But Ezai would know. Looking down into the promenade and inspecting the carefully arranged pockets of faithful and the strategic attacks against the blackguard, and suffer the least number of casualties, Sotma knew they’d planned for his arrival. Sotma didn't feel disappointment at having to engage himself, nor at Veydun’s spectacular failure, because he embraced the resurgence of the Elegance and craved more.
His forced arrived, so many and so imposing. Hundreds of singers, eyes glowing in the night, filtered down around the promenade to join the Vo and support the soldiers. Ezai immediately reacted and brought his attack groups back into formation, an arced shell at the precipice of the channels, fallen buildings and rubble their cover, the wide bridge their retreat.
Time to end this nonsense.
Sotma drifted down into the promenade and into the throng, pushing forward to the edge of battle. Singer and solider alike fell back to his advance, finding other avenues to pursue and other men to fight.
He reached the first defensive position and cut it away, twirling his sword at rapid speed and pressing it into stone. Chips flew and pierced bodies from both sides. Perhaps a hundred faithful ran directly at him, poking at him with blades and swinging for his limbs. He knocked them aside with the wave of a hand, swung his blade as he ducked and rolled past bodies before they hit the ground. Sotma glided on starlight, movement slick and unstoppable, his momentum a whirlwind of elegant death. One hundred faithful lay lifeless at his feet. It was all so easy.
His coming changed everything. Blackguard and singers fought back, pushing the faithful from their protected ring and filtering them toward the precipice of the channels until they lumped together near the opening of the bridge. Veydun rejoined the fight, though well away from Ezai, who still fought encased in a blue glow. Sotma had snatched victory from the faithful, and they now danced on the brink.
Faithful lay all around him, crumbled and defeated. Those who stood retreated to the brink. Some fought desperately, like the staff-wielding maniac with his red-stained weapon filled with dents and scars, and like Ezai, who swung his father's sword, edges flickering in the air as he deflected blows. But most cowered, weak and afraid.
He moved, swept forward, eager to meet Ezai and spit in his face before ending the man's life and crushing this resistance. He would restore the Astral to glory with the killing blow.
But three blasts of a horn reverberated on the horizon. The first blast was long and powerful. The second was stuttered with different pitches. The third was long again, stronger, and unrelenting.
He knew the horn, knew the sound, and feared what came next. The ground rumbled under his feet and a frantic roar swept over him and through the blackguard.
Hundreds of Arbiters charged over the crest of the arching bridge behind Ezai, who stood facing Sotma with his weapon pointed to the ground and his head bowed. The Arbiters rushed past Ezai and crashed into the approaching army. They were led by the Lion, who was swinging his greatsword and urging his Brothers and Sisters to victory. The Orange Dawn had arrived.
Sotma stood his ground as he met the incoming blows from two fierce-looking Sisters wielding silver swords. Together they danced, taking turns with thrusts and parries, and Sotma's starlight ricocheted off shields bathed in their defiance.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Dawn laying waste to his siege, the singers all but neutralized and the blackguard ill-equipped to deal with the Arbiters, especially those supplemented by the faithful. He needed to back off to centralize his forces, protect the singers and command a counterattack.
A red flash of light erupted from his sword, temporarily blinding the Sisters, and he slipped away. He quickly navigated through the clashing soldiers, pulled the singers back, and grouped them in the middle of the promenade. They caught on without speaking, as did the soldiers, who shuffled away and packed tight into an immovable group, locked together in front of the starlight magicians.
Sotma saw Ezai speak with the Lion and share a quick embrace, then the Dawn arranged their own ranks and formations, Arbiters acting as the tips of the faithful spears.
Another horn blasted in the night, just once, but longer than before, a final call for a final battle.
Ahryn strained to maintain her channel. The sight of Ferai in her mind's eye faded, but did not vanish. Weakness filled her, every morsel of her energy spent.
She had been scared when Sotma Rayn's forces had arrived, and she had watched the Astral’s ominous approach with dread, unable to stop the slow-moving bastion of destruction. But adrenaline had filled her when the Dawn had roared over the bridge behind the faithful’s last stand—Ezai's family, tall, broad, and larger than life, wearing gleaming armor and wielding magnificent weapons.
Exhilaration continued to course through her body, galvanized by the turn of the tide. According to the other families, these Dawnmen were the enemy, the fulcrum of the Astral's hatred. But her father had taught Ahryn different, to be respectful of their cause and their history. She’d learned why throughout the evening, faced with the atrocities of war and the reality of starlight that had been abused and warped—and then she had seen the brave men and women of the Dawn who had risen up in the name of what is right.
Ezai no longer needed her spell, which was a construct of the Doctrine well beyond her years and training. When she released her grip, she came alive, filling once again with energy. Ezai turned to look at her as the shimmer left his body. She smiled and waved, an awkward gesture given their circumstances. But in response, Ezai nodded and bringing the hilt of his sword to his forehead.
Ahryn walked to him and stood at his side, then looked over the battlefield and was amazed by the scores of faithful led by Arbiters.
This is different than it once was.
Did any of them know the truth, the secrets of a past long forgotten and the events that had led to the purge so long ago? Her mind wandered to her star-covered book, which was hidden under a plank of a channel boat marked with her House sigil.
No time for that now. She heard the horn blast in the night, followed by the rush of the Dawn army toward the remaining clump of singers and the black soldiers, Sotma Rayn and Brother Veydun in the middle. She joined the run, step for step with Ezai, blue light swirling in her hands.
In front of her, other lights filled the air—red, yellow, green, violet. Pulses of starlight flew over the heads of the black soldiers, most of them deflected by the defiant Arbiters, but some landed among the faithful and burned them away. Ahryn gnashed her teeth, then coalesced a ball of light and launched it at the mass. She watched it explode, leaving a hole where many had stood.
Ahryn looked down at her palms where blue light still churned, sick with the thought of taking life. Ezai hadn't noticed, too focused on the swing of his sword. Again, she slipped into uncertainty, two streams of consciousness playing out simultaneously.
Ahryn cocooned herself with light and thought about her family and the faith. What did it mean, to be the last Ferai singer? Would she give in to the power that drove the other families to greed and tyranny, or would she be humble and pure? Would she use it to protect? Her father had withdrawn altogether, tucked his starlight away, and refused to make the choice.
But she would choose. She wanted to be like Ezai: to serve justice, to be noble and virtuous. Starlight offered so many more uses. She knew then she would take the holy seat and shepherd the faithful into a new era, one of peace and prosperity.
Her consciousness became one again. From her cocoon she saw the condensed army of black soldiers break apart into furious combat with the faithful and the Dawn, while the Starsingers flung starlight overhead.
And there, she saw a curious fight. Two Arbiters swung at each other: One was red haired with a thin rapier; the other was large and statuesque and wielding a greatsword. She knew them. Veydun, of course, and the other the Lion, as Ezai called him.
They battled at length, and the young ginger Arbiter lost ground. Despite his gray hairs and wri
nkled face, the Lion swung his greatsword with fervor and didn't seem like he could tire. But on his next swing, Veydun slipped to the side and thrust his rapier through a gap in the Lion's armor. Ahryn gasped as the Lion dropped to a knee. Veydun stepped forward, elbow bent back and ready to thrust again. As he did, his sword aimed at the Lion's head, the Lion stood and shifted, then quickly swung the flat of his greatsword. Ahryn head a crunch as it struck Veydun's side, crushing the plate and knocking him to the ground. Veydun wheezed, unable to breath, and attempted to crawl away, but the Lion walked forward to Veydun's side. She then heard him call into the night: This, too, is just.
He swung his greatsword overhead and thrust it down into Veydun. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw the Lion back on his knee next to Veydun's body. She immediately dropped her cocoon and braced herself as she fell to the ground. In a panic, she scoured the battle to find Ezai, then ran. He looked at her, and she pointed to the kneeling Lion. Quickly, Ezai finished his duel, then wiped off his blade and followed.
Ezai dropped to his knees beside the Lion, catching him as he collapsed onto his back. Blood seeped from an unseen wound, spilling onto the ground around him.
“Uriyeh...”
The Lion coughed, then raised a finger to his lips and spoke through his spittle. “You've been wronged, Ezai. It was good to fight with you, side by side under this sky. It reminded me of your father, may he rest in the light.”
“Please, Uriyeh. Save your breath.” Ezai looked around for anyone available. “We need to get you off this battlefield.”
But the Lion chuckled, drips of blood spattering his lips, and he pulled Ezai closer. “No, Son. It's too late for me. Veydun struck true. I am happy he learned something useful from the Dawn, in the end.”
Ezai didn't protest. If the Lion chose this, what right did he have to interfere? Instead, he would offer last rights, the chant of the Dawn reserved for a departing Arbiter.
“Do you want me to speak the words, Uriyeh?”
“Not yet,” said the Lion. “I wish I could look upon the stars, but alas, the clouds grow dark.”
Ezai looked up. The fog stretched across the entire horizon, blocking out the moon and the stars. There was not a stretch of sky to see, the chaos around them illuminated only by the flickers of fading starlight and the torches interspersed between the competing armies.
“Ezai,” he returned his gaze to the Lion, “you must lead us now.”
“But Uriyeh... I am banished.”
“Bah,” spat the Lion. “A mistake. Veydun's corruption is clear now. I wonder how deep it runs. How many Brothers and Sisters did he reach? How many, Ezai, plot against us and work in league with the Astral? Will they turn on us on this very battlefield? Are they seconds and thirds, waiting for us at the Keep? Did the taint reach as far as the forebearers?” The Lion sighed, the action difficult and causing him to spit blood. “So many questions. Maybe you'll never know. Maybe the filth will stay hidden forever. But that is why you must lead.” The Lion looked him square in the eyes. “Take your father's place, Ezai. I pardon you, and have left instructions.”
Ezai reeled, swayed by the Lion's gesture. Reinstatement into the Dawn meant everything to him.
I will not fail you, Father.
He heard his name screamed and looked over to see Ahryn beckoning for him, waving at the action between the last of the black army and singers and the remnants of the faith and the Dawn. They needed him.
The Lion saw, then nodded to Ezai. “Hurry now.”
Ezai closed his eyes as he recited the chant: “At dawn of day, beyond the night, it shows the way, the orange light; and stand we will, against the song, atop our hill, to right the wrong; the noble few, returned to dust, righteous and true, this, too, is just.”
At Ezai's final word, the Lion smiled and closed his eyes, his head falling limp in Ezai's hands. Ezai took up Uriyeh's greatsword and placed it along his body, then made the Lion's hands grip the handle. With a final squeeze, he said goodbye to his father's friend and the champion of the Dawn.
He got to his feet and moved to Ahryn, pushing back his pain and finding his stream of calm. Once he was balanced, he tried to assess the situation. Sotma Rayn remained sheltered in the crowd of his singers and the remaining black soldiers who had yet to join the fight. Ezai readied himself for the last bloody steps—readied himself for many more faithful to die, and likely many of his Brothers and Sisters. But then he saw Ahryn's hands.
The blue light was snuffed out, extinguished. Her eyes cleared, and he saw distress on her face.
“I lost it,” she said. “The light is gone.”
Ezai whipped his head to the enemy. Glowing eyes began to fade and drop from sight. The red wake around Sotma disappeared, his shimmering sword returned to dark steel, and the thrum of starlight quieted.
“NOW!”
He bellowed to his Brothers and Sisters and the bloodied and weary faithful, still led by the staff-wielding man, his robes ripped and his eyes wild. “Forward,” he called. “Forward!”
Ezai instructed Ahryn to flee and find shelter, and then he led the charge, Dawnbreak outstretched. He ran with speed, the image of his father floating in his mind, side by side with Uriyeh. It was as if the Lion and the Eagle had been reunited by memory, the pinnacle of justice for the starless close at hand.
The black soldiers were unprepared for the aggression, especially since they were no longer supported by the singers, who began to scramble away as they realized their connections had broken. Ezai smashed into the wall, knocked strikes to the side, and cut down soldiers in a calm dance of steel. He felt the violent crash of the rest of the Dawn and the faithful, and he watched the Tsac men fall before better men and women. It did not take long for the battle to turn in their favor.
They fought and won over the remainder of the night, until every last black soldier lay dead or surrendered. Many singers did not escape and shared the same fate, though Sotma Rayn managed to flee.
Ezai left the cleanup to his Brothers and Sisters. He dragged his feet toward the bridge in search of water, and he was parched and broken from the long night. At the water, he scooped from the channel with his gauntleted hand, splashing his face and sucking at the stream as it dripped away.
Suddenly, a thought sprung him from his knees to full attention—perhaps it was the paternal instinct that had grown within him these past few weeks—and he inexplicably felt the urge to find the girl who he’d sent to hide.
Where is Ahryn?
Sotma Rayn ran away, empty, horrified from the loss of starlight, stumbling through cracked streets on his way back to his city-home.
As bad as the fog had grown, he had always managed to maintain his channel, and he had never expected for it to disappear entirely. He also had not expected the arrival of the Orange Dawn—another of Veydun's failures.
Oh well. He had watched the Arbiter fall beneath the Lion's greatsword. A fitting end for a snake.
Every single soldier in the blackguard had been pulled to the final confrontation in the promenade. Only a spattering of singers kept watch over the other sections of Celaena, overseeing captured faithful. They stood no chance if the captors caught wind of the loss of starlight.
No, this defeat marked a change. They would not recover from this, especially with so many Astral dead. While the others, Bril, Kriv, and Marcinian, had been wise enough to stay back from the final battle, they’d soon find themselves with nothing to lord over in the coming days.
A darker thought struck him. What if this fog never went away and was a permanent block of their ability to channel? The Astral would be no more, rendered peasants at the mercy of the cursed faithful, their vengeance palpable and retribution savage.
A gentle laughter interrupted Sotma's lonely flight to the city-home. He stopped running and unsheathed his sword, which no longer glimmered from starlight, and was now just a blade of steel held by an old man.
“Who's there?” he called out to nothing,
darkness all around him.
More laughter. “Oh, Sotma. You know who it is.”
Sotma closed his eyes, unwilling to accept the truth. Now would be the perfect time for the shadow to strike, of course. Sotma was beaten, starless, and vulnerable. Even the assassin named Qydian—who figured so prominently in the Forbidden Texts—would fear the Elegance.
“So,” said Sotma, eyes reopened and searching the night. “You've come to finish what you started.”
“Hmm. What did I start?” Qydian's voice resonated from the darkness.
“The destruction of my House, you monster!”
“Monster?” Qydian's voice carried a hint of rebuke. “I am not a monster, Sotma Rayn. I am a reckoning, a penance for your life of sin.”
“I've lived a good life.” Sotma did not lie. Despite his quest for purity, he'd lived nobly and without offense. The slaughter of the starless was simply collateral damage.
“Arrogant as always. I'm not talking about your life, Sotma Rayn. I'm talking about the collective lives of the Astral. These thousands of years have been kind, haven't they? You and your kind have spent them blissfully ignorant of the past, amassing wealth and fortune and living in plenty, and feeding off your own hedonism.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Sotma lied, still searching his surroundings, tip of his sword poking at various shrubbery and rubble.
“Yes, you do. I know you're in possession of one of the forbidden texts.” Sotma instinctively brought a hand to the inside of his tunic, feeling at the budge of his little star-covered book. “Yes,” continued Qydian, “that one. You knew the truth, yet you led this foolish assault when you should have been bringing everyone together again, starless and singer as one.”
Sotma sneered. “I refuse to accept that version of history, regardless of what the book says.”
Remember the Dawn Page 33