by Davis Ashura
Normally, Rector would have been down by the Sunset Gate—the southwestern egress through the Outer Wall—and watching it in the company of his fellow warriors. It was both an expectation and an honor for the veterans of the Trials to do so. There, down at the Sunset or Twilight Gate, they would stand shoulder to shoulder and welcome this year's Trims as the latest members to their brotherhood. For Rector, it would have been doubly important to be down by the Sunset Gate. As an officer in the Ashokan Guard, he was also required to closely monitor the actions of the Trims and their commanders. It was his duty to search out any possible deficiencies in leadership and execution, to find the fatal flaws that might lead to the defeat of Ashoka's warriors in the field. It was a task that Rector took quite seriously—as did all his fellow officers—but it was a commitment that didn't feel like an unwanted obligation. It was a duty that Rector revered.
In truth, he had always loved the Advent Trial. From his earliest memories as a young boy he had loved it. Later on, Rector had developed a more personal stake in the matter as a student at the House of Fire and Mirrors. And now, he cherished the Advent Trial for what it meant to those young Trims who were even at this moment out beyond Ashoka's Outer Wall. Their banded brotherhood—the lifetime of camaraderie and fellowship that all warriors shared—would have its birth today.
During the Advent Trial, there were no Houses or even Castes. There was no rivalry between the House of Fire and Mirrors, the Fort and the Sword, the Sarath, or the Shir'Fen. All who participated in the Advent Trial were brothers: Kummas, Murans, and Rahails alike.
A possibility came to Rector then. It slipped away, and he had to chase it down and hold it still. He replayed his thoughts, and when he truly understood their import, Rector nearly rocked back on his heels. His ideas were so similar to what Rukh claimed to be in the hearts of the Baels, and their secret alliance with Humanity. Rector wondered if the horned leaders of the Chimeras could truly experience such an exalted emotion as fraternity. It seemed so bizarre, so unlikely.
A moment later, he snorted in self-mockery when he caught sight of Jessira Shektan. Then again, how unlikely was it that a ghrina—over a hundred of them—in fact, would find acceptance in Ashoka? Perhaps there were more unlikely events in this suddenly strange and larger world.
“I know you wish you were down below with the rest of the veterans,” Satha Shektan said, coming alongside him, “but you and the others truly were chosen by lots. It wasn't because Dar'El decided to punish you further.”
Rector smiled, relieved to hear the news. In truth, he had wondered, even suspected, that the reason he was up here on the Outer Wall with the women of the House was because Dar'El intended further humiliations on him, that the ruling 'El of House Shektan had yet to truly forgive him. Rector was gratified to learn that it was otherwise.
“At least from up here we'll have a better view,” he said, forcing a light tone that he'd didn't necessarily feel.
“I'm sure you will,” Satha said. “I'll let you get back to your work.” Her message delivered, she turned away and rejoined the rest of the House Shektan women.
Rector watched her retreating back, glad to see that Satha's sharp-tongued aspersions no longer seemed to be aimed in his direction. Life was so much easier without her wickedly barbed words. Of course, Bree could be almost as cutting as her amma, and she remained cool to him. He supposed he deserved her distrust, but he was glad she was at last showing some signs of thawing. Earlier in the morning, she had made a mild quip at his expense. It hadn't been sarcastic or mean-spirited. It had been a simple joke, and then she'd turned away.
Rector shook his head, trying to return his attention to the task to which he had been assigned.
He and nine other warriors of House Shektan had been charged with looking after the women of the House. The ten of them were essentially up here to make sure that no one got too rowdy or forgot themselves in the haze of drunkenness and made inappropriate comments to the women. It was a simple assignment. Even a drunk remembered enough not to cause trouble for a sword-bearing Kumma.
Rector expected today to be no different, but a feeling came over him just then, a sense of a storm. Something filled the air. Hateful. Hidden. Violent.
He studied the crowd, the way it moved, the shifting islands of silence, the loud conversations. He narrowed his eyes, trying to determine what had him so disturbed.
There was nothing obvious. The crowd appeared unchanged. Those nearest to him still laughed and joked with one another as they placed bets on the outcome of the Advent Trial. All seemed utterly normal, and the feeling faded . . . but not entirely.
Rector was worried. His instincts had been honed from his time on the City Watch, and he had learned to trust these niggling suspicions.
There!
It had come again. It was a sensation that he had once known all too well, and one he had almost managed to forget. But here it was again in a setting where it had no place. It was an unappealing energy that he'd prayed to never again experience. It was the electric, nauseating stench that charged the air just prior to a battle.
Rector's brows furrowed in disquiet. This was Ashoka, and such a sensation shouldn't exist here. He shook his head, trying to shake off his suspicious thoughts or at least understand them better. He stared about, trying to discern the source of his ill feelings. He couldn't locate it, but of this he was certain: there was a strangeness to the crowd, a terrible sense of impending violence and promised death. It was invisible and unknowable, but it was there.
Rector glanced at the other Shektan warriors, seeing if they had picked up on his alarm.
They hadn't. They stood behind their charges, relaxed and unworried.
“You feel it, too?” Jessira asked, sidling up next to him.
Rector nodded, unsurprised that Rukh's wife would sense what his brother warriors apparently did not. After all, Jessira had once been a Stronghold scout. She and her kind had survived centuries without an Oasis. Jessira had spent more time in the Wildness than anyone in all of Ashoka, and she had done so with what the Murans and Rahails described as a wholly inadequate Blend. Her instincts were likely as finely tuned as Rector's, and whatever had her bothered had to be taken seriously.
“Keep close,” Rector whispered. “Pass the word on to the other women. Do it quietly. I'll fill in the warriors.”
“I'll let Sign and Bree know as well,” Jessira said. “They're armed.”
Rector nodded, but he suddenly found his attention focused upon a Muran. Had the man been frowning at him? Or had he been looking at Jessira? The Muran had already turned away and was laughing heartily at some joke said by a Rahail.
Rector turned aside and continued his study of the crowd even as he maintained part of his focus on the Muran who had laughed too loudly and too obviously.
“Do you think he saw anything?” the Rahail asked with a false but ready smile even as his pinched eyes betrayed his nervousness.
During the righteous smiting of the First Cleansing, all the men and women of the Virtuous were to be known only by the name of their Caste. It was a carryover from the meetings of the Heavenly Council of the Virtuous, and Shur was convinced that it imbued their purpose with even greater holiness. He was certain that it would make their numbers seem uncountable and strike fear into the hearts of the unholy. The Virtuous would be the anonymous enemy of evil, ready and willing to strike whenever the need arose.
Or so went Shur's dreams, but right now, those dreams had to give way to reality. Right now, he was worried about what he and the rest of the Virtuous were about to do, and his anxiety hadn't been improved after seeing Rector Bryce's slit-eyed scrutiny. Nevertheless, the other Virtuous couldn't be allowed to see his fear. They could only see his courage, and as a result, take heart in it.
Shur Rainfall laughed in the face of the Rahail's question, maintaining his facade of good cheer and joy. “He saw nothing,” Shur said. “Let not your heart tremble, for our actions are guided by the First F
ather and the First Mother. They will be our shield and our sword. We will not fail.”
The Rahail gave a terse nod but his worried expression remained.
Shur mentally sighed at the other man's lack of faith before considering his plan once again. He searched out the flaws, anything he might have overlooked. After careful thought, he remained convinced there was nothing he would or could do differently. The plan would work.
And when it did, Ashoka would never again be the same. Everything would change after today when the Virtuous carried out the First Cleansing. It would be like a pebble rushing down a mountain, and as it gathered more and more speed, more and more rocks would follow in its wake until an avalanche was thundering downhill, unstoppable and unpredictable.
What then would happen to the city?
Shur didn't entirely know, nor was he concerned by it. He had faith in the strong arm of Devesh. Whatever would come next would be something better, something wondrous. Of this, he was sure. Therefore, he refused to let fear of the unknown dissuade him from what he knew must be done. The passion of the righteous adherent would guide his actions today. He and those who believed as he did would surely overcome any obstacle. Today would be the start of Ashoka's great purging, when the city would be cleansed of the unclean, when Devesh's light would illuminate the souls of the faithful until they shone like the sun.
Shur could almost feel the holy hands of the First Mother and First Father as They guided him to do what was right. Under Their holy direction, he would push the stone that would start the change to come and the change that was needed.
“Are you sure he isn't looking at us?” the Rahail prodded a moment later.
“He doesn't suspect a thing,” Shur replied. “Look. He's already turned away.”
The Rahail glanced at Rector—who was looking elsewhere—and his lingering fear seemed to dissipate. “What do you think the ghrina wanted? The two of them looked to be having a serious conversation.”
Shur scowled briefly before remembering himself and forced a smile. “It isn't our concern,” he admonished. “They could be speaking of their planned evening of fornicatory pleasure for all I care, and it wouldn't matter in the slightest for what we must do. Nothing will save them from the righteous fury of the faithful!”
Shur imagined he could see the other man's eyes grow more fervent upon hearing Shur's inspiring words.
“The Kumma is Rector Bryce,” the Rahail said with a false laugh. He must have finally caught on that good cheer was the strongest defense against the suspicious gaze of others. “He was one who spoke out against the OutCastes at the Magisterium. Should we not spare someone who believes as we do?”
Shur clapped the Rahail on the shoulder, pretending a camaraderie he didn't feel. “If he believes as we, then why did he rejoin the cursed Shektans?” he asked.
“I'm not sure,” the Rahail said. His smile fell away and was replaced by a frown of concern. “The 'cursed Shektans' were the ones who destroyed that Tainted bastard—Hal'El Wrestiva—and the Sil Lor Kum.”
Shur scowled again before mastering his emotions once more. He smiled even as he held the Rahail in silent contempt. How like the weak-willed to falter in the face of the enemy, to doubt when the truth was so evident. If they were to succeed on this day, then devotion to duty and unwavering courage would be required. Shur hoped the rest of the Virtuous weren't as cowardly or as faithless as the Rahail.
“House Shektan was founded by a SuDin of the Sil Lor Kum,” Shur reminded the Rahail.
“But it was Rukh Shektan who destroyed the Chimera caverns,” the Rahail continued to protest. “He is one of our greatest heroes.”
“So he is, but it was also Rukh Shektan who contaminated his blood, body, and soul by marrying a ghrina,” Shur said in a hiss, tired of the Rahail's ongoing uncertainties and lack of conviction. “And it was Rukh Shektan who desecrated our holy city by bringing the ghrinas to our home. What we do is advocated by Devesh Himself. We purify what Rukh Shektan has polluted.”
The Rahail nodded hesitant agreement, and Shur sighed in impatience. “What else?” he asked, wishing the fool Rahail had brought up his unsurety at the last meeting of the Virtuous, instead of now, on the very eve of the First Cleansing.
“The ghrina who spoke to Rector Bryce was Jessira Shektan,” the Rahail replied. “She's armed. So are her ghrina cousin, Bree Shektan, Rector Bryce, and the nine Kumma warriors guarding the women. What if they interfere?” The nervous tic around the Rahail's eyes betrayed his fear.
Shur wanted to throttle the other man, but instead, he throttled his annoyance. “There are fifty of us. Ten Kummas might normally be able to handle such a number, but not in the crowded confines of the Outer Wall.” He gestured about them. “Look at all the people,” he said. “The Kummas will be hemmed in. Their speed won't count for anything and neither will their Fireballs. If they threw them, they'd end up killing scores of bystanders. They won't risk it.”
“What about the women?” the Rahail asked, his voice quavering. The man was apparently bound and determined to behave as meekly as the mouse he resembled.
“What about them?” Shur asked. The contempt in his tone made obvious his view on how well he thought the Shektan women might be able to fight. “They might have paraded around with their swords at one time, acting like they knew the sharp end of a blade from the hilt, but that doesn't make them warriors. They're weak. They're women. They'll break.”
The Rahail nodded. “What do we do next?” he asked, his voice firming.
Better. Shur held the other man's gaze, offering strength to the weakling. “We attack in the midst of the Advent Trial. It will be the perfect time to strike. Everyone will be so focused on what's going on beyond the Wall that they'll never see us coming until it's too late.”
The Rahail nodded once more, looking more and more certain with each passing second. Suddenly, his head darted up. “Bryce is looking at us again.” His face paled with fear as his hardening courage melted like ice in the summer sun.
Shur desperately laughed again and clapped the Rahail on the shoulder as if the two of them were sharing a great jest. It was an effort not to look in the direction of Rector Bryce. “Smile,” Shur said to the other man in a jovial tone.
The Rahail laughed shakily, darting glances at Rector Bryce. He fell into the rhythm of his laughter, but even to Shur it sounded maniacal. At least the Rahail had managed to stop his gaze from sneaking back toward Bryce.
From a nearby hill, Hal'El Wrestiva observed the city of his birth and the home of his heart with trepidation in his bones. He tried to maintain the confidence that had seen him victorious through so many battles, but an unmanning fear caused doubt to seep into his soul. What if this was the one battle he could not win? What if defeat awaited him on this day? It was certainly possible. After all, this would be the most demanding duty he had ever attempted.
Looming in the distance were the massive, sturdy walls of Ashoka and the equally massive, sturdy gates. Hal'El had to penetrate those sturdy walls and those sturdy gates, but before them stood what looked to be nearly a brigade of well-trained, alert guards. What were so many warriors doing out in force today? The Twilight Gate, the entrance to Ashoka that Hal'El studied so carefully, was typically manned by no more than a single platoon—twenty-three guards—not this uncountable mass of men.
And what about the people milling about atop the Outer Wall? What were they doing up there? What were they staring at with such rapt focus? Was it the young warriors in the fields beyond the Outer Wall, and if so, why? There had to be a reason.
Hal'El turned his spyglass to those young warriors. Their faces were smooth and unlined, and their features vibrant and alive, joyful even. The aging aspect of hardened experience had yet to touch them. There were other men out there in the fields as well. Older men. Men with miens wizened by exposure to wind, rain, sun, and brutal losses. Men who knew what it meant to suffer. Men who had seen their brother warriors die. Men who knew the
terrible cost of battle. And these men held the rapt attention of the younger warriors, all of whom stared at the veterans with respect bordering on awe.
Hal'El frowned, trying to discern what he was seeing. There was something to this scene, something familiar.
The answer came to him in an abrupt flash.
It was the Advent Trial. It was the only explanation that made sense. Those young warriors had to be Trims, and the older ones barking orders in their ears had to be their Martial Masters. And the large contingent of guards before the Twilight Gate had to be members of Caste Kumma who wanted the best vantage point possible to view the upcoming contest. As for the crowds of people standing atop the Outer Wall, they were merely spectators—an audience to the Advent Trial, and another obstacle Hal'El had to avoid.
Everyone appeared energetic and enthusiastic, none of which was surprising. The Advent Trial had always been popular, perhaps more so than any other martial competition other than the Tournament of Hume. Hal'El, however, had found the entire contest somewhat pedestrian, especially since the inclusion of Murans and Rahails diluted the true test of a warrior. It was all too easy for even the most brilliant of swordsmen to fail simply due to the weakness or slovenly skill of someone else in his unit. Bad luck it was called, but in Hal'El's mind, bad luck had no place in a rightful contest amongst warriors.
He much preferred the simpler competition wherein one man alone would wage battle against another, and the one with the greater will and skill would walk away victorious. Will and skill. Now that was the true test of a warrior. It was what made the Tournament of Hume so gripping.
An instant later, Hal'El sighed in heartache.
All that made his life worth living was in Ashoka, and he wondered: would he ever again be welcome within his home? Could he ever again walk the streets of his city with his face free to the sky and a well-earned pride in his gait? It seemed unlikely, but nevertheless, there was a chance, a small one, but only if Hal'El was able to accomplish the formidable work to which he had set himself.