by Davis Ashura
Mira blinked in surprise. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected. What did this Withering Knife have to do with the murder of Felt Barnel? Was it the murder weapon? Master Barnel had looked withered. Could that be the reason for its name? It seemed a bit simple and derivative, like from a bad drama. More importantly, though, what was her ‘El keeping to himself? “Is there anything else you can tell me about this Withering Knife, and how it relates to the murder of Felt Barnel?”
Dar’El shook his head. “Not yet. I’m not ready to say. It may be nothing more than a guess at this point. Once I have a better idea as to what’s going on, perhaps then…” He trailed off. His eyes suddenly bored into hers. “Tell no one. Consider your investigation to be a House secret. I know the research will be hard, so I’ve asked Jaresh to join you. The two of you have complementary skills. You should work well together. I will want weekly progress reports.”
Mira hid a sigh. If she was expected to comb all of the City Library’s stacks and all one million volumes, hard didn’t come close to describing her newly assigned task. The search was sure to be long, tedious, and frustrating. She might be at it for months. The only solace was that Jaresh would be helping her. He was the family’s strongest researcher. Maybe he could help make the time go by more quickly.
The building housing the City Library was the largest and oldest in Ashoka. The Library was ancient, known to have existed prior to the Night of Sorrows. It might have been established at the very founding of Ashoka, and over the ensuing centuries, it had expanded outward and upward until it now covered several blocks and rose a colossal five stories into the sky with another two stories below the ground. It was a shame none of the expansions seemed to have been built with a regard for exterior aesthetics. Additions had been plunked down in various ways and places, and the resultant mishmash of styles had led to an epic eyesore. The oldest parts of the building were simple walls of granite, glass, and ironwood. Grafted onto the original Library were the architecturally nonsensical additions, such as the one from several centuries ago with its ornate, fluted columns holding aloft a complicated maze of porticos and friezes. Even worse was the most recent from fifty years past: an overdone mess of towers and gargoyles. Absolutely hideous.
Somehow, the same architects who had devised the atrocious exterior had been much more cognizant of the interior spaces. The entrance to the Library was a wide, high-ceilinged atrium rising to the roof. It was formed of thick, white granite with slender ribs of ironwood and spidergrass. All of it appeared too fragile to hold up the space and keep the entire structure from collapsing. However, the Duriah engineers vowed those same frail-looking vaulted buttresses were actually stronger than the surrounding stone. A massive chandelier was centrally placed within the atrium and held countless firefly lamps. It descended from the ceiling and lighted up the space as brightly as the noonday sun. Other rooms, airy and cheerful, branched off the entrance. These were the various departments of the Library, everything from history-to-science-to-art. All of them had vibrant frescoes and murals with broad windows bringing in even more light. The rooms were just the sort of place a scholar would happily while away an entire day of study.
The reserve section, though, where the more rarely called for and esoteric texts were kept, took up the two lowest levels of the Library – the ones below ground. Those sections were definitely not sunny and warm but instead had the claustrophobic feel of a grotto: dark and dingy, full of dust and mold with tall shelves rising toward the ceiling’s gloom. A few overwhelmed and ineffectual lanterns provided dim lighting for the spaces. As a result, most people referred to the reserve section of the Library as the Cellar, an apropos if obvious name.
Right now, Mira and Jaresh found themselves in the part of the Cellar given over to the study of Suwraith. Within it were housed over twenty thousand volumes, and nearby were the histories of the First World, Arisa as it had existed prior to the Night of Sorrows. There were also accounts of the Night itself and the years following, the Days of Desolation. Once, these books had been in the public section, but over time, interest in them had diminished until the decision was made a century earlier to move them all to the Cellar.
It seemed few people cared to study the world as it was prior to Suwraith. Perhaps it was because the First World had been so lovely and peaceful in comparison to the one found now.
Mira sneezed. Again. The dust and mold were getting to her. Her eyes itched, her nose dripped, and her sinuses were swelling shut. She should have taken her allergy medication before coming here.
“This is the place,” Mira said. “Ready for a few months of painful slogging?”
“Absolutely,” Jaresh said with false levity. “Searching through thousands of mildewy tomes…what a way to spend the spring and summer.” He sighed. “Tell me again why Nanna asked you to look for this Withering Knife? Is he punishing you for some reason?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” Mira answered with an arch to an eyebrow. “Why? Is he punishing you, maybe?”
“I hope not,” Jaresh replied. “And he didn’t say anything else about why we’re down here?”
Mira shrugged. “Not really. You know how he is.”
“Mysterious and all-knowing?”
Mira smiled. “Exactly.” She sneezed again.
Jaresh chuckled. “Why don’t you wait by the table? I can bring the books and scrolls over,” he said, gesturing to the shelves around them. “There’s probably going to be another cloud of dust billowing into the air when I pull them down, and I don’t think your sinuses could take much more.”
Mira threw him a grateful look. “Thank you,” she said.
“Leave the lantern,” Jaresh added as she was turning to leave. “I can’t make anything out in this light.” He waved a large sheet of paper. On it was the cribbed handwriting of the librarian in charge of antiquities, and a long list of books and scrolls the old Sentya had suggested they start with.
Mira left the lantern and retreated. She waited for Jaresh in one of the few reading alcoves found in the Cellar. It was a small space, able to house a couple of rectangular tables, each with seating for four. An ineffectual chandelier shed just enough light by which to read but not enough to drive away the gloom. The oppressive feel was made worse by the looming, shadowed shelves pressed in all around the nook.
A few minutes later, Jaresh returned with a large stack of books cradled in his hands and against his chest. They were piled one atop the other up to his chin. He dropped them with a grateful sigh, letting them thud onto the old, oak table.
“Sadly, this is only a very small fraction of what we’ll need to go through,” Jaresh said.
Mira took a deep breath. “Better get to work then,” she replied.
Hours later, neither she nor Jaresh had managed to find a single reference to the Withering Knife.
“How many manuscripts do you think we’ve gone through?” Mira asked.
“Five hundred and twenty nine,” Jaresh said, not missing a beat.
“Five hundred and twenty nine?” Mira asked in surprise. “You’ve been keeping track of the exact number?”
“Sure,” he agreed, amiably. He grinned a moment later. “Actually, I have no idea,” he said. “I just made it up.”
Mira laughed. “I should have known.”
“Why don’t we just say we’ve gone through a lot and have a lot more to go through. Enough to sink a boat.”
“It’s going to take us weeks to finish this task,” Mira complained, hating the petulant tone in her voice.
“More like months.”
Mira groaned.
“It could be worse,” Jaresh said.
“How so?”
“You could be doing this by yourself.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Jaresh looked up from the manuscript he had been studying, a twinkle in his eyes. “Do you think we could get Bree to help us?”
“I think she’d be more of a hindrance than a help,” Mira said wit
h a chuckle. She gestured around them. “Or do you actually think she would appreciate hours of solitary, mind-numbing research?”
Jaresh laughed. “Not really her forte is it?”
“No, and definitely not your brother’s.”
“Rukh?” Jaresh asked, sounding surprised.
“He just doesn’t seem the type to work on a project like this. I’m sure he’d rather be off practicing with his sword.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Jaresh asked. “Reading a text isn’t going to keep him alive like mastering the blade.” He had the obstinate look of someone who was about to be offended, and Mira knew she had to step carefully with him. Jaresh obviously loved and respected his brother quite a lot.
“No it isn’t, and I understand why he focused so much on learning to fight,” Mira said. “It’s just that your father is so well-read and intelligent. I think Rukh could learn a lot from him,” she said. “This isn’t meant as a criticism of Rukh. He’s a tremendous warrior, but maybe Kummas should value intelligence just as highly. Our Caste traditionally chooses our leaders based on their fighting prowess – the other Houses certainly have – but ours didn’t, and it’s made all the difference. Dar’El wasn’t the greatest warrior of his generation, but he is certainly the most cunning. He and your mother see five moves ahead where most other ‘Els might see only two or three. It’s why our House has become so wealthy and powerful so quickly.”
“And you think Rukh lacks those qualities? Their guile?” Jaresh shook his head. “You don’t know him as well as you think you do.”
Mira frowned. “How so?”
“He isn’t as cunning as Amma or even Nanna, but he can see the larger issues at hand in a way they maybe can’t. Rukh has always wanted to understand the truth of a matter. He’s never accepted received wisdom without challenging it first.”
“Such as?”
“Like whether a Sentya should be trained in the sword,” Jaresh replied. “We were only six and five, but he was the one who somehow convinced Amma to have Durmer start teaching me. I remember overhearing Amma and Nanna talking about it after they thought I was asleep. Rukh basically told them that if I was a Shektan, then I was all-but a Kumma, which meant if I wanted, I should be taught the sword. I remember Nanna being impressed.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Few do, and I’m grateful Rukh spoke up when he did. For me, it’s made all the difference.” He smiled. “And if Nanna had asked him to help you, he would have. He isn’t too proud to get his hands dirty.”
Mira leaned back in her chair and considered Jaresh’s words.
Rukh getting his hands and face dirty in the Cellar? It was hard to credit. In fact, Jaresh’s description of his brother was almost completely at odds with how Mira had always thought of Rukh. He had always struck her as somewhat simple and naive. Nothing more pressing than mastery of the sword to ever clutter his mind. It was hard to reconcile the persona she had of him with the complex, intelligent, compassionate man Jaresh described.
Had she really misjudged him so terribly over the years? Jaresh seemed to think so, but she wondered if his view wasn’t colored by a younger brother’s adulation of his adored and admired older brother. Indeed, while Bree was undeniably brilliant, it was actually Jaresh whom Mira thought of as the brightest and most levelheaded of Dar’El’s three children. Given his good looks, kindness, Talents, and wealth, Jaresh would make some Sentya woman incredibly happy one day, but Mira wondered what he might have been able to accomplish had he been born a Kumma, rather than just adopted into a Kumma House.
Jaresh laughed. “I can see you doubt everything I’ve said so far, but I guess I can let you in on the secret now that he’s off on Trial: Rukh read voraciously. All the time. In some ways, he’s even more of an intellectual than Nanna. He’s certainly more of a dreamer anyway.”
Mira frowned as she mulled over his words. “I think of a dreamer as being a visionary, as someone who accomplishes true greatness. He builds the things others say are impossible and raises us all up higher than we can reach. For example, it would have made more sense and been more practical for Dar’El to have remained with his birth House rather than transfer to House Shektan, but by doing so he helped create something extraordinary.” She paused a moment, letting her words sink in. “So what does Rukh dream of building?”
Jaresh didn’t answer at first, mulling over her words. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. “But whatever it is, I hope it is something grand, maybe even more than what Nanna has accomplished.”
“You really think it’s possible?”
“I think Rukh has true greatness in him. Yes.”
Mira smiled. Rukh was a fine warrior, and maybe he was even the man Jaresh believed him to be: intelligent and wise, but she doubted he was also a visionary. It was too much. No man should be blessed with so many gifts.
She didn’t want to argue the issue, though. What would be the point? Instead, she changed the subject. “And do you dream?” Mira asked. She was surprised to see a look of fleeting sorrow overtake Jaresh’s face.
“I have dreams,” he said, somewhat softly.
She waited to hear if he would say more, but he remained silent.
According to The Book of All-Souls, the sins of a man are said to be burned away upon his death, and if his Jivatma is made pure, he will be elevated to Heaven through Devesh’s grace, to stand at our Lord’s feet as a Holy Mahatma. But, if he is unable to endure the cleansing, his soul re-enters the cycle of Life to be re-born on Arisa. Where then are the Mahatmas? Perhaps they are absent because a man’s sins are not his alone. Perhaps they carry on in his blood.
~Our Lives Alone by Asias Athandra, AF 331
Jaresh was lost in his thoughts as he walked the southern leg of Bright Rose Road and took the long way home. It had been another long, fruitless day of reading and deciphering the cramped, cryptic handwriting of scholars from ages past. His eyes were tired, his head hurt, and he was frustrated. So far, there had not even been the slightest shred of evidence, the smallest scrap of information to let them know that this so-called Withering Knife even existed. It had been a month since he and Mira had started their search, and they had already worked their way through most of the manuscripts on their initial list. They might soon have to expand the scope of their investigation. It was an unpalatable thought.
He walked on, paying only minimal attention to his surround-ings. He knew he was nearing his destination. All he had to do was stay on Bright Rose Road, the finely paved, large thoroughfare that circumnavigated Ashoka. No obvious ruts or potholes marred the street’s surface, but small puddles of water from the late afternoon thundershower had collected in places where the street had settled. The rain had washed away much of the day’s early summer humidity, and there was a fall-like nip to the air with a stiff breeze blowing in from the sea. Jaresh shivered. He was dressed for warmer weather, and the chill cut through his light clothing.
A gust of wind rustled the long line of rose bushes planted along the road’s median, carrying a hint of the floral scent to come. The roses were the reason for Bright Rose’s name. Right now, it was too early for them to bloom, but in a few months, the road would be a riot of colors: pink, yellow, red, and even purple. It was then, during the height of summer’s warmth, that the lush, floral aroma would carry for miles and blanket the city with their fragrance, drawing thick bees and butterflies who would flitter amongst the flowers in rapturous delight.
Jaresh was always surprised by the quietness of this area – Widow Cavern, just west of Mount Crone and east of Hart’s Stand along Bright Rose Road. Here, the main boulevard along Ashoka’s perimeter was packed with rows of houses as well as shops and restaurants, but somehow, this neighborhood never seemed uproariously loud like the rest of the city. Even with the looming bulk of the Inner Wall no more than several hundred yards away to help encapsulate any noises, it remained relatively quiet. Maybe it was because the area here was mostly populated by Raha
ils, the quiet Caste. They enjoyed their silence. Even those who weren’t Rahails quickly learned to maintain a more unobtrusive manner of speaking when living amongst them.
Jaresh pondered this Rahail sentiment for quietness even as a group of buskers played a loud, lively jig down the corner from him. Maybe their demand for silence didn’t apply to music. He was about to cross to the broad median of rose bushes when a harsh cry, cursing and angry, broke through his reverie. He was appalled to find the words were directed at him.
“Watch where you’re going, you jackass!”
Jaresh startled out of his thoughts and came to a sudden stop, two steps into the street and off the pedestrian byway, wondering why he was suddenly standing in shadow. He glanced up, looking into the furious glare of a livid Duriah drover. Jaresh had stepped out directly in front of the man’s heavily laden wagon. Only a hard jerk on the reins and a pull to the side had saved Jaresh from getting flattened.
The Duriah breathed heavily, anger still blazing in his eyes. “I almost killed you, fool. Do you not have anything to say for yourself?” the Duriah demanded, speaking in the formal and clipped tones of his Caste.
Jaresh quickly sized up the man. Based on his heavy leather apron, scorched in many places by burn marks, the man was a blacksmith and likely strong as an ox, given his bull-like build. And the look in his almond-shaped eyes didn’t bode well. Duriahs tended to anger easily.
Nanna had always impressed Jaresh with the importance of humility and courtesy when dealing with strangers of any Caste. And not getting into a brawl with an angry Duriah was even more reason for a kind demeanor.
Jaresh apologized. “I’m sorry sir. I should have been paying more attention to where I was going. Unfortunately, my mind was elsewhere; on a task set to me by my nanna.”
Most would have considered the apology excessively deferential, but for a Duriah it was just right. They were a very formal and polite Caste and quite the sticklers for etiquette. And given the near disaster Jaresh had nearly caused, a very obsequious confession was required. It did help that his mistake was due to his preoccupation with his work, an excuse generally considered good as gold to a Duriah. For them, a man’s worth was directly related to how seriously he took his labor, especially one given to him by his elders. Hopefully, the Duriah would see it the same way.