Page 29 of Harbinger

The first course arrives—delicate arrangements of things I can’t identify. I’m dimly aware of Andry groaning and Isidore chastising him. But my thoughts are far away from here, circling somewhere distantly like that bird in the night sky. When I finally force myself back to the present, force myself to smile, force myself to eat despite the churning in my stomach, I can’t help but look at the king’s table to find him and the rest of his table casually feasting like all of this is normal. All of them but one, that is.

Bishop Marius is watching me.

SIX

News travels fast, but gossip travels faster, and dinner from two hours ago now turns in my belly. I swallow back bile as I catch snippets of what the others are saying while we wait to be led into the throne room.

Every initiate is talking about me. About how I let my sacrifice go. How I refused to make my Petition. How I think I’m better than everybody else.

They cluster in small groups, whispering behind their hands while shooting glances in my direction like I might suddenly sprout wings and fly away.

I’m this close to trying when a vesper appears, wearing a white robe embroidered with the royal constellation. He clears his throat. “If I can have your attention.”

The conversations stop, every initiate shifting to face him. I’m just grateful for the momentary reprieve.

“You may prepare.” He clasps his hands and waits.

I take a deep breath before reaching for the gold starbursts at my shoulders. I pinch, and the chain draped across my chest slackens, allowing me to remove my gown’s delicate cape. Cool air brushes the bare skin of my back, tickling down my exposed arms. Without the additional layer, the gown’s neckline seems to plunge even farther, and the long slits in the shimmering skirt allow my legs to slip through.

The woman closest to me slides out of a fur jacket. Underneath it, she’s wearing a cropped top that hugs her breasts but leaves her midriff bare. The man next to her strips to a loose vest that’s little more than two pieces of fabric tied with a length of leather cord, putting his sinewy arms on display along with glimpses of a hewn slab of abdominal muscles.

The other initiates disrobe in similar fashion, slipping off coats and jackets to reveal more flesh for the Stars to burn their mark into.

I hug my arms across my chest, wondering where the Stars will brand me. If they will.

“When the doors open, you will form a single line leading toward the well in the center. Please wait for your name to be called.” He rattles off instructions, my peers hanging on his every word, but I’m only half listening.

Stand here. Walk there. Bow to this person. Bleed into that place. And don’t forget to smile. The pageantry of it all makes my teeth ache.

When he finally shuts up, the girl closest to me whispers, “Did you really release your sacrifice?”

I’m almost impressed she dared to ask—if she weren’t maintaining her distance like my rebellion might be contagious.

I stare back at her. “No, I taught it to dance.”

She shifts farther away, nose wrinkling. A few others edge closer, spurred on by her bravado, and I grit my teeth.

The doors swing open, saving me from their curiosity. We file in with theatrical slowness. I’m near the rear of the line, and when I finally make it inside, I understand what took so long.

It’s like time stopped here centuries ago. The Eternal Throne commands the room. Carved from obsidian, it surges up in jagged, angular lines from a dais situated on the far wall, the entire pedestal a physical constellation of black stars. There must be a mile of nochtimetric patterns worked into its surface. Each line is etched and filled with shimmering resin that seems to glow in the dark room. The throne and this room are the oldest part of the palace, the only things to survive the Last War. Everything else was rebuilt around it.

There are no plastered walls or polished marble floors. But the space isn’t barren like that room at the top of the Royal Astrolatory, and thankfully, no sacrificial bird is waiting. The only offering we’ll make tonight is a single drop of our blood as a gift to the Stars.

The domed ceiling rises impossibly high, the glass so clear that it might be mistaken for open sky, if not for its impressively thin copper foiling. The night spreads above us, constellations surrounding the black void of the Night’s Scar, each star burning so brightly it’s as if they’ve gathered to watch—just like the audience of nobles seated a respectful distance behind the throne in a gallery wrapping around either side of it.

Too much blood was spilled in the name of claiming that throne by people desperate to believe their power could be eternal, too. I swear I hear them: a thousand years of ghosts calling to me, crying out, desperate to be heard. But I force myself to follow the procession and take my place.

The vesper begins to chant, and I lower my gaze to the floor. The stone has been carved with deep channels to create a labyrinth of connected patterns that form the shape of every patron constellation. I search for the pegasus of Order Icaros, its wings spread wide in eternal flight. Instead, I find the remnants of a different pair of wings. Like always, their etched lines are filled in with mortar as a warning.

The fallen constellation.

Suddenly, it’s like I’m back in that bookstore. The knot in my throat tightens until it’s hard to breathe. This can’t end soon enough.

I search for my family among the tiered rows of spectators. Andry is up on his knees in his chair, craning for a better look. My sister has one hand on his tunic to keep him from toppling over. Andry waves at me, grinning from ear to ear, and I wave back, glad that at least one person doesn’t care that everyone is talking about me. Because judging by Broderic’s rigid stance, he’s noticed, too, and he cares.

The woman beside him leans close, her hand touching his arm as she whispers something in his ear. She’s beautiful in a calculated way—brown hair arranged in perfect ringlets, a dress that suggests everything while revealing nothing, and enough jewels to assume she’ll fulfill my brother’s only criterion for a potential wife. Velesont? Calix? I can’t tell from here. But the way she positions herself—the casual ownership in how she touches him—sends my heart leaping only so it can plummet.

Another sacrifice in the name of responsibility.