Remember the Dawn

by A M Macdonald

  On his way to work, the thought of the shadow man's task continued to drive him mad. Zeal and belief drove the faithful, not pursuit of tokens, and the shrine's funding came directly from the Ferai. No tokens passed through the treasury, and there were no books to adjust or accounts to shift. He was no singer, and he could not wield a blade; destruction through force was out of the question. He'd have to devise another way to take down the faith. Perhaps corruption from within?

  “Ah, Takha Shun, early as usual. I don't think I've ever seen any banker arrive before you—quite something, that. You get paid more for coming early, staying late? You must, of course, why else? Unless you're barking mad. Are you? Barking mad, I mean. You've got that glare in your eyes, as if you want to strike down anyone and everyone. Wonder where that kind of hate comes from. Ah well, not my business. Go on, then.”

  He didn't speak a word in reply to the wardens guarding the treasury, and he never did. Their faces never changed, but he couldn't be bothered to remember them, and their endless prattling did nothing but spike more rage, though he had to keep appearances and bite his tongue. He’d worked too hard to claw his way to a position within the treasury, lashing out at his lessers a sure way to be ejected and left to rot with the other filth in the city. Strategic quiet had served him so well for so long, only speaking when necessary. It was exhausting to constantly plan and manipulate, but such was life of a strata-jumper.

  The treasury building looked like a large token, round and solid, flat topped and boring. The architecture did nothing to inspire any wonder. It was utilitarian and effective—nothing more. The round building was dissected into segments representing different trades: silkweave here, quarry there, straw-weave in the corner, ribbum up front, wheat at the center, so on and so forth. Each segment appointed a set of bankers responsible for accounting for imports, exports, purchases, sales, and all other aspects of a market economy. The Astral families depended on the coin, their starlight checked by the Arbiters and their aspirations for power limited by the lack of any governing body to usurp. Supply and demand, and scarcity, gave them prominence, and the treasury determined such concepts.

  He found his place in the silkweave segment and began his daily labors of cross-referencing shipment manifests and assessing work product, measuring time and quantity. Scratches were etched into columns and numbers were summed, and soon a report developed. Life in the treasury was not so bad, however dull it may be.

  Takha had initially planned to smite the Astral families by corrupting their wealth. His struggle to reach this place in the strata—every bribe he paid, every grueling hour worked, every distasteful word spoken—all to infiltrate the treasury and impose a penance upon the mighty Astral. He wanted to strike back at them for ruining his life, for having relegated him to a meaningless, pitiful existence with the starless. He didn’t care about being caught, or killed, so long as the Astral paid.

  But once he’d achieved his goal—gained a place in the treasury and rose to his stratum—he’d found a comfort in his life not experienced in the many years before being forced into Celaena. In Celaena, among the higher strata, the food tasted better, drink ran purer, conversations proved less bothersome, and company was less apt to trigger his murderous anger. And, for all his bravado, exposure to the inner workings of the treasury had exposed his plan as foolish. He had no real ability to disrupt the system, and anything he might have accomplished would be a blip, nothing more. Over time, his identity had changed to one of a banker, an elevated social class in the city of starless, and he all but forgot his purpose.

  The shadow man's initial plan had followed the same futile path, having no measurable impact on the trade from disruption of supply lines or other infections of the Astrals mercantilism. Takha had said nothing, eager to please, fearful of failure.

  But now? Destroy the faith? It was foolishness. Even so, Takha did not have the luxury of ignoring the shadow man. And the mutual derision for the Astral—a reignited hatred—evolved into a dangerous liaison. Takha continued shifting tokens and accounts, but his mind strayed elsewhere.

  Chapter Six

  “Not all who seek the star will find it; those who find the star may not be welcomed; those who are welcomed may never touch the light; and those who touch they light may never master it.”

  - Neranian's First Degree

  Ahryn stared out the window of the seminary's training room, watching rainfall collide with waves as if an unbroken line of water stretching from ocean to sky, until they crashed against the rocky cliffs of the island and faded into mist. Her perch at the window was her sanctuary from each exhausting day, where she let her mind wander and listen to the crash of water and the howls of wind, a perpetual storm circling the island.

  Today had proved particularly exhausting. Rumors of the Rayn murders had filtered to the seminary, and any spare time between her exercises and study had been filled with chattering aspirants assigning blame and posturing. Even here, among the young, tension between the families grew along with the unseen struggle for more control and with it more power. The curators had relegated the most exuberant of the to their chambers to avoid any conflict

  She found no calm in her nightly meditation, and did not allow the link to her star to diminish as she’d been taught to do after every channel; instead, she allowed the little light she maintained to tickle her with warmth and accompany her like an old friend. It was dangerous, even for an adept with the dimmest of connections with a star.

  She decided she was her family's last hope. The Ferai did not have the same quantity of Starsingers as the other Houses, who spread their bloodlines wide by breeding with each other as much as possible. Her family was different, bound by a tradition of conservatism, and each descendant bore only two children at a time. Over the long history of her family, there'd always been at least one startouched in every generation to carry on the legacy; sometimes both children bore the gift, and not surprisingly those years proved prosperous. Even so, the tradition had left Ferai’s influence thin.

  Until Ahryn unlocked her light at the seminary and mastered the Doctrine, her father remained the last Ferai Starsinger. Her mother was just a starless woman from the tailoring district, a seamstress who had captured the Patron’s heart on a walk to inspect the family dealings. Or so the story went. But her concern did not rest with whom he’d married, but who he had become. The Patron devoted himself to a faith reborn, and he spoke of pacifism and restraint. Her mother supported him completely, perhaps a relic of her rescue from the commoners, or perhaps she truly believed. Either way, her parents weren't equipped to deal with the coming storm, and they would not deviate from tradition and bear more children with hopes of augmenting their ranks.

  And her simple brother, not startouched, remained at the Sanctus Mount amid trivial pursuits, shielded by her doting father. She thanked the stars her father had not cast her brother out to live with the starless, had spared him the fate of the forsaken. Here at the seminary, she had read about the reign of the Astral and the blight of the cast-outs.

  “Why do you sit there every night, Ahryn?”

  She'd not heard the curator enter the room.

  Always so silent, that one. Had he learned to mask his sounds? Impossible.

  “Hecta, who wrote the Doctrine?”

  The curator did not flinch at her blatant disregard of his question, instead pulling up a stool next to the window to perch beside her. His head was shaved, and he wore loose-fitting beige robes, bare and crafted with a thin material, a blend of straw and silk often found for sale in the Nightmarkets.

  “It is a broad question, for there have been many writers through the years.”

  “The beginning, then. Is that narrow enough?”

  Hecta firmed his lips, but gave no other expression. Ahryn was not his pupil and had no qualms with being so bold with the older man. She was an aspirant who had come to the seminary to learn, to draw upon its knowledge; the curator merely a keeper of the castle.

&
nbsp; “That would be Neranian,” said Hecta.

  She'd heard of him, of course, as every exercise she practiced day in and day out was named after him.

  “Who was he?”

  “The records are unclear. What has inspired this line of inquiry, Lady Ferai?”

  “I asked you not to call me that, Hecta.”

  Lightning struck the seminary. A brilliant flash glared in the window, forcing to her cover her eyes, and a second later thunder clapped so loud it shook the walls. She'd not grown used to the unfortunate side effects of these daily storms; they were so violent compared to the mists that swirled atop Sanctus Mount.

  The curator smiled at her, his aged cheeks cracking as his lips curled up.

  “You have asked, but just as you are not subservient to me, I am not to you. We are equal, as are all who come here seeking the way of the stars.”

  Ahryn rolled her eyes, but in truth she enjoyed her chats with the curator. They were introspective and brilliant, and they reminded her of her discussions with her father. But he didn't place his energies into superstition and an attempt to give meaning to the Astral; like her, Hecta was pragmatic and accepting of starlight for what it is, concerned only with mastering its use.

  “So, Neranian—do you know his House? It seems to me he would be a Vo. They're so academic, and I've seen with my own eyes the number of tokens they pay to amass all the celestial literature they can. Some say their libraries rival the Order's own. Do you think that's true, Hecta?”

  The curator laughed, a soothing rumble not matching his wrinkled face.

  “The Order is old. For as long as there have been Astrals, there have been Arbiters. Like opposing forces, forever dancing around the edge of a knife. I doubt any one library is larger than the other.” The curator stood from his stool, clasping his hands in front of him. “But of course we will never know. None of us will ever step foot in the Order's Keep.”

  “As for Neranian's House,” he continued, “that is similarly a mystery that we will never solve. The records we have do not say, and there are no constellations to trace. I ask you, Ahryn, does it matter? The Doctrine is for all Astral, no matter the family.” She wrinkled her nose, but stopped herself from pressing further.

  The door to the training room opened and a hawk-nosed boy entered, wearing a suit of white, skin-tight silkweave, an obnoxious ivory cape billowing behind him. A sigil adorned his chest, a violet constellation forming the shape of three waves cascading in parallel. The boy didn't look surprised to see Ahryn and Hecta engaged in conversation; in fact, he looked satisfied, as if he'd expected it. Several similarly attired youths followed him, and each carried a ceremonial dagger tucked in their belt.

  “Ah.” The boy pranced across the training floor until he stood before them, and he planted his feet far apart and placed his hands on his hips.

  Was he puffing his chest?

  “I've been looking for you, Ferai.”

  “My name is Ahryn.”

  “You're a Ferai all the same. Curator,” the boy nodded to Hecta, “good to see you. I wanted you to know that I've mastered Neranian's channel.”

  “Oh?” Hecta looked at him with an amused expression.

  “See here.” The boy stepped backwards onto the mat and smirked as he looked at them, then scrunched up his face as he focused. He began humming, quietly and hidden under his breath, but still audible. Then, his eyes began to fill with violet mist, like thick smoke hanging in the air after a fire. It disappeared a few seconds later, and his eyes returned to normal. He looked victorious, but his expression quickly changed when he heard Ahryn snickering.

  “Something funny, Ferai?”

  “You were humming, like a little bird at the bloom of spring.”

  “What? I wasn't humming, was I?” He looked around at his siblings. They nodded, which caused him to scowl and scamper from the training floor. Some of his siblings laughed at him, but followed on their way to their dormitory. The seminary was not divided by House or gender; rooms were open for the taking. Yet, Ahryn noticed, people tended to clump together—a tribal instinct—and so the Lokka siblings all headed to the conjoining rooms they’d selected. She’d chosen a solitary room at the farthest corner of the seminary, a cube building built up from the island out of the rock itself.

  “That was interesting.” Ahryn crossed her arms and smirked.

  Hecta remained silent, hands still clasped before him, but rocked back and forth on his heels.

  “You are quite odd, Curator. I'm not sure I'll ever figure you out.”

  “Not every secret needs unlocking. Sometimes it is enough to just accept and live.”

  “You sound like my father. He also lectures me about the merits of belief and perils of logic. 'An endless search for explanation’—a favorite phrase of his.”

  “He is a wise man.”

  “Maybe once, but now? He's trying to bring faith to the people and marry Astral with starless. Faith. There can be no place for religion in the Dominion. It's contrary to thousands of years of history and against our very nature.”

  Hecta smiled at her again, the same slow, toothy grin.

  “Is it, though? Tell me, Lady Ferai, while you've been locked away in the library and learning history did you come across anything dated before the purge?”

  Ferai wracked her brain, but did not recall anything.

  “No, I don't think I have.”

  “I expect not. I've been reading for much longer than you, and I can tell you that I haven't either. If faith had been taken from us so long ago, did we ever have it to begin with? Why was it taken? It must have been important—look at all the relics around us we don’t notice, all grounded in faith. Even this place—the seminary—was founded in faith. So where did it go, and why?”

  His questions were rhetorical, of course, inquiries of the mind that philosophers had struggled with for ages.

  “Maybe you should ask an academic from House Vo.”

  Hecta chuckled.

  “Maybe, but let me ask you this: would you rather know an absolute answer or speculate on the reasons behind the question? No, you don't need to answer that, either.” Hecta finally dropped his hands and moved to the hallway door, then turned back. “But do consider the question. Perhaps you will grow closer with your father. Now, I'm off to sleep. I will see you tomorrow evening, after your day’s readings. It's time to master the channel and move beyond.”

  He left, leaving Ahryn alone to ponder as she returned her gaze out the window to the crashing waves.

  Ezai maneuvered through a bustling crowd in the recreation district, known as Gambler’s Row, the hallmark of the Tsac quint. Most granted him a wide berth, the mark of the Orange Dawn unmistakable, but others hardly noticed his passing at all, too consumed by the games taking place in stall after stall of vendors that lined each side of the street. All around him the cheers of victors drowned out the wails of less fortunate, now absent tokens—or worse, indebted. He smelled a familiar pungency: fumes from darkale, a ribbum-infused brew and beloved local flavor. He'd tasted it once, but never again, acrid, bitter, leaving the mouth parched and drawing out all the moisture. Several millers from the Vo quint stumbled past him, oblivious to his broad and imposing stature, and sloshed darkale from flagons across his plated feet.

  “Ah, there you are, Ezai. I was wondering if you'd come.” Veydun's ginger hair bounced over the other heads in the crowd, and his voice carried a lilt. His Brother enjoyed the atmosphere, no doubt.

  “I've not been bonded for any particular task in this place, but there will be starless in need of protection. I am here to offer it.” He called back over a gaggle of laughing women who raced toward the channel, and caught some of their excited conversation as they passed. It seemed they'd won a sizable bounty. No doubt they were off to the moonlight treasury to deposit their winnings before spent or stolen. He turned his attention back to his fellow Arbiter. “Though I wonder if you're more interested in the purse, and your take therefrom. Is tha
t not the sort of thing to which you were alluding the other day?”

  Veydun parted the last of the people between them and pulled through, then smiled in his infuriating way and chuckled. “You really are your father's son. To a fault, I think. Look around you, Brother, this is the new Celaena. These people aren't interested in tales of honor and concepts of virtue. They yearn for the thrill of victory, but not on the battlefield—at the gaming table, and in the stands of the coliseum. It is wealth that drives our world, and those who control it, not ideologues clutching to tradition. I guess you weren't listening.”

  Ezai glared at his Brother. “Oh, I was listening, you can be sure of that. But enough, Veydun, please.” He raised a palm and kept his chin high. “I've heard you twice now, and that's enough, I think, so let's just keep to our own paths. I hope yours will not lead you astray. We are Arbiters of the Orange Dawn, not mercenaries. Remember that.”

  But his red-headed companion only smirked, eyes telling a story his mouth did not. Then he waved. “This way, Ezai. The sunset approaches, and then the real games begin. Come, you can tell me about your recent bond with House Rayn.”

  They pointed themselves toward a ringed building that stood many stories above the ground and enveloped several streets. As they made their way toward the structure, the density of the crowd increased, along with the cries of competition. Vendor booths grew smaller and more frequent, packed tighter together, and gamers pulled closer as if trying to feed off each other's energy. In the corner of his eye, he spotted a quieter booth with not as many onlookers. A number of figures in blue robes with stars on their shoulders and backs sat around a table and arranged metal ingots.