by Davis Ashura
“No, he’s not,” Sign disagreed. “He’s barely hurting them.”
“And he does feel empathy,” Laya confirmed. “I know him. He is a good man. And my parents have labored beside him. They say he is hardworking and humble.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Something ugly has crept into his heart. He wouldn’t act like this otherwise.”
“His actions are those of a creature, not a good man,” Disbar muttered.
Jessira’s anger and disgust with him flared once more. A wise man would have recognized the mood of everyone around him and kept his mouth shut. Instead, Disbar insisted on continuing with his insults toward the man that many members of Jessira’s family clearly liked and respected. Her teeth ground. She wanted to tell Disbar to go away, to leave her in peace; but to do so would have been unforgivably rude. He was Annayya’s guest, which meant she couldn’t tell him what she really felt.
“And does denying him his Humanity make you feel better?” Cedar asked, seemingly speaking up in her place. “This man brought Jessira safely home even though it cost him everything he loved. And how have we repaid him? Because of our prejudices, we’ve denied him a place in the Home Army. Because of our prejudices, we deny him justice. And we dare call him uncivilized because he’s offended by our shameful behavior?” Cedar shook his head in disgust.
Jessira felt like cheering. Rukh deserved so much more than her kind had offered him. She just wished she’d spoken up more forcefully early on, convinced the officers of the Home Army to test Rukh and see just how skilled he really was. If she had, maybe all of this could have been avoided. But she had been too much a coward. She hadn’t stayed true to their friendship.
She was so caught up in her guilt, that she almost missed Laya’s words.
“Perhaps those with the wisdom to lead will see the error of their ways,” Laya said, gently. “After what he’s done here, they would be fools not to.”
Court spoke up just then. “Last night, he packed up all his bags,” he said. “Rukh, I mean. I asked what he intended, and he said as soon as the Trials were over, he was moving out. He thanked me for taking him in, but I think it goes deeper than that. I think he means to leave Stronghold.”
Jessira shot to her feet. “That idiot!”
It was the final match. The Arena was as silent as a funeral. The Strongholders were obviously in shock over what Rukh had done to their finest warriors, and their dismay almost brought a smile to his face. He’d enjoyed shattering the beliefs of all these conceited people.
Plus, his laborer friends from Crofthold Lucent had probably made a loot betting on him. Just before the Trials, Rukh had shown them how he could move. He’d even demonstrated a Constrained Fireball. Afterward, his friends had grinned like sharks. The rest of Stronghold believed Rukh had little chance of winning, and the odds set on the possibility of his victory had been steep. If Rukh’s friends had wagered on him, they were likely dreaming of what fine purchase to make with their winnings.
Rukh drew his attention back to the present. He hadn’t won yet. There was still one final fight: Wheel Cloud, the defending champion.
“I know you’re going to win,” Wheel said, turning to Rukh.
Rukh maintained his flat expression of calm disinterest, although a bit of annoyance and confusion leaked out. Why was Wheel Cloud talking to him now? Before today, Rukh hadn’t been worth piss in this man’s chamber pot; and now he wanted to have a conversation? Well, it was too damn late, both in the day and Rukh’s time in Stronghold. “Then forfeit the match and save yourself the pain,” Rukh said.
“You know I can’t,” Wheel said.
“Then I can’t help you.”
Wheel fell silent for a moment. “Why do you hate us? We took you in, fed you, kept you warm and safe. But the way you’ve defeated the other warriors, the painful blows you’ve delivered—you could have chosen a less ugly means to defeat those men.”
Rukh finally turned to him, disbelief breaking through the ice of his winter lake tranquility. “I passed you once in the halls of West Lock when I went to inquire about joining the Home Army. Major Pile told me there would never be a place for me in the Home Army, not because of who I am, but because of what I am. I’m a Pureblood bastard. Those were his words. And yours.”
Wheel flushed. “And maybe you are exactly what I said: a Pureblood bastard,” he said. “Only an ungrateful wretch like you would bite the hand that feeds him. As I said, we took you in when we didn’t have to. We’ve kept you—”
“You kept me a slave,” Rukh snarled. “You and the rest of your kind offered me one choice: starve or lick your boot heels; and for this I should say ‘thank you’?” Rukh snorted in derision. “Stick it up your ass. I’d rather starve. But maybe you’re right, and I am being an ungrateful bastard. For that reason and that reason alone, I’m going to tell you exactly what I plan on doing in our fight. I’m going to kick you in the liver. I haven’t decided whether to break your ribs or simply knock the wind out of you. Either way, my shoke will take you at the neck. And this time, it won’t be a slice. It’ll be hard enough to feel like a decapitation.”
Wheel looked at Rukh, his face aghast in horror. Broken ribs and a shoke connecting against his neck. The pain would be terrible. “Have we really been so cruel?”
“You are a ghrina,” Rukh said, reminding Wheel of the word he and all other OutCastes despised above all others. “How differently do you imagine my kind would have treated you compared to how you have actually treated me?”
Their conversation lapsed into silence, and moments later it was time.
Wheel Cloud swallowed heavily as the Governor-General called them forward for the final match. The crowd was still, none of the rowdiness and yelling from before Rukh’s first contest. It was exactly what he’d been hoping to accomplish. The OutCastes were probably horrified by what he’d done to their precious warriors. One more to go, and their horror would be complete: a Pureblood Champion.
The call came. “Fight!”
Rukh was about to charge forward, but he noticed something in Wheel’s posture. Instinctively, he Shielded. Something like a flickering green globe surrounded him just as Wheel hurled his shoke. A foolish move to throw away one’s weapon. The shoke bounced off Rukh’s Shield. Rukh leapt toward his opponent. A flicker of compassion took him. He aimed a gut kick and connected solidly. Wheel was thrown to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He fell over on his back, gasping for breath. Only then did Rukh unsheathe his shoke. But instead of hammering a decapitating blow as he'd originally promised, he simply rested it gently against the Strongholder’s neck.
Wheel nodded once and managed to gasp out the words. “I yield.”
The world returned, but Rukh felt no sense of triumph, no elation. He knelt, taking a moment to Heal Wheel’s broken ribs. He’d kicked the man harder than he had intended, partially striking him in the ribs when he’d intended a liver shot. While he did so, the watching crowd was quiet and solemn.
Wheel stared at him in astonishment.
“I may be a Pureblood bastard, but I won’t let any of you steal my Humanity or my compassion,” he explained in answer to Wheel’s bewilderment.
When Rukh stood, scattered applause trickled down for him from a few lonely fools who were probably too drunk to realize the Pureblood bastard had won. Rukh bowed before his still-downed opponent, bowed to the Governor-General, and walked out of the Home Arena. He paid no attention to the petty functionaries who told him he had to wait for the awards ceremony. He brushed past them. The tournament was finished, and he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.
A man’s wealth is not measured by the sum of his possessions, but by the joy with which he lives his life.
~Saying from Stronghold, attribution unknown
Before the final battle even began, Jessira had already left the Arena. She didn’t bother stopping and explaining to her family and friends where she was going or what she had planned. A more important concern occupied her thoug
hts: convincing Rukh to stay in Stronghold. It wouldn’t be easy. The man was as stubborn as the mountains. Once he had his mind set, it was almost impossible to change. But she had to try. She waited for him near Court’s flat, knowing he had to come back here to collect his gear.
“I was hoping to find you here,” she said when Rukh arrived. She pushed off the wall upon which she had been leaning.
Rukh didn’t look surprised—or pleased.
So, it would be one of those meetings, like the last time when he hadn’t given her a chance to talk, explain, or apologize. He’d basically told Jessira to go away and never come back. He’d even refused to look at her, staring past her, at the wall or somewhere else. She wanted to see his eyes this time. His eyes always gave him away. She’d know the truth if she could just get Rukh to look at her.
He did so. His lips held a bitter cast but his eyes…he was as furious as an unbroken stallion with the bit in his teeth.
She followed him as he went inside. “You don’t have to leave,” she said.
“Yes, I do,” he replied, sounding annoyed that she’d guessed his intentions. He already wore his camouflage pants and a white undershirt. Over this, he buttoned up his thick, fleece-lined camouflage jacket.
“Can’t we discuss this?” Jessira asked. Her voice quavered, betraying the anxiety she felt, the fear that he would be forever gone from her life. She wrung her hands. She just needed him to slow down long enough to listen.
“Talk all you want,” he said, not slowing down. He’d removed the sandals worn by Trials combatants and slipped on a couple pairs of thick socks.
“Why do you have to leave?” she asked. “Is it because of me?”
“No,” he said, succinctly, not bothering to look up.
“They why?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “You could have been the First Mother Herself declaring me Her son, and I doubt your people would have cared. I think you overestimated their capacity for kindness.” He sounded both angry and disappointed as he tied off the last few laces of his packs.
“You can still have a place here,” she argued, trying to get through his obstinacy.
“And do what? Slave away as a pet Pureblood laborer? So your children can point me out and fling rotten eggs at me?”
“No one did anything like that!”
“No. They did worse. Your people didn’t offer me justice. Warriors attacked me and no one cared.”
“Why is that so important?” Jessira asked. She knew the question was stupid even before the words finished leaving her mouth. Rukh had a finely hewn sense of right and wrong, and while he readily forgave those who had harmed him, he only did so once they admitted their transgressions. Otherwise, he was implacable in his anger.
Rukh gaped at her in amazement. “You once told me this is a place of equality. What about equality under the law? You said this is a place of liberty. So why am I forced to work as a laborer with no opportunity to change my fate? You said this is an openhearted city where a man’s worth is based on his work, not his birth.” He snorted in derision. “The unholy hells will steal me away before I ever agree that your people are as openhearted, free, or equal as the Castes of Ashoka.”
Jessira flinched. His words struck a chord, but she couldn’t let it be the end of the matter. She had to try again. “The Trials Champion receives a large stipend. It’s enough to maintain a small flat without needing to work.”
“No thanks. The sooner I wipe the dust of this small-minded city off my boots, the better I’ll feel.”
“You can’t mean that,” Jessira said.
“I mean exactly that,” Rukh snapped back.
Jessira stood silently and watched him pack. She knew Rukh had faced slights and insults, but despite it all, he seemed to have been finding a way in Stronghold. He’d made friends with Court, Cedar, and some of the laborers; but then had come the attacks. He couldn’t—and shouldn’t have to—overlook such a despicable offense. She had no defense for her people.
Rukh took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He opened them a moment later, and his eyes were clear of his bitter anger. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m frustrated and unhappy, but I should never have lashed out at you like I just did. You don’t deserve it.”
Jessira took a shuddering breath, relieved he was finally talking to her. “Can you tell me what’s really bothering you?”
Rukh sighed. “Farn left, and everything that’s happened before and since, I’m just not feeling very generous to your people. I want to but….” He paused.
“But what?” Jessira gently urged.
“There are those who simply won’t leave me in peace. And where there’s one, there’s likely to be more. I can’t promise not to hurt them worse next time they come after me.”
Jessira cursed under her breath. Disbar. Her one-time fiancé had ruined any hope of keeping Rukh in Stronghold. “Where will you go?” she finally asked.
“Hammer,” he said as he belted on his sheathed sword.
“And after Hammer? What then?” she asked. “What if you need a place of safety? Somewhere to rest and recover? Why not stay long enough for the Champion’s Banquet when the Governor-General presents you with your winnings. At least that way, if you ever have need of a place to get out of the weather, you’ll have it.”
He seemed to mull it over before eventually shaking his head in negation. “It would be better if I just left. For both of us.”
“How would be better for both of us?” Jessira demanded, amazed by his obtuseness.
“It just would. You can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine.”
“My life is where I make it, and with whom I make it.”
Rukh shook his head again. “But it can’t be with me,” he said. “You’ve already lost enough on my behalf.”
His face was obdurate, and Jessira realized with a sinking heart that there was nothing she could say to sway him from his path. He would be gone from her life. Her fear turned to grief. “Then I could go with you,” Jessira said. The moment the words left her mouth, she recognized the rightness of her offer. Her life was where and with whom she made it. And she couldn’t imagine her life without Rukh.
His face softened momentarily. “Your home is here,” he said. “I won’t let you throw it away. Not for me.”
“My home is where I choose,” Jessira replied.
“You can’t come.”
“Then stay for the celebration. Wait until then before you make your decision.”
Rukh stood before her, mulling over her words as he stared at the wall. He finally turned back to meet her gaze and dropped his packs. They thudded to the floor. “When is it?” he said with a sigh.
“Tomorrow night,” Jessira replied. Her legs trembled with relief as if a crushing weight had left her. “And the Champion usually chooses what is to be served on the menu,” she added.
“Just have them make whatever they did at the last Champion’s dinner. I don’t care.”
“But you’ll be there?” Jessira asked, needing to hear his promise.
“I’ll be there.”
There were a lot of Strongholders attending the Champion’s Gala. An unholy number of them. All the Trials combatants were there, each with a family member or spouse. That made sixty-four. Throw in the senators and councilors of each Crofthold, and that came to an additional sixty. Then there was the Governor-General, the Colonel of the Home Army, the majors of Army East and Army West, a number of captains, all their spouses, a number of assorted wealthy Strongholders and Rukh’s ten guests—originally he’d only invited Court and Cedar, but then Court had ruined it by inviting the rest of his family, including Jessira and, somehow, even Disbar. All told, there were at least two hundred Strongholders present.
And the only place spacious and fancy enough to host such a large gathering was Home House, the Governor-General’s mansion.
The building was three stories tall, huge by Stronghold standards. The top floor was gi
ven over to the private residence of the Governor-General and his family while the first housed the various departments needed to help administer the city. Most of the second floor was for official functions, such as tonight’s party, and the room hosting the Champion’s Gala was a large rectangular hall. It had a twenty-foot coffered ceiling painted a simple gray to provide a sense of openness and five large chandeliers provided brilliant lighting. Softening the whitewashed walls were tapestries depicting Stronghold’s history. They were weavings of men and women in heroic poses as they struggled to build and maintain Stronghold. Rukh had no idea who they were. A small group of musicians quietly played music in the corner. They had an interesting concept of rhythm.
Rukh studied the crowd and shook his head in disgust. None of those in attendance were here for him. This was a high society event, a place to see and be seen. He just wished it would end soon. He had never enjoyed large gatherings, and the steady din of the crowd, droning like cicadas, grated on his nerves. As a result, Rukh stood alone in a corner and imagined himself somewhere else, somewhere quiet and cold with the moon and stars above. He nursed a bitter ale, and a swallow of it elicited a pained scowl.
A woman nearby laughed softly. Sign Deep. Sometimes, she had dinner with him and Court, and Rukh considered a familiar face in a sea of strangers. She was also an interesting person: highly opinionated but generous; sarcastic but funny; seemingly flighty but occasionally the mask would slip and her intelligence and perceptiveness would shine through. Rukh liked her.
“You don’t need to frown so severely,” Sign said. “We aren’t your enemy.”
Rukh gave her a rueful smile. “I wasn’t frowning,” he said. “It’s the ale.”
“Bitter?”
“Very.”
“Try the apple wine,” Sign suggested, handing him a goblet from the tray of a passing waiter.
