Justice.
She made her decision in an instant, then stood from her chair and pointed herself toward the Arbiter, thinking only of vengeance, a vessel into which she could channel her pain. An Arbiter was her way to get it, as the righteous men of the Dominion had been enshrined with the power to bring retribution. She knew the rules, the scroll she'd need to float down the Order's inner stream, but she didn't care. She’d make this Arbiter hear her, make him accept her personal invocation. She, Ahryn Ferai, last of her House, demanded justice. As she approached the Arbiter, she imagined what to say and what not to say, wondering how to convince this man to accept her bond. But she didn't get the chance.
A woman stepped in front of her. She was short, thin, and attired in finery emphasizing an inherent pomposity. She was from the moonlight treasury, and she fixed her beady eyes on Ahryn. Ahryn stopped in her tracks and glared.
“Move.”
The moonlight representative did not flinch, but pulled at the corners a thin strip of hair falling from her temple.
“Are you Lady Ferai?”
Ahryn didn't respond, and a blue mist began to seep into her eyes.
How dare this woman question me, an Astral. How dare she refer to me that way.
In the corners of her misty eyes, she saw the Arbiter twitch, ten feet away and head bowed to his flagon. Had his hand moved to his side and the hilt of his sword?
“No need for that, madame,” said the woman. “I am here from the moonlight treasury, come to speak with you about important matters.”
“I know who you are and where you're from.” She maintained the channel, her voice lined with anger.
“But do you know why I'm here? That is the real question. I mean nothing, but the issues to be determined mean everything. It is the way of things.”
Hatred burned inside her, and her starlight flared brighter. Ahryn didn’t hate this woman, nor the treasury, but being forced to think about her family—her dead family—and accepting the reality that she was now alone was not pleasant. Her anger could not be quelled, for the magnitude of her loss was too great. With a small part of her attention still fixed on the Arbiter she saw him shift his head in her direction, away from his drink.
“How did you find me?” she demanded, her voice booming.
“Lady Fe—”
“How did you find me?” Much louder, magnified by her starlight. Several patrons around them hushed, and the music missed a beat.
The woman drew her lips taut. “You were followed from the seminary.”
Ahryn didn't believe her. “No one boarded with me at seminary docks.”
“We had a man aboard the ship, planted ahead of time just in case.”
She bristled. “You knew I would leave?”
“We did not know, but we took precautions as is customary, because one can never know all things. The treasury deals in fact, not speculation.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you have me followed? Why do you care if I left the seminary?”
“Please, Lady Ferai,” she motioned to a table to their side, “sit with me for a moment. All will become clear, and please, put that away.” She waved at Ahryn’s eyes. “You have no quarrel with me, rest assured.”
Ahryn hesitated, shocked at the starless woman's dismissal, then glanced at the Arbiter, who now seemed less intense and once again focused on his ale. She allowed the last of her starlight to fade and acquiesced, her shoulders slumping.
“Fine,” she said. “But only for a moment. I've got other things to do.”
The moonlight woman smiled, but showed no teeth. She swept her arm around Ahryn’s shoulders and attempted to guide her to the table, but Ahryn shrugged off the woman and rushed ahead, taking a seat and leaning back with her arms crossed, hood still over her head. The moonlight woman sat across from her and clasped her hands.
“Lady Ahryn—”
“Do not call me that,” Ahryn cut her off.
The woman cocked her head, then continued as if Ahryn had said nothing.
“I'm here on behalf of your father's estate.”
Gethael be damned!
She did not want to do this. She kicked back from the table and gestured for the woman to leave.
“Please, Ahryn.” The woman didn't plead, but said it with all of the authority and confidence of a higher stratum.
I am the last Ferai. This is my place now, like it or not.
She sat back down, rested her hands on her lap, and stared at the woman straight in her face. Then the woman reached inside her robes and grabbed a tightly wound scroll, which was large in diameter and sealed with the spear.
“I'm not interested in what I've been bequeathed,” Ahryn interjected. “It's not been more than a few sunsets since my family was killed. Can't this wait?” Her voice was stone, emotion hidden away, just as her father had taught her.
The woman hesitated, but nodded and stuffed the scroll back into her silkweave robes.
“Is that all, then?”
“No.” The woman pursed his lips again. “Your father's estate includes the entirety of House Ferai: the manor, the city-home, the coffers, the men and women in his employ. These are typical matters to be decided upon the passing of the head of an Astral House.”
“I'm aware.”
“Of course you are,” she said. “So surely you are aware that your House requires stewardship, lest it vanish while you grieve. There is no one left to take charge, to lead and to care for the family business—”
“To pay debts and ensure business continues to flow.” Ahryn’s patience wore thin.
“Yes. That.”
“I cannot be that person. Not now.” She glanced over again at the bar, relieved to see the Arbiter still drinking.
“No, I gather you can't, and I don't think your father expected it, either.” Ahryn lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, and the woman corrected herself quickly. “Not that he expected this anytime soon, but in general, on his passing he did not think you would take the reins right away. For that reason, he directed all of your family’s wealth to be managed by a steward of your choosing. You now have the ability to pick someone, Ahryn, to guide your family's legacy while you mourn, then come back in your own time.”
Ahryn took in the moonlight woman's words. Ahryn understood, of course, because her father had explained it many times, since he had been so committed to ensuring the Ferai’s survival. Unfortunately for her, it had also meant hearing much about the faith.
What would happen to the faith with her father's passing? Would it dissolve as the fires of its passion were extinguished, shrine torn down and blue-robed disciples forgotten?
She shook her head. Not her concern. Those were decisions for her trustee, whomever she chose. Her mind was set only on avenging her family. She needed justice.
“When must I decide?”
“Soon. The next turn of the moon is approaching. Workers will need pay, documents will require signing, vaults will require opening, and so on and so on. Here,” the moonlight woman reached again inside of her robes, this time bringing out a small, rectangular piece of hardened parchment. “This is my calling. I am Windella, and I oversee the legacies of the Astral families. No doubt you know where the moonlight treasury sits. Go there in seven days with your choice and ask for me or send me word in a manner you see fit. I will arrange the rest, and, perhaps then we can address the last testaments of your family.”
Ahryn winced, struggling to hold back her tears. The moonlight woman saw, no doubt, but gave no hint. Instead, she rose from the table and stretched her hand, which Ahryn took and clasped, one palm over the other, just as her father had taught her. The woman smiled one last time, then departed.
Suddenly exhausted, Ahryn sat back in her chair and brought her hands to her face, allowing herself to weep, silently. A few minutes passed, and her tears dried. She raised her face, rested her head against the headrest, and sniffled. Realization dawned on her, and she whipped her head to the bar, eager to
finally pursue justice. But, to her dismay, the Arbiter was no longer there. She cursed, then left the alehouse.
Ezai walked out of the alehouse and was struck by the cold winds blowing over the waterfront. The conversation he’d overhead between the girl and the moonlight woman had centered his mind and focused his thoughts.
Father, don't lose faith in me.
The girl's cloak bore the mark of House Ferai, a blue spearhead seared into the fabric like a twisting blue ribbon. Her black hair stuck out from her hood, and her voice had carried an authority beyond her years. He’d heard all about the Patron’s daughter, and the sight of her matched the rumors.
Inside, she had discussed estate matters with the banker, the procedures for passing legacy in an Astral family—a dead family, he'd been surprised to learn. Killed. Now he faced two impossible Astral murders, and it would not be long until the people of the world—who depended on the balance—raised torches and pitchforks.
No doubt a young singer like her who was still learning to control her starlight and fight the churning, furious energy within would be consumed by a need for vengeance. Indeed, she'd been coming straight for him in the alehouse before the moonlight woman's distraction.
What would he have said, had she reached him? “Sorry, child, I am no longer an Arbiter of the Order, only a disgraced man too far beyond his better years.” Could he have faced her, just a girl yearning for justice and absolution from the burden of surviving where her family did not? No, he decided he could not have done so. He'd have turned away, tail tucked between his legs. Then what? Her notions of justice would have been destroyed and the foundations of her society would have been left in shambles? Perhaps it was better that he’d fled amid her tears. A lesser evil, and kinder.
Ezai pulled the high collar of his cape around his cheeks, feathers catching in his stubble, and braced himself against the cool winds of the wharf. These past few days had spiraled. He’d had no direction, no purpose. But now, the path became clear: what to do, where to go. All he had now were his last bonds, loose ends to tie, the last rights of a legacy in shambles. With a second Astral murder, it became more important than ever for him to complete his bond with Sotma and unveil the affliction of Saryx.
Father, will you forgive me?
Dawnbreak sat heavy in its sheath at his right hip. He gripped it and tugged at the hilt. The blade resisted his pull, as it had stuck to the sheath with the frost of the morning; unseasonably cold temperatures assaulted Celaena with the mist enveloping the city. He searched his mind and his past for something similar, but found nothing. He looked up, the sky hazy, hidden. The time approached noon, yet the sun barely showed. He frowned.
Cloudy thoughts broke at the Lion's words echoing through his mind: “Your bonds are your own.” Sotma Rayn was still owed justice for the death of his children, and Ezai’s duty was to see it through. His morality demanded it. His father deserved it.
Ezai had begun to link patterns prior to his excommunication, and with the murders of the Ferai came a truth: Saryx was real, and the apostle had struck again. But why were they murdering Astral? What was the connection between Saryx and the Starsingers? The answers were lost in time, secrets of a faith long forgotten.
Father, is it the faith?
Even here, in the fisherman's wharf, Ezai saw the familiar blue robes with the crest of stars. They were regular people, going about their daily business, but dressed in the garments of the Bringer. They were followers of Gethael: a man in the streets was carrying loads of morning catch; a woman near the docks was lugging nets from the thin fishing boats returned from the hunt; and everywhere around the fires that burned along the roads sat various faithful engaged in the game of Celestial, the same as he'd seen in Gambler’s Row. All looked serene, engaged in a lofty conversation with a belief burning within.
The faith was no longer lost or forgotten, now resurrected—by the Patron Ferai, no less. Was that why he’d been killed? But the other Astral tolerated the Patron's frivolity, no doubt considering this new worship to be another false echo. But Ezai wasn't so sure this time. A passion was flaring through the lower class, the burgeoning starless, and it made them act without fear. Such a movement threatened the Astral's grip on the city and the Dominion at large, and it did not feel like an echo. Surely the other families understood that killing the Patron would only embolden the followers and make their devotion that much more resolute.
Try as he might, Ezai could not understand. He did not have the knowledge necessary to finish connecting the dots. The faith had been purged so long ago, along with its dogma, and the people had been left with fairytales passed down over the years through word of mouth. But then how was this new faith so strong? Few of the sacred texts had survived the centuries; and to his knowledge, any that had made it were safely stored in the Order’s Arcanum, or in the Vo’s libraries. They were sealed, forbidden to any except a careful few.
The Arcanum was inaccessible to him, since he’d been cast out of the Order, shunned, and labeled a lunatic. He needed to find a way to convince the Vo to open their libraries. Only when inside, only once he’d read the fables, would he understand. If he didn't, redemption would never come, and the girl who'd seemed so angry would never find peace. It was curious for him to care about the Ferai girl, who he’d never met. He couldn't explain it; he just felt it.
Ezai began to walk along the fire-lit roads of the wharf, thinking about the task ahead. Perhaps, if he found a way inside the libraries, he'd discover something buried deep to light the way. It'd been many years since he'd last visited the Vo’s Twilight Orchards. The remembered taste of blood oranges rolled over his tongue. A long sail from Celaena awaited, nearly seven days from corner to corner through the chain of islands making up the Dominion. So, he bundled himself against the winds, and set out to prepare for his trip.
Chapter Eleven
“And Gethael said you must labor and sweat, break down your body and release your mind. Only then will you be ready to ascend.”
The High Prophet at the Ribbum Mines
Takha lay awake without moving, eyes wide and his breath held. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his brow, but he dared not reach up to wipe it away. A creak of a floorboard woke him, followed by the scratch of something being dragged. At first it seemed to be a dream—imagined and not real—but no longer. His door swung open, revealing a black deeper than the night itself, and in its midst glowed white eyes. The shadow man had come for him. No starlight rumbled within Takha, and he could not wield a sword. Defenseless, pathetic.
Curse this world! Curse the Astral!
“You're awake,” said the shadow. “Good. I wasn't sure how long I'd have to wait, and I do not like waiting. Yet you've kept information from me, have you not?”
Takha sat up in bed and spat at the shadow. “What the hell are you doing, you scared me to death!”
“To death? No, I think not.”
Takha's eyes began to adjust to the absence of light, and he made out the shape of a dagger hanging inside the robe at the shadow man's rope belt.
“Bah,” he said, uninterested in wordplay. “Why have you come here? This is not the usual way.”
“It's not, is it? I wonder, have you forgotten our last chat?”
“No, of course not,” said Takha. This shadow man always left Takha’s mind in tatters, and remembering their encounters pained him like jagged shards of glass that ripped flesh. “I heard the men at the Five Constellations were slaughtered after I left—all of them. Was that necessary?”
“Now, is that really your concern?” The conspirator made a sound, like a disapproving click of his tongue. “Perhaps you should focus less on what I do, and more on what you should be doing?”
“Destroying the faith? I remember. Not exactly an easy task.”
“A task all the same, and tasks, I think, beg to be finished, though you seem to be failing. The faith is spreading like wildfire, or have you not noticed? New shrines are bei
ng raised throughout the city, even outside the Ferai quint.”
“I'm aware, having myself moved rock and stone to help build them.”
“Oh? That seems quite the opposite of what I demanded, no?”
“I've found another way.”
“Do tell.” The shadow man had pulled his dagger from his rope and was flicking it back and forth between his gloved hands, the tip poking into the end of a finger as he spun the hilt. The blade glinted on every revolution of the lights surging from the Nightmarkets and through Takha's bedroom window.
Takha's mind raced. Perhaps the plan made sense to him, but the shadow did not seem interested in the minutiae of schemes. “The Starmother is nothing more than the Patron Ferai’s tool, so she has no love for the other Astral families. And now that the Patron and his family—well, almost all of his family—have been culled, no doubt the blame will be placed squarely at the Starsingers feet. The Starmother will not hesitate to rise against them.”
“How will she do that?” the shadow man asked the question as if he already knew the answer. “She is an old woman.”
“Yes, she is an old woman,” said Takha. “Yet she commands the devotion of many worshipers, zealous followers of Gethael. There are countless faithful, all ready to heed her call.”
The shadow man said nothing, pausing to contemplate, though Takha suspected it was for show.
“You know this?”
“I've seen the masses,” said Takha, “the craze in their eyes and the devotion in their breath. I've seen them link themselves to the Starmother, and I’ve seen them feel what she feels. It's powerful. We can use it.”
“Use it how?”
Takha leaned his head back to rest against his headboard, stray splinters from cheap wood scratching at his hair.
“Shepherd a rebellion and stir an uprising against the Astral. Lay the seeds of a holy war the likes of which Celaena has never seen.”
Remember the Dawn Page 17