Remember the Dawn

by A M Macdonald

  Ezai kept silent and thought on the politics. Lokka, the wealthiest of the families, held the upper hand over the other Astral due to their uncontested control of the eastern islands, where wheat fields were plentiful, silkweave meadows robust, and the doorstep of the Expanse open to none but them. They didn’t need to act against severely disadvantaged siblings. No, it wasn't Lokka.

  He nodded at the large map splaying from wall to wall and the large symbol over its top.

  “Your constellation is proud, Sotma. I've always thought so. Look how the stars arrange in the shield, almost symmetrically, as if by purpose rather than chance.”

  “Ha! You think that is a shield? That's a token, Arbiter.” Ezai bit his tongue for the moment. It was a shield—it had always been a shield—but in typical Astral fashion, the Rayns had perverted history and twisted it to their own purpose. An embarrassment to the rich history of the world. “Rayn is about wealth. Wealth is power. There are some in your Order who are familiar with that truth.”

  He grunted, conversation with Veydun still fresh in his mind, along with the taste left in his mouth after.

  “It is a shield. Your House has just forgotten.”

  The Raynlord barked a laugh. “You sound like the Ferai. Now, back to my children. What is your theory?”

  “What's yours?”

  Sotma's smile dropped and his annoyance returned. “You mean other than the Arbiter's betrayal?”

  “Yes, I mean other than that.”

  “Likely there were assassinated by another of the Houses.”

  “Oh?” Ezai knew a dispute between singers would have been much more destructive, dueling starlight no explanation for the gaps in the lightmarks. Not even a thousand combats in the League had yielded something like this.

  “There is a growing rift between us, Arbiter, though you do not see it since you are so consumed by your own code and the pursuit of justice. What were you doing before I called you to my cause, Brother Ezai? Wasting away in the districts, settling petty quibbles?” The Raynfather stopped himself and refocused on his point. “The families have different ideas on Celaena's direction and their roles within the city, along with the Dominion at large. Some of us are no longer satisfied to rake in the profits from the Nightmarkets or Gambler’s Row and squeeze extra tokens from laborers. The balance restricts us; we must ascend to our rightful place as governors of the starless.”

  “You don't govern anything.” It was Ezai's turn to snort. “And Celaena's direction will decide itself.”

  Sotma only smiled, eyes squinting and brow furrowed.

  “So naive, but I’d expect nothing less. Wealth is power, Arbiter.” Sotma moved to sit in a chair next to Levant's body, resting an arm along the frame while seemingly oblivious to or unconcerned with the stink. Gone was the grieving father; only the ruthless tyrant remained.

  “Grains grow because we allow it. Waters flow because we allow it. The city turns on our tokens, not on superstition or adherence to the old ways. There is an uneasy balance, but not between starless, the Arbiters, and the Astral; no, the real peace is kept between the Houses. If my theory holds true, an act like this—an assassination of one Astral by another—threatens peace and disrupts that balance. New doors open.”

  “Who would that benefit?”

  “All of us.”

  Ezai chewed on the answer, shocked by its truth. Disorder among the Houses made it easier for each to expand their foothold throughout the islands and within the city. They would broaden their control and the push out the borders of their quints, squeezing the poorer districts where corruption reigned. But it didn't explain the gaps in the lightmarks. It didn't explain the defiance.

  Father, who could have done this?

  The memory began again to play through his mind. Many years ago, as a boy, he'd accompanied his father to a murder, as was tradition in the final stages of training within the order. But the murder had been far from ordinary; a great starlord had been slain, the scene eerily similar to the one before him.

  Ezai returned to the present. He picked up the black arrow from the floor, which he had been unwilling to address until now. The metal shaft felt solid in his grasp. He gently ran the serrated arrowhead against his gray tunic, and it split apart with ease. He frowned.

  “I do not believe this act was carried out by any of the Houses, Sotma.”

  “Then what do you believe, Arbiter? Out with it; I must report back to my brothers, and they will want an answer.”

  So be it.

  “Are you familiar with Saryx, Sotma Rayn?”'

  Sotma looked at him and smirked, amused.

  “Of course, Dawnman, as is every man, woman, and child in the Dominion. Gethael's lost apostle. We've all grown up with fairy tales, carefully manufactured ones, I might add. What better way to filter the young into the service of the Houses and enshrine our dominance? An eternal fight between Astral and demon—between light and dark. Hah!” Ezai stared at him, unmoving and stoic. The Raynlord hesitated, but continued. “It's a story, Arbiter! Our story, nothing more, told to frighten children and preserve our culture.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The Raynlord knocked his chair backwards as he stood, the movement causing Levant's bloodless corpse to slide out of its chair and fall to the floor. Sotma looked at it, then at Ezai.

  “First you tell me the killer is defiant, but not an Arbiter, and now you seek to pin the blame on legend. I am losing my patience quicker and quicker, Brother Ezai. Is there nothing serious you can tell me?”

  Ezai stilled his stream, kept his calm.

  “I'm being serious, Sotma.”

  “Bah! This is a waste of time. Find me the monster who killed my beloved Valura and Antarro and bring me justice. You are bonded, and I expect diligence. We are done here. I will call for you again next week to check on your progress.”

  Ezai nodded and left the room, brushing past a host of wardens and servants waiting to begin their cleaning. He backtracked through the city-home, not taking any time to look at the sculptures of the first singers standing over fallen apostles, and made his way to the docks, where he found a boat tied and waiting. He was thankful he didn't need to wait for passing heralds to secure a dinghy, not wanting to spend another second in the Rayn city-home.

  As he got into the boat and readied himself to float south, back through Celaena and out of the southern gates to the Order's keep, he set his mind to the Arcanum and forgotten books—forbidden books—within them answers, a solution for black arrows and gaps in lightmarks.

  He took a seat within the dinghy and pushed off without a paddle, the natural flow of the stream carrying him south. Instead, he focused on the setting sun while the memory began to replay in his mind, and his father's words resonated in his head.

  “Darkness did this, Ezai. Remember it.”

  Chapter Four

  “It was here, so near the sky, where the faith was reborn.”

  - The High Prophet at Sanctus Mount

  Takha Shun hustled to his appointment in the dead of night, legs shuffling beneath loose-flowing silver robes. His feet—strapped in fine silkweave sandals, soles made of hardened ribbum—scraped against worn cobblestone. Here in the straw-work district there were no sober eyes to cast curious glances, and a half-token could buy an hour of peace and a forgotten memory.

  Five Constellations was a rough alehouse, frequented by the hardest of laborers and lowest of strata-dwellers in Celaena—no place for a man of his stratum. If he wanted to keep climbing the social ladder, to continue to separate himself from the filth, he needed to be careful with his associations. Even the starless had their strata, however pathetic. But, despite his contempt, he played the game with all the others. What choice did he have?

  As he approached, he glanced at the plank hanging over the entrance, a ring of stars in clumps of well-known sequences. It was a tribute to all the Astral families, no one greater than another. Surely the owners had hoped to attract a certain clientele, though h
e doubted any Astral wandered into these parts.

  Curse them, may they never reach the stars!

  It was a special irony for his contact to choose this location as their rendezvous: honoring Astral while plotting against them.

  The moonlight banker pushed against heavy teywood doors and entered the alehouse, immediately hearing soft singing from a blind chanter sitting at the barstead and the cackling of a fire burning in a hearth. The alehouse looked rundown, bartops and stools made from old and rotten teywood, with no sign of decoration. It was the sort of place made for drinking and drinking only. No point in spending valuable tokens on baubles.

  He entered and hiked up his robes, taking care to not step in splotches of spilled ale, stained blood, and other vile substances scattered about the floor. He didn't care about the optics and was concerned only with not fouling his sandals or the bottoms of his robes.

  “Oi, Brunda, look at this fella'. Dances prettier than your sista', he does.” The insult came from a millworker, by the look of his attire and the scars running up and down his arms. He lay back in his chair with his feet planted on a large, circular table, a flagon in his meaty hands and ale dripping down a reddish beard. Takha was not surprised to see a millworker in place like this, so far from his district despite the long walk nearly straight across Celaena. Laborers rarely had spare tokens for the boats. Takha doubted the man planned to leave before morning.

  “Nah, my sista' wouldn't be caught dead wearin' robes like that, sure 'nuff. And don't get me started on them wraps on his feet; what kinda shoes, them, Dwindo? Good for nothing, eh, 'cept lookin' fancy.”

  “'Bout right, I say, but he ain't Astral, clear to me.”

  “I'll have you know, gentleman,” Takha found a safe area on the floor, dry and empty, and crossed his arms, “these sandals are made from the finest silkweave the Rayn have to offer, bound with grunskin hide and soled with high-tier ribbum.” He pursed his lips and pointed his face forward, as if expecting adoration. “And these garments are provided by the moonlight treasury. Look here, can't you see the crescent?” He pointed to the patches on his cuffs. “So, I believe a little respect is in order. Please behave yourselves.”

  “Ha!” A third man guffawed and fell back off his stool, then picked himself up on unsteady legs and found a semblance of balance. He wore a chef's apron, which Takha found odd, as chefs were respected among the commoners, and they occupied a much higher stratum than the other two.

  What was he doing in a place like this, keeping company with men like Dwindo and Brunda?

  “You're starless, same as us, banker. Think we're just drunken muscle? Hah. You higher strata think of yourselves above us, because you look and smell nice for your Astral bosses. No light coming from you, though, eh? Maybe you should behave yourself around these parts, banker”

  Takha glanced between the three men who now looked at him as if a meal about to be devoured, then noticed the table around which they sat. Metal ingots were scattered over-top, as were dice with nine sides. Each showed a different star pattern. He immediately recognized the game as Celestial. Had the game made a resurgence of late? He'd thought it had died out with the last of the cults who purported to be star-worshipers. Nevertheless, it was an opportunity to change the subject.

  “Ah, what's this—one of you is about to lose the game.” The men followed his gestures, squinting and unsure. “See, there is an eclipse here. This orbit is clever, really. Roll two nova and the game is over. None of these arrangements,” he swept his hands over the ingots that were lined in various parabola around a central sphere, “will do anything to stop it.”

  Dwindo, the millworker, sat forward and sloshed his flagon down on the table, ale spilling out over the ingots. He brought his face low to the table, peering at the arrangement, his face contorting as he worked things out.

  “Wait a bloody minute here. Brunda—you cheatin, eh? You ain't got enough starlight for this orbit. How'd this get here, eh?” He set his dull gaze on the straw-worker.

  “You 'cusin me of cheatin', dirty miller? Ain’t that a thing, a miller crying foul. Can't trust a word from a miller’s mouth, my sista' always says.”

  Dwindo rose from his chair, drunk but solidly footed, and pointed thick fingers at the rakish straw-worker.

  “Oi, you be careful with that mouth, Brunda. If I smash it in, how you gonna kiss that sista’ of yours?”

  “Nah, you be careful, yeah, else I'll send for an Arbiter, eh?”

  The third man, the chef, eyed his friends, then turned to Takha.

  “What are you playing at, banker?”

  “I just wanted to be part of the game, is all. Thought I'd help.” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his sandals.

  The baker was too smart. He stood and brushed his hands together. “Think it’s best you move along. I'll sort out these two, and there'll be no Arbiters here. Go on now, out of my sight.”

  Takha bowed, but not too deeply and without any real meaning. It was a practiced movement, reserved for when he needed to make a show without sacrificing his integrity. The chef just blinked and turned to his friends, acting as mediator to what was sure to be a long argument.

  He moved deeper into the alehouse, scanning the room for signs of his contact, absent any details except a time and place. Unsure when the man in black would arrive, Takha took a seat in the darker corners of the establishment with a vantage of all who entered, giving himself time to prepare and steady his nerves. He did not enjoy meeting with this man, who scared him in a way not many did—not even the Astral.

  “What you drinkin'?” The roaming alekeeper stopped at his table, barrel strapped around his shoulders. Takha recognized the labels of various brews from all over Celaena, and some from elsewhere in the Dominion.

  How can a dump like this afford imports?

  In truth he craved an imported ale, something rich and smooth. But he needed to be focused and couldn't afford even the hint of comfort, not now. He had to be sharp.

  “None of that. Just bring me water.”

  “Water? No one drinks water down here, boy.”

  “Boy?” Takha sat straight and pulled tight his collar, insulted. “I do, unfortunately, and I'll take water—clean water. I won't have you dunking a flagon in the channels. If you do, I'll know.”

  “Astrals take you, moonlight man. You ain't got no power here.”

  “Oh no?” He pulled a pouch out from his robes and dropped it on the table, followed by the unmistakable clinking of many tokens piled together. “Maybe I buy your contract from Uryn? He is the keeper of leases in these parts, isn't he?”

  The alekeeper scowled at him and bowed his head before leaving the table, likely in search of the cleanest water at his disposal.

  “Curious, isn't it?”

  Takha jerked at the voice that came from a figure in black sitting next to him.

  Where did he come from?

  “He curses you and invokes the Astral, but in the same breath idolizes tokens.”

  “Who are you?” Takha didn't expect an answer. This man hadn't remained shrouded in secrecy by accident.

  The figure in black turned a hooded face toward him, and two white slits burned where he thought his eyes might be. Takha had recoiled in terror on their first encounter, all manner of childhood fears invading his mind; now, he just grimaced and looked away.

  “It was clever of you to draw attention to the game. Those men wouldn't have thought twice about murdering you and taking your finery, and I doubt an Arbiter would've been summoned for just another bar fight in the slums. Tragic. The death of a banker, a man of upper stratum, unavenged. Where's the justice?”

  Takha frowned, certain a point was being made, philosophical or otherwise.

  “I'd never have been in this situation at all if you hadn't arranged our meeting at this hour and at this place. I suppose my justice would be in knowing you'd have to begin again with another.”

  The hooded figure cackled from beneath his
hood, but softly, his laugh almost lost in the chanter's song.

  “We have very different concepts of time, you and me. My work is slow, like the movement of a glacier—only at the cusp of the final melt will it rush forth.”

  Takha didn't sense any malice behind the words, but he was not foolish enough to relax around the man.

  The tension broke temporarily when the alekeeper returned with a jug full to the brim with crystal-clear water. He set it down on the table before Takha, then gave him an equally clean glass from which to drink.

  “Sorry, sir, I hadn't seen you friend. Only brought one glass.”

  The hooded figure didn't speak, but shook his head ever so slightly.

  “It's fine.” Takha pulled four tokens from his pouch and tossed them on the table, three more than necessary. They rolled and fell and the alekeeper hastily scooped them up. “I trust your recollection of my being here will fade. Quickly.”

  The alekeeper nodded and backed away. “Of course, of course.” He scampered back to his barstead.

  The hooded figure said nothing, continuing to be silent, but Takha sought to get him talking.

  “I presume you are here to discuss my recent, ah, foray into the east. I'm afraid I haven't been very successful.” Takha’s task of disrupting the flow of leywheat from the plains had proven difficult, and trade prices had barely fluctuated. “House Lokka ships more leywheat than ever, bundled with their shipments of silkweave. The movements of resources in Celaena continued unabated, and no actual damage was done to the Astral.”

  He was met with silence, and it caused him anxiety.

  “Perhaps if you allowed me to understand your machinations...” Takha prodded for information.

  “No,” came the hissed reply. “You know as much as you need.”

  “I can't influence Kriv Tsac or Marcinian Lokka or any other Astral if I'm blind,” said Takha. “They are all too clever, their trade routes too secure. What can I do? I'm just a starless. I can fudge a ledger, creatively account, and there are many who will listen to me whether I make sense or not. But it can only go so far. In the end, the Astral always find a way.”