Kriv Tsac smiled from his corner of the long table. “I've heard otherwise.”
“Like hell you have.”
“Rumors are lethal, you know that,” said Marcinian. “And they can come from anyone, anywhere.”
Veydun cooled, sensing an undercurrent to the meeting, and to his arrangement with Sotma Rayn. Pieces snapped into place, a puzzle beginning to take shape. The prospect did not sit well with him, and he suddenly found himself vulnerable. Perhaps he'd underestimated these men. He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table and touching fingertips against each other. “You want the Order implicated?”
“I'm glad we've finally arrived on the same page, Brother Veydun.” The white-haired Raynlord stopped staring at his hands and now leaned to face him. “So, the rumored Arbiter assassin, who shall we say it was?”
Veydun did not like it all. He'd signed on to get rid of Ezai, the Lion's favorite, the hallowed son of Nesher. How mighty the man held himself, how entitled, wielding his unearned magic gifted to him through nothing more than birthright—wielding that sword he didn't deserve.
In return for his service, Veydun was handsomely rewarded, his purses full with tokens and weeks of League wagers placed and confirmed. The new age of power was within his grasp. Buying favors here, bribing players there, already the streets of Celaena welcomed him with adoration. But this? To drag the Orange Dawn through the mud, disrupt the balance, and allow the Astral to wrest control of the city? He hadn't signed on for such a thing.
He must maneuver, pivot, and again take two steps ahead. There was danger here if he did not make the right moves. Now he saw he was just a puppet, a means to prevent a new Eagle from rising; a means to tame the Lion who hid in his citadel. So, he smiled, leaned back, and opened his arms. “The answer is predetermined, of course, and I suspect it's been your plan all along. You've heard of Brother Ezai's excommunication, I hope?”
“It is known. Finely done, I must say. The son of Nesher, removed from the Orange Dawn and branded a madman. If you'd told me a year ago such a thing was possible, I'd have laughed you out of my moonroom.”
“Yet it is done.” Veydun clapped, then scraped his feet off the table and sat up tall. “With Brother Ezai gone, there will be no interference with your coup. And if he is labeled a murderer, the starless will turn on them like a river escaping a broken dam. The forebearers are old, much too old to put up a fight, and the Lion has forgotten himself of late. Further still, too many of my first-born Brothers and Sisters find themselves preoccupied these days; they have too many bonds with too many helpless commoners.”
“Your doing?”
“Of course,” he lied. “I doubt they'll see it coming or have time enough to react.”
“I hope it didn't cost too much, though considering the tokens we pay you I suppose I shouldn't care.” Marcinian dismissed him with a wave, then rose and addressed the table. “The scheme comes to life. Soon, whispers of the Arbiter's betrayal will cascade through the day and fester through the night, with the Order's greatest champion at its middle, alone and weak. Tides will turn, the faithful’s hatred refocused on the breaking of an ancient pledge. Our complication may end up resolving itself, for there is a brewing clash between faithful starless and their hallowed protectors.”
“Next steps, then?” asked Veydun. The Astrals’ speeches bored him, reminding him of Ezai's loathsome preaching, and they did nothing but drive the eternal game of leap-frog the Houses played with each other. “It seems we need only observe.”
“Not so.” Marcinian placed both hands on the table and looked him squarely in the eyes. “The corruption must find its way into the heart of the Order. Only then can the fiction we have woven be complete, and only then will the starless believe our narrative. I believe it is now safe for you to carry out a last deed, Brother Veydun.”
“What deed?”
“You must find a way to make the Lion complicit and corrupt him, in one final blow to the Order.”
Corrupt the Lion? Hilarious.
“To think such a thing is possible makes me question your entire plot.” Veydun chuckled.
“Then think of something else!” Marcinian shouted. “Something that will prevent the Order from resisting us while we take the city.”
“I will,” he said. “And Ezai?”
“Leave him, there is nothing he can do to us now.”
“Isn't he still bonded to Sotma?”
The Raynlord bristled. “What of it? He is convinced an enemy from the legends has come alive. Let him chase shadows. He will be branded a killer soon enough. Leave him to the mob.”
“You underestimate him, the son of Nesher. For argument's sake, let's say Ezai survives the mob, chases shadows and all of that. In the end, he still may come too close to uncovering your machinations—your true intentions. You don't know him as I do, he truly is his father's son.”
“Nothing we fear.” Marcinian looked at Sotma, who returned to squeezing his hands. “We are singers, Brother Veydun, and we are many. If Ezai draws too near, we will act. He cannot defy us all, though he may try. Still, it may be prudent to set a watch. Can you manage, Sotma?”
“I'll need to consult with the other of the triumvirates.”
“I’m sure you will,” Marcinian said with a sneer. “Kriv Tsac, how about you? What news do you have for me?”
“It's done.”
“Oh? So soon? We must inspect the result...”
“Please do.”
“Prepare for Sotma’s arrival, then. He will travel south in a week’s time. Won’t you, Sotma?” Marcinian sat, then sipped his own wine. The Raynlord said nothing, but nodded.
Veydun raised his glass and cheered the Astral, the logic of their stratagem sound. He wondered, though, how long their peace would last when the dust settled. Someone was killing Astral, after all.
Takha grunted, tensed already aching muscles, and lifted. Not with his back, but from his knees, like Juppa had showed him. His hands bled, skin ragged and torn, and blood trickled onto the chunk of leystone he struggled to carry. He paused for a moment until he was sure of his balance, then took a slow step forward. The weight of the rock moved with him, but he did not fall. From there, he placed one foot after the other, steps short and careful, burdened with exertion from carrying the stone.
A pile waited for him at the end of the dirt road, so close, yet he thought he'd never make it. Every move forward was treacherous and painful, but at last he reached the end. He dropped the rock, heard a satisfying thud as it landed among a hundred others like it, then fell to his knees and gasped for air. He stretched his arms out high and looked up to the midday sun, squinting at the light and feeling the heat on his face. Euphoria. A new experience, for his past life had been bereft of physical labor and filled with emotional and mental rigors. The toils of a strata-jumper had never brought him such elation.
A jolly laugh rang out and he snapped his head toward Juppa, who sat on the ledge of a half-built wall under a large tree, sparse with pale green leaves, but just enough to provide cover from the scorch of the afternoon. Juppa watched the one hundred and their struggles with the stones as he chomped on an apple and kicked his feet in the air.
Curse the prophet! Look at him, smiling in the shade and watching us sweat!
To Takha's surprise, he managed to reach the pile of stone first, again. The remaining hundred staggered in behind him, as they had every time they hauled stone, equally parched and exhausted. The stones they carried were mostly the same, beige and triangular, finely shaped by deft hands and polished to a shine. Their design only enraged Takha further. If the stones had already been cut and tended, they could be loaded into a wagon and shipped. Better yet, they could have used one of the many starless who lived in the quarries. No doubt they were fit for grabbing and lifting. Why make elevated folk—the one hundred disciples, no less—suffer through pointless exercise until their muscles screamed and skin burned? Takha latched on to the question and argued with himself,
finding a way to distract himself from his fury at being rendered a laborer.
Juppa hopped down from the wall, tossed aside the apple core, and brushed his hands. “Excellent! Most excellent, the architects will be pleased. The outer walls are near completion, the inner will begin soon enough. You should be honored, friends, to lay the first stones of this shrine, and what good work you've done! Maybe I should send you outside the district to where the other shrines are being built?” His eyes twinkled, his question rhetorical. “Maybe not,” he said with a grin. “No, you've more important matters here, I'd say. When you visit those shines, it won't be to lug rocks with your hands; instead you'll lift hearts and eyes with your words. Such is the way of the prophets! Come now, friends, let us return home. I hope you're not too tired for a walk back across the district! It's time to discuss the last step.”
Takha despised the cheerfulness of this man. No matter how disgusting or difficult the chore, Juppa hung around, smiling and encouraging, shepherding his prophets-in-training with an insufferable lilt. It had made the past several weeks so much worse.
He brushed himself off, flakes of white sand falling to the ground around him—not from the polished stones, but from the very air, a fine layer of dust ever present in the quarries with the habit of sticking.
When clean enough, he jogged over to the receding line of the hundred, who began to follow the prophet as he led them back through the quarry streets to the central Ferai shrine, the beacon of the faith, where the call to Gethael had finally been heard again.
The hundred strode in relative silence save for Juppa's incessant rambling about the weather, the humble people, and other asinine observations he made along the walk. Takha had learned to ignore Juppa's chattering, though he always kept his guard up, careful of being approached. He stayed ready to adopt his pious guise lest he ruin his maneuver. It was no secret the prophet favored him of late, taking time to speak with him more and confide in him about the spread of the faith. It meant his plan was working. Takha itched to tell the shadow man, but the man had not summoned for Takha since dispatching him to the shrine, nor had he appeared to comment on Takha’s progression. No doubt the shadow was toiling away at whatever great works he set himself about. Perhaps the plan would be complete before Takha saw him again.
Wouldn't that be nice?
The stroll back to the Ferai shrine was otherwise pleasant and quiet. The sun faded behind a group of clouds blown in—had that been on the watcher's report?—and the heat of the day dissipated. Beads of sweat on Takha's brow evaporated in a gentle breeze which carried with it fresh scents of afternoon baking. Sprigs of grass escaped the dusty road, and the last birds of summer chirped from a perch unseen. Serenity settled over him, a peace he had often experienced, so troubled was his mind since coming to Celaena many years ago. He’d certainly never felt so calm at the moonlight treasury, or when weaving his social plots, strata-jumps on his mind. In his past life, he’d only concerned himself with navigating between the starless social classes, a constant effort that caused him anxiety. Here, among the faithful, he found his mind at rest after a hard day's work.
Curious.
The moment passed, and the one hundred arrived at the shrine greeted by a frantic Starmother, who raced down the great stairs. Wardens flanked her and matched her descent. Wardens? Takha had never seen any wardens in the shrine. They wore the colors of House Ferai, and they parted the crowds around the shrine with ease as the Starmother sought the prophet. Her green eyes no longer sparkled and were now red rimmed with red.
“Juppa! Oh, Juppa—it's terrible.” She collapsed, and he caught her like a falling leaf. The crowd of starless pushed in, eager to hear the conversation, and the wardens did their best to push the group back. The prophet begged her to tell him what had happened, echoed by frenzied observers. But her distress was too severe, and she lay listless in Juppa's arms. He beckoned the closest to him to help, including Takha, and together they lifted the Starmother, braced her on their shoulders, and began to climb back up to the shrine. Onlookers reached out, desperate to touch their stricken Starmother, but Takha shrugged them off, as they interfered with his grip. Worshipers wept openly and prayed for salvation, then sat back on their heels with faces to sky—there were so many who lined the stairs, like a bed of flowers from top to bottom. The wails grew louder, the fervor in the faithful grew more intense, and Takha could hardly process the sheer emotion and energy coursing through the crowd.
If this is how they act at the sight of a forlorn Starmother, how will they react at whatever ill news she brings?
Once inside the shrine, the fiery sun disappeared and a shadow fell over the group—in its place they were met with quiet stone, cool and damp. Juppa ushered the hundred in silence through curved halls until they reached the starview chamber. Instantly, the cool air and damp shadow disappeared, giving way to the sunlight filtering through concentric rings of lunettes dotting an enormous domed ceiling. It lit up the blue robes of the hundred disciples like newly sprung teyflowers.
They set the Starmother down, seating her in one of the many stone chairs circling the room, which were all reclined and pointed inward.
On holy nights, the shrine opened to a selection of starless, a lucky few plucked from the throng ever-present around the base of the structure. The chosen were guided into the starview chamber and provided a stone seat, where they laid back and watched the stars. Each lunette was an iris, capable of spiraling out and expanding until the entirety of the evening sky opened up over the chambers. The Starmother would lead the starless in verse as they gazed on the stars, chant to Gethael and beg to be brought to the sky and their celestial gods. Ascension, the final stage to reaching nirvana. It was an epiphany of light, where the faithful returned their starlight to the heavens and brought balance to the celestial. Such was the faith, he'd come to learn.
This evening, though, there was no preaching, no fervor or ridiculous tradition. Instead, a distraught Starmother was splayed out over a chair, crowded by the hundred disciples, and alongside her was a prophet trembling and sobbing at the news that had been delivered with hushed voice and hurried words.
Takha heard every word and watched Juppa's face contort away from the cheery mess he saw day after day. Word had arrived that the perfect Ferai, so humble and loved, had been assassinated in their own home and rendered a memory. The Patron dead, his starless wife dead, his useless son dead. Only his daughter remained, though she was rebellious and not likely to live up to her father's legacy.
Juppa and the Starmother traded questions and answers, beginning with the delay in learning of the murders, which had apparently occurred weeks ago. It seemed none had been left alive atop Sanctus Mount, and the bodies had not been not discovered for many nights.
Further questions involved theories and speculation, and Takha listened intently. These things—conjecture and blame—were petty, didn't matter, and Takha didn't care too much, as he was interested in the consequences. When the Rayn children had died, the tension between the Astral had become palpable, even to nobodies like him in the inner districts of Celaena. It was enough to get him excited, perhaps even happy. But this? Monumental. Two sets of Astral murders, one the hallowed Patron Ferai and rightful heir to the holy seat. The ensuing chaos would be delightful. Takha smiled, but not so much as to draw attention.
Here is your ripple.
The conversation ended. Juppa was left stone-faced, but Takha saw the rage burning behind his eyes. The Starmother regained her composure, and her expression also steeled, fire in her eyes.
The murder of Doveh Ferai—the Ferai holy, the Patron divine—was intolerable to the starless and the faithful, and martyrdom awaited. Takha guessed the faithful would believe another House was responsible—a political maneuver, a play for power and wealth, or perhaps revenge for mistaken blame over the Rayn children's deaths. Who else could kill an Astral but an Astral? The faithful would blame the Starsingers, and if they did not, Takha would make sure they
did. He saw opportunity in the beautiful coincidence.
Takha's gaze left the starview chamber and the shrine, and he reveled in the imagery of a tide of fanatics sweeping over Celaena and the isles of the Dominion as a militant faith who would bring a reckoning.
Wind whipped at Wuta's long brown hair. For the past week, he had traveled the lightning-quick coastal sail network rather than taking the slow boat rides through the channels that snaked between the Dominion's hundred islands, eager to reach another of the cloudwatch towers and find someone to listen to him. It seemed unbelievable so many educated graduates of the Academy refused to accept his calculations and heed his warning.
Maybe fifty others rode with him in the star-shaped swiftclip at any given time. At each stop along the network, ten or so left and ten more boarded, each carrying some manner of wares. The coastal sails were efficient and reliable, and many with trade relied on them for their livelihood.
No matter who boarded, all his companions on the coast ride were starless, representing varied disciplines from within the central city of Celaena to the farthest reaches of known territory. Fisherman cracked their knuckles while mending nets, merchants sat cross-armed atop their boxes, and quarry workers carried pickaxes and looked forlorn, no doubt en route to their next mine. One of the miners still stank from burnt ribbum. It was rare for a shift-worker to not immediately head to Gambler’s Row after getting out of the Tsac mines. There were others who he couldn't place, and he even saw several commoners with no obvious trade sitting around a table in matching blue robes and fidgeting with spheres and metal ingots. The object of their focus seemed to be a faith-based game, which he deduced from the ingot patterns they crafted around the spheres. It was an irrelevant distraction. Wuta concerned himself only with the calculations scrawled on the charts before him.
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