He pinned down each corner of his charts to a central table with iron hooks he’d found lying around the swiftclip, which prevented the charts from rippling in the gale. For a week now, he’d studied the maps and his equations, confidence in the result growing with each review. It had begun sooner than he’d expected, a thick fog rolling over the continent, the vanguard of an unprecedented meteorological event. In his time at the academy, he’d never learned about anything like this; his professors had never told him such a thing was possible. Perhaps they'd never considered the shifting of gulf streams. For all of the Academy's collected wisdom, their watchers only kept tabs on spots of altostratus, cirrocumulus, or even the odd cumulonimbus: anything capable of blotting the skies and disrupting an Astral's channel. But this? It was something else entirely. Someone needed to listen to him.
“Oi, whattya got there, watcha’?” one of the blue-robed commoners asked while rolling ingots in his palm. Wuta eyed him, chewed at his lip, but only for a second.
“This here is a story, friend.”
“A story, eh?” said the man in blue. “Don't see no words, do I? Numbers, though, lotta numbers. Lines, too, some dotted, some not. Don't make much for much of a story, I'm thinking.” Wuta leaned back, dodging the man's wild gestures, which he seemed to use as punctuation to every word delivered with his strange yet genuine cadence.
“Ah, yes,” said Wuta. “I can see why you would think that.” The commoner didn't gesture when listening, so Wuta kept talking before the man interrupted with a word or a wave of his finger. “To me, these numbers paint a picture. They're calculations, you see, and these lines are patterns that show winds, water condensation, cloud flows… all of it sums up into an inescapable conclusion, a confluence of circumstance for the ages.” The commoner nodded along, though he was probably just being polite. Confusion was written all over his face.
“Eh, what's the story then, watcha?”
“Hah, you wouldn't believe me if I told you! In fact, that's why I'm on this blasted trip; I’m searching for someone who will listen to me.”
“I'm listenin' well nuff, watcha, don't you think so?”
Well, that is true.
“I do think so, and forgive me, I don't mean to be rude. Surely you know our role, us cloudwatchers—”
“—sure do,” the man said, cutting Wuta off, “and it's not my place to butt in, since you seem a nice enough fellow, but watching the clouds and looking after them starlords ain't my cup of tea, if you know what I'm saying.”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. I understand.” Wuta glanced at the stars on the man’s blue robes. “The starless and the singers, forever embroiled in conflict—the perennial battle for the heart of Celaena and the Dominion at large! Not really into all that, you know. I just do what I was trained to do, the reasons why are irrelevant. Clouds need watching, so I watch.”
“But you'll warn the Astral all the same, eh?”
Wuta sighed. “I will. It's my duty.”
The man didn't seem perturbed. He just nodded in understanding. “Seems to me you do a mite more than just watch the clouds, eh?” The commoner pointed to Wuta's chart.
Wuta grinned, pleased. “Ah, you are listening. Thank you for that. So, look here, do you see how these wind streams intersect? Yes, right there. Now, this calculation—no this one, this one—it determines the temperature differential over the ocean. Differential? That means the difference between two bodies of air. That's right, there are two different air flows. Warm air is getting trapped under cold air, and it's causing the fog you're starting to see everywhere.”
Wuta's lecture stopped short at calls from the blue-robed man's friends, beckoning the man back to whatever they were doing with their metal ingots and little spheres.
“Oi,” he said. “I'm gonna run, but thanks for the explanation. Been wonderin' bout that fog. Unnatural, if you ask me. Who knew it was just different air! Crazy the way the world works, eh? Was lookin' forward to your grand conclusion, what was your name? Did you ever say? Anyways, I'm sure I'll hear about it one way or anotha'. Happy sails, watcha! Our stop comes next. Headed back to the city, we are. The faith has been restored!”
The man returned to his friends, and immediately set back to arranging his ingots in strange little circles and rolling dice adorned by symbols Wuta did not recognize. A strange game, but the men seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Wuta had warmed from the interaction. If a simple commoner grasped the basics of the growing fog and shifting air currents, an Academy-trained cloudwatcher would quickly understand the peril of the coming storm the Astral faced. Now it was just a matter of reaching the next tower and finding one to listen.
Chapter Ten
“To come face to face with your star is a test, a challenge you must conquer, for there can be no singers without a tune, and your star holds the beat.”
- Neranian's First Degree
“Where will you go?” Hecta's eyes searched Ahryn's face.
“I don't know,” she said as she stuffed more clothing into her sack.
“Will you return to Sanctus Mount?”
“There's nothing for me there.” She'd cried for hours, until her eyes felt like popping from her head. Now she shed no more tears—she was empty, without emotion. She’d lost everything she cherished. Hiding in her ancestral home atop Sanctus Mount would only add to her misery and make her confront her new reality. She wasn't near ready enough.
“The city, then?”
Ahryn hadn't thought that far ahead; she only wanted to leave and get away.
“Perhaps,” she said.
“You can always stay with us at the seminary, Lady Ahryn. Your training is not yet complete.”
She stood straight and turned her head to the gentle man, noticing his age in his wrinkles. Hecta had been kind, but she still shot daggers at him. “I have repeatedly told you not to call me that.”
“I'm sorry. You have.”
Ahryn picked up her sack which was now full—half with books and half with clothes. She pulled a hood over her head and addressed the Curator. “I appreciate all you've done for me, Hecta, but my path is no longer here. I will complete the Doctrine on my own and find my way.”
Hecta sighed. “So be it.” He stepped to the side, out of the doorway, and took his familiar stance with his arms resting in his sleeves. “Starlight guide you, Ahryn.”
She tried but failed to smile. Instead, she brushed by him and headed out the door. Ahryn sensed him behind, following through the halls of the seminary as she walked toward its exit, even as she emerged into a still howling gale and rain sweeping sideways. Despite the weather, the ring of torches blazed bright and lit the landing atop the ridge. From there, she could either climb back down to the beach or descend the rickety bridge to the docks. It was an easy choice, with only one direction in front of her. The treacherous bridge swung violently in the storm, but held sturdy.
She stepped onto the bridge, grasped the firm, taut rope, and began her descent to the docks below. The coastal sail network was efficient, the next swiftclip due soon. She didn't look back once on her way down.
Much like the bridge, the seminary docks looked old and worn down, its teywood planks discolored and rotted from countless years of torrential rain and crashes of seawater waves. Ahryn stood, unsure of her footing, shifting her weight to keep her balance while she maintained the mist in her eyes. She had linked with her star on the way down, asking for its warmth and shelter from the storm raging under a sky filled with scattered clouds. Ocean spray did fall on her, nor did the howling wind whip at her shawl, sheltered by her roiling ball of starlight.
A ship approached on time, as expected, the efficiency of the network unimpaired. It was not a small craft used to traverse the channels in the city, or even the streams leading in; the network ship was a large, sturdy looking swiftclip meant for fast travel around the archipelago. Ahryn marveled at its design as it pulled alongside the dock and moored, the body largely built with han
dcrafted teywood sporting Astral House sigils arranged around a map of the Dominion, the overall shape a glistening star with a trail of light behind. The teywood looked sleek, coated with a ribbum mixture making it impermeable and resistant to saltwater decay. The craft's sails were tailored with silkweave, colored silver and taut against the storm. Several ship handlers lowered a wide ramp to the docks, where it planted with a thud.
Only one man disembarked, destined for the seminary. He was clad in black robes with a white rope for a belt, and she caught a glint of white mist behind his hood. Maybe he knew Hecta, as the man had same white glow as the Curator. She did not give it much consideration, and the man did not seem to give her any either, as her identity was cloaked under thick robes. The man disappeared quickly up the bridge, not bothering to wait for any luggage to be unloaded.
Ahryn walked up the ramp, no hurry in her steps, and boarded the craft. To her surprise, the deck was alive with energy, though sounds were drowned out in the gale. All about her, men, women, and children from different strata and stature engaged in various activities, recreational or otherwise—well-fed bakers in their aprons, scrawny and rough-looking weavers chewing on straw and spitting when their mouths filled with saliva, tailors and stoneworkers, merchants and millers. She even saw a Starsinger or two, recognizable by their straight backs and indifference, eyes glowing as the rains parting about them as if they were rocks in a river. A good mood permeated the atmosphere, but the good nature and laughter of the travelers did not sit well with her, and she was not in the mood to socialize. She found a seat closer to the stern of the vessel, made herself comfortable, and awaited the swiftclip's departure. It didn't take long, and soon the sprays of the passing ocean crashed against the ship and filtered through meticulously bored holes in the hull.
Traveling the tight cluster of islands could take a week by light-powered coastal sail if going from end to end, but a trip from the southern seminary island to the northern-situated city of Celaena only took a day or two. Still, the long journey warranted a distraction. Ahryn reached for her sack and searched inside. She withdrew one of the books she'd brought with her, the one she’d purchased in the Nightmarkets from the strange old lady, the one with a simple star etched into a coarse jacket. With a grunt, she tossed it back into the sack and kept searching, until finally she brought out Neranian’s Third Degree, the final chapter of the Doctrine and the hardest to master. Satisfied, she cracked it open.
She had barely ventured into the Second Degree under Hecta's watchful gaze, had only managed to channel with extreme concentration, and had just begun to understand how to harness her starlight. But she didn't care. For a long time, she’d wondered about the limits of her magic and the extent of the power possible while wielding her star, but had always been deflected away from that path and warned against a reckless pursuit, against Starlust. Now on her own, the last Ferai singer and responsible for avenging her family, she aimed to take matters into her own hands, and it began by delving into the Third Degree without caution or care.
She understood little, but knew Neranian had written the first two Degrees introspectively and philosophically, perfectly suited for academia. In contrast, he’d written the Third Degree experientially. Ahryn began to read about incidents in Neranian's life—observations about the external effects of starlight—as if a scientist recording data through an experiment. There were details about the manipulation of elements, of sunlight and shadows, and physical forces like magnetism and gravity—like walking through fields of high grass and running his fingers through them and lighting their tips ablaze with a blue fire, or like standing beside a flowing stream and feeling the moisture in the air, harnessing it, condensing it, and watching rain fall from a conjured cloud not five feet from the ground. The book read like a diary, a journal of Neranian's interactions with his star—his discoveries—and often Ahryn grew bored. She did not know how to apply the knowledge.
Every so often, Ahryn raised her eyes from the book, confused or curious, and glanced out into the immeasurable depths of the ocean, her mind lost and awestruck by the inherent power at her grasp. From time to time she'd look inland at the passing structures, sometimes close and sometimes far, and wondered if they stood in Neranian's time, or if they became possible through Neranian's research. Then she returned to the book and her reading, noticing the ache in her neck or in her back, or the shifting of the sun overhead, or the to and fro of the other travelers as they came and went at various stops along the way. For long periods of time she forgot why she was even there—forgot the pain from the recent revelation of her parents' assassination and the potential end of her family. In that long moment, alone on the swiftclip with nowhere to go, she started to become one with the Third Degree.
At last she heard the call from Celaena. The swiftclip was no longer enveloped by a bristling storm, instead tickled by gentle but frigid westerly winds. Had she forgotten to sleep? She looked up and gasped at the view, and at the same time winced at a sharp ache of her muscles. She scowled and massaged them, but continued to stare at the wonder of the swiftclip's approach to the city.
Here, at the fisherman's wharf, no great wall shielded the city from the outside. Instead, ships were welcomed into the wide-open harbor, with the entirety of the cityscape on the horizon. Five large towers, equally interspersed throughout the city, shot skyward and approached the clouds, the closest tower her family's city-home. Hanging over the rest of the city were the aqueducts and water delivery system, a network of teywood tubes supported by great pillars. Her father had called them a modern marvel, an ingenious way to feed and water the masses of common folk. In the distance, south of the wharf but not past the Nightmarkets, the glistening, flat roof of the moonlight treasury stood out from the endless crawl of tiled and thatched rooftops making up the shops and residences of the starless population.
The swiftclip pulled into the harbor and docked, then lowered its ramp and allowed a flood of passengers to disembark. Ahryn marked her place in the Third Degree and stuffed the book back into her sack, then stood. As she took a few steps, the aches she had ignored for so long caught up to her, and she cried out in pain and almost fell. No one noticed as they were too hurried and distracted by the venture forth into the fisherman's wharf. She righted herself and joined the throng, anxious, with no plan and unsure where to go next. Her city home would force her to grieve and confront the reality of taking up her family's reins, as sure as if she'd set sail for Sanctus Mount. No, she couldn’t go there. Her feet kept moving, and she shuffled off of the docks, and they scraped against the pebbles littering the walkways in the wharf. Hunger assaulted in her stomach. She needed to eat and searched around for a suitable establishment. She saw a commotion of people coming in and out of a building adorned with the icon of a flagon.
There.
Her new life started with a bowl of soup.
Ahryn sat alone, huddled in the corner of the bustling alehouse, and watched barmaids in short blouses serve mugs of bracknine to tables of merchants, laborers, and other commoners from around the world. She could hardly see through the hazy steam escaping the hot sludge drinks. She crinkled her nose, imagining the acrid taste of the drink she had never enjoyed. This place seemed a hub for travelers, either a stop on a long journey or an ultimate destination. She contemplated the different weaves of cloth, straw, and silk, and the design, patterns, and colors, some recognizable and some not. For a moment, Ahryn wondered at the many places within the archipelago she'd never been—the cultures she’d never met—and yearned to know more about her world. For a moment, she felt small, sheltered, and thought she didn't really know her world at all. The moment passed, and she remembered her sorrow. Tears welled in her eyes.
No! I can't do this again. I've got to be strong. I am the last Ferai.
She wiped her eyes and set her jaw, grasping at the sides of her chair until her knuckles grew white. She mustered all the fight within her to beat down the emotion, until the frightened girl curled u
p inside her and went back to sleep, leaving only a stubborn singer. When her composure returned, her eyes darted around the inn cautiously, but it seemed no one had noticed her loss of control. Since leaving the seminary, she’d been afflicted with bouts of despair and had learned to deal with them. She looked up quickly, found the large, circular windows lining the ceiling—which revealed a clear sky—and breathed relief.
When she looked down again, her eyes fell over a group of elderly men in blue robes huddled around a pile of metal ingots. They gestured wildly and seemed to speak with exuberance. She recognized them as faithful, followers of Gethael. Other patrons shot them looks and laughed with their companions, but the old men didn't seem to mind, too consumed with their game of Celestial. Suddenly, she became aware of the filthy patrons of the alehouse. But the old men stood out, struck a chord, and seemed to her a bastion of peace in a world of hate.
Is this my father's dream?
In that instant, however fleeting, she saw the faith as something more than an ancient plague and harbinger of doom. Instead, the faith seemed a tide of innocence, a great equalizer, no person different than another, when strata disappeared and no lines between singer and starless existed.
A storm of sunlight broke the haze and pulled Ahryn from her revelation as the large door to the alehouse opened to a new patron. To her shock, in strode a broad-shouldered, well-muscled man clad in plated gauntlets and pauldrons and a tattered grey tunic. At his chest was a sigil, which was scratched and defiled, though not enough to hide the symbol of the Orange Dawn. An Arbiter had just entered the shop, and everyone knew it. Barmaids slowed their hustle and the cackles of laughter and animated conversation gave way to a hush. Ahryn watched the man's shoulders drop as he let out a sigh, then he made his way to the long bar-top. The energy picked back up, slowly, and soon it was if nothing had happened. But Ahryn kept her eyes fixed on the Arbiter as he began to drink from a flagon of ale, eyes down.
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