by Davis Ashura
There were many good memories associated with that table and that game. In that moment, he would have given all his money and power to play just one more game with his son.
“You don’t believe, do you?” Satha whispered, reading his silence as easily as she read her missives.
Dar’El had never been able to hide anything from her. Nevertheless, she needed something to believe in. She needed hope. They all needed it. The House had been trapped in a sullen misery ever since Rukh had been deemed Unworthy. The gloom had certainly ensnared Jaresh. He was usually cheerful and optimistic, but lately, he was more often dour and irritable. Even Bree had been affected. Her calm and collected countenance had been replaced with jagged patterns of edgy anger. She still blamed herself—and Dar’El—for Rukh’s predicament.
“I do believe,” Dar’El answered. He knew Satha could see through his lies as easily as she could the pebbles at the bottom of a clear stream, but sometimes, like water, words could distort. Then the lie wasn’t so obvious. He hated not telling his wife the truth, but he needed her to believe in him. He needed her strength. “It won’t be easy, but yes, together, I think we will be able to bring him home.”
Satha stared at him, seeming to study his features. “What do we need to do?” she asked.
Dar’El hid a relieved exhalation. “We need to utilize the opportunities Rukh left for us. We must trumpet to the Nine Hills everything he did on the expedition to the caverns. The city is already alight with tales of his exploits.”
Satha raised a questioning eyebrow. “Rukh is my son, but even I find it hard to credit the stories circulating about him. Do you really think he killed hundreds of Chimeras by himself and saved hundreds of our warriors during the return journey to Ashoka?”
“Whether we believe is immaterial,” Dar’El said. “It’s whether the people believe, especially those of our Caste.”
Satha chewed a fingernail and wore a thoughtful expression. “We’ll make them believe,” she finally replied, her voice filled with assuredness.
Dar’El smiled. It was what he needed to hear. Her certainty lifted his spirits. Together, they had always managed to accomplish what others deemed impossible. They had raised a lower tier House to one that was rightly accounted as a power in Caste Kumma. To do so, they had to go against received wisdom and choose an untrod path. But look at the heights upon which they now stood. Why shouldn’t they be able to convince the Chamber of Lords to rescind their judgment on Rukh? It was merely another hurdle to overcome.
“Yes, we will,” Dar’El said, still smiling. “Especially because I do think the stories about him are true. When Rukh was expelled from the expedition yesterday, his brother warriors hailed him with the Champion’s salute.”
“Did they?” Satha asked in surprise. “But some of them hail from Houses unfriendly to our own. Did they not know the judgment of their ruling ‘Els?”
“They knew, but it didn’t matter. They defied their ‘Els,” Dar’El said. “I’ve heard it confirmed from multiple sources.”
“So the other tales about how the other warriors intentionally placed Rukh in the most dangerous situations might also be true,” Satha mused. “And despite it all, he worked himself nearly to death to save them.”
Dar’El could tell she was already moving to see how best to put this information to use. “So it seems.”
Satha shook her head. “I would have never guessed he would grow into such a man,” she said. “As a child, his greatest delight was terrorizing Bree.”
Dar’El drew himself up. “I knew all along,” he said, mimicking the portentous tone sometimes used by their old friend, Durmer Volk.
Satha chuckled. “I’m sure you did,” she said dryly.
Dar’El smiled, pleased to hear her laugh. “His brother warriors have been lauding his name since they returned. Even those in the city who have learned of Rukh’s non-Kumma Talents are praising him to the heavens.”
Satha nodded in thought. “It’s a good start, and it will help if every story about Rukh references ‘his brother warriors’. It will strengthen the bonds between Rukh and every other Kumma House. We should also emphasize how he risked his life for his brother Murans and Rahails. His standing amongst the other Castes will rise as a result.”
“It may temper any complaints about his non-Kumma Talents.”
“And the rest of the city might come to see Rukh’s banishment as a betrayal of the other Castes,” Satha finished.
“If we can manage it, great pressure will then be placed on the Chamber.”
Satha looked wistful. “And maybe we’ll see our boy again.”
“We will,” Dar’El growled. “Even if it means I have to smash together the heads of those hidebound ‘Els until they see sense.”
“Or stars,” Satha said, smiling. “Knock their heads together until they see stars,” she explained.
“As long as they make the right decision,” Dar’El said. “So long as Jessira sees them safe to Stronghold, we can send word to Rukh that his exile has been lifted.”
“I just hope they do make it safe to her home.”
“I pray so as well,” Dar’El said.
“Neither of us are what anyone would call pious,” Satha replied, moving to stand behind Dar’El. She rubbed his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “But I know what you mean.”
Dar’El patted her hand, squeezing it briefly. “Maybe for once our distant Lord will actually listen.”
Satha said nothing. Instead, she moved to sit in Dar’El’s lap and kissed him softly.
“I have news from the last meeting of the Society,” Dar’El said, changing the subject.
“Oh? And what do the Rajans have to say?” Satha asked in a neutral tone.
Despite her respectful and interested demeanor, Dar’El wasn’t deceived. Satha tolerated his membership within the Society, but she didn’t think it was a worthy use of his time. But maybe what he was about to tell her would change her mind. “I received word from someone claiming to be a high member of the Sil Lor Kum. A MalDin.”
“Servant of the Voice,” Satha translated with a grimace. “A high posting—if he or she isn’t lying.”
“He,” Dar’El said. “Based on the handwriting, I suspect the MalDin is a man.”
“And what does he want?”
“Immunity.”
Satha lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Really? And what does he offer for something so extraordinary?”
“He’s willing to give up every member of the Sil Lor Kum.”
“This man has likely worked with the men and women of the Sil Lor Kum for years,” Satha said, shaking her head in disbelief, “and yet he would sell out his fellows so easily?”
Dar’El scowled. “He’s scum. Of course he would. But as a demonstration of his good intentions, he explained about the Withering Knife and its role in the murders.”
“Interesting,” Satha said, “but we already know about the Knife. What we don’t know about is Sil Lor Kum.” She stroked her chin pensively. “Perhaps the Society does have its uses.”
Dar’El smiled. “Now was that so hard to say?”
Satha shrugged, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “How was this message received?”
“I found it in my jacket after last night’s dinner at the Society Hall.” At Satha’s startlement, Dar’El nodded. “You see it.”
“Yes,” she said. “The MalDin must either be a member of the Society or a servant.”
“I would guess a servant.”
“Why?”
“The Sil Lor Kum. The Hidden Hand of Justice. What better way to hide then in a profession so easily overlooked?”
“True, but those of the Sil Lor Kum seek power. I can’t believe they would willingly serve in any capacity, especially not a MalDin.”
Dar’El knew where Satha’s questions led, but it was a destination he was reluctant to consider. He hesitated but finally had to admit the likely truth. “You’re right,” he said.<
br />
“Then it is more likely a member of the Society itself,” Satha said.
As was his wont, Ular Sathin took his nightly tea beneath the clematis-gowned pergola in the rear courtyard of his house. He took a careful sip—his was a quiet and restrained nature, cautious in all things, even in something as prosaic as having his evening drink. He smiled at the peaceful silence, a bare movement of his ascetic lips.
He lived in Hart’s Stand, an area of row houses, and despite the unobtrusive Rahails living on all sides of his home, Ular found the neighborhood uncomfortably loud. It was noisy here, too busy and brash. The reasons Ular didn’t move were because he had lived here for almost five decades. He had grown comfortable in his home, like a barnacle on a hull. And also, every other neighborhood in Ashoka was even louder and more loutish than this one.
But tonight Hart’s Stand was muted. Perhaps the evening’s chill drizzle had driven most folk inside. If so, then Ular was grateful. The whispering rain was a double blessing, providing both a restful quiet and a blissful relief after summer’s mugginess.
Ular took another careful sip of his tea and considered what to do next. He’d made a bold decision in writing the note to Dar’El. He would have preferred otherwise, but what choice did he have? The Queen had turned her gaze to Ashoka, and the SuDin wouldn’t lift a finger to thwart Her. The man had to be stopped before he brought ruin to the city. Knowledge about the Withering Knife had to be made known, even if it risked exposing Ular’s membership in the Sil Lor Kum.
Ular grimaced at the gamble he had taken. He’d lived such a watchful, wary life, and to see it all unravel now, in the winter of his years was a bitter draught to swallow. It was all because of the SuDin. The arrogance of the man! He couldn’t be trusted. None of the MalDin could, or any member of the Sil Lor Kum for that matter. They were all scum, from the highest to the lowest, but the worst of them was the SuDin. He was a coiled viper, a venomous hypocrite.
Ular grimaced once again. And all this time, he had yet to learn the SuDin’s true name. He was a Kumma of high standing, possibly even an ‘El, but otherwise, Ular knew nothing about him.
And now the man was growing younger. Though he tried to hide his transformation, Ular had known the SuDin long enough to see the changes. His hair was darker, the gray color somehow receding. There was also the matter of the SuDin’s gait. The man still limped, but Ular could tell it was a sham. The SuDin’s injuries had somehow been Healed. And all of it had begun with the murders. Ular was certain of it. The changes had begun then.
The Withering Knife. No one but the SuDin truly knew where it had come from or what it did, but whatever its secrets, he was keeping it from the rest of the MalDin.
Ular had his suspicions as to why. The SuDin didn’t trust the rest of the Council, which was a wise decision in any circumstance. The other MalDins would have demanded use of the Knife if they realized it could make them younger. But what if there was more to it? Legends spoke of how the Knife stole a man’s Jivatma. If so…Ular shuddered at the possibility. He imagined a Kumma wielding more than his own Jivatma. He would be unstoppable. No man should be so powerful.
And none of this accounted for Suwraith. The SuDin claimed that the Queen had promised to see the Council safe and wealthy in far off cities, but what were Her promises really worth? There was nothing in the history of the Sil Lor Kum to prove that Councils from other cities—ones the Sorrow Bringer had destroyed—had found safety and shelter before their homes were apocalypsed. The accounts stating She did were farcical, and Ular didn’t believe them.
It was more likely the Queen had simply destroyed those other Councils—just as She would Ashoka’s.
Thus, as Ular reckoned matters, the only way to save himself was to also keep Ashoka safe. He had to stop the SuDin, stop him before he fully corrupted the city’s Oasis.
And who better to stop a ruthless Kumma than another equally ruthless Kumma?
Rector Bryce sat alone outside a small bistro in Trell Rue. He was to meet Mira Terrell here, and while he could have waited within, he chose to wait without. He reckoned it was a wise decision given the café’s claustrophobic interior.
The building housing the restaurant was made of stacked-stone, a material efficient at trapping the murmurings of the restaurant’s many patrons and the heat from the roaring fireplace. It made the bistro feel like an oven, especially with the air marinating in the aromas of spiced noodles, dahl, chicken, and parathas.
The food—traditional Duriah fare—was the only reason Rector had agreed to meet here. In this age of fusion cuisine, especially in fashionable and forward-facing Trell Rue, finding something that hearkened back to an older period was becoming rarer by the month. And yet, despite all the modern talk of melding and melting of culture and cuisine, this restaurant with its old-fashioned food, had become popular.
It gave Rector a small spark of hope for the future. Too many people nowadays discarded the learned wisdom of history as if it were a worn out rag, good for nothing but the refuse bin. Perhaps they were finally coming to their senses, realizing that the future was best served if the past was also respected.
Even as he considered such a notion, Rector suspected it probably wasn’t the case. More likely, this traditional Duriah bistro in the heart of modern, ever-changing Trell Rue was simply a representation of the latest fashionable trend, one where the past briefly became new and stylish once again.
It was pathetic, and the knowledge left Rector wishing that he had been born in a different time, a more refined era when Castes did not seek to emulate one another; when cultures were distinct and separate; and everyone knew their place. He hated this modern life where everyone sought to be like everyone else. Where was the great sin in wanting to be distinctive?
With those thoughts in mind, he settled in to watch the fall of a dreary rain, the water leaving a halo of rainbows around the firefly lamps outside the restaurant. The colorful sight had Rector feeling morose and lonely, a sentiment made worse by the glad sounds of laughter echoing from within the bistro.
Rector tightened his coat and suppressed a shiver. The heavy canopy braced against the side of the restaurant and arching overhead protected against the weather but did nothing to keep off the chill.
Where was Mira anyway? They were supposed to have met a half-hour ago to go over the past week’s ‘activities’. She was his contact in House Shektan; the one to whom he passed on any information he learned about House Wrestiva’s activities. He didn’t like Mira Terrell, and she didn’t like him, but nevertheless, in some ways, his life was in her hands.
He grimaced at the notion, hating the path his life had taken. Spying. It was dishonorable, but there were no other choices that made sense to him. If he didn’t do what Dar’El demanded, he and his family would be ruined. The horrible truth about Rector’s family—their patrimony from a member of the Sil Lor Kum—would be revealed to everyone. And he had no doubt Dar’El would make good on his threat. After all, Rector was responsible for Rukh Shektan’s banishment. Dar’El would need little excuse to execute vengeance on the man who had ruined his son’s future.
With the clarity of hindsight, Rector knew he should have kept silent about Rukh’s newfound Talents. He should have simply watched and waited. Life would have eventually worked itself out. Ironically, during the trek to the Chimera birthing caverns, Rukh had actually told his commanders and brother warriors about his new Talents. By all accounts, they had been thoroughly disgusted, and Rukh had essentially been abandoned in the Wildness. Of course, their opinions had changed as a result of Rukh’s undeniable heroism in the caverns and on the long journey back to Ashoka. In fact, the warriors from the expedition to the caverns now heralded Rukh as the Hero of the Slave River, an opinion widely held by the rest of the city.
Rector wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Rukh Shektan was Tainted, but then again how could anyone have accomplished what the man had? Many scores of warriors would have died if not for him.
&n
bsp; So perhaps an exception could have been found for him—certainly many people wanted one—but at least then the reason for Rukh’s expulsion from Ashoka would not have come about because of anything Rector had done. And Dar’El would have had no reason to demand his actions as a spy. Rector would have kept his honor.
His thoughts cut off when he saw Mira approaching. She pranced along the sidewalk, walking proud and carefree as only the truly arrogant could manage.
Rector swore under his breath. Why of all people had Dar’El chosen this woman to be his contact with House Shektan? Mira despised Rector, and the feeling was mutual. Here was a woman who had unabashedly cavorted with Jaresh Shektan, a Sentya and a man not of her Caste. Though the two of them pretended to merely be friends, Rector suspected something deeper had grown between the two of them.
And Mira dared judge Rector?
“I would have figured Jaresh would have accompanied you,” Rector said as she took a seat. He knew his words were spiteful, but he didn’t care.
Mira wore a confused look. “Why would he be with me?”
“After all the time you spent in the Cellar, the two of you seemed to have grown close.”
“We worked well together,” Mira said. “Our House is lucky to have a man of his abilities, but Jaresh has his own tasks to undertake, as do I. Our paths no longer cross.”
Rector studied her. Mira hadn’t taken the bait, but nonetheless, he didn’t entirely believe her. Her words were couched in flat notes, unemotional statements. It was as if she was afraid to speak with any feeling about Jaresh, as if to do so might expose the truth.
Or perhaps it was all his imagination.
He took a swallow of his wine.
Two months ago, it wouldn’t have occurred to him to disbelieve her—a Kumma and a Sentya together in an illicit affair? It should have been too repugnant to ever fathom. Unfortunately, hard truths and many lies had tested his trusting nature.
