by Davis Ashura
Word of this potential calamity had to be carried as quickly as possible and . . .
Rukh sighed, cutting off his thoughts.
Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. Right now, all of them—Ashokans and Strongholders alike—needed to get going again if they were to make it through the rest of this day.
He stood and stretched before turning to face the river. After last night's harrowing ride, they'd beached their canoes along a flat stretch of water. A broad valley spread out around them, enclosed on all sides by the Privation Mountains. A sandbar cupped the curve of the water, and a morning mist wrapped the world in silence.
And Jessira remained seated on a plank of driftwood next to the river, as still and unmoving as a statue. She continued to stare out over the water and as Rukh approached her, he did his best to set aside his sorrow. His wife didn't need his tears. Not now anyway. Maybe later when they could properly grieve. Right now, she needed his support, his strength, his clear-eyed judgment to see them safe until they reached Ashoka. But as he studied her empty expression, he immediately knew he was wrong. Jessira needed his strength and support, but she also needed his comfort, even if it was nothing more than his quiet presence.
Rukh sat down next to his wife and pulled her close. She didn't resist, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
They sat silent, quiet and still and seemingly alone despite all the others nearby.
“We have to get going soon,” Jessira said, breaking the quiet.
“You heard what Li-Choke said about the Queen?”
“She can sense a person's Jivatma,” Jessira replied, her voice uncharacteristically flat.
Rukh kissed the top of her head. “We have to get to Ashoka as quickly as possible,” he said. “Will the river be the swiftest means to do so?”
Jessira nodded. “Traveling downstream, it is,” she answered.
“But not upstream?”
“No.”
“Is that why we didn't just follow the Gaunt to Stronghold when we left Ashoka?”
“Yes. We would have had to climb too many cliffs and waterfalls,” she replied, a bit of life to her voice. “It would have taken weeks longer.”
“But even going downstream, we'll have to hike down those same cliffs and waterfalls,” Rukh reminded her, glad to hear her take an interest in what they had to do next. He had worried that she might not; that she'd retreat into a bitter shell.
“It will be difficult, especially for the children and those unaccustomed to the hardships of the Wildness,” Jessira mused.
“But it should be a little easier since we'll know what to look for.” At Jessira's look of confusion, Rukh explained. “Farn just made the journey we're about to take. He can tell us what to expect.”
“His experience will be invaluable,” Jessira said with a nod. “I'll let my people know we have to get going.”
She made to stand, but Rukh held her down. “Our people,” he reminded her.
She held a hand to the side of his face and offered a brief, wan smile. “Thank you.”
Rukh kissed her fingertips as he sought to buy some time. He didn't want to tell her the final piece of information.
“What is it?” Jessira asked.
“Disbar survived,” Rukh answered. “After everything he did—setting his cousins to attack me—he was stripped of his rank and forced to work as a laborer at East Lock. He escaped Stronghold's destruction, but during the ride on the river, he was thrown from his canoe and battered by the rocks. He won't live very long.” Rukh hesitated. “He wants to talk to you.”
Jessira sighed in what sounded like a mix of regret, sorrow, and disappointment. “I'll go see him.”
The canoes provided by Choke and Chak-Soon had carried the survivors of Stronghold's demise far in the past week. Though ugly and rough-hewn, they were also rugged and durable, and Rukh was grateful for them. They were holding up well. Only a few easily repaired leaks had been required to keep them afloat.
“Everyone sure is quiet,” Jaresh observed as he took a seat next to Rukh.
“Would you expect any different?” Farn asked, walking alongside the other man.
Jaresh shrugged. “I suppose not.”
Rukh glanced about.
They'd stopped for the day near a series of rapids and falls, and from them came a plume of mineral-scented mist. The exuberance of the water was a sound not reflected by those who travelled upon it. As usual, the camp was somber. A few muted conversations could be heard, but otherwise, the OutCastes and Ashokans quietly moved about their tasks. Some had prepared the evening meal while others readied the bedrolls or inspected the canoes.
“Do you mind if I eat with you?” Lieutenant Altin Danslo interrupted, sounding diffident as he handed a plate to Rukh. “I noticed you hadn't had your supper yet.”
Rukh motioned for Altin to sit down. He still had trouble believing that this was the same lieutenant who had hounded him so mercilessly on the expedition to the Chimera caverns. That man had hated Rukh with a deep, dark passion, willing to see him dead, no matter the means. But in the end, that man had also apologized to Rukh, and according to Farn, as soon as the expedition for Stronghold had been announced, it had been Danslo who had been the first one to volunteer. He'd even been willing to change his House affiliation if that was what required to join the Trial.
Apparently, many of the Kummas who had journeyed to Stronghold had similar stories to tell. Rukh's selflessness on the brutal return to Ashoka from the Chimera breeding caverns had won him the admiration of a number of warriors who felt they owed him a lifelong debt. Farn said hundreds of them had leapt at the chance to see Rukh home. They claimed to have sins that needed expiation, and while their gratitude was humbling, it was also something for which Rukh felt wholly unworthy.
“We lost another OutCaste today,” Farn said, gesturing to the rapids. “It's the fifth so far. She jumped off the falls. We found her body downstream.”
The group fell into a reflective silence, and Rukh shook his head in disappointment. With everything the OutCastes had been through, it wasn't surprising that some of them would take their lives, but it was still heartbreaking.
“How do you suppose we should get past those rapids?” Jaresh asked, changing the subject.
“It's too treacherous to try the canoes, even during the day,” Danslo said. “We'd be better of portaging overland until we reach a quieter stretch of water.”
Farn grunted. “It might cost us a lot of time, but dying would cost us even more.”
“I think we've all had enough near-death experiences on this journey to last a lifetime,” Jaresh responded with feeling.
“Then it's a good thing you weren't on the Trial to Nestle,” Farn said.
“Or the one to the Chimera caverns,” Danslo added.
Jaresh looked between the two men before rolling his eyes. “And I'm sure in both Trials, the warriors waded through knee-deep snow and a howling blizzard in both directions.”
“No snow,” Farn said, “but with the Nestle Trial, we did fight uphill the entire way.”
“And in the expedition to the Chimera caverns, we fought in pitch black.” Danslo grinned. “A blizzard would have been easy. All the Chimeras would have died of frostbite.”
“And surviving a blizzard is easy, especially if a beautiful woman keeps you warm.” Farn nudged Rukh. “Isn't that right?”
The other three men laughed. They all knew the story by now, and Rukh chuckled with them.
On the road to Stronghold, Rukh's horse had thrown him. He'd broken his leg and badly injured his shoulder and lungs. Then had come a freak blizzard, and Jessira had snuggled close to Rukh and kept him warm. She'd Healed him, saved him, and called him 'priya' for the first time.
He caught sight of Jessira just then. She was heading out in the same direction he had seen taken by Jaciro Plume just minutes before.
He frowned. He knew all about Jaciro Plume. The one time he'd confronted the man, it had take
n all his self-control not to beat him within an inch of his life. What Plume had done to Jessira was unconscionable, unforgivable. Plume should have been castrated and cast out of Stronghold for the hurt he'd done to Jessira.
But to see her following him, the two of them far away and alone, and the knife-edged anger Rukh sensed from his hot-tempered wife . . . He had a bad feeling. Rukh made his pardons to the other three men and set off in pursuit. He had to catch up with her before she did anything rash.
Luckily, it wasn't hard to find Jessira. Somehow Rukh could feel her presence. He always knew exactly where she was.
As he approached closer, Plume was nowhere in sight, but Jessira was marching on. Rukh followed after her with a frown. What was happening? From Jessira billowed a wave of icy fury, cold as cruelty and heartless as a grinding glacier.
Rukh continued to shadow her trail, careful to keep far enough back that she wouldn't see him. When he finally found her, he watched her confrontation with Plume, and after a few minutes, he turned aside and returned to the camp.
The survivors of Stronghold's death sat huddled about small fires that shed thin streams of quickly dissipating smoke. The crash of the nearby rapids overwhelmed most conversations, but every now and then, softly spoken words caught Jessira' attention. They were words of disbelief and denial; of anger and accusal; of sorrow and suffering; but sometimes of prayer and belief.
Was Devesh truly up there in the heavens listening to the devotions of His people?
Jessira hoped so, but she was no longer so sure. Still, even now, despite her fragmented faith, she continued to pray. She lifted her face to the heavens and prayed for her parents, for her family, for all the people she loved. She prayed for herself, for strength, for courage, for forgiveness. She even prayed for Disbar Merdant, her once fiancé. Their final conversation still haunted her.
“Passion can drive a man to stupidity.” Disbar had wheezed. His face had been a purpled wreck, bruised and broken just like his body. “And I wish I could have been the man I should have been.” He hesitated, and a wistful smile, a fleeting look of regret had stolen across his face. “Tell Rukh I'm sorry. Tell him I hope he remains a better man than I was.”
Disbar had died later that morning, but Jessira liked to believe he'd achieved a state of grace before his passing. She hoped so anyway. She prayed so.
It was in that moment, when she returned her gaze to the camp, that she noticed Lake Wren walk into the nearby woods. She looked to have been crying. Jessira's heart ached for the younger woman. Lake's entire family was gone. She had been married with three small children, but they were all dead now.
Minutes later, Lieutenant Jaciro Plume left the camp as well, and Jessira's hackles rose. Plume's path carried him along the same route as the one recently trod by Lake.
Well did Jessira remember the lieutenant and what he had taken from her. She stood and followed him.
A quarter mile away, in a secluded space of boulders with a curtain of aspen, she found him.
Jessira's mind hardened with fury. But her anger, usually hot and raging, was frozen this time. It was a bitter, biting thing, like an icy spear. It left Jessira in a strangely wicked mood, chill and hollow. In that moment, she knew herself capable of all sorts of cruelty, and it was this recognition that caused her to pause. She reconsidered if this was truly who she was, who she wanted to be.
Jessira forced herself to reach past the coldness, back to the person she was. Molten rage, controlled and potent, filled her. It was better than the cruelty that had been icing her veins moments earlier.
She unsheathed her sword and stepped forward. “Let her go,” Jessira growled.
Plume jerked his head up, panic flashing across his face. “Jessira—what are you—I saw Lake wander away from camp. She looked ill, and I was concerned.” He gestured to the unconscious woman. “I found her like this. She must be injured or sick.”
“I saw what you did to Lake,” Jessira said to him. Her blade was level with his heart. “Stand up and move away from her.”
Plume slowly rose to his feet. “This is all a misunderstanding,” he said. “I was just trying to help—”
“Like you helped me?” Jessira interrupted. “Is that why I was unable to remember what happened to me that night?”
Plume's face twisted into a sickly smile. “I know you feel differently, but for me, our night together was special,” he said. “I'm sorry if you later came to regret your decision but . . . “ He shrugged.
Some of the earlier coldness returned. “Strip off your clothes,” Jessira ordered. When Plume hesitated, she moved. Quicker than he could follow, she sliced him across the face, just below his right eye. “I don't want to kill you, but I will if you leave me no choice.”
Plume wiped at the blood trickling down his cheek. “You are making a mistake,” he vowed darkly. Nevertheless, he began unbuttoning his shirt.
Jessira didn't bother responding to Plume's words. “Remove your pants and your boots,” she ordered.
“I can help our people,” Plume entreated, even as he followed her orders. He soon stood naked except for his undergarments.
“Fold your clothes and sit on them.” She kicked his belt to him. “Tie your hands with this. Tighten it with your teeth.”
“I'm one of the few warriors we have left,” Plume continued to implore even while he tied his hands with his own belt. “Who else can you trust to protect us? The Purebloods?” He sneered. “They aren't all like your husband. They'll slit our throats when it suits them.”
Jessira didn't pay attention to his statements. She wasn't here to convince him of the righteousness of the Ashokans or defend their honor. She was here to protect her people from a predator.
“You cannot come with us,” Jessira intoned. “The lives of my people—”
“Our people,” Plume hissed. “I'm no less a child of Stronghold than you!”
Jessira shook her head. “Not anymore. You lost that honor several years ago, and tonight, after what you almost did to Lake, judgment will be rendered.”
“Why are doing this?” Plume cried. “Lake wouldn't have remembered a thing. It would have been as though it had never happened. No one would have been hurt.”
“The fact that you believe so is the reason you cannot come with us,” Jessira replied. “Hold your knees against your chest.”
“Why?” Plume asked suspiciously, even as he obeyed her command.
Jessira stepped forward and kicked him in the side of the head.
His eyes rolled back, and his legs stiffened. He keeled over with a groan.
Jessira checked to make sure his belt was as tight as possible. Good. It would take him some time to get free. She stuffed one of his socks in his mouth and used his bootlaces to bind his feet together.
Plume would live, but never again would he be allowed amongst her people.
It was justice—justice long-delayed and long-deserved.
Rector Bryce waited outside Dar'El Shektan's study with a brooding sense of foreboding. Given what had occurred the last time he had been here at the Shektan House Seat—Rector's forced enrollment into House Wrestiva as a spy—it was an understandable fear. In fact, the only reason he had managed to muster the courage to ask for today's meeting was because of the words Mira Terrell had spoken before she'd died.
“Your honor is as you see yourself, not as you wish others to see you. See yourself truly.” Those had been among Mira's final statements as she had slowly bled to death in a drab dwelling in Stone Cavern.
Rector swallowed back grief that was like bile in his throat.
When he and Mira had first been forced to work together, he had held a very poor opinion of her. She had struck him as arrogant and conceited, full of herself despite the minimal accomplishments to her name. Add in her possible immoral relationship with Jaresh Shektan, and there had been little reason for Rector to have ended up respecting, much less liking, Mira Terrell. But something about her rugged perseverance, her inn
er strength, and core of dedication had struck a chord with him. Mira had never offered sympathy for Rector's plight—she had expected him to deal with his circumstances without becoming mired in self-pity—and in return, she had never once asked, nor expected, forgiveness for her own situation.
Their conversations, so heated early on, had eventually softened into friendship. Rector came to know and respect Mira, finding her to be insightful and fiercely loyal, and even though she had never admitted it, he knew she had loved Jaresh Shektan. Her struggle to reconcile her emotions with what she knew to be moral must have been difficult, but ultimately, she had remained true to her Kumma heritage and the teachings of The Word and the Deed. She had never acted upon her feelings. Mira had remained upright and virtuous.
Her admirable example had pushed Rector to become a better man himself, a more understanding one. In the face of her unrelenting courage, how could Rector have continued to wallow in his self-pity? And as her friend, how could he have hated her for the simple act of loving?
Mira had been a special person. She had deserved so much more than the ending she had received: murdered by Hal'El Wrestiva, the SuDin of the Sil Lor Kum.
Rector's fists clenched in fury. Even now, weeks after the fact, Mira's murderer had yet to be captured. The fragging bastard had escaped from the Stone Cavern flat he had shared with his Rahail lover, Varesea Apter, and had managed to elude the justice he so richly deserved.
Of course, news of Hal'El's infamy had thrown all of Ashoka into upheaval. His actions had been unprecedented, and the resultant shockwave, especially through Caste Kumma, had been unlike anything Rector had ever known of or experienced. The outrage over Hal'El's betrayal had been overwhelming, and House Wrestiva had lost all standing. Even their allies had been ensnared in the riptide of anger and excoriation.
No one wanted to be associated with such a disgraced House, and that included Rector Bryce. It was another reason why he sat waiting outside Dar'El Shektan's office. House Shektan was his birth House, and most of his family were still members of it. What better place for him to turn to than the honorable House that had exposed Hal'El's evil? More importantly, Rector had once promised Mira that he would try and reconcile with Dar'El. It was a vow he had made while she had lain dying, and it was a vow he was determined to keep.
