Remember the Dawn

by A M Macdonald

  Caravans brimming with wares stopped their slow treks to the channels—delaying unloading mounds of straw—where they would be taken to the tailors to be woven into blankets and other garments. He scratched at his neck, at the memory of waking every morning to the itchy material. Numerous straw merchants emerged from their shops to watch the coming event, looking curiously of the young man in blue robes who asked to speak with them. They appeared rough, sullen, and not the type for association. How could one ever aspire to strata jump from a place like this? These starless were the worst of the lot, and he never ventured to this district—for good reason.

  Cursed Juppa! Why send me here, to this disgusting district filled with people of such low strata? My first preach, too! I'm a prophet, for the sake of the stars, and I deserve better!

  The breeze died, and only heat remained. He gulped, but stood straight and spread his arms. A stillness settled over the people. The hairs on the back of Takha’s neck stood on end as he fought to temper his nerves.

  They're all looking at me like I'm sort of messiah. Idiots.

  His derision quickly turned to humor, and he chuckled to himself.

  Though, I guess they're right.

  He strode from the outskirts of the square where he stood and entered into its middle. At the base of a statue he climbed up and came to a rest against the stone foot of an apostle. He could never tell one of these blasted effigies from the next. The bottom of his new robes caught on the corner as he lifted himself up, and he bent to pull it free, aware of his lack of grace, not yet used to the prophet garments. The robes were not as nice as the silkweave he’d worn as a moonlight man, but they were better than the rags he’d sported as one of the hundred. Compromise. He could live with that, for now.

  Once free, Takha stood straight, then took a moment to reflect. He hoped the pregnant pause seemed to the watchers an affected, purposeful gesture—that his pose was fit for an oiled painting or a marble bust or the murals lining the entrance channels of Celaena.

  In truth, he tried to recall his expedited training, remembering the gospel driven into his brain through mind-numbing chanting and recital. He still marveled at how quickly and easily he had carved his way into the faith’s upper echelon, hastened by the assassinations of the Ferai.

  The deaths of the Patron and Matron Ferai had served a heavy blow to the faithful, the Starmother especially, and the Ferai daughter had not yet claimed the holy seat. Her absence left the worshipers stranded, adrift at sea in the dark with no star to point their way. Takha saw the doubt that had taken hold and the hurried choices that were made, and he’d maneuvered to capitalize. The faithful were afraid of the Astral, afraid that without the Patron's guidance and protection their progress would be curtailed and their worship would be stamped out. The faith commanded a swift reaction, eager to take root in the city before their tenuous grasp on the common folk washed away. Yet the accelerated spread did not go deep enough. They pushed for more shrines, more prophets, more pebbles. Faster, further.

  So now he found himself a prophet, caretaker of belief and medium of the Bringer's wisdom. Here he was, in the Vo quint, wearing robes bearing the sigil of faith, ready to preach the word of Gethael. They expected him to spin dogma, bring people to the light, but he harbored a different purpose, a divergent plan—not even the shadow man understood the true fire burning within.

  For Takha, spreading the faith and conscripting the starless meant marshaling an army to purge the Astral. That was all. They were a weapon to fit his rage, fulfill his lifelong task to rid the world of the Starsinger blight.

  He wondered if they would figure it out—would Juppa or the Starmother learn of his real plans? Probably not. Nothing he saw would stop the coming storm. The shadow man would not be pleased, of course, but Takha found himself caring less and less. Could the shadow man even touch him now? Takha yearned to test the limits of his newfound power.

  “What say you, prophet?” a straw-chewing merchant called up from his stoop, his words echoing across the square in the still afternoon, curious but hinting impatience.

  “I say this: Adopt the faith.” Takha was concise, because he did not see a point in reciting hours of verse or scripture. His strength was derived from words, and they’d served him well his entire life, allowing him to climb the invisible tiers of social strata in the city and overcome the reality of his tortured past and the resentment from those who had made it happen. He cared for no one, and he distrusted and disrespected everyone, even those in the faith, like several of the one hundred who felt he didn't belong.

  So, to tailor his language to his audience came as naturally as breathing. Takha prided himself on being a master manipulator. His come-to-Gethael demonstration at the shrine and in the weeks following had provided evidence of his holiness, chosen by the stars to speak for the people, but Juppa had not been fooled. Takha had seen it in the Prophet's eyes that day in the great hall, while on his knees and scrubbing the tiniest flecks of accumulated dirt from otherwise impeccable leystone. He had seen it again at the ascension ceremony while leaning against the wall and speaking of fervor.

  It wasn’t mistrust, or caution—more like an unspoken secret, and a mutual solidarity. Something lay beneath Juppa’s surface, something hidden by his cheery disposition. Takha had spent too many days jumping strata to not notice.

  “Why should we adopt the faith, eh?” the starless threw his words back at him. “This new faith ain't brought us anything but pain, sho' 'nuff. Tried it once, we did, recently, and stomped on we got. Here in this square! They came for us, twenty men or more, I say, wearing tight black, and a few singers with them. Called us worthless, told us only the Astral commanded the truth of light. Then they killed a bunch of us, they did, left the dead charred in the streets—right there, where you're standing. Base of the statute. Was a message it was. 'Don't be practicing that heresy,' you see? Or look what happens. And happen it did. Oh yes, we saw. You think any Arbiters came here for us? Don't think so. So why should we take on your faith, prophet? What's in it for us? Not tokens. that's for bloody sure.”

  The man spoke true, in his own way. Takha didn't have an answer for him, a legitimate answer, because he thought the faith as much a bunch of shit as everyone else. But its power was control. Organize the people behind the idea and they'd do unbelievable things in the name of belief. Would he even need the shadow man if his plan took hold? Would the shadow even care if the singers were purged regardless?

  “Wouldn't you like to tell the singers to stuff it?” Multiple gasps ricocheted through the crowd, and he saw hands clasping mouths and faces hiding in cloth. He smiled. “The singers came here burned your friends because they had dared to pray to Gethael and the apostles, giving thanks for bringing their light from the stars and brightening the world? Such a simple thing, yet such a dangerous thing. The singers are cowards.”

  “They're afraid!” a voice from the crowd rang out. Courage began to flow through the onlookers; only a few starless at first, but more and more grew brave. He saw it in the way they held themselves, shoulders pulled back and no longer nose to the ground. Takha had spoken few words, yet they were the right words.

  Strike a nerve, give them an enemy. Rally them. I speak their language now.

  “Yes, they're afraid. Because their power means nothing in the end. They sit in their city-homes or retreat to their manors and live in luxury, a wealth provided them by your sweat and your tears. And from time to time they burn a few heathens, teach a lesson, but leave the rest of the starless alone. Who else would weave their straw? Hammer their rock? Brew their wine? Tend their fields? Lug wares or load wagons or boats, so you may spend day and night traversing the same dusty roads or the same murky channels? Certainly not them. So, ask yourselves, what happens if you unite? Can they stop you? Will they stop you? Will you keep filling their plates for them to lick, or will you provide for yourselves? Ask these questions, but don't expect an answer. Not from me. You already know the truth. That, children
, is why they're afraid. That is why they forbid the faith, and that is why you must come back to it now.”

  They hung on his words, which were so carefully woven, like the finest straw. Were there different kinds of straw? Who cared but these people? His mind wandered as his message seeped through the onlookers like a poison, their fervor escalating as they nodded their heads and hollered for the light.

  It doesn't take much, no, not at all. Idiots.

  Juppa would have been pleased to see the show. What was that man's game? Too clever by half, just another conniver, another manipulator. He was another rat from the streets done with surviving on crumbs. What could they accomplish together?

  The Starmother showed no such taint; instead, she espoused purity, as pure as the Patron himself, or perhaps even Gethael and the apostles. She was a true believer and shepherd of a delicate construct. Takha did not think his ambition would take him too far as long as she remained standing tall and adored. She would want Takha to be sent further into the quints, of course, after his display today. She would send him to more districts to recruit more laborers and to shrines already under construction in the middle rings among the higher strata. It would not be long until they passed channel borders and approached the Astral city-homes. He smiled. Things were bound to become interesting sooner rather than later.

  Curse you, Astral. This is what you get!

  Takha jumped down from his perch and pulled a hood over his head, finding shelter from the blazing sun. He pointed himself back east toward the docks and the homeward channels. As he did, a line of starless began to form behind him, following him on his way.

  Sheep. Come to my flock.

  Sotma Rayn held a hand to his nose, and he took shallow breaths as if to filter the smoke from ribbum burning in the mines. Kriv Tsac walked beside him, straight backed, hands clasped behind. Several black-clad guards flanked the Astral men, pushing laborers to the side and clearing a path through the silt and tools littering the badlands at the northwestern tip of the Tsac deserts, which was nestled in a valley between two coasts. Flares from smelting pots singed Sotma's cheek, and flecks of ash drifted in the air, adding to the already thick fog. All around them, he heard clangs of metal and groans of exertion.

  “How many, Kriv?”

  “Ten thousand,” said the Astral between thick lips jutting out from under a bristly mustache attached to his chiseled face. Sotma reeled. He stopped and turned to his friend, jaw slightly open and eyes wide. The black-clad guards stopped as well, then took defensive postures. They appeared fierce, for starless men. Muscles rippled under their tight garments, and the blades they carried looked sharp and lethal.

  During his visit to the deserts, far south from his rocky isle, he’d studied their movements, watched their precision, and surmised they’d had decent training. Of course, he'd not seen them fight, but no doubt the commoners of the land posed no true threat. Perhaps the Arbiters might have resisted, if galvanized behind Ezai, but now he was gone, and only an elderly Lion remained, soon to be tamed.

  “Impressive, old friend,” said Sotma. “How did you manage to marshal so many, I wonder?” The Raynlord turned back to inspect the layers upon layers of sprawling mines, like jagged steps carved into the plateau. Fires burned within each pit and the flames stained the daylight red, and the horizon was barely visible. The Tsac were bred among brimstone, raised to be rigid and disciplined. If they wielded steel instead of starlight, perhaps they'd have found themselves at home in the Order. But no, their tendency for violence would not be welcome there, and he doubted they gave a damn about justice.

  “Easy enough, Sotma. We used the League.”

  “Oh?” His voice took a high pitch. “How's that?”

  “The fights provide plenty of drunk and rowdy starless for the blackguard to oversee and control, and especially so at the end of season when the knockouts begin. We recruited from the mines, offering double pay for guard work. Many jumped at a chance for some clean air and a break from routine.

  “Clever.” Sotma inspected the nearest guard. “They are primarily thugs, then?”

  “Not so. The guard work instilled discipline in mineworkers, and it had organized and purposed them. The real training took place back here, in the desert. We created a little league of our own.”

  Fascinating.

  “Explain.”

  “We pit those who volunteered against each other, made them fight, and allowed the rest to place bets. It allowed us to breed competition and ferocity within them. We made use of your Arbiter, Veydun, for sword training, in conjunction with your own instructions.”

  “And the results?”

  “Let's just say more than ten thousand volunteered. These men,” Kriv pointed at their escorts, “and the others are all survivors, tough and strong. They will be worth their price, in the end.”

  “I hope your operations haven't suffered too much from the loss of so many miners. Ribbum is quite important to the economy.”

  “There are plenty of starless, Sotma. We are fine.”

  The Raynlord smiled. “Well, then, I'm pleased. The others will be pleased as well. You say these men will be worth the price, that they are tough and strong. Are they ready to fight?”

  “I believe they are,” said Kriv. “Is it time?”

  “Soon enough, old friend. The Order's wings have been clipped, though the Lion left Ezai his bond, and the man has a nagging persistence about him. Nevertheless, he is occupied chasing ghosts and seeking mystical texts, so I hear. He won't be an issue.”

  “And the rest?”

  “To be dealt with soon. Veydun continues to prove surprisingly useful, propelled by a hatred for his own Order I can't quite understand. No doubt he will be successful with the forebearers. He's come up with a clever little ruse to draw the Order away. Marcinian has a part to play there.” Sotma clenched his hands. “Once Veydun succeeds, once the Order is led off, there will be nothing to stop us. We will face no wall of defiance to hold back the rush of starlight and steel. The common-folk will stand no chance. Still, we will need to strike swiftly. Preparations must be made in advance, and the timing is important. You may need to march with your men sooner than expected.”

  “Of course. So, tell me, Sotma. What do your brothers say?”

  The youngest Rayn son clenched his fists, but kept his stride. He delivered a calm reply. “They know nothing. They don't want to know anything, convinced I am simply chasing indulgence and am just a waste of their time, a waste of Rayn blood. I no longer care if they are involved, or what happens in the end. They are fools.”

  “What? How can that be?”

  “Please. I am not the imbecile many think me to be, just because I prefer to speak with my sword and star rather than with the sweet poison of politics. My brothers would have approved, had they listened, but they are too cautious, too envious of the Lokka's surplus and too concerned with the relatively frailty of our House. They are still too wounded from the war. My brothers may be strong of mind, but not of will. What remains of their pride could not survive another defeat. So, they bury their heads in the sand, using me as the target of their doubt and shame.” He stopped again, turned, and placed his hands on Kriv's shoulders, then looked him in the eyes. “This is my own doing, old friend. We should have won—it's the right of things. Now is our chance to set the matter straight.”.

  Kriv sighed, a slip of his posture and pretense “You say the Order is tempered and will be drawn away, but even so they will return at some point. And when they do, there are still many who will take up arms, protecting the starless to their last breath.”

  “It's true,” he said. “But this time we will have the Ferai to fight with us. Perhaps not their starlight—may the Patron rest in the light—but the lands and wealth of his House will be ours. And something a great deal more important”

  “What's that, Sotma?”

  “The faith.”

  Shock, again. “How is that possible?”

  The Raynlord s
miled. “You know of the daughter?”

  “Ahryn? She was at the seminary with my grandsons when the news broke.”

  “Yes, tragic.” Sotma sniffed. “She is the heir, set to inherit the estate, but she has no desire or ability to do so. My contacts in the moonlight treasury confirmed she will decide on a trustee, and soon. That trustee will have lawful claim to the Ferai wealth, as well as Ahryn’s ear. She will have confidence in her choice of trustee and listen to their opinion. And then, my friend, the faith will be at their fingertips.”

  Kriv did not take long to see the plan. “You are angling for the trusteeship?”

  “I am. But I am also playing on the girl's emotion. I've recently lost my children, Kriv, and she's lost her parents. What a pair. Trust, Kriv, it's about trust. If she trusts me, she will give me more than her confidence; she will give me the faith. And then, old friend, there will be nothing to stand in our way. Nothing.”

  Wuta watched the magnificent prophet finish his sermon, mesmerized by the masterful performance. The young cloudwatcher was a man of science and mathematics, mind wired to apply data to systems in finding patterns and making assumptions. He saw a pattern in both the language and in the rabid onlookers who drank in every word. The prophet was a focal point, the epicenter from where a wave began. The prophet was the focus for which Wuta had searched; the prophet was the central core of the faith's cascade.