by Davis Ashura
“She’s not here,” Bree announced.
“We have to find her,” Rector said, feeling the press of time.
“It goes without saying,” Satha replied coolly. “Do you have any idea which direction they were going?”
Rector concentrated on what he had seen. “I think northwest.”
“Toward Stone Cavern?” Bree asked in surprise. “Not toward Jubilee Hills. I would have thought he would have taken her to House Wrestiva’s Seat.”
“I think Bree has the right of it,” Satha said. “We should—”
Rector was no longer listening. Something Bree had said sparked a memory. He chased after it, searching his mind for a barely remembered scrap of information. What was it…something about Stone—he had it. His shout of triumph silenced the Bree and Satha. “It’s Stone Cavern,” Rector said.
“How do you know?” Satha asked.
“After Jaresh cracked their cipher, I took another look at the ledgers. It turns out that about six months ago, Quality Building Divisions, the company owned by Hal’El and this partner, the Rahail woman, purchased a building in Stone Cavern.”
“You know the address?”
Rector told it to them. “I’ll go to the building in Stone Cavern,” he announced. “Can the two of you gather some warriors and meet me there?”
“I should go with you,” Bree said. “If Mira isn’t there, I can act as a messenger and let the warriors know where else we think she might be.”
Satha didn’t like Bree’s plan, but in the end, she relented. “Be careful,” she warned.
Bree nodded. “I’ll stay out of the fight if it comes to it,” she said. “But at least I can protect myself this time.” She patted the sword at her hip.
Hal’El could Blend. Mira had no idea how he had learned such a Talent, but it was true. He’d told her he could do so, but she hadn’t believed him until they had stepped out of the alley and onto the busyness of Martyr Hall. Despite the black blade so clearly pressed against her side—and from the cold evil emanating from it, this was most probably the legendary Withering Knife—no one had taken notice. Even when Mira had shouted for help, her pleas had been ignored. There had been a few Rahails and Murans who had glanced their way in suspicion—likely sensing the illegal Blend, which was forbidden within Ashoka—but for some reason, none of them had raised an alarm, either.
How could this be happening? She’d been so close to finishing off the Sil Lor Kum. Mira had discovered the truth about Varesea Apter. She had been about to tell Dar’El Shektan, and afterward, it would have been easy to tear down the Sil Lor Kum and kill all those degenerate bastards.
Now Hal’El Wrestiva, the Withering Knife murderer, was leading her up the stairs of an empty building in Stone Cavern. Mira’s heart thudded with fear, but she couldn’t think how to save herself. When she tried reaching for her sword, Hal’El had slapped aside her hand, nearly breaking her fingers in the process. His contempt for her skill was evident in how he didn’t bother disarming her afterward. However, the rest of the journey, he had maintained in a bruising grasp on her arm the entire time. Now, Hal’El dragged her to the top of the stairs where a single, closed door stood.
Mira swallowed heavily. “What do you intend to do with me?” she asked. She’d asked a variation of the same question many times during the long walk here, but on every occasion, she’d had been met with silence. This time was no different.
Hal’El continued to grip Mira’s arm tightly while he unlocked the door and swung it open. The room inside was large but sparsely furnished: a table, several chairs, a couch, and a bed.
“Dar’El sent a sheep to hunt a wolf. His foolishness will cost you your life,” Hal’El growled before shoving her unceremoniously inside.
Mira stumbled, almost falling, before she regained her balance.
“Who’s this?” a voice asked.
Mira gasped.
On the far side of the room, Varesea Apter lounged upon a bed, wearing nothing more than a breezy chemise.
She and Hal’El were lovers?
The door slammed shut.
Rector crept up the stairs with Bree skulking close on his heels. They’d rushed to the building in Stone Cavern as swiftly as they could manage. Thankfully, Bree’s mount had been able to force an opening through the throngs of traffic on Martyr Hall, and Rector had followed right on the horse’s hooves. Otherwise, the trip here might have taken twice as long.
When they’d arrived, the building had been darkened. There had been no lights in any of the windows to indicate anyone’s presence. The place had appeared empty and abandoned, completely unremarkable except for one oddity. In one corner of the building, on the top floor, the windows had been covered over with plywood, but nowhere else.
In addition, as Rector and Bree had approached the building from the alley in back, he’d noticed what appeared to be a new, wooden fence and gate stretching across the rear yard. From somewhere near it, an unseen woman’s tremulous voice had risen in panic before being swiftly muffled.
Rector had conducted Jivatma, and the world had grown brighter, sounds sharper, and vision swifter.
The murmured whisper of the building’s gate opening caught his attention. Then came a double image: the gate was closed but there was another image superimposed upon it, one of the same gate swinging shut.
Someone was Blended.
He’d passed on the information to Bree, who had nodded, and they had carefully pressed their way through the gate, expecting trouble.
Nothing.
Rector had signaled for Bree to wait outside, but she had shaken her head in negation. He’d tried to press the matter, but she had continued to refuse. Rector had known he couldn’t stop and argue the matter. Mira was inside, and she needed help.
With a suppressed growl, he had pressed on, Bree following close behind.
Now, they climbed the final flight of stairs.
“Where do you think—” Bree began.
Rector shushed her to silence.
They approached a single door at the stop of the stairs. Light leaked from beneath it and murmured voices could be heard from the other side of it as well. Then came an angry shout followed by Mira’s cry of pain and a loud crashing.
Rector reared back and with all his Jivatma enhanced strength, he kicked the door open, ripping it off its hinges.
For Mira, on a day full of shocks, this one might have been the most stunning.
Hal’El Wrestiva was famous for his fervent beliefs in the strict separation of the Castes. His revulsion with Jaresh’s admission into House Shektan was well known. He had even worked to pass a law banning any future such adoption. And it had been Hal’El who had been instrumental in having Rukh declared Unworthy. Again, this was because of Rukh’s new Talents and his relationship with Jessira. It was said that Hal’El even frowned upon men and women of different Castes having mere friendships with one another. He opposed any intermingling between those of different Castes on any level.
And yet, here he was with a Rahail lover.
Mira watched in bemused fascination as Varesea uncoiled from the bed and pulled on her clothes. The Rahail woman buttoned up snug britches and slipped on a loose fitting blouse. “We are everything you suspect,” Varesea confirmed once she had finished dressing.
“Which is what?” Mira asked, playing for time.
“We are lovers,” Varesea replied evenly and without shame. “And you are in no position to judge us, not after your own dalliance with Jaresh Shektan.”
Mira didn’t bother correcting Varesea’s false assumption. Instead, she turned to Hal’El, relieved to see the Withering Knife had been sheathed. “What do you intend to do with me?” she demanded once again, anger lacing her voice. Somewhere in the shock of learning about Hal’El and Varesea’s relationship, she had forgotten her fear.
“You will tell us everything House Shektan knows, and then….” Hal’El shrugged, his pregnant silence an all-too clear indication of what he i
ntended.
“You’re not really offering me much motive to tell you anything,” Mira replied.
“Refuse me, and your fate will be sealed by the Withering Knife,” Hal’El said, his face forbidding. “Believe me when I tell you: there is not a more painful death. The Knife steals your Jivatma.”
So the legends about the Knife were true. Or at least Hal’El wanted her to believe they were.
“House Shektan knows everything,” Mira said. “They know you are the SuDin. Even now a troop of warriors are coming to arrest you. Before tomorrow night, you and your lover will be food for the crows. You’ll be forever reviled as the worst kind of degenerates.”
Varesea laughed. “We are far worse than degenerates, my dear. We are Sil Lor Kum, and we are lovers from different Castes. Surely you can do better with your insults.”
“You’re right,” Mira replied. “You are worse. You’re ghrinas, both of you.” She turned back to Hal’El. “And traitors.”
The crushing blow came without warning. Faster than she could follow, Hal’El backhanded her, sending her tumbling. Mira cried out as she crashed into a table, knocking it over. She had the wherewithal to conduct Jivatma and Shield. It cushioned her fall.
Mira rose to her feet with her sword leveled and ready to fight. She would die here, but not like a sheep.
She felt brave until Hal’El laughed at her defiance and readied his sword.
Just then, the door burst inward, smacking Hal’El in the head and knocking him to the ground. Rector and Bree charged in.
Despite Jivatma flooding into her, the world was quiet and still until the instant Bree stepped into the flat. With a snap, sound and fury raged. It was chaotic, a roar of noise and movement. Images impinged on Bree’s senses. Hal’El rose from the ground, looking furious. A Rahail woman—Bree recognized her—Varesea Apter, squared off against Mira, both of them armed with swords.
Bree nearly panicked. She tried to control the surge of adrenaline and fear by taking a deep breath.
Rector and Hal’El needed no such time to gather themselves. They went after one another, a blur of blades. Bree ducked low as Hal’El’s sword arched toward her. Rector threw himself in the way, stopping the deadly stroke.
With a start, Bree got her mind working again. She remembered the lessons she’d worked so hard to learn since the attack in the alley.
She attacked Hal’El’s flank. He slid aside and then Rector was there. It was tight fighting, a twisting of bodies.
Bree never saw the kick that punched through her Shield and launched her into Mira. The two of them fell to the floor. Varesea loomed over them.
Mira surged to her feet and blocked. From her knees, still wobbly from the kick, Bree aimed a blow at Varesea’s legs. The Rahail managed to dart out of the way, but Mira used the distraction. She lanced her sword into Varesea’s heart.
Varesea gasped out a final breath. She slid off the blade and fell over dead.
Hal’El cried out.
Bree moved to flank the Wrestiva and Mira did so as well. Rector rose shakily from the ground. Blood flowed freely from a deep cut to his scalp.
“You will die,” Hal’El promised, moving toward Mira. At the last instant, he spun about, somehow sensing Bree’s thrust. He blocked her, pushing her back. Still spinning, he gut-kicked Rector. His final motion carried him around. His sword punched through Mira’s Shield and thrust into her stomach.
With a smile of satisfaction, Hal’El withdrew his blade. An instant later, his face filled with anguish as he looked at Varesea’s unmoving body. Without another word, his hand glowed. He threw a Fireball at a plywood-covered window and leapt through the hole he had blasted, disappearing into the night.
Bree crawled to Mira, fear for her friend almost stilling her heart. Rector stumbled over as well.
Mira’s eyes darted between the two of them as she gasped in pain. Her pulse fluttered in her neck.
Soft as a rose petal is the light of dawn’s first blush.
But softer still your wine-kissed lips at midnight,
When fragrant blossoms fall around us like confetti.
~ Midnight’s Sunrise by Maral, AF 702
Jessira settled into the old couch and sighed with comfort. She knew this sofa well. She knew all its lumps, its settled areas, and how best to position herself so she wouldn’t sink to the floor. The couch was as familiar as an old friend and had been in her parents’ home for as long as Jessira could remember. They had given it to her and Rukh as an early wedding gift, and now, it sat centered on the wall opposite the front door in the hearthspace of their new flat together. It was one of the few pieces of furniture the two of them had managed to scrounge together in the weeks since their return to Stronghold. The other was a bed—hers—the one she’d grown up with and also from her parents’ flat. It was another familiar memento to bring to the home she and Rukh would soon share.
Two more days until the wedding. Jessira couldn’t wait.
When she’d decided to end her engagement and follow Rukh out of Stronghold, her parents had been deeply upset with her. It wasn’t because they wanted Jessira to marry Disbar no matter the cost—in fact, by the time she had left, they had come to dislike her former fiancé as much as she had. However, there might have been a way to end the engagement without so many hard feelings on both sides. But by simply leaving Stronghold with Rukh, Jessira had ended any hope of a graceful termination. Her parents had worried that Jessira’s reputation would be irreparably sullied by what she had done.
It should have happened, but it hadn’t. Luck or Karma was the reason. It turned out Disbar did have something to do with his cousins’ attacks on Rukh. There hadn’t been definitive evidence, but there was enough to leave a black stain on Disbar’s honor. His own reputation was now in tatters.
As a result, Jessira’s homecoming—her second in months—had been a joyful occasion without any worries or concerns. Her parents had been more delighted than anyone, especially when they learned Jessira planned to marry Rukh, a man who was suddenly of high standing. And when they learned that the Governor-General himself would officiate the ceremony—in the Home House, no less—with the entire Senate in attendance, they had been beside themselves with joy.
Then had come the wedding preparations. Jessira and her parents had to complete in a few weeks what would normally require a few months. All the details were maddening. Who to invite? Where to seat them? What kind of food to serve? What kind of flowers for Rukh’s offertory bouquet? What clothes for the bride and the groom? Who to chaperone Rukh down the aisle since his parents were obviously absent?
Jessira hated every bit of it.
All she wanted was to get married in a small simple ceremony, but it wasn’t to be. This morning, Jessira had finally had enough. It was too much. She couldn’t stomach any more useless planning, and as a result, she had turned over all decision-making to Amma. Frankly, she was so much better at all of this anyway. As of now, all Jessira had to do was show up. It was a situation both she and her parents were glad of. When she had left the flat this morning, Jessira had heard Nanna mutter something about ornery daughters finally getting out of the way.
By contrast, Rukh had had it easy. Since their return, he’d been politely asked to report to the East Lock and teach the sword to anyone who was willing to learn. It seemed the senior officers didn’t want to waste Rukh’s Talents on simple scouting where he might be injured or even die. Instead, it had been decided that he could best serve the city by training her warriors. After his demolition of Stronghold’s finest, everyone wanted to learn from him; and a special lottery had been held for the ten spaces in Rukh’s initial class.
It also turned out that Rukh loved teaching. He enjoyed his work and was finally becoming a part of Stronghold. It was good to see.
Jessira was brought back to the present when Rukh brought her tea.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Jessira smiled, taking both his hands in hers. “I’m jus
t glad you’re happy.”
Rukh smiled with her. “I’ve got a lot to be happy about,” he said, kissing her.
Jessira let the kiss deepen before pulling back and settling against Rukh with a purr of contentment. “When did you finally learn wisdom?” she asked. “I mean about how good your life can be,” she explained when he looked at her in puzzlement.
“When I took your advice and forgave your people,” he replied. “Or at least those who asked.”
“I told you before: you’re not a man made to hate,” she reminded him. “It was eating you up inside.”
Rukh answered by kissing the top of her head. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Jessira settled against him once more. She took a sip of tea and glanced around the barren flat. “We have a lot of work to do to make this place livable,” she remarked.
“We’ve got time,” Rukh said. “After all, everything we really need is already here.” He patted the couch on which they sat. “A comfortable sofa and a soft bed on which to sleep. We can pick up the rest as time goes on.”
“Sleep? Is that all you think we should do in bed?” Jessira asked.
“What do you have in mind?” Rukh asked, wearing a guileless expression.
He didn’t fool her. She could see the sudden intensity in his eyes. “Why don’t I give you a demonstration?” Jessira set aside their tea and pulled him forward. She kissed him, softly at first and then deeper. “Does that give you an idea of—”
Her words were cut off when Rukh kissed her again. The kiss lengthened, and Rukh held her close, cupping her face in both his hands. Jessira nestled into the couch as Rukh’s weight settled against her. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his pants; but even as she struggled to unbutton it, Rukh leaned away. Jessira tried to pull him back, but he refused her urging. He clasped her hands, and gently disentangled them from the fabric of his shirt. He looked as frustrated as she felt.
