Remember the Dawn

by A M Macdonald

  Takha stood next to Juppa at the top of the shrine and looked out over the masses of faithful gathered in the quarries. They were numerous. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, stood silent in their blue robes which had grown dark, damp from the unrelenting rain. Night fell over Celaena, but no stars came out, and the sky itself was invisible under the clouds hanging overhead.

  That morning, the prophets had sent the one hundred to every corner of the city, into every district, every shop, all carrying the call of the Starmother: Join us, brothers and sisters, in reclaiming the light. The Astral have sat in your rightful place among the stars for too long. Tonight, it changes.

  The zealots came quickly. On their way through the quarries, every able-bodied man and woman was armed with a weapon, whether sword or spear or some other tool crafted by the smiths. Now, they stood quietly at attention, quiet, wielding their instruments and waiting for direction.

  Juppa stepped forward, raised his staff in the air, and yelled out into the night. His voice lost itself in the rain and wind, but his actions were easily visible to the holy army. In response, an untold amount of voices rose up to meet his, yelling back to him. Their reply, a collective voice, did not falter in the weather, itself a thunder splitting the dusk.

  Takha watched, awestruck by the passion he saw before him. He’d first imagined the faith to be a medium for his aspirations, a vessel for enacting his schemes, but now he understood the raw energy of so many united as one. And Juppa, the happy man he'd first seen atop a barrow of stones, now snarled with fiery eyes.

  Juppa surged forward, descending the rain-soaked steps of the shrine as fast as he could. Takha watched him go, then pulled his robes close and braced against the chill. When Juppa reached the bottom, the swarm of faithful cleared a path for the possessed prophet. He did not step at the bottom, but kept running, staff held high over his head, a whisper of a scream on the wind. Faithful filed into Juppa's wake, following behind with equal steps and speed. He led them northeast, away from the quarries and toward the promenade, the grand junction between the two largest quints, Tsac and Rayn. On his way there, Juppa would dispatch garrisons and vanguards to every corner of Celaena to meet their foes, as planned.

  Takha continued to watch for an eternity as the countless faith militant streamed from the quarries behind Juppa's fading figure, the tip of a divine arrow.

  When the last of the army had filtered from the quarry square, Takha turned back to the warmth and quiet of the shrine. War was no place for a man like him.

  Ezai grunted as he rolled behind a straw-filled cart, his body screaming at him for a rest. Old aches filled his joints and he breathed heavily, lungs stubborn and refusing to fill. The street where he’d stood a moment earlier exploded, and dirt and gravel poured down over him and clinked against his shoulder plates.

  Ahryn screamed as she stood from cover and unleashed a wave of starlight rippling through the air toward their attacker. Ezai peeked around the cart and saw the wave overtake the singer and roll over him as he fell to the ground. The Ferai girl demonstrated inexplicable command of starlight, which was further empowered by her anger.

  Ezai scrambled to his feet and ran, closing the distance before the singer rose. He gripped Dawnbreak, gritted his teeth, and pounced, knee forward, hilt raised, and tip pointed downward. The singer propelled himself over the ground several feet and dodged the death blow, and Ezai's sword buried itself in the mound of grass, a type of knoll bordering the streets in the Nightmarkets.

  The singer stood and faced the Arbiter, eyes burning violet. He whipped off his white cloak and whirled it around his head. The fabric slowly changed until it barely moved, rigid as stone. The singer approached Ezai, who took up a combative stance and watched the advance through narrowed eyes. Ezai focused on the enemy, the screams of starless around him merging into a single, shrill bleat.

  “Go! Save more!” he screamed back to Ahryn. They had carved a safe path to the channels, establishing a way out for the helpless commoners. Several slain singers littered the ground around the path, most cut down by Ezai's blade, but not all.

  When Ahryn had taken her first life, her face had shifted to horror and the child inside had emerged in a blubber of tears and shock. Sending her on a rescue mission offered her a chance to reconnect to her humanity.

  This Lokka before him seemed stronger than the others, not just another starlight magician. Had he come through the League, or was he battle-scarred from the last war? He looked old enough, sprinkles of white in his hair and creases at his temples. Ezai's mind reached for logic in an illogical moment, but found none. The only thing that mattered now was that he was a single Arbiter caught in the opening volley of another rebellion.

  There was no time. The singer arrived in front of him, frozen cape a shield held forward to deflect Ezai's strike. Ezai grimaced as his sword clanged off the cloak, then braced for a counter blast from the Lokka; he crossed his arms in front and deflected the energy, rendered it harmless. Now the singer frowned, and each stood staring at the other, unsure what to do.

  Enough.

  Ezai feinted a thrust to the left. Predictably, the Lokka swiveled to block, adjusting his stance. Despite the Lokka’s strength, he was still not match for Ezai, who took advantage of the shoddy footwork. He slid right and threw an elbow inward, crashing down on the singer's arm, who screamed at the crunch. The cape fell, losing its starlight bond and drifting away on the breeze. The singer tried to counter and began to channel a ball of light in his good hand, but Ezai snuffed it out with the slap of a palm, causing the violet-eyed Astral to roar, enraged.

  Bring the end quickly. Let them sleep.

  He shifted his feet and spun to come behind the confused Astral, then drove the tip of his sword through the back of the man's neck, aiming for an instantaneous, painless death. Ezai's father had always spoken of the rules of war, the honor among combatants—even when your enemy had none, show mercy. Such was the way of the truly righteous.

  Ezai stood straight and sighed, adrenaline losing a battle against the pain inside his aged body. He looked around and found Ahryn escorting commoners to the channels under the watchful eye of a blue-robed mob.

  What?

  Ezai ran over, free for a moment from conflict, and grabbed one of the faithful by the arm.

  “Explain! Who are you?”

  The woman looked back, brown eyes cold and firm. “We are followers of the light.”

  “I know that!” Ezai said forcefully as he heaved, sucking air between words. “Why are you here?”

  “The time comes for the Astral to fall and the faith to rise.”

  Ezai saw several hundred faithful keeping watch over Ahryn's rescue efforts, weapons at the ready and standing side by side. “Are there more?”

  The woman nodded. “Thousands upon thousands.”

  So many?

  “Where?”

  “All over the city, but most move north from the quarries, toward the promenade. They go to meet the storm.”

  Ezai pointed up. “The storm is all around us, in the air and the sky.”

  “No,” she said. “The singers move tonight, four families united, and with them a black army. Throughout the city, battle rages. We fight tonight for the soul of the stars.”

  Black army?

  He didn't understand, and his concern approached panic. The Dawn was nowhere to be seen, and there were no Arbiters around to defend against an onslaught.

  Where is Uriyeh? Where are my Brothers and Sisters of the Dawn?

  Ezai could not fathom taking up arms by himself, but the choice had been made for him. Ezai found the stream of his calm and focused on the task ahead. He needed to cut the heads from the snake. Only then would the people of Celaena have a chance.

  He grabbed the faithful woman by the shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes. “Finish getting the starless to safety. Then clear the markets, take out as many singers as you can.” He expected a slaughter. What could these blue-robed men and w
omen do against a group of Astral?

  “Where will you go, Dawnman?”

  “To meet the storm.” He sheathed his sword and ran to Ahryn, interrupting her as she helped an old man into a channel boat. “Let's go! Now!”

  She didn't hesitate, but did take a second to kiss the old man on his forehead and share a word with the faithful woman. Then she joined him in a boat.

  Veydun pulled his rapier out from the young man. He shifted away from the little spurt of blood from the tiny hole he left and watched dead eyes roll back into the starless soldier’s head. His stomach turned. Was he despicable? No, he’d chose right, as he was unwilling to stand up for these swine any longer.

  Soldiers grunted all around him, the sounds of battle alive in the night as the blackguard clashed with pitiful commoners in blue robes. In between the starless combat, singers danced and glowed as they wielded their light, which was dimmer than usual but still potent.

  A streak of starlight flew over his head and erupted when it collided with a charging mass of faithful, and he smelled sulfur mixed with singed flesh. Disgusting.

  Ahead of the vanguard, alone on a pile of lifeless fighters, black and blue, stood the Elegance. Sotma balanced on one foot planted in the dead chest of a fallen foe, his boot grinding into the body, eyes glowing a red mist and mingling with the fog until they seemed a single entity, as if a monster emerging from the cloud. Sotma gripped his sword with both hands clenched around the hilt, hugging its polished teywood handle, a jagged three-pointed pommel sticking out from beneath his grip.

  The Raynlord's chest moved slowly, breath steady and calm. But then the man’s attention was drawn to shouts from the west, over the channel and the intersection between quints. A horde of faithful, hundreds at least, maybe a thousand, dove in and crossed in a flurry of churning water. They pulled themselves out and ran toward the fight, swinging their starless weapons.

  The blackguard adjusted, turning to the threat and forming lines. But Veydun saw weakness in the men. They did not sturdy themselves, did not brace their feet, and they held their shields loose and spears limp. Outnumbered three to one, at least, the blackguard tried to hold against the swarm, which fell upon them in seconds, but they couldn't. The faithful broke through like water forcing their way between a crack in a dam, and began to hack at the blackguard with zeal. It was chaos.

  Veydun didn't hesitate. He raced to the line, feet slipping on cobblestone coated with blood diluted by rain continuing to pour, then raised his rapier and held it shoulder-height and horizontal like he’d been taught. When he arrived at the throng, he jumped into the fray and started to thrust and release, over and over. Bodies crumpled around him, pierced through, and he took a second to enjoy his small victory.

  Too long. Someone screamed. He instinctively ducked as a wild swing from a hammer almost took his head. He countered, slashing with the tip, and watched a fierce-looking woman's throat opened. She fell to his feet. He stepped over the body, splashing mud on the blood-stained blue robes, and confronted the ten faithful who tried to isolate him from the others.

  Very well.

  But then the Elegance swept in, joining him with a powerful leap propelled by red light under his feet, and his sword rippled and shimmered, alive and burning. With one hand he carved an arc in the night, and several men ignited beneath the blade, immediately turning to embers; with the other, he channeled a field over his back just in time to deflect a spear thrown from behind. But Sotma didn't notice and kept killing, the look on his face horrible.

  The charging faithful reorganized like a single living organism, giving the Elegance a wide berth while continuing to strike at the blackguard.

  Veydun stepped back into the line, panting, then looked up and let rainfall wash away sweat and filth. He was barely able to see the sky. Then he peered back into the conflict and spotted Sotma snarling as he waded through the faithful, an unstoppable machine of death. He saw the faithful pull farther back, some falling into the channel, but most fell to their death under Sotma’s rippling red sword and starlight strength.

  I can stop this carnage. This is not right.

  His mind began screaming, struggling with his morality—his humanity. But it was too late now. He'd spilled blood, starless blood, and had passed the point of no return. There would be no ethics, no redemption, no absolution. He must own this night of carnage, and the morning would bring a new dawn of proper rule. There he would find his salvation, be born again and removed of sin.

  “Sir!”

  Veydun finally heard the solider yelling at him from behind. He turned to black-clad man and barely scoffed at the man's missing arm, which had been cauterized and sealed by starlight.

  “Sir!” the solider yelled over the clash of stars. “The southern channels are taken, and the promenade is held by the faith. It cuts our army in half! We cannot reinforce the southern city.”

  “What? How can that be?”

  “The faithful were too many, the garrison could not hold. A man led them, wild eyed and strong.”

  “What man?” Veydun's throat nearly gave out from all the screaming.

  “I don't know. He carries a staff only, but moves like the wind. His eyes are wild and he throws himself into battle like a madman. Many of us are dead!”

  “A singer?”

  “No. A prophet, I think.”

  Veydun ducked at an explosion nearby. He craned his neck and was able to see starlight being funneled into a cone aimed directly at the bridges of the nearest channel, which began to shatter like plates of glass. Sotma would likely not miss Veydun’s presence. And by all accounts from battlefront reports throughout the city, the Astral were driving back the faithful in droves, winning territory and thinning their opposition with every clash.

  “Take me there! Now!”

  Ahryn and Ezai pulled up to the magnificent bridge arching over the channels and connecting with the promenade, wide and lined with banners displaying constellations and portraits of League champions in bright colors of red and green. They exited their craft and climbed the docking ramp, aware of the screams and crashes of battle just feet away, the chaos confirmed as they arrived at street level. Many faithful clashed with tough-looking men and women clad in all black, brandishing weapons of steel and stone.

  These are not singers.

  Before she asked, Ezai pulled her to the side. She stumbled over bodies of several men bearing moonlight robes lying next to an upturned cart, whose tokens flowed into the street. Merchants caught unaware in the urgency of the night. Ezai and Ahryn dipped low behind a baker's shop. She smelled no fresh bread over the stench of death and air burned by starlight. She peeked around the corner, back to the channels, and watched the destruction.

  The black-clad warriors fought in clusters and incongruent lines, like they attempted to organize without knowing how. They appeared stoic, ready to fight. In contrast, the faith looked wild and ferocious, driven by emotion, but it seemed to work. She saw the black army retreating as their numbers thinned and the faith pushed forward, led by whirlwind of a man with a wooden staff. He was young, strong, and handsome, and his blows were quick. The thuds from his staff strikes carried to Ahryn's ears. She saw combatants falling to his feet with crushed skulls.

  “Those look like the guards I saw in Gambler’s Row.” She didn't understand. Why were they fighting the faithful?

  “They are.” said Ezai.

  Ahryn looked away from the battle, glaring at Ezai. “Starless fighting starless?”

  He nodded. “They've chosen their side in this.”

  “So, the Astral now wield an army of commoners.” Her blood boiled.

  “Apparently.”

  Ahryn sheltered in Ezai's calm, which he held even in the middle of a war raging in the streets of Celaena. They hid while plumes of fire and smoke escaped burning buildings. “Did the singers have an army last time? In the last war?”

  “No. They did not. The Dawn met the Astral alone.”

  She turne
d her face and tugged her ponytail in an attempt to mask her anger as she looked again on the fight sprawling before her. The Tsac soldiers were losing, there was no question, and with every fallen man or woman in black the faithful pushed harder, always led by the chants of the staff-wielding man.

  Suddenly, roars erupted north of the conflict. Ahryn and Ezai turned their attention and saw the charge of hundreds more black soldiers. But within them, taller than the rest, ran someone else. Someone with stringy red hair and a thin sword, wearing a gray tunic. Ahryn knew the tunic bore the sigil of the Orange Dawn.

  Ezai saw him too. He growled, stood, and roared back at the approaching swarm, fury in his eyes. It frightened her. He unsheathed his sword and roared again, then burst out from behind the building with unexpected speed. Ahryn watched the Arbiter run over the scarred battlefield, alone and far ahead of the faithful, who had just noticed the incoming reinforcements.

  Great.

  Ahryn ran after him, taking care not to trip on rubble and other obstacles littering the streets, and at the same time looking to the horizon and trying to puncture the clouds with her mind. She couldn't secure her channel; the star was just outside her reach. She spat, then jumped over the fallen bodies of a family, struggling to keep pace with the grizzled man and his sword.

  She heard the stampede of hundreds of faithful racing behind her, attention drawn to the incoming assault. She waved and urged them to hurry, her mind imaging what the scene must look like; the Patron's daughter leading a charge of holy zealots. But she wasn't leading—not really. All of them, even the staff-wielding man who drew parallel, followed the Arbiter.

  Veydun, the ginger with a sickly sweet voice, the man who had tried to coax her to join with Sotma Rayn, changed direction and ran to meet the charging Ezai.

  Ahryn snarled, sick with the thought of a Dawnman working alongside the Astral to start this war. It occurred to her that such a plot would have been long in the planning. Had her father been involved? She shook her head, unwilling to believe her father would have been complicit in tyranny. Had he suspected the Order’s corruption, then? Was this why he’d brought back the faith? To inspire a holy rebellion and contest the Astral?