55. Henry
HENRY
T he roads into Lunameade’s central square are lined with jars that hold flickering candles. It gives the illusion of a bright star exploding out from the Blood Well at the circular city center.
I suppose that’s the idea. I’m just not used to such elaborate decorations to go with the ritual.
What the fort has always lacked in extravagance, they’ve made up for in enthusiasm, but I have to admit that the lighting and the flowers strewn about the square give an eerie, ethereal quality to the solemn procession of people gathering around the mourning pyre.
Beside me, Harlow’s veiled head is bowed in deference as we climb the stairs of the ceremony stage that’s been constructed over the Blood Well. She looks haunting but lovely.
From the dais, I have a clear view of the pulsing crowd and the tall, conical mourning pyre, made of wood and huge bouquets of dried flowers, a good twenty feet in front of us.
Mourners take turns securely tucking their letters to loved ones between the sticks before retreating to the edge of the crowd.
Security is present but not as robust as I expected. Several city guards stand around the pyre, watching the mourners move around it. Two men stand at the corners of the stage, their heads bowed in reverence.
“Who are they?” I ask Harlow .
“They’re blessed by Stellaria. They’ll help control the blaze,” she says, keeping her eyes cast down on the missive in her hand.
A figure darts up the stairs on the other side of the stage, and I start to push Harlow behind me until I see that it’s Kellan Carrenwell.
His face is clean-shaven, and his dark, wavy hair is still damp. Like he rushed to get here the moment he stepped out of the bath.
“Low,” he says, pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek through her veil. “Good to see you. Sorry I cut it so close.”
She pulls back and looks past him. “What are you doing here? Where are Mother and Father?”
Kellan turns to face us so his back is to the crowd.
“Slight change of plans. There’s a heavy Drained presence around both the North Hold and South Hold gates, so our parents are staying put to keep an eye on things.
Rafe is doing the same up north. They want us to carry on with the ceremony without them.
I will take on Father’s role—you will do the family mourning speech, Low.
” He points to me. “And you will do your part at the afterparty.”
I bristle. I don’t like being told what to do by any Carrenwell, but I steady myself because I can feel Harlow’s frustration that Rafe is probably using this as yet another excuse to keep her sister from coming to a family event.
The crowd stirs restlessly in the cold night air. By now, the square is packed with so many people, they spill into the side streets. The stream of people coming forward to tuck their messages into the pyre has slowed to a trickle.
“Ready?” Kellan asks, smoothing his hands down his dark wool coat.
Harlow nods.
Kellan steps to the front of the stage and lifts his hands, and the crowd quiets. “People of Lunameade.”
As soon as he speaks, I understand why the stage is constructed this way.
There are long, curved cutouts in the stone ground that extend from this central point in the square.
Originally, I thought they were some kind of water drainage system, but they’re designed for acoustics, to help carry your voice to a large crowd if you stand in the right place.
Kellan continues. “We, the Carrenwell Family, welcome you to night one of Dark Star Festival. It is with heavy hearts that we come here to honor those we have lost over the past year. If you haven’t already done so, please place your mourning letters in the pyre or pass them to the front so they can be placed for you.
” He pauses for a moment as the crowd shifts, passing the remaining letters forward.
Once all of the messages have been put into the pyre, he lifts his hands again.
“Thank you for coming here tonight. I know your hearts are heavy, but tonight we offer our grief up to the Divine in exchange for peace. This ceremony is not just a remembrance of those we have lost, but also a reminder of the miraculous power of the Divine. I’m happy to introduce my youngest sister, Harlow, who will play the part of Stellaria for this year’s Dark Star Festival. ”
He steps aside as the crowd applauds. Harlow hands me her cloak and moves forward to take her place.
It was so bright back in our room, I didn’t notice, but the fabric that looked black in full light shimmers with silvery sparkles in the candlelight. She looks ethereal, like her gown has been sewn directly from the night sky. The fabric must be enchanted by someone with a blessing from Stellaria.
She takes a breath and speaks in a loud, clear voice.
“My late husband, Marc Beckley, was a pillar of this community. He would have been our next mayor had Asher not called him home so soon.” She brings her hand to her chest, toying with the star pendant on her necklace.
Then, she looks down. Murmurs of encouragement rise through the crowd, and she presses a hand to her heart and lifts her chin.
All her practice in front of the mirror paid off. She’s very believable.
She waves a hand in thanks to the crowd.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Marc and how much he cared for the people of this city.
We could have benefited from such a servant leader as mayor.
I honor his memory by continuing to love and protect this city as my family has done for generations.
I ask Divine Asher to deliver his soul and all the souls of our departed loved ones safely beyond the veil. ”
Her conviction reminds me of the speech she delivered at her first dinner in Mountain Haven.
She can be quite a compelling liar when she wants to be, but something about this speech, about the ache in her voice, doesn’t feel fake.
Her grief is real, even if Marc is not the true subject of it.
Hearing how much she wants her sister back makes me feel the slightest bit better about betraying Holly’s memory.
Harlow raises her hands to the sky. “Divine deliver them. ”
The crowd raises their hands toward the dark sky and repeats, “Divine deliver them.”
She turns and descends the stairs, rounding the edge of the stage and tucking her letter into the pyre.
One of the men who is charged with managing the fire steps forward and hands Harlow a white candle.
She curls her other hand around the flame protectively as she walks toward the pyre and raises her free hand into the sky in a fist.
“I am Divine Stellaria. I have been robbed of my love, and in my agony, I’ve made the world dark and it will remain that way until we are reunited.
I am the light and the dark between stars.
I share my radiance with all those who share my agony, with those who know what it is to grieve,” she says as she bends to light the pyre.
She moves clockwise around it, lighting what I realize are eight points, one to align with each city gate. The pyre isn’t a cone shape like I thought. The base is a star.
Because my family was always in charge of the celebrations back in Mountain Haven, I only went to two Dark Star Festivals in Lunameade—the last one with Holly and the other before the fort fell, when I was twenty-three years old.
The memory returns to me now—me, Carter, and Bryce drinking, gambling, and fucking our way through the three-day festival without a care in the world.
I didn’t notice details like this back then, but I remember watching the woman who played Stellaria—who must have been one of Harlow’s older sisters—call to the crowd and light the pyre. The sight was fascinating then, but it’s arresting now, watching my wife finish lighting the bonfire.
The crowd watches her with the same rapt attention, as struck by her grief and conviction as I am.
Harlow turns and shields her candle from the wind as she makes her way toward the crowd. A woman at the edge of the crowd holds out her own candle, lighting it off of Harlow’s. She lights several more candles along the perimeters and those people turn and light the one next to and behind them.
Slowly, the glowing candlelight spreads through the crowd.
Harlow walks up the stairs and crosses to the center of the stage. “Go in peace to honor those you have lost,” she says, lifting her hands. “Divine deliver us. ”
The crowd lifts their hands and repeats after her, then turns and begins to process back toward their homes and parties, a chorus of mourning sounds breaking as they disperse.
She stays there for a long time with her gaze fixed on the bonfire. When the crowd has dwindled to a few stragglers, she finally turns to face me and Kellan.
“How did I do?” she asks.
I don’t know where to even begin because her grief felt so palpable, but Kellan saves me from having to speak.
He places a hand on her shoulder. “Low, you did great, but I thought you would say more at the beginning since our parents couldn’t make it.”
She frowns, and even through her veil I can see the doubt creeping into her eyes. “Was it not?—”
“It was perfect,” I interrupt, casting an irritated look at Kellan as I pull her into a hug. “You were perfect.”
I don’t even realize that hugging isn’t a thing we do until she goes rigid in my arms. Kellan watches the exchange with raised eyebrows.
Harlow extricates herself and snatches her cloak from me. “It was just a performance, Henry. I’m glad you found it moving.” She smiles as she says it, but something in her tone rings false. “Let’s get going. They will be expecting us at the party at home.”
She brushes by me, seemingly unaffected. It’s almost enough for me to fall for it. But when she crosses in front of the still-blazing pyre, I swear I catch the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes.