Star Eater

by Kerstin Hall

  “Tell me what you want,” I called. “I’m willing to talk.”

  Shuffling on the roof. I threw the bolt toward the sound, packing my lace behind the motion so that it shot forward with unnatural speed and power. All the same, it was a vain hope. The bolt hit the top of the wall, harmless.

  “Or I will hurt you,” I lied. “No more warning shots.”

  In response, a fist-sized rock flew toward my net. I stumbled backwards and tripped on Osan’s leg. A man jeered from above.

  “They’ve got us pinned down,” I said.

  Osan struggled to rise, but as soon as he moved, a bolt slammed into my lace. The last of my power trickled away and the net dissolved like smoke in my grasp. I lurched sideways to cover him again, and he caught my expression.

  “No more lace?” he asked.

  I nodded. “I can’t hold the—”

  A stone grazed my left temple with a bright flash of pain. I cried out and clutched my head. The skin had split and blood trickled over my fingers, dripping onto my cheek.

  “She’s out,” called someone on the roof. I heard footsteps in the alley.

  Get up! I forced myself to my feet again. If I did not have lace, I would have to find another weapon, find another way to defend myself. My head ached fiercely. Had to fight. I picked up the sharp stone and held it tight in my fist.

  Two people emerged from the alley, both hooded. One was shorter, a woman, and the other had broad shoulders and a heavy cloth sack tucked into his belt.

  “Get rid of her friend,” said the woman.

  My stomach dropped. I planted myself between the newcomers and Osan. “You don’t have to do this.”

  The man walked toward us. There was a knife in his hand, an ugly old thing, a blade meant for butchering livestock.

  “This is about me, right?” I said urgently. “Leave him out of it.”

  I tried to grab the knife from him, but he gave me a contemptuous shove. As he did so, his hood gaped open and I saw his face, his swollen and split lower lip.

  “Lucian?” I said in disbelief.

  He stiffened.

  “You?” I stammered. “How can you be doing this?”

  I didn’t see the blow coming, not quickly enough. I was still too confused, too shocked—I’d known him for years, and now he was standing there with murder in his eyes. My reaction was slow; I only managed to turn my face away before his fist collided with the side of my head.

  Like a flame doused in water, my vision went black. I collapsed. For a few seconds, I lost track of the world; there was a powerful ringing in my ears, and I could hear Osan swearing, but experienced the words only as vague, disconnected noise. Pressure around my neck, and I blinked. Blurred patches of light and shadow, yellow lamps, buildings, and then I found myself looking at Lucian’s face. He held me up by the fabric of my shirt.

  “… new order is coming, corpse eater,” he said. “And there’s no room for your kind in it.”

  “You bastard,” Osan hissed.

  “She’s to be delivered alive,” said the woman impatiently.

  Lucian’s lip curled. “I’m only tenderising their meat.”

  My body had grown impossibly heavy, and my head felt like it would split open, but I was also dimly aware of a heat in my chest, a strange flickering feeling. I could taste it in my mouth too, coppery and golden and sweet, as if the sensation had taken wing from my lungs and now drifted out my lips and into the air.

  I exhaled, and for a moment I thought I could almost see it—glimmering crystal beads like water in sunlight. Then Lucian screamed and let go of my shirt.

  I fell, landing on my hands and knees. The world echoed strangely around me; Lucian’s howls reverberated in rippling waves. There’s something very wrong with me, I thought. I lifted my head. Lucian was clutching his hands to his chest, and I could see his skin had swollen and blistered. His knife lay within my reach. I stretched out for it, shaking.

  “She still has power,” Lucian yelled. “She burned me with her magic, she tricked us. Filthy bitch, I’ll kill her!”

  “You will not,” said the woman.

  I closed my hand around the handle. Overhead, there was some kind of a commotion; someone on the roof shouted a warning. Running footsteps. The woman cursed. Lucian was still stumbling around—his hands curled up like claws—when someone swift and pale crashed into him. They both went down.

  Everyone was yelling, but the wild tumult of sound and movement seemed far away. My own breathing was much louder; each inhalation caused black flowers to bloom at the corners of my sight.

  “Finn,” I said.

  Lucian had always been taller and heavier-set, but tonight he was outmatched. White as a sheet and furious, Finn slammed Lucian’s head into the ground.

  “Stop,” I whispered.

  Lucian’s ruined hands desperately clawed at Finn’s face and neck. Finn drove his own fist down hard. I heard the crack of a broken nose.

  He’s going to kill him, I thought.

  The woman shouted at Lucian, but she seemed reluctant to risk jumping into the fray. The crossbows on the roof were equally useless; they could too easily hit the wrong man.

  The woman’s head turned toward me, and I gripped the knife tighter. She did not care, I realised. Lucian was nothing to her.

  Through the clamour, a whistle rang out shrilly. The woman jumped.

  “Enforcement’s coming,” Osan rasped. He had managed to stand, and now he leaned against the wall for support. His back was dark red with blood.

  The woman cast a last look at Finn and Lucian. The two of them seemed oblivious to the lookout’s warning. Blood poured from Lucian’s face; he thrashed like a cornered animal. Finn looked completely focussed, as if all his attention was devoted to just this one task, as if he could not see or hear anything else.

  The woman muttered to herself. From her pocket, she drew out a thin black rod the length of a pencil. With a deft twist of her wrist, she snapped it in two.

  The effect was immediate and grotesque. Like a branch beneath an invisible boot, Lucian’s spine bent backwards and broke.

  I shut my eyes, but the image was burned onto my mind. Finn swore. I could hear a soft whimpering sound, and realised it was coming from my own mouth. The woman’s footsteps rushed past me, back down the alleyway.

  Please make it stop. My head burned. No more. Please no more.

  “El?” Finn was beside me, wrapping his arms around me, cradling me to his chest. “El, I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m here.”

  I heard horses and wheels on the cobbles and Finn saying my name, and he had lifted me up, and he was still speaking to me and then I passed out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SENSATION WAS SLOW to return. I awoke from dreamlessness, rising up through the dark. The first thing I knew was the coolness of a damp cloth on my forehead, and the smell of spiced tea.

  Pain was next. I groaned.

  “Are you back with us?”

  I cracked open my eyelids and light flooded my brain. That hurt. I immediately shut them again.

  “Do I have to be?” I asked.

  Rhyanon chuckled.

  “Well, not right this second, I suppose.” She carefully wiped my forehead. The cloth smelled of lavender. Felt nice. Somewhere close by, I could hear birdsong and the wind rustling through trees.

  “Osan?” I murmured. “He was badly hurt.”

  “Saskia took care of him. She’s very deft with that kind of lacework. And with needles, but the lacework helps.”

  “Is he—”

  “I spoke with him earlier this morning, and he’ll be fine. The problem was mostly blood loss; the bolt didn’t hit anything vital.”

  “I see.” I breathed out slowly. “That’s good.”

  Her clothing rustled as she moved closer, and I let myself relax, let her smooth my hair and rest the cloth, so wonderfully cool, on my forehead. It stirred old feelings, old vulnerabilities. Rhyanon was acting like my mother. This sort o
f entanglement could not end well, and yet I clung to the illusion all the same—that she cared, that I was safe, that everything would be okay. That maybe, just for a little while, I might be allowed to lean into her kindness.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  I raised and lowered my shoulders fractionally.

  “That bad?”

  “No,” I muttered. “No, I’m fine. But I was worried about you.”

  “I heard. Apparently, you went barging into the Sanatorium and demanded to see me.”

  “I wouldn’t say barging.”

  “Still. Rather endearing of you, if a bit stupid.” She took away the cloth. “Nightmares aside, I really am fine now. Look.”

  I grimaced. “It’s too bright.”

  “Come on.”

  Reluctantly, I opened my eyes again.

  Green linens covered the bed. I lay in a yellow-walled room overlooking a leafy garden. The view through the window was screened by delicate beech saplings, and a breeze wafted the gauze curtains like the breath of a sleeping animal. On the pine sideboard rested a pot of tea and a plate of buttered bread.

  Rhyanon sat on a cushioned chair beside the bed, a bucket of water on the ground next to her. Bandages covered her arm and shoulder, but her cheeks held a healthy colour and her eyes were bright. She smiled at me, pleased. It was a different smile, more straightforward, more honest. As if matters between us had settled into a new configuration.

  “Not so bad, huh?” She gestured to her bandaged arm. “Wouldn’t you say I’m in better shape than you?”

  “Possibly.” I studied her with a critical eye. “But you had an obvious advantage there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Given that you’re the expert on Commander Asan’s ministrations, I’m sure you received extra care.”

  To my delight, she blushed.

  “All that bed rest,” I continued, a grin spreading across my face, “seems to have done you a lot of good.”

  “Were you never taught to respect your elders?” Her skin had turned a truly vibrant shade of pink now. “Eater, Elfreda, mind your own business.”

  “Quite a catch though.”

  She spluttered. “Enough!”

  I laughed, although it made my head hurt. With effort, I sat up a little straighter and grunted when the movement triggered a whole host of smaller aches and pains. Not just my head either—my stomach cramped sharply. I pulled a face, and Rhyanon offered me a begrudging smile.

  “Well, all right,” she said. “Have your fun. But this stays between us, okay? It’s safer for the Commander if our relationship remains private.”

  “I understand. And I approve, for whatever that’s worth.” I toyed with the edge of the bedspread. “Good for you.”

  “You’re unexpectedly sweet sometimes,” said Rhyanon, and it was my turn to blush. I covered my embarrassment by pretending to take an interest in the rest of the room.

  “So where is Commander Asan?” I asked. “And where am I?”

  Rhyanon leaned back in her chair. “Saskia’s working. And we’re at the city manor of a provincial Reverend. From the outside, the property looks unused; it’s just the groundskeeper coming and going, keeping things in order.”

  “But?”

  “A couple of years ago, a group of Sisters constructed a hidden tunnel from the neighbouring building into the manor’s cellar. Awfully convenient if you need somewhere to hide.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Who lives next door?”

  “No one. It’s one of the city’s new greenhouses, which made the mysterious quantities of excavated earth a little easier to explain away.”

  “Huh. Clever.”

  “Do you want tea?” She levered herself to her feet. “I figured you might be thirsty.”

  While she poured, I tried to sort my thoughts. Judging by the shadows cast by the trees, it was still early morning, so I had probably only been unconscious for a few hours. The cut on my forehead had been taped up with soft gauze, and I wore clean clothes, a loose blue tunic dress.

  Memories of last night’s attack hovered like a dark cloud at the edge of my thoughts. I did not want to consider too closely what had happened, but my present fears could not be ignored either.

  “There was a—a friend of mine,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Do you know—”

  “Finn, yes?”

  I nodded quickly.

  Rhyanon handed me a cup. “He helped Saskia bring you here, but left before the sun came up. Something about needing to tell his sister what had happened.”

  I nodded again and looked down at my tea. “Right, of course.”

  “I’m sure he’ll return.”

  But why was he even in Ceyrun?

  “Maybe. Doesn’t matter.” I wrapped my fingers around the cup, absorbing the warmth into my hands. I glanced at her. “I have a lot of questions.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I’m sure you do.”

  Her weariness amused me. I drank from the cup and smiled slightly. “Wishing I was still asleep?”

  She did not return the smile; if anything, she seemed to grow more solemn still.

  “Elfreda, before we have this conversation, I need you to understand that neither Commander Asan nor I intend to harm you,” she said.

  I frowned and set down the cup. “Okay.”

  “It’s … Well. Just try to keep that in mind.” She adjusted the edge of the bedspread. “Please?”

  My unease grew; I didn’t like Rhyanon’s tone. “You’re starting to scare me.”

  “I know this is going to be difficult, that’s all.” She breathed out heavily. “You suffer from hallucinations, don’t you?”

  I froze. All the feelings of security and warmth evaporated; my heart boomed in my ears like waves crashing down on my head. I suddenly wanted to get up, to get out of the room and away from her.

  “Elfreda—”

  “Why do people keep asking me that?” I demanded harshly. “What makes you think I have hallucinations?”

  She kept her voice low and calm. “Because they are a defining symptom of a condition that you are likely to suffer from.”

  “So you think I’m sick? What condition?”

  “We think—” She broke off, corrected herself. “We are almost certain that you are what’s known as a Renewer.”

  “Which means?” I was still too clipped, too aggressive. I had let myself grow complacent around Rhyanon, and now my anxieties emerged as anger. I wanted so much to trust her, but I was afraid.

  “Well, that’s … complicated.” She seemed unusually unsure of herself too; she rubbed the back of her neck and continued slowly. “As I understand it, Renewers are Sisters who hold unusual concentrations of lace in their bodies. They appear every third generation or so, about seventy years apart each time.” She grimaced. “Please stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, like you’re trying to work out whether you could still outrun me in a foot race.”

  I swallowed a retort and instead leaned back on the pillows. My head had begun to pound.

  “It’s okay,” said Rhyanon. “I knew this would scare you, but you can trust me, Elfreda. You can.”

  I shut my eyes.

  “So,” I said, “a Renewer?”

  The chair squeaked as Rhyanon shifted in her seat.

  “At Celane’s garden party?” she said. “You were playing Tryst. And thirty women saw you catch a ball that should have been out of reach.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. But it was strange enough to draw notice. To you, of course, but also to Jesane Olberos for throwing that pass.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a Renewer is apparently capable of warping reality in subtle ways. Not consciously, and yet the world seems to…” She sought the right words. “Shift to their benefit. That’s according to what I’ve been told, anyway.”

  I snorted. “To my benefit, you say?”

  “Hm.
Perhaps to your instincts, then.”

  “All right, so let’s say this is true.” I let out a slow breath and opened my eyes again. “Which means I’m apparently unusually good at ball games. Why should anyone care?”

  Rhyanon gave me a sad look.

  “Because the Renewer is a queenmaker,” she said. “I said you held an unusual concentration of lace in your body? That power, historically, has been enough to completely reshape Aytrium. Each time the Order’s lace begins to wane, the Renewer appears. She restores the Sisterhood. She ushers in a new golden age.”

  “But I’m not powerful,” I said in exasperation. “My lacework skills are average at best, so I can’t be this—this mythical lace wielder.”

  “It’s not about your abilities.” Rhyanon studied her hands, avoiding my gaze. “It’s your body that matters.”

  Like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place, I understood her.

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly cold. “So it’s about who martyrs me.”

  Who eats me.

  “Yes,” said Rhyanon.

  I drew the covers of the bed up over my shoulders, pulling my knees in.

  “Elfreda, this wasn’t—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. “You knew! All this time, you knew—”

  “I didn’t!” Rhyanon got up and sat on the bed, but I shrank backwards from her. “I had no idea, not until Saskia mentioned that game of Tryst, and even then, it seemed like such a remote possibility. Why should it be you, out of everyone in the Order? We only realised the truth at Geise’s Crown.”

  I pressed my lips together. Rhyanon hesitated, then laid her hand on my shoulder. I flinched, but she did not draw away.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “And I’m sorry that I haven’t been more open with you before now. That was a mistake.”

  “I thought I was going mad.” My voice came out hoarse. “For a year. And now you tell me that the visions are just some symptom, some indication that I’m … I’m meant to…”

  “No one is going to hurt you again,” she said. “You’ll see—we’ll get you out of Ceyrun and away from the Order. Everything is under control.”