“They must be reminded.” Takha pushed at the limits, curious to know when his hatred might be allowed to show itself. The Starmother firmed her mouth and cocked her head, appraising the young prophet.
“I agree, Takha, and the slow crawl of belief will remind them.”
“It is not enough,” he pushed, and she squinted her eyes at him.
“What do you suggest, Prophet Shun?” She invited his opinion, but he sensed her skepticism. He may have found the limit.
“I don't know, I just,” he struggled, “the Astral are a blight on Celaena. Everything they do is for their own gain.” He dropped his gaze, but played it off by gesturing to Juppa, then the table, then the entire hall. “They care nothing for the hundreds of thousands in the city and millions more throughout the Dominion, so long as their wealth is ever increased. The Arbiters keep them at bay, to be sure, and their starlight is reduced to a spectacle in the coliseum, but I don't think they care, so long as they eat better than everyone and lord over the rest from their manors. Look at how they react when the status quo is challenged and a resurgence of the meek threatens their lifestyle. It is not enough to simply co-exist. What is the next plan? To form a government for the starless alone and impose a hollow law and structure upon a people who've lived without for generations? I think not—not without assurances the Astral are treated the same. We cannot continue to live as factions; we must become one.”
The Starmother studied his face. “I hear your words, prophet, but perhaps you would do me the kindness of illustrating your point,” she snipped.
“I do not mean violence, Starmother, if that is where you are concerned, but I do mean drastic measures.” He swallowed, returning his stare on the faithleader. “Purge the Astral. Relegate them to their family homes, excise them from Celaena, break their control over the tokens, and through it their control of the starless. Give the city back to the commoners, and in so doing give them back their history. Return them to the light, not just in a spattering of shrines and the words of prophets, but in nightly prayer and daily worship.”
Juppa didn't move, hands clasped tight and knuckles white, looking at him with inquisitive eyes. The Starmother sat back in her chair, twisting a strand of her blond hair, brooding, and pensive. He heard his words in his mind as if speaking them for the first time, sure of the weight behind them and insinuations within. It had to be said, and this was his chance. This was the fulcrum when the movement became a revolution, when the ripples became unbreakable waves.
“How do you plan to purge the Astral from the city, prophet?” Her words were soft and curious, not threatening. He'd done it. “The Astral command starlight, and we are starless. What chance do we have?”
“Please, Starmother, let's not pretend. I just heard you speak of securing shipments, conscripting smiths, and hiding an armory. What other reason would you have for such a thing if you did not share this vision?”
“Perhaps,” she said, softly. “But that does not answer my question. What chance?”
“We have numbers. Thousands upon thousands of zealots, restless and angry, unwilling to toil under the Astral tyrants any longer.”
“Numbers are not enough, my friend. Starlight is power.”
“Then the Orange Dawn.”
“Hah,” she chuckled. “They are old men in their keep, weary from the last war, fallen from the grace that was the Eagle and the Lion. Even if they wanted to help, I'm not sure they could now resist a united Astral. Not now that Ezai has gone...” She trailed off, her eyes gazing past him and a thousand feet away. “Besides, they do not exist to help one side or the other, no matter what may be right. They are neutral, serving to keep the balance.”
Takha seized the momentum. They were with him—he had them. “Then it will come down to us, the faithful. We can do it, Starmother. I am sure of it.”
She waved a hand, prepared to dismiss him. “Unless you find a way to resist their light, Takha, I don't see how it is possible.”
At last, Takha smiled, and she noticed.
“What is it, prophet?”
He took his time with his next words. “Have you spoken with the cloudwatchers lately?”
Wuta walked alone through the quarries, humming his favourite tune and enjoying the stillness in the night air. He still buzzed from his discussion with Takha, prophet of Gethael, from several hours prior. His elation at the young prophet's interest in his story refused to subside. The man had shown a curiosity in Wuta’s caution that he’d not found with anyone else, and the prophet had wanted to extrapolate the possibilities and ramifications. These things indicated a curious mind, and a keen intelligence. No wonder the man commanded attention and respect within the faith, occupying a position of honor. The chat with the prophet had exhilarated him, and his body still quivered with adrenaline. Finally, Wuta had received recognition for the importance of his math and calculations.
During the talk, while defending his thesis on the impending cloud storm, Wuta had made sure to inform the prophet of the cloudwatchers' solemn duty to protect the Astral. Truly, his utmost concern revolved around the potential vulnerability to the Starsingers: the risk was a cloud so thick it may completely blot out the sky. According to his calculations and projections, at the crest of the storm, at its most violent, no Astral would be able to connect with their star. They would not be able to establish a channel or call upon their light, and they would be rendered at the mercy of any commoner with a grudge and a weapon. Surely there were many such folk who wandered the streets of Celaena, harboring a grudge from the wrongs of past and present.
The prophet had seemed sympathetic, equally concerned and aligned in purpose. In fact, he’d appeared to be particularly interested in the revelation of the cloudstorm's dampening effect. Wuta trusted the man to take the message to the Astral, since they wouldn't listen to Wuta, and convey the urgency of the coming threat. For reasons unknown, the Academy had sent word to the city not to give him an audience, his mat not to be considered and his ravings not to be heard. The Academy had disavowed his science, despite the hazy empirical evidence floating about the city. Even now amongst piles of worked stones littering the pathway he saw the mist grow thicker and higher, an opaque vapor floating in the dust. He’d even heard of a devastating wave smashing the Twilight Orchards, leaving the reputed beauty of the blood orange trees in shambles—an event he predicted. Sometimes being right meant watching others suffer.
The silence of the night broke with the crack of stone. Wuta whipped his head, followed the direction of the sound, but saw nothing. Panic grew, as he’d wandered so far from the shrine. His imagination had not wandered with his body, though; it had remained focused and pinpointed, for he was an academic. Fairy tales kept children up at night, but not him. They did not bother him, and a noise in the darkness didn't either. He continued his sojourn through the shadowed streets of the quarries, but stopped at another crack, followed by a voice, soft but deep.
“You are far too wise.”
Wuta's bravado vanished, as did the illusions of a shield hoisted by knowledge. “Wh—who's there?” he stammered. “Show yourself!”
“As you wish.”
A figure emerged from the night, almost imperceptible in his black robes but for the white rope coiled around his waist. The figure stood still, arms in front with hands tucked inside the sleeves, hood pulled over his head.
The cloudwatcher's mind raced. Was this a stray worshiper, lost on an evening stroll? Who else but the faithful would wander like this so close to a shrine?
“Are you a friend of the light, sir? A follower of Gethael?” He winced at his weak voice, and the figure met his question with laughter, a gentle chuckle that pierced the calm.
“No,” said the shadowed figure. “Quite the opposite.”
What does that mean? What is this absurdity?
Wuta struggled to make sense of a situation devoid of the necessary facts.
“Can I help you, friend?”
“Yes. Ye
s, you can help me, cloudwatcher.”
“Then I will. What is it you need?” Wuta's nerves settled and his mind eased. The shadowed figure seemed calm and without hostility. Rational thinking should win the day.
“You recently spoke with the prophet, Takha Shun, did you not?”
How can he know that? Definitely a worshiper.
“I did, friend. Takha seemed quite the engaging fellow, I must say.”
“I'm sure.” The figure took a step forward. “Of what did you speak?”
“This.” Wuta waved his hands around the gathering fog which was visible even in the dusk. “No one will listen to me—it's crazy, really. My math is correct, my science sounds, and the coming storm could be apoplectic!”
“For whom?”
“Pardon me?” Wuta found the question confusing. Was he being rhetorical? Was this a faith thing?
“Never mind,” said the shadowed figure. “This prophet, Takha Shun, does he seem genuine?”
“Oh yes. Very pious indeed, devout to the core. I could really feel his belief. You know, I've never been one for all this celestial stuff, but in speaking with him and being around his followers, there was an energy I'd not expected. He's a new prophet, funnily enough, but you'd never know it. He could be the Starfather himself, the way the blue-robes looked at him.”
Wuta's words lingered, and the shadow figure kept silent. Then, a white glow appeared under the figure's hood where his eyes should have been. Something whistled in the air. Wuta’s cheeks exploded in searing pain. He screamed, raised a hand to his face, and felt warm blood. He looked up to see the shadow charging at him with a dagger, a silent assault. Wuta saw white, glowing eyes, and then all went black.
Chapter Sixteen
“Night is darkest before the dawn.”
- Interpretations by Nesher
Ezai did his best to navigate, but he could barely see across the water, so dark were the mists hovering over the sea. His tension did not settle until the monolithic figures of seven apostles broke through the clouds. Strange times.
“Wake up, Lady Ahryn. We're here.”
The Ferai girl stirred, and she sat up from the bundle of blankets nestled in the corner of their craft. She tugged at the ponytail escaping the hood of her robes, then pulled the blankets tight around her shoulders. “The seminary? Why are we here, again?”
Ezai sighed. He’d explained his bond with Sotma Rayn in detail when they’d first set sail, along with his pursuit of an assassin and his theory surrounding a long-forgotten past. This little one was curious, no doubt, but he found her attention fleeting, as if she was too consumed with the fury boiling within.
“To search,” he said, “and to find answers.”
“About the faith.” She didn't ask, so he didn't answer. She frowned, leaned on the side of the boat, and rested her head on her robed arms, blankets dangling around her and flapping in the ocean breeze.
Ezai followed her gaze, taking in the ancient statues. They were effigies of the seven messengers of Gethael, apostles, who had brought peace to their ancestors and showed them the way of the celestial. So went the story. Ezai took no position one way or the other. He admired the serenity of the religion, a steady balance within itself. At the same time, he had long studied the effects of mob mentality and group thinking, and he'd seen for himself the growing fervor within the City. Danger came from many directions.
They pulled up to the docks, and Ahryn hopped out with a confidence born of experience and familiarity. The girl grabbed ropes and quickly tied off, mooring the vessel.
“This way.” She waved and began an ascent up a rope bridge which did not inspire much confidence. Ezai followed, testing his feet on each plank, hands gripped on the rails as he more than once made the mistake of looking over the side and below to waves crashing over jagged rocks, white spray cascading high into the air. Ezai didn't fear much, but heights made him nervous. There would be no chance to save himself from a fall.
Ezai watched Ahryn climb aggressively and with haste. It had only been a month since her parents died, since she had left the seminary in search of answers. He shared in the girl’s sadness and hoped bringing her along on his path offered some reprieve.
Ahryn directed herself toward the seminary's main entrance, ignoring greetings from several trainees and staff who filtered about, all engaged in one form of study or another. Mostly they carried the Doctrine, a legacy of the man known as Neranian, who was widely accepted to be the first man to unlock the secrets of starlight—the first Astral.
It was a tale told far and wide, even in a place like the Orange Dawn, history and lore incredibly important to concepts of morality and justice. Ezai knew all about the Doctrine, about the legend of Neranian—at least in the abstract. He knew nothing about the man's background, or his later years following the Doctrine, or how he related to the purge. That period of time may well not have existed, a collective amnesia suffered in the Dominion by singer and starless alike.
“You're back?” a small boy with a pointy chin and small nose addressed Ahryn. He wore a skin-tight white silkweave suit and flowing white cape, and carried a small dagger at his belt.
Ezai stopped, but Ahryn walked past the boy, unconcerned, and the boy yelled to her again.
“Ferai! I'm talking to you.”
She kept walking.
“How's your father?”
In an instant, Ahryn pivoted and spun on the boy, eyes raging a blue glow, and hurled two small balls of light at his face. Ezai reacted, having sensed her growing fury, and put himself between the two young Astral, reaching out his flat palms and intercepting the balls, which fizzled against his gauntlets and dispersed. He smelled sulfur.
Ahryn growled at him, then turned and marched into the seminary. Ezai clapped his hands together to shake off the residual dust from faded starlight, then turned to the Lokka boy, who stood standing, mouth open and eyes wide and white, seemingly shocked at the violent display.
“If I were you, Lokka, I'd keep your mouth closed and your mind in your books,” Ezai warned the boy, then followed Ahryn’s trail into the seminary, which passed under ancient-looking arches and through a tattered wooden door that creaked, revealing its age. He caught up to the girl and followed her, and she led him in silence through wide halls with walls made of bookshelves, like a perpetual ringed library full of tomes of varied sizes and textures. He looked in wonder at the unending collection as they made their way to a destination unknown. The collector named Corlo possessed a tiny fraction of this knowledge, his shop in the Lokka district a pathetic mockery. More trainee singers passed them, gaping at him as they went by, but said nothing. Ahryn never turned her head nor acknowledged them.
“Where did you learn to command your light like that?” Her attack had shown control and focus suited for the League, a manifestation of light expected from developed singers, which was far beyond what she should be able to perform.
“I've been reading,” she said, cold and dismissive. Ezai did often see her reading, but didn’t understand how absorbing words of the Doctrine translated to masterful execution of starlight. He'd have to keep his eyes on her, going forward. Ferai daughter or not, she remained Astral.
At last, they reached a door amid the outer ring of the seminary's halls, plain and wooden like all the rest and enveloped by texts. Ezai read their titles and found a common theme: the faith. The books espoused theories and theses and all manner of speculative ramblings related to the purge and the time before. He'd read some of them, but nowhere near a majority of the collection. He reached out and pulled a text from the shelf, riffled pages with his plated thumb, and smelled a familiar scent of an old and fragile tome.
Ahryn knocked. Several seconds later, the door opened and revealed the wrinkled face of a kind-looking man. Ezai recognized Hecta, and was unsurprised to see the curator still dutifully imparting wisdom to young singers. But Hecta only displayed delight at seeing the girl—not the Arbiter—and he stepped back and brought his
hands together.
“Lady Ahryn! Welcome back.” He beamed and embraced the girl, though she seemed less eager.
“Hecta. Good to see you,” she spoke curtly, pushing inside the office.
Dark things run through her mind.
“I see you've made a friend in your journeys,” said Hecta, at the same time beckoning for Ezai to enter. He did, turning slightly sideways to pass through the door unhindered by his shoulder armor.
“Friend is a strong word, Hecta. I sought justice for my family and found Ezai, and in so doing I discovered that we have similar paths. It seemed logical to pursue them together.” She moved inside the office, then began dragging her fingers across various objects, as if remembering. Ezai kept his face neutral, but smiled inside at the girl's brazen ways. Similar paths indeed.
Hecta shuffled to his desk and took a seat, perhaps too gingerly. He looked weaker than Ezai remembered, though it had been many years. Perhaps time had finally caught up with the sturdy curator.
“Similar paths,” he said, barely above a whisper. Then he looked at Ezai, suddenly devoid of his kind smile. “Dare I ask what path you are taking that is similar to that of an Arbiter?”
Ahryn turned from her aimless study of the contents of the room, faced Hecta, and crossed her arms. “I'm sure you know the answer to that question, Hecta.”
The curator smiled, but softly, and he kept his eyes cast down. “I'm sure I do, though it was not as I hoped.” He sighed. “Vengeance is a dark path, Ahryn. Men like Ezai,” he gestured to the watching Arbiter, “train for years with the Order under the watchful eyes and well-honed guidance of those who came before them. They are a society of men and women born into concepts of morality and justice, shepherded by their families to principled equality. The better path is the righteous path.”
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