Qydian chuckled again, and this time Sotma was able to focus on the direction. He turned to his left to face the sound, and caught sight of the white glow of the assassin's eyes.
So, it's true. The defiant apostle of Saryx need not link to a star to channel his light.
“It doesn't matter anymore. You're not the one to stand up against our return.” Qydian emerged from blackness, white eyes lighting himself. He was robed with a white rope for a belt. “I tried to stop the faith from spreading, but the hearts of men are weak. I should have remembered. It's been so long, you see?” Qydian stepped closer.
Sotma took a stance, then braced himself and extended his sword. “He will stop you.”
Qydian hissed. “Who? Who will stop me?”
“Ezai.”
“It will take more than a troubled man and his father's sword to stop what's coming.” Qydian lashed out with his whip, but Sotma had expected the attack. He sidestepped, then thrust his sword for Qydian's exposed side.
The assassin reacted much faster, twirling away from the lunge and striking again with his whip, barbs raking against Sotma's cheek. Blood trickled from an open wound. He forced himself to ignore the pain.
Qydian laughed. “Not so elegant without your starlight.” He raised a dagger in his whipless hand and charged, lashing out with his whip at the same time.
Sotma deflected the attack, intentionally catching his sword in the whip so it wrapped around the blade, then slammed it into the dirt to prevent further strikes. Qydian hissed, then he threw the whip to the ground and brought out a second dagger. He circled Sotma, duel-wielding daggers. Sotma in turn unsheathed a shortblade from his boot. They looked at each other, two killers in the dusk, and took turns stabbing and deflecting in a whirlwind of steel.
In the end, Sotma could not keep up. Qydian forced an advantage, tips of his daggers cutting at flesh until Sotma's strength left his body. He fell to his knees, exhausted, shortblade clanging against the stone ground before coming to rest in the dirt.
Qydian knelt in front of him and brought burning white eyes within inches of Sotma's face, nothing else but blackness under the assassin's hood. The assassin reached into Sotma's tunic and pulled out the star-covered book. He inspected it, flipped it open, and began to laugh.
“There's so much to teach the world. One day, all will be remembered. But first, I must make another visit. There is another I cannot abide.”
“Who?” Sotma croaked, aware of his approaching end.
“You know her, I think.” Qydian stood, then gripped Sotma's short, white hair. “You fought well, Sotma Rayn. Light be with you.”
Ezai searched, but could not find the Ferai girl. Rain pattered his armor as he scoured the outer ring of the promenade though he saw nothing. He checked the bridge and walked underneath along the banks, looking through fallen structures at the junction, but still he could not find her.
He looked, but could not find their boat. She must have boarded and rowed away, but where? Where would she go to find shelter and hide, as Ezai had commanded when her starlight had faded? He could think of many places—too many to stand a chance of finding her within the city.
Though morning approached, and despite the defeat of the singers and their black soldiers, concern remained. Another menace hung in the shadows, unseen. Whoever killed the Rayn children and the Ferai family still skulked in the night. Ezai wouldn't rest until he found Ahryn.
Thankfully, she found him first, just as he was about to jump into another boat and set off for the Ferai quint.
“Ezai!” she called from her own boat, floating in a hidden corner of the channel, out of sight to those who didn't look. “I'm here.” Relief flooded through him, and he kicked off and floated toward her.
But then he caught sight of a figure approach from the other side, nearest to Ahryn. An outline, blacker than the night, two white orbs glowing beneath a hood. He needed no other information to be sure; this was the assassin he'd sought to understand since Sotma had invoked the bond. The shadow was a secret from another time.
“Ahryn! Push off into the water, now!” he shouted at the girl while trying to get to her as fast as possible. The assassin turned his white eyes to Ezai, then hastened his approach. But the Ferai girl obeyed without question. The assassin reached the edge of the channel just as Ahryn drifted out of reach. She saw him, finally, and fell back in the boat with a look of horror on her face.
Ezai didn't slow. Despite his weariness from the war just waged, he intended to confront this walking myth and close his bond, bringing justice to Sotma Rayn even though the man deserved none. And though Ahryn had no bond, he yearned for vengeance for the girl, to give her peace and closure.
The assassin waited silently, as Ezai pulled alongside the channel wall and exited his craft. He drew Dawnbreak and let it hang in his fingers as he stepped toward the shadow, who watched him with those glowing white eyes. How did they shine, with this block of starlight? This assassin could not be Astral—something else. Something he tried but failed to understand. Yet here the assassin stood, real.
They stared at each other, and in his mind's eye Ezai looked down upon the scene, as if an eagle. There he stood, arm horizontal, elbow bent, Dawnbreak pointed, just as his father had taught him. Across stood black death from a time long ago, hands hidden in his sleeves, white rope taut around his waist, white eyes gleaming.
Ahryn docked her boat behind him. She came to his side, chin raised.
“What are you doing?” He dared not take his eyes off the assassin, so he spoke to the air. “You've no starlight. Get out of here. Get to the shrine.”
“No,” she said, resting an arm on his. “I will stay with you.”
She did not seem the angry, rebellious girl he'd come to know. Instead, she professed calm, and an acceptance of the situation. She'd cleared her stream and became the rock around which the waters flowed. Just as he had taught her.
Father, I will save her.
“Ah, Ahryn Ferai,” the assassin spoke, voice soft and measured. “I've come for you.”
“Who are you?” Ahryn asked from Ezai's side, voice steady. He maintained his stance, though his muscles screamed and his mind begged for rest. He ignored their calls.
“I was once called Qydian,” the assassin hissed, as if he hated his own name.
Qydian? Ezai had not heard the name, but of course he did not know many things. Ahryn's reaction seemed odd, though. He watched her smile and her face light up with recognition.
“I've read about you.”
“I'm sure you have,” said Qydian. “Does he know?” The assassin revealed a dagger as he pointed at Ezai.
“No.”
Ezai glanced at Ahryn, disturbed at the conversation. She looked at him, eyes sparkling green, and told him about the truth she’d read. Told him about Gethael’s betrayal of the world he’d created, about the tyranny of his apostles as they’d inspired bloodlust in the people. About how Saryx had tried to intervene, stay the madness, only to be vilified and driven away. About the twisting corruption of the apostles left in the hearts of men of the past, creating the Astral of today.
Ezai sighed as he listened to her, as she recounted the truths she’d learned from her star-covered book. Answers flooded his mind, and connections were made. His father had been right: Knowledge was a dangerous thing.
“So,” said Qydian. “What will you do with this truth? Will you step aside and allow me to finish my task and take the girl? Or will you resist—will you defy—for all the good it will do. You cannot stop me.”
Ezai risked a glance at Ahryn. Their eyes met, and he studied her face. He felt the same paternal instinct he’d embraced since that day in the wharf, when the girl raced to him desperate for justice. He thought of their journey, and of the care taken to pass his father's wisdom to her. Ezai, firstborn of Nesher, without wife or firstborn. Who would carry his family's legacy? To whom would he pass his virtue? Ezai looked at his father's sword, magnificent Dawnbreak, wh
ich shone even now in the dark of the foggy night, and asked himself onto who he would pass the legacy of his family. Who would carry the blade when he passed?
Ahryn. The Last Ferai Starsinger. The first Astral of the Orange Dawn.
“I will stop you, in the name of my father and the Dawn.” Ezai gripped the hilt harder, and dug his feet into the wet stone of the channel bank. “You will not have her.”
“So be it,” said Qydian.
The assassin wasted no time. He lunged forward and crossed the distance in an eye blink, two daggers spinning in hands extended from whirling arms, like a dust devil rolling across the desert. Ezai tracked him, then used his pauldrons to catch a blade while deflecting another with Dawnbreak. He counterattacked, taking steps forward with his thrusts and back with his parries, like he was in training in the Keep. Footwork meant everything, and he kept moving, unwilling to give the assassin a stationary target. Ezai also focused on keeping Ahryn adjacent, not granting the assassin a path to the girl, despite his unrelenting attempts.
Ezai took no wounds, his skill and strength too great. The assassin fought in a strange style, but all manners of offense kept to patterns. Ezai broke it down and matched the assassin blow for blow. Still, Ezai knew he would eventually falter in the face of this legend from the past. It was only a matter of time.
And time went too fast. Ezai's energy waned, and his lungs struggled to draw air. Qydian noticed, then began to push even harder.
Father, help me.
Another quick exchange of strikes. Ezai kept calm, defended well, but did so despite the conversation with his father raging within. His father’s voice echoed in his mind.
“You know what to do, Ezai.”
He didn't know, how could he?
“Use the sword, Ezai.”
The sword? Dawnbreak? He had used the sword all night, and continued to use it now, deflecting another attempt as Qydian dashed side to side.
Father, what do I do?
“Ezai!” Ahryn screamed as she dodged a shifting strike from Qydian, who had slipped to his side. She fell to the ground and kicked her feet to get away. Ezai jumped between her and the assassin, two hands on the sword he could barely hold, so weary from battle and the struggle with the assassin, his strength fading. Qydian approached again, white eyes burning hot, daggers flashing and clinking off armor and blade. Ahryn clung to Ezai’s legs, a pitiful effort to hide. Qydian came closer.
Ezai heard his father again:
“Remember the Dawn, Ezai.”
Memories flashed before his eyes. His father stood before him, looking down and smiling, Dawnbreak raised into the air. And his eyes...
Ezai pushed out his chest and brought back his shoulders and roared at the assassin, then raised Dawnbreak overhead to the sky and roared again.
“I REMEMBER!”
He slammed the point of his sword into the stone beneath his feet, driving the shaft down to the hilt and splitting the ground, cracks webbing away from him and travelling past the assassin's feet and beyond. As he did, brilliant orange light erupted from the sword in a swirling cylinder, wider than his body, and shot into the air and through the clouds overhead, followed by tremendous wind. A cyclone sprung up around him, as if the light had a mass. The swirling wind traveled all the way up the stream of light and forced its way through the fog, pushing it away and revealing the starry skies overhead
Ezai pulled the sword from the ground, and then looked at his reflection in the glistening blade. Within he saw a gray-haired man, battered, scarred, eyes glowing a furious orange, balls of flame raging and flickering in the coming dawn.
Beside him, Ahryn stood with blue eyes glowing with a similar fury, connection restored underneath the area of parted fog. She smiled at Ezai, and emotion rose inside him. His heart swelled and he welcomed a surge of newfound strength.
The Arbiter turned to the assassin, who had stepped backed and seemed unsure. Ezai squeezed his hands together and allowed himself to merge with Dawnbreak. The orange glow from his eyes radiated outward until Qydian’s ominous figure revealed itself from shadow.
Ezai grinned and stepped forward, and Ahyrn join him. Together they pushed Qydian back, Ahryn with blue lightning and Ezai with empowered swings of Dawnbreak. The assassin, whose white eyes now seemed dim, could not contend. He broke away, scrambling over rocks and between lifeless bodies—black and blue—until a good distance away. Then he rounded on the Arbiter and the last Ferai Starsinger, and addressed them with a hiss.
“I will see you again, Ezai. And you,” Qydian pointed to Ahryn, “cannot hide forever.”
Then the assassin fled into the night, leaving Ezai and Ahryn alone under a clear sky.
Ezai looked at Ahryn, her face showing her disbelief. He didn't understand either. There would be another time for questions. For now, he needed to ensure her safe return to the quarries, where the faithful would gather to celebrate their victory.
Together, eyes glowing, they boarded a boat and set sail for the Ferai quint and her father's shrine.
Chapter Nineteen
“We are who we are made to be, by those who came before us. Remember them.”
- Interpretations by Nesher
Takha hobbled onto the dais at the top of the shrine's steps, struggling on a wooden cane that was wrapped in embroidered weave. The Starmother gripped one of his arms to steady him, then she waved to the survivors amassed in the quarries and joined them in song in the haze of the sunny day under cloudy skies. Juppa stood with them, attentive, fresh lacerations on his face and limbs still oozing despite the bandaging.
Celebrations coursed through the onlookers. Takha saw dice thrown haphazardly in several games of Celestial set up among the crowd by men and women sitting at makeshift tables. Many showed no shame at public intimacy, and everywhere the faithful cheered and chanted and clasped hands at their victory.
Word had arrived from several runners at once, all smiling despite their exhaustion. They’d raced up the steps to be the first to tell their news. Takha had embraced the Starmother even as she’d tended his wound, and they had shared tears of joy—tears he had easily created due to the pain from his wound caused by the shadow man’s dagger. He was thankful for it, because he wasn't sure he could have staged the requisite display.
The Starmother let go of his arm, and he sat in a luxurious chair. He clenched his teeth at the throbbing in his leg. The shadow man had likely wounded him for life, the damage to his leg extensive and the pain great.
Takha watched as the Starmother raised her arms to address the crowd. Despite the number of delirious survivors, they quieted in unison at her gesture, even as banners and streamers bearing stars and the Ferai constellation continued to billow in strong gusts of wind.
“Light be with you!” the Starmother called as loud as her old voice could carry, and it echoed off the polished leystone of the quarry that circled the shrine.
“Light be with you!” the crowd replied in one voice. The sound was like a rumbling thunder, then began slowly subsiding until it gave way for a spring of new songs and chants. The jubilant followers made their feelings clear, and Takha welcomed the overwhelming force of people united to a single cause. From the beginning, he’d known the secret lay with the faith; his ascension was the journey to avenging his past and purging his rage. From the faith came his power, just as planned.
Not even the shadow man could stop him. Still, Takha wondered about the shadow's inability to set foot on the shrine, and he envisioned the burning white eyes of hate trying to so hard to reach him and put him down. After he had dragged himself off the steps, leaving a trail of blood and tears, he’d told the concerned Starmother a random singer had strayed from battle and laid siege to their temple, and Takha had confronted the man outside. She believed him, of course. What else could explain his wound, and the strange black dagger embedded in his leg, handle bearing a constellation none recognized?
In truth, the thought of the shadow man still inspired terror ins
ide him. He doubted he'd ever leave the safety of the shrine by himself. But he wouldn't need to, not if the faith implemented the foundations of the theocracy he’d devised.
“Now, hear from Prophet Juppa!” There were cheers as the young, scarred prophet rose and proceeded to give a rousing yet sober speech about the costs of victory and the responsibilities of the survivors to carry their belief forward. Takha agreed, in principle; the faith's power needed to consume people and minds like fire and oxygen lest it remain the flicker of a candle. Wildfire needed to spread and grow. The larger the fire, the greater the force.
Takha waited his turn, flanked by the survivors of the one hundred—those disciples who had first climbed with him up the shrine so long ago—who'd gone out to battle, either to wield steel on the front line or support in the back. They probably deserved adoration more than he, but they didn't get to decide. They were disciples of light, yes, but not prophets. Not yet.
He'd already prepared his remarks, a masterful speech designed to feed the burn and trigger desires. Celaena may have been won, but the rest of the Dominion needed securing step by step, and each island was another stone.
“And now, Prophet Takha!” He smiled as he was called. A disciple helped him stand, then escorted him to the dais. The Starmother welcomed him and ushered his last few steps before stepping back and leaving him alone with the people.
He raised his arms, felt attentions seize on his movements, and began to preach.
Takha hardly believed his eyes. He was a strata-jumper—starless filth who had spent his life manipulating and conniving for every scrap—sitting at the same table as the men and women who would usher Celaena and the Dominion into a new future.
It would be a holy future focused on the teachings of Gethael and the path to ascension: a restoration of the light among the countless starless spread throughout the island who had spent generations living under the oppressive Astral.
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