by Davis Ashura
“Can you form this Bow?” Fol Nacket asked.
“It's the the silvery light I used against the Queen,” Rukh answered before hesitating. “I can also Cohese since a Bow is a type of Cohesion in and of itself.”
The Cherid Magistrate leaned forward. “And since you can also form a Blend and a Shield, can you then form an Oasis as well?” he asked, his expression intense.
“I can. I have,” Rukh replied. “When I fought the Queen during the Advent Trial. My memories of that day are shaky, but parts of it have started to come back. I created an Oasis. It was weak, and if the Sorrow Bringer hadn't been so surprised by what She was facing, She could have easily crushed me.”
“Can you make one of these more powerful Oases?” Fol asked, a hawk-eyed look of hope on his face.
“No. An Oasis like what you describe has to be anchored to something living and strong,” Rukh said. “A sapling would work best, but until the tree reaches maturity and the fullness of its strength, any Oasis tied to it would be weaker than what we already have. Had Linder the opportunity to do so, that's what he would have wanted. He would have left us with a more effective, flexible Oasis, but He just didn't have enough time. And neither do we.”
“Can you teach someone else whatever it is that you can do?” Dar'El asked. A dim idea tickled the back of his thoughts.
“No,” Rukh told him. “But Aia and her brothers can. She can transfer my knowledge to anyone.”
The notion came clear to Dar'El. “Then we need to teach as many people as possible what you know,” he said excitedly, caught up in the fever of his vision.
“Our people will believe themselves Tainted,” Krain Linshok said. He looked to Rukh and reddened in embarrassment. “Sorry, but it might be how they view matters.”
“Those who wish to die can choose to abstain from what I'm proposing,” Dar'El said. “The rest of us will accept whatever is needed. We'll fight to live, and even though what I'm suggesting is an alien way of looking at the world, ultimately it will also lead to a better one.”
“How so?” Dos Martel asked.
“Because once others are taught what Rukh knows, they can be sent to other cities,” Dar'El explained. “Now. By sea. They can create these new Oases, grow them, understand them, and protect Humanity's cities better than they ever have been so far. We might even be able to establish new cities or resurrect dead ones.”
Gren Vos wore an expression of bittersweet longing mingled with satisfaction on her seamed visage. “So even if we fall, Humanity will not.”
“I motion we consider this plan,” Krain said.
“Second,” Dos Martel said, infusing the word with feeling.
“All in favor?” Fol Nacket called out.
Again, the vote was unanimous.
“We'll take a few days to think this matter over before coming to a final decision,” Fol said.
Upon hearing Fol's words, hope, so long dimmed, stretched out a tremulous tendril through Dar'El's heart. If the Magisterium decided correctly, the history of Ashoka would not die. Those given Rukh's Talents would remember their first home. They would remember this place of grace and beauty. They would remember from whence they originated. Ashoka's legacy would carry on.
Dar'El knew that for himself, and for many others, such a prayed-for future would have to be enough. In these grim times, this faint dream—expressed as a parent's hopes for the lives of their children—would have to suffice.
“Your plan might be the salvation of all of Humanity,” Rukh noted as they left the chamber.
Dar'El nodded. “But only if the Magisterium chooses correctly.”
Rukh seemed to hesitate and a faraway expression stole across his face. “I sometimes have odd dreams about the Withering Knife. I have this sense that it might be another means to save Humanity.”
Dar'El frowned puzzlement, unsure of the reason for Rukh's troubling words. More than merely nonsensical, they were also antithetical to much of what he believed to be true. “The Withering Knife is evil,” Dar'El said carefully. “Salvation can never be born from such wickedness. It can never save us.”
Rukh's faraway expression thawed and an embarrassed smile took its place. “As I said, they're odd dreams. Perhaps we can forget that I mentioned them?”
Jessira tossed a bag of pakoras and samosas to Rukh. “Courtesy of Cook Heltin,” she said, flopping down next to him a moment later.
After a furious few weeks, the two of them finally had a few hours alone together. They found themselves sitting near the Inner Wall in a narrow alley. On one end, it opened out into the loud heart of Trell Rue and on the other, a busy street of apartments and stores. The noises, however, never reached very far into the alley. Within its embrace was an island of cool and quiet with dappled sunlight and shadows that was near enough to their posting at Bellary Gate that they could return there in an instant if called back to duty, yet remote and private enough for the two of them to enjoy some time alone. For this reason, Jessira liked the narrow lane. She didn't even much mind the smelly mixture of garbage and spices from Trell Rue's nearby restaurants.
Being together was more than enough to overcome such minor inconveniences.
“I'm almost too tired to eat,” Rukh announced just then, resting his head against the wall of a building and closing his eyes.
Jessira shared his fatigue.
The siege had begun almost six weeks ago, and life had become as hard and uneven as a sunbaked rutted road. Following the fall of the Outer Wall there had been the mad dash to evacuate and empty the city's farmlands, and afterward, a long, brutal week of endless rotations for all the warriors upon the Inner Wall. All of them had been working on the vapors of their stamina with too little sleep to sustain them. They'd been asked to stay vigilant and man the Inner Wall in three overlapping rotations as they waited and prepared for the Chimeras to advance.
The Plague never had, though. Despite the fact that the Oasis had been pulled back to the Inner Wall, the Chims and their siege engines had never pressed forward. They had remained stationed past the Outer Wall as the Queen had raced into Ashoka's farmlands, surging like a turmoiled sea. But Her waves weren't made of water. Her waves were a scouring sandstorm. Just like at Stronghold, the Sorrow Bringer had denuded the fertile fields, ripping every green shoot from the ground as She abraded clean the earth, leaving much of it a glassy ruin.
The Ashokans had been unable to do anything but watch as She desecrated their glorious farms.
Rukh sat forward just then. “You realize this is the first time we've been alone together for the past two weeks?” he asked.
Jessira nodded. “Which is why we shouldn't waste this opportunity by just sleeping.
Rukh grinned lecherously, and Jessira made sure he saw her eyeroll.
“I meant by eating,” Rukh explained, drawing out a samosa and popping it in his mouth. His face was all innocence.
Jessira rolled her eyes again even as she laughed. She pulled Rukh to her and kissed him. She didn't mind that his unshaved face was filthy with dust, that his hair hung lank, or that he smelled rank as refuse. He was with her, and that was all that mattered.
Besides, Jessira wasn't in much better shape. She was just as grimy, gritty, and gamy.
Rukh passed her the bag of pakoras and samosas. “Who did you send back to the House Seat to get the food?” he asked.
“Shon,” Jessira answered.
Rukh's eyebrows lifted in appreciation. “Very clever,” he said. “I should have thought of that. Aia wouldn't have minded. Cook Heltin always spoils them with treats anyway.”
*Yes, you should,* Aia, his calico-coated Kesarin, said to him. *I might have even suggested it once or twice.*
*I'm trying to talk to my wife,* Rukh reminded her in a tart tone.
*Talk?* Aia asked, sounding confused. *Why waste your time talking when you want to mate?*
*Go away,* Rukh said.
*If you need instructions, I can provide those to you,* Aia offered
, *just as I did when Jessira needed Healing. Remember when you wanted to look at her . . .*
*Aia!* Rukh warned, scandalized.
*Fine. I'm leaving,* Aia said with a chuckle.
Jessira was also laughing. “It's been awhile since we did what Aia suggested,” she said.
“You don't have to remind me,” Rukh replied with feeling. “It would have been nice if just once, even for one day, we could have lived as husband and wife and all of this fighting for our lives never entered our thoughts.”
“We wouldn't have to worry about our families being murdered and our homes destroyed,” Jessira said softly, picking up the train of his thoughts. “We could have simply shared our lives with those we love and with one another.”
“A dream for another life,” Rukh said in a wistful tone, sounding sleepy.
“A beautiful dream, priya,” Jessira said. She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
Lienna gnashed Her figurative teeth. She had yet to puncture through the final barrier that protected Ashoka, and time was slipping away. She could feel it running through Her figurative fingers like fog. She had to end this. Three times She had felt Father's power. First, by a small pond in the Privation Mountains. Again in the early part of summer when She'd struck down many of the mangy Ashokans. And a third time just a few weeks ago.
Mother refused to fully explain Father's absence, but Her muteness on the matter was answer enough. Lienna knew: Father was reborn.
And with each appearance and confrontation, He had proven Himself to be more sure, more certain, more forceful. His power was still a pale shadow of the puissance He had once possessed—and even more irrelevant compared to what Lienna Herself commanded—but in the end, He was Father. He could not be disregarded.
Lienna had to kill Him before He became a threat. She had to destroy this wretched city, and soon. She had to blast apart the final gates of Ashoka before Father emerged, strong like He once had been.
“The closer You grip murder to Your heart, the more likely you will meet Your own demise,” Mother advised. “As You murdered Me, so to shall that be Your final fate. The world will celebrate.”
Lienna trembled at Mother's words.
“So boastful and proud were You when You recently confronted Me, but now look at what You've become,” Mistress Arisa sneered. “Where is Your great courage now, weakling? You're as fearful as a hen in a room full of tigers.”
Lienna wanted to ignore the voices in Her mind, but she couldn't. It was too difficult. Too many of Her children were dead, killed when their treacherous commanders had left them helpless before the walls of several of Humanity's cities. There were barely enough of them to hold Lienna's madness at bay.
She worried over what would happen if She again lost Her sanity. She chewed over the possibilities like a hyena would a scrap of meat. No answer sparked in Her thoughts, but an undefined time later, the voices of thousands of Her children raised in prayer eased Her mind's concerns. It was the Prayer of Gratitude, a balm to Her soul. The beautiful, symmetrical lines and cadences of the Prayer filled the heavens. It was a rapturous song that always brought Lienna pleasure.
The Prayer ended, and Lienna descended to where Her Baels had gathered. There were issues for the upcoming battle that needed to be discussed, but as She approached, She broke into a frown. Where was Li-Boil? And his SarpanKi, Li-Torq? Those two had proven trustworthy, unlike the rest of their treacherous brethren.
Lightning lit a counterpoint to Lienna's annoyance. Thunder rumbled. “Where is My SarpanKum?” She demanded of a Bael who now wore the red feathers of command.
“The burden of leadership now falls upon my unworthy shoulders,” the Bael announced. “I am Li-Grist. The honored Li-Boil and Li-Torq were killed by the Humans in an unexpected attack.”
More lightning and growling thunder followed the words of this Li-Grist. Lienna wasn't sure whether to trust him.
“When did this occur?” Lienna demanded.
“Several days ago,” Grist answered.
“Their corpses?” Lienna demanded.
“Returned as ashes to holy Arisa's bosom.”
Lienna scowled in frustration, and She took on the appearance of a storm cloud. Rain fell. Thunder pealed. She noticed several of Her children flinch in fear, but She was too caught up in Her anger to care.
“Then you will be the one to carry out My commands,” Lienna announced. “We will redouble our efforts on Ashoka's final wall. We will destroy it before the end of the week.”
“It is good You order us to move so quickly,” the SarpanKum said. “When the Humans attacked several weeks ago, they poisoned our water supply. We didn't learn of it until the Pheds started dying. Thankfully, we were able to save most of the herd, but it only leaves us with enough food for several more weeks before we will be forced to return to the Hunters Flats and resupply.”
Lienna held in Her shock by the barest of margins. How could such an outrage have happened? And why hadn't Boil told Her of it? He should have, no matter that it would have raised questions about his competence. The fact that Boil hadn't told Her but that Grist had, indicated that the new SarpanKum was a more suitable leader of the Eastern Plague.
Lienna grew increasingly irritated, wondering what other setbacks Boil might have kept to himself. More thunder came, and the rain fell more fiercely. An instant later, She put away Her anger as realization lit Her thoughts. Lienna laughed, and Her thunderstorm clouds became a soft, spring drizzle. “We will not need to resupply,” She said. “When we bring down Ashoka's final protection, My children will use the corpses of that foul city's denizens as their meals. It will be the victor's feast.”
“As You command,” Grist answered.
Lienna didn't deign any further reply. Her orders had been given, and She rose skyward, heartened to have such competence as evidenced by her new SarpanKum.
And after Ashoka's Oasis fell, She would deal with that traitor Hal'El Wrestiva. He was no longer listening to Her. He had Her Knife, and She wanted it back, especially before Father found it. It was the one fear that gnawed into Lienna's good cheer. Father with Her Knife. That couldn't be allowed.
While blessed Innocence will wear and warp with Time's passage, Love is otherwise. It need never disappear from a person's life. Be wise and always choose it.
~The Book of All Souls
The battle for Ashoka was one in which Rector Bryce had not yet been allowed to take part. When the Fan Lor Kum had first approached Ashoka, he had not been asked to report to duty and defend his home. Even after the Queen's arrival, he had been denied. The Oasis had been pulled back to the Inner Wall, the fields of Ashoka set afire, and still Rector had not been called forth.
Instead, his superiors had in mind for Rector a somewhat different task, one they felt better suited to his abilities. From the Magisterium itself had come his orders: find Hal'El Wrestiva and kill him. There was no need to offer the traitor a tribunal. One had already been provided him, and Hal'El had been convicted in absentia. He had been found guilty of a long list of crimes, each one worse than the other: treason, membership in the Sil Lor Kum, and finally, murder.
Nevertheless, Hal'El, despite his depravity and evil, was still accounted one of the most skilled warriors of his generation. Just how skilled was something that Rector knew quite well. He had once crossed blades with the man and had lost badly to him. It had been on the night Mira had been murdered.
Of all the defeats he had suffered, that was the one that Rector regretted the most. If he'd only possessed a mite more skill, maybe Mira might still be alive. It was an unknowable, unanswerable regret, but one that still clawed at Rector's heart. It was for this reason that he hadn't argued with his orders. He had gladly accepted them. Who knew what new malevolence Hal'El had planned? The treasonous bastard had to be stopped, and the best service Rector could offer his home would be to destroy Hal'El's evil once and for all.
All this made Rector's progress in finding the fo
rmer ruling 'El of House Wrestiva all the more frustrating and disheartening. Hal'El had reentered Ashoka—everyone knew it. He'd even murdered one more time, but after that, he seemed to have disappeared. There was no trace of him. He had become a whisper on the wind, a rumor of danger, unseen and unknown, and Rector had been unable to track him down.
Until now.
“This is Solair Tumblewash,” Rector said, introducing the bulky Duriah standing beside him. “Tell them what you told me.”
The Duriah glanced around the room—Dar'El's study in the Shektan House Seat—and licked his lips. He was obviously nervous, and Rector could understand why. The meeting had to be intimidating for Solair. Here he was, the focus of a gathering attended by none other than Dar'El Shektan, a man of fearsome repute. To make matters worse, also present was the equally redoubtable Satha Shektan, her children Bree and Jaresh, and her daughter-in-law, Jessira. All of them carried the surname 'Shektan' and all of them had achieved a certain level of fame or infamy in Ashoka.
“You'll be fine,” Rector said, urging the Duriah on.
Solair nodded and cleared his throat. “I own a shop down in Hold Cavern,” he said. “I'm a bowyer, and early this morning a man came into my store. He was a Kumma, older and looking down on his luck. His clothes were a little worn, not fine like you normally see. Plus, he was dressed like it was cold, with gloves on and his hood thrown forward so I could barely see his face. He told me his name was Vale Driven of House Wrestiva and that he wanted a custom-made bow and quiver of arrows. I told him I couldn't get to it any time soon with all the demands of the High Army.” Solair wore a self-deprecating expression. “With the siege, they have me working from sunup-to-sunup. Same with my apprentices,” he explained. “Anyway, the Kumma didn't like that, and he said if I had a bow that was close enough to his specifications, he'd take it. I told him that I couldn't be sure without the Army's approval—”