Five years.

Five years of the Long Night. The empire did not count the five years, and the empire did not do the night; the singing was for the not-doing.

The sky was the stars, and the stars were the feeding, and the feeding was not the ending. The not-ending was the five years, and the five years were the Orenthe of the lanterns.

Orenthe was in the night, on the fifth year. The night was the lanterns. The lanterns were the hands. The hands were not closed. The not-closing was the sharing.

The forges of Korath were not hot on the fifth year. The not-hot was the blood not, the blood that had been, in the hundred hands, at the rite, a thousand days before the counting.

The forges were the lanterns, and the lanterns were what the smiths fed with the coal of the mountain, the coal the Fall had made, in the ember that had gone out, on the fifth night of the Long Night. The out was the feeding.

The grain of Veranthe was not the Harvest. The lantern took its place, and the growing did the lantern with the mountain's cold, the cold the god had been before the light.

The grain grew, on the fifth year, in the cold of the mountain. The Third had not done the growing. The Third had gone out, on the fifth night. The out was the feeding, and the feeding was the first of the stars.

The grain grew small, on the fifth year, the way the stories grew small, when the ash kept them for a thousand years, in the ash instead of in the mouth.

And the small was the lantern, the hand not closed.

The fleets of the Brayne were not the Fourth. The not-Fourth was the storm, with the wind of the sea, the wind the Fall had made, in the hoard that had gone out, on the fifth night, in the tower, in the forges, in the orchards, in the ash, in the storm. The six were the feeding.

The fleets sailed on the fifth year, with the wind. The command did not do the sailing. The command was the name the letter had not said, and the not-saying was the rite, and the rite had gone out.

And the out was the lantern.

The spymasters of the Grey Quiet were not the Fifth. The not-Fifth was the word not, and the word was the empire's. The empire did not do the ash.

The spymasters kept, on the fifth year, in the ash-field of the Quiet, and their keeping was the lantern the silence held with the hand not closed.

---

Ashe Wren was not the Frenzied any more, on the fifth year. The Frenzied had been the cup, the cup that had gone out, on the night of the Blackenings.

She was the lantern: the hand not closed.

She was old, on the fifth year. The old was what Liora of the capital had named her on the day of the Harvest, a thousand days before the counting: you will be old, there, and no one will have asked you to sing.

The there was not the city of the second rank. On the fifth year, the there was the ash, the two hundred and thirty, the village, the water.

She had walked back to the ash on the first day of the second year of the Long Night. The walking-back had not stopped at the place where the order had been.

Yrren met her at the gate of the village on the first day of the second year. The meeting was the rumor's work: the eleven years, on the road, both ways.

"The ash is what you are, now," Yrren said to Ashe, at the gate, on the first day of the second year. "The you is the lantern. The lantern is the hand. The hand is not closed."

"The hand," Ashe said to Yrren, at the gate, "is what the singing is for. The singing is the first of the stars. The stars are the sky. The sky is the night."

"And the night is what the world did not do. The not-doing is the Orenthe of the lanterns. The lanterns are the hands. The hands are not closed."

---

Corvin Mael was not in the ash, on the fifth year. The not-ash was the road that had walked, on the night of the Blackenings, into the dark under the city: the body, the cup.

His name was in the ash-field of the Quiet, on the fifth year, and the spymasters had kept it there. The keeping was the lantern: the hand not closed.

And the not-closing was the Sessa. The arithmetic had not counted her. The not-counting was the village. And the doing was the keeping. The keeping was what the two hundred and thirty had chosen to be.

---

Liora Voss was in the forges of Korath, on the fifth year, and the doing was the blood not, the blood that had gone out, on the fifth night, in the hundred hands, at the rite that was not the rite any more.

She fed the forges, on the fifth year, with the coal of the mountain. The feeding was the lantern: the hand not closed.

And the not-closing was Cressen, two hundred miles to the south, across the plain to Mourne, the water-tower that held the memory, and the memory was the ledgers — the one thing the burning had not done, and the ash kept the not-doing.

---

Pellin the Reader was not in the ash, on the fifth year. The road had walked, since the fifth morning out of the Grey Quiet, into the dark under the city. The dark had been the knife, and the rite had done the knife at last, on the night of the Blackenings.

The Pyre had kept the reader the way it had kept the general. The keeping was the use, the use was the rite, and the rite had gone out.

The reader was in the ash-field of the Quiet, on the fifth year, and the spymasters had kept him there the way they kept the name of the general. The keeping was the lantern, and the lantern was the hand not closed.

And the not-closing was the letters. The letters were what the Pyre had read in the tower, on the road, for four months. The four months were the Blackenings. The Blackenings were out, on the night of the rite that was not the rite any more.

---

On the night of the fifth year, Ashe Wren, who was not the Frenzied any more, and who was the lantern, walked out of the village, into the ash, under the sky that was the first of the new stars.

The sky was full, on the night of the fifth year. The full was the feeding: what the dark had taken in, on the fifth night of the Long Night, the way the starving takes in.

And the new sky was the Orenthe of the lanterns. The lanterns were the hands. The hands were not closed.

She looked up, the way the looking-up had been the thirtieth night.

And in the first of the new constellations, in the place where the hoard had been ten thousand years ago, in the fear of the dark between the stars, she saw the name: what the god had been, before the light, before the cup, before the burning, before the Fall, before the counting, before the thousand years, before Cressen, before the two hundred and thirty, before the village, before the water that moved.

The name was not a thing the empire had named. The not-naming was the keeping, and the ash did not do the keeping.

The name was the night, the night the world had not done; the singing was for the not-doing.

She sang it, on the night of the fifth year, in the ash, under the full sky. The singing was not the cup.

The singing was the lantern: the hand not closed, the not-closing that was the sharing, and the sharing that was not the ending.

---

They say a shared light is not a thing that dies. The not-dying is the Orenthe of the lanterns. The lanterns are the hands. The hands are not closed.

The Hearths were the six cities, for a thousand years. The six were the rite. The rite was the killing. The killing was the Long Night.

But the Long Night was not the killing. The not-killing was the feeding. The feeding was the dark. The dark took in. The taking-in was the new sky.

And the new sky was the name, in the first of the new constellations, in the place where the hoard had been. The hoard was the fear. The fear was ten thousand years before the counting.

The counting was the empire. The empire did the burning. The burning was Cressen. Cressen was the two hundred and thirty. They were the village. The village was the water. The water moved.

The lanterns are the hands. The hands are not closed. The singing is for the not-closing. The singing is the name, in the sky, in the first of the new stars, in the place where the fear had been. The fear was the sun, ten thousand years ago, before the Fall, before the counting, before the cup, before the burning, before the night.

The night was the world's not-doing, and the singing was for the not-doing. Ashe Wren did the singing, on the night of the fifth year, in the ash, under the full sky, with the hand that was not closed. The not-closing was the sharing.

And the sharing was not the ending.

And the not-ending is, now, the first of the new stars.

---

In the burning, in the ash, in the night, the name is what the singing is for. The singing is the first of the stars. The stars are the new sky. The new sky is the Orenthe of the lanterns.

The lanterns are the hands. The hands are not closed. The not-closing is the sharing. The sharing is not the ending.

And the not-ending is the night. The night is what the world did not do. The not-doing is the first of the stars.

— Dream-Ledger, final entry, the night of the fifth year of the Long Night, written by Ashe Wren in the ash of the village the empire did not name, under the sky that was full, the index of the name that was the singing, and the singing that was the first of the new stars