In front of them, as they entered the circular opening at the heart of the quarries, the shrine loomed in the cloudy horizon. Its wide steps were polished white, and they rose high to a dais draped in blue silkweave and bearing the spear, and behind that the monolithic entrance into the temple of light. Ahryn marveled at its beauty and the finesse of its construction. It was the first shrine, her father's jewel, the fulcrum of light spreading throughout Vespri.
Ahryn took Takha's arm at the base of the stairs. His glance showed indignant surprise, but he allowed the touch and assistance, like a beaten dog fearful of humans and in need of kindness on a path back to normalcy. Besides, the faith called on each of them to love the other, for they were all children of the light.
“What would you do,” she began to ask as they started their slow, stilted climb, “if you stood where I do?”
“Forgive me, Ahryn, I'm not sure I know your meaning.”
Another step. “What would you do with the holy seat, as the voice of Gethael in the Dominion of Vespri—as the guide along the path of ascension for followers who grow in immeasurable quantity?”
Takha shook his head. “It's not my place to even wonder on such things.”
“But I'm asking you, Prophet Shun: what would you do?”
He considered for a time as they took several more steps. “I'd begin with routine.” Ahryn raised her eyebrows, and he continued. “Gatherings of followers, together expressing their constant devotion.”
“What would this accomplish? To follow the light is enough, is it not?”
He nodded. “It is enough for every man, woman, and child, but not enough for the faith at large. This new governance we impose will need support. The joy filtering through the islands is fleeting; soon the rigors of trade and tokens will return, and so will discontent. Instead of focusing on the Astral threatening a starlight fist, they will focus on us, the institution of faith, as the source of their problems.”
“I see.” She did. Takha's worry made sense, and young as she was, the nature of people seemed the same no matter when or where. He showed wit and foresight far beyond her own. The Starmother's—former Starmother's—recommendation held weight with her. Ahryn was certain in her appointment of a steward for her family, and she was certain now of her decision to make Takha the High Prophet.
“Takha,” she said, “if ask something of you, will you accept?”
Another step. “That depends on the question... but do I have a choice?”
She laughed. “There is always a choice, Prophet Shun.”
“Then I will hear your question, Ahryn.”
They reached the top of the stairs high above the quarries and turned to face eastward over the circular opening and toward the Nightmarkets, breeze on their cheeks and fine silt from stone floating on the air.
“I am leaving.”
Takha cocked his head. “Leaving where?”
“East. With Ezai, and a chosen few from among the survivors. Survivors who are battle tested.”
Takha firmed his lips, but did not question.
“When will you go?”
“Soon,” she said. “The faith will need a leader. Someone to fill the holy seat until I return.”
“Indeed.” If he knew what she proposed, he didn't reveal the knowledge. Still, Ahryn understood the man's craftiness by now. He knew.
“So, I ask you again, Prophet Shun: Will you accept?”
Takha stumbled to the dais and braced himself, mopping his forehead where beads of sweat formed from the exertion of their climb. Then he looked again to the bustle of life below, blue-robed starless going about their duties.
“I accept.”
They were fifty. Fifty brave pathfinders, trailbreakers. Fifty men and women who had not needed to volunteer or offer to join Ahryn on the journey east, who no one could rightfully ask to give anymore. Scars from the Long Night, body and mind, were still fresh and weeping. Fifty of them stood together at the base of the Ferai shrine, looking to the steps, where Ahryn stood with Ezai and Juppa only feet away.
High Prophet Shun led the followers in prayer, a christening of their voyage and blessing of good tidings and safety for their foray into undiscovered country. He concluded his sermon of light. Then he limped through the fifty and touched them each on the forehead, a gesture acknowledged by the placing of palms against each other, horizontal and flat.
They’d intended to depart straight away after the morning chant. First, they would travel south to the Keep to address the Orange Dawn, before setting sail for the Sundered Valley and the Expanse.
But a man rode into the clearing calling for Ahryn and Ezai. An old man with a wrinkled face. Hecta.
Ahryn received him with a warm embrace, then instructed the vanguard to remain prepared to set off while ushering Hecta away so they could speak.
She led Hecta and Ezai to a bread shop to the side of the shrine, and then kindly requested the vendor to take a walk. He didn't object, his eyes revealing his awareness of her station. The three of the stood inside, the scent of morning baking in her nose, and she beckoned Hecta to explain his coming.
“Ezai,” he began, “I believe I've found that which you have sought.”
The Arbiter firmed his stance. “You found a forbidden text?”
Hecta hesitated. “No. But I researched and studied for many hours, through many tomes, and have pieced together an interpretation. My interpretation is loose, but insightful.”
Ezai shrugged. “How is that different from so many who came before you? You are not the first to spend many days and nights studying existing records, and yet there is still no more understanding than we currently understand.”
The Curator gave no answer, rebuffed.
“Why don't you tell us what you found,” said Ahryn, at the same time giving Ezai a look she hoped he understood. He said nothing.
“Of course, Lady Ahryn.” Hecta's eyes shone white for a moment. “We all know the crudeness of the story, a forsaken apostle turned dark, inciting a holy war and the flight of Gethael from the world with his six other apostles, and the subsequent purge.”
“Yes, we know that.” Ezai did not seem patient.
Hecta only smiled, wrinkles creasing his face. “But did you know Neranian's Doctrine began soon after?”
“How soon?”
“Within years, I gather. The Doctrine made up the first writings of starlight, the first hint at the beginnings of the Astral.”
Ahryn listened, conscious of the star-covered book tucked into her robes.
“What else have you interpreted?” Ezai asked, in between bites of a loaf of fresh bread he'd taken from a shelf. He’d tossed several tokens on the counter, likely much more than the cost of the meal.
Hecta didn't prolong the drama further. “I believe the apostles were effectively what we call Starsingers. Celestial gods who drew on their stars to shape the word.”
Ezai chewed, silent.
“I also believe the apostles left pieces of themselves in the people, giving them a latent ability to seek the stars and command starlight. A parting gift to the world they created.”
“Dangerous,” said Ezai.
Hecta nodded. “Surely, but perhaps they were hopeful starlight would not be used to oppress, but to create and guide, just as they had created and guided on their arrival with Gethael.
“So,” said Ezai, “this latent ability left by the apostles, it woke up? It arose in the chosen people, and Neranian was among the first?'
“I believe so.”
“Why did they choose the families they did?”
“That I don't know. I did not read anything suggesting reasoning for a decision that they may not have made at all. This is just my interpretation.”
“I see.” Ezai pulled a tankard of water from his belt and drank. “If your theory holds, the return of the faith seems preordained, does it not?”
“How's that?” said Hecta.
“Accepted lore involves Gethael bringing light
to the world with his apostles and the faith marshaling around him, only to be corrupted and purged. If by your interpretation the apostles did indeed leave pieces of themselves, it may have been their intent was to for the newly dawned Astral to unite the people by faith once again.”
“Fascinating,” said Hecta, wonder in his eyes.
“That is my interpretation, at least,” Ezai quipped. “But it does not answer my real question, nor provide me the knowledge I sought. It doesn't explain Qydian, the shadow assassin, or Saryx.”
“Ah,” said Hecta. “There is something else to consider, my friend.”
“What else?”
“Seven apostles, Ezai. Five imbued with the power to sew fields and carve mountains, two to watch over their kin. The secret lies with the two. Indeed, they were also celestial gods connected to a star, and they left parts of themselves as well.” Hecta paused, but Ezai did not react. “Defiance, Ezai. Your resistance to starlight.”
Ezai swallowed the last of his bread. “You're saying that I am a descendant of an apostle? That I am Astral?”
“Not just you. The Orange Dawn. The last righteous families.”
Ahryn completed a jigsaw in her mind, interlocking pieces she'd learned from the texts with the new theories Hecta espoused. A picture of the past came into vision. Ezai's glowing orange eyes flashed in her mind—then she saw the thrust of his sword and the opening of the sky.
“Two apostles to watch over the others, Ezai. The Orange Dawn descends from one. Must I say more?”
“Saryx,” whispered Ezai. “And Qydian? What does the lore say about this creature who speaks as if removed from time?”
“I'm sorry to say I read nothing helpful. Your reports of this shadow man remain a mystery.”
Ezai nodded. “Very well. Thank you, Hecta.”
“Can I be of further help?”
“No,” said the Dawnman. “What comes next is not for old men. Keep the seminary alive, somehow. Find a new purpose, but don't let your collected knowledge go to waste.”
Hecta promised he would not, then left for a boat to carry him back to his island. Ahryn and Ezai exited the shop and strode back to the waiting fifty, still standing at attention in the hot haze of the approaching noon. Now, they were ready.
Chapter Twenty-One
“In your life you may come across those who profess to have brought back the faith and returned to the words of Gethael. These are false prophets who espouse ideals of ascension and equality. They cannot know, for nothing survived the purge. Do not be distracted, do not be swayed by the movement in the people that will surely grow. These are but tides that come and go. You walk a much longer path.”
- Interpretations by Nesher
Ezai led the fifty from the docks, crunching brittle grass and shaking loose dry dirt as they ascended a shallow hill. The entire island trended upwards until it culminated in a single mound upon which the Keep rested, the five-corner stone citadel of the Orange Dawn, where generations of families passed virtue to their children—to their firstborn children, who would rise to become Arbiters of justice throughout the islands of Vespri.
They were Astral, he now understood; he was Astral. The Orange Dawn was comprised of singers, whose connections infused a resistance to the very power running through their kin.
For the first time ever, Ezai returned home to no sunlight creeping over the plains and lighting up the morning. Instead, the ever-present haze of the sun behind thick clouds settled over the landscape. The knee-high stone wall that wrapped around the perimeter looked plain, almost silly, and the entry arches bearing the Order's motto seemed less grandiose.
Is this just, Father?
New days called for new traditions. Ezai intended to address the forebearers and call a conclave, but he did not intend to descend into the basement amid darkness and cold. The ancient grounds of the Order—bereft of sunlight, which hid behind the fog—begged for beauty. Ezai would pull every last cousin outside and fill the rolling hills with bodies, pillars of the morning, a symbol of enduring legacy.
So, he did. Upon his arrival in the Keep with the fifty, Ezai summoned a conclave and sent word of the location in the fields. Murmurs surrounded him as his family filtered into the morning, unsure of the commotion. But those forebearers who passed only nodded, welcomed him home, and shared a kind word about the fallen Lion. Ezai planned to say more about Uriyeh in his address, but joined in fleeting memory of their champion all the same.
When the entirety of the Dawn assembled in the fields, naturally formed in organized lines, Ezai found the highest perch he could and shouted for all to hear.
“Let us remember Uriyeh, the Lion, champion of the Dawn.”
He bowed his head and unsheathed his sword, driving it into the dirt hill deep enough to stay sturdy. All went silent. Only the faint calls of gulls from the coast drifted to his ears, along with the rustling of grass from strong winds. No one broke their quiet, and Ezai held steady, lamenting.
After an appropriate passage of time, he pulled his sword from the dirt and spoke again.
“Uriyeh instilled in us purity not found anywhere else in the Dominion. Many have said we are rigid, set in old ways, even naive.” He raised his sword to the sky. “But I say we are steel, unyielding and reliable. Justice does not shift in the breeze of changing culture or politic; it is blind; it endures. As do we. We owe him a great debt for keeping us focused, binding us to the tenets and focusing our minds on what it means to be moral. What it means to be just. So I ask you now, will you endure, or will you stray, tempted by pleasure and power? Remember Uriyeh, when you decide. Remember the history of the Order, and the blood spilled in the streets of Celaena to preserve the light. Remember the Dawn.”
His last words lingered, carried in the ocean breeze, saltwater air stinging his eyes. No one answered his rhetoric, of course. Ezai searched the crowd as he looked for any signs of treachery, residual sympathizers of Veydun's cause. He found none. They were either masterfully hidden or non-existent—he could not say which.
When he left with Ahryn and the fifty for the Expanse, he needed trust in the Dawn to keep itself aright. While Uriyeh's caution still resonated, and Veydun's betrayal still burned, he could not live life suspicious and on edge. Faith must prevail: faith in each other, and in his Brothers and Sisters, as well as all the seconds and thirds who made up the rest of the Order.
So Ezai discussed this with the others, a candid conversation unlike he'd ever experienced in conclave. There, among the grassy hills of the Dawn's island, he pleaded for adherence in his absence, maintenance of the tenets. The forebearers who stood in front of him nodded, encouraging his words, and the crowd responded in kind. In the end, Ezai could do little else but make his case and hope.
“Place your trust in the hearts of others, Ezai, else it will be a lonely life.”
In the end, as he left the Dawn with Ahryn and the fifty behind, Ezai allowed himself comfort. What came next would not be for old men. The future belonged to the young, and he would place his trust in them.
Ezai, Ahryn, Juppa, and the fifty waded through fields of wheat, stalks rising to their chests and billowing off robes and armor. Marcinian Lokka and his family paid them no heed and did not try to stop their march past the plains on the way to the Sundered Valley. None of the forlorn Astral House showed their faces, and they remained hidden in their homestead, wounded animals cast out from society.
The valley stunned him. It was beautiful, lined by high mountains with snowy peaks, carpets of lustrous green trees, and crystal-clear lakes. He smelled the crisp, fresh air laced by silkweave flowers ripe for picking.
“Have you ever been this far, Ezai?
“Never,” he responded. “Have you?”
Ahryn shook her head. “No, but my father spoke so highly of the valley, with such vivid imagery, that sometimes I felt like I was here.”
“And now that you are?”
“His words did not do it justice.”
Ezai no
dded. It seemed strange to him that a place so serene served as the gateway to unknown peril. Beyond the crest of the mountains lay the Expanse, the beginning of cracked earth, drier than a desert, and nothing on the horizon except more ground and a residue of sand always lingering in the air.
But the thought of a hostile environment paled at the true terrors laying wait in the Expanse. Would they find a temple, or perhaps a city? Would they stumble upon constructs of the forsaken apostle growing just outside their borders, no one the wiser? Would Qydian be waiting, white eyed and threatening the tips of his daggers? Ezai hoped so.
He gripped the hilt of his father's sword, which was safely sheathed at his belt. When the time came, he could break the sky, open the stars, and unleash Ahryn. She had read her books on the journey, as she always did, and every day she spoke of new discoveries about the Doctrine or about the faith. She had come so far in such little time. Her father would have been proud of her, no doubt. Still, Ezai remained protective, her rock.
Was his affection for the girl driven by his memory of Yella? Yella, his love, who had fallen in combat with his father so long ago. Departed before she could sire him a firstborn son or daughter onto which to pass their virtue? Did Ahryn represent the child he’d never had, the next step in the line of the Eagle? As far as Ezai knew, in all of the Dawn's centuries, the chain of knowledge and virtue between parent and child had never broken. Outsiders had never been invited into the Dawn, raised to be Arbiters. Least of all an Astral.
But Ezai was Astral. He’d not shared the secret with his Order. No one but Ahryn knew the truth. He didn't yet know what it meant for the Arbiters to be Astral; he didn't understand his glowing orange eyes or the powers within Dawnbreak.
Could he pass his sword to Ahryn, in time? Ferai and the Orange Dawn would unite, and with that union would come a new type of Arbiter—not resistant, but capable of singing the stars. Perhaps, in the wars to come, the world would need such a warrior.
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