At the mention of Nigellus, Sophronia exchanges a furtive glance with her sisters. Their mother’s closest advisor and the royal empyrea has always been something of an enigma, even as he’s been a regular feature in their lives since birth. He’s kind enough to them, if a bit cold, and he has never given them reason to mistrust him. They aren’t the only ones who are wary of him—the whole court dislikes him—but they fear him and the empress far too much to ever do more than whisper about it.
Sophronia can count all of the empyreas on the continent on two hands—each royal family employs one, except in Cellaria, and there are a scant handful who are nomadic either by nature or by training. While the power to bring down stars is natural for them, it is a gift that requires extensive study to control. An untrained empyrea is said to be a dangerous thing, allegedly able to bring stars down by accident and make their wishes come true simply by giving voice to them, though there hasn’t been an empyrea born in Bessemia in her lifetime.
“Stardust?” Beatriz asks with a touch of derision. “A bit of a disappointment, really. I could have found a vial from any merchant in town for a few hundred asters.”
Beatriz is the only one of them who speaks to their mother that way, and every time she does, a bolt of fear goes through Sophronia, though in this case she has to agree. Stardust is not exactly a rarity—every time a starshower happens in Vesteria, reapers comb the countrysides, gathering the puddles of stardust that remain, bringing in pounds of it to merchants, who bottle it up and sell it alongside their fine jewels and silks, each pinch good for a single wish—not strong enough to do much more than heal a broken bone or disappear a pimple, but valuable all the same. Stardust can be found in the inventory of any merchant worth his salt, except in Cellaria, that is, where starshowers don’t occur. According to Cellarian lore, stardust isn’t a gift from the stars but a curse, and even possessing it is a crime. To Cellarians, the absence of starshowers is viewed as a reward for their piety and a sign that the stars smile on the kingdom, though Sophronia wonders if the truth of it is the opposite, that the lore was written as a balm to convince Cellarians that life is better without the magic they don’t have natural access to.
The empress only smiles.
“Not stardust,” she says. “A wish. From Nigellus.”
At that, even Beatriz goes quiet, looking at her bracelet with a mix of awe and fear. Sophronia does the same. Whereas stardust is a fairly average luxury, a wish from an empyrea is something else entirely. Usually, such wishes are made in person, with the empyrea wishing upon a star and using their magic to pull the star down from the sky. The wishes made that way are stronger, without the usual limits of stardust, but there are only so many stars, so they must be used only in the direst of circumstances. As far as Sophronia knows, the last time Nigellus wished on a star was to end a drought in the Bessemian countryside that had lasted months. His action doubtlessly saved thousands of lives and kept the rest of Bessemia’s economy from plummeting, but there were many who thought the cost too high. Sophronia could still see the place in the sky where that star had once hung, part of the Clouded Sun constellation, which signified a change in weather. Sophronia wondered what constellations were missing stars now thanks to the creation of these baubles.
“And it’s in the stone?” Beatriz asks, looking somewhat skeptical.
“Indeed,” their mother says, still smiling. “A bit of alchemy Nigellus has come up with—the only three in existence. All you have to do is break the stone and make your wish. It’s strong magic, strong enough to save a life. But again, they should only be used when you have no other options.”
Beatriz helps Sophronia clasp the bracelet around her wrist, and Sophronia returns the favor for her. With that done, the empress looks at each of them, giving one final nod.
“Come, my doves,” she says, pushing open the carriage door and letting in a burst of bright morning sunlight. “It is time to fly.”
Beatriz has to squint when she steps out of the carriage, the sunlight blinding her and making her eyes itch even more. The chemist who made her eye drops told her that she would become accustomed to the sensation, but she’s practiced using them a few times now and she’s not sure that will ever be the case. Loath as she is to admit it, though, her mother’s right—it’s a necessary discomfort.
When her eyes adjust she sees three matching open-topped carriages that must have preceded them from the palace—all painted powder blue and gold, Bessemian colors, and each pulled by a pair of pure-white horses with ribbons wound through their manes and tails. Beside each carriage is a small silk tent. One Frivian green, one Temarinian gold, and one Cellarian scarlet, each flanked by a pair of guards dressed to match.
The Bessemian delegation that accompanies them surrounds their carriage, and Beatriz spies a few familiar faces, including Nigellus with his cold silver eyes and long black robe. Even under the heat of the noon sun, there isn’t so much as a bead of sweat on his alabaster forehead. He must be her mother’s age, at least, but he looks closer in age to Beatriz and her sisters.
Surrounding each tent is a cluster of well-dressed men and women, their faces all blurring together—the delegations of nobles sent from each country to escort them. The Cellarian party is by far the brightest, dressed in colorful shades—some of which she can’t put a name to. They look friendly enough, all wide, beaming smiles, but Beatriz knows better than most that looks can be deceiving.
It doesn’t matter how many times Beatriz has heard her mother go over the official handoff, she still doesn’t feel prepared, but she tries not to show her nerves, instead keeping her back straight and her head high.
Their mother kisses each of their cheeks one last time, and when she gets to Beatriz, her lips are thin and cold against her skin and then it is done. No show of sentimentality, no parting words, no declarations of love. Beatriz knows better than to expect anything different. She tells herself that she doesn’t even want any of that from her mother, but she finds that it still stings when the empress moves away from them, leaving the three sisters in the center of the clearing, caught both literally and figuratively between worlds.
Daphne takes the first step, as she always has as long as Beatriz can remember, walking toward the Frivian tent with her shoulders squared and her eyes fixed straight ahead. She tries so hard to mirror their mother’s coldness, but she can’t stop herself from looking back at them, and in that instant, Beatriz sees the uncertainty plain in her eyes. In that instant, Beatriz wonders what would happen if Daphne said no, if she refused to go into the tent, if she disobeyed her mother. But of course she doesn’t. Daphne could sooner catch a falling star in the palm of her hand than go against the empress’s wishes. With a final half smile at Beatriz and Sophronia, Daphne steps into the tent, disappearing from view.
Beatriz glances at Sophronia, who has never been able to hide her fear like Daphne.
“Come on,” Beatriz tells her. “We’ll go together.”