by Kerstin Hall
She raised her voice. “Hey, Mirene! We have a new teammate. She’s called Elfreda.”
A broad-shouldered woman waved from the yellow team’s base.
“Mirene’s captain, and Ilva and Fresia are also on our side.” She pointed them out. “And I’m Guin.”
Ilva. I felt a shock of cold. The woman from Kisme’s party.
“You can just hang around the midfield for now,” said Guin. “Try to block passes.”
I nodded and walked to the most crowded section of the lawn—the neutral territory between the four base camps. The ball was in the hands of a grey-haired Herald from the yellow side. Her teammates had been cut off by other players.
“Need help, Devlin?” a red player called.
“Eater, no.” Devlin threw the ball to a different woman. “I’m not that desperate.”
Other players laughed—clearly this was something of a running joke. The rejected woman did not look overly upset by the remark; she only sighed and moved to block a new pass.
My anonymity proved to be a disadvantage, and I soon discovered that my primary purpose was to obstruct frozen players by standing in front of them. Still, on the whole, my teammates worked well together. We had formed a casual alliance with the blue team, who needed help more than we did. They reliably backed up Mirene’s manoeuvres.
But Ilva was clumsy. She made bad calls, missed opportunities, and caved too easily when singled out. I could tell that my teammates were frustrated with her.
“Jesane! Hey, come on! Work with me,” she called.
The woman in possession of the ball was a Herald in a fitted black dress, with lovely brown skin and thick dark eyebrows.
“No thanks,” she said. “I’d rather not.”
Ilva’s cheeks darkened with anger or embarrassment. I glanced at Mirene, who motioned for me to cover the red player to my right.
“You sure about that? Not even for old time’s sake?” Ilva pressed.
“I think I’ve made it clear I want nothing to do with you.”
A few other players winced. Ilva laughed, acting as if Jesane had been joking, but the sound was so forced and uncomfortable that no one joined in.
“You don’t seem to have many other options, though,” said Ilva. “So do you want to stand around all night waiting for something better?”
It was true. Jesane’s own team was completely blocked, and she had no obvious alliances with anyone else. Yet she could not, or would not, lose face by acquiescing to Ilva.
“Someone better, yes,” she said.
I don’t know why I did it, except that the expression on Ilva’s face made me feel like something terrible was about to happen. I stepped sideways to open a path for Jesane to pass to her teammate. She saw the gap and threw.
From around the field, I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief. The tension eased. Ilva continued to smile, teeth bared, but after a few minutes, she abandoned the game. No one stopped her. She wandered over to the drinks table and found herself a glass of cider.
I took over her position inside the black base. The pace of the game picked up; there was less begging now. Alliances had settled and the patterns of play became predictable. The Herald in the tunic dress would always pass to Herald Loks, Mirene helped whichever side was losing, and Devlin was reliable in returning favours. My team scored twice more, benefiting from Ilva’s absence, but it was clear that we wouldn’t win the game.
“It’s getting late,” called Reverend Celane from the sidelines. “Last point!”
Oh well. The ball was two bases away and in Devlin’s hands once again. I was unmarked by other players, but too far from the action to matter.
“Jesane,” said Devlin, “kindly pass this over to Heide.”
She tossed the ball across to Jesane without waiting for confirmation. Jesane caught it, then paused.
“Sorry, Devlin,” she said.
She threw hard, and the ball soared over the heads of the other players. Toward me. Despite the distance, it seemed that the ball would still pass out of my reach. I raised my hand, and yes, it was too high, my fingers grazed the stitching, and …
It was in my hand.
I blinked. The ball rested warm and solid in my palm. I lifted it.
“Does this mean we win?” I asked.
The women around me looked baffled, but Mirene whooped and punched the air, and then a few people clapped. I clearly had the ball; therefore, I must have caught it. Devlin complained about Jesane’s betrayal, but without venom. The game was done.
When I turned around, I caught Commander Asan watching me. When we made eye contact, she swivelled on the spot and marched off up the lawns toward the house.
Millie jogged over to me. “How did you do that?” she asked under her breath.
I looked at the ball again. Innocent, brown, a little scuffed. “I’m not entirely sure. It felt like someone dropped the ball into my hand.”
Lace? I wondered. But who would care whether I won or lost?
“More refreshments are available in the parlour,” called Reverend Celane.
Perhaps it was just a lucky catch, after all. Millie and I walked up the path toward the house, where warm orange light spilled out the windows. Maybe small good things were allowed to happen to me, every now and again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CELANE’S PARLOUR WAS spacious and pleasantly cool, with soft red carpets furnishing the floor and wide windows looking out over the garden. Old paintings hung on the dark panelled walls—still-lives of sacred instruments, muted landscapes, and antique maps of the city on stained yellow parchment. Guests lounged on leather couches, playing cards and drinking wine.
“There’s the woman you pissed off,” Millie muttered out the corner of her mouth.
Ilva stood by a bookshelf, her arms folded across her chest. She was pretending to read the spines, but kept glancing across the room at Jesane, who was engaged in a lively discussion with two other Heralds. No one else paid her any attention, and she looked so pathetic that I almost felt sorry for her. Almost, but not quite.
“I’m going to talk to her,” said Millie.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She just grinned and slipped out of my reach, leaving me alone in the entrance to the room.
“Great,” I muttered. Now I’m the pathetic one.
I fidgeted, my eyes sweeping over the faces of the other women in the room. This was the kind of socialising I was least equipped to handle. Everyone here was so much more established and important than I was, and I had none of Millie’s charm—I could not just walk up to the Heralds and start a conversation. Never mind that I would probably have to interrupt them to do so. Even the idea made me cringe.
Time, I decided, to hide in a bathroom.
The corridor beyond the parlour was decorated with a beautiful collection of devotionals to the Star Eater. Each of the traditional verses was written out in red ink, and embossed with small pieces of gold or semiprecious stones. I had not realised Celane was so ardent in her faith, but her passion revealed itself through the obvious care she took in presenting these scripts. Each lovingly framed in cedar wood, each protected by a screen of spotless glass.
Strange, how uncomfortable it made me feel to see even a hint of Celane’s private self. I did not like to imagine what lay behind her controlled mask of a face, who she might be in her quiet moments.
I found the bathroom and washed my hands and face. The whole exercise had not wasted nearly as much time as I would have liked, and now I was faced with the prospect of returning to the parlour or waiting here until dinner was announced. Neither option seemed very appealing.
I sighed. Maybe Millie had given up on Ilva by now.
But as I was leaving, I noticed that the door across the hallway stood open. Through the gap, I could see rows of bookshelves and a large leather armchair. Celane’s personal office.
I glanced down the corridor. If there was ever a time to pry into the Rever
end’s business … I quickly stepped inside.
The room was cozy, lit by three wicker-covered lamps and pleasantly warm. A window seat overlooked the lawns. Celane’s book collection was modest, but well-organised. Judging by the selection of plays and novels on the shelves, she really did have an enthusiasm for the arts and theatre. I ran my eyes over the spines. Also quite the interest in Golden Age lacework applications, the miracles the Order had been capable of in the past. Some of these texts must have been borrowed from the restricted sections of the Department of Memories; it wasn’t the kind of material readily available to ordinary Sisters.
A lone book lay on the pedestal table beside the armchair, multiple velvet bookmarks poking out from between the pages. I picked it up. Memories of Our Mothers. Celane’s current reading looked cheerful. I opened to one of the marked chapters.
… could be viewed as sacred, both in terms of our heritage as custodians of Aytrium, and in terms of our function, that of deliverers-of-the-peace. When those two roles are brought into conflict—such as when violence is demanded in order to fulfil our duty of upholding the continent—civilian unrest inevitably rears its head. Our power, as any Sister knows, is both the well of our custodianship and the furrow that draws endless antagonism toward us.
How, then, to maintain order in the absence of reverence? Why, faith must be performed.
Again this applies in a dual sense. “Performed” in that our actions must confirm and renew faith; i.e., we must actively use power and let such power be witnessed. And then, the second sense, “performed” in terms of spectacle. We must inject theatre, artistry, and ceremony into such demonstrations of power, for therein lies the road to the civilian’s heart. Tell them a story and tell it well—power is performance.
Our failings, on those occasions where the Sisterhood lacked the foresight to …
A little dry for my tastes. I lowered myself into the armchair and flipped forward to the next bookmark.
Broadly speaking, we have evidence of four discrete phases in the transformation from man to Haunt. More might well exist, but to conduct a study of the farthest advanced stages of infection is beyond our present means. (Chiefly, the issue is of secure containment—to hold a Haunt past the ‘adolescent’ stage of development imperils all of Aytrium. See Chapter 9: The Cost of Mistakes.)
Stage One, or the Incipient Phase, is characterised by minor changes in physiognomy and mental state. After the subject has contracted the infection, the Incipient Phase may last up to a month. During this period, the subject may experience nausea, an aversion to certain foods, persistent irritability, paranoia, mild insomnia, increased sensitivity to sound and smell, and joint pain.
Stage Two, or Basic Manifestation, sees an escalation of existing symptoms: severe insomnia, aggression, drastic weight loss, depression. This phase may be as brief as a week, depending on the individual. Here, the more obvious visual cues become apparent. Secondary teeth begin to develop, the subject grows taller as his bones soften and regrow, and a distinctive yellow discolouration stains his irises. Frequently, these changes are accompanied by aggravated itching; subjects will often scratch themselves until their skin bleeds. After Basic Manifestation, the subject becomes unsuitable for use in Renewals, and expresses an intense craving for human flesh, most especially that belonging to Sisters.
Someone in the parlour laughed loudly. I jumped and looked up, but the low babble of conversation continued unchanged. Presumably, it was not yet dinner time. My heart rate slowed.
Stage Three, or Adolescence, often blurs with Basic Manifestation. Some symptoms may grow alarmingly more advanced before others even manifest. However, the key characteristic of this stage is that the subject completely loses the capacity to sleep, even with the aid of drugs. Speech becomes increasingly difficult, as does the capacity for empathy, reason, memory, etc. The subject’s appearance is wholly changed (see illustration 16B), and he gains a form of preternatural strength, agility, and speed. Sensitivity to smell and sound far exceeds human capacities, and antler-like protrusions emerge from the skull. This phase lasts approximately two weeks.
Stage Four, or Early Maturity, sees the onset of necrosis. Subjects are no longer capable of human feeling, and will not recognise even close family members or friends. Bones regain their hardness, irises are a flat shade of yellow, and secondary teeth are fully developed. Subjects are insatiably hungry and appear impervious to injury. With their prior personalities and natures all but obliterated, a new intelligence emerges in the absence of the old. Researchers have witnessed Haunts using lures to prey upon their victims, and they appear able to accurately mimic human voices. Unconfirmed reports of stranger abilities exist, but perhaps belong more to the domain of fiction.
To be certain, more advanced stages of infection exist in the Haunts of Ventris, and study of these …
“Good book?”
I started guiltily. Jesane stood above me.
“You appeared quite engrossed,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t be here.”
She waved aside the matter. “I doubt Reverend Celane would mind. I just wanted to find you so I could congratulate you on that last catch.”
“It was a pretty spectacular throw.”
“I had some pent-up aggression, I suppose. I didn’t catch your name.”
From down the corridor rang a clear tinkling sound, and the murmuring of conversation in the parlour subsided. Time for dinner.
“It’s Elfreda,” I told Jesane as I rose.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she replied.
Delicate chandeliers lit the dining room in pale yellow. Four tables, each seating eight, were laid out with simple white plates and bowls. Sprays of blue flowers rested in slender vases, and condensation beaded the outside of gilded silver flasks. The smells of rosemary and garlic drifted from the kitchen, causing my mouth to water.
Millie caught my eye as I entered. I nodded to the furthest table, where many of the younger and less important Sisters had gathered. Nice and out of the way. But as I reached it and pulled out a chair, a slender hand closed on my shoulder.
“Elfreda, won’t you join me at my table?” said Celane. “Lariel was going to tell me about the theatre.”
“Oh,” I said. Behind Celane’s back, Millie looked horrified. “Of course, Reverend.”
Maybe she just wants to be nice, I thought, without any conviction. Millie had deployed her best winning smile, always a bad sign.
We took up the seats that Celane indicated. Verje sat on the other side of the table, Celane’s Oblate daughter was to Millie’s left. Jesane, who seemed equally surprised by her invitation to the host’s table, occupied the chair to my right.
I poured water into my glass and, at her nod, into Jesane’s.
The kitchen doors opened, and four Oblates appeared carrying trays of steaming bread, halved peaches filled with coloured sweetpaste, and soft riverweed braided into the shape of the Eater’s sigil. They carefully set the trays down on each table, bowed, and backed into the kitchen again.
“The star player of the red team,” said Millie, leaning forward to speak around me. “It’s Herald Jesane Olberos, right?”
“That’s me. And you are?”
“Lariel Sacor,” said Millie. “I’m here with El.”
“Ah, a civilian. How are you finding the party?”
“To be honest, a little intimidating. I’ve never attended anything like this before.”
I accepted a peach and some riverweed, and then passed the tray along to Millie.
“This is rather subdued by the usual standards.” Jesane smiled. She picked up her bread and bit off a piece. “I noticed that you were trying to cheer up Ilva. That was kind of you.”
“I think she might have had a bit much to drink.”
“Quite possibly. I hope she doesn’t cause a scene.” Jesane frowned, then shook her head. “So, Elfreda, where do you work?”
I swallowed a mouthful of the
tangy, salty riverweed. “Department of Food Management. I’m a junior field research officer.” At Jesane’s blank look, I added, “I’m involved in finding and overseeing production of alternate sources of food.”
“Oh! That seems interesting.”
“Please don’t get her started on the bugs,” Millie muttered.
“So you must be quite knowledgeable about the water shortages, then?”
I nodded. “We work extensively with Water and Sanitation.”
“Yes,” drawled Verje from across the table, “so extensively that sometimes Food Management sees my department as a subsidiary of its own. Or at least, that’s the impression I’ve received from Deselle Somme.”
Once again, seeing Verje up close unnerved me. Although her voice was friendly enough, I could not shake the sense that her mannerisms were staged. Too deliberate. As if her actions were telegraphed long in advance and she had only been waiting for the right cue to begin performing them.
I might have been influenced by rumours I had heard about the Reverend, however; whispers that still circulated the dormitories. All Oblates trained in butchery before their induction as Acolytes, mostly working with dead pigs or sheep. It was a grisly education, but necessary.
It would have been over thirty years ago now, but people still gossiped that Verje had delighted in honing her flesh-cutting on live animals.
“I don’t think that’s the case,” I said carefully.
The Reverend laughed. “It certainly won’t be going forward. I plan to run a tighter ship than Kisme, may the Star light her dreaming.” She paused to drink. “I mean, the projects I hear about are insane.”
“Insane?”
“No disrespect to you, Acolyte. I’m sure you work very hard, but I don’t think toasted locusts are really the way to go.”
Under the table, Millie placed her hand on my leg.
“I’ve tried them,” she said, with an easy smile. “I think they’ll be quite popular, if there’s not much else available.”
“There’s more than enough food ‘available,’” said Verje. “And we’re anticipating a change in the weather soon anyway.”