by Davis Ashura
Though Jessira wanted to smack the smugness from the woman's face, she couldn't afford to submit to her whims. They needed Mistress Shull's help. Instead, she did her best to keep her features calm and relaxed. Sign, on the other hand, had no qualms about letting Mistress Shull see her anger. Her cousin glared at the Muran woman, disregarding Jessira's look of warning.
Meanwhile, Bree's smile slipped away, and she pursed her lips as though in thought. “I see,” she said. “I certainly don't hold your faith against you, but when earlier I spoke to you, I made you aware of what I wanted, and yet, this is how you respond? I find it ungracious.” Bree wore a stony expression. “Obviously, you must do what you think is right, but so, too, must House Shektan, and those Houses allied with us.”
Mistress Shull blanched. “Wait,” she said, stepping outside and shutting the door. “I can't let you in.” She shrugged in apology. “My amma would likely have an aneurysm if she saw a ghrina in her home.” Her face tightened upon seeing Jessira and Sign's flat-eyed glares of anger. “I know you hate the word, but my amma is too old to change. It is what she will always think of you.”
The front door opened. “What's going on?” an elderly Muran woman demanded, standing in the doorway. She was hunched over from a dowager's hump that bent her until her head and neck were permanently parallel with the ground.
Mistress Shull stiffened and spun around. “Nothing you need to worry about, Amma,” she said, her words hurried. “Just some informal business with House Shektan.” Jessira noticed that Mistress Shull had positioned herself so she blocked her amma's view of both Sign and herself. “You remember Bree Shektan?”
“Of course I do,” the old woman said, sounding irascible.
“It is good to see you again, Mistress Terras,” Bree said.
“You've grown into that sword,” the old woman noted before hobbling forward. “Why do those women standing behind you look so strange?” Mistress Terras asked. “They look like a mix . . .” She startled. “What are their kind doing here?” she asked.
Jessira was surprised. Rather than furious, Mistress Terras sounded curious.
“We were discussing a proposal with your daughter,” Bree said. She sidestepped Mistress Shull. “This is my vadina, Jessira Shektan, and her cousin-sister, Sign Grey.”
Jessira took a risk and offered her hand to the old woman, hoping Mistress Terras would shake it. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Mistress Terras,” the old woman said, gathering Jessira's hand in her palsied one and giving it a brief shake. “Are you the one married to Rukh Shektan?”
“I am,” Jessira replied.
“They say you left your home to be with him, helped him retrieve The Book of First Movement.”
“I did,” Jessira answered.
Mistress Terras broke into a broad grin. “Then you must come back and tell us all about it one day,” she exclaimed. She leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you really befriend a Bael, a Tigon, and a Shylow?”
Jessira nodded.
Mistress Terras cackled. “How wonderful. I never thought I'd live to see the day.”
The door opened again. A more youthful version of Mistress Shull stood in the entrance. She was either a younger sister or a daughter.
“Lace,” Mistress Shull called out. “Please come and help your ammamma into the house. It's almost time for lunch.”
Lace took in the scene before her with remarkable aplomb. “Of course,” she said. She took Mistress Terras' hands in her own and drew the old woman inside. “Why don't you help me with the food, Ammamma,” she suggested.
Mistress Terras allowed herself to be guided inside. “Did you see the two ghrinas, Shull?” she asked Lace, mistaking her for the older woman. She cackled again. “One of them said she was friends with a Bael. Liars. What's your name again, girl?” The door shut behind her.
Despite Mistress Terras' unpleasant words, Jessira felt a surge of sympathy for the old woman. Her mind was obviously not right. Her thoughts clearly clouded by old age. A tragedy.
“How long has she been like this?” Bree asked, her voice laced with sympathy.
Mistress Shull swallowed heavily. “It started a few years ago, but we always explained away her forgetfulness as being due to age. But over the past six months, it's slowly become worse.”
“I'm so sorry,” Bree said. “One of Nanna's closest friends, Garnet Bosde, suffers a similar affliction. I know how painful it can be.” She dipped her head in apology. “Nevertheless, we have important matters to consider. Will you discuss them with us now?”
Jessira felt a stab of loss at the reminder of Garnet. The old man had always been kind to her, treating her like a granddaughter . But time, that undefeatable enemy, had stolen Garnet's mind and memories. She had visited him once after her return to Ashoka, but he had no recollection of her. He'd quickly grown afraid and upset at seeing her, and she'd been forced to beat a hasty retreat. She hadn't gone back since.
Jessira mentally sighed and turned her attention back to the Muran woman standing before them.
Shull had her dress still clutched in her hands, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. “No. You can stay,” she answered in a voice that slowly grew stronger. “But now you see why I didn't want you to come in.”
“And do you really think so poorly of us?” Sign asked. She had moved to stand next to Jessira.
Mistress Shull proudly met Sign's gaze before seeming to suddenly deflate. “I do not know,” she said with a heavy exhalation. “Sometimes I'm convinced you are an affront to all that is holy, to Devesh's very sight; that the likes of you and your sister are only here in blessed Ashoka because of her”—she pointed at Bree—”blasphemy.” She sighed. “And other times, I wish I could be like my daughter and see you as simply being a different kind of people.”
“We aren't the ones capable of discussing theology with you,” Bree said, “but we are the ones who came here with a business proposal. You can hear us out if you wish.”
“And if I say no?” Mistress Shull asked.
Bree gave her a sympathetic smile. “You have to look after your family, and I have to look after mine,” she answered. “We would go to Clan Sunhewn.”
“Well that won't do,” Mistress Shull muttered darkly. She appeared to gather herself up and stood straight once again. “I'll hear you and your friends out,” she said.
“Relatives,” Bree corrected. “My vadina and her cousin-sister.”
Mistress Shull nodded acceptance. “Sit down and let's hear this proposal of yours.” She led them to a set of chairs around a low, glass-topped table. All four women took a seat. “So what is your plan?” Mistress Shull asked.
“The OutCastes are farmers, and they would like to sharecrop some of Clan Weathervine's fallow fields,” Bree said. “It would profit both of you.”
Mistress Shull was shaking her head before Bree had even finished speaking. “You know I can't allow that. No Clan can,” she said. “Though what you said to the Magisterium about The Word and the Deed caused many to wonder about our beliefs, most of my Caste and Clan remain devoted to what we've always been taught. We would never allow an OutCaste to work alongside our own.”
“What if the OutCastes farmed your land but never worked alongside members of Clan Weathervine?” Bree suggested.
Mistress Shull frowned. “I don't see how that's possible,” she said. “When would they work? At night when the rest of us have retired from the fields?”
“No,” Bree replied. “There is land your Clan has rights to but has never worked. Mount Crone.”
“Mount Crone?” Shull's eyes widened in understanding, but again, she shook her head. “That land is too rocky to be properly farmed.”
“Not for them. Stronghold was in the Privation Mountains, and so were their farms,” Bree explained. “They're used to working land that's stony.”
Mistress Shull glanced in Jessira's direction, her face full of skepticism. “Murans are born
farmers. It's what we do. You're saying you can work land and cause it to bloom in places we cannot?” she asked in disbelief.
“Not at all,” Jessira answered, keeping her voice even and nonconfrontational, which was a challenge for her even in the best of times. “We're not better farmers than Murans, but necessity taught us what you never had to learn. When Stronghold was founded, the surrounding land was far from ideal, but it was all we had to work with. Our choice was to either make the rocky soil bloom or starve.” She gestured around them. “For you, it's different. You have these lush lands.” She smiled as she gazed about the glorious fields. “Your fields are so bounteous that even a Kumma might bring it to life.”
Mistress Shull chuckled. “Let's not get carried away,” she said, “but I see your point.” She fell silent as she tapped her chin in consideration. “You really think your people can do this?”
“Absolutely,” Sign answered.
“And Clan Weathervine will share in the profits?” Shull asked.
Bree nodded. “Which is where I come in. I've been authorized to negotiate on behalf of the OutCastes.”
Mistress Shull turned to her. “Then let us begin. But remember: we bargain hard.”
Bree smiled, predatory and anticipating. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”
Before the patient man's hardened heart, even the finest of warriors must quail.
~The Warrior and the Servant, (author unknown)
The training grounds of the House of Fire and Mirrors were a broad quadrangle of trampled fields that resisted the finest efforts of the Muran groundskeepers to keep them green and vibrant. The memory of generations of warriors had been beaten into the hard-packed dirt, and for some, the continually torn grass was the House's truest sigil. North of the grounds loomed the bulk of the main building of the House of Fire and Mirrors, while to the south rested an array of barracks and barns. East and west, a hedge of ligustrum softened a tall, brick wall upon which were mounted regularly spaced firefly lamps.
With the early spring weather, the scent of cut grass, azalea, and dew mingled in the air while the ground reverberated with the shouts of Martial Masters barking out instructions and critiques to their senior cadets. From a distance, the din and movement of the two hundred or so young men pushed through another round of drills might have seemed purposeless and without pattern, but such was not the case. To the discerning eye, it quickly became clear that the movements of the warriors did have purpose. They did have a pattern. Their sliding motions were supple, smooth, and focused, informed by years of training and discipline. Today, though, those same fluid movements seemed somewhat forced and frenetic, even frayed. Technique appeared traded for speed, and a few students found themselves slipping head over heels on the slick grass. They cursed loudly before rising to their feet and resuming their matches.
This was the final months-long push for the Trims—the senior cadets—of the House of Fire and Mirrors. This was the training meant to hone them to Ashokan sharpness, to the keen edge needed—not just for their upcoming Trials—but also for something else. It was something seemingly trivial, and yet it was also something the Trims feared to fail. A few months from now would come Hellfire Week. It was held every spring and was the annual competitions and exhibitions in which all the military academies took part.
Hellfire Week began with the Wrath, the competition pitting the finest seniors of the House of Fire and Mirrors against those from their brother Kumma academy, the Fort and the Sword. No one wanted to lose, and it went without saying that the Wrath was bitterly contested. Whoever won the contest would invariably lord their victory over the defeated academy for the entirety of the following year, and for many in Caste Kumma, it was one of the most important competitions of the year.
However, for the rest of the city, the more anticipated contest was what followed after: the Advent Trial. Other than the Tournament of Hume, there was no other event in Ashoka that was more eagerly anticipated. All the Trims from the four military academies: the House of Fire and Mirrors, the Fort and the Sword, the Sarath, and the Shir'Fen—the latter two were the schools in which Rahails and Murans trained as warriors—would take part.
In some ways, the Advent Trial was even more popular than the Tournament of Hume. Since Kummas were utterly dominant in matters of the sword, most martial competitions never had any other entrants other than those from the warrior Caste. Such wasn't the case with the Advent Trial. This wider involvement of other Castes was a large reason for its popularity.
In addition, since the goal of the competition was simple and obvious, it was easy to follow. Two armies, each containing a mix of cadets and commanders from the four military academies, would battle against one another. Their straightforward goal: capture the opposing team's flag and bring it back safely to their own 'Oasis'.
The competition always took place just outside the borders of Ashoka's Outer Wall, and as a result, there were plenty of vantage points by which to view it. But given the contest's popularity, the best places to watch the tournament had already long since been reserved, and a few months from now, the Outer Wall would be thronged with Ashokans cheering on whichever of the two armies caught their fancy.
But first would come the Wrath—and the Prank.
Rukh smiled as he remembered his own participation in the Prank several years ago. In the few short years since, it had already achieved the status of legend. What a fine joke he, Keemo, Farn, and Jaresh had managed to carry out. Keemo had been the instigator and planner while the other three had merely added on some final flourishes to make the Prank come off without a hitch.
His smile became wistful as he remembered the beloved friend he had lost, a man who had been akin to a brother. In a more just world, Keemo should still be with those who loved him. He should be walking the streets of Ashoka, wearing his easy smile and offering his infectious laughter. He should be living out the life he so obviously found so vivacious. In his presence, even Farn hadn't been able to remain dour for long.
Rukh shook his head in sorrow before returning his attention to the here and now. After his return to Ashoka, it had been decided that he had survived six Trials: the failed journey to Nestle, the journey to and from the Chimera caverns, the trip to Hammer and back where he and Jessira had retrieved The Book of First Movement, and finally, the return to Ashoka from Stronghold. Therefore, according to the judgment of the Chamber of Lords, Rukh had fulfilled his obligations to his Caste and would never again have to leave Ashoka if he so chose—which he wouldn't. He was a married man after all.
The one obstacle he had yet to overcome, though, was what to do with the rest of his life, and how he would be able to afford it. He had no money. Kummas were given shares in the caravans in which they participated, and through this investment, those with three Trials to their names were generally quite wealthy by that point. However, Rukh was the exception that tested the rule. The Trial to Nestle had ended in disaster with all the men and material destroyed. The expedition to the Chimera caverns had not been for monetary gain, and the journey to Hammer had resulted in the recovery of The Book of First Movement, but had yielded nothing in the way of saleable items. And, of course, the return to Ashoka from Stronghold had been due to genocide.
All this meant that Rukh had needed to find a means to earn a living. As a result, he'd applied to become a Martial Master at his alma mater, the House of Fire and Mirrors. He was grateful to Master Sinngin, the Dean of the academy, for hiring him on, but it was still a challenge finding a balance in his work situation. He was expected to offer instruction and reprimand warriors who he had first known as fellow cadets, and it wasn't easy to make the transition to judging Master.
Farn, however, seemed to have little trouble making just that transition. Farn, like Rukh, had also been deemed to have survived enough Trials to remain in Ashoka with his honor intact. In his case, it was four Trials—to Nestle, the return from Stronghold, and the Trial to and from the OutCaste city. And also like Rukh,
he had no wealth to his name, which meant he, too, was an instructor at the House of Fire and Mirrors.
Right now, Farn was working nearby with his own group of seniors, and his voice rose when he saw one of them make a first year error.
Rukh smiled when he saw the chagrined student redden with embarrassment. At least the Trim wouldn't be making that same mistake again.
Rukh turned his attention back to the seniors he'd been tasked to oversee. There were six of them, and he'd split them into two teams of three: the Reds and the Golds. He thought them well-matched, which meant that victory would be achieved by whoever was best able to maintain unit discipline and cohesion since Annexes weren't allowed.
Rukh reckoned he'd given each team enough time to map out their tactics. “Begin!” he shouted.
Immediately, the two teams closed with one another. Rukh measured the placement of each team's warriors. He frowned. Unless there was an unexpected accident, the Reds would lose badly.
Before he'd even finished the thought, a member of the Reds was down. The teams fought with shokes and the cadet fell to the ground, grunting in pain. He'd taken a figurative disemboweling thrust. With his demise, another of the Reds also fell, and seconds later, it was over. The Golds were the victors, and they stood proudly as they surveyed their handiwork.
Rukh went to the first member of Red Team who had fallen, Lince Chopil, their nominal lieutenant.
The Trim had his jaw clenched in pain, and his hands clutched over his abdomen. He had to be hurting, and while Rukh could have called over one of the Shiyen physicians to Heal the cadet, there was no need. He drew Jivatma from his Well and stretched it out as thin as a silken thread before placing his hands on the Trim's abdomen. He let his Jivatma empty down into Cadet Chopil, Healing him and removing the senior's pain.
