Remember the Dawn

by A M Macdonald

  Violet mist finally sprung in the Lokka’s eyes as they overcame their hubris, the cold reality whirling around them acknowledged—but five of the eight Lokka had established a connection. The other three struggled to find their star even as the winds howled louder and the rail fell harder. Four of the Tsac found their channels, including the larger boy. Before long, fifteen of the twenty aspirants glowed and bathed in warmth. They stood together, looking up into the sky, mirroring the apostle statues on their island, and waited for the storm to end. Five aspirants fell to the sand, no longer shaking with the cold, and closed their eyes forever.

  Chapter Seven

  “You must ascend. It is the last labor, to return the light to the Gethael and strike a balance among the stars. Only then will we all be truly equal.”

  - The High Prophet at the Seminary

  Starless filth, get out my way! Can't you see my robes?

  Takha pushed his hands between crowded bodies to create a path through the throng, mumbling foul things under his breath. He was better than them—didn't they understand? Didn’t they keep to the unspoken order of things, unwritten rules in a land without laws?

  His shoulders bounced off another man's, who barely moved at the intrusion, and Takha glared as he passed by. The man didn't notice, too transfixed on the commotion drawing the mob's attention.

  Onlookers stood in the streets in front of the Ferai shrine in the quarry district, absorbed by the words of a young man in blue, starry robes perched atop a cart flush with broken stone. An unusual quiet hung in the air, broken only by the man’s speech.

  Takha slowed his struggle through the people and began to pay attention. The young man spoke of the light and celestial worship. His words carried weight and emphasis, and the onlookers hung off them, wide-eyed.

  Is this man a prophet?

  Takha was shocked by the grip the new faith held over the starless and the influence the prophet cast.

  Or is it an old faith born again?

  Everywhere, people wore simple blue robes, absent signs of strata or House, rapt with focus on the prophet.

  This happened much too fast.

  He needed to emphasize the speed of the growing faith in his next report to the shadowed man. Disrupting the faith seemed more and more unlikely, its infancy short lived and now manifesting into a burgeoning religion coursing through the populace. He didn’t look forward to that conversation, and his vision spotted with white eyes burning underneath a black hood. He shivered.

  A new round of preaching from the young prophet saved him from the memory as the man shouted through the stillness of the quarry air to the dutiful onlookers.

  “Hear me, siblings, and fear not. Your wretched days will soon be made brighter, and we will be saved from the coming darkness. We will be forgiven, and your labors and toiling will end. Gethael will glow again! All will be forgiven, and this world we call Celaena will be illuminated, warmed by Gethael's light.” Scattered shouts from the masses filled the air, cries from souls not yet converted: “How do you know?” “Save us!” Their questions were pleas as they begged to be brought into the faith. Takha watched, stunned.

  The prophet soaked in the cries and controlled the listeners with a wash of dogma. “It is told! The Astral keep the truth from themselves. They don't want you to know!”

  More shouts: “Know what, Prophet?” “What do they keep from us?” The prophet maintained the tension rippling through his flock, herded so perfectly in front of the Ferai shrine.

  “The truth, you want the truth?” He played with them, teasing at their emotions. The man was an expert at his craft.

  The masses shouted back: “Tell us!”

  “Very well. Here it is: we are all born of the stars. All of us. The stars do not only belong to the Astral. To sing with starlight does not make them owners of the sky. We are all children of Gethael, and to Gethael we shall all return. Even us, who they call starless! House Ferai embraces this truth; they do not fear it like the others. They do not seek to keep us blind and impoverished. On the contrary, they seek to light our lives with it and make us equal! It is the other Astral families who are blind. They cannot stop us. I beg you, brothers and sisters, return with me to faith.” The prophet spoke his last words softly and drew them out, allowing them to linger over the mesmerized watchers.

  It was a masterful performance. If the faith attracted such skill, no wonder it was spreading so quickly. The prophet jumped off the cart and began striding toward the shrine, and the crowd parted for him as he passed, a large number tucking behind to follow.

  There is power here.

  Takha's mind began working furiously. He made a snap decision and merged with the others, wiggling his way to the front until he was only feet from the prophet. He positioned himself as close as possible, eager to ascend the stairs and enter the shrine. Despite the numbers who walked with the prophet, surely only a few would be allowed to enter with him—if any at all. Takha recognized the capacity of the shrine might be limited, massive as it was.

  But if there was a chance, he needed to seize it. As he elbowed the others out of his way, working ever forward and maintaining his place, he felt many eyes on him, as if the people had just noticed the sigil on his robes and his elevated station. They scowled at the sight of a moonlight banker in the quarries, but the glares didn't last. Hadn't the prophet said that we are all of the stars, all equal? Takha smirked.

  House Ferai had built the shrine raised from the street, connected by an enormous stairway starting broad and narrowing to a platform at the top. The prophet and his nearest adherents, Takha included, began to funnel up the stairway, and the shuffling of feet was louder than he’d expected. It was maybe a hundred steps to the top, and each step was crafted of the same broken leystone as those in the prophet's cart. Takha tired as he climbed, but remained close to the prophet, realizing the scarcity of space long before the others. But soon the crowd murmured and pushed against each other, scrambling to be blessed. Though better nourished than the lower caste of starless, he had difficulty maintaining his position. These were quarry workers, hands rough and ragged from breaking and hauling stone.

  At last, the prophet reached the dais at the top of the stairs. Takha crawled over the lip and found his place, his moonlight robes ripped and tattered, his body filled with a rush of euphoria. He felt his adrenaline pulsing as his mind caught up in the hopefuls ascending the stairs, racing for their believed salvation. For a moment he forgot his purpose here, instead enthralled by the connection of a thousand minds and the call of the faith.

  What has come over me?

  The prophet raised his arms to the people now packed together next to the shrine, from the dais and down the stairs to the street and beyond. Takha saw hundreds, maybe thousands, come to silence, awaiting the prophet's next words.

  “This is but the first step. The Ferai delivered us this shrine and brought faith back to the people of Celaena. And look how you answered! This shrine is the first step, brothers and sisters, but there are many more to take. I am sorry that I cannot take you all inside. But you have a worthier task now. Go, bring the light of Gethael to Celaena. Cross districts, venture into the quints of the other families, and speak of this place. Speak of the followers of the light, and of the return of Gethael. Above all else, do not fear. You are protected, and you will be welcomed. The stars await.” The prophet turned from the crowd and strode toward the shrine's entrance, a large stone archway adorned with the five constellations. Cries of the believers followed him, and they were desperate to be brought inside. They yelled in jubilation into the sun and cheered at the receding back of the prophet until the cries faded behind doors that creaked closed.

  Takha and the rest who had made it to the dais—perhaps a hundred—entered behind the prophet and immediately walked into a massive circular and domed room. Ceilings curved upwards, but did not meet, stopping several meters from each other. The sky opened up over the room and he basked in hot rays of the sun. There
were no clouds today, and the cloudwatchers had predicted a clear night.

  “Juppa, I see you return to us with friends.”

  An elder woman, slender with long, silvery hair, approached the prophet with open arms. They embraced and held each other by the shoulder.

  Is she wearing a blanket?

  The woman was wrapped in purple silkweave as if her whole body had suffered injury and she'd been attended to by an apprentice healer. The robes were far different from the simple ones worn by the believers of the faith. Other luminaries stood around the circular room, similarly dressed, and Takha thought it must be a uniform of sorts. It certainly wasn't fashion, despite the painfully expensive silkweave. Didn't wearing such garments immediately create separation between the faithleaders and their followers? Perhaps it was a symbol of a hierarchy within the shrine itself?

  Curious. Useful.

  “Yes, Starmother.” Juppa swept his hands over the hundred men and woman who had made it inside after the climb up the stairway. “Our numbers grow every day. The shrine is already insufficient; we will need more—many more. In this district and others, and perhaps in the other quints. In time, we may transcend the city walls, spread to every island and corner of the Dominion, maybe even venture into the Expanse—”

  The Starmother chuckled at her prophet's exuberance. “The Expanse? Oh, Juppa, you've quite the imagination, haven't you? Let's start with a second shrine and let our faith take root in the people, before we set our sights further. There's a more immediate concern, besides. You mentioned another quint—I can't see how the Astral would allow it. They are not the Ferai, and they may not be as inviting of the faith in their territory.”

  “I know that, Starmoth—”

  “Then you know they have no time for stellar worship of any kind. It is much too early to make any formal moves into the other quints, Juppa. Our movement must be nurtured, and it must be left to seep into the hearts and minds within Celaena. We cannot force faith on anyone. It must find its own way and grow organically. We are only the shepherds, giving it air to breathe, like oxygen to fire. We are the wind, and you are at the very tip of the gale. In time, more shrines will be built, the other quints will be opened, and the city will once again be returned to the stars.”

  Takha continued to stand with the one hundred, but unlike them, instead of pointing at and chattering about the designs of the inner walls and the portraits from myth and legend that were hanging all around, he continued to focus on the conversation between the prophet and Starmother.

  Interesting.

  He knew he had to brief the shadow man on the leadership structure within the faith. If they lost their chance at quelling the surge of faith from the bottom, striking at the head presented the next logical step. But an assassination of a figurehead within the faith? No, that would only lead to martyrdom—a bolstering of belief and rallying point for the starless, who would no doubt blame the Astral. Takha played out the scenario in his head, and he didn't like its conclusion. How, then, to corrupt from the top? Infiltration? An interesting idea. He must watch more, observe.

  Juppa opened his mouth to address the Starmother, protest on his lips, but she raised a finger to his mouth and curled the corners of her mouth—it was a warm smile, full of love. She spoke softly in a lilting manner.

  “Even a pebble tossed into a stream can cause a flood.”

  The prophet looked at her, confusion splayed over his face.

  “Ripples, child. This shrine is a pebble, tossed by House Ferai. We are the ripples, and our spread will be wide, however slow. Walking a patient path has always led to the most fruitful harvests, so we must be patient. In time, the rippling will become a flood, a confluence of energy within the starless, and the Astral will then listen lest they be washed away. They will know it as surely as I know Gethael's glow.” The Starmother smiled again, warmer than before, and took the prophet's hands into her own. She raised her head to the open sky above. “But for more ripples, we need more pebbles. More shrines, and more prophets. Shrines we can build, but prophets must be carefully chosen. Words have power, Juppa.”

  “I understand, Starmother. Tosser of pebbles, that is what I will become.”

  The Starmother laughed, and Juppa and Takha joined her. But Takha laughed for a much different reason. More prophets, she had said.

  The day was calm and clear atop Sanctus Mount, the pools still; there was no breeze in the air, and the shining midday left a tickling heat. The Patron Ferai and his wife sat together in his study, lounging and lazy, discussing the progress of their faith. The reports from the shrine were to date positive, an indication of a growing fervor and a new energy within the starless. The Patron smiled in earnest, content with the purpose he’d instilled in so many lost souls, the faith always about uniting the people to one cause so they may achieve greatness together. But his true purpose remained secret, even to his family.

  Nuna entered the room, interrupting their conversation. “Pardon, sir, but a herald has arrived.”

  The Patron gave a wave of his hand, inviting the herald with a passing interest. There had been so many messages back and forth of late. Nuna nodded, then disappeared for a moment. She returned with a young lad with sandy blond hair curling under his angled hat—a herald. He bowed, then pulled from his pocket a scroll sealed with the faith's sigil.

  “Another missive from the Starmother, darling? That one is persistent.” The Matron Ferai placed a token in the herald's waiting palm and watched him scamper from the manor, already pulling from his satchel another missive and reading its directions as he ran. “But I suppose it is time for you to embrace the truth; you resurrected the faith, against much protest from the other Astral, and for doing so it seems you've earned a place in the holy seat. The Starmother is only your representative, darling; you must lead the faith. The Ferai must be the pedagogue.”

  “Perhaps. But perhaps this one seeks only to chastise me for not providing enough funding, and the true power rests with her. Either way, the faith is in good hands, I think. She is a kind woman.” The Patron leaned back in his favorite chair, high backed and carved from chestnut. He stared up through the triangular opening in the roof above his study as he tapped his fingers on his forearm, which he rested on the arm of the chair. “Not all of the Starmother's missives have sought my affection; she's also asked for preliminary financing for the intended expansion of the faith inward from the quarries, into neighboring districts.”

  “Another shrine already? Has the faith found its way into the depths of so many people's souls this quickly?”

  “Not yet, my love. She just wants to be ready once the faith has grown enough to transcend the Astrals boundaries.”

  He pulled his gaze from the window above and focused on his wife. Her heart-shaped face came to a soft point at her chin, and large, green eyes searched his face. He loved the woman dearly. She had given him two spectacular children and instilled in them a kindness not often found in the Dominion. But, despite the peace she brought to the Patron's previously troubled life, she remained starless, bereft of an understanding of the history of the world and call to faith nestled in every man and woman's soul. Her upbringing was low-strata, her knowledge lacking, and her education was not something often found among people who dwelled in the depths of Celaena.

  “Is it so surprising, lovely?” He sat upright and planted his elbow on his desk, bringing his fingertips together. “For centuries, the Astral families have spent considerable fortunes keeping the faith at bay, afraid of the latent power of belief. In their minds, the stars belonged to them, and them alone. And they made sure the commoners knew it, depriving them with any semblance of meaning that might come with belief.” He sat back, weary. “Without an idea around which to rally, the starless were rendered nothing but lost wanderers, alone in the cold and dark with no spark to light their way. Reducing them to such despair, to an existence without hope, was not enough by itself. But, taken together with the power to starsing, the Astral rea
ped profit and garnered control never intended for our world—Ferai included, my darling. We were not innocent in this, though the annals of my father and the fathers before him speak of regret.”

  “Why regret, darling?” His wife took a seat across from him, eyes still searching. He never thought himself deserving of such a woman. A long sigh escaped his lips.

  “Many reasons, I suspect. Because they knew the truth, or believed in a truth, about the genesis of our world; because they were shattered at being complicit in its destruction and at the perversion of what was once pure and serene. Do you ever wonder why our sigil is a spear? We were not always so righteous, and I fear that a single lifetime of repentance will do little to cleanse the sins of those who came before us.”

  “I don't understand. What truth, Doveh?” Her words were so innocent—such a gentle woman, so undeserving to be tainted with the horrors of the past. He reached across his desk and took her hands in his own, tracing his thumbs across soft skin. Then he looked in her large, round eyes, green as fresh grass. Innocent.

  “Once, long ago, the concept of singer and starless did not exist.” She instinctively pulled a hand from his grasp and covered her mouth, and her eyes widened. It must have sounded incredible to her—to any starless, really. “Yes, shocking, but it is known to a select few. Even the Orange Dawn holds this belief, though they do not worship Gethael or guide their Arbiters to the celestial faith. 'Justice cannot be tainted by a tendency to the light.' Such were the words given to me by one of their most revered disciples, may he rest in peace.” He continued, calm with a trace of solemnity, paying a moment's respect to the fallen Eagle. “Long ago, we were one people, united by celestial worship and a connection with Gethael and his seven apostles. An idea was rooted deep in our being, ingrained in our collective consciousness, enmeshed with peace and prosperity. Such a strong link had survived for eons, even if just the smallest flicker of hope.”