Author’s note:
In today’s chapter, the consequences of Eirran’s defiance ripple outward, reaching the heart of the Fifth House – and the boulder of Faith rolls down towards Astochia.
In “The Candle and the Lie” we’ve touched the dark root of Fariah’s zealotry. Just a tiny warning, in this chapter we delve into it a bit deeper. Although deliberately never explicitly stated, the violence from her past, the one that shaped her actions and worldview, is heavily implied, so please proceed with care.
~~~
When the scroll bound in silver ribbon landed in the antechamber of the Fifth Tower in the copper-tinted dusk, Fariah knew at once what it was – and who had sent it. Not long before, she had received a letter from Vhanna V’Lorath, who had written at length about Eirran’s defiance – about the marble bench he had placed in the Temple under the shield of the Fifth House’s name. Even then her blood had boiled, but Gioden had caught her trembling hand, his voice falling like an axe carved from ice.
“You will not.”
“Not – please, don’t. You will not.“
It wasn’t the tone of a son, but of a Sechvenn. It was Rhais’s echo in him-the same hardness of gaze, the same tight mouth. But where Rhais had burned with the light of a candle, in Gioden there was only darkness.
It had hurt her then – as it did now, and her hand had flown to her belly before her mind stopped it. She tore it away, as if from flame, and laid it on the cold black stone of the throne she had not sat upon since Rhais’s death. That stone, that throne, now belonged to Alina.
All that remained to Fariah was faith.
“Venna Fariah.” Alina’s voice rose from the shadows, her figure a dark outline against the sky sinking into twilight. “I see you’ve received a letter.” Her gaze fell upon the silver ribbon on the dark marble. “V’Lorath complains of Eirran again?”
Fariah flinched – only for an instant, but Alina’s keen eye caught the faint quiver of her wings before they stilled. She folded her hands and waited.
Without a word, Fariah handed her the letter. In the lamplight, the black ink cut through the parchment, sharp and precise.
“This cannot be.” Alina’s tone sliced clean. “V’Lorath lies.”
Fariah’s eyes narrowed to slits. “If he lies, he stains our House. If he doesn’t…” Her voice trembled, her hand twitching once before steadying. Her gaze turned to ice.
“Tell them to ready my things,” she said to Alina. “I leave at dawn.”
Her face unreadable, Alina inclined her head and turned to leave, but stopped at the threshold.
Fariah didn’t look at her. She stood by the window, eyes fixed on the thin crescent of the moon rising in the southeast-toward Astochia.
Where her son played with fire.
Where that creature, that sin, that half-blood, that living insult – breathed, walked, existed.
For a fleeting moment she thought she smelled incense. Perhaps it was a residue from the Temple. Or a memory.
You will be clean.
Fariah closed her eyes. Steadied herself. And remembered: she was not a woman who screamed. Not for many years. Not since that day, long ago, before her sons, before Rhais.
She would not scream now.
So she stood in the middle of the antechamber, hands perfectly still, while the words from the letter burned in her mind like poisoned fire.
The marble bench in the Temple. Elevating his sin into the holy prayer of flight.
Desecration.
Mockery. Of Ellevath, of everything she had endured so that he, her pure son, could be born.
Her fingers brushed lightly against the lower part of her abdomen – the place where, many years ago, they had purged her of her shame, and her House’s shame.
And she had endured it all with the strength and dignity of an Ilari woman.
And now? Now her son had not only embraced that shame – he carried it on his wings, enshrined it in holy ground, defied every law, every tradition, every truth that had kept them in the Light.
“My lady?” Her steward stood at the door, eyes wide with fear.
Fariah turned to her, her voice perfectly level. “Prepare the ship. I’m traveling to Astochia.”
“B-but Sechvenn said that -“
“Gioden is not my master,” Fariah said quietly, every word a string of blades. “And my other son will learn what he has done. And repent.”
The tremor of her hands was gone.
All that remained was ice.
Ice, and the fire ready to consume everything in its path.
The copper dusk had deepened into violet when Alina entered Gioden’s study at the very top of the Fifth Tower.
Maps and parchments lay stacked in precise symmetry on the table, the faint scent of iron mixed with ink and wax. Before him, a single candle helped illuminate the desk, its wax slowly dripping down its slender body.
Below them, Win’Tarra spread, sharp, beautiful, and white, lights from distant lamps flickering like embers.
Gioden did not look up from the parchment he was annotating.
“Fariah has received another letter from the Sixth of Astochia,” Alina said finally. Her tone was level, but her wings were tight against her back – a sign only he would notice.
“Another complaint about Eirran?” he asked without interest, eyes still on the paper.
“This time, not only a complaint.”
Alina stepped closer, placing the folded scroll upon the table. “They claim he was seen flying at night with the girl in his arms.”
That drew Gioden’s attention. He leaned back slowly, fingers still resting on the quill. “Seen?”
“So they claim,” Alina said. “And Fariah believes it. She intends to leave for Astochia at dawn.”
He stilled. Only the faint movement of his jaw betrayed thought.
“I told her she was not to interfere.”
“She knows,” Alina said softly. “She no longer cares. Apparently, this has crossed the line.”
For a while he said nothing. The candlelight rippled across his features, carving shallow valleys under the eyes, gleam on cheekbone, the faintest glint of weariness around the mouth.
When he spoke again, the voice was deliberate, cold as filed steel.
“She will go, then.”
Alina frowned. “You’ll allow it?”
Beyond the window glass, the lights of Win’Tarra glowed like fireflies. “If I tie her here, she’ll burn the rope and half the House with it. If I let her go, she burns elsewhere, and her flame draws the eye away from us.”
“You think to use her,” Alina said quietly.
“I think to let her zeal serve its purpose.” He turned to her, expression unreadable. “Eirran wanted to be a martyr of compassion. I warned him; he didn’t listen. Let him reap what he has sown. The higher our mother raises the torch, the clearer his shadow becomes to our enemies.”
“Such fire is hard to control, you’ve said it yourself. What if she oversteps?”
He paused, gaze sliding to the horizon where the last breath of sunlight still lingered.
“There’s a monastery in Tretina,” he said at last. “Its abbess died this summer. They are in need of new supervision.”
Alina’s wings rustled, a sound halfway between unease and admiration. “You’ll risk much by letting her move unchecked.”
“At this point, it’s the only move worth making. A partly controlled storm is better than one not controlled at all. Right now, my mother is a storm cloud. Eirran is a lightning rod. He will serve his purpose.”
Alina nodded – one sharp inclination of her head. “I’ll send word to the port: the Fifth House grants passage to Venna Fariah and her escort. We will make it seem an act of filial concern.”
Gioden lifted his head, a smile glinting in his eye. “You read me like a book.”
Alina returned a whisper of a smile, brushing his shoulder briefly. “Sometimes too well, I fear.”
He didn’t respond, but his shoulder relaxed beneath the ghost of her touch.
He dipped his quill again, pulling out another garrison report.
Behind him, the night wind pressed against the tall window, faint and cool, whispering the promise of distance.
When Alina left, Gioden remained at the desk for a long time, eyes traveling toward the map of Astochia on their own. He watched it for a few moments, imagining the sound of waves crashing against its white cliffs.
Then he blew out the candle.
And far away, in Astochia, behind the heavy mahogany door, Eirran sat with Lily in front of the tennat board, listening as she laughed, describing how Evan had slipped and fallen into the fountain earlier that day, as he was – for reasons completely incomprehensible to Eirran – trying to hop around the rim on one leg. Apparently, Lily had thought it hilarious, so he listened with a quiet smile, chin resting upon his palm.
Fire crackled in the hearth, dressing the room in soft copper glow.
He heard the sound of Keth’s footsteps even before he knocked. The paleness on his steward’s face cut through the warmth like a gust of cold wind.
“My lord.” The gravity in his voice confirmed what Eirran had feared. V’Loraths had made another move.
Lily’s brow furrowed in confusion as she watched the silent exchange. Finally, Eirran turned to face her, trained calm on his face.
“It’s late. Let’s finish for tonight. You need rest, and I…” He glanced at Keth. “I have work to do.”
The look she gave him, then Keth, then him again – was sharp, full of suspicion. But her brow relaxed even as her chin set tight. She stood up, straightened the creases on her dress.
“We’ll continue tomorrow, yes?” Eirran asked, the warmth in his voice trying to crack the uncomfortable silence.
A sharp nod, followed by a wisp of a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sure. Goodnight, Father.” There was just enough warmth in her voice to sting. “Keth.” She acknowledged him quietly, then slipped away.
When the sound of her footsteps disappeared into the darkness of the hallway, Eirran turned to Keth.
“What is it?”
Keth swallowed, then gave him a small scroll of parchment, sealed in red wax. Two crossed flaming arrows embossed on it might as well have been pointed at him.
“It arrived through urgent carriers from Win’Tarra.” Then, more quietly: “It can’t be good news.”
For a heartbeat, Eirran eyed him wearily, then broke the seal.
Dear brother,
Hereby I inform you that our dear Mother has set her heart on visiting you. Since I fear that, in her haste, she might have forgotten to notify you in advance, I do so in her stead, so you can arrange necessary preparations. (Just so you are informed – she has been acquainted with your unique situation.) Proceed accordingly.
Your brother and Sechvenn,
Gioden
The hand holding the parchment trembled. Eirran stepped back, his wings stretching behind him in search of support.
“My lord?” Keth took a step toward him, but Eirran held up a palm.
“My mother. My mother is coming.” His voice rasped against his throat.
Somewhere over the distant ocean, thunder rang in mockery.
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