The Girl and the Stars

by Mark Lawrence

  “We need to tie her,” Yaz called out and moved to join them.

  “We need to cut her throat before she wakes up,” Petrick said, knife in hand. Already Hetta’s limbs had begun to twitch and she made a low groan of her own. A purple stain had begun to reach up across her thick neck from beneath her furs.

  “No.” Yaz drew level with Petrick. The boy had slowed as the distance between him and Hetta shrank to little more than a yard.

  Petrick shot her an incredulous look. “She ate your friend. Killed and ate him. What do the Ictha do to murderers? Tie them up?”

  Yaz hadn’t forgotten Jaysin and she didn’t know what the Ictha did to murderers. She wasn’t sure murder had ever happened among them. But she knew the Ictha had watched an old man push children into a miles-deep hole and done nothing. “Hetta was one of the Broken once, wasn’t she? Like Thurin. Was Thurin responsible for what he did while tainted?”

  “It’s a madness, the demons take control.” Thurin joined them. “She has three in her at least. It’s worse when there are more than one, and even more so when they are different breeds.” He indicated the purple, black, and red stains moving across the gerant’s brutal face, the changes as slow as the writhing of the dragon-tail lights in the northern sky.

  “Can’t we save her?” Yaz knew Hetta as a monster but Zeen was a monster now and she wouldn’t allow this fate for him. “Like you were saved?”

  Doubt clouded Thurin’s face. He stared at Hetta as if he was remembering her in the years before she was taken. “I don’t—”

  Hetta drew in a great shuddering breath, startling them all, though her eyes stayed shut. Maya let out a brief scream then stifled the rest of it. The Axit girl was back to being her scared little self, Yaz thought.

  “There’s no time for this.” Petrick started forward. Something in the way his knife trembled made Yaz sure the boy hadn’t taken a life before.

  “Where do you think I’ll find a home when she dies?” The voice came from Hetta’s night-black lips but sounded too calm for the howling monster that had attacked them. Hetta lay motionless, eyes still closed; only her mouth moved and the inky stain seemed to flow into it from all sides. Hetta’s pointed teeth gleamed blackly. “Thurin son of Gatha has already shown himself cracked and open to my kind. He’ll make an acceptable replacement. Will you try to kill him too when I take him?”

  “If you’re going to do it, do it quickly!” Thurin moved behind Petrick. “I won’t let them in my head.” His voice had a quaver in it though and he stepped away as if eager to put distance between himself and the deed.

  Petrick gritted his teeth and reached his blade toward the gerant’s neck. His arm steady now. All of him tensed to spring aside should she wake and lunge for him.

  “Hear me, Yaz of the Ictha.”

  Petrick paused. “How does a demon know your name already?”

  The demon working Hetta’s mouth seemed untroubled by the knife so close to her throat. “Did you not think it strange that no Ictha has fallen here in twenty years and then three take the plunge in a row?” Within the scarlet stain one of Hetta’s eyes opened, wholly red like the skin around it, save for the black point of the pupil.

  Yaz had no answer.

  “I spoke to the child before we tore his head off,” the demon whispered, inviting Yaz to lean in closer. “Jaysin he called himself. He was very keen to let us know he shouldn’t have been down here.” A black tongue licked black lips. “Shouldn’t have been down here. Even the regulator said so, little Jaysin told us.”

  “What do you mean?” Yaz snarled.

  “Don’t listen,” Thurin called out from behind her. “The demons always lie. They cast a spell on you with their voice.”

  The black mouth spoke again. “Regulator Kazik pushed little Jaysin down the pit to bring you a message. He promises to send more innocents down to repeat it if you don’t follow his instructions.”

  “What message?” Yaz shouted.

  Hetta’s other eye snapped open, scarlet and demon-filled. Her body remained slumped against the rock, a trickle of blood running out from behind her head. Close up the size of her continually shocked Yaz and the idea that she had thrown the woman back with such force seemed hard for even her to believe.

  “Ah . . .” Hetta or the demon exhaled slowly. “I could tell you. But then you would have to swear by all your gods to let me go.”

  “We can’t do that.” Petrick brandished his knife, though his voice lacked conviction.

  “Kill this woman then,” Hetta said. “Though she was once one of your people and has no control over the things we make her do. Condemn more children to the pit to carry Kazak’s message to Yaz of the Ictha. And see what happens to your friend Thurin when you make us homeless.” A grin showing pointed teeth. “But whatever you do, do it swiftly for she is waking and when she does the time for talking will be over.”

  “Why were you hunting me?” Yaz demanded.

  The black mouth only smiled.

  “What was the message?”

  “Do you swear to our bargain?”

  Yaz spat. She didn’t want to let the cannibal go but she didn’t want Petrick to slit the woman’s throat either. Especially not if Hetta was simply a victim of these monsters living under her skin.

  “I swear by the Gods in the Sky and by the Gods in the Sea that if you answer my questions I will let you leave this cavern unharmed.”

  “The others too?”

  “By Eon of the Ice,” Thurin muttered. Petrick echoed him in a whisper.

  “By the White-Hope-That-Burns-Above.” Quina named some southern deity unknown to Yaz.

  “There,” said Yaz. “Now—”

  “And the tiny one who wrapped the shadows around her,” Hetta said. “The fierce one.”

  “By the Seven Gods of the Wind,” Maya said.

  Hetta’s head turned to stare past Yaz. “And the gerant who is pretending to be unconscious.”

  “By Eon of the Ice.” Kao sat with a groan, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Ask your questions,” Hetta said. The purple stain wrapped her neck like a strangling hand.

  “Why were you hunting me?” Yaz asked.

  “We weren’t hunting you. We were hunting the new one.”

  “New one?” Yaz wondered if Kazik had already thrown down another child.

  “Most unusual. Seemed to be a grown man, not built like a gerant. Has a spear. Not tainted. Spying on the Broken. Cunning too. But we’ll catch him.”

  “What was the regulator’s message?” Thurin asked, still keeping his distance. It was the question Yaz wanted to ask but one she wanted answered for her alone, not spoken in front of an audience.

  “The regulator wants you back, little Ictha. You weren’t supposed to jump! If you come back soon he will allow you to bring Jaysin with you . . . oh . . . well, we still have his skull in our collection . . . you could take that maybe.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Most of it was screaming. Some begging.”

  Yaz ground her teeth together, regretting her oath. Hetta’s death might be a price worth paying if it destroyed the monstrosity speaking with her mouth. “About the regulator. What else did he say about the regulator or his message?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Go.” Yaz pointed. “Take her away before we forget our vows.”

  Hetta got slowly to her feet, joints cracking, more blood sheeting down the side of her neck. She stayed hunched, growling as some awareness returned to her eyes, then lumbered off, moving as if nursing some great pain.

  “We should leave too.” Yaz glanced around her. The others were all staring at her, making no move to go. “What?”

  Quina stepped in close, quicker than quick, her face too near Yaz’s, staring.

  “You jumped?”

  10
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  POME INTERCEPTED THE group before Petrick could take them to Eular.

  “Here comes the light-bearer to save us,” Thurin muttered.

  “Does he carry that star everywhere?” Yaz eyed the approaching glow.

  “It’s his way of reminding us all that he can tolerate having one so close to him,” Petrick said. “He thinks it makes him special. But they don’t shine any brighter for him than for the rest of us.” He shot Yaz a narrow glance.

  Pome strode up to them, flanked by two warriors carrying spears. Behind him loomed Bexen, the gerant who had stood with him when he challenged Tarko’s authority the previous day. The gerant scowled at them all, one eye milky as if the frost had got into it somehow. He was nearly as large as Hetta, his face brutal. Most of the gerants had that look, as if their bones were too eager to grow, broadening their brows, making their jaws jut forward.

  “Where’s Hetta?” Pome demanded, scanning their ranks for losses.

  “Don’t know,” Petrick answered. “We ran for it. Just not as fast as you. Or as far.”

  Pome moved his star to light Petrick’s face, eyes narrow, searching for any hint of mockery. The boy flinched away and Pome sneered. “Bexen, patrol the ridge caverns. If you find Hetta bring me her corpse.”

  The gerant grunted his assent and led the two spearmen away. Pome raised his star. “Come on then. Eular’s waiting!”

  Pome made sure to walk beside Yaz, holding his star out ahead of him as if concerned for her comfort. “You’re very new here, Yaz. This must all seem very strange. I remember it took me a while to adjust after my drop.”

  Behind them Thurin suppressed a snort.

  “You’re getting a view of things down here through Arka’s eyes. Be sure to use your own too though. She’ll draw you a picture that misses out the bad. The matters I’m planning to change. But you’ll see them, and if you’re wise you’ll know who to line up behind when things come to a head.” The more Pome spoke the more reasonable he seemed. His words scratched at Yaz’s mind, trying to burrow their way in.

  With an effort Yaz clenched her brain and held it tight, imagining it as two fists held together. She listened to Pome but tried not to allow him in. And in time he fell silent, as if somehow sensing his efforts were being wasted. “Kao, isn’t it?” He turned to the gerant.

  * * *

  POME LED THEM through a series of steadily darker, smaller, and colder caverns. The constant dripping slowed, then stopped. The ground underfoot began to crunch as puddles became iced over. The ceiling grew lower.

  “Why do we have to come out here?” Yaz whispered to Thurin as they walked. “Doesn’t he live in the settlement with the rest of you?”

  “Us. The rest of ‘us.’ It’s just us now.” Thurin gave a tight grin. “And no. He spends a lot of time meditating in the margins. They say it clears his thoughts. Often we don’t see him for weeks. It seems longer than that since I last saw him now I think of it.”

  Yaz had more questions but ahead of them Pome had stopped. They’d reached their destination.

  “You with me.” He singled Yaz out. “The rest wait here. Petrick, see they don’t stray.”

  Pome took Yaz along what might have been a worm tunnel, now ancient and distorted by the glacial flow. They emerged into a cavern so low that a gerant would have to stoop. Even Yaz might graze her head. Curtains of icicles ran here and there, catching the blue light of Pome’s star and returning it in ghostly echoes.

  “Watch your tongue here, girl.” Pome moved his star to light her face as he had with Petrick. As it came close it began to blaze, lighting the cavern from wall to wall, unchaining its beauty. Yaz heard the star’s whisper swell to a song and smiled even as she closed her eyes against its brightness. Something in her answered the song, calling on the star to sing louder and burn brighter still. Pome, caught off guard by the sudden change, shrank back from the blazing star. His hand began to shake and with a sharp oath he dropped both rod and star. The impact with the rock broke the star free and it rolled away from them across the floor, dimming to its original level.

  “Thank you, Pome.” A kindly voice, cracked with age, the speaker hidden on the far side of the cavern. “I will talk with the young lady. She will return with your star-stone when we are finished.”

  Pome seemed unwilling to leave. “But—”

  “Thank you, Pome.” A little firmer this time.

  Pome looked at Yaz with murder in his eyes, scowled, then stalked back along the inky tunnel.

  Eular waited until Pome had retreated into the distance. “Join me.”

  Yaz moved forward, weaving around the icicles, her breath billowing in clouds before her. The star’s light revealed an old man, white-haired and bony, facing away from her, kneeling on a roll of skins just before a perfectly round pool. Yaz was surprised to see the water unfrozen. Eular turned to face her. The star’s stark illumination, slanting upwards, threw his face into a confusion of shadow and light, so much so that it took Yaz a few moments to understand that where his eyes should be Eular had only scarred pits.

  “Hello.” Eular smiled.

  Yaz found herself shocked once again, just as she had been by Kaylal’s lack of legs. Physical deformity was so rare among the Ictha that just seeing it made her uncomfortable, a twisting in her stomach, followed by guilt and shame, knowing in her bones that such a reaction lessened her.

  “It’s alright to stare,” Eular said. “I have been told that I’m quite a sight. Pome should have warned you.”

  “You were thrown into the pit as a baby?”

  “No. I was a grown man. My clan, the Hjak, tried to hide me. My mother was the Clan Mother.”

  “Hjak?” Yaz had thought she knew all the clans who gathered.

  “I am the last of them.” Eular bowed his head. “That was the justice of the priests. A lesson for the other clans. Their lives were forfeit.”

  Yaz opened her mouth and said nothing. She had heard of the power of the priesthood but not that they slaughtered whole clans.

  Eular waved his hand as if dispelling thoughts of the past. “So here I am. None of the old bloods show in these veins. My magical power is . . . that I can’t see.”

  “But you knew Pome had dropped his star.”

  “I can’t see, but I can listen. What I hear paints a picture. The words, the way they are spoken, what is left unspoken, the sounds of the chamber. And what I have heard about you wraps you in a fire that I could see through the walls long before you arrived here in my little cave.”

  “Oh.” Yaz could think of nothing else to say.

  “Can you see this pool before me?”

  “I can.”

  “The Broken made it and several others like it. Long ago. Few remain who remember their making. Each is a basin, polished to a high shine. In such a receptacle water, if it is kept very still, can stay liquid long after we might expect that it would freeze.”

  Yaz stepped forward, her shadow swinging across the pool. “It should be frozen.”

  “Most of them are. But as the ice ebbs and flows the paths taken by the heat shift, and sometimes, not often, one of the pools reaches this state. It wants to change but every change must start somewhere and in this pool the change has nowhere to start.”

  Yaz frowned. “That . . . doesn’t make sense.”

  “And yet it is true,” Eular said without offence. He reached out to hand her a small piece of stone, a gritty fragment smaller than a baby’s first tooth. “Touch it to the water. Drop it in.”

  Yaz knelt beside the old man, the rock biting into her knees. She reached out with the piece of grit pinched between the tips of finger and thumb. She touched it to the unrippled surface before her, and in an instant, like the opening of a white wing, traceries of frost spread from the point of contact, infinitely complex, breathtaking, an expanding symmetry. With a gasp of surprise she
let the fragment drop. The rapid freeze followed in the stone’s wake, penetrating the depth of the water now as well as spreading across the surface. Before her eyes the thickness of the pool became solid, the clarity of new ice becoming filled with ghostly flaws, fractures frozen into the moment. Within a handful of heartbeats half the pool lay solid, creaking as it expanded, the effect still spreading toward the far shores. Yaz pulled her hand back to her chest.

  “Sometimes the introduction of some new thing can change everything, Yaz.” Eular reached out and rapped his knuckles on the new ice. “Regulator Kazik did not throw you down the Pit of the Missing, I think.”

  “Why do you say that?” Yaz wondered at how much this old man with no eyes could see. There had been no time for Hetta’s revelations to reach him even if Petrick or someone in the drop-group had wanted to give her away.

  “There are many ways to be broken but only four of them arise from the old bloods showing again in a new child—”

  “Thurin said there were three: gerant, hunska, and marjal.”

  “Four tribes of men beached their ships on Abeth when this world was still green. The Missing had already left, knowing that the sun would continue to wane, but in those days Abeth was still a kindness after the black seas our ancestors had sailed for so long.

  “The tribes mixed their blood to breed a people who would thrive in this new place. The gerants with their size and strength, the hunskas with their swiftness that can stretch a moment into an age, the marjals with their mastery of myriad lesser magics . . . and the quantals who see the one true Path that joins and separates all things, and who may take from it as much power as they are able to own.”

  Yaz looked away from Eular’s eyeless face and gazed upon the marbled beauty of the frozen pool. “Why didn’t Thurin mention these quantals then?”

  “Because none are cast down among us. The priests of the Black Rock keep them. The quantals are the priesthood. So Kazik would not have thrown you down the pit. Which leaves me to ask were you so clumsy as to slip, so hated as to be pushed or pulled by some other of your clan, or . . . did you cast yourself among us? All would seem remarkably unlikely, but one among them must I think be true.”