Page 55 of Sunsplitter

Part Two

It has been so decided:

That the Daey Celva shall serve to guide and arbitrate all immortal daeyari.

That the body of the Daey Celva shall consist of twenty-one seats, to be appointed for the length of desired service.

That membership upon the Daey Celva shall be confirmed through unanimous vote of all current members.

That attendance to the proceedings of the Daey Celva shall be permitted only to those individuals of immortal, Void-woven flesh.

— Excerpt from the charter of the Daey Celva, Twilit Plane

When Antal had left his father’s house fifty years ago, he’d wondered how long it would be before he smelled the Twilit Plane again.

When he’d fled just days ago, he’d feared he might never return at all.

He emerged through a Curtain. The chill of the Void gave way to that familiar sweet of lavender dusk, a peach horizon and stars crisp at the sky’s darkest apex. Energy hummed on his tongue from cool conduit lights.

And something else. Antal inhaled distant trees, and loam, and old stone, as ancient as his race’s immortality. Another place he’d not visited since his exile. This time, he had no Fionamara at his side. Too dangerous, this den of carnivores. And no mortals were permitted to walk the halls.

The next meeting of the Daey Celva would begin soon.

In many ways, daeyari were simple creatures, drawn to their ancestral forests more than cities and spectacle. Here, the goal was all spectacle. Antal stood upon a plateau of dark rock, polished to a mirror sheen. A cliff rose ahead, an arched doorway and decorative pillars carved into the mountain,wreathed in black ferns whose fronds wisped like Void ether.

But even more impressive: the antlers.

Dozens of black antlers were mounted upon the pillars, a tribute to every past member of the council—stone replicas, of course, bearing the same carvings their owners had worn, watching over this entrance for eternity. Above the memorial, inlays of glowing crystal outlined every constellation in the sky of the Twilit Plane.

No city surrounded the citadel. It perched upon the cliff’s pinnacle, overlooking low marshlands and dusk-hued forest. Daeyari tended to live alone or in small packs, spread across territories to avoid depleting prey. To serve in bureaucracy was an act of great personal sacrifice. And great honor. The Daey Celva had formed after Veshri wove his Void-ether body, a new assembly to unify bickering territories, to guide the daeyari as they embraced immortality.

Antal’s family—an Old House—had served the council since its founding. His ancestors’ legacy. His father’s legacy, this scent of old stone that clung to him after centuries of duty.

Antal’s legacy. Shunned.

He lifted his chin, gathering resolve to act like a proper daeyari: silver caps on his antlers, a dark coat with iridescent vesper fabric draped like aurora from his shoulders. On leaden steps, he passed beneath the gauntlet of stone antlers.

The hall had no lights. Daeyari didn’t need them. He ghosted through the monochrome corridor, past offshoots and private meeting rooms, an exit ahead.

Antal stepped out into open air—a massive amphitheater, carved into the plateau.

The circular meeting floor lay below. Around it, gallery seating rose in a hundred stone tiers beneath the stars and purple sky, room enough for several thousand observers.

An alarming number of seats were claimed already—more daeyari than Antal had seen in five decades. It was disorienting, a medley of too many smells and conversations in his native tongue. Daeyari perched alone upon the tiers, or lounged in small groups, tails swishing and heads bent for gossip. Some attendees hailed from the Twilit Plane. Most were territory lords from other Planes, travelling here to keep current on news and carve out centuries-long alliances.

Technically, Antal had a standing invitation, as a territory lord himself. He’d never dared to test it, to risk his father’s ire.

As Antal stepped into the amphitheater, red eyes flitted onto him. Casual, at first. Passing glances for a new arrival. Their attention swiftly sharpened, narrowed stares and tilted heads, tails nudging neighbors. Daeyari lived long lives. They carried long memories.

Too many recognized him.

Avroz’s son, returned to these halls for the first time in over five decades.

Hyenas. Carrion feeders, always scenting for blood. After Antal had completed his travel years at the end of his first century, he’d prowled these corridors at his father’s heels, learning how to fight with words instead of teeth. Sometimes, the teeth came anyway.

He ignored the stares and descended the steps.

For a moment, Antal felt not himself, some passive observer as his feet carried him. He arrived at a cushion in the third tier: the seat he’d always taken. All those years ago, the hundreds of meetings he’d watched. Studied. Preparing for the life that was meant to be his.