Border of Stars

It's inconvenient when the soulless pass through town.

Oh, I'm sure everyone else who lives in Lilet would use other words. Unnerving. Disconcerting. Horrifying.

But I am in the middle of teaching a history lesson to a dozen unruly children who have, finally—after an hour of gum-sticking, spit-blowing, and she-stole-my-pencil squabbling—settled their asses into their seats to listen to me for an indeterminate but precious amount of time.

For once, I have their rapt attention. Because this isn't just any history lesson.

This is the good one.

And then the village bells jangle to life, summoning every living soul to an impromptu service.

The children are out of their chairs like they've been branded, making for the doors like I'm their captor and the bells are calling them to freedom. It takes so long to herd them into line that I'm half certain the prior will break down the door in search of us.

At length, however, I manage to cajole them into their places.

It's Kiersten who pops up at the front of the line as I open the doors, never mind Penny's squawk of disapproval at her cutting. But I admit I find it difficult to reprimand the girl, perhaps because her impertinence reminds me of my own.

"How many will there be? How many soulless?" She's craning her neck to see around me, her golden ringlet curls falling around her shoulders. They're hopelessly tangled in the back, her violet ribbon hanging on for dear life. At twelve, Kiersten is among the oldest in the group, and clever enough to go far. I'm hoping her parents will allow her to stay in school for another year, though the typical path in Lilet is to finish lessons before thirteen.

Some children go on to study in the capital, Aurelis, as I did. Most stay here to help their families with the farming. And when they're old enough, they settle into families of their own.

"I'm a teacher, Kiersten," I say. "Not a fortune teller."

"I thought you were a scholar."

"A woman can be two things. Often more." I open the door, glancing back over my shoulder. "One step out of line, Jack, and I'll send you to sit with your parents when we reach the Temple."

The boy in question snaps to attention, nodding, though it's impossible to miss the spark of mischief in his eyes. Ancestors forbid a frog should hop across our path on the way to the Temple. He'll be off and running.

We make our way out to Lilet's dusty main street. Though it's less dusty today than muddy, after several days of rain.

Sure enough, there's a group of five soulless coming toward us, picking their way around the puddles. Three women, two men. More than I've ever seen together, outside of my time in Aurelis. They wear long black robes that obscure every part of them but their heads, the sleeves long enough to cover all but their fingertips, and they carry leather satchels at their belts.

They're young, too. That's always what strikes me about the soulless; how young they are. There's rarely a gray hair among them, and nary a wrinkle. And their expressions are only ever somber. As if they've forgotten how to laugh.

It's no wonder, I suppose. Their task is a grim one.

"Why do they wear the robes?" Kiersten asks me.

"To distinguish them."

"Why do they wear black, when the priors wear gray?" When I lift an eyebrow at her, she rolls her eyes. "To distinguish them, I suppose."

"Precisely." The soulless are overseen by the Temple, and yet... and yet, they are also separate. Something entirely different.

On the opposite side of the street, Elder Anna's door bangs open, and the old woman comes hobbling down the stairs, a shawl draped around her shoulders, her white hair flying in every direction.

She takes one look at the soulless and crosses to our side of the street, never mind that she has to sidestep the lake of a puddle that always forms between the blacksmith on one side, and the tavern, which we're now approaching on ours.

If I could avoid the tavern, I would. But the schoolhouse is located in the middle of Lilet's main street, with the Temple standing like a dome-capped guard on the far end, which means that we have to pass it on our way to the service. Unless I want to cause an uproar by crossing to the same side of the street as the soulless.

So the tavern it is.

Every single person in Lilet who can walk or be carried is heading for the Temple. As is required.

Every person, of course, bar one.

Nathaniel's lounging on the tavern's porch like he owns it. In all likelihood, he was recently tossed out of it. He's got a straw hat propped over his eyes, one he probably stole from a farmer. With his long legs stretched out in front of him, back propped against the tavern wall, he looks like he's taking a break after a hard morning's toil. Which is one thing I can say for certain that he has never experienced in his life.

Fool that I am, I hold my breath as we approach. As if it's actually possible for us to pass without drawing his notice.

As soon as my boots touch the ground outside the tavern, Nathaniel tips his head back and grins at me from under the rim of that ridiculous hat.

"Mornin', sunshine," he says.

I wish I knew who created the law of nature that says the most infuriating men must also be the most handsome. Nathaniel is long and lanky, and he must do some kind of physical labor—to earn his whiskey, no doubt—because hard muscles coil the lines of his arms and his chest. Which I can see, because he's got his sleeves rolled to the elbows, and several of the buttons on his shirt are undone, exposing an alarming triangle of his chest.

His skin is deeply tanned, and I've often thought he must scrub herbs in his hair to lighten it in the sun. I have to admit, if grudgingly, that the sandy-golden color suits him. He must have tied it back under his hat, because only a few strands are falling out to brush his shoulders.

And his smile is as insolent as they come. In all the years I've known him, I don't think I've seen him make another expression. Everything is a joke. And everyone.

"It is no longer morning," I inform him. "It is, in fact, well past noon."

He tips his head toward the sky, squinting. "Is it, now?"

I don't know why, ancestors help me, but I stop walking, all too aware of the audience of children in line behind me. All but Jack, who's scanning the puddles with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

Nathaniel's grin just widens. "Yes?"

It's a long 'yes.' A drawl of a yes, a question of a yes. A what-the-hell-are-you-thinking-Maura-get-to-the-service-now kind of yes.

There's absolutely no reason for me to stop. Let the prior upbraid him for missing the service. It's hardly my responsibility to make him attend.

And yet, I haven't yet moved my feet. "Don't you hear the bells?" I say.

Nathaniel raises his hands to pillow them behind his head, shifting his shoulders to settle more comfortably against the tavern wall. "Is that all the clanging and banging that's splitting my skull apart just now?"

"I should rather think that was the whiskey."

Nathaniel lets the hat fall back over his face. "Accomplices."

The children are getting antsy. If I stay here much longer, Jack will spot a frog, or worse, and there'll be no containing any of them. Even Kiersten's likely to join the fray. And if we're not seated in our designated row by the time the service begins, her mother will have my head.

But Nathaniel's lounging here like there's nothing out of the ordinary. Like they won't come and haul him off to a cell for the night if he misses the service. So I say, "You have to go to the Temple."

"That's a long walk, sunshine. I think not."

I glance down the street. Even Elder Anna's managed to make her way to the Temple, and she's disappearing inside. "It's two buildings down."

"Like I said. A long walk. Now if that's all, I got some debauchery to sleep off."

* * *

Thankfully, the prior keeps the back row of the Temple reserved for us. We're the last to arrive, and I hurry the children onto the long bench, making sure to separate Jack from Louis because ancestors know those boys will end up rolling on the floor—fighting or laughing or both—if I don't.

The prior won't be in a mood to stand for it, either. Having the soulless here, it puts everyone on edge.

Everyone in town is packed into the curving rows of the Temple, the domed ceiling rising above us. It always makes me think of an eye, somehow, looking down. Watching.

I've just settled into my customary spot at the end of the row as the prior begins to speak, his voice rattling through the space as he starts in on his speech about the soulless, about their purpose to keep souls out of the hands of our enemy. And about the necessity of keeping our distance. Of contemplation.

I hardly think it's necessary to call everyone to Temple just because the soulless are passing through. But Prior Stephen is a man who likes the sound of his own voice.

At least I have the children to distract me. I glance down the row, grateful for a reason to tear my eyes away from the ranting prior.

And then Nathaniel swings over the back of the bench and settles himself in right beside me.