Page 53 of House of the Beast

Chapter

T he next morning, I woke up with Aster crouching at the side of my bed, watching me. His chin was pillowed on his arms, and he was close enough for me to count the thick lashes of his two open eyes, and then to trace the bareness of the one perpetually closed upon his forehead.

“Good morning,” he said.

I blinked in response, not wanting to fill the meager space between us with my voice.

He unfolded an arm to brush away the strands of hair that had fallen into my face.

He paused then, as if to wait for any sign of rejection.

When I only continued to look at him, his fingers tucked the hair behind my ear, lingered against the shell of it.

“Today’s the day,” he said. “Are you feeling any better?”

I thought about it. Yesterday’s events had been dizzying, but a full night of sleep had done me good. The fear I had felt toward my monster seemed so far away, when he was being gentle with me like this. “I am,” I decided quietly.

“Good,” said Aster, and straightened up to offer me his hand. His eyes crinkled at me. “Let’s get you ready to kick some ass.”

At precisely noon, the umbral gate would open.

The Pilgrims of each House would march through, and for three days and nights, we would be trapped inside that nightmare realm among the terrors to hunt down the fallen star.

During that time, my father would be searching for his secrets—and I would need to be ready to stop him.

Eight years I had prepared for this moment, to finally show him the fruits of his cruel labor.

He had taken me to become a daughter of Avera, and I would instead become the vessel he had always wanted to be.

I let Aster drag me out of bed; then I checked my sword, my coat, and the light pack of supplies that I would bring through.

I did stretches to get my blood flowing, and then I meditated, and even when I found myself in the familiar little kitchen of my memories, I did not think about my mother.

Aster sat at the windowsill all the while, humming to himself.

I focused on the sound of his voice, and let it ground me.

I knew it was time for breakfast when the smell of food wafted upstairs, even though the sky had barely brightened as the hours passed.

At the table, Sevelie was subdued, but that didn’t stop her from accompanying me to the door after to send me off.

It was strange how quickly things could change.

Not even two days ago, I would have had no trouble imagining her praying for my downfall.

Now I found myself thankful for her well wishes.

Even her maids seemed to have warmed up to me, a few meeting me at the door to bid me good luck as I left.

“We will see you in three days’ time, Lady Alma,” said the one named Cora.

“Hopefully as the victor,” piped up another, whose name I thought was Liesa. “Then you can tell Lord Kaim that our lady is not interested in marrying him.”

“Liesa,” chided Sevelie without any real heat.

“You just want him back on the market,” Cora muttered.

“Cora!” Sevelie gasped. When her maids turned away, chastised, she cleared her throat. “Either way, Alma—we wish you the best. Be careful and do come back in one piece.”

“Aren’t you the popular one,” complained Aster, but I could tell that he was not truly upset about it, the way he would have been before. Perhaps he really was taking my request to heart.

I had certainly not received a farewell like this on my way from the estate. It was odd to think that there were people who cared what happened to me. “Thank you,” I said, hoping I did not sound too awkward. “I’ll do my best not to die.”

Not wanting to linger on the doorstep too long, I gave myself a quick last-minute inspection.

Everything seemed to be in order—my uniform had been washed and freshly ironed, and the light leather pack I had strapped to my back contained three days’ worth of water and rations.

Sevelie’s hospitality had made my stay in Sorrowsend relatively painless; now, however, I was truly on my own.

There was a carriage waiting to take me to Firmament Square, and we arrived as the court’s ornate clock tower was sounding a mournful toll of the half hour.

Other Pilgrims had already gathered around the gate, waiting under their banners for their turn to approach when it opened.

They stood in lines like soldiers preparing for an expedition, separated into their Houses with their leaders standing at the head.

There was the pristine armor of the Weeping Lady’s knights, led by the three Sorrowless Disciples in brilliant white; the midnight blue of House Metia; Goldmercy’s gray and copper; and of course, pure Avera black, our banners fluttering like the wings of a dark portent under the sickly sky overhead.

I half-expected to be greeted by a band of Inquisitors upon my arrival and would have been sick with nerves if not for repeating to myself that it was too late for any of that—I had made my choice, and there was nothing to do but to see it through to the end.

But no knights or clergymen came to point their fingers at me as the carriage pulled to a stop.

Only a valet opened the door, bowing to me deeply as I stepped out.

The city was alive with elation. Though Firmament Square itself had been cordoned off, the streets around it were choked with people, many carrying ceremonial lanterns that sputtered in the sluggish sea wind.

A couple of priestly men waved incense about, blessing them and blessing their prayers to us.

Inside the square, there was a different kind of anticipation—one that was charged with restless energy.

My father and Kaim both stood at the head of their retinues, making their last preparations.

I kept my eyes on my father as I alighted from the carriage, wary.

Either he would be surprised to see me untempered, or he already knew Olissa Goldmercy was dead.

If he chose to confront me about it, things could devolve very quickly.

To my relief, however, he did not look up at me at all.

Instead he remained diligently occupied with his men, as if I were beneath his notice, though a few of the Dreadguard standing loyally behind him eyed me with open hostility.

I had been supposed to join them, but in their eyes, I had betrayed my father for my own unknowable ends.

A couple of tempered horses stood at the rear of their procession, loaded with supplies.

The sight of them brought to mind my own close call yesterday.

They displayed none of the characteristic movements of animals at rest—no flicking of the tail or the ears.

There was blood caked below their nostrils from the procedure that had taken their wits, and along their cheeks where it had trickled down from their gouged-out eyes.

The first time someone had tried to bring pack animals into the umbral plane, they had promptly gone wild, grown sharp teeth and tentacles, and begun massacring the Pilgrims. Now, robbed of their senses, these horses were perfectly safe.

They would not struggle, nor would they eat or drink or sleep.

They would be used until their bodies gave out, and then they would die quietly, because they were no longer capable of doing otherwise.

Suppressing a shudder, I looked away toward the lines of Dreadguard standing behind my father and Kaim.

Some of them had their heads bowed in fervent last-minute prayer, now that the hour drew near.

All of them were formidable soldiers; Sevelie was right to have worried.

These were men who were ready to follow my father to their deaths—or perhaps to a fate even worse than death, knowing the unspeakable horrors that could overtake their minds.

They had sworn an oath to an elder god’s vessel, which gave them some measure of protection, but still they were only men.

Pious men, who believed in their cause, just as I believed in mine.

Inevitably, my eyes wandered over to the Goldmercy banners.

As expected, the place where Olissa Goldmercy would have stood was empty—and I could not help the guilt that flooded my stomach at the sight.

I could glimpse people in the crowd craning their heads in confusion at the unoccupied space, as if wondering why it was taking the leader of House Goldmercy so long to arrive.

A part of me desperately wished I had indeed let Sevelie go to the court, just so my conscience could be clear of this.

I quickly turned away and went to stand before the gate below the last Avera banner—the one that was mine.

Of all the Pilgrims, I was the only one by myself. Murmurs stirred as I settled into place. Not for the first time, I felt perilously underprepared. All I had with me was my sword and my leather pack of supplies. No doubt there were people who expected me not to last long enough to need them.

“There she is,” I heard someone say. “The mad daughter of Zander Avera.”

Strangely, the title brought me comfort. My madness was now my greatest defense, and my greatest boon. It would become an indicator of my dedication to Kugara, as long as I succeeded in killing the Wanderer of Still Waters. I held my head high and let the people talk.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.

“You know,” said Aster at my side. “It’s been a long time since I’ve come back here.”

“Are you nervous?” I murmured, glancing around to make sure no one could hear me ask.

“Me?” Aster tossed his head proudly, silver hair flopping into his eyes. “Hah!”

But when I reached for his hand, his fingers immediately clasped mine back, holding tight. They were trembling.

My eyes widened. I had never, in all these years, seen Aster do anything so human as tremble .

“You are nervous,” I said, accusing.

He grimaced, caught and sheepish about it. “A little bit.”