“Ah, yes, the Forbidden Texts. Brother Veydun mentioned you might rely on yet another legend, a crutch to support your position, which is nothing more than a house of light and shadow. There are no such books, no holy grails to redeem you.” Uriyeh looked at him, his eyes sadder and wrinkled face sullen, the face of a man who loved Ezai’s father and his family, but who now seemed to want to forget.
“You will not be granted access,” the Lion continued. “This conclave was seated because of you, Brother Ezai. The Order cannot abide an Arbiter citing myth and stirring frenzy. It undermines the institution. Who will the starless call if they are turned off from the Order by the ravings of a lunatic? Where will they find justice? Ezai, your name is hallowed in this keep, forever,” the Lion's next words came slowly and carried with them an earnest pain, “but that is your father's legacy. Not yours.”
Ezai fell to his knees, a great clank resonating through the hall as metal met stone, and hung his head low. Veydun chuckled under his breath, quiet enough to escape all ears but Ezai’s. Fury raged within.
“If it were only your fixation with myth, perhaps you may find redemption. But tell me, Brother Ezai, what happened last night?”
No. This is not fair. It is not right.
“I was attacked.”
“Attacked? By whom?”
“A Starsinger.”
Gasps escaped the crowd, though they were quickly stifled.
“I'm sorry?”
“I said I was attacked by a Starsinger, Uriyeh.”
The Lion inspected his face, searching for the truth. Uriyeh had a way with the truth not many did, and it was part of what made him so formidable. The Lion and his truth, the Eagle and his justice. What a sight they'd been.
“A young boy from House Lokka, I hear.”
“Yes, Uriyeh.”
The Lion nodded, leaning heavier on his cane and hanging his head. Yes, he knew the truth, but it didn't matter.
“He burned alive, I hear.”
Ezai nodded. “He lost control of his star, and it consumed him.”
“And the Vo woman?”
“She escaped, unscathed.”
“Did she see the Lokka boy lose control?”
Ezai thought back to the previous night, to his charge toward the woman as she’d attempted to strike down the boy—to her body lying flat on the ground, unconscious from the impact with his solid frame.
“No, she did not.”
The Lion raised his head and looked Ezai squarely in the eyes.
“She'll remember you intervening, and she'll have learned of the boy's death.”
“That is an accurate assessment, Uriyeh.”
“I thought so. You know what this means, of course? The Astral won't accept that the Lokka boy lost control—that he burned himself alive. And the other Lokka who were with him will never tell the truth. Instead, they and the other Astral will seize at the chance to blame one of us for the boy’s death and open old wounds, like a wedge through a chink of armor. You must see that, Ezai.”
He saw.
“It cannot be allowed; the balance must be preserved. There cannot be even a hint of the Order taking up arms against the Astral. This must be contained, painted as a lone man gone wild. It will not be difficult with your recent musings over ancient tales. The Order must not abide such a thing, if we are to persevere—and it is vital we persevere. So, Brother, we must act. From here forward, the Orange Dawn does not rise for you. Your bonds are your own, and it is up to you what to do with your time, with your tomorrow and all of the days ahead, and with those who have invoked your call. But you may not accept any further bonds—not on behalf of the Order. If you do, it will only be as a mercenary, unsanctioned.” The Lion returned to his chair and sat, the action appearing tiring for his frail body. When had he become so weak? “I wish you cloudy nights in the trials to come. Now, please remove yourself from the Keep. For this, too, is just.”
Uriyeh’s words were stern, but laced with pain; he clearly took no pleasure in banishing the son of Nesher, the Eagle. Ezai rose from his knees and looked on each of the forebearers. All met his eyes, unafraid of their decision, objective adjudicators to the end. If this was the will of the conclave, he would accept his penance. It was not his place to challenge the judgment of the Order, nor the conviction of his Brothers and Sisters. The tenets were firm, and his truth was resolute.
So, he turned and stepped off the dais, conscious of the watchers, the silence in the chamber broken only by the scraping of his boots. He would find a way back. The Order depended on him, as did Celaena. They were blind, but they would see. And then he would deal with Veydun.
His last thoughts as he climbed the stairway and pointed himself north, crossing back under the archway and loading himself at the docks, were of the Lion's stinging rebuke: “That is your father's legacy. Not yours.”
I'm sorry, Father.
Ahryn climbed the stone steps to the seminary, passing under the apostle statue's grasp and bracing against the persistent waves splashing into the rock wall. Which one was this? How could she ever know? She remembered the murals at the city's gates, imagining an enormous holy war taking place between man and celestial, awestruck at the very thought.
The morning air was damp and cool, blown over the southern sea to one of the many islands that made up the Dominion archipelago. It broke over her and could not touch her; her glow was still alive, an ember still burning from a midnight fire and keeping her warm. A Vo cousin flanked each side, themselves slightly radiant from their successful channels, and they chatted across her to each other as if she wasn't there.
Behind her, twelve more aspiring singers hiked, calm and peaceful, their whispering faint. They’d accomplished an enormous feat the previous night, surviving the storm with nothing more than starlight. They'd taken the next step to becoming singers, mastering the channel with their family star and harnessing the awesome power of the light within. None spoke about the five bodies they’d left on the beach, rigid from the stormy night.
Neranian’s Doctrine was made up of Degrees. The First to channel the star; the Second to control the light. The surviving aspirants had transitioned from the First to the Second over the course of a single night. She would need to perfect her ability to draw on the light if she wanted to progress to the Third Degree. A single night of warmth had helped her break the surface of her starlight training, but the pool of knowledge went deep and many drowned.
I sang!
She beamed, her smile reflecting the joy of walking in the footsteps of the Astral before her. Her parents would be so proud, and she couldn't wait to report back. She wasn't the only one brimming with energy; it coursed through the other aspirants the entire way up the cliff face to the seminary, and none cursed the wet, exhausting journey or complained about the harsh night they'd weathered.
They reached the top of the cliff wall, entered the landing lit by a ring of torches, and found Hecta waiting with hands clasped behind his back. The aspirants continued to murmur, matched by quick hand gestures and wide eyes. None beside Ahryn noticed the grave look on Hecta's face.
He wasn't smiling. Instead, he looked sullen, lips firm and jaw tight, accompanied by several wardens and, to her surprise, Astral representatives from each of the Houses. Each but her own.
The Astral started beckoning to their youths, and only then did the aspirants stop their chatter and retellings of the past night. In unison, a mass of white cloth huddled toward a tall man with thin blond hair and nimble fingers—Marcinian Lokka.
Why is the head of the Lokka House here at the seminary?
She didn't recognize the others. There, with feet set, shoulders held back, stood a powerful man. He was bald with a large, bristly mustache, and muscles bulged from a black, metal suit; and there, embracing the cousins, was a short, plump man wearing simple pale-yellow garments, shoulders boasting the hourglass. And a man who constantly squeezed his hands. Was that a sword he carried? Odd.
Where a
re my parents?
The Astral summoned their respective aspiring singers and hurried them away, down a long wooden suspension bridge angled from the top of the seminary island to the shores below, to harbored swiftclips. Questions from the aspirants went unanswered: Why were they here? Where were they going? What was happening? The Astral seemed impatient, unwilling to linger at the seminary or provide insight to the aspirants' queries.
No one beckoned to Ahryn. Neither the Patron nor Matron were present—not even Feyd or Nuna. Soon all dispersed, leaving her alone with Hecta atop the rock wall.
Hecta stared directly at her, and she felt queasy. Her stomach churned and she began to panic.
Where is my family?
“What's happening,” she wailed over the wind, her limbs numb and shaking. She lost her glow and the inner child settled in, taking command of her senses. Hecta walked to her and draped a blanket around her shoulders, then rested a finger under her chin. His eyes were sad, his words soft.
“Come, child.”
He led her inside, and she followed without question. The halls were empty and quiet, and she only heard the cackling of fireplaces. They walked toward the center of the seminary, to Hecta’s personal library where the Curator spent his days when not imparting the Doctrine. Once inside, he sat her down and offered a steaming drink. She didn't know what it was, but sipped, and her unease began to disperse. Even still, her mind raced.
“Why did the others go? Why were they taken away? Where is my family? Why am I here?” Her questions pepped the Curator and carried an air of infantile command.
“Ahryn.” His voice was gentle, his tone careful. “There is news I must share with you, though I've not the heart to do so.”
His words did not comfort her. She grew more tense. “What is it? Is it my family?”
He nodded, eyes pointed at his wringing hands.
“What happened?” The calm of her question surprised herself, her recent progression into starlight keeping her focused. Control—the Second Degree spoke of control. She began to understand.
“There's been another assassination, my Lady.”
“I've told you not to call me that. Who was assassinated?”
“You know.” His statement was blunt, but not flat, anguish accompanied by simple truth. She did know, evident by the rapid exodus of the others under careful watch, valuable resources the other families could not afford to lose. Yet her father, the last Ferai singer, had not been there.
She fought against the truth trying to permeate her body, as if it was inside her very blood.
No!
Her father, giant and powerful, channeled the Ferai star brighter than any other. He would have surely won any duel.
“It's a lie.”
Hecta did not respond, untold sadness filling his face.
It's a lie!
She began to lose the fight with herself, the walls of her mind crumbling at the horrible reality. Her hands trembled, lips quivered, glow faded.
My family is dead.
She lost control and fell to the ground. Then she wailed, tears a torrent streaming through cracks of her fingers. Ringing filled her ears, drowning out her own horrible screams of agony. She sobbed so hard her breath left her, and she gasped for air. Her muscles ached and cramped.
After a time, when the tears ran dry and her eyes redder than the noonday sun, she attempted to compose herself, then rubbed an arm across her nose and sniffed. How long? She’d exhausted herself with sorrow, and asked only one question.
“All of them?”
Hecta, who sat silently with her while she had released her grief, who had always treated her as if his own daughter, looked at her with pained eyes, then nodded.
Her composure shattered, and she lost control. She broke down again, pain intensifying in the pit of her stomach. She curled her legs to her chest and rocked back and forth, muffled cries pouring out of her and becoming lost in the crackle of a fire blazing from the torches. Her beautiful, kind mother; her simple, gentle brother. Sweet Nuna, keeper of her family for so many years. And her father, regal, a picture of nobility. They had all deserved a better fate, but she'd not been there to fight for them, to die for them.
The Curator brought his hands in front of him and walked to her side. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shushed, as if trying to still a newborn baby. She clutched his hand, still weeping, now crying out for her father. Not even the relentless storm and its perpetual rain could mask the tears falling down her heart-shaped face.
In between her sobs, she managed to speak a single word: “Who?”
Hecta hesitated. “The deaths were the same as with the Rayn singers.”
Ahryn's cries slowly became sniffles and her tears stopped flowing. In their place, she felt fury boil inside her. The report of the first assassination, the murder of the Rayn children, had indicated a resistance to starlight and the killer had escaped unscathed and unknown. Whoever brought this dark tide to the Dominion intended to destroy the Astral. Now her family had been destroyed as well, and she was truly the last hope of the Ferai, the last member of her family and the Ferai’s only chance to continue its legacy of Starsingers. Rage consumed her.
In a flash she hovered in a sea of nothing. She faced the Ferai star and was overwhelmed by its radiance. The constellation burned bright, and she swam in the projection, grateful for its power. Just as before, it grew and grew until it occupied her existence, and then it was inside her, burning. In an instant she came back, still clutching Hecta's hand. Her vision tinged blue, the ever-present itch now a scorch. At the same time, her insides warmed, a ball of starlight coalescing in her stomach. The corners of her lips turned upwards, and she stood from the chair. Smoke started billowing from her skin. Hecta shouted and pulled his hand away.
“No! My Lady, you must control yourself!” His pleadings were irrelevant—she could not hear him. Instead, the pulse of blood rushing through her veins was a raging river of fury, matching the beat of the spinning ball of light growing in her stomach with every breath. Hecta grabbed at her in futility, but she shook away his grasp, her skin on fire, the heat of her light immeasurable.
It began to hurt. At first it was latent, a throb, but it quickly became much more—a searing, as if her insides were cooking, thrown in a stew to boil. She screamed.
White eyes appeared in front of her and an icy blast hit her in the face, knocking her onto her back and leaving her dazed. For a moment, relief flooded her as the channel was disrupted, fire drawn down. But she looked up to an open sky. Immediately the channel returned with a rush, and so did the pain. She arched her back and shrieked, muscles tense. Another blast of ice swept over her, and then something obscured the skylight. The world around her went pitch black, and a final frosty wave passed through her. Her starlight faded. Her skin stopped burning, and smoke stopped billowing from her skin.
She spent the last of her energy turning onto her side, her arms flopping on the floor next to her. Light returned to the room, and the white eyes appeared before her again, close to the ground. She smiled, then her eyes shut.
“To clean is to purify, and purity is life...” Juppa preached, inspiring his hundred disciples scrubbing marble floors in the hallways of the shrine. Takha did not appreciate the oration, and he did not believe for a moment the prophet felt any true link between the shine of his floor and the glow of the stars. But he remained silent and dutifully cleaned, understanding this to be a test of resolve, of endurance. Juppa looked for new prophets, and only the most devout. Takha pushed his brush into the floor, then pulled it back and waved it in circles, ensuring the beads of soap were spread evenly and not too thin. If these starless pedestrians placed value in sterile floors, then Takha would make his patch the most sanitary they'd ever seen.
It was hard work for the banker. His hands were soft and without calluses, and his skin split with ease during the various menial chores thrust upon the first disciples. Gone was his finery, the robes of the moonlight treasury
torn into strips of silkweave to be used for hygienic bandages for the soiled feet of worshipers who visited the shrine and stood at attention outside. Instead, he wore the simple blue robes of the faith, stars on the shoulders and back—Gethael’s faith, the people's faith, though many now referred to it as the Ferai’s faith. This new brand of celestial pledged their devotion to a single House, though there was a certain zeal in the eyes of the believers that made him uncomfortable.
The robes were uncomfortable, a blend of straw and ribbum, and they had itched terribly for the first week. Now he barely noticed the scratch. His mind wandered while he scrubbed in his blue robes.
Has the moonlight treasury sent for an Arbiter to discover my whereabouts and whatever grisly fate may have befallen me?
Takha, a diligent and competent employee who had never missed a scheduled shift, had not been back to the treasury since his climb up the shrine. His new task went beyond simple riches or the tedious strata-jumping among starless. He was now set on one true aspiration, a goal to justify all other failings and eclipse any successes.
Has the shadow man searched for me these past weeks and learned of my intentions?
At first, he’d despaired at the enormity of the task. Ferai, most loved of the Houses, had reawakened the faith. The faith. It had been purged and kept dormant for so long at the Astral's demand, and it had been until now just a powerful echo in the genetic history of the starless.
But opportunity always came when least expected, and he saw a path forward, a way to twist and distort the truth until sure defeat looked like victory.
It began with scrubbing floors.
“You there, excellent work. Have you scrubbed many floors before?” Takha had eyed Juppa as the prophet plopped from his stoop at the base of a statute of the sixth apostle and wandered between ranks of scrubbing disciples, ending his jaunt at Takha's feet. “I'd bet you had, were I a gambling man. Sadly, I am terrible at Celestial, and more often than not my orbit collapses before the second stage. I've lost too many tokens to count, so I place no further bets. Still, I am sure I'd have won this time. I mean, stars, I can almost see my face! Do I really look that old? Perhaps it's time to visit the hair-keepers and trim my beard, though I doubt the whites will be stripped.”
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