His lovely wife nodded. “You gave the people a spark.”
“I did.” He smiled, proud, though he’d done so much more. “It took only a single shrine in the poorest corner of our quint, coupled with a reverent woman, pure and kind, and a devoted young man with a silk tongue.” He paused. The next piece of information he had kept hidden from his wife all this time. “And several years of patience.” She scrunched her face. “Yes, I said years; the spread you've seen over the last months is but the tail end of a lengthy effort, subtle and quiet. It was a difficult one, at that, there can be no doubt. But it was enough. We did it. The faith has risen again, because of House Ferai.”
“And now House Ferai must fall.”
Udani shrieked and jumped from her chair. He tried to reach for her, to take her hand and stroke the back with his thumb, to soothe her as he so often did. But he couldn’t, and she looked in terror at the shadow standing beside the door, a hooded figure with burning white eyes and a robe tied at his waist with a twisted white rope, from where a whip hung. A black dagger stretched from the figure’s pointing hand.
The Patron did not move, but called to Udani with the intermittent ssshing sounds that always soothed her. But she did not calm and only whimpered in the corner. It broke his heart to see his darling in such a state. In contrast, he sat still, aware of who had come for them, for the shadow was a legend known to those who had read the Forbidden Texts, and he did not fear legends. Only the steel dangling from the demon's hand gave him pause.
The shadow had not moved since he'd spoken, and Doveh addressed him.
“So, you must be the one, the whisper on the lips of the others. Responsible for the deaths of those poor Rayn children, and many more, I imagine.”
The shadow rasped a laugh from beneath his hood. “They were no more children than you.” The shadow paced the room, approaching the Patron's desk and leaning over, the point of the dagger fixed in the air, now inches from Doveh's neck. He didn't flinch.
“Is my son alive?”
The shadow cocked his head, seeming to ponder the question. Did the dagger point drop slightly?
“He is starless, yet you keep him in your home. The others do not do such a thing. Why?”
“Because he's my son.” He inspected the intruder; the man was tall, of medium build, and adept handling of his dagger. The rope belt was ash white, a stark contrast to the deep black of the robe around which it cinched. And beneath the hood, white eyes.
“Normally I have no quarrel with those who don't pervert God.” The shadow flicked his dagger point. “But your family is tainted, all of your family, so it must be purged.” His words did not carry the same hatred as when the shadow had first spoken, now matter of fact, as if another chore to check off a list.
“Pervert God? I honor Gethael as none other. Look, here,” he waved the Starmother's missive before the assassin, “you'll see the truth of things.”
The shadow hissed. “You think I don't know about your shrine, apostate? About the woman you've anointed Starmother, to whom you've given discretion to bless as she pleases? As if she could. She wields her charge like a weapon, not a gift. It is revolting, and I feel tainted by the very thought of it.” The shadow slapped the missive from Doveh's hand. “Your faith is nothing more than a means to your perversion, to your arrogance, and it does not absolve you. It will not save you.”
Doveh sighed. He sighed then sat back in his chair, and the assassin again cocked his head. “You have lost your way, my child, as did all of those who followed Saryx. How much of your own history do you know, I wonder?”
The shadow roared. “You dare to lecture me, heathen? I do the work of the one true God, Saryx, who saw the truth of things, and not your pathetic Gethael. Saryx, who saw his brothers abuse their gifts, gifts that he should have had. They did not deserve them, and the innocent worshippers who followed did not deserve the fates they reaped.”
“Those fates were manifested by your savior's hands, if I recall correctly. It was Saryx's fault, not theirs. You must know this.”
“Enough!” The shadow pulled a metallic whip from the white rope circling his black robes, then cracked the air. Doveh did not call upon his star. He did not seek the channel or the warmth from Ferai, and did not draw his starlight to save himself. He knew he could, as his starlight was more powerful than all the other Houses, a great secret of the Ferai and a reason to seek pacifism in all things.
More importantly, Doveh saw the future. Udani was right: the faith wanted him in the holy seat. House Ferai was no longer scorned by the starless, no longer a despised family of Astral, and had been elevated to a place of righteousness. They had brought the faith back to the people. The death of the Patron would be a blessing, a call to martyrdom the believers needed to take the next step. His only regret would be the fate of his darling wife.
The barbs of the shadow’s whip lashed against Doveh's face, and the force knocked him from his chair. He heard Udani's screams even as his blood began to flow, and from the flat of his back he stared through the skylight toward the heavens. The shadow's dagger tip swept through the air toward him in a slow arc, much too slow, and his thoughts turned to his family. He hoped Feyd had escaped the manor. He hoped Ariel remained safe at the seminary, honing her connection. He hoped his lovely Udani did not feel too much pain.
“It's a giant cloud, like, really big—really, really big!”
Wuta chattered in the cloudmaster's ear. He'd managed to get an audience, somehow. Ota said he'd pulled a few strings; did that mean Ota was finally taking him seriously? He didn't question how Ota had connections capable of arranging a meeting with the cloudmaster himself; they were the same age, after all. But it didn't matter, his discovery must be shared and considered. If he was right, it posed a gigantic threat to the Astral and the Dominion at large.
“It's not a regular cloud, though, that much seems clear. What do you mean 'a cloud is a cloud'? I'm telling you, this thing is miles high and is swirling around the ocean and causing all sorts of disturbance. That wave that hit the Vo orchards in the southeast wasn't an accident. No, I will not calm down—why does everyone keep saying that to me?”
The cloudmaster barely looked at him and instead inspected his hands and shuffled his feet. He was a small man, smarmy looking, with an aura of feigned importance.
How had he ever gotten to a position where he led the watchers? It doesn't matter, he must listen!
“Anyways, you'll have to double the number of watchers on every quarter shift—two to keep an eye on the horizon and two to crunch ever-shifting numbers. I know, I know, but it’s not my fault that the math is complex, and it's really not my problem that others can't follow my equations. Excuse me? Cloudmaster, that was really uncalled for. If you would just look at the data, you'd see my interpretation is correct.”
Doesn't he care at all? Why did he even agreed to this rendezvous if not interested. Can't he take a look at the charts? The math is all right there, it speaks for itself. Honestly, it's a wonder the watchers predict anything at all with men like this running things.
“Take into under consideration? Wait, you're not taking this seriously, are you. I should have known. Were you ever? What did Ota tell you? You know what, forget it, there are three other cloudmasters in the Dominion and one of them is bound to listen; maybe even the grand cloudmaster will listen. And then you can explain to the Astral why you ignored the warning. Get out? Fine, if that's how it's going to be. Give me that chart. Now give it here, cloudmaster, I worked hard on those figures. Thank you, I'll just grab the rest of my things and be on the next boat out of here. Where will I go? I thought it obvious. The nearest tower is to the west, of course. Don't bother sending word. I'm sure they'll receive me well.”
Wuta turned from the cloudmaster and headed for the spiral stairs, through the dormitories, and out of the cloudwatchers’ tower. Before he left, he grabbed a railing and looked back to cast one last warning.
Chapter Eight
&
nbsp; “Justice is the flow of a stream, steady and calm. One cannot rush judgment or vindication, just as one cannot command water to trickle faster.”
- Interpretations by Nesher
Ezai activated a latch on his boat. He heard the response, a creaking of oak followed by water being pushed aside and a thud as the right-side plank extended and jammed into the channel wall. The boat jarred underneath Ezai's feet, but his muscles remembered the motion and kept him steady as he turned his body with the craft as it was propelled into the off-stream leading to the Keep. Sunlight started to spill over the western horizon, and a shadow unfurled beneath him. It matched the slow pace of the boat, ultimately coming to a rest at the foot of the Keep's harbor. Three other boats floated at the docks, all empty. Life was quietest at break of day. He tied up the boat and stepped onto a sturdy platform, then began hiking uphill to the Order's home, a stone-gray, five-sided citadel perched atop a mound of grass and dirt. As he walked, the dawn of a new morning greeted him like an old friend.
He approached the outer walls of the Keep, which were built low and knee height except for an archway entrance on each side, and passed under the northernmost, eyes catching the passage inscribed in the stone arch: “This, too, is just”. His pride swelled, as it did every time he returned home and read the words. His Order's creed was pure, and he'd lived a principled life devoted to the tenets.
The Arbiters were a living embodiment of honor, the sole path for righteousness is a world bereft of law and order, their power to resist the Starsingers a blessing for the starless. Chosen or not, the families of the Order had a solemn duty. Ezai had spent many mornings such as this kneeling at the western wall, basking in the orange glow of the rising sun, contemplating his sacrosanct purpose. It was a tradition instilled by his father, the Eagle, who together with the Lion had brought peace back to the land, vanquishing the onslaught of the rebelling Astral.
Images from the night before flashed in his mind like terrible echoes, interrupting his meditation—a young boy, screaming as he was consumed by his star. He smelled the stench of burning skin, and felt the prickle of the hairs on his arm as the light exploded from the youth. He saw Veydun, kneeling beside the Vo woman, smiling, thrilled. Why had he been so happy? A child was dead, and an Arbiter had been attacked in plain sight. The balance in the Dominion was tipping, and the past was reliving itself.
Something is wrong.
Generations of instinct brought an awareness to Ezai's current surroundings. No seconds or thirds tended the fields outside the Keep. Water pails were left askew, some still wet. An ax was buried into a stump next to a pile of logs ready for chopping. Bundles of grains had been left in piles, half-rolled and untied. Everything seemed too quiet. Ezai quickened his pace toward the northern archway doors, which hung open in invitation. Sunlight streamed inside, a vacant hallway revealed.
No Brothers or Sisters greeted him, and there were no salutes or claps on the back for a returning Arbiter. Instead, the scraping of his plate against stone reverberated too loudly. He marched inside, eyes unblinking and muscles tense, ready to react. He found the ringed halls inside the Keep to be as sparse as the fields outside, and his footfalls echoed over large, disjointed slabs of leystone laid centuries earlier. Where was everyone? Though only three hundred and sixty families lived in the Keep, the grounds always resonated with life, vibrant from the cries of playful youths and the calming directions of doting mothers, balanced by the introspection from fathers imparting wisdom to first-born children.
There was no such energy this morning, but he heard a faint thrumming. At first, he thought it imagined, his mind playing tricks to break the unnerving silence. But then he removed a gauntlet and placed his hand against the wall, where he felt subtle vibrations running through his bones. Only one event, one circumstance, could cause the sturdy stone to reverberate in such a way, and it explained the absence of life.
Ezai immediately strode through the interior doorways toward the center, brushing past statues and other ornamented relics, almost knocking loose a rusted scimitar as old as the Order itself. His mind worked furiously as he reached the middle room, a circular library extending up the citadel tower, where it became the Arcanum. The same stairway also descended in spirals, plunging deep beneath the Keep. Two lines of candles, ablaze and flickering, ringed the staircase. He followed them, heavy sabatons crunching against the stone as he took two steps at a time, hurrying himself toward the conclave taking place without his presence. What news could have necessitated a conclave without notice, with everyone but him?
Intermittent sounds reached his ears with every flight of stairs he descended, and what had been muffled and indistinguishable became distinct voices speaking, sometimes yelling, though he could not decipher the words. The voices grew ever louder until Ezai reached the bottom of the stairway, where he charged forward through a short, broad hallway and dropped his shoulder into massive doors of polished leystone. The doors ground against the floor as they creaked open, and the sound cut off the man on a raised dais addressing a council and the assembled families——a thin man with red hair and a rapier holstered to his armor. Several hundred men, women, and children turned their heads to his entrance from staggered rows of seating, stacked upon each other and spread in a semi-circle around the platform on which Veydun stood. Seven forebearers sat in rickety chairs at the outer edge, facing inward toward Veydun and looking out over the watching populace of the Keep. In the middle of the seven sat the Lion.
“What is this?” Ezai bellowed from the doors toward the dais. He was not a forebearer but the son of the Eagle, and his family the most virtuous in the Order. It had meant something once; he’d expected it to mean something here. But the prospect of seating a conclave without him was a disgrace to his father and to the tenets.
“Ah!” Veydun's voice dripped danger and contempt. “The man himself—or should we say the grace fallen?” Murmurs in the crowd silenced quickly at Ezai's abrupt approach. He hopped upon the dais with ease and walked to his Brother, stopping a foot away and looming over him. Veydun did not reach for his rapier or uncross his arms, confident and secure. A Brother did not attack a Brother, and especially not in the presence of the forebearers or in front of the entire Order.
“Say that again.”
Veydun looked at him and smiled. His teeth were straight, white, and long, and the corners of his lips curled up too high. Then he stepped back and raised his arms to the crowd. “You see? Our Brother Ezai is no longer in balance, no longer in control of that famed anger within him. He is driven to fury too easily, and he is inclined to violence too quickly. I fear he will suffer as his father did before him, a tragedy we cannot afford to endure again. Our creed is too important.”
Ezai narrowed his eyes at Veydun and let his shoulders set and face grow dull, becoming a rock to break the river of filth pouring forth, yet one still unwilling to engage. The eyes of the Order were upon him, and the Lion’s; he would be judged by his next actions. Whatever precipitated this conclave, the intent was clearly to draw out and discredit him. He must be careful. How long had Veydun been planning this? He thought back to their conversation only days ago. Had it started then, or was it something put in motion long ago?
“Forebearers, why has a conclave been seated? I received no notice, and I see no urgency other than the ramblings of this man. It is no secret he holds my family in disregard, and I sense I am being maligned without opportunity to respond; why is this man provided such a forum?”
Uriyeh looked at him with sad eyes sunk into a round, wrinkled face. Robes bearing the crest of the Orange Dawn fell about him as if a blanket. He clasped one hand atop the other, which in turn grasped a simple walking cane carved from rough oak not pared down or smoothed, the nob carved into a roaring lion: fierce, strong, unyielding. The Lion’s adherence to the tenets and zeal for the pursuit of retribution almost matched Ezai’s father's. For a time, the Lion and the Eagle had walked in unison through the streets of Celaena, pillars
of justice bringing peace to a warring land. The Eagle and the Lion were once legends, but no longer. Now, the Eagle was dead, and the Lion kept his watch alone on the council of seven and rarely showed vigor of any sort, for any reason—just an old man with old beliefs. How had Ezai not seen it before? The Order was in peril; it needed a new guide to recharge its purpose.
“Brother Ezai,” Uriyeh's voice cracked and changed its pitch and volume, like erratic winds behind a sail. “Your Brother Veydun does not ramble, and he is owed your respect. The first-born of the Order are the stewards of peace in the Dominion, and there are too few of us left to throw your care for each other to wanton disregard. Now, it is important to note Veydun came to us with information we could not ignore.” His next words were sad, exasperated. “Saryx, Brother Ezai? Are you truly inciting panic within the starless by referring to the forsaken apostle? The fables are there, I do not discount it, but they are the product of oral tradition and folklore, nothing more. The commoners have too much to worry about with the rising prices of bread and water, let alone the constant threat of Astral rule; they do not need to be looking over their shoulders for shadows born of story.”
He was ready for the confrontation. Last night, when Veydun had questioned him about this very thing, he’d revealed himself. It would have been foolish to believe Veydun had kept it to himself. Ever since, Ezai had prepared for an address of these matters in a way to avoid being branded a madman.
“If you granted me access to the upper levels of the citadel, to the Arcanum, I may find you evidence transcending myth.” His teeth clenched, and his body tensed, preparing for the inevitable conflict to come.
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