6. Astra
Astra
They called it a review.
The Council had called my formal a celebration. By the end of it, they had put me in my mother’s gown and tried to bind me to one man before the entire Hall.
The stewards arrived before the last note of the bell had faded. Hale got Kieran to his feet, one arm around his chest and Kieran’s left hand braced on his shoulder. The fever draught had steadied his breathing, but it had also left him pale and slow. Its bitter smell clung to his skin.
Caspian walked on Kieran’s other side. I stayed close behind them, watching the green-gold line on my wrist for any change.
Two stewards led us away from the rooms. The corridor was colder here, its pale ceiling light reflected in damp patches along the floor. Unmarked doors passed on either side. None had handles.
No one spoke. Kieran needed his breath for walking.
The review chamber had no windows and no reading basin.
A long table divided the room. Four chairs waited on our side; on the other sat the woman who had met us at the bridge and three readers I recognized from intake.
The reader who had given Kieran the draught had placed her narrow leather case beneath her chair.
Marrow stood behind them.
Paper covered the table in careful stacks. One page lay apart from the others, marked at the top with all four of our names.
Caspian saw it too.
“Is that the record of our request for treatment?” he asked before anyone invited us to sit.
The woman from the bridge put one hand on the page. “It is part of the review record.”
“Does it state that the cord was pulled before his breathing seized?”
She looked down. “It states the time of the summons, the respiratory event, and the draught administered.”
“And the request for a healer?” I asked.
Her eyes lifted to me. “Recorded.”
Only then did Caspian pull out Kieran’s chair.
We sat with Kieran between Hale and me. Caspian took the chair at the end. They had placed us close enough that our sleeves touched when any of us moved.
Kieran leaned back carefully. The cloth at his neck had been removed, but damp green marked the collar of his shirt. Hale kept one hand near the edge of Kieran’s chair without resting it there.
The woman from the bridge folded her hands over the page.
“Astra Verita. Your Mark carries three active lines. State their origins.”
My pulse quickened. I kept both hands flat on my thighs.
“Green-gold from Kieran Marsh. Rain-dark from Jonah Hale. Silver from Caspian Ashford.”
One of the readers made a note. The scratch of her pen seemed loud in the bare room.
“The silver line is the completed bond?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you account for the presence of three?”
“I don’t. They appeared during readings conducted by the Hall. You have those records.”
“We have measurements,” she said. “We are asking what you believe they mean.”
I looked at the four people across from us. None had offered a name. They had our histories in front of them and still wanted me to explain myself as if I had drawn the lines there deliberately.
“They mean my Mark answered three people.”
“That is a description.”
“I didn’t know I had a Mark until Linden came to my home and hauled me to Zenith Hall. Those lines appeared during tests your Hall conducted. If your own records can’t explain what they mean, why do you expect me to?”
The only response was the reader’s pen across the paper.
Kieran shifted beside me. His breath caught, small enough that the panel might have missed it. Hale did not.
The woman at the center turned to Kieran.
“State the origin and duration of your line.”
“Astra is the origin.” His voice sounded rough from the spasm. “The line became visible during the post-reading practicum at the Hall.”
“Your Mark was already in decline.”
His fingers curled against the edge of his chair. “Yes.”
“For how long before the Tether?”
“Nearly three years.”
I had known his Mark was failing long before mine reached him. I had never heard him say how long.
The reader with the leather case opened the page in front of her. “The decline has spread from the shoulder through the upper chest. Fever and respiratory spasm are now present.”
She described what I had watched happen in Kieran’s room without looking at him.
“And you gave him enough medicine to move him here,” I said.
“The draught reduced the immediate symptoms.”
“It didn’t treat the decline.”
“No.”
Kieran’s hand found the edge of the table. His knuckles whitened around it. Hale’s breathing changed beside me, one slow breath drawn through his nose and released with care.
The woman from the bridge looked at Kieran. “Have you documented the rate yourself?”
“Since the decline began.”
“Those records will be surrendered to Steward Marrow.”
Kieran stared at her. “They’re mine.”
“They are relevant to review.”
“You can review a copy.”
Marrow spoke from behind her. “The rate will be measured independently. Your own record will be retained for comparison.”
Kieran went very still.
“He knows his Mark better than anyone in this room,” I said.
“Knowledge does not make his report independent,” Marrow replied.
“Because you think he’s lying?”
“Because self-report is not sufficient.”
Kieran had spent years recording the pain and the shrinking intervals between each change. Marrow called all of it self-report.
“Who performs the measure?” Caspian asked.
“I will arrange it.”
“Who reviews your decision?”
Marrow met his gaze. “No one in this building.”
The woman at the center did not correct him.
Water moved somewhere inside the walls. The sound was faint but constant beneath the silence at our table.
Kieran released the edge of the table one finger at a time. When he spoke again, there was no trace of charm in his voice.
“Will your independent measure change whether you treat me?”
The reader with the leather case answered. “It will determine what treatment the Tower authorizes.”
“And until then?”
“You will receive another draught if the respiratory spasm returns.”
Hale leaned forward. “After it returns.”
She looked at him. “Pull the cord at the onset of symptoms.”
“We did.”
No one across the table answered.
The woman from the bridge closed the page with our names on it. “The initial joint review is concluded.”
The stewards came forward.
Kieran pushed his chair back and tried to stand before Hale could help him. His knees held, but only just. Hale rose beside him without touching until Kieran reached for his arm.
As we turned toward the door, I looked back at the closed page on the table.
Our request had been recorded. So had the delay, the spasm, and the medicine that made Kieran fit to question.
None of it had made them treat him.