When Fariah opened the door to her chamber the next morning, she realized exactly how serious her son had been.
Guards that hadn’t been there the night before now stood scattered along the corridors of the eastern wing, along the galleries leading to Fariah’s chambers, and on the terraces overlooking the southern courtyard.
“What is this?” she spat in a hushed, icy hiss at one of the guards. He made no eye contact, only inclined his head briefly.
“Prince’s orders,” the guard responded. “For the safety of Your Excellency.”
Fariah whirled around, wings gathering like a thunderstorm, but pressed her mouth shut, clenching at the silk of her lliath skirt.
With keen eyes she scouted the galleries around the atrium. She saw several of her servants pass under the guards’ watchful eyes.
So that is the game you play.
Just like your brother.
Fariah stormed back into her chamber, air swirling at her path. Walking to the window, she closed her eyes, resting her palm against the windowpane. With a deep breath she stepped back, moved to the oak table, and sat. The smell of fresh ink rose as she opened up the inkwell, cutting through the stifling incense.
First she wrote to Gioden, although she knew what the answer would be. Still, some paths had to be crossed. So she wrote, in sharp, disciplined strokes of one who knew the hierarchy and where it sat. The letter was sent with a seal and a prayer.
She let the days pass. As expected, no answer came.
Then, when she deemed the appropriate amount of time had passed, she took another parchment – the one she had meant to take from the start.
“To Dominion Revein, commander of Antarrila garnison of Astochia” she began, “I, Fariah V’Asanii, Matriarch of the Fifth House, address you not as mother but as a Sister of Lanterns and bearer of faith. My son, the Prince of Astochia, whom you know well, has made me a captive under the guise of protection. I call upon you as earthly hand of Ellevath in Astochia: stand forth and deliver justice. Antarrila’s intervention here should not be seen as assault on order, for it is Ellevath you serve above all, and it ought to be Ellevath’s will and mercy to provide salvation of my son from himself, so that his former glory might be restored and the deception he lives by broken.”
She signed, pressing the sigil into the hot, bleeding wax like a brand.
The garrison of the Astochian branch of Antarrila rose from the sea like the upright skeleton of a large fossilized fish.
The stone of its platforms was white and bare, the halls tall and empty, with sparse bridges spanning the void like taut tendons. Narrow stairwells spiraled around the central column from the sea-level platform like a ribbed serpent. At the entrance hung a simple wooden plaque. On it, carved in Old Ilarian, was written: Never Touch the Earth.
Dominion Revein read the letter on a narrow empty gallery that jutted into the air above the waves. Wind lifted the saltwater mist upward, carrying the scents of salt and seaweed and mixing them with the garrison’s scents of iron and leather.
He did not sit. His expression did not change a fraction. He only passed a finger once across the dark dried ink at the bottom.
“Summon the Archangels,” he said to the messenger. “Nair, Sareh and Ithrim.”
It didn’t take long for them to arrive. Service in the Antarrila demanded obedience without delay.
Nair landed with an expression of wary curiosity, Sareh with his ashen feathers and eyes that seemed too old for his face, and Ithrim, the youngest and sharpest of them all, folding his wings deliberately a few inches higher than the rest.
Revein received them in his office – a barren room with a bare floor, a simple pine table, and a sitting bench. They entered one by one, inclining their heads in quiet salute.
Revein raised the letter so all could see.
“The Fifth’s Matriarch calls for intervention,” he said evenly. “She says Eirran has made her a prisoner under the pretext of protection. She calls upon us to deliver Ellevath’s justice.”
Nair spoke first, in quiet yet bladed voice. “This is Eirran V’Asanii we speak about, Dominion. He is not a pebble to be kicked aside. I remember Tal’Hessia. My brother…” he paused, his breath leaving him as if it hurt. “…But I also remember how Eirran’s Maestral ended endless border skirmishes. How it haunted him afterwards. How he suffered whip and dishonor for choosing to obey Ellevath’s Command of mercy over everything else. His greatness is real.”
“So is his shame,” Ithrim muttered, but held back from saying more. The sharp gazes around him spoke the truth known to them all.
Sareh lightly touched the rough wood of the table. “In many things,” he said, taking a steadying breath, “we’ve come to a point where we read the doctrine the way it suits us best. The scripture can be read in many ways. We often choose the harshest, and think ourselves strong for it. I have lived through too many winters and fought too many battles to believe that anymore.”
Ithrim lifted his gaze, full of blazing stars. “Scriptures are not courses of dishes to choose from,” he said, his collar suddenly itching. “They are laws of faith. And the law is clear. An Ilar does not lie with a human. The fruit is evidence: wingless, born of mud. Sin is not abstract, Sareh, but flesh and blood, and in its eyes lies the proof that the Book of the Condemned is right.”
“Eyes are mirrors too,” said Sareh calmly, almost in a whisper. “Of our own light… Should one dare to interpret it as such.”
Ithrim’s cheek flickered. He hesitated, his gaze falling for a moment, then rising again.
Outside, the wind increased its howl, sending waves crashing against the platform.
Revein was not one to immerse himself in arguments. When he spoke again, his harmonies lay flat and factual.
“You all know of the complaint Eirran sent after novices spun the Spiral at his palace,” he said. “He had signed it ‘former Seraph.’ I read it as a message, not arrogance. It’s a past that cannot be erased by the present.”
Nair nodded. “He refused an order that broke the Ellevath’s Command: ‘Have mercy for the innocent.‘ When I tell my novices that, they look at me in disbelief. But it is true, nonetheless.”
“As for the child,” Sareh added, “I have reread the verses… Not just those written in The Condemned, but Creation and Purity as well, and I interpret them thus: the fruit of sin may be its result, but it is not the sin itself. A child is innocent, until proven otherwise.”
Nair nodded again. “With this, I must agree.”
Ithrim drew in a soft breath, like one wanting to release an arrow but trembling because he was ordered not to shoot.
Archseraph Tarren had commanded him to stay near Eirran. Because of the past, because of trust that might still exist. Ithrim doubted it, but held his tongue.
Revein lowered the letter. The sea rolled beneath them in relentless rhythm.
“I will answer the Matriarch,” he said. “I will tell her this: the Dominion answers to Ellevath first and foremost. On earth, he answers to the Seraph; the Seraph to the Archseraph; the Archseraph to the Heavenly Steward. I do not answer to a matriarch, nor does a son answer to his mother through my sword. I will be polite. But I will be clear. Her plea is unreasonable.”
“The Fifth House has a crack in its walls,” said Sareh without looking up. “The foundation still holds. But we know the rupture exists. And that it might split open.”
Revein nodded. “And so it shall remain. Among the four of us. For now.”
He took another quill and wrote a short, clear reply. It took no more than three sentences to hold the whole hierarchy within them. When he pressed the seal, he stood by the window and watched the white foam cresting on the waves.
In Astochia, the morning in the southern courtyard bathed in shy golden light and smelled of wet soil.
Lily and Mirna knelt in her little garden. The grass was wet up to their ankles, and the weeds they pulled came away in clumps that left empty holes behind, as though someone stabbed the soil with sticks.
“Leave that one,” said Mirna, pointing to a frail-looking stem. “That one isn’t weed. It only appears that way until it grows.”
Lily smiled, touching the small stem in a brief caress.
Footsteps echoed across the stone. Lily and Mirna looked up to see Jereh and Evan carrying a basket of pastries from the kitchen. Warmth steamed through the cloth – cinnamon, poppy seed, a hint of honey.
“For you. Breakfast,” said Jereh, setting down the basket. “And for Rahl.”
Evan was already gone into the shadow where Rahl stood guarding, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible – and failing miserably. He accepted the pastry with a short nod and something that, for the fraction of a moment, might have been a smile.
“Thank you,” Rahl said quietly. In the shade his wings looked darker, his skin less lustrous.
Lily lifted her head toward him and smiled.
“You don’t need to stand all the way over there, Rahl. We all know you’re not going away.”
Rahl opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t speak, but instead moved himself into the warmth of the sunlight.
Mirna shook her head, but her eyes grew softer.
From the window of his study, Eirran looked down and smiled.
And across Eirran’s study in the eastern wing, Fariah stood over the censer. When the messenger laid the envelope before her, she trembled, but only for a moment. She broke the seal and read the three sentences that held the entire order and weight of heaven. Her jaw clenched, teeth gritted against each other, yet her hands were perfectly steady as she placed the letter above the flame. The fire licked the edges of the parchment as the smoke curled upwards, its thick, pungent smell intertwining with incense. Fariah watched the words bend and blacken, turning into ash.
“Bureaucrat!” she hissed under her breath. “Bureaucrats, all of them!”
The letter was gone, leaving behind only smoke and ash.
There was one last path left before her, and a choice to be made.
Under the light of glass vaults and golden globes of the Lamp Hall, Vhanna V’Lorath smiled as she read the letter that had arrived the previous day, announcing the visit of the Fifth’s Matriarch. The scents of parchment and ink were weaker now, covered with the earthy aroma of freshly ground dry leaves, that were now floating in a pot of hot water. Vhanna knew that the royals of Win’Tarra preferred herbal teas over wine and had prepared one preemptively. Everything had to be perfect for this occasion.
She did not expect, however, that Fariah V’Asanii would arrive in the company of guards. They remained on the terrace roof as the Matriarch descended to the Hall, but their unmoving presence spoke louder than words. For a moment Vhanna faltered. For a moment she thought of calling for her husband.
But then she bit her cheek and steadied herself. Vareth and she had anticipated this, planned for it, and it had to be executed with the same meticulous precision, regardless of small shifts in external variables.
Lioran’s wellbeing… Their entire House’s order depended on it.
Vhanna V’Lorath received Fariah with a smile both courteous and open.
“Venna Fariah,” she said. “Welcome to our house.”
“To the House of Enlightenment,” Fariah replied, lowering her veil and looking around. “Your palace honors your House well.”
Vhanna led her guest to the low, comfortable chaise. In the quiet, only the sharp clink of porcelain could be heard as Vhanna leaned in to pour the tea.
“How is Lioran?” Fariah asked at once, her tone holding just the right measure of concern. “My heart still tightens when I recall your letter.” She did not say the word tar, but its scent passed briefly across her face.
Vhanna sighed lightly, perfectly. “Yes, yes. It has been difficult for him. But Lioran is a smart boy, he will learn from this.” Not a single lash trembled. “That is why you are our beacon in this darkness. You know that hierarchy and purity are the foundations of Heaven.”
Fariah said nothing but gave the smallest nod as she picked up her cup. Porcelain gritted against porcelain.
“We called you,” Vhanna continued, “because we are not blind nor deaf. We know that Prince Eirran does not represent the whole Fifth House. We know that what he does is his private rebellion, not your House’s principles. However, we cannot watch the honor of either of our great Houses break. We wish to help; to save the Fifth’s dignity before it crumbles into dust.”
For a moment, the flame in the lamps seemed to tremble and sway. Golden globes seemed to spin. Fariah closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the lights stood where they had been.
“He is my son,” she said. “But he is not above the Faith.”
“Nor above insult,” said Vhanna, her voice ironed to the exact perfect tilt between effective and hurtful. “To flaunt a sin as an example. To set a monument to that sin inside the Temple, as though the rules of the faith were fashion, not doctrine. To fly…” She paused, hand flying to her throat as if the tea had gone down the wrong way. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “And when asked to respond to these charges, he openly and publicly twisted doctrine, and mocked Ellevath in the heart of the Temple.”
She paused there, letting the words hover in the air like judgment.
“Ellevath judges all of us the same,” said Fariah. “My son is no exception.”
Vhanna bowed slightly, as if that was precisely the answer she’d hoped for. “Of course. That is why we called you; because we see that in the Fifth House live those who still heed Ellevath. And because we care about the order of things.” Her voice lowered by a single breath. “Gioden is silent on the matter, I gather?”
Fariah spread her fingers, impatient, almost imperceptibly. “Indeed. He chooses to be blind. Antarrila pretends to be deaf.”
“Antarrila is Ellevath’s army,” said Vhanna. “But on earth…” She paused. “On earth it answers to Gioden, not to the Temple. And we’ve had no trouble remembering that, honoring the order of things.” Her gaze was gentle. “That is why we did not turn to them. We turned to you.”
Fariah felt her chest fill with an old, rising warmth, like a fire was being lit in an old family’s hearth.
“If you seek help,” said Vhanna, as if only now turning to care, “the Temple is at your hand. High Priest Alerion would gladly receive you. Offer spiritual counsel, guidance. Give you strength you need to endure.”
She might have handed her a balm. Fariah held out a small smile.
“And there is also one more thing… Something that came up during the last Council session.” Vhanna lowered her gaze, as if ashamed to relay the news. “The flag of quarantine has risen at the harbor. The Third’s ships brought a human plague. Not much is known yet, except that it has been contained. For now. However, it is not without merit to take into notion that someone might take it as a sign. A message.” She left the words hanging in the air like bait.
“A message to whom?” Fariah asked, though the answer had already waking up inside her.
“To Astochia,” said Vhanna. “To those who have forgotten that the Light still judges. Of course, we do not judge signs, we only see them.” A smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Regardless, the hand of the Temple is there for you. Let it lead you to solace and answers. And we, the Sixth House, shall keep our word: Eirran does not speak for all of you. Your coming here proves it.”
They sat awhile in silence. A lone fly flew into one of the lamps in the alcoves, and burned with a sizzle. Fariah watched the flame shift and rise, then still.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said at last. “For the light and for the word.”
“Always,” said Vhanna, covering Fariah’s hand with her own. “You shall always be welcome in our home and our hearts.”
At the door to the hallway, Fariah lowered her veil. The Lamp Hall remained behind her, and before her stretched a long, silent corridor. The steps of the guards echoed from the roof terrace.
She did not expect to almost bump into Lioran. The boy stood in the shadows, almost blending into one.
The feathers of his wings were uneven. Feathers of different lengths rasped against one another in futile attempts to overlap, rising into the air as he instinctively spread his wings a fraction. She gasped at the sight.
He gazed at her with dark, clear eyes.
“Venna Fariah,” he said, as if sent for the purpose. “I was just passing by. I didn’t mean to listen…” He recited a memorized and rehearsed line. “I heard Mother telling you about the plague at the harbor,” he continued, as though finishing a thought left behind in the hall. “They say it touches only the mudborn.” He paused, remembering the proper word, turned it over, found the sweeter one: “Humans.” His lips stretched into a thin smile. “That means the Light protects its own. That means Ellevath’s favor is with us, doesn’t it?”
Fariah opened her mouth to rebuke him, but then closed it.
In her stomach, something had already nodded in agreement. The boy spoke a harsh truth, yet truth nonetheless.
Perhaps only the mouths of children offered truths others were afraid to speak.
“Go,” she said. “Heal your wings and learn the scriptures.”
He bowed deeply; too deeply, perhaps, and passed her with the awkward gait of a cripple.
And then she stood there alone, in the dark, with guards above her head and a lamp flickering in her soul.
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