tell how it happens, but a sudden silence spills over the hall, and I realise she’s holding the Cardinal tightly in her arms, a knife pressed to his throat.

  One by one, the remaining mages of the masked temple drop down to their knees, hands pressed against the bloody floor in the ancient gesture of a mage’s surrender. Shadow’s people surround the group, drawing their knives and echoing Shadow’s position, blades pressed to throats. I feel a chill of horror as I watch the robed mages’ eyes widen. They’re sensing what I’m sensing: they might have surrendered, but it doesn’t matter. Shadow will show no mercy.

  ‘You said I couldn’t beat a god, Cardinal,’ Shadow says, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘But look – I didn’t need to. I have his highest order of priests and priestesses on their knees. And will Mythris come down and save you all …?’ She leaves a pause. ‘Come on!’ she shouts to the ceiling. ‘Where are you?’ Her voice echoes against the empty marble walls. When she speaks again, her tone is low and mocking. ‘No, I think you’re all alone. Perhaps you always have been. After all, your god is a faithless betrayer.’

  The Cardinal’s eyes burn with rage. ‘And your god is dead,’ he spits. ‘Old legends and half-magics are all that hold up your philosophy. You may have won the battle, but you cannot win the war. The nine won’t let it happen.’

  ‘The nine will have to watch while it does,’ Shadow hisses. Her mouth twists. In one smooth movement, she draws the knife across the Cardinal’s neck, a wide slice opening his gullet, blood spilling over his robes in a rush of livid red. Life drops from his eyes, quick as a diving gull. I sag against the banister, my head spinning at the ease with which she, my mother, kills. The Cardinal’s body slumps to the floor.

  One of the surrendered mages shouts ‘No!’ in a hoarse, disbelieving scream. Dark purple magic flashes from her, the knife held to her throat flying from her captor’s hand and skittering across the room. The mage scrambles to her feet and rushes forward, towards the Cardinal’s body. I realise with a start that it’s the mage wearing the True Mask. But Shadow’s magic flares, and the masked mage is flung backwards. As she hits the floor, the mask is knocked from her face, the hood from her red, flaming hair.

  Carlotta.

  She’s dazed, slow. She half lifts herself from where she’s fallen, squinting as Shadow stalks towards her, stands over her. When Carlotta reaches for the True Mask, Shadow stamps hard on her wrist and I hear a sickening crunch. Carlotta screams in pain. My stomach twists. Shadow leaves her boot in place, holding her down.

  ‘Look,’ says Shadow, glancing between the two livid shocks of red hair, bright in the dawn light. ‘It’s the Cardinal’s child. And the last of the True Masked guards, by the look of it. What do we do with True Masked guards and their toys?’

  ‘Destroy them,’ whisper her followers in eager unison.

  Keeping one foot on Carlotta’s wrist, she brings down the other, hard, on the mask. One, two, three times. Blue sparks fly into the air. Carlotta cries out with every blow – as if the destruction of the mask is hurting her even more than her shattered wrist. By the time Shadow’s finished, the mask is no more than a collection of blue shards. Satisfied, she lifts her boot from Carlotta’s wrist, holds out her knife, and kneels down to rest the blade, point down, over Carlotta’s heart. The girl’s eyes are wide with fear.

  The gleam of the blade – like a flame in the rising sunlight – jolts me into action. I can’t let this go on.

  Signalling for Silas to wait, I step out from the darkness and walk down the stairs. Shadow’s eyes lift at the sound of my footsteps. I draw back my shoulders, feel my fists clench, readying for a fight. Shadow’s people stand unmoving, their knives held to the remaining Mythris mages’ throats.

  ‘Son,’ she says, her voice softening slightly, though her knife remains poised over Carlotta’s chest. ‘Just in time to claim your kingdom.’

  ‘Let her go,’ I say, glad my voice sounds stronger than I feel. I stop halfway down the stairs – I feel more powerful on this higher ground.

  ‘This one?’ She gazes down at Carlotta as if she’s a hunk of cooked meat I’ve asked her not to slice. ‘We killed the others. She is the last of the True Masked mages. A remnant of a dead era. Keeping her alive would be a cruelty. This is a new age, Livio. Our age.’

  ‘Let. Her. Go,’ I demand.

  Annoyance crosses her face, but she smiles slightly, suppressing the emotion – I guess her victory over the masked temple has put her in a good mood that she’s unwilling to let go of. ‘Finally found your fire, have you? Very well.’ She steps from Carlotta, who instantly brings her broken wrist to her chest, her face drained of colour. Her eyes flit to mine, hopelessness and grief dancing in their depths.

  I walk down the remaining steps slowly, starting to draw on my astromancy as I descend, holding on to the celestial visions in my mind. At my call, Silas swirls into existence at my side.

  ‘Silas …’ Shadow says as her eyes flit to the beast. The orange-eyed sandwolf she’s bound to her will drifts to her side, narrowing its eyes at Silas. Shadow’s smile tightens with displeasure – her voice too. ‘I thought he must’ve perished in the fighting. But it seems you stole him.’

  ‘I didn’t steal him. I freed him,’ I say. By now, I’ve reached Carlotta’s side. I help her up – she’s unsteady, leaning hard on my arm, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘And I’m about to free Scarossa from you too,’ I add to Shadow quietly.

  Shadow’s expression darkens further, any pretence at good humour now entirely fallen from her face. ‘I think not, Livio. I am the liberator of Scarossa – from the shackles Mythris and the Santini dynasty placed upon it thousands of years ago. And it’s time we sealed our victory.’

  She raises her hand – a bright purple light flashes up in front of the windows, challenging the dawn. A signal? Sure enough, the hall is flooded with the remaining Rogues who’d hidden in the palazzo grounds. Shadow’s eyes are oddly sad as the Rogues surround Carlotta and me, power thrumming in the air.

  Shadow snarls. ‘Do you still expect to beat me, Livio? You, an injured mage and a single sandwolf?’

  ‘You’re wrong about liberating Scarossa,’ I tell her, my heart pounding in fear as I fight to keep my voice steady. ‘Yes, we’ve been constrained by the bargain between my Santini Ancestors and Mythris’s temple. But that age is already over.’ I glance down at the shattered mask. ‘And you want to replace this regime with another. What kind of kingdom do you envisage? By declaring me king, you instantly start a war on the north. You cut off the main part of our trade. You abolish the temples, leaving the city overrun with Rogues – or send away the mages, leaving us without a government structure. This would be a poor Scarossa. A diminished Scarossa.’

  ‘It would be our Scarossa,’ Shadow interjects, her eyes glowing. ‘In pursuing this kingdom, I’ve followed the dream of my Ancestors for generations past, a dream passed down from father to daughter, mother to son. The dream of a great family, oppressed. We could have risen together, son. Ruled side by side. Finally we could have m
ade up for the time we’ve lost.’ Now her voice is tight with emotion. Around us, her mages press in closer, like an eager audience drawing in round a stage.

  My heart feels heavy as I shake my head. ‘I’ve longed for you to return ever since the day you left. But not like this. I could never have been happy knowing you’d destroyed everything Grandmother – who has been mother, father and friend to me – worked so hard to preserve.’

  At this, Shadow appears enraged, her face draining of colour, her mouth taut. After a pause, her voice is hard as she replies. ‘You think you have mastered astromancy, son. But you are a mere novice in the arts of Fortune.’ She stalks forward. ‘So let me teach you a lesson. You hold astromancy within you, Livio, exactly like a sandwolf. Do you know what I do to sandwolves?’

  My body follows the link before my mind catches up – and suddenly, it feels like my throat has closed with fear. I swallow. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I bind them to my will, Livio, until they are an extension of my intentions, following my every whim. If you will not obey me willingly, you give me no choice …’ She raises her hand, holding it flat, parallel to the floor, magic thrumming, spitting around her fingers. ‘Surrender, Livio, or I will make you a puppet king in truth. I will bind you to me exactly as I bound Silas.’

  A chill of horror runs through me. I think I understand at last exactly how far Shadow is willing to go for the dream she’s pursued her whole life. Whatever love she holds for me pales in comparison to her obsession. ‘I won’t,’ I say quietly.