by Kerstin Hall
She was dead. I had killed her.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Celane stared, glassy-eyed and silent, at the sky. I felt cold. Moments ago, she had seemed to tower over me, but now she looked small and unremarkable. She could have been anyone; just another woman, a complete stranger.
“May the Star light your dreaming,” I murmured.
Too weak to stand, I crawled to the threshold of the temple. My blood dripped along the stone steps, leaving a long smear behind me. Each breath hurt. I passed below the shadow of the arch and into the cool interior.
The chamber filled with brightness. It mirrored my dream: the trees growing from the floor, the rays of sunlight pouring through the windows. Other images crowded the room, visions of this place from an older time. Hundreds of shining ghosts passed through the walls; memory and dream and reality flowed into one gleaming haze, each rewriting each other, reforming in front of my eyes.
Through the waves of light, a tall man walked toward me. I could not see his face; the world had blurred too much. He lifted me off the tiles. His hands were silver, or perhaps he wore gloves. My thoughts moved slower. With ease and gentleness, he carried me to the front of the temple where the altar waited.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
He laid me down carefully. I saw the spikes imbedded in the altar at the level of my wrists, the channels that ran away from them.
“It will not hurt,” he said. His voice incongruous, female, whistling, pure. Lights swarmed above my head, darting like birds.
“But I don’t want to die.” My face was wet.
He touched my cheek.
“Will you return what was stolen?” he asked.
This was how it ended.
“Yes,” I said.
The light flared. I shut my eyes against the brightness. When I opened them again, he was gone. I could no longer feel the pain in my shoulder, and my wrists were only faintly warm. Metal jutted through them. I regarded the spikes without feeling, watching blood seep from my arms.
“You are here.”
The Star’s voice came from everywhere, and from within my own mind. I tried to speak, but my lips would not move. It did not seem to matter.
“It has been a long time,” she said.
The temple dissolved in golden light. I could no longer feel my body. When the light dimmed, the spikes were gone. A woman with curling black hair leaned against the edge of the altar.
“Mom?” I croaked.
She turned to me. Her eyes were kind.
“No,” she said. “Just a memory.”
Thousands of candles illuminated the temple, and the windows were whole. Wreaths of flowers cascaded across the tiles, lilies and cherry blossoms and orchids. Their fragrance filled the still air. When I looked down, my wrists were smooth and unblemished, but I still felt an odd pressure just below both palms, like someone was pressing their thumbs against my veins.
“Are you the Star?” I asked.
Her liquid eyes were full and dark, flecked with sparks of gold.
“I have been given that name, yes,” she replied.
I should feel afraid. I sat up. But I’m not.
“You aren’t what I expected,” I said.
“And what did you expect?”
Someone more frightening.
She smiled as if she could hear my thoughts. Her face flickered, and I caught a glimpse of something else behind my mother’s features. I flinched.
“Elfreda, I won’t harm you,” she said, with a small hint of amusement. Her voice was calm, resonating, painfully familiar. “I only wanted to meet you. You have dreamed my dreams, and we will share this one for only a little while longer.”
I could hear birdsong outside the windows, laughter in the distance. “This is a … dream?”
“Of a sort.”
Everything seemed entirely real to me. I turned back to her. “So what happens when it ends?”
“Then I will return to the world and discover what remains for me there.”
My chest tightened at the thought of Aytrium, the possibility of her revenge, my friends. The Star shook her head. She reached out and touched my shoulder.
“I am not so vengeful as you believe,” she said.
Her hand was warm and unexpectedly ordinary, nails clipped short like I remembered. I swallowed. Just a memory, just a dream, but it felt so real. Around us, the candles burned steadily.
“I must go soon,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “But I am glad we had this chance to speak.”
“When you leave, can I … can I stay here?”
She shook her head, smiling sadly.
I suppose I had already known, but strangely, I still didn’t feel afraid. I was only a little drowsy—I wanted to lie down and sleep, bathed in the warm light of the candles and the smell of flowers.
“I guess that’s okay too.” I returned her smile. “Thank you for the dream.”
The Star opened her arms, and I was grateful, so grateful to have this at the end. I embraced her and the world faded.
She smelled like home.
AFTER
THE WALL OF the house had split. The crack that ran through the stonework was a foot wide, and a potted plant was wedged into the gap.
Similar damage was prevalent everywhere—when Aytrium struck Ventris, the impact had sent shockwaves rippling across the island for days. The Sisterhood had burned through all the lace they possessed to slow the fall, but it had not been quite enough. Ceyrun now sloped at a new angle, and a huge section of the city’s outer wall had collapsed.
Still, many things continued as usual.
Rhyanon sat on the garden bench with her ankles crossed, eating a pastry and watching her daughter dig small holes in the soil along the side of the house. Jaylen’s hands were covered in dirt, and a tuft of wispy brown hair stuck up from her forehead. Beside her, a line of daffodil bulbs waited to be planted.
“Congratulations?” said Rhyanon. “Although I’m not sure that’s an appropriate response under the circumstances.”
From the other side of the bench, I tipped my glass toward her. “I’ll take it.”
“It was a foregone conclusion, though. A relief to get the weight off your shoulders, I suppose.”
The trial had finally ended this morning, three months after the fall of Aytrium. Judicial Affairs had been overwhelmed, not only because of the staggering number of new cases—mostly the merchant guilds trying to extract compensation from the Order—but because the High Court building itself had been badly damaged during the impact. While my case had taken precedence, the proceedings had still dragged out much longer than originally anticipated.
“Amnesty, huh?” I said. “Doesn’t that set rather a dangerous precedent?”
“I think it would be difficult for anyone to replicate your exact crimes or circumstances. But I’m not a Judicial Affairs officer, what do I know?”
I leaned back on the bench. The sun filtering through the trees warmed my legs.
“I was expecting at least a slap on the wrist,” I said.
“Saskia would never have stood for that. And Deselle Somme advocated pretty fiercely on your behalf too.”
“Even so.”
Rhyanon made an exaggerated gesture of impatience. “If the Order wants to make a big show of being generous and benevolent and forward-thinking, for Eater’s sake, let them.” She jabbed her pastry in my direction. “You’re a free woman. Be happier.”
“I am happy.”
“Then act like it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe if you stopped telling me off.”
Rhyanon was right, though—even now, I felt unsettled. Cyde’s death continued to haunt me; until returning home, I had harboured a faint hope that the Reverend might have made it. I knew it wasn’t really my fault; she had chosen to make that last stand. I just couldn’t quite let go of my guilt.
Jaylen placed a bulb into the soil and buried it.
Lariel’s b
ody, on the other hand, had not been recovered. Maybe Celane had pushed her off the Edge, but I didn’t believe that. A couple of weeks ago, Millie had found a single crossbow bolt driven through the wood of her front door.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Rhyanon. “You’re quiet today.”
“Just caught up inside my own head.”
“Well, if you’re after a distraction, I have a lot of work—”
“No,” I said sternly.
As the administrative chaos of restructuring the Order mounted, Rhyanon had been dropping increasingly obvious hints about me joining her on the new Council. With so few of the original Councilwomen remaining and everyone stripped of their lace, the process had turned into a logistical nightmare. Scheming was already rife amongst the various factions—traditionalist, civilian, and, well, those following Saskia Asan.
“I thought, now that you’ve been cleared…” Rhyanon began.
“You don’t need me.”
She huffed. “Of course I don’t need you. But you would certainly help.”
“Sitting in a room and listening to people yell at each other for eight hours a day is just about the last thing—”
“I know.” She glanced at me. “I’d love to have you around, that’s all.”
Jaylen moved on to the next bulb. Rhyanon’s dog wandered over to her and sniffed at the turned earth.
“Consider it?” she said. “Maybe not yet, but I’ll make sure a seat stays open for you. If you want it.”
“You’re far too kind,” I murmured.
She brushed pastry crumbs off her leg. “Just building up future credit. So?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Oh good, a definitive answer.”
“I will. Really.”
She snorted. “All right, fine; I’ll wait. But what’s your plan now?”
From the street beyond her garden, I heard someone singing. An orange butterfly settled on the spout of Jaylen’s watering can. It unfolded its wings, soaking in the sunlight.
“I’m leaving,” I said slowly. “Not permanently. It’s just … with the trial over, it feels like the right time.”
Rhyanon sighed.
“You’ll miss me terribly?” I asked, amused.
“Of course not.”
“But I’ll miss you.”
“As you should,” she grumbled. “So you’re going to leave me with all the difficult work, and run off to join an expedition. What about your friends?”
“Millie’s coming with me. I tried to win over Osan, but—”
“What?”
“But he said he would stay in Ceyrun for now. Old loyalties die hard, apparently.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And yet, he did not see fit to tell me any of this.”
“He’s good at keeping secrets.”
Rhyanon gestured irritation, but she was struggling not to smile.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“The first of the expedition teams is departing this afternoon. The trial ended just in time.”
“Then this is your goodbye.”
“For a little while.”
She nodded, thoughtful, and we drifted into an easy silence. In the distance, the bells rang out. Some things changed, others stayed the same. The breeze tousled my hair.
“Have you had any more visions?” asked Rhyanon. “Since … since then?”
I shook my head. She knew about my experience in the temple; I had told her most of what had happened. But it remained a difficult subject. I watched Jaylen carefully water her bulbs.
“Does that mean she’s gone?” Rhyanon’s voice dropped. “Even after all that ‘debt of blood’ stuff, she let you go?”
I was silent.
“Elfreda?”
“She’s no longer with me,” I said, relenting. “I don’t know where she’s gone, or if she’ll return. But I think she extracted a small price.”
Rhyanon made a gentle gesture of enquiry.
“I haven’t menstruated since the temple.”
Her face fell.
“It’s not the worst thing that could have happened,” I added hurriedly. “It’s nothing, really, all things considered. Three months ago, I would have considered it a gift.”
“Could you be pregnant?”
I felt my cheeks flush. “I mean, I did consider that too.”
“And?”
“It’s not … impossible. But unlikely.”
Rhyanon wavered, then sidled across the bench and put an arm around my shoulder. The gesture surprised me, and I smiled.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Either way.”
Her dark brown eyes stayed serious. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I leaned into her hug. “Don’t worry so much.”
She went quiet for a moment. Her skin was sun-warmed against mine, and her hair smelled like lavender. I was going to miss her, I realised. I would miss this—the quiet, peaceful afternoons in the shade. As if sensing my thoughts, her grip around my arm tightened.
“When you return, you know you’ll always have a home with us, right?” she whispered.
I looked down, a little embarrassed. “You might want to ask the Commander first.”
She drew back, giving me a small, playful shove.
“Saskia will be fine with it.” Her eyes glinted. “Besides, you’ve seriously misinterpreted who’s in charge in our relationship.”
I blinked, then her words sank in and I burst out laughing. Rhyanon smiled at me fondly.
“Make sure you’re careful out there,” she said. “Come back safe.”
I left via the front gate. The air was cool and fresh; the recent rains had washed away seasons of dust. People moved without urgency, enjoying the sunshine. I walked slowly and tried to soak it all in: the boulevards, the streets that felt both familiar and new, this place that was both home and not. When I returned to Ceyrun again, it would be a different city. I strolled toward the graveyard. For better or worse, I suppose that it already was.
Finn waited at the gate. His hair was growing longer—although it was still not quite the length I preferred—and his skin had lost its terrible whiteness. Over the course of a few slow months, he had begun to transform back into his old self. His spine had straightened, and the extra teeth had fallen out. He was even returning to his original height, just a few inches taller than before.
His eyes, however, remained a stubborn shade of bright green. In twilight hours, the colour came closer to yellow.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I was enjoying my freedom.”
He smiled. “I’m glad. Millie said she’d meet us at the South Gate. Are you ready?”
I was. We walked through the sunlit streets of Ceyrun, and no visions darkened the shadows, no voices murmured in my mind. I was happy. I was just myself.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I FIND DRAWING UP a book’s acknowledgements to be a rewarding process, and this is particularly true of Star Eater. This novel owes much to the people who supported me along the way.
The Tordotcom Publishing team has been uniformly gracious and kind in their dealings with me. On the publicity, marketing, and social media side, thank you to Lauren Anesta, Mordicai Knode, and Amanda Melfi. From production, particular thanks to Lauren Hougen for ensuring that last-minute edits were integrated. Thanks also to interior designer Greg Collins, and digital asset designer Jess Kiley.
On the art side, I have enormous gratitude for the work of Christine Foltzer and Sam Weber. I could not imagine a more beautiful cover for this book.
Thank you to copy editor Ana Deboo for handling my chronic issue with commas. Thank you to publisher Irene Gallo, and to editorial assistant Sanaa Ali-Virani.
Ruoxi Chen: my brilliant, sharp, kind, formidable editor. Thank you for your criticism and encouragement, your patience and your insight.
I am also deeply appreciative of Jennifer Jackson. Thank you for being a calm voice of reassurance, and for championing
my work. I’m so glad that you chose to represent me.
There are a host of strangers who have been unfathomably nice to me, and they include: Apophis, Sabine Cazassus, G. V. Anderson, Indrapramit Das, Aoife Nic Ardghail, Daragh Thomas, Suzan Palumbo, and Eugenia Triantafyllou. I appreciate you all.
Thanks to Allison Senecal—your passion and enthusiasm has meant more to me than you realize.
I owe a lot to Scott H. Andrews. Thank you for tactfully keeping quiet while I neglected the Beneath Ceaseless Skies slush pile. You are an underappreciated force for good in the industry, and I always enjoy your emails.
My appreciation, once more, to the Mandela Rhodes Foundation and the 2016 cohort. Thank you to Imraan Coovadia for his input on this novel.
Sarah Boomgaard, thank you for being That Person from high school to get loudly excited about my books. Thank you to Ruby Parker and Kaitlin Cunningham. As always, thanks and love to Sabina Stefan.
Emma Kate Laubscher, you are brilliant and funny and passionate, and I think the world of you. Also, thank you for scheming to get your book club to read my work.
Thanks to my dad, Stephen Hall, for your support and love. I hope you enjoy this book, and are not unduly concerned about all the cannibalism and murder.
Thank you to Tessa Hall. I’m fortunate beyond measure to have a sister as exceptional as you are. Thank you for being my first reader and my most trusted friend.
And finally, thank you to Sylvia Hall. Writing this book was challenging, but you were behind me every step of the way. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for your attention to detail, and for your encouragement. Thank you for everything. I hope, one day, to be half as brilliant as you.
ALSO BY KERSTIN HALL
The Border Keeper
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KERSTIN HALL’s short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons and Fireside Magazine, and she is the author of the novella The Border Keeper. She lives in Cape Town, South Africa. You can find her at kerstinhall.com and on Twitter as @Kerstin__Hall. Star Eater is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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