“Never seen?” The shadow almost chuckled. “I don't know about that.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” The shadow man walked around Takha's bed, his dagger point dragging along the covers and cutting effortlessly into the straw. “Tell me, what can a throng of starless worshipers do against a union of Starsingers, who wield their stars and the light within?”
Takha sighed. It was a valid question. “Maybe nothing,” he said. “But if the numbers are large enough, if the zealotry is rabid, perhaps there is a chance. If the faith takes hold of the city, the source of Astral power—their throttle on trade and tokens—will be in jeopardy. Their wealth, their control over who eats and who starves, who drinks and who dies of thirst, the flow of money—all of it becomes meaningless if the starless no longer fear and if they are given purpose. The Astral illusion will shatter, and they will be forced to take up arms or be rendered obsolete.”
The shadow man considered, but not long. “They will never allow it to happen.”
“No, they won't,” said Takha. “They'll try and slaughter the starless, since they’ll finally have an excuse to unleash their starlight and take their place as rulers. But they'll fail, because the Order is still strong.”
The shadow man noticeably bristled at the mention of the Order and the Arbiters, and the atmosphere of the room grew hostile. But the shadow man said nothing.
Takha gulped, aware of the shift in atmosphere, but continued. “With the Arbiter's defiance, there may be a chance, a barrier against the Astral’s starlight to protect the starless. Even without considering the Order, the Astral may not act in time to stop the flood. More and more pebbles are being tossed into the pond, my friend, and the ripples are expanding. There are millions of starless throughout the Dominion; everyone who comes to the faith brings another weight upon the scales.” Takha paused, circling back. “We should want them on our side, you know—the Order. They should be brought in league with the faithful, told what may come so they may prepare. I believe their tenets demand them to choose one side over the other.”
“No,” said the shadow man.
The word was so simple, but so forceful. Takha froze, not wanting to breathe. He managed to squeak a question. “No?”
“That's what I said. It is enough that I will allow you to embark on this silly crusade as you attempt to use the faith and control it, rather than destroy it outright. But I will not allow you to become friendly with the Order.”
Takha struggled to understand. The Astral and the Arbiters were opposing forces, two sides of a conflict. The shadow man had signified his detest for the Astral and intent for their destruction. What did he have against the Order? Where did they fit into the puzzle?
“May I ask why?”
“You may not.” The shadow man moved to the door, but turned his hooded head to Takha's bed and spoke.
“You see yourself at their head, I imagine.”
“I'm sorry?”
“You are a crusader now, Takha Shun, and I don't think you'll settle to be just another follower. No, you've got other plans, I can see it clearly. You wish to take charge.”
“Of the faith?” Takha asked. How did he know? “I don't see how that is possible. The Starmother leads us, and the Ferai daughter has not come to fill the holy seat.”
“Us?”
Curse the stars!
“Forgive me, a slip of the tongue. I'm so often in character these days.
“Careful, Takha Shun. Remember where your loyalties lie.”
“Of course.”
The shadow man spoke his last at Takha's bedroom door. “Continue your infiltration and purge the Astral, but no more. I do not want a holy army of starless on my doorstep after they have disposed of the singers, marshaled by the Order or otherwise. Replacing one blight with another is not acceptable.” He departed.
Takha’s mind reeled, and he couldn’t fall back asleep. Anxiety coursed through his body, and he was unable to answer the many questions springing within. Underlying it all was one simple question, one supreme question: Where would a holy army find the shadow man's doorstep?
Sotma Rayn clenched his hands hard, trying to crush the ever-present dull ache. He squeezed so hard that when he reopened his hands they tingled at the flow of blood returning to his fingertips. The sword at his belt beckoned, and he cupped the hilt with his palm, eager to draw it and relive the war. Was he still the Elegance? It'd been so long.
“Sotma, are you listening?”
He broke from his memory and raised his stare to the vile Arbiter who sat so casually in the moonroom, his very presence distasteful and irksome. The thin rapier hanging at the man's side was a joke, flimsy and bland. What would it be like to fight this man, starlight nullified by defiance, leaving only the clash of steel? Pathetic, hardly worthy of his time. Men like this stood no chance before him. They’d fallen before, and they'd fall again if given the chance. But this Arbiter had so far proven useful, cutting Ezai from the Order as if the man were diseased flesh that had wormed his way into the Lion's circle, gaining his confidence and neutering any resistance. No, he could not strike this man down, not even when the dust settled. An asset was an asset, whatever the cost.
“Yes, I'm listening, but we cannot just run our singers up Sanctus Mount and take their lands for ourselves. The moonlight treasury would never release their tokens to us, nor would they seal the transfers of property into our names. Our only recourse would be to take the treasury for ourselves. But that is not how business is done in Celaena.”
“Maybe it's how it should be done. Isn't that why you're bringing back the war: to destroy the balance and enslave the commoners? Who cares what some starless bankers have to say, who cares about their accounting? With the Astral Houses united, you could do it with ease and not lose any sleep.”
“And the Order? What about them? You think they'd sit by and watch it happen?”
“Leave them to me,” said Veydun.
Sotma considered. “No,” he said. “You ask why we should care about starless bankers—we have to care, Veydun. The war is not won; it's hardly even begun. And do not forget the faith. Even now it spreads to the corners of the Dominion, marshaling starless and creating zealots. It's becoming dangerous. The Ferai murders were enough to set them off: can you imagine if another Astral House moves against their estate? We would be inviting a rebellion. And despite your reassurances, the Order are a problem until you prove otherwise. No, we must find another way.”
Veydun kicked a toe into the ground. “I trust you have another way in mind,” he said, “and you're not just wasting my time. Why was I summoned here?”
Sotma bristled. How he longed to silence him, force the rapier from the man’s grip and choke the life from him. He squeezed his fists, imagining.
“I need you to find the girl.”
“What girl?” Veydun demanded.
“The Ferai girl,” Sotma sighed, “the Patron's daughter. She was safe at the seminary when her family was attacked, but now she's left her training and is wandering the streets of Celaena, alone. She's barely in the middle of her training and cannot fend for herself. I need you to find her and bring her to me.”
“You expect me to believe you've got her safety in mind?”
“Of course not,” said Sotma. “I do not think you that stupid.” Couldn’t Veydun grasp the real meaning behind the words?
“Fine. You're sure she's not lost elsewhere in the Dominion? There are hundreds of isles, Sotma. The streets of Celaena are but one place among many.”
“I'm sure. The moonlight treasury sent word they contacted her about the passing of her estate. She was last seen in the wharf. Recently.”
“Interesting. The men and women of the moonlight treasury certainly move quickly. What has she decided?”
“Nothing, yet.” Sotma stood, that began to pace, sure of his plan. “That's why it's the right time to act. She just lost her parents; she'll be receptive to a father figure who can guide he
r.”
Veydun laughed, a terrible sound. “And you plan to be this father figure?”
Sotma stiffened, then turned on the Arbiter. “I recently lost my own children, Veydun. Have you forgotten?” The Arbiter didn't respond. “Who better to step into her father's shoes and show her the ways of an Astral House? We can marshal her to our cause, join the Ferai with the other Houses. And the faith...”
Veydun's eyes slightly widened, as if he'd finally connected the dots. Sotma smiled, pleased.
“Lady Ahryn will be offered the holy seat that her father never took,” said Veydun.
Sotma smiled. “Yes, she will.”
“And if she is in league with us, under your tutelage, and takes the seat, she could guide the entirety of the faith to fall in line with us. She can unite the Astral and the starless, fulfilling the forgotten prophecy.”
“Indeed.”
“Nothing would stand in your way, Sotma, if the Starsingers commanded the faithful. That's much more political thinking than I've come to expect from you. Been hanging around your brothers recently?”
Fury raged within Sotma, and the edges of his vision turned a faint red, but he kept his face from showing it. Instead, he simply circled his chair, his palm on his sword hilt, and addressed Veydun. “Go, find her and bring her to me. My brothers have no idea, but they need to; I will speak with them now.”
Veydun nodded, stood from his lounging chair, and slinked out of the room like the weasel he resembled. Sotma watched him go, then sniffed and measured his breath. It took Sotma enormous concentration to resist attacking Veydun, so deeply embedded was his hatred for the disciples of the Orange Dawn. He'd wanted to smite Ezai where he stood when the awful man had strutted around his late son's chambers and rambled about legend. This Veydun was no better. They were all the same, the Arbiters, and they deserved the fate that approached.
His roiling thoughts traveled with him as he journeyed from his moonroom through the Rayn manor to meet his brothers. He passed windows along the way and took in the gorgeous, calming scenery. House Rayn's ancestral home sat in the northern isles, on a particular island flush with green hills and lakes so clear they reflected the horizon like a perfectly cast mirror.
The manor hadn’t been designed to match the setting; instead, it appeared as though a cube dropped from the heavens and sunk into the earth. The stone walls were symmetrical, the same length up, down, and sideways. Each of the hundreds of rooms within were also cubed, though of varying sizes. Sotma allowed his fingertips to trace the straight, firm walls, feeling at the cracks in the leystone and the strength within.
He reached the main hall and saw the empty three seats side by side near a dais. The three points of the crown used to hold court here, many years ago, as the starless denizens of the northern isles petitioned the House for licenses and loans. Now, the hall served mainly as a place for singers to test their might. The walls and floor were scorched, and the stone was cracked and chipped. But while the Rayn may have forgotten their tradition, the three seats sat untouched.
Sotma leaned over one of the seats, arms crossed along the top, back arched and feet planted into the floor. He watched his brothers, Canko and Prin, who stood with scribes and sycophants, sitting at a long rectangular table with papers scattered about. His twin brothers looked quite different from Sotma, so much so that he had heard about it all through his youth, along with rampant allegations about his mother's impropriety. The twins hated him for it, and he'd been the odd man out since a child, many, many years ago.
They discussed politics, of course, and the movement of tokens through the isles and beyond. It bored Sotma, meaning nothing to him. The discussion was insignificant in the grand scheme when measured against the awesome potential of a won war, a displaced starless and neutered Order, with the Astral taking their place.
“So, young brother, what brings you to the hall? We know it's not to involve yourself with House matters.”
Canko didn't both to look at him, attention too focused on endorsements and seals. How he loathed his brothers. They felt the same way, of course, unspoken hate seeping into every aspect of Rayn leadership and governance.
“The plot is unfolding, Canko. I thought you may be finally interested.”
“Hah,” Canko dismissed him, while Prin looked on, amused. “We've been through this several times, Sotma. We want no part of your little indulgence. Whatever memories haunt you, whatever pain stays with you from a war long fought, it is your burden and yours alone. Do what you need to right yourself, but don't think you can drag this House into some nostalgic conflict.”
Sotma clenched his fists and took several slow breaths. He heard the call from his star, and his blade began to reverberate in his hands with energy filtering inside. The Elegance remained, though there’d be no violence here in this hallowed place, and certainly not against his own blood, despicable as they were.
“You underestimate the grandeur of the movements, Canko. The faith grows, the Order's noble son of the Eagle is banished, and soon the last Ferai will be mine to wield as I wish. All the obstacles standing in our way will be removed, our path to victory soon clear. At last, the Astral will rule.”
Canko stopped his governing, set down his stamp, and turned in his chair to face his brother. “Let me be clear, Sotma, since your delusion is as cloudy as this fog settling over our lands. The war is over. It's been over for many years. We accepted the old way of Celaena and the Dominion, and it works. Administration of trade and tokens may be boring for you—may lack the glory you need to feel complete, but it is enough for our family to prosper. It is enough for all the Astral to prosper. Only, for you is it not enough, and you seek to disrupt this balance in some fool's errand, an old man's last chance to find himself and give his life meaning. But, Sotma, consider that your life doesn't have meaning. Anything great you may have done was lost in the war, and there is nothing for you anymore. So please, stop wasting our time. Go, indulge yourself with this fantasy, but don't come calling on us for assistance, financial or otherwise, when reality sets in.”
His brother turned back to his papers, the conversation done. Prin grinned and did the same. They said nothing further to Sotma. Well, he’d tried. No one could say otherwise, and when burning corpses of starless lined the streets of Celaena, there would be no place for his brothers. The three points of the crown would become one, for it only needed one.
Wuta's journey came to its end at the southeast tip of the Dominion, off the coast of the Tsac deserts and at the Academy's doorstep. He’d ended up traveling a long way from his cloudwatch tower in the northeast, snaking in between scattered islands, some named and some not. Initially, he had intended on disembarking at the cloudwatch tower in the northwest, north of Sanctus Mount and the Ferai's rocky islands, but his stay had lasted not much longer than the time it had taken to dock the swiftclip. The master of that tower had been awaiting him, aware of Wuta’s coming from word sent ahead. Not many craft traveled faster than the swiftclips of the sail network, even with intermittent stops along the way; only starlight sails could have exceeded their journey. That meant Astral intervention.
It made no sense. He tried to protect the Astral, fulfil his duty, and prepare them for a coming storm they did not expect. Why would the Astral help the Academy in undercutting his attempts?
The cloudmaster turned him away, uninterested in Wuta's important message or the calculations he’d performed. Why wouldn't anyone listen? Couldn't they grasp the magnitude of the coming storm? Even now, thick fog rolled over the shores and crept over islands until only the highest peaks were visible. It would not be long until it covered the ancestral manors, and Celaena itself. And these were just winds and huddled masses of vapor; the movement of the waves suggested something much more sinister. Disaster loomed.
His petition needed to fall on different ears. The cloudwatchers seemed uninterested with his finding, confident in their own calculations, and a visit to the central authority may not be any
different. He wasn't sure anything or anyone could help, not given recent events, and especially given Wuta's stigmatic tenure as a cloudwatcher; a reputation laced with frantic, dramatic excitement. He had never been taken seriously. Still, he’d always believed in the accuracy of his math and the cause. His treatment the last few weeks had eaten away at his naiveté.
He thought back to the friendly man in blue robes from his voyage west, who had shown more curiosity and interest than anything he’d experienced since graduating from the Academy. What was it the man had said? Looking forward to a grand conclusion? Well, that made one person, at least. The man had said something else—something about the city, and restoration of faith.
Wuta slid pieces together in his mind. He knew of the faith, of course, just like every starless in the Dominion. He'd grown up with stories and legends, which had been told in school or amongst friends and family, tales of the wars between men and celestial and the purge and all of that. He'd never been silly enough to buy into any of the myths, but he did recognize the foundations behind the fables. Every story contained some truth, even if just a hint, and Wuta believed in the power of the faith.
Wuta understood many things, and he failed to understand many more, but one thing he knew better than all others was systems, and how systems worked. If celestial worship had truly been restored, if the blue-robed man was just one of many striding again through the streets of Celaena, there would be a marshaling force behind it all—a structure in place guiding the religion's advance.
He decided. If the cloudwatchers would not listen, he’d find someone else. The Astral required protection, and the phenomenon he found threatened them all. Who better than those in charge of a mob of celestial enthusiasts to help shield the Astral? He began untying the rope of the channel crosser, the small boat he had retained after he’d been dumped by the swiftclip at the Academy, and never even took a step on the familiar island, instead setting sail north, heading back to the city and in search of devoted ears.
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