Remember the Dawn

by A M Macdonald

  The simplicity of the system amazed Sotma, but also annoyed him. He squeezed his hands tight and frowned deeper. How was it fair that the Lokka, by luck of geography alone, controlled such a vast amount of resource? It was enough to control the finest and most desired wheat, but to also hold monopoly over silkweave? Rayn's tailors depended on a constant flow of silkweave, and his family could do little to prevent tariffs and chokes implemented by the Lokka on a whim.

  He snorted. It wouldn't matter in the end. Soon the Astral would shirk the politics of the Houses, which were a necessary construct of the past. Soon, their continued existence as nothing more than glorified merchants—and perhaps thugs—would end. Soon they would be lords and kings, and the invisible divisions between them would fade—wheat, silkweave, or otherwise. It would be nothing when the power of the Astral could be fully wielded, unchecked and unobstructed.

  The old men sipped red wine and picked at olives and cheese. Were it not for the tension of the brewing conflict, Sotma may have grown too comfortable. He took another drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. An ache returned, stirred by the movement, and he clenched his fist until it went away. When it did, he finally replied to Marcinian's stubbornness.

  “And why can't we just march them to the front gates, Marcinian?”

  “Because,” he said, “the strike must be swift and unexpected.” Marcinian's drawl lingered. All those who came from the eastern islands carried a different inflection in their voice. None in the archipelago spoke the same. Dialects of the Dominion differed, to be sure, but none approached House Lokka's meandering speech. They played it up, of course; it was one more thing to set their family apart, one more thing to justify their projected superiority.

  Sotma despised them, as did every Rayn, but they needed each other. Rayn and Lokka were complicit in the wars to come. Allies. He couldn't afford to let old wounds cloud his judgment, nor recent events. The likely root of his current derision lay with the Ferai girl's rebuke. She hadn't appeared at his door; Veydun's confidence had been misguided and all the Raynlord's careful plans had been washed away. He directed his fury into his conversation with Marcinian.

  “Why? What need is there for subterfuge?” Sotma spoke with his hands, causing a bit of wine to slosh to the wooden floor. Marcinian sat back in his chair, listening, but did not react. “The Order is on its way to being neutered—plans are in motion, and Veydun is about to strike.”

  Marcinian pursed his lips. “The lie will be as we planned it?”

  “Yes,” said Sotma. “Do as you are told when Uriyeh seeks confirmation, and the rest will fall into place. The Order will be drawn away. So, you see, even if our army announced themselves by singing their way up the channels about enslaving the starless, who would stop us? Too long have we schemed and plotted in the shadows, licking our wounds and not daring to cross the Order. But there are no more heroes. The Eagle is dead, his son rebuked, and the Lion is old; if there is anything left inside the Keep among the backbench forebearers and forgettable Brothers and Sisters, it will be tamed soon enough.”

  Marcinian stared at him, face twisted in condescension. “The Order is more than one man, Sotma.”

  “I'm aware, but do you think the firstborns will charge to the defense of the city if there is no one to lead them? Especially when the forebearers in our pay will caution against such action, and when there is no direction from the Lion? Each is consumed by their own bonds, their own pursuits of justice. The Arbiters shackle themselves with their tenets, a weakness ripe for exploitation. There is nothing—no one—left to marshal them. Without the firstborns, the seconds and thirds will continue their chores like the good little workers they are. And without Ezai or the Lion, the firstborns will not gather and rise up to contest us. I am sure of this, Marcinian. We need not fear any defiance.”

  The Lokka lord considered, took a long drink of his wine, smacked his lips, and swallowed. This man relished in attention and display. Would he even fight?

  “Perhaps,” said Marcinian. “But perhaps you are misjudging things. Your brothers know better, of course.”

  “To hell with my brothers!” Sotma exploded, pushed too far, his patience spent. No one respected soldiers anymore, or the steel they wielded. No one feared developed muscles and fierce strength. Day by day, his place in the world slipped away, and with it his dominance and control. “They are weak and afraid. Too consumed with the ramifications of another defeat, too enveloped with planning an economic, pathetic future. What do they know that I don't?”

  Marcinian did not smile, but replied with a lilt in his voice, “They know what else moves in the city.”

  “What else? There is nothing!” Sotma boiled, his usual and reputable calm all but destroyed.

  “There is the faith.”

  “Hah!” Sotma forgot his rage for a moment. He finished his cup of wine, then slammed it down on the tray carried by a starless man. “Those holy men are long of word and breath, but short of star and steel. I don't follow you, Marcinian. Why should we be concerned about Doveh Ferai's last joke?”

  “There are hundreds of thousands of starless in the Dominion, Sotma, and many of them reside in Celaena proper.”

  “And?”

  “And, you fool, the faith spreads far and wide right under your nose while planning this war distracts you. I said from the beginning we should not allow the Patron to erect his shrine and bring back the light, even while you believed it was just another cheap copy. This is why. This is why!”

  “Again, Marcinian, I am not following your concern. Fake or real, the faith is just belief among lesser people. Belief won't make you bleed. Even if the faith multiplied like the virus it is, how many followers could there be in the city? Ten thousand? Twenty? It doesn't matter. They are not fighters; they are not Arbiters; they have no starlight. They are just bodies—men, women, and children alike. What could they hope to accomplish against ten thousand Tsac soldiers? Convert them, bring them to Gethael? Hah.”

  “The blackguard is not battle tested, Sotma.” Marcinian often took the role of the antagonist, his words venomous and his temper short, but he now kept calm and measured. “What have they done? Kept the peace during League bouts? Manhandled drunken commoners and checked tickets?”

  “Still, they are soldiers, armed and ready.”

  “Don't forget who keeps them armed, Sotma. I put food in their bellies—I finance this operation, not you.”

  Too far. Sotma's star burned inside, eyes beginning to mist red. Marcinian jumped from his chair, white cape swishing behind him, violet mist appearing in his own eyes. The two Astral stared at each other, each seething at the other's audacity.

  “You dare? In my own home?” Marcinian hissed, and his eyes hung at the precipice of a glow. Channeling in the bright of day did not come easily, and especially not in this obfuscation from the strange fog.

  Did he hesitate?

  The Lokka man stood no chance in combat with the Elegance, despite the pomp of his flowing robes and aura of bravado.

  But it need not come to an exchange of starlight. Such a thing served no one's interests, for the Astral needed to unite to succeed. Better days lay ahead. Sotma took several deep breaths, suddenly exhausted at the anger he had allowed to course through his body. It had been so unlike him.

  He broke his channel, mist fading from his eyes. “Apologies, Marcinian. I've not been myself of late.”

  Marcinian took a moment, but also released his link with his star. He returned to his chair and picked up his wine. “The Ferai daughter?”

  “Yes. She rejected my offer to learn and stand side-by-side us. I don't know why, only that Veydun failed. I grow tired of him, in truth.”

  Marcinian plucked an olive and popped it into his mouth. “Why do you suffer the man?”

  “He is necessary, still. There is one last task for him.”

  “The Lion?”

  Sotma nodded.

  “I see,” said the Lokka lord. “So there is
no chance now for the Ferai daughter to join us? No possible change of heart?”

  “I don't know. Likely not. She is her father's daughter, unfortunately.” Sotma clenched his hands. “We cannot count on the Ferai estate to aid us. But to return to my earlier thought, Marcinian, I don't believe it will be necessary. Though we won't have the Ferai girl to placate the faith, and though the zealots may rise against us, in the end what can they do in the face of not only ten thousand soldiers, but a host of Starsingers at their backs? Like the stories of old, the starless will be guided by Astral in a union of starlight and steel.”

  Marcinian listened, gazing into an opening in the wheat fields where his young Starsingers practiced their craft and shot streaks of violet light over stalks, laughter and shouts drifting to the platform.

  “Maybe you are right, Sotma, but I still think our strike should be unexpected. In the confusion, our victory will be so much easier. Better to suffer as little loss as possible. Astral lives are precious.”

  Sotma huffed. “Says the man who breeds far more startouched than any other family.” Marcinian only smiled. “So be it. An unexpected strike. When did you have in mind?”

  “Soon, lest this infernal fog grow thicker and our channels become interrupted altogether. The end of the lunar year approaches, and many will be gathered in the Nightmarkets to celebrate. The rest of the city will be empty and quiet. It is the perfect time.” The Lokka man rose from his chair, looking both regal and decisive. “Reach out to Kriv and Bril, and make arrangements. War approaches.”

  Takha ascended the steps of the faith's new shrine while an orchestral melody soared, accompanied by the chanting of a choir in perfect harmony. Their hymn was uplifting and high-spirited, so he adjusted his appearance to match. He widened his eyes and creased his lips into a beaming smile, and he raised hand to wave at commoners and followers alike who lined the steps to greet a returning prophet. His climb today was much different from the one he'd made on his first visit to the shrine. That had been before the toils of the one hundred, when he had scrambled with frenzied starless, torn his moonlight robes, and bloodied his feet, desperate to reach the apex and be welcomed into the light. Now, the filth admired him and adored him as a faithleader and savior. How quickly the sheep had been herded.

  Juppa met him at the top of the stairs, greeting him with a larger smile and open arms. The men embraced like old friends, a hero's welcome at the gates of nirvana, then faced the crowd together, prophets arm in arm, waving to the worshipers and hearing raucous delight in return. They walked together inside, out from under the sun and through arched doors, the cheers of the crowd and the holy music fading behind them. Once inside the spire, where air was cool and light dim, the prophets dropped their facades, faces neutral and eyes fixed.

  “What news, Prophet Shun?” Juppa's impatience overwhelmed his inquiry. The Starmother's pebbles had caused ripples neither of them could control, and the faith's momentum was exponential. Each of them recognized their fragile existence, as the religious institution danced on the tip of a knife; since the Ferai assassinations, the other Astral Houses had been pushing to stamp out the revolution by choking supply and sending black-clad thugs into the streets to intimidate the starless. If the faith was crushed, Takha would lose his greatest opportunity to strike back at the Astral—the shadow man be damned.

  Curse that girl!

  The surviving Ferai daughter needed only to take the holy seat, galvanize the faith's followers, marshal the thousands upon thousands in Celaena to her father's cause, and seize the people's rightful place in the Dominion. But she hadn't. It seemed so plain to him, such a clear path to power. He did not believe the Orange Dawn would intervene, for they did not care about the movements of politics and power. In any event, the Dawn tasked themselves with protecting the starless, eyes fixed on the Astral's greed. He didn't believe they'd take issue with an uprising flowing the other way. Couldn't the Ferai see she'd be unstoppable? Starlight be damned, the Astral could not overcome a flood. Why had she not come to the seat?

  “A thousand more in the past week,” said Takha. “The word of Gethael stretches to the farthest island in the Dominion, even into the homelands of the Astral families. Rebellion burns right under their nose.”

  “And in Celaena?”

  “Even more concentrated and feverish. I imagine the strawweavers cannot spin enough to satisfy the demands for the robe, but they'll have to manage. Pathways into the Tsac quint have been opened, right to Gambler’s Row and the coliseum itself.” The prophets walked through the outer ring of the shrine, their steps measured, neither in a hurry to reach their shared destination.

  “The League?” Juppa asked. “Why there, as opposed to securing more labor districts on the inner edges where we've had so much success?” Juppa seemed curious. Slowly, cracks began to form in the man's perpetual jolliness. He seemed concerned, brows always furrowed, and Takha sensed an unexplainable danger circling Juppa’s presence. Though Takha could not pinpoint the feeling, it was familiar.

  “Because,” said Takha, “the League is the Astral's capstone; it is also the drain, the mechanism to suck in all the tokens that have filtered their way into the pockets of the starless. If the faith rises in the Tsac districts, especially in Gambler’s Row, viewership will no doubt fall and business will falter. A crucial cog in the families' wealth structure will be displaced, leaving them all the weaker. Already the effects of introducing competitive flows of food and access to water are hindering their coffers. Corrupting their beloved games would be a devastating blow.”

  Juppa stopped, looking at him with the same questioning eyes. What did the prophet wonder? Perhaps Takha had revealed too much of his distaste for the singers and let on too much of his real motivations. But Juppa's contemplation didn't last and they continued their walk, ringing around the shrine and moving inward until they arrived at the central hall, directly under the large, round skylight which allowed sunlight to bathe the holy seat. It had been the scene of his ascension: Takha Shun, chosen of the one hundred, prophet. He laughed in his head, still disbelieving of his rapid climb to power.

  The starview chamber did not seem a special room; there was no throne built from stars, no raised dais to lord over peasants, no procession of sycophants waiting to laugh at a queen's jokes. Instead, the Starmother sat in a simple wooden chair at an empty, wooden table, which was unsanded and unpolished and had knots throughout. She'd described to him its symbolic humility, a reminder of their roots from where they came and where they would end.

  At the prophets' entrance, the Starmother nodded to several nameless blue-robed worshipers, who bowed their heads and rose from their seats, then departed the hall. She raised her hands, palms open. “And so the speakers return, shoulder to shoulder, bearing good tidings.”

  “How do you know they are good, Starmother?” Juppa asked. Takha appreciated Juppa's seizure of the initiative, as Takha had not yet had the courage to address the Starmother directly, despite his startling rise within the faith.

  “Because all tidings are good, in their own way. Bad tidings are just words we'd rather not hear.”

  “Cryptic as ever. Let's get straight to it, then.” Juppa sat at the wooden table and bent forward, clasping his hands together. His jovial, enlightened demeanor had begun to vanish over the last few weeks, slowly replaced by a somber resolve. What was the faith to him before? What was it now?

  “Prophet Shun reports a thousand more brought into the light. We'll need to expand our contracts with the strawweavers. The Vo are unlikely to work with us, so it will need to be subterfuge again. Thankfully, the newly faithful are weavers themselves. Quite wise for Takha to venture there for his first sermon.”

  “And what of the other matter?” the Starmother asked.

  “According to plan,” Juppa spoke confidently. “Our liaisons have secured shipments coming from all over the islands. The more the faith spreads across the channels, the more our resources grow.”

  “Wh
at of the smiths?”

  “Conscripted. They work deep within the quarries. An armory is forming, much sooner than expected.”

  “Excellent.” The Starmother's green eyes twinkled and she played with a strand of blond hair fallen from her bundle atop her head. She then turned her attention to Takha, gazing at him up and down as she had the night of his ascension.

  “Juppa was right about you from the start, Prophet Shun.” Takha shifted his eyes to Juppa, who didn’t match the stare.

  Why hasn’t he told her about his mistrust of me?

  The Starmother continued, “You don't speak much here, but when you speak out there, people listen. The word of Gethael is safe with you. May the light of the stars ever guide your way.”

  “Thank you, Highness.” He wasn't sure how else to address her.

  “Highness? Oh goodness, no. I am but a vessel, a medium through which the faith flows. Ferai resurrected this worship, to the fury of their Astral cousins—as we are now seeing in spade. Only a Ferai may take the holy seat; I am but a steward in a long, starless night.”

  “I'm curious, Starmother. What new furies have transpired in my absence?” He asked for posterity only, as the rumors and gossips of Celaena remained at his fingertips, an echo of his past life in the moonlight treasury. When singers had burned mid-construction the first shrine in the Lokka quint, he'd known straight away; when peaceful worshipers who were engaged in their game of ingots had been mugged in broad daylight in Gambler’s Row, he'd been told within hours. Such were the connections he'd developed as a strata-jumper, his vision always set on growing beyond his intended fate. How he detested the Astral, so arrogant, entitled.

  “Much of the same, I'm afraid. The Astral will not abide the spread of the faith—too much refers back to days past. When the Patron resurrected the faith, I don't think the other Astral expected a true return, or such a close resemblance. Perhaps they were just being indulgent of what they thought a foolish old man. Instead, memories of glorious days of the faith shake us all, when all people lived together in concert under the careful watch of Gethael's apostles. Can you imagine, a time when all were equal, when commanding a star and its energy made you no greater a man and a woman than your less capable neighbor? No, the Astral would not like that at all. They have corrupted too much from their pursuit of wealth and power.”