"What's that flashing in the sky?"

"It's a falling star."

"The stars are falling?

"Yes, every summer. Someday, the sky will be all black."

"That's horrible!"

"Don't worry. There will be many, many festivals before then."

When I was a kid, I was always pestering the priestesses at the shrine orphanage with questions. How far away is the sun? Why are these mushrooms growing in a ring? Can I keep this spinarak as a pet?

(The answers were, respectively: "very far," "who cares," and inarticulate screaming.)

It was a happy day for my caretakers when they were able to shunt me into the acolyte training program. A win-win, actually. They found a modicum of peace and quiet. I found an outlet for my curiosity. Natural history.

I flip through my exam and bits of lectures spring to mind. Anatomy. "...and this incision should reveal the—Lena, if you're going to throw up, please step outside first." Geology. "The hills began as sediment in the ancient ocean. See this fossil? Astronomy. "They're not actually stars. They're rocks burning up as they shoot through the sky."

I think of early morning field tests, late nights in the observatory and can't help smiling. I always felt at home in nature. Learning how it all fit together, though, was a different feeling entirely. Like how, from a high cliff, you can see the horizon curve—proof of a world beyond your reach.

I turn to the last page and stop breathing for a second. Scores above 90 are rare; above 95, practically unheard of.

The number scrawled at the bottom of my exam is 97.

I flash my score at Fiona. She simply nods and shows me hers. 86. While I was reading through my first exam, she skipped right to the end of each of hers. She knows how much room for error she has and doesn't seem worried. Could just be her poker face. But I'm not out of the clear yet.

"Where do the traders come from?"

"Islands across the sea."

"There are other islands? Have you been to any of them?"

"When I was younger."

"Will I get to go too?"

"I hope not, child. It's a hard world."

The tentacruel have their own shrines to the sea god and grand festivals where thousands congregate. The underground cities of the medicham dwarf our small settlement. The intricate jewelry that sableye craft makes our best workmanship look shoddy.

According to the priestesses, humans are special to the gods. I'm pretty sure the tentacruel also think they're special to the gods. When I was younger, though, I always wondered why the gods would even think about choosing us, out of all the species in existence. The only thing that seemed to set us apart was our unusual frailty.

In social studies, I learned two answers. First, we have a different form of aura—the psychic energy which all living beings possess. However, the theory of aura is glossed over at the acolyte level. The far more relevant (and annoying) detail is that we speak a different language.

The first half of the social studies exam was a grab bag. First was an essay question about one of the poetic sagas. Then, we were supposed to compare and contrast our economic regulations with those of the medicham. A freebie on the meaning of the flags of trading ships. Some trivia about wynaut mating rituals which I'm pretty sure we never learned.

The second half was an oral on Poké.

Fiona and I were both relatively apathetic about learning Poké. It seems really cool in theory, but it isn't really practical. Most of the local pokemon understand our speech. If they want to respond, it's generally most convenient for a shrine medicham or human psychic to translate.

Even with these issues, Poké would be pretty useful to know. But there's an even bigger problem: the language is extremely difficult for most humans to learn. Even though our vocal cords can make the right sounds, our brains somehow resist stringing them together. This makes no sense to me, in the same way that it makes no sense that pokemon with vastly different anatomies can all speak dialects of the same language.

I did well on the written part; not so much on the oral. 83 overall.

Fiona shows me her 85. An impasse.

"How do auric coins work?"

"They're pretty neat bits of psionic engineering. First—?"

"No, like, why do aurics make pokemon listen to you?"

"Ah! The aurics are proof that we serve the sea god."

"Does everyone worship the sea god?"

"No. But everyone with half a brain fears Them."

I had no problem with applied theology, which consisted mostly of practicing the various meditative states. Theology class, on the other hand, was the bane of my existence.

The few history books we have are tattered, with pages missing and ink blurred beyond legibility. On the other hand, we have shelves and shelves of theology books. All of them full of contradictions and pedantic squabbles. Litanies of rules no one's sure are legitimate, but which the priestesses try to follow just in case.

Sometimes, you get all of the above. A command to eat a diet rich in fish, an injunction against consuming fish, and a long, multivolume debate over what sorts of creatures count as "fish" in the first place.

In these cases, we do whatever we want. But we're still supposed to know the law to the letter for the exam.

As soon as I turn to my last exam, I know it's a train wreck. Kathleen's elegant handwriting layered over mine, adding citations, crossing out entire paragraphs, posing questions I don't even bother parsing. My head spins.

I follow Fiona's example and flip to the last page. 67. I knew this would be my worst exam and Fiona's best. But 67 isn't even average. There's no chance I can recover from that. I thought I'd scraped at least an 80.

Fiona's face is expressionless as she shows me her paper. 82.

82?!

Not bad, but a far cry from prodigy-level. My first thought is how close I was to winning. My second thought is that maybe the exam really was very difficult. But difficult enough that it was Fiona's worst score?

I reluctantly flash my paper.

For the first time since our showdown began, Fiona reveals a flicker of emotion. A one-sided smile, or not quite a smile. Something I'm not sure exactly how to read.

Then it dawns on me.

"Anyway," Kathleen says loudly, "I'd better be off. You girls should go change for the feast. See you later!"

Fiona gets up abruptly. "I'm headed out too then." She hurries away. She won't meet my eyes, but I can't forget what I saw.

Fear. For the first time in years, she was afraid.

I take off my robes, fold them, and leave them on my cot. I realize I won't ever wear them again. In two days, they'll go up in flames at the induction ritual. Then, I'll trade the ultramarine of the acolytes for the silvery blue that the priestesses wear.

My dress for the festival is white and shimmers even in the dim light. I wrap its sash around my waist.

Then, I try to fix the disaster of my hair. The humidity makes it frizz up, like a dark cloud. I've learned long ago that combing won't help, so I decide to tie it back. As soon as I finish, someone yanks the ribbon out of its bow and my hair spills out again.

"Hey!"

I turn around. Lena holds my white ribbon in one hand. Deftly, she weaves a new ribbon through my hair, this one the color of blood.

"This one is prettier on you. It brings out the color of your eyes."

I bite back a retort. We've had this argument before. My eyes are a deep red-brown. Lena thinks they make me look mysterious and alluring. I think they make me look like some sort of demon.

She steps back, admiring her work. I think back to earlier today. The ribbon Lena wears so often is a lighter shade than the one she gave me. Her hair is still down, the ribbon missing. It's strange seeing her like this. She looks older, suddenly grown up.

"Where did all the time go?" I ask.

She laughs. "I remember when we didn't have to scrunch up to fit in these cots. We used to be as cute and tiny as they are." She gestures towards the other side of the dorm, where a few little girls are chattering, stripped to wet suits, waiting until the last possible minute to put on their dresses.

"It's funny," I say. "I've been sick of the dorm for years. Now, I'm almost nostalgic for it."

All of the acolytes sleep in the same building. In theory, the dorm mistress is supposed to keep us in line, settle disputes, enforce curfew. In practice, it's halfway between a slumber party and a war zone.

The priestesses get their own rooms. When I was younger, that sounded like heaven.

"Silly." Lena nudges me affectionately. My face must be easier to read than I thought. "We don't have to sleep togeth—sleep in the same room, I mean, to be friends," she says. "We'll always be friends. You and me and Eileen and Siobhan and…"

I sigh.

"So how'd it go?"

Eileen and Siobhan stand in a secluded cove a good distance from the shrine. They took different paths here and made sure that no one followed them.

"The odds closed at 8 to 1 against. Fiona won of course. This is your cut."

Siobhan opens her backpack. It's full of the most valuable contraband, the most liquid acolyte currency (easily exchanged for decorations or cigarettes), destroyer of friendships and creator of uneasy alliances.

Candy.

For the last few weeks, Siobhan ran a betting pool on the exam results. She bribed the dorm mistress to turn a blind eye by promising to enforce discipline among the children in the weeks leading up to the festival. She then hired Eileen, universally loved by the younger acolytes, to do the enforcing.

"I knew 8 to 1 was too good." Eileen said. "Damn. I thought Selkie had a shot."

"It was actually quite close. The final score was 247 to 253."

"Wait, really? How do you know that?"

"Got a ralts to stand outside the hut and read Selkie's mind. No eye contact, but it didn't matter. She's almost as transparent as you are."

"Cool! Wait, that sounds very illegal."

"It is, but there's no way to detect it. It would take all the shrine's psychic resources and the medicham are busy right now."

"I'm glad you're my friend," Eileen says. She shudders. "But 247 to 253? I can't believe it. Maybe another month of nerdery and she would've had her."

"Wait, there's more," Siobhan responds. "What do you think they got on theology?"

"Gee, I dunno. Maybe like 80 for Selkie and 95 for Fiona. I'd guess higher for Fiona, but then she couldn't have done well on the other exams.

"67 and 82."

"No way! I almost beat Selkie."

"Yeah I'm not sure what happened there. The ralts said he could feel her shock. I do have a guess about Fiona though..."

"She threw. And you're wondering if she meddled with our lottery."

"Exactly. Probably the lottery isn't too compromised because her plan didn't work. Assuming that was her plan in the first place. But nothing else makes sense."

"Yeah. Strange though. The Fiona I know would never take candy over winning a pissing contest."

It was true. There were rumors that Fiona got into a literal pissing contest with some of the town boys and won. Probably scurrilous. Still, Siobhan was pretty sure that the gifts of the sea god could triumph over anatomy.

"Whatcha thinking about?"

"Nothing important."

"Something naughty?" Eileen waggles her eyebrows.

"I'm thinking about Fiona pissing."

"I didn't know you were into that sort of stuff, Siobhan."

Siobhan sighs.

"Come on. Let's go back and change before anyone realizes we're missing."

The two best theology students of the decade stand by the darkening shore.

"You saw it too, didn't you? You escaped."

"I did."

Kathleen smiles, but Fiona wishes she didn't. It's not the smile that makes the town boys fall smitten. It's something bitter and secret and true.

"But you won't. I'll tell you why it has to be this way—"

There's a pyre in the center of the town square where the bell was earlier. Wood chopped in winter and dried for months stacked high, higher than my head. It hasn't been lit yet, but the night is still alive with smaller lights—torches lit with the eerie yellow fire that burns even underwater.

Everyone in the village is here, seated at one table or another. The feast is spread across the tables—bread, berries, cooked vegetables, and most of all, seafood—all prepared and blessed by the shrine priestesses. There are kegs around the periphery of the square, but they're all filled with water. Tomorrow, liechi berry wine will flow. Today, everyone will sleep sober.

I feel an itchy anticipation in the air though, as per tradition, no one speaks.

The acolytes sit nearest the pyre. We're assigned seats and supposed to project composure, but I can see the younger girls fidgeting or playing hand games with each other.

There are a few empty seats. By tradition, we reserve places for the girls who washed out of acolyte training. There are some cohorts which look like regiments back from a suicide mission. The girls in those years are different: grim, determined, slower to smile.

Our cohort lost only one, very early on. There's a gap between me and Fiona, a no man's land.

Next year, that gap will be gone. The priestesses—young and old, scholars and sentinels—are all packed together on benches. Only the High Priestess, the inner circle, and the resident medicham sit apart.

That elite group huddles together near the edge of the square. Though they're silent like the rest of us, ripples in the air indicate heavy psychic activity. Not prohibited, but not in the spirit of the festival. Their faces seem stern, rigid, like they're debating something and no one wants to yield..

Abruptly, the High Priestess breaks from the pack and walks up to the pyre. She cups her hands together, then opens them again, revealing a lick of the sacred flame.

"Whoa," Eileen whispers.

"She does that every year," Siobhan says. She rolls her eyes.

Fiona jabs Eileen in the ribs, settles for glaring across the table at Siobhan.

"O sea god, guardian of those who live by the shore, on the waves, and in the deep, patron of travelers and fisherwomen, we thank you for our food. May the sky remain silent and your reign continue another year. To youth and the future!"

"To youth and the future!" we all echo, toasting. The words ring out in the night. Then, there's only the sound of clanking silverware.

The toast is the same every year. People tend to think that the Comet Festival celebrates fertility. Though this is an aspect of the festival—the dance on the second night, a week-long halt to the shrine chastity law—it isn't the sole, or even the primary component.

But there's an older festival that the books in the shrine library hint at, only vaguely known among the general population.

The sagas say there are three ages. The first, that of the earth, when continents rose from the sea and civilization flourished. The second, ours, the sea's, after waters rose again. The last is the sky's.

And just as it was fated that one day the sea god would awaken, one day the sky god's reign will come. The sky god—said to be a massive serpent that coils around the stars—weeps in late summer and the dragon's tears fall.

The sky god weeps because soon it will come time to judge the world.

This prospect scared the ancients enough to offer sacrifice. Hence, some of the Comet Festival's stranger rituals.

Suddenly, I feel a buzzing in my head. It's almost like a headache, but it clarifies thought instead of clouding it. Then, I hear the High Priestess like she's hissing in my ear.

[Essential communications only. All priestesses are hooked into the relay.]

Her tone is curt. It takes immense mental discipline to maintain a telepathic relay between so many non-psychics. She must be tapping the collective aura of the elders and medicham.

I realize, with a slight jolt, that I'm considered a priestess now. There's one more trial to overcome, but it's essentially a formality.

[Ship incoming. Drifting, sailing at only four knots. Estimated landfall before dawn.]

Heads swivel to the sea, but it's dark already and the ship's too far away.

[The vessel is unknown. A preliminary divination gave some… unsettling results. Further divinations were much less alarming, but inconclusive. Immediate danger at one in twenty.]

[Uncertainty?]

I don't recognize the voice.

[High. Many possibilities clouding the near future.]

[Prospects after a preemptive strike?]

[Much worse. Don't alarm the civilians, but stay alert. There's a strong psychic register coming off the ship. We're currently attempting to establish communications.]

With that, the mental broadcast crackles off and we're alone with our thoughts again. Eileen, who paused mid-bite, goes back to scarfing down a pastry. Fiona is by the pyre, scraping food off her plate. A burnt offering. Unusual for her, though it's a tradition of the feast to offer the best morsels before eating.

I look out to sea again. The small lights on the buoys glimmer. Above, faintly, a meteor scratches the sky.

Nothing's changed since the last time I was at Lena's house. Little bells still jingle when you open the door, dark jars gather dust on the shelves. The fireplace, covered with grates, holds the ashes of some ancient fire. The stairs to the upper level of the house creak unless you cling to the banister and climb up the very edge.

The house itself is drab, covered with ivy, and seems to recede into the forest behind it. Similarly, the boundary between home and shop is hazy. Vials of tonics and tinctures sit next to the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table. In the lobby, there's a bookshelf stocked with children's primers.

This is my favorite place in town. During training season, all the acolytes are supposed to sleep in the dorm. During festivals, though, those with parents in the village are allowed to return home. Lena's parents have always welcomed me like a second daughter.

Lena's mom is asleep now; her dad, last we saw him, was reading a novel in the kitchen. It's late. An hour ago the sky was clear, but now rain beats on the roof and branches clatter. Every so often, lightning brightens the room.

Lena and I are taking turns telling scary stories.

"...wondered where the rest of the body was. Then, she heard something scrabbling in the dark. Behind her, but getting closer. She turned to look and…"

Someone knocks on the door and Lena shrieks. But it's just her dad, bearing a plate of oran cookies. I take one and thank him.

"Don't stay up too late girls."

"We won't," Lena says.

He smiles faintly and leaves. Soon, I hear the creaking of the staircase as he heads to bed.

I somehow get the impression that Lena's parents are very unhappy people. I'm not sure why I have that feeling. Earlier tonight they sounded like newlyweds, talking and laughing in the kitchen.

I return to my narration and Lena gasps in the right places, but the spell is broken. After I finish, we talk lazily, dipping in and out of familiar conversations. We're lying on the floor, side by side, under the blanket fort we built for old time's sake.

"Who are you going to dance with tomorrow?" Lena asks.

The main event of the festival's second day is a semi-formal dance, which is the highlight of the year for some of the shrine maidens, the focal point of weeks of gossip. I couldn't care less.

"Probably Finn," I say, because I know this will make her happy.

"He is cute, isn't he?" She yawns. "Freckles look goofy on some boys, but they really suit him."

"I guess so," I say. "How about you, anyone on your mind?" This I'm genuinely curious about. No response. I look over and see that she's fast asleep.

I lie there with my eyes closed and feel pleasantly warm, numb, but sleep eludes me. So I decide to get up, get a drink of water.

As soon as I step into the hallway, though, I know something's wrong.

There's a door on this floor that's supposed to always remain shut. It's the one rule that Lena's parents insist on. I peeked behind it once, then felt guilty when all I saw was a bedroom like Lena's, except with boxes stacked everywhere.

Now, light streams out from below that door. I stand close, listen. Sure enough, I can hear rustling from inside and something else. A voice? Hard to say for certain with the drumbeat of the rain, but as soon as the thought occurs to me I swear I hear two people whispering to each other.

Suddenly, I feel the urge to sneeze. I simultaneously try to scurry away from the door and repress the urge, but it's too late. The sound ricochets in the empty hallway.

Immediately, the light goes out and the whispering, if there was whispering, stops. Then I hear footsteps coming closer. From the other side of the door, two deliberate knocks.

I was stuck in place. I thought of the story I told earlier, things shambling in the dark, and felt fear like a cold piece of lead in my stomach. Slowly, the door swung open. And—nothing.

Just a dark bedroom, boxes casting shadows like gravestones. Plenty of room to hide in there. Still, my fear ebbs a little and now I'm curious.

I shut the door, return to Lena's room, then enter the emphatic meditative state. I'm not trying to send a telepathic message. I'm only trying to sense the glowing pulses that are evidence of conscious minds. A warm light flickering next to me. Lena. Her parents are still downstairs. Nothing else in the house.

I extend my mental range and sense a light blazing on the forest's edge. I probe it a little and feel a sudden chill. It's malicious, whatever it is. It retreats a little, but it's still nearby. Should be able to see it from the window.

I walk over to Lena's window and look out through the drizzling rain. Nothing at first. Then a gleam on the tree line catches my eye.

A red, murderous gaze meets mine. I can't make out the shape of the creature, but the massed shadow is large. It watches me for a few more seconds and I feel like I'm drowning in a cold fire. Then, whatever it is disappears into the woods. I think I hear laughter fading in the far off dark.

I lie down again. But I'm not sure I'll sleep tonight.

At some point, though, I do fall asleep. In a dreamless instant later, Lena shakes me awake and the sun tints the bedroom a deep gold. How long was I out?

"Wake up, sleepyhead. We're going to miss the dance!"

She's already changed out of her pajamas into her dress. I groan. My mouth is dry and sour.

"Did you hear anything last night?" I ask.

"No," she says. "Why?"

"Thunder got pretty loud," I lie. I change the subject. I'm still not sure exactly what I saw.

As soon as I finish getting ready, we walk outside. The streets are still wet and clouds scud across a gray sky. No meteor-watching tonight. Probably there are more storms to come.

I look back one last time. Weeds grow around the house, but further out the ground is firm clay.

The rain couldn't fully erase a trail of paw prints leading to the forest.

The dance takes place on the beach. Normally we'd have a clear view of the setting sun, but a ship obstructs the sky and casts a shadow over everything: the white sand, the tables with refreshments, the podium.

I wonder why the ship couldn't dock somewhere else. On the other hand, the ship doesn't seem to want to move. It looks more like the wreckage of an ancient tower than anything seaworthy. Its hull is craggy like rock.

It's low tide. There's a hoard of kids gathered on the sand bar closest to the ship. Some parents look on, ready to swoop in if anyone walks more than a couple steps closer.

The ship's portholes are open and a girl with long, violently red hair looks through one of them, gazing out to sea.

As I watch her, though, she scowls. To my astonishment, she glares down at me, then disappears, slams the porthole shut.

I spot Siobhan and Eileen sitting on an outcrop of rock overlooking the beach. Eileen is sucking on a lollipop. The merchants aren't supposed to sell candy to shrine girls, but I guess someone was willing to overlook the law in the spirit of the festival.

I sit down beside them, call Lena over. From our perch, we watch the crowd slowly grow. Families back from the stalls in the festival market, clutching handcrafted trinkets and skewers of fried food. Teenage boys who pregamed, ruddy faced, scanning the crowd with predatory eyes. Old women hobbling in from small cottages, reminiscing about dances gone by.

They mingle and chatter, though the voices are a uniform noise from here. Some, the less patient ones, glance up to the podium. The structure is almost twenty feet tall, with a long set of wooden stairs. There are three figures seated atop it.

After the crowd swells to an appropriate size, one of the seated figures stands. The High Priestess, holding a chalice. The din of voices settles to silence. The Flowering, which always precedes the dance

"Just as the god has blessed us with the overflow of Their bounty, so too let us render our first fruits unto the god."

She doesn't raise her voice, but the words still resound across the beach.

Then the second speaks. By tradition, this is the priestess who scored highest a decade ago. Kathleen's year. Huh. I always figured Kathleen won.

"Fiona, please rise."

She does.

"We commend you for your academic achievement. Now, may you bloom in wisdom and drink from the eternal spring."

The High Priestess says something inaudible, then offers the chalice. Fiona raises it to her lips, drinks. She stands there for a second, then opens her mouth, as if she's about to scream. If she does, I can't hear it. Then, stumbling to the edge of the podium, she falls.