Star Eater

by Kerstin Hall

  Reverend Cyde nodded and turned to address her subordinates. “Hina, Samas, ride ahead and provide support. Everyone else, prepare the retrieval cart.”

  My part done, I moved to leave. This was my chance. If I disappeared now, I could make it back to the city by nightfall. In the chaos, the Sisterhood would overlook the irregularity and—

  “Elfreda,” said Reverend Cyde.

  “Yes, Reverend?”

  “Wait in my office please.”

  My hopes crumbled.

  “Yes, Reverend,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  REVEREND CYDE’S ASSISTANT offered me tea.

  The office was spacious and airy, with large windows overlooking the stables. Bookshelves dominated the right-hand side of the room. The vellum-bound volumes were arranged alphabetically and with meticulous care, more valuable books locked behind glass panels. Before taking her position at the Moon House, Shaelean Cyde had served as the Chief Archivist at the Department of Memories.

  I sat in a plush blue armchair by the window and watched the tree line. The pressure in my head was faint now. The woods were still.

  I took a sip of my tea. It tasted bitter.

  The office was on the second floor of the main dormitory building. A longcase clock ticked in the passage outside, and old floorboards creaked from time to time. Through the window, I could see three Oblates locked in serious conversation. Most of the Moon House residents were accompanying the Haunt to the Edge, leaving the compound in the care of a skeleton guard.

  Swift footsteps beyond the door, and then Reverend Cyde strode into the room. I half rose from my seat, but she signalled for me to dispense with formalities.

  “You’ll be pleased to hear that the situation has been contained,” she said, taking a seat behind her desk. “No one was hurt.”

  Cyde was old for a Reverend, nearing sixty, with unlined brown skin and a no-nonsense haircut. On her shoulder, she wore a midnight blue badge and crescent moon pin to designate her rank. Head Custodian of the Moon House, one of the most powerful people outside of Ceyrun.

  “I will need to file a report.” She opened her drawer and drew out a clean sheet of paper. Her movements were brisk, effortlessly efficient. “I would like to hear your version of events.”

  I nodded. “Yes, Reverend.”

  “But first”—she folded her hands on the desk in front of her, fixing me with her stare—“are you all right?”

  “Yes, Reverend.”

  “Please stop saying that.”

  “Ye—okay.”

  She gave me a hard look. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I lied with greater conviction. “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  Cyde had been something like a mentor to my mother, back when the Reverend still lived in the city. I was surprised that she had recognised me in the yard; the last time we met, I had been fifteen. So much had changed since then that this reunion made me feel awkward.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” She wet the nib of her pen in her inkwell. “Right. This is mostly to corroborate what I already know, but can you describe the events leading up to your cohort’s discovery of the Haunt?”

  I nodded. “We completed the Pillar maintenance, and rang the bell at the waypoint. Pilgrim Guide Lusor proposed spending the night in Halowith.”

  “Why?”

  “The pilgrimage took longer than anticipated. We would only have reached Ceyrun after dark.”

  She made a note. “The cohort was in agreement?”

  With one notable exception. “Yes, we were tired. We left the woods via the north-east bridge, and encountered the Haunt shortly after that.”

  “Did any civilians see you?”

  “A few farmers saw us on the road, but I don’t think they witnessed our capture of the Haunt. At least, that was the situation when Herald Lusor sent me here.”

  “How did Herald Lusor react to the Haunt?”

  I frowned. “She was calm, under the circumstances.”

  “Did anyone in the cohort behave unexpectedly?”

  “Not that I recall. We were surprised.”

  “I would imagine so.” She did not look up from the page, still writing. “So there was no one whose reaction to the Haunt struck you as out of the ordinary?”

  “No, Reverend.”

  She finished her sentence and set down her pen. “That should do, unless there’s anything else you want to add?”

  I thought for a moment, gazing down at the floor. I gathered my nerve.

  “Reverend, do you need someone to deliver that report?”

  “Hm?”

  “I would be happy to courier it to Ceyrun.”

  “How generous of you.” Cyde leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. Her dark eyes gleamed. “Elfreda, it strikes me that you are very eager to return to the city.”

  “Uh…”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “The Council should be made aware of the situation as soon as possible.”

  Cyde raised an eyebrow fractionally. She was far too sharp for my liking, but then, she had been a Councilwoman prior to her retirement.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  I decided that a measure of truth might help my case. “It’s my mother’s anniversary tomorrow. I had hoped to be there.”

  Her face clouded.

  “Oh. Of course,” she said.

  “I realise it might seem sentimental, but—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, I understand. It’s been a year already, hasn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  Cyde stood up. She walked over to the window, eyes sweeping the woods, hands clasped behind her back.

  “You won’t be able to cover the distance on foot,” she said. “Not before sunset. You would need a Cat.”

  She caught my expression and her lips curved upwards in amusement.

  “I have a precondition,” she said.

  “Yes, Rev … Yes?”

  “Make that two conditions. Firstly, ‘Shaelean’ is fine; I’ve known you since you were six. Secondly, I want you to consider applying for reassignment.”

  “Reassignment?”

  “To the Moon House.”

  I blinked.

  “I don’t need an answer now,” she said, “but I want you to think about it.”

  Positions at the Pillar Houses were highly sought after; House staff were exempt from Renewal duty for months at a time, received a much higher stipend, and enjoyed better lodging. Most Acolytes would not dream of applying in their first five years. The fact that Cyde had implicitly offered a post to me bordered on the scandalous.

  “Thank you,” I said, disoriented. “I … I will consider it.”

  “You would like working here. Consider it my favour to your mother.” She released her hands from behind her back. “I’ll finish up my report; you may head down to the stables in the meantime.”

  I gestured respect and stood. She returned to her desk.

  The lacquered walls of the passage outside the Reverend’s office flickered with the shadows of incipient visions; brief impressions of dark shapes that twitched and rolled like flames in the wind. I shut the door behind me and pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes. My head pounded; colours bloomed under my eyelids.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  I walked unsteadily toward the stairs. The floor was covered in soft woven rugs, the walls lined with old portraits of prior Custodians. Their painted faces bulged; their bodies melted and reformed within their gilt frames. The oil paint glistened as if newly wet. Behind me, the clock struck fifteen, and its gong reverberated through the walls of the Moon House. I felt the sound within my bones.

  It was better outside. The sun touched the highest branches of the trees and stained the buildings orange. I passed the locked entrance to the House’s underground Martyrium, dry grass crunching under my boots. The air remained blistering, oven-hot and thick. With luck, the humidity heralded a storm.

/>   A Cat handler reclined in the shade of the stables. Sweat shone on her forehead and beaded her upper lip.

  “I am to courier a report for Reverend Cyde,” I said.

  She straightened, eyes narrowed. “Now?”

  “She’ll be down in a minute.”

  The handler, who I guessed was an Oblate despite her plain clothes, got up and dusted off the back of her trousers. I understood her suspicion. The use of the Cats was generally restricted to Heralds and Reverends, or Acolytes who worked in communication. I clearly did not fit into any of those categories.

  “You’ve ridden one before?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll saddle Claws, then. He’s the easiest to control.”

  The stable was largely empty; most of the Cats were with the retrieval cohort. Three animals remained; the handler approached the smallest.

  Haqules, to use their proper name, were intimidating. They were as lithe as their smaller feline cousins, with eyes that saw as well in the dark as in daylight and excellent hearing. Adults stood shoulder height to humans, and a fully grown Cat’s head was as large as my entire torso. Their fur was coarse and variegated, their canines capable of puncturing iron. Although few other animals could slow a Haunt, prides of Cats tore them to pieces.

  When interacting with their human handlers, however, they had the personality of puppies.

  “Heel, Claws,” called the handler.

  The Moon House housed eight Cats, seven for service and one reserved for Reverend Cyde’s personal use. Claws was evidently the runt of the litter. He bounded over to the handler, forked tail swaying.

  “Good boy!” She stood on tiptoe and scratched behind his massive, bat-like ears. He shivered with pleasure. The handler cast me another doubtful look.

  “He’s very quick,” she said.

  “I’ll manage.”

  I kept out of the way while the handler fit a leather harness to Claws’s back. One of the other Cats wandered over to investigate, sniffing my clothes. I patted her, a little uncertain. She sneezed, arched her back, and ambled off into the cooler shadows of the stable.

  Reverend Cyde’s boots crunched on the grass outside and she appeared in the entrance. She handed a wax-sealed letter to me.

  “Deliver this to the Council as soon as you reach Ceyrun,” she said.

  “Yes, Reverend.”

  She smiled. “I despair.”

  “Kneel, boy,” said the handler.

  Claws crouched. I slung my leg over his side. His fur smelled of grass and prickled against my exposed skin. I hugged him around the neck, feeling his muscles shift beneath me.

  “You can just sit tight. He’ll head to the city on his own.” The handler adjusted the leg straps of Claws’s harness until they squeezed my calves. “You want to stop, tell him. He’s smart.”

  She tapped his rump, and he rose. I swayed dangerously as his body tilted.

  “Have a safe trip,” said Cyde.

  The handler unclipped the Cat’s restraint from the collar around his neck.

  “City, Claws,” she ordered.

  The sensation was like falling. Half a ton of muscle and fur surged through the stable door and out into the yard.

  If not for the harness, I would have lost my balance within the first thirty seconds. I clung to the Cat’s neck, helpless as a ragdoll, as we streaked into the woods. Each bound hurtled us over rocks and shrubs and fallen trees; wind whipped my face and roared in my ears. Claws strayed from the path, finding his own route, but he moved with absolute surety, silent and precise and lightning-quick.

  I didn’t care about the discomfort; I was finally heading in the right direction. The pressure clouding my mind evaporated and I laughed with delight.

  We slowed once we reached Orchard Road. The workers had left the farms, and we loped along the path alone. Claws panted and I shifted in the harness, trying to find a more natural seat. The road ended at a T-junction; one way leading to Halowith, the other toward the main road and the city. Without any instruction from me, Claws turned left and started up the steep hill.

  I squinted at the sky. There was at least an hour left until nightfall. If we continued at our current pace, we would reach the gates in time.

  We crested the slope, and the capital province of Aytrium spread out before us. The basin of Malas Lake stretched from the base of the hill into the far distance. The water levels had withered over the last two hot seasons, and the banks were wide and bone-pale. Iron pipes snaked from the centre of the lake to the small villages dotting the northern shoreline. The great waterwheels stood still and dry.

  Beyond lay the Fields, yellow with millet and corn, and then the city. Ceyrun’s pale gold walls rose a hundred feet from the valley floor, shielding the lower quarters of the city from view. From this distance, I could see the oldest trees of the Central Gardens, the taller houses of the Minor Quadrants, and Martyrium Hill. Glass and polished stone reflected the sunset, and shadows thickened at the base of the eastern wall.

  Claws skidded down the flinty road, struggling for purchase. I lurched forward, and only the harness prevented me from flying over the top of his head. He mewed when I pulled his fur too hard.

  “Sorry,” I said, and patted the side of his neck. His ears flicked.

  The road ran alongside the edge of the lake. I wiped sweat off my face. It was a few degrees cooler here, and the faint breeze carried the smell of mud. Jewelled dragonflies flitted through the air. Amberwings. They were breeding in larger numbers this year.

  The path ahead bubbled.

  Claws slowed, and his hackles rose.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered.

  He growled. I didn’t think that he could sense the vision, but he knew that I was disturbed.

  “Keep going,” I told him. “Go on.”

  He took a few uncertain steps forward. I continued to murmur encouragingly. The ground beneath his paws reddened, dark blood seeping out of the dirt. The smell of smoke and jasmine caught in my throat, chokingly sweet.

  “They are coming, they are coming, they are coming, they are coming, they are coming…” The voice swelled from the earth below us: female, rasping, a relentless stream of fear. As I watched, the ground bulged with strange protrusions, fat red seedlings sprouting and unfurling in the sunlight. They squirmed beneath Claws’s paws and burst like pustules. I flinched and pulled my feet up higher. “They are coming, they are coming.”

  The protrusions grew taller. They wound around Claws’s legs like river weeds.

  “They are here.”

  A scream filled the air, and I clasped my hands to my ears. The sound was inhuman and agonised; it stretched on and on, so loud that I thought my eardrums would rupture. The protrusions reached my ankles, and their touch seared my skin. I kicked them away.

  With a wet, tearing noise like meat pulled apart, the vision ended. The protrusions crumpled to dust.

  I breathed hard. Claws shied sideways, shaking his head and whining. His claws extended and scratched lines in the dirt.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Hey. It’s all right, boy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I tried to stroke his head, but he snapped at me. I withdrew my fingers. The fur along the ridge of his spine stood straight up.

  “Why don’t you let me down, okay?” I said gently. “It’s not far now.”

  He whined again, but bent his knees. I loosened the harness straps, and slid off him.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?”

  I steadied myself against his flank, and Claws shivered. My ankle stung where the vision had touched me. Not serious. I stroked the Cat in jerky, mechanical motions. Had to keep my composure.

  Millet grew on both sides of the road; we had almost reached the city walls. Up ahead, I could hear workers singing the day-end song. The evening was humid. Crickets rasped from the grain, and flies buzzed circles around us.

  I took another deep breath. When I started walking, Claws followed me.
r />   The singing grew louder as we approached the silos. Although harvest time was still a month away, the Fields bustled with temporary labourers. The Department of Food Management was collaborating with Water and Sanitation to introduce a new irrigation system, drilling boreholes below the Fields. It was proving more complex—and expensive—than anticipated. At around ten feet deep, the drills in the northern-most Fields had hit a hard bed of granite. The excavation team had assured us that they would break through the rock, but not before the end of the week.

  I attracted a few curious looks and deferential gestures as I approached the city. I must have appeared important, with a Cat walking behind me. I returned the greetings.

  Sing the storm clouds, sing them in,

  There will be food on our tables,

  There will be food in our stores,

  The Eater’s grace upon us.

  The day-end song was familiar and mindless. My mother had told me that the lyrics were altered seventy years ago. I’m not sure how she knew of the original, but she liked to collect odd information like that. In my head, I recited the older version.

  Call your children, call them in,

  There will be blood in the fields,

  There will be blood on our hands,

  It will not be ours.

  I circled around the side of the silo and leaned against the wall. Claws yawned and stretched. He lay down, flapping his ears to fan himself. The workers were returning their tools to the equipment store; they talked loudly and occasionally laughed. I scanned their faces.

  “Hey.”

  I turned.

  All the visions threatening to emerge from the shadows of the silos bled away. The tension inside my chest eased.

  “Good evening, Finn.”

  “‘Good evening,’ El. Feeling formal today?”

  Finn was tall and wiry, with messy shoulder-length hair and a wide smile. He carried himself with a disarming confidence, propping a dusty pitchfork across his shoulders as he walked over to me.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’m all over the place.”

  “Don’t apologize. What’s with the Cat?”

  Claws eyed Finn suspiciously and yawned again, cracking his jaw. His long teeth gleamed.

  “That would be Claws. Reverend Cyde of the Moon House had a report for the Council.” I lifted my bag. “I volunteered to deliver it.”