Before long, the city expanded to fill the entire horizon, surrounded by great walls of white leystone and trimmed with various fabrics and fauna. Enormous gates cast shadows over the rivers flowing into the city from each direction, the gates hundreds of feet high and guarded by enormous statues of the apostles, seven in total, each gate flanked by a different pair. No one knew their names, so long and so lost was the information. Only stories had survived the purge, but even then, the identities and origins of the apostles remained a mystery. The world only knew the apostles represented the will of Gethael, the prime celestial. The Bringer.
Nuna steered the boat through the gate and into their final approach to the city. The landed streams of laborers journeying from the outlying villages melded into the sounds of city life, scored by merchants peddling wares and consumers to match, actors amid plays in their mobile theaters, and all manner of man, woman, and child. There were breadmakers and gamblers, bankers and weavers, stonehands and waterworkers. As the crowds floated by, Ahryn saw figures scattered here and there, a handful at most, robed and hooded with their backs straight, standing and watching. Their robes were blue, Ferai’s color, and they bore a star on each shoulder and on the back. She recognized the symbols.
So, Father's faith gains a foothold. How far has it gone?
The throng disappeared as Nuna led their craft inside the arched river entrance to the city walls, which were adorned by murals depicting historical accounts, renditions of the apostles watching over humanity at peace in a time before Astral and commoner. The murals changed, now depicting factions of humanity warring, unnamed heroes and villains striking at each other. Black arrows, shiny and metallic, blotted the sun and fell upon a shield of light tinged with color. The murals changed again. Gethael was leaving, angry with his children.
Ahryn’s father inspected the murals in earnest.
“Are they true, Father?”
He didn't answer straight away, but continued to look with hands clasped behind his back. She saw his eyes darting here and there, taking in the pictured tales.
“Perhaps. How could one ever profess to know?” He turned to her and shrugged. “I don't see much difference in these paintings from the texts we have at the manor, nor in the gospel touted at our shrine. It is a simple story.”
“Gethael came from the stars to give us light,” he said. “His seven apostles guided us to a golden age. Five were imbued with the power to sew fields and carve mountains, and two were set to watch over their kin. Humanity adored Gethael and the apostles, and before long the faith emerged—devotion to the celestial. Harmless by itself, but easy to corrupt. And corrupt it did, when one of the apostles grew dark, jealous of the others. He infected humanity, appealing to their nature and turning them on each other. This war,” he waved at the murals, “broke out, a holy war between light and dark. Many died, and Gethael was very angry. He left our world and took the apostles with him. Our ancestors were devastated and wounded. Their solution: Purge the faith and remove any mention of celestial worship from the annals of history.”
“But the texts survived?”
“Legends say some survived, at the cost of many lives. But even if the legends are true, any surviving texts have been long lost.” The Patron sighed. “It doesn’t matter. The purity of the faith survived—not the corruption, nor the light and the dark. Do we need texts and dogma to resurrect belief?” He smiled at Ahyrn. “That is what I seek to restore, Ahryn. I hope to give the starless meaning. A purpose. Unfortunately, the other Houses do not share my vision.”
“Then why did they allow you to raise the shrine?”
Her father tensed and exhaled. “They believe the new faith is a copy, ineffective without its true foundation. But in truth, I don't know. It's a mystery to me, and where there is mystery there is danger. Still, I must press on. The people deserve to believe.”
Over the last few days, listening to her father had opened her eyes to their family's struggles and the constant anxiety underlying their stature. Always on the defensive, unable to put their trust in anyone—anyone except, perhaps, the Order. The uneasy alliance made more sense to her now.
“We must be careful, Father, mustn't we?”
“Always, Ahryn.”
She said no more, instead sinking back into the hollowed sphere of the boat, lost in thought. Her father didn't join her, instead standing and watching the murals pass by. At last they reached the inner harbor at the northern edge of the city, a circular reservoir for loading and unloading boats coming and going through twin rivers. Nuna landed, then tied off, and within minutes they’d secured an inner-city craft—larger than a typical dinghy, but less austere than their comet.
They pushed off toward the Ferai city-home, where Ahryn planned to lodge for several nights before heading back to the seminary. What was her father's real purpose in accompanying her all this way? Did he seek to ensure she took a day to visit the shrine while in the city? Whatever the reason, she’d already committed to the cause. She’d go tomorrow; tonight, she'd do something she actually enjoyed.
“Tell me what you see.”
The memory seeped through Ezai's mind as he circled the room and held one hand over his mouth, sheltering his senses from the stench of corpses beginning their rot. He ignored the bodies, instead scouring every corner of the room with his eyes, absorbing each detail—just as his father had taught him. Details were important. From time to time, Ezai knelt and traced his fingers through the dirt and char lacing the room, then rubbed fingertips against thumb, searching for a story within the rubble.
Ezai stood from his crouch. Beside him stood an older man who watched with hands clenching and unclenching, his red tunic with blue trim pulling tight against the contours of defined muscles.
It was Sotma Rayn, one of the three points of the crown, one of the triumvirates, Starsinger, and now invoker of an Arbiter of the Orange Dawn. He sported short-cropped white hair and a weathered face, with a trimmed beard that ended in an angled point beneath his chin. His black pants were covered in soot from kneeling beside his fallen children, and his thin upper lip trembled. Sotma had never showed weakness during the war, for he was the fiercest of the Astral, the toughest to quell.
Throughout the room, curving black marks had been scorched into teywood and leystone, rippling from the center of the chamber outward to the wall, and at several points were bisected by a vertical slash of unaffected floor, creating negative space between the burns. It was as if a path had been cut through them.
“Sotma, were there any other Arbiters in the city-home last night?”
The older man shook himself from a trance, staring at his children's bodies still laying on the floor. Ezai's first direction upon arriving at the home had been to forbid the removal of the corpses. Every detail was important.
“No, of course not. I can hardly even suffer your presence, Dawnman. Why do you ask?”
Ezai didn't answer, turmoil raging beneath his stoicism. Instead, he dropped his arms and clenched his fists and began to pace the room. Chairs were lined together in front of a large map, as if to watch a play. In one sat a dead man with eyes closed, not defiled like the other guards laying near the entrance. A single puncture wound was visible on his neck, round and small, not much blood. A clean execution, but it made no immediate sense.
“Who was this man?”
“That is… was Levant, captain of my daughter's wardens.”
Ezai sniffed, then sighed. A starless guard of an Astral in her own home? What was the point?
“Do you see this wound? Right here, small and clean. He was executed, not murdered like the other wardens. Why do you think that may have been?”
“You're the Arbiter, not me.” Sotma's trembling temporarily halted, and derision entered his voice.
Look how he despises the Arbiters and the Order. Or is it just aimed at me: a relic from a different time—one of honor and righteousness.
Ezai nodded, then straightened his shoulders and stretche
d his spine, trying to squeeze away an ever-present ache. So many years, so many arbitrations. He was tired, his body broken from a life spent swinging his father’s sword in the name of justice. His justice. His morality.
But he could not be tired now, amid a rare bond with an Astral, the ramifications significant. He didn't care about the politics between the families or the propagation of their agenda. The Astral families were nothing more than gangs who abused their gift of starlight. The city, and the people, would suffer from disruption of the balance.
“Well, Arbiter? I demand retribution! What is your assessment?”
Ezai frowned, hoping his expression went unseen beneath his gray hood. He turned back to the scene of the crime. Various objects lay torn and strewn about the room, carpet ripped from the floor and sheared to its fibers. Black scorch marks rippled over the floors were also present on the walls and ceiling. To Ezai, it was clear the center of the room had served as the focal point for intense combat.
Powerful starlight had been expended here. After several patient minutes, his eyes settled on the pathways cut between the starlight echoes—wide lines of smooth, clean leystone.
“There. Do you see that, Sotma?”
The grieving parent took a few steps forward and followed Ezai's pointing finger.
“What am I looking at, Arbiter?”
“Whoever attacked your children was resistant to their starlight.”
Sotma recoiled and snapped his head to the side.
“Excuse me?”
“Specifically, your daughter's connection with the Rayn star was interrupted.”
“Valura’s? But Antarro was far more adept with his starlight than Valura… He would have been the one fighting. He always looked after his sister. Always protective, that one. A good lad.”
“Look at Valura’s forearm, Sotma.”
The older man bent to his daughter and turned over her arm, fury and curiosity overwhelming any grief he displayed.
“Starburn.” he whispered.
“Antarro may have been more adept, but Valura still fought.” Ezai’s voice kept neutral and cold. “He died first.”
Sotma bowed his head, eyes still locked on his daughter’s body.
Ezai continued. “She was powerful, Sotma, but wild. Her light wasn't fully controlled. Did you know?”
The Rayn father stood and backed away from his daughter's body, then moved to the wall to brace himself.
“Yes, I knew.” Sotma raised a hand to his brow and wiped his eyes. Ezai continued to be perplexed at the displays of emotion from this warrior. The Elegance, they called him. Ezai saw Sotma’s strength written all over his face, mouth taut and eyes cold, chin up and posture stiff. But Ezai sensed the sadness within. Even though he despised House Rayn, like he despised most Astral, they were people all the same.
“Explain this to me further, Arbiter.”
Ezai obliged. “Your twins stood here—” he positioned himself in the focal point “—and cast their starlight toward the wall where their attacker stood. But, look at the grooves in the lightmarks, they indicate a disruption in the channel. Here, here, there. Something lashed through whatever magic your daughter conjured.”
“A disruption? How is that possible?”
Ezai squeezed his eyes shut, hesitant to reply with the only possible answer.
“Whoever attacked your children was defiant.”
Sotma did not react, simply staring with pale blue eyes, cold and unblinking. Ezai stared back, hand resting on the hilt of his bastard sword, feet planted and ready. It was not that he expected trouble; it was his training, the Order meticulous in the preparation of its champions.
“I'm sorry, Arbiter, I thought I heard you say the murderer was defiant. I must have misheard.”
Ezai spoke slowly. “You didn't mishear, Sotma. There is no doubt.”
“You accuse one of your own?” Sotma pushed off the wall and crossed his arms. Arbiters kept the families in check and the Astral did not like it at all. The idea of a murderous Dawnman would invite immediate support for a movement against the Order, the Houses banded together for the cause. Perhaps even the Ferai would join the fight this time.
“I did not say that.”
Sotma pounced. “Though surely you meant it, for who else is defiant but the Arbiters? No one. The balance of the Dominion depends on it, in fact. Only the Arbiters can resist our starlight.” Sotma sneered. “Only you prevent us from taking up our rightful place.”
True, the Dominion balanced on the tip of a knife, tension between Astral and commoner measured only by the Arbiters and their resistance to starlight. The idea of defiance manifesting in others was only a myth, never proved.
“I must keep all avenues of inquiry open until there is more evidence.”
“Evidence! It's right there, dead on the floor at your feet. My son, my daughter, slaughtered in their own home. And you now tell me it was a defiant? Who else but an Arbiter could have done this?” Sotma's anger poured into the air. “The other Houses must be notified. The answer is clear—we must move against the Order at once.”
“I am not interested in your aspirations.” Ezai did not raise his voice, yet his words were resolute and brought silence to the chamber. “I serve the Dominion, not those who live within. My retribution, if it comes, will be founded on more fact than we now have. And I certainly will not stand by while you plot to take up arms against us. Again.”
Sotma stood in place, muscles tense, but eyes clear of any mist. Despite his heritage, the man commanded himself well. A model of control. Unlike his daughter.
The volume of his voice lowered and his words became softer, yet they still conveyed malice.
“I'm well aware of your function, Arbiter, but I won't suffer any further disgrace to my House. Surely you understand that. If you will not act, I will call for another who will.”
“Careful, Rayn.”
Arbiters did not make threats, or instigate violence, but they were honorable. Sotma Rayn had sent a missive and summoned an Arbiter, so any justice for Valura and Antarro Rayn would be delivered by Ezai’s hands alone. It was the way of things, and he above all others kept to the code.
But Sotma was an Astral, and they scoffed at the Arbiters and their tradition. The families despised the obstacles blocking them from ruling the starless and bringing their own methods of control and command to the Dominion. They hated that control over their stars was constrained by defiance. To him, Ezai's statement may well have been a threat. Indeed, Sotma's eyes now began to fill with red mist.
So, it comes to this.
Ezai drew his sword and raised it to his side, horizontal and in line with an arm extending from crooked elbow. He wasn't surprised when Sotma also drew a sword. He was the Elegance, the first to join starlight with steel, a new fury that had left too many dead before the Order had adapted. But adapt they had, and it had been a turn of the tides in the war, causing Lion and the Eagle to be heralded heroes and champions.
Ezai closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the movements ingrained into his muscles through years of development and decades of reckoning. In his mind's eye, he floated above, looking down upon a disciple of the Orange Dawn and an Astral, an image of opposites as old as the Dominion itself. Ezai opened his eyes and prepared himself.
His defensive state was unnecessary. Sotma's mist dissipated, his eyes returned white, and he sheathed his blade. The brief interlude of anger passed, and Sotma stood before him trembling with a cooled rage. Ezai sheathed his own sword but remained in a defensive stance, eyes fixed on Sotma's, watching for the mist.
“It is true the Dominion owes you gratitude for the efforts, and those of the Order. But make no mistake, there will be no tolerance if it is shown the balance has broken. War came once; it may come again.”
Ezai brought back his broad shoulders and stood tall. He stepped toward the Raynlord with no ill intent, but his approach full of menace all the same.
Sotma looked up at him, then wa
ved his hand and dismissed the Arbiter. “Bah, we have no current quarrel, Arbiter. Let us focus on the tragedy at hand and set aside these toothless jibes.” Sotma maintained his nobility, though his thin upper lip continued to quiver. The pain of losing his children surfaced again, still too near to be truly hidden. “Let's assume it was not an Arbiter that cut down my son and daughter. Perhaps these myths are true, defiance by evolution. But even then, no suddenly defiant commoner could have done this. Who, then?”
Despite Sotma's display, Ezai heard no conviction in the man’s voice. The Raynlord had seized on his theory of a murderous Arbiter—it fit the Astral narrative too well. But Ezai ignored it, for now, stowing it the back of his mind.
“Consider the targets,” said Ezai.
Sotma winced at the description. “Valura and Antarro? I loved my children, but they were of no great significance to our House and the politics of the Celaena—only small players in a larger game.”
“What influence did they have?”
“Little. Any benefit from their deaths would be slight.”
“But they did have influence?”
Sotma sighed, annoyed.
“Yes. They were engaged in talks with House Lokka. There was an important meeting to take place today, since canceled. Marcinian was downright jubilant, and I itched to send him to the stars. We are so close to drawing level with Lokka, of overthrowing their domination of trade in Celaena and the Dominion; the other points of the Rayn’s crown—my brothers—would have my head if I disrupted things.”
“Your own brothers?”
“House before blood, Arbiter.”
Ezai nodded. He might feel the same about the Order if any of his Brothers or Sisters strayed too far.
“What was the meeting about?”
The Raynlord looked at him, curious.
“I'm not sure why you care, Arbiter, but we have been discussing the Sundered Valley and silkweave trade routes—nothing overly significant. It was a negotiation my children could not upset even if they’d tried. Lokka controls the Valley—which will not change—and their operations at the footstep of the Expanse are unparalleled. Rayn needs a piece so we may refill our coffers.”
Remember the Dawn Page 4