Starborn

by Lucy Hounsom

  ‘Twice she has survived where others would not. Twice she has defied the Council. Brothers, sisters, I say that we unite behind her. I say we should welcome her to the Nerian, to the people of the Saviour – he who removed our world from the brink of destruction, who brought us peace!’

  A roar greeted her speech and beside Kyndra, Nediah groaned softly. All heads turned to the dais and the nearest people stretched their arms towards the keening, black-clad man. His guide gently moved him out of their reach.

  ‘Kyndra.’ Kait was looking down at her, eyes shining with fervour. ‘Please stand up.’

  Kyndra hesitated, torn between wanting to hide from the crowd and obeying the compulsion that had brought her here. Taking a deep breath, she rose unsteadily to her feet.

  All eyes were instantly upon her and there was something savage in their regard. Avoiding them, she looked at the dais, as the white-cowled man stepped forward. He lifted his gloved hands and drew back the hood that hid his charge’s face.

  It was like a blow and Kyndra staggered, the breath searing her lungs. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the man who stood revealed in the brutal Lunar light. Black lines scarred his cheeks, running down his neck in a pattern that might once have been enchanting. It disappeared into his clothes and hairline, suggesting it also covered his body. Kyndra stared at the ugly channels. She blinked, seeing fire roar through and die, leaving them dark.

  The man’s hair was tangled and most of it was grey like his short beard. His face was narrow and so familiar that Kyndra simply stared, unable to move. She breathed the cave-damp air and felt herself fragment as the stranger’s eyes seized her own. They were dark blue, almost black. Kyndra looked into them and saw a memory there, a memory of stars …

  … Where is Anohin?

  He waits in the dying daylight, his patience fraying. The sounds of battle filter up to him, borne on a wind that carries death. The cannons continue their ceaseless barrage, and wave after wave of red-metalled men break against Solinaris’s walls. Will their ranks never diminish? He knows this battle has been planned for decades and these forces meticulously prepared, schooled in the art of ruin.

  Where is Anohin? Already the sun fails, dropping behind the mountains that cap the valley. The book from the archives rests on the stone at his feet. Some lingering instinct troubles him, instinct that could once have been emotion. Anohin must stand beside him. Only by touching the Yadin could he ensure his safety. He sighs. Feeling is foreign to him.

  ‘Kierik: Master.’

  It is Anohin at last. He turns to him and lays a hand on his shoulder. ‘I must begin before all is lost. Stay near me, Anohin.’ The Yadin nods, his face as white as his robes.

  The pages of the book flip open to his silent instruction. He will prepare the stripping now, so that the Yadin’s life-energy will be ready to use when the time comes. A wind rises from the book, a black wind, capable of harvesting the raw energy contained within the bodies of all the Yadin in the citadel. Anohin flinches as it swirls about his ankles. To him, it is death.

  He opens his mind to the stars. Their power is his to command and he is adept at bringing it into himself, sculpting it and then releasing it in the form of his will. But this time its form will be vaster than anything he has ever attempted. Should he succeed, his name will echo down the centuries, woven into the fabric of rock and tree and the turn of the foaming tide.

  He reaches out to the Watchers – the stars of North, South, East and West: Noruri, Soruri, Austri and Vestri. Their stable light will help him hold Rairam steady in his mind. But first he must draw a line under the past and, to do that, he needs the star, Sigel. It fills him with a power so huge that even he trembles at it. The blow must be decisive: the land of Acre and the Sartyan disease cut away like a gangrenous limb. From now on the continent of Rairam will exist as a world in its own right. And he will be its master.

  His awareness of Acre recedes. All he has left of that vast world is a handful of earth, taken from the red valley. It will serve as both memento and warning – the one piece of evidence to prove that Rairam was once part of a greater land, a land torn apart by war.

  He draws on the knowledge of the stars, weaving a barrier of gigantic proportions. Without the physical laws of Acre to govern it, Rairam will need new laws and new boundaries. The ocean in the south is one such boundary. Its waves will never again lap another coast. Guided by the Watchers, he makes mountains grow in the west to match their sisters in the east: strong arms to cradle his new world. Then he lets the deep bank of forest in the north run unchecked for many leagues before using the star, Thurn, to persuade the trees to grow gnarled and dark. Their limbs are knotted, impenetrable, and a chill lies on them like death. This place where day meets night must have a name, so he calls it Chort: the Rib Wall. Once upon a time, it would have abutted the Acrean ice fields, but now the Rib Wall will serve as his northernmost boundary.

  He doesn’t know how long it has taken him to craft the skeleton of a new world, but it is done and he is weary and there is only one thing left to do. The book’s black wind still wails at his feet, striving for release. He releases it.

  A sharply indrawn breath; it is Anohin feeling the wind pass over him and on, seeking out every other Yadin. They are unnecessary things, these Yadin. He considers them mere constructs, the result of the Wielders playing at being gods. He doesn’t want them in his world, not these abominations that walk and talk like human beings. Except for Anohin, of course. Anohin is different. They have been together for so long. Anohin helps to keep the human part of him alive and the deep irony of this thought makes him smile.

  The black wind unravels the Yadin, returning their energy to him. It is unfamiliar, but not unusable. He lets it remain in its simplest form and – from up on high – begins to smash the Sartyan army still on his soil. Their screams mingle with the metallic shrieks of their engines, which he bursts one by one.

  The slaughter bores him after a while. He gazes with both eyes and mind at the continent he has stolen from Acre. It is not perfect, he silently tells the people of Rairam, but it is peace. Almost as an afterthought, he calms the protesting sea with the star, Lagus, and sends his mind out through the world, checking for lesions and knitting those he finds.

  He already has a name for his new world. ‘Good morning, Mariar,’ he whispers. And as the sun rises to spill its golden warmth across the hills, while his mind is still linked with the land and with the stars, a black agony gusts into him, and rips his soul apart.

  The blow flung him to his knees. He was screaming, clutching his head as the wind tore away his sanity. It stripped him of his self, trying to get to the very heart of him.

  Then a voice cried, ‘Kyndra!’ and that name was enough. I am me, she thought wildly, not him, never him. She was on the ground and so were the Nerian, as if a great wind had roared through and swept them violently against the walls. Her head had surely split open at the impact – the agony made her ears ring. And those pinpricks of light were staring down at her, closer now than they’d ever been before. If she could just reach them, the pain would stop.

  But that now-familiar wall was there again and Kyndra hurt too much to push against it.

  Dimly she realized that none of the Nerian were seriously hurt, despite the violence of the vision. Surely the Madness should have taken everyone in the room, but the only one who seemed disturbed was the man with the cratered face. He was on the floor too, hands fisted against his skull. As Kyndra watched, his companion picked himself up and hurried to calm him, stroking his back and whispering what sounded like soothing words. They had no effect. The black-clad man’s keening grew louder, until it turned into an expression of un-utterable horror. The sound echoed around the chamber and those gathered there flinched, as if it hurt them.

  But Kyndra drew an odd kind of strength from the man’s wailing and she found herself climbing stiffly to her feet and walking through the scattered Nerian towards the dais. The distraught man was the
lodestone that had brought her here and she could not fight the pull any longer. She was at the platform and then climbing the steps, the man was within reach of her hand—

  An arm blocked her. It sat hard against her stomach, barring her way.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man in white said. With his free hand, he reached up and tugged down his cowl. The face beneath was unlined, but tired, as if it had seen more years than it cared to. ‘I cannot let you come any closer.’

  Behind Anohin, Kierik started to howl.

  26

  No one moved, and a religious silence formed around the madman’s cries. Kyndra stared at Anohin, recognizing him from the visions. The hood had mussed his straw-coloured hair and stray locks hung to a chin roughened with stubble. Although his grey eyes were wan, the arm against her stomach was as solid and unyielding as iron.

  The tension in Anohin’s body was strung to breaking point. Every muscle was taut and coiled, ready to act. Kyndra slowly raised her hands and stepped back. Only when she had put the steps between them did Anohin relax.

  ‘I must see to my friend and master,’ he said. His was a clear voice, but its bell-like tones couldn’t disguise a weariness as deep and old as the earth. ‘You will be allowed to remain here so long as you swear fealty.’

  ‘Fealty?’

  ‘Your companion has already spoken the vow. Now it is your turn, Kyndra Vale.’

  ‘Don’t, Kyndra,’ Nediah said from somewhere behind her. ‘It will bind you to them.’

  Kyndra looked past Anohin to the trembling man that the Nerian called saviour and raised her voice over his howling. ‘I don’t want to hurt him.’

  ‘Then swear it.’

  ‘Show me the way,’ Kait called.

  She didn’t have any choice. All the answers lay here in this primitive chamber of hollowed-out rock. It’s true, she thought, as her battered mind began to turn over this latest vision, the Nerian are right about the war.

  ‘Show me the way,’ Kyndra murmured.

  ‘I am a seeker of truth. I am a servant of light …’

  She repeated verbatim the words Kait spoke and imagined their coiled power unfurling to bind her into the service of this strange crew. Kierik’s noise did not cease and each piteous wail jarred her spine.

  The awful sound didn’t seem to affect Anohin, who gazed at his master with sad eyes. Seemingly satisfied with her vow, he took up his charge’s arm and the madman’s howling quietened a little. ‘I must calm him,’ Anohin said. ‘He’s more agitated than usual.’

  Leaning on his guide, the madman lurched through the archway and his uneven gait caused something around his neck to swing wildly. Kyndra squinted. It was a pouch, strung on a worn cord. The cracked leather looked uncannily like the one she’d found on the airship, the one later stolen from Brégenne’s room. But if it was the same, why did it now swing from a madman’s neck?

  Kierik disappeared from view, taking the pouch with him. I’d have to get closer to make sure, Kyndra thought and shuddered. The prospect of approaching the Nerian’s saviour again turned her stomach. And yet she wanted it. She both wanted and feared to look into those eyes.

  The noise in the chamber grew and Kyndra turned at a touch on her arm. It was Kait and her smile was sunlit. ‘Welcome!’ she cried. ‘I knew you would swear. I knew you would become one of us!’

  Kyndra tried to speak, but more of the Nerian joined Kait, eager to offer their greetings. She shook hands, smiling shallowly, and wondered what she’d got herself into. Someone slipped a plain black band over her shirt sleeve and between the bobbing heads of the crowd, she caught sight of Nediah trying to remain inconspicuous.

  ‘Who is this?’

  A finger was pointing at Nediah. It belonged to a thickset man with a suspicious, craggy face. He reminded Kyndra alarmingly of Alandred.

  Kait pushed her way through the crowd to stand in front of Nediah. ‘He is the one whose words brought Kyndra to us.’

  ‘Then he is welcome,’ the man answered, suspicion abandoned. He moved forward and without preamble worked an identical black band over Nediah’s sleeve. The Wielder didn’t resist, but watched with empty eyes.

  Trying her best to avoid the jubilant stares of the crowd, Kyndra studied the room more closely. Torch brackets hung on the walls and murals brightened the gloomy stone. The largest depicted a man standing tall against a night sky, arms thrown forward. In the space between his hands, a world spun into being. Stars glimmered in his eyes and a stark tattoo blazed over his face and shoulders, racing down across his bare chest like a fan of comets.

  ‘It is our history,’ Kait said, coming to stand beside her. Together they gazed at the godlike man sculpting a world. ‘It is the moment of Deliverance. The true Deliverance.’

  ‘That is Kierik?’

  Adoration warmed Kait’s eyes. ‘Are you not proud?’ she whispered.

  Kyndra stared at the mural. The tattoos on the face matched those on the madman’s, but where these were beautiful, the madman’s were black and dead-looking. ‘What happened to him?’ she asked softly.

  ‘That is Anohin’s tale,’ Kait said. ‘He will tell it when he returns.’

  Kyndra looked at her sidelong. Kait seemed as unaffected by the aftermath of the vision as everyone else in the room. Either Kyndra was wrong and the Madness had nothing to do with her, or the sect had some protection she couldn’t see. Anohin would know.

  The commotion abruptly ceased and, as if he had heard his name in her thoughts, Anohin appeared in the archway. He began to walk through the gathered people and they bent before him like grass before a wind. His garments glimmered palely under the torchlight.

  When he reached Kyndra, he stopped. ‘Come.’ The command was quiet, insistent.

  ‘She’s not going anywhere without me,’ Nediah said, moving to stand at Kyndra’s shoulder.

  ‘She doesn’t need you,’ Kait said. ‘She is one of us now. We do not harm our own.’

  Nediah folded his arms. Anohin regarded the Wielder’s stubborn stance and a smile flickered across his lips. ‘Your dedication is applauded, disciple. But I would like to speak to your young friend alone and beg your indulgence. It is as Kait says. No harm shall come to either of you.’

  ‘I want to hear what he has to say, Nediah,’ Kyndra said, desperate to ask Anohin about her latest vision and what it meant – and whether it had anything to do with the Madness. ‘Isn’t this why we came?’

  Nediah glowered at Anohin, but eventually let his arms fall.

  ‘You have done well,’ the Yadin said then to Kait. ‘Stay and induct our new member into the truths of our people.’ Kait did not look happy at being left behind, but said nothing. Instead she shared a meaningful glance with Anohin and Kyndra thought she gave him the whisker of a nod.

  Then the Yadin turned and led Kyndra out of the chamber. Thick walls soon muffled the chatter behind them, as Anohin led her through a series of honeycombed corridors. The ceiling dipped low in places, forcing them to stoop. She kept an eye on the Yadin, whose body still showed signs of tension. Perhaps it never left him. What did he guard against down here, Kyndra wondered, far from the light of the sun?

  When the path diverged, Anohin did not hesitate. They went left, right and left again. The turns grew too many to remember. A reddish glow lit their way, tinted by the ochre of the stone and there was a smooth channel worn in the floor – possibly formed by generations of feet. They passed openings hung with cloth, which Kyndra guessed might be living quarters. Anohin said nothing until they reached a similar opening where a heavy curtain served as a door. He flipped it aside and beckoned her in.

  The space beyond more closely resembled a cell than a room. It was barely larger than the one Kyndra had up in the citadel. The only furniture was a simple pallet that lacked any impression of a body, a small chest, a chair and a chipped wooden desk. No furnishings softened the bare stone. The uncarpeted floor was worn smooth from pacing feet, much like the one outside.

  Anohin gest
ured her to the chair and then crossed to lean against the wall. They looked at each other for a few silent moments. ‘You know me,’ the man said. It wasn’t a question.

  Kyndra studied him. No wrinkles marred his cheeks, or spots of age. His back was straight and his legs strong. Only one other wore timelessness like a second skin: Medavle.

  ‘I see at least some of the truth in your eyes,’ Anohin continued. ‘You were destined to learn it, after all, and I knew it would lead you here. What have the visions shown you?’

  She did not ask how Anohin knew about the visions, but said instead, ‘Rairam.’ The word tasted strange on her tongue. For the first time, she allowed herself to fully consider the vision that had revealed the fate of Acre. The old world was still there. It had been hidden, not destroyed. And her world – Mariar – wasn’t a world at all, but a continent called Rairam that had once been part of Acre, a land full of the wonders in her story books. Kyndra’s hands trembled. She knew Kierik for what he was now. ‘Starborn,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Anohin said. ‘The last.’ Grey eyes watched her closely.

  ‘But … how is it even possible, what he did?’

  ‘When he first told me of his plan, I said the same. No one can hide a whole continent, its people, its rivers and mountains – even its sea.’ Anohin’s gaze strayed. He stared at the wall, but Kyndra was sure he saw more than the rough stone. ‘I underestimated him. I underestimated his ambition.’

  Anohin looked back at her. ‘To one who wasn’t there, it is difficult to explain how desperate the situation had become. The Sartyans had grown fat on the spoils of war. Any who resisted were cut down by an army too great to withstand, an army wearing the scarlet plates of the empire. Many cities surrendered and were spared, their people converted and their cultures absorbed. Kierik knew he couldn’t stop it. What power does one man – even a Starborn – have against the combined might of a world united under one banner? Even Solinaris, the ancestral seat of the Wielders, had begun to rupture, turned from within. The fortress of the sun had always been a beacon of hope to the people it governed, but some foresaw its fall and defected to the empire.’