The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  Rukh lowered his voice. “The general mentioned something to us, something he didn’t tell you,” he said, softly. “Have you ever heard of The Book of First Movement?”

  Jessira didn’t bother replying and just shook her head ‘no’. And she didn’t care to learn about this Book of First Movement. Couldn’t the Kumma take a hint and shut up?

  Apparently not, because he kept talking. “Legend says it was written by the First Father. It was supposed to be the last work of his hands and lost during the Night of Sorrows. The stories also say the pages of the Book are blank to all but the purest of heart, but the general said Hume was once able to read a single line of the book. It said: Believe my song and serve greatness.”

  Jessira didn’t bother hiding her eye roll. “Amazing,” she said in a flat, disinterested tone.

  Rukh grimaced. “I can tell you’re not impressed,” he said, “but you need to hear this. You know, when I first met you, I thought my duty was to kill you out of hand just for being alive. Many Ashokans would have.”

  By the barest of margins, Jessira overcame her sudden fury and disgust for Rukh. Though she would have loved to tell him to take his words and shove it up his back passage, duty wouldn’t allow it. Whatever was going on here, Stronghold needed more information. And what better source than this Ashokan, a possible leader of the Sil Lor Kum? Her people’s survival might depend on what Jessira learned, which meant she had to follow the same advice she’d wanted to give Lure: never poke the bear.

  “Then why didn’t you?” she asked, masking her anger with a flat, lifeless tone to her voice.

  “I have a brother who is a Sentya. His name is Jaresh.”

  She paused, studying his face, searching for the lie. A Kumma with a Sentya brother?

  “It’s the truth. Our nanna is the ruling ‘El of our House, and he adopted him when Jaresh was only three.”

  “Why do you suppose I might care?” Jessira asked, interested in his answer despite her anger.

  “Because I didn’t kill you. I could have, and I didn’t because of my brother. Jaresh was an orphan, and Nanna saw it as his duty to raise him because of a promise he made to Jaresh’s birth father. There’s never been someone adopted into one of our Houses who wasn’t also a Kumma. It cost Nanna quite a bit at first when he did what he did. We lost a lot of contracts with other Houses, and they wanted nothing to do with us, but my parents never regretted their decision, and I’m grateful Jaresh is a part of our family. I love my brother.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Jessira asked, some of her anger cooling.

  “I don’t know,” Rukh said. “Maybe I don’t want you hating us and thinking we’re all the same.”

  “Hate isn’t what I feel toward you Purebloods,” Jessira replied. “It’s pity.”

  Rukh rolled his eyes. “Fair enough. I guess we deserve that from your way of thinking.” He sighed. “Look, I said what I said to let you know Ashoka is changing. Maybe there will come a time when ghrinas – I mean the OutCastes – will have a place among us.”

  “How very generous,” Jessira said with a smirk. She knew he was trying to make a connection with her, but she couldn’t help but mock his eagerness. He sounded so sincere, like he was offering her some great prize by accepting the OutCastes. His sentiments didn’t impress her. If Ashoka evolved as Rukh said it might, it would be a cause for celebration but also for sorrow. It shouldn’t have taken them so long to act in a moral fashion.

  “Fine. Hate us. Pity us, feel contempt …I don’t care,” Rukh said, a surge of annoyance in his voice. “All you need to do is listen. What I know can’t be lost. You need to hear this.”

  Jessira forced down her own anger, burgeoning once more in response to the Kumma’s. She didn’t want anything more to do with Rukh Shektan, but Stronghold needed her to keep him talking. “What is it?” she asked as patiently as she could.

  “Before I left Ashoka, I found a reference to The Book of First Movement. There was only one, in all of the volumes, scrolls, and books in all of Ashoka’s libraries; just one, and this in someone’s journal. And what the author of the journal said matched exactly what the general claimed. He was from the last caravan from Hammer to Ashoka, and he claimed it had been Hume who had read that first line.”

  “So. The general knew this line…it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No. Not when taken alone, but we have records of how all the other cities fell…Ajax, Rock, Goshen, Karma…the Chimeras were led much more effectively in those campaigns; better than they have ever since Hammer’s fall. Since then, they’ve always attacked in ways guaranteed to maximize their own losses and minimize ours. Our war colleges have noted this, and we’ve wondered about it. We thought it was because the Baels weren’t too bright, but it turns out they are. You’ve met the general and his aides. They should be better at tactics and strategy than what we’ve seen.”

  Jessira glanced about. The Ashokans were clustered a few feet away, while Cedar stood guard near Lure. Her brother lay on his back with eyes closed on one of the few areas of the nearby ground free of blood and gore. The Baels had finished stacking the Tigon corpses and spoke quietly in small clusters, their voices deep rumbles. A few of the beasts stood beside the large fire still burning in the center of the bowl. Someone ignorant of the lethal history between the three groups might have believed this to be a peaceful scene.

  Jessira wasn’t fooled. Cedar was tense, as were the Ashokans. None of them looked happy.

  “Even our own caravan…we killed four thousand of them,” Rukh continued, interrupting her reverie. “Did you know that? With a little over three hundred warriors. The Baels could have chosen from a whole host of options to launch their assault and limit their losses, but instead, they attacked uphill and against what was essentially a fortified position. They paid dearly for their stupidity, but I’m thinking it wasn’t stupidity.”

  “Your caravan paid a dearer price, and our histories tell nothing of the Baels’ supposed compassion,” Jessira replied, put off by Rukh’s expertise in battle. She was a scout. Nothing more. The Kumma, like all his kind, had probably studied the art of war from childhood.

  “We paid a heavy price for the captain’s mistake,” Rukh said. “He shouldn’t have kept our forces unified. He should have split us up. If he had, more of us might have slipped the Chimeras’ trap.”

  Jessira shrugged her shoulders, annoyed. “I’m still not sure what you’re trying to say.”

  “When you put it all together: the Baels’ incompetence since Hammer’s fall; what happened here and the conversations we’ve overheard; and the line for The Book of First Movement, which they could have only known if Hume told them…I think they’re telling the truth. Your people need to know that.”

  “I think you’re being naïve. It’ll take more than a nice story to make me believe that what Dirge told us is the truth,” Jessira replied. “Now, can we please stop talking and let me just fix those ribs?” she asked, changing the topic to something she knew more about.

  Rukh smirked. “As angry as I’ve made you, I’m surprised you didn’t tell me to Heal myself.”

  Jessira grimaced. How had he guessed her thoughts? “Just be quiet.”

  “As you wish.”

  “This might hurt,” Jessira warned as she pressed her hands gently against Rukh’s ribs, seeking the locus of his pain.

  A sharp hiss was her only warning before his hand, viper fast, clamped against her wrist.

  “You found it,” Rukh said. “No need to push any harder.”

  “It feels like you have two broken ribs,” Jessira said with a frown. “You’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You Kummas are tough. I’ll give you that,” Jessira said. “Are you ready? I’ll have to press again.”

  Rukh nodded. “Do it.”

  “Take off your shirt,” Jessira ordered.

  Rukh did as she asked. He was lean and well-muscled, but not
heavily so. And against the right side of his chest was a bruise the size of a melon.

  Jessira put her hands over his broken ribs and pressed gently. She conducted Jivatma through her arms and into her hands, changing it so it bled through her fingers and into him. He hissed when her mental touch poked at his cracked ribs.

  She took a breath, exhaling sharply. Now came the challenging part. She stretched out her Jivatma, teasing it until it was needle-thin and precise – not a raging torrent. It was so difficult. Jivatma had a natural tendency to flow like a flood. It was hard to keep it tight and focused. Sweat beaded on her face by the time she was finished.

  Jessira studied his chest, feeling over her work. The ribs were healed, and the bruise was faded, as though the injury was weeks old.

  Rukh took a deep breath, sighing with relief. “Thank you,” he said, trapping both her hands in his.

  She quickly withdrew from his grasp. “You’re welcome,” she said, confused by what she thought she saw in his dark, brown eyes. For a moment, it seemed like they had held admiration and respect, which was impossible. Purebloods despised OutCastes.

  “Get some rest,” she said in a gruff tone meant to hide her puzzlement. “Healing takes a lot out of a person.”

  Are those who choose the path of the Sil Lor Kum evil or merely pragmatic? The question has been a thorn in my side for years, and what I've decided is that we are both. We are pragmatically evil. It is the life of a coward.

  ~SuDin of Ashoka in year AF 2054 (name redacted)

  In a nondescript, windowless room in the back of a nondescript restaurant somewhere in Ashoka, the Sil Lor Kum, Suwraith’s Human agents, met for an emergency session called by the SuDin, the Voice Who Commands. The restaurant was to the south of East Vineyard Steep – the traditional home of the Sentyas – along a road running from Style Rod Privet to Palm Court. It was a middle class street with nondescript homes, all of them unremarkable in their modesty and well-kept exteriors. It was always so with the Sil Lor Kum. Although they were wealthy, they never flaunted their affluence. It was better to hide in the shadows, in places no one would think to look. In a place such as this one: a room with unfashionable knotty-pine paneling and a too small fireplace; an ugly, bronze-colored chandelier with a single firefly lamp hanging from each of the arms to provide barely sufficient light; and a rug worn and frayed in the corners, its better days years past but still serviceable. Everything in the room was perfectly plain and unassuming.

  As it should be, the SuDin mused as he glanced around. He sat in a high-backed chair with sturdy arms at the head of a large, oval, golden oak table. Around it were the MalDin, The Servants of the Voice. Despite their submissive title, these men and women were the true captains of the Sil Lor Kum, standing just below the SuDin in importance. This was the Council of Rule. There were seven all told in this room – six MalDin and the SuDin – one for each Caste and each one a hidden power in Ashoka. As always, the men and women here were masked, wearing stylized visages of their own choosing. It had always been this way since no member of the Sil Lor Kum – much less the Council of Rule – would have wanted their true identities known. It was safer for all if they worked in the shadows, in anonymity, as their name itself indicated: Sil Lor Kum: the Hidden Hand of Justice. Despite their precautions, the SuDin knew the true names of all his fellow Council members. He suspected some of them knew his as well.

  Certainly, the Rahail did. Varesea Apter was a lovely woman in her early forties. She had a way about her: of dressing, speaking, and thinking…in all ways she was a lady, a woman of many charms. She and the SuDin had been lovers for ten years now. At first, their coupling had been that of two people angry at the world and their lives in it. Now, however, there was tenderness and even laughter in their lovemaking. It was odd, and the SuDin wasn’t sure what it meant. He recognized the affection he felt for Varesea. She was an intoxicating woman, and she made him feel alive as his own departed wife never had. But he also wondered if their relationship was less complex than he sometimes believed. Maybe they were two people who liked to live beyond all constraints. After all, they faced two death sentences: first, their membership in the Sil Lor Kum, and second, their illicit, carnal relationship. The two of them were from different Castes.

  As for the others, there was Yuthero Gaste, the Shiyen. He was young to have risen so high to his post as MalDin, and he was also young to be a Professor of Surgery at Alminius School of Medicine. Gaste was proud of both accomplishments, rightly believing his intellect and Talent as being the main reasons for his current success. He was overly proud, though, never understanding others might be equally brilliant and equally Talented in their own ways. His arrogance blinded him, leaving him vulnerable to a manipulation he never suspected could occur. Thus, his greatest assets were also his greatest liabilities. Nevertheless, he bore watching, but the SuDin didn’t fear him. Not yet anyway.

  Moke Urn, a slimy weasel of a man with the unprepossessing build of his fellows, represented caste Sentya. He was skilled with numbers and seeing a way to squeeze the last profit out of a venture. It was for this reason he had been elected to the MalDin. The man had but two great loves in life. The first was the Sil Lor Kum. Urn had been born in poverty, without any hope of making his mark on the world, at least not in the traditional nepotistic Sentya way. The Sil Lor Kum had offered him the chance to prove his worth. Second, the oily man was in love with the voluptuous Mesa Reed of Caste Cherid. Of course, she knew it and led the fool on. The SuDin doubted Mesa had let Urn so much as touch her, but with every throaty laugh at the Sentya’s poor jokes; with every flash of thigh; with every slight bend at the waist to allow Urn to see her décolletage, he could see the man squirm with heat and desire. A cruel woman was Mesa Reed. The SuDin was wise not to share her bed, although Mesa had been more than clear on several occasions that she would be happy to share his.

  Then there was the personal pain in the SuDin’s backside: the Duriah, Pera Obbe. She was a bundle of anger, anxiety, and ambition; a woman who questioned everything and everyone. And yet, she stiffened with outrage when anyone questioned her. The SuDin wished he could just kill her, but there were no competent Duriahs to take her place. He glanced at Obbe and tsked in revulsion. Was there an uglier woman in all of Ashoka? From her potato nose to her piggish eyes to her jackass laugh, Pera Obbe was hideous.

  And finally, there was Ular Sathin, the Muran. He was the oldest of them, quiet and unassuming, hardly ever voicing his thoughts in the meetings. He was efficient and quick with his work, and others in the Sil Lor Kum thought him mousy. The SuDin knew otherwise. Ular Sathin might be the most dangerous one of all the MalDin. He was smart enough to hide his true intelligence and his abilities, the greatest of which was his consummate capacity to lie. The man could deceive Devesh Himself and bore close scrutiny. Ular Sathin’s one saving grace was the fact that had he truly wanted the title of SuDin, he would have reached for it decades ago. His opportunity had long since passed by.

  As for the SuDin himself, he represented the Kummas. It hadn’t always been so. In fact, the current situation was actually somewhat unusual. More often than not, just like in society as a whole the leader of the Sil Lor Kum, was typically a Cherid. The SuDin had held his position now for almost a full decade. But very few of his Caste would have appreciated his success or their representation by him in the Sil Lor Kum. If they knew the truth, they would have demanded his head on a pike and his corpse discarded upon the Isle of the Crows.

  The SuDin noticed Varesea’s subtle gesture. He always noticed Varesea. She had bent over slightly, allowing him a brief glimpse of her breasts. They were no longer as firm as they had been when they had first met, but the sight still stirred his loins. He saw the questioning, challenging look in her eyes, and he nodded, briefly, a bare movement of his head. They would meet after the others had left.

  The rest of the MalDin spoke amongst themselves, and the SuDin allowed it, letting his mind wander as he ignored their inane mutterings. He
reflected on his life in the few minutes before he had to call the meeting to order. How had he come to this? The SuDin had once been pure in both heart and mind. Now look at him. He was a naaja, a Tainted fornicator with one not of his Caste, and a member of the Sil Lor Kum to boot. His younger self would have happily killed his older self for either of the two sins.

  But time, loss, and death had provided the SuDin with a perspective his younger self lacked: Humanity was doomed unless a different path was taken, a path beyond the Castes, a path aiming for more than simply surviving Suwraith but actually defeating Her – or at the least thwarting Her. And if he had to commit acts others might deem evil so as to turn back the Sorrow Bringer, then so be it. He was still a Kumma, and he knew of duty. He would wear the stains on his soul with pride if it meant Humanity would be free.

  He called the session to order. Today’s meeting would be as momentous as any the Sil Lor Kum of Ashoka had ever had. It should be interesting to see how the others reacted. “The Queen came to me in my dreams last night,” the SuDin began. No one needed to describe who was meant by ‘the Queen’. All knew it meant Suwraith. And dreams were the only means by which She could breach an Oasis. “We have been given orders. She comes for Ashoka.”

  As expected, the others greeted the news with hisses of dismay. "How will we survive?" Pera Obbe wailed as the others, even Varesea, asked similarly nonsensical questions.

  Their fear was understandable. The MalDin controlled all shady commerce within Ashoka, everything from gambling to prostitution to illicit drugs. If it involved debauchery, the Sil Lor Kum had a hand in it, and the small-minded criminals who ran the operations never knew for whom they really worked. The money from such enterprises was the reason for the fabulous wealth of the Sil Lor Kum in general, and the Council of Rule in specific. It was a great attraction and temptation, and the MalDin feared to lose all they had worked so hard to acquire. So, yes, the SuDin understood the source of their fear, but he had little sympathy for it.