A man like this prophet needed to be intelligent, and he needed to have the capacity to appreciate large effects which sprang from tiny imperfections. A man like him needed to comprehend the chaos of a force greater than everyone—even the Astral. A man like him would listen to the hard science and certain facts of calculation, and he would spare the time to hear Wuta out and make sense of his forewarnings.
The only problem involved gaining an audience. Even now he saw a line of hopefuls and aspiring worshipers, forming a line behind the departing prophet. They seemed intent to follow him and be swept in his wake, and carried wherever Gethael may take them. Wuta decided quickly and moved into line with the growing crowd.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, a well-kept, straight-backed young man with hands absent calluses and a face hungry for answers and information, but not food. Unlike most who walked with the prophet, Wuta had not been beaten and wearied by life without purpose. Yet no one paid attention to him, for all eyes were fixed on the back of the prophet as he marched under a burning sun toward the channels. Where was he headed? To another sermon? To spread his gospel further in the hopes of gaining a larger crowd? Or was he simply headed home to sleep, for all men needed rest—even men of Gethael.
Without a clue as to the prophet’s direction, Wuta feared he may end up walking halfway across Celaena before getting a chance to tell his story, impart his warning, and cast his caution.
Well, that just won't do.
So, Wuta walked a bit faster, shrugging past bodies who gave him dirty looks but said nothing, until he was right on the prophet's heels. From so close, Wuta saw the man clearer.
“Prophet!” Wuta cried. “Prophet, I bring news. You must hear me!”
His calls disappeared in the cacophony of similar shouts from the starless followers, as the air was filled with pleas for salvation, redemption, and absolution. The prophet took no notice and kept walking on with a book of Gethael clutched in one hand and a staff grasped in the other. Wuta tried harder.
“Prophet! I am a cloudwatcher! I come from the north, and I bear dangerous tidings. I can explain this fog that envelopes the city.”
His words broke through to the prophet, who stopped and turned. The line of new worshipers halted in unison, awestruck by the young man who had received the prophet's attention. Wuta now saw the prophet in detail, no longer a blur atop the base of an apostle's statute. He was young, perhaps the same age as Wuta, and he had a thin, angular face with a pointy chin and a beard as if it had been finely kept for years and only recently had been let loose to grow and curl. So handsome. But in his face, Wuta saw anger, and something else. Deceit? His gut reeled with mistrust, screaming at him to be careful, the impression at odds with the words of inspiration and camaraderie he had just heard playing over the square. Trust the mind, not the heart—the cloudwatcher way.
“Say again, cloudwatcher? You can explain this fog?” the prophet's high-pitched voice cut the air.
“I can,” said Wuta. “It will only grow larger until thicker, until the very sky is covered and the stars hidden. The Astral must be warned.”
The prophet's face remained impassioned, but his eyes danced. Wuta did not like the way it looked, but wrestled the thought away. This was a man of Gethael, a keeper of the light. The people trusted him, even if Wuta’s instincts cried for caution. The prophet spoke, his words cool and concise.
“Tell me everything.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You've channeled your star. You've controlled your light. Now you must focus.”
- Neranian's Third Degree
Ezai's doubt plagued his journey back from the Twilight Orchards. He struggled with unanswerable questions while staring vacantly out from the swiftclip into the vast sea laying outside the archipelago, searching as far as possible until the horizon disappeared into a wall of fog.
Guide me, Father.
Ultimately, the only option was to believe. What more could he do but chase another fairy tale? And what better place to start than the seminary, the greatest bastion of knowledge outside the Order's Arcanum and the Vo libraries, where Bril had come across tale of the forbidden codices. But, before he traveled to the southern island of storms, the forsaken Arbiter first wanted to make a special inquiry in Celaena, with a man who knew more than he should of the rumblings in the Dominion.
Upon landing at the wharf and disembarking into the city under the setting sun, Ezai took a boat east through the channels into the Lokka quint, where the homes looked sturdier and the people better fed. He kept to his path, direct and pointed, and it didn't take long before he docked and walked into the shop owned by Corlo Sand.
Books lined the walls in shelves rising up and up until they were out of sight, but the shop was not a library. Corlo called his business an information exchange, everything available for a price—rumor most of all. Even the starless acted like Lokka here.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Dawnman?” Corlo's voice crept over finely polished leystone floors. The merchant stood behind a counter, palms flat and shoulders straight. He stood tall, taller than Ezai, but much thinner, like a reed in a marsh.
Ezai approached, the thud of his boots reverberating off the walls. His eyes searched the shelves upward until his sight settled on a domed ceiling of violet stained glass. Stars twinkled overhead, somewhat obscured by fog.
“I seek information,” said Ezai.
Corlo grinned. “One hundred tokens.”
“You don't even know what kind of information I'm looking for,” he said. “And a price of one hundred tokens is absurd.” How he hated dealing with these strata-jumpers. They were so manipulative and sure of themselves, sickly sweet until they knifed you in the back. He clenched his teeth at the painful necessity of his inquisition.
“Patience must be your guide, lest you become lost in emotion.”
“Perhaps, but what you think of my price is not really my concern. You wouldn't be here if you weren't prepared to pay it, am I wrong?”
“No.” Ezai's teeth grated against each other. “You're not wrong.”
Corlo made a sound, clearly pleased with himself. “One hundred tokens is the fee. Otherwise, the door is right where you left it.”
Ezai did his best not to scowl. He reached under his tunic, pulled out a pouch rattling with the last of his tokens, and spilled a dozen into his plated palms. “Here.” He tossed them one by one to Corlo, who caught them with the ease of someone who had performed the action many times. “Enjoy.”
The merchant smiled beneath bony, rosy cheeks. “Oh, I will.” He tucked them away in a drawer behind his counter, then adopted a concerned look. “Now, tell me, Dawnman, how can I assist?”
“What do you know of the purge?” He had no time to beat around the bush.
“The purge? Oh dear, not many ask about such times. I'm afraid I don't know a lot, and likely only as much as everyone else.”
Corlo's lies came too easily. Like all strata-jumpers, the truth was nothing more than a tradable committee.
“I will ask you again, merchant. Do not make me ask a third time. What do you know of the purge?”
Corlo hesitated, slightly, and for a moment his confidence departed. Only starless, in the end. Ezai's large figure loomed, the sheen from Dawnbreak gleaming in the dark.
“I know what all men and women know,” he said. “That is, what we are taught from birth. The purge involved the elimination of faith, the destruction of the holy words and the texts that carried them, and a blanket prohibition on advancing dogma or preaching gospel.” Corlo’s eyes narrowed. “This new fad of blue robes and calls to the light is a scourge. I cannot understand why the Astral tolerated the resurrection.”
Ezai ignored the commentary. “What do you know about the time before the purge?”
“Before?” Corlo frowned, seeming unsure. “No one knows anything of before, at least nothing except fables and legend. I imagine you know the same ones that I do. I'm afraid I've nothing else to share
with you, and by extension I've nothing to sell you.” The merchant steadied. “Shame, hardly worth the tokens.”
Ezai sighed, though he’d expected nothing less. Details were important, and he needed look for them everywhere. Even where he’d most likely fail.
“Be mindful, Ezai, of everything. Watch everything; hear everything; go everywhere. Only then can you say you tried.”
“Well then, merchant, what can you tell me that is worth the tokens? What are the rumblings. What moves in the shadows, what whispers do men speak?”
“Ah, gossip! Gossip is my old friend. Yes, there I can help you.” The thin man brought one hand from the counter and held a long, thin finger to his chin. “Let's see.” He paused, allowing silence to linger for too long, until Ezai cleared his throat. Only then did Corlo continue. “Lunar year is close, of course, and an energy builds in the city. Rumor has it the Vo are planning a new, more spectacular light display in the Nightmarkets.”
Ezai raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms.
“Fine.” Corlo dropped his finger from his chin, then crossed his own arms. “Another Arbiter came here, maybe a week ago or more, seeking a girl.”
Ezai tensed. “What girl?”
“An Astral girl, the Ferai orphan, I believe.”
“What did this Arbiter look like?” he pressed, an urge rising inside.
“A man, red hair, thin sword,” he said, and Ezai scowled. “You know him?”
“Yes,” said Ezai, growing annoyed. “I know him. Did he say why was he seeking the girl?”
“No, he didn't say, but it seemed rather urgent to me. So of course, I made note.”
“And? Did you have the information he sought? Did you know where this girl went?”
“I did at that.” Corlo seemed pleased with himself again, an insufferable trait common among the strata-jumpers. “I'd heard from a source this Ferai girl had caused quite a stir in the wharf not long ago, arguing with a representative from the moonlight treasury.”
Ezai envisioned the incident, but didn't recall any argument between the girl and the moonlight representative; rumors tended not to be entirely accurate. Either way, the scene had clearly left enough of an impression for word to travel to Corlo.
The merchant continued, “I took interest, of course: a hormonal young Astral traversing Celaena and causing trouble? I was sure many would be interested, and it turned out I was right. After the scene in the wharf, it was easy to keep track of her. I'm not sure if she knows, but flocks of those blue-robed pests follow her around like she's the messiah. Wherever she goes, they go. Easy.”
Ezai stopped himself from interjecting, making sure to listen to everything. “Where did she go?”
“The Nightmarkets, and that is where the red-haired Arbiter caught up with her. It wasn't a long meeting, from what I hear.”
Ezai saw the merchant grow uncomfortable. “What else did you hear?”
“Hmm, I'm not sure I recall. Perhaps another hundred tok—”
Corlo didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before Ezai pulled Dawnbreak from its sheath and sliced the air. The tip of the bastard sword stopped an inch from the merchant's throat, the motion incredibly quick and precise.
“What else did you hear?” he repeated.
Corlo's face grew pale. Ezai doubted the man had ever been in physical danger before, let alone in his own shop at the hands of the Eagle's son. The merchant gulped, stretching his chin high to draw his neck away from the blade.
“He made her an offer.”
Ezai squeezed the hilt harder and Dawnbreak's tip inched forward. “What kind of offer?”
“It was not the Arbiter's offer,” he said, “only a message from another. An invitation from an Astral, to unite the Ferai estate with his own; in exchange, he would train the girl.”
“Who was this Astral?”
“Sotma Rayn.”
Despicable.
A rush of purpose flowed from his heart, attacked the stubborn truths of his mind, and screamed at him to find the girl and protect her. Why was he so sure that he belonged by her side?
Father, I must do this thing.
“What next, merchant? What more information do you have?”
Corlo continued to stretch his neck as he spoke from the corners of his mouth, afraid to move. “The girl said she would consider, and from there she left for Gambler’s Row.”
“Is she still there?”
“No, she headed east and across the channels, into the Vo quint. My sources lost her from there. She's a clever girl, must have picked up the trace at some point. It has not been long since she left.”
Ezai pulled Dawnbreak away, slipping the bastard sword back into his sheath. Less than one day behind, and the Vo quint was directly south from the Lokka's.
“Thank you, Corlo. This exchange has been fruitful.”
The merchant rubbed at a nonexistent wound on his neck. “Let me offer something else before you go. A gesture of good faith, lest we cross paths again.”
Ezai smiled at the man's survival instinct. “I'm listening.”
“You've noticed this mist, I'm sure, the fog descending on Celaena?”
Ezai pictured the destruction of the Twilight Orchards. “I have.”
Corlo's tone grew serious. “This is no small weather event, Dawnman, and concern increases. There are a diminished amount of Astral walking the streets at night, even in the Nightmarkets. One need only look above,” he pointed to his stained-glass ceiling and the clouded view of the stars, “to imagine why.”
Ezai nodded. “Fascinating.” He turned to leave.
“There's more, Dawnman. A cloudwatcher entered the city just recently, ranting and raving of a coming storm, but the Academy had already sent word ahead warning us about him. No one listened; well, almost no one. The cloudwatcher came across a prophet, a new adept of a faith, and won his ear.”
Ezai stopped.
A cloudwatcher in Celaena? That meant he thought the Astral were in danger, but if so, why would the Academy oppose him? Strange.
Ezai's looked up at the stained glass, gazed at the swirling fog, and frowned. Strange indeed.
Ahryn's steps sounded too loud as they echoed in the nighttime silence, so she slowed her pace. She was just a vulnerable young girl in a poor starless district and an Astral who had only recently learned to sing. Since leaving the seminary, she’d studied the various Degrees of the Doctrine and committed to memory its teachings. But she only carried theoretical knowledge; application was another thing entirely. She also didn't wield any weapons—no sword or whip or mace—and to many she'd appear an easy target, ripe for mugging or worse.
Still, she carried on, unafraid. Her meeting in the shady backroads of Gambler’s Row had left her filled with hope and confidence, and the robed gathering had instilled a new sense of purpose. More importantly, they watched her. She was the daughter of the Patron, the man responsible for resurrecting the faith. Ahryn, the namesake, intended to take the holy seat.
Thirsty, she approached the nearest alehouse. The journey from the Tsac quint had been long. She’d walked in circles in contemplation of her future, debating which paths to take, and without realizing it had ended up within the southeastern Vo quint. Now her feet hurt, and her throat cracked.
When she opened the door to the establishment, the quiet atmosphere of the night changed immediately, and the quiet dark was replaced by the sounds of singing customers and blaring music.
The jolly environment diverged from Ahryn's expectations. Ale sloshed on the floor and barmaids and juggling men entertained their customers without scruples, serving as a distraction for the laborers who lived a poor, difficult life. Since she'd left the seminary and had begun her wandering through the city, she'd seen all manner of starless. Even so, the harsh conditions in which many lived continued to shock her. In the past weeks she’d come to understand the rigors of the common folk in a different way. To people like the Astral the starless were just vessels of energy, capab
le of yielding work and thus tokens, power, and control.
But they were so much more. Men, woman, and children, all with their own feelings, their own hopes and dreams. She now understood the hatred for the Astral and the power of the faith.
The revelation dawned upon her in Gambler’s Row as clear as a beam of light flowing from Ferai. It would be an act of mercy for her to take her father's holy seat and to bring a union between singer and starless, helping to usher in a new age of peace and prosperity. Was this how it was before? Had the events leading to the purge been nothing but a grab for control by her ancestors? The thought did not sit well with her.
Her world started spinning as her eyes fell upon a man seated at the very back of the alehouse, nursing a drink over which he hunched. She gasped, recognizing the broad shoulders and thick neck, the square, strong chin, and the gauntleted hand gripping a flagon.
How is this possible?
It was the same Arbiter from the wharf, the same man who ignored the stares of others and drowned himself in ale.
This cannot be a coincidence.
The man's head was up and he seemed attentive, shifting his gaze this way and that. Then his gaze settled on her, a lone figure standing at the front door, not drinking and not laughing with the others.
Inspired by her newfound purpose, Ahryn walked to the back of the alehouse, slipping past dancing revelers, and shook fallen ale from her cape as she went. She held her chin high and pulled down her hood, allowing her black ponytail to bounce behind her.
The Arbiter watched her approach, unmoving, silent. She swallowed and took a seat at his table, then stared up into his stony eyes. His face looked like it was chiseled from granite, his nose twisted where it had appeared to have once been broken, and a scar lashed down his cheek. His hair was close cropped and his eyebrows thick. He looked like a statue come alive, a legend of nobler times.
“Bit late for a lady to be wandering in the inner rows, especially here.” His voice was deep, but clear. She’d expected a grumbling, gravely speech from this mountain of a man, but his words were smooth and his articulation crisp.
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