by Kerstin Hall
First, I could hear Millie saying, remember to breathe.
In and out. I counted each exhalation and imagined myself alone in some vast, empty place, with only the sky surrounding me. I let the city fade.
Allow yourself to experience the fear. Denying the panic won’t make it stop. You can’t reason with feeling.
By slow degrees, the heart-thumping nausea began to recede.
But remember that feelings will pass eventually. The fear is real, very real and very frightening, but it’s also only a reaction. The feeling itself won’t harm you.
I watched the people pass below the bridge. Children, free from school for the rest day, laughed and shoved one another. A toddler sat on his father’s shoulders. He stared up at me with enormous dark eyes.
I carried on. Left to join Weaver Road, then onto Calamite, then Steel.
The Renewal Wards pressed up against the eastern wall, overlooking the old execution grounds. Enforcers stood on either side of the front door.
One more time, I told myself. One last time, and then Rhyanon said she would get me out of this.
The Wards differed from the surrounding buildings. Thick walls, few windows, metal barbs around the frames and along the gutters. The plaster was chipped and stained with long streaks of dark mould.
I raised my wrist to show the Enforcers my tattoo. The women gestured for me to enter the building. None of us spoke or smiled, and I appreciated that. There was no expectation of social nicety here.
The foyer smelled of camomile and soap. The door on the left led to the cells; the one on the right to the purification chambers. A mosaic of the night sky covered the wall behind the front desk.
The Masked Sister on duty looked up when I approached.
“Elfreda Raughn,” I said.
The woman’s eyes glinted through the thin slits in her mask. She nodded, and noted down my name. Like all Masked Sisters, she wore gloves, a floor-length dress, and a head wrap that concealed her skin and hair. Everything was bone-white, from the mask to her shoes.
She indicated that I should continue. No matter the circumstances, she would not speak.
“This is the name given to me upon my birth, by my mother, Kirane, so named by her mother, Lenette.” My voice was smooth as the surface of water. “This is the name I now forget, this is the affectation I lay aside.”
The Sister drew a circle with her hands, absolving me of vanity. Shorn of my name, I followed her through the right door, into the first purification chamber.
The floor sloped to accommodate the pool in the centre of the room. Steam drifted up from the water. I took off my clothes and shivered. Sprigs of herbs hung from hooks in the ceiling. Their fragrance mingled with the warm steam, dizzying and humid and hard to breathe.
I lowered myself into the pool. The edges were rough as sandpaper and bit into my hands and the soles of my feet. I slid down until the hot water reached my chin.
“This is the body given to me by Kirane, so given by her mother, Lenette. This body is a vessel, this flesh is an oath. I give it freely.”
The words were familiar on my tongue. Oblates rehearsed the verses for years before their induction, each syllable and vocal intonation practised until the words ceased to have meaning. I submerged my head and counted to thirty. From the doorway, the Masked Sister observed me. When I rose from the water, dripping, she drew the second circle to acknowledge my emptiness. I was of history, not blood.
We walked to the second chamber. The air prickled against my skin. Cooler here. The room was windowless and quiet; oil gleamed in shallow ceramic bowls on a stone table. Water from the pool gathered at my feet.
“To the Star Eater is this flesh committed. By the Star Eater is this flesh consecrated.” I placed a drop of oil on my lips, throat, sternum. “All is as she wills.”
The Masked Sister lifted a candle from the table and traced the flame down my chest. I did not flinch. It passed too quickly to burn me; I only felt the heat.
The Sister doused the candle between her fingertips and set it down. Then she bowed, gesturing reverence with splayed fingers. Until the completion of the rite, I would be equal in status to the Star Eater herself. And, from this point on, I was forbidden to speak.
Covered lanterns lit the Chamber of Renewal, casting soft, rosy shadows across the walls. The bed had new sheets and stood in the middle of the room like a threat. Another door on the left, and a silver bell beside it, which the Masked Sister rang. She took up her position behind the headboard, and I lay down. My breathing sounded loud in my ears.
All is as she wills.
All is as she wills.
All is as she wills.
The second door swung open. A Masked Sister entered. She bowed to me, hands spread. I gestured readiness—as she wills, as she wills—and the woman retreated from the room and ushered in her charge.
He was a large man. Not fat, just big, like someone out of perspective in a painting, a figure superimposed from a different scene. Late thirties, with smooth white skin and lank hair. Probably a Minor Quarter dweller, he had that bearing, maybe a merchant or craftsman. The Sisters had exposed him to the herbs for several hours to make him more susceptible to a compulse, which lent his eyes a feverish, wandering quality. He too was naked.
The lock on the door clicked. I saw the man’s shoulders stiffen as the compulse took hold.
The Sisterhood had a simple problem, and it had devised a simple solution. Simple, efficient, multifunctional, and the foundation of our rule of Aytrium.
We could not fuck men without the risk of infecting them, but neither could we afford the death of our lineage. Only Sisters were able to wield the lace that preserved Aytrium.
And yet, who would have us? Who would we have? Men who strayed too close to the Star’s fire got burned, so what we needed were men to set ablaze.
He staggered toward the bed.
And so, convicts. The only crimes that led to the Wards were murder, rape, and treason. The man before me had committed one of the three. Anything less than that, and he would be hauling rocks in the mines or waiting out a sentence in jail.
The first time, I had cried. Just once, and it had made no difference. After that, I learned to seal off a part of myself. I separated into my body and my mind, and only the body was hurt. Eleven Renewals, eleven men, and I knew the name and crime of every one of them, just as I knew which of them broke down, which embraced their fate with vicious abandon, which cried for their mothers, which begged for mercy. I bore their names inside of me.
One last time.
Compulses were only strong suggestions—they could not control a person entirely. My safety lay in the hands of the Masked Sister behind the bed. And although my body flinched, I never made a sound.
When it was over, they took him away. I shut my eyes. He might have been infected before he ever set eyes on me. The Order made the best use of its resources; a multitude of Sisters could perform the rite with the same man. A few weeks, then the signs would show. Maybe longer, maybe less time. It varied. But whether by my body or another, his degeneration was inevitable. Once he had outlived his usefulness, the Sisterhood would banish him to Ventris. Drop him like a stone into the clouded abyss, so he would never disturb Aytrium again.
The Masked Sister performed the gesture for gratitude and bowed out of the room.
We could not conceive without the rite, without sex, without this. We could not just take their seed and bury it in our bodies. That had been tried, over and over, but it seemed that for a Sister to fall pregnant, a man needed to suffer infection.
And so, somewhere below, my father and grandfathers stalked the unknown dark. My victim would join them, and wander, and hunger. Haunts never die.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HIS NAME WAS Declan Lars, I later discovered. Murderer.
Swallows crisscrossed the sky. They flew low and swift over the slate roof of the dormitory and down to the street, veering without warning. I watched them through the o
pen bathroom window.
Attending Kisme’s party was the last thing I felt like doing. I shrank down so that my mouth was submerged by the bathwater. But I would, of course. A bruise cut across my ribs; I traced it with my fingertip. Of course.
Rhyanon’s cab was probably already waiting. I needed to pull myself together.
I rose, sending water splashing over the rim of the tub, and wrapped a towel around my chest. My hair had curled into a wild tangle of black ringlets; I tugged it into order with my fingers. Outside my window, I could hear other Acolytes returning from work. Snippets of conversation, the rusted squeak of the front door, raucous laughter from the dining hall.
With a pang of unease, I realised I had last eaten yesterday. Between Rhyanon and the Renewal, it had slipped my mind.
Surely there would be food at the party? If not, I could get something from the Candle on the way home. I pulled on a dress, knee-length and pale blue. My mother had seldom attended these things, and I had never been invited before now.
A group of Acolytes from Judicial Affairs lounged in the stairwell outside my room, chatting.
“Where are you off to, El?” one of them asked.
“Going to see some friends,” I replied.
“How nice.”
As promised, a carriage waited at the end of the street. The heavy brown cart-horse watched me approach. The driver, apparently asleep, wore his wide-brimmed hat over his face and slouched sideways on his seat, legs dangling over the edge. The air was calm and mild, the faint breeze cooling my still-damp hair. Between banks of pale cloud, the first stars had appeared.
“Excuse me,” I said, as I drew nearer the carriage. “I’m not sure…”
The man stirred, yawned, and lifted his hat. “Ah, Acolyte Raughn. Greetings.”
My stomach sank, and I almost swore. This must be Rhyanon’s idea of a joke.
The driver was the same man who had accosted me in the park.
“Huh.” He sat up and studied my face with interest. “After last time, I was expecting more of a reaction.”
“Just … just take me to the party.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He offered me his hand. His palms were heavily calloused. “Osan Jerone, at your service.”
I ignored him and climbed into the back of the vehicle. He slid open the front-facing window.
“Admittedly, we might not have got off to the best start.”
“You humiliated me.”
“Not really. Everyone else was in on it.”
“That makes it worse.” I fixed my gaze on the road ahead and breathed out heavily. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Can we get this over with?”
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself. He gathered up the reins. “Sure. Your dress is in the box beneath the bench.”
“I’m already dressed.”
“Not for a Reverend’s party.” He clicked his tongue, and we rolled forward.
Rhyanon had misjudged my measurements. I didn’t fill out the bust of the dress, and it hugged uncomfortably tight across my hips. I spread the skirts around me, running my hands over waves of soft green velvet. Even ill-fitted, it was undeniably lovely. Tiny embroidered peonies danced along the shoulders and neckline, like a basket of flowers had been overturned above my head.
“Everything okay back there?” Osan called.
I don’t belong in a dress like this. “I’m fine.”
“It fits?”
“It’s fine.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll pay her back, but I can’t afford it right now. This seems expensive.”
He snorted. “You don’t need to pay.”
I drew back the curtains. He glanced over his shoulder.
“The colour looks good on you,” he said.
“What does Rhyanon want?”
“Don’t use names in public.”
Over the rattling of the wheels and the horse’s hooves, I doubted anyone would hear us. “What does she want?”
Osan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a bronze key. He passed it to me.
“You’re looking for the file of someone named Kalis Nortem,” he said. “A Herald working as an overseer for the Department of Water and Sanitation. She’s fictional.”
“Fictional?”
“The account belongs to someone else, and they’ve gone to considerable trouble to create Kalis on paper. Our friend is trying to determine who, and why.”
He brought the horse to a halt, allowing a group of women to cross Forge Street.
“That key unlocks Kisme’s office. Second floor, last door on the right. There should be a filing cabinet where she keeps copies of her subordinates’ records. Memorise Kalis’s account number.” He politely nodded to the pedestrians. “Think you can do it?”
I tucked the key into the bodice of the dress. “I’m not sure yet.”
“When in doubt, play it safe. If you get caught, you’ll be on your own.”
In the distance, the bells tolled out the hour.
“I won’t get caught.”
“That’s the spirit.”
We rumbled over the road, past other cabs and wagons, below bridges that spanned the broad streets and into the most opulent sector of the city. The Sisrin District of Minor East was occupied almost exclusively by Reverends and their consorts. Most also owned properties outside Ceyrun, but here was where the influential and beautiful came to play. I watched as the manors grew larger and the gardens stretched further.
“Nervous?”
I shrugged.
“Doesn’t seem like much scares you.”
“Meaning?”
We passed two Enforcers on patrol. More security than pedestrians around here, I thought. What a waste of resources.
“Well, you certainly weren’t intimidated by me,” said Osan. “Even after I started wielding lace.”
I rested my hands on my knees. “That was Rhyanon, right?”
“Could have been.” He glanced backwards and smirked. “But, like I said, you didn’t seem scared, exactly. Furious, yes.”
I huffed.
He laughed. “I was glad to have backup.”
I was quiet for a while. Osan let the silence lie.
“Maybe you just aren’t that intimidating,” I muttered.
He laughed again, more softly this time. “Probably.”
Ahead, carriages blocked the road. Harassed-looking porters tried to direct the chaos, and horses shied and tossed their heads.
“That’s the place,” said Osan. “If you don’t mind the walk, I’ll wait here.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Acolyte.”
I opened the door, then paused. “Elfreda. Or just El.”
“Just El it is.” He slid his hat forward to shield his face. “For the record, I’m sorry I called you a corpse eater.”
Kisme’s other guests remained in their stationary carriages, waiting to get closer to the gates. I made my way between the vehicles, careful to hold my skirts above the ground. Osan had been right; I did not feel scared. Apprehensive, maybe, and uncomfortable, but the Renewal had left me too weary for outright fear.
When I reached the gates, the doorwoman beckoned to me.
“It’s madness,” she said. “You had the right idea by walking. Your name?”
“Acolyte Elfreda Raughn.” I forced a smile.
She crossed out an item on her list. “Enjoy the evening.”
Fine shards of mosaic glass tiled the path to Reverend Kisme’s front door. They glittered like a track of crushed ice beneath hundreds of tiny paper lanterns. Suspended by reels of invisible thread, the yellow orbs revolved slowly in the air. I thought that their placement was random, and yet, as I continued along the path, the lights slid into alignment. Constellations of herons in flight, a fawn gazing at the moon, fish leaping skywards—each step I took revealed the complexity of their arrangement. A marvel of mathematical precision, but effortless in appearance. Around me, other guests murmured ap
proval. The lanterns reflected in their eyes and made their skin gleam golden. In silken dresses and the low, warm light, they too seemed part of another world, gods passing through the night.
I shivered and climbed the stairs to the entrance. A band was playing somewhere, a woman singing. I accepted a flute of honey-coloured wine from the attendant in the foyer and swallowed it too quickly. The sweet alcohol stuck to the roof of my mouth like syrup. I gave the empty glass back and moved toward the ballroom.
A wide stairway led down to the dance floor. Sprays of snowflowers, white lace, and strings of amber beads dripped from the dark balustrades. From the landing, I could see the whole hall. The ceiling was high and vaulted, and sheets of saffron gauze swooped between granite joists. Women danced, or watched others dancing, and the band performed on a stage at the far end of the hall. The singer’s voice rose above the hum of general conversation; the drums beat slow and seductive. Overflowing plinths of violets and chrysanthemums punctuated the floor, and candles set amongst the blossoms lit skin in dappled, shifting colour.
A couple smiled as they passed me, arms entwined. Never had I felt more out of place; I was adrift and I could not seem to find a sensible place for my hands.
“I find it’s best to hold the fabric of your skirt.”
I jumped, and the Acolyte laughed. I recognised her—Megane Tersi. Eight years my senior, she used to live in the neighbouring dormitory building—an accountant in the Department of Civil Obligations. With a group of friends, she had once organised a poetry reading for Martyr’s Eve. At the time, Millie had been nursing a crush on her, so we had attended. I knew nothing about poetry—and found the evening boring—but Millie assured me Megane’s work was excellent.
“At the sides, slightly back,” she said, demonstrating. “Not too tight. It’ll keep your shoulders from hunching.”
“Thank you,” I muttered, wishing I could sink into the ground.
“It’s Elfreda, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Shout if you need a dance partner.” She winked, then carried on down the stairs to greet a Herald.
I watched her go. Out of my league, but still … I straightened, pushing back my shoulders as she had advised, and strode down the stairs. A hundred different perfumes—jasmine and orange blossom and musk and juniper—mingled into a heady blend.