by Davis Ashura
A moment later she sighed. “What you said had merit, but you were so blunt about it. No one wants to listen to a scold.”
“I spoke what was in my heart,” Rector repeated.
“And you’ve never wondered if your heart might need…tempering?” Bree stood up. She surprised him when she paused next to his chair and squeezed his shoulder. “I like you Rector, but in this, I will always be with my family. You should remember that.”
He spent the rest of the morning at the Martyr’s Plaza and replayed their conversation, but the soft press of her hand on his shoulder was what stayed with him.
“Figured you’d be here,” Mira said with a smile.
Jaresh was exactly where she had expected to find him: eating breakfast in the sunroom. It was a large, brightly lit space just off the kitchen with windows taking up an entire wall. Views beyond extended to Satha Shektan’s pride and joy: her flower gardens, bursting in full bloom now. The windows were thrown open, and Mira tied off the curtains, which were billowing in the playful breeze. With it came the salty tang of the sea.
“I fixed you some food,” Jaresh said, gesturing to a plate of eggs with several thick slabs of bacon. He grinned. “I figured you’d be hungry. You complain about it often enough.”
“I don’t complain,” Mira explained in the overly patient tone she knew he hated. “I just don’t think there’s anything to be learned by being hungry all the time.”
“Uh huh,” Jaresh replied.
“And here I was going to fetch you some juice.”
Jaresh glanced up from his food, a hopeful look on his face.
Mira laughed. “Don’t get used to it,” she said. “Kummas are meant to command. We don’t serve.”
“How could I ever forget?”
Cook Heltin already had two glasses of juice poured and ready when Mira went into the kitchen. She mutely passed them to her. Somehow the old Sentya always knew what everyone needed. It must be a gift.
When Mira returned to the sunroom, she plopped Jaresh’s drink down in front of him. “There,” she said. “Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaresh replied.
Mira silently studied him for a moment, not sure if she should tell him how proud she was of him and the way he had stood up for himself in the council meeting. Rector Bryce was a jackhole of blunt force stupidity, and she was glad her mother no longer brought up any talk of a potential match between the two of them.
Jaresh, on the other hand, had so many admirable qualities. It was a shame more Kummas couldn’t see it. They saw the flash and bang of his brother – and Rukh was impressive, there was no doubting his abilities. Not anymore. Especially not after what he’d been through and survived. But Jaresh had a quiet competence to him as well, one which wasn’t as bright and showy as Rukh’s, but effective nonetheless.
She said as much.
Jaresh flushed, looking uncomfortable.
Mira smiled, recognizing she had embarrassed him. Jaresh was the kind of man who went about his work, did it well, and preferred to skip the accolades. His humility was sweet.
“Rector needed to be put in his place,” Mira added. “I’m glad you were the one to do it.”
Jaresh shrugged. “I only wanted to keep the meeting going. We don’t have time for crises of conscience.”
“No we don’t,” Mira said. “Rukh only came home last night, and I already feel as though weeks have passed. There is so much we have to digest, to reassess.”
Jaresh smiled. “Rukh always was one to overturn the apple cart,” he said, the warmth evident in his voice.
Mira frowned. When it came to Rukh, Jaresh never questioned anything his brother said. “And you don’t have any second thoughts about what he told us?” she asked.
Jaresh shook his head. “No. Do you?”
“I might have some doubts, but, yes, overall I tend to believe him.”
“I see no reason to disbelieve him, now or ever. He’s my brother. I grew up with him,” Jaresh said.
“And now he is a Kumma who can Blend and Heal,” Mira said. “There are those who will say he is no Kumma at all.”
“Men like Rector Bryce, you mean.” Jaresh snorted in derision. “I have no idea what Bree sees in him.”
“Bree is interested in Rector?” Mira said, surprised.
“You haven’t noticed?”
“I tend to ignore the man whenever possible.”
“You don’t think we’re being a little harsh?”
Mira gave him a measuring look.
“I guess not,” Jaresh said.
“He’s a hidebound idiot, always so sure he’s the only person who can tell right from wrong,” Mira said with a grimace of disdain.
“In some ways, he sort of reminds me of your mother,” Jaresh said. “No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Mira replied. “And I know what you mean. He is like Amma,” she said. “It is strange, but sometimes I feel closer to your amma.”
Jaresh grinned. “Then we would have been brother and sister.”
Mira nodded, wondering what that would have been like. At least they would have gotten to know one another far earlier than they had. It would have been nice.
“You never told me what you think of Rukh’s new Talents,” Mira reminded Jaresh after a moment of quiet.
“There’s nothing to think about. He never wanted any of those Talents, and if we can’t have compassion for those who have been damaged through no fault of their own, how can we claim to be a good and merciful people?”
“Some might say the same about the OutCastes,” she said.
Jaresh nodded. “I know. I’ve thought about it.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know,” Jaresh said. “Why don’t you answer some questions for once?”
Mira had no response to his challenge, and they fell into a comfortable silence.
A few minutes later, Mira spoke again. “Have you thought about Rukh’s plan?” she asked.
Jaresh groaned. “You can’t help it, can you?”
“Help what?”
“Help asking me a thousand questions.”
Mira shrugged. “I value your opinion?”
Jaresh smirked. “Is that another question?”
Mira grinned. “You didn’t answer the first one.”
Jaresh sighed. “Fine. I think Rukh is right. If we strike now, we can cripple the Fan Lor Kum.”
“And the rest? The Baels.”
“It would change everything, wouldn’t it?” Jaresh asked.
“Only if it’s true.”
“Rukh thinks so, and he is no fool. Jessira believes it too, and she has a way about her…” Jaresh smiled. “She’s like a force of nature.”
Mira felt something like a twinge of jealousy, which she quickly snuffed. “You like her.”
“Well, she is likeable. And the way she stood up to Rector…I’ll feel warmth toward anyone who does that.”
“And I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful,” Mira said.
Jaresh shrugged. “She is attractive enough – or might be if she wasn’t so worn out from being sick – but it doesn’t change the facts about her: she is and always will be OutCaste. But, yes, I like her.”
Mira nodded. “I like her, too,” she said. “Or I suppose I might if she weren’t what she is.” The truth was Mira found Jessira refreshing. She was so bold and unafraid, so different than Kumma women, who weren’t weaklings or cowards, but none of them would have thought to physically confront a man and challenge him to a duel. Jessira’s actions were the stuff of bedtime fables. Secretly, she had cheered Jessira on during her confrontation with Bryce.
Another silence fell and once more, Mira was the one to break it.
“I hope the Magisterium agrees with us,” she said. “I hope they believe your brother. He is far more than I ever gave him credit for being.”
Jaresh leaned back in his chair, a look of surpris
e on his face. “Your opinion of Rukh certainly has changed,” he said.
Mira shrugged. “I was wrong about him. He’s a great warrior, but he’s also much more patient and cunning than I expected. Imagine waiting to listen in on the Baels instead of just killing them.”
“It was wise,” Jaresh said. “I only hope he’s wise enough.”
“What do you mean?”
Jaresh looked conflicted, like he didn’t want to say anymore, but eventually, he explained himself. “I worry for him. As I said, I like Jessira, but Rukh thinks of Jessira as a good friend. He doesn’t see that she is first and foremost a ghrina.”
Mira was vaguely disappointed by Jaresh’s attitude. It was true: Jessira was a ghrina, but she was also a woman Mira found herself admiring. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of courage it must have taken for Jessira to enter the lion’s den of Ashoka. More impressive, the OutCaste woman hadn’t simply hidden herself away like a mouse hoping to go unnoticed but had instead loudly and boldly demanded respect. Mira doubted she had such bravery herself.
“I would have thought you of all people could see past our prejudices,” Mira said. “Jessira might very well be a good friend to your brother.”
“She is what she is,” Jaresh said, stubbornly.
“Durmer and Garnet don’t seem to care. Why should we?”
“That’s because they are old and crotchety. They can get away with just about anything.”
“Then maybe we should emulate them,” Mira said. “I don’t know how I feel about all the OutCastes, but I like Jessira, and I find I’m no longer so willing to see them snuffed out. Maybe the old men are right: we need to think more deeply about who we are as a people.”
Jaresh frowned. “And maybe that’s a bridge too far.”
“Or not far enough.”
Live your life as you see fit. Only remember morality and don’t bend yourself to the will of another.
~The Word and the Deed
“I’m tired of wearing this ridiculous scarf,” Jessira growled.
Rukh, walking nearby, remained silent and so did Nanna. He understood what Jessira was really trying to say. Jessira wasn’t complaining about the scarf. She was upset by what the scarf represented: fear and shame. It was the fear others would feel if they knew her true identity, and the shame Ashokan society felt she should bear for her mere existence as a ghrina. And Jessira would never be ashamed of who she was. She was a strong, proud woman who cared very little for the opinions or worries of the people of Ashoka. And while her current situation – huddled and hidden beneath a scarf – made her uncomfortable, it was a discomfort she would have to handle on her own. Rukh couldn’t think of anything to ease her mind or make her feel better.
Besides, he had other things to worry about, such as the upcoming meeting. The Magistrates needed to know everything he had learned during his time in the Wildness, but he feared what they would say when they learned of his new abilities. Almost certainly, they would deny him any chance to marry, concerned his newfound Talents might pass on to his children. They might even go so far as to exile him. Who knew what the Magistrates might decide?
“Say nothing about the Knife,” Nanna ordered, speaking into the silence as they neared the Magisterium.
“Why?” Rukh asked. “Are you worried one of the Magistrates might be a part of the Sil Lor Kum?”
“Or even the murderer. We know the killer has a limp, and Krain Linshok, the Kumma Magistrate was injured in his final Trial. He came home with a limp.”
Rukh swore softly. “Anything else?”
Nanna hesitated. “Keep your new Talents private for now.”
Rukh breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said. He didn’t like lying or omitting the truth, but he also didn’t want to be punished for something he didn’t think was wrong. Over the long journey home, he had come to believe there was nothing wrong with a Kumma who could Blend. If anything, it made him a more effective fighter.
“We’re here,” Nanna said. “Remember what I said about the Knife.”
The Magisterium was a large, round building built of a dark, chocolate-colored granite veined in white. A colonnade stretched all around its circumference, and the entablature contained friezes depicting idyllic scenes of Ashokan life from the viewpoint of all seven Castes. A Kumma held a raised sword at the ready; a faceless Duriah held a hammer and tongs; and a Muran stood behind a plow. Working with an abacus was a Sentya, while a Rahail held a rod through which he refreshed the Oasis. A close-eyed Shiyen had his hand raised as he prepared to Heal, and a Cherid received the supplicating hands of a multitude as he brought them together as one.
Rukh nodded to the pair of honor guards – both Kummas – who were dressed in bright red uniforms filigreed in gold thread as they stood at parade rest and faced out toward the Plaza of Toll and Toil, which fronted the Magisterium.
The doors were already open, and the three of them walked inside, entering a long hallway which was dim after the bright morning light. Upon the walls of the passage were hung portraits of some of Ashoka’s greatest Magistrates. Rukh recognized a few of the Kummas.
Two more guards, dressed identically to the ones outside, flanked a pair of closed mahogany doors embossed with the seal of the Magisterium: a golden eagle clasping a sword and a scythe. The guards silently opened the doors and ushered them inside. Within was a large, round chamber and an open and airy dome whose ceiling rose thirty feet or more above them. Hanging from the fine mahogany paneling that stretched a few feet higher than Rukh could reach were more portraits, also of famous Magistrates, most of whom looked down with stern judgment upon those in the room. Higher up the wall, the paneling gave way to mullioned windows separated from one another by blocks of pale, green marble. Centered in the arching dome itself was a stained glass motif of the First Father breaking the WellStone and gaining entrance to the fortress of the First Mother. Firefly lanterns were mounted throughout the room, lit to full brightness, chasing away all shadows. A number of benches lined both sides of a central walkway leading to an attestation stand facing the seven raised seats upon which the Magistrates sat.
Nanna led them forward. At the lectern, he and Rukh bowed, followed belatedly by Jessira.
All of the Magistrates were present and seated. Some of them appeared irritated, while a few looked bored. Others wore expressions of polite interest.
Rukh racked his thoughts, trying to remember all he knew of the Magistrates. Fol Nacket, the Cherid Magistrate, was first among equals, and he was in charge, as was the usual custom. Krain Linshok, the Kumma, was of House Flood, a once prosperous House recently fallen on hard times. Rukh didn’t know much about him. The Muran was Dos Martel, a singer of great repute, and although her voice had lost some of its rich timbre, just last year she had sold out a series of twenty concerts at the Opriana, Ashoka’s largest concert hall. Brit Hule was the Rahail and the youngest Patriarch in memory. He still taught at the Shield where he terrified his students with his uncompromising standards and intolerance for even the slightest of mistakes. Poque Belt was of Caste Sentya, and he had started a private forensic financial service, hired by those who suspected their accountants had somehow cheated them. Rumors said the elders of Caste Sentya had elected him Magistrate simply so he would no longer have the time to run his business and cause them trouble. Jone Drent, the Duriah, was built like all of his kind: a brick outhouse. He was thick and powerful, but his hands were as delicate and skilled as his visage was coarse and ugly. He had the rare Talent to DeCohese, to cause an object or structure to come undone, which made him one of the finest sculptors in Ashoka. The final Magistrate was tiny Gren Vos, the Shiyen. She was elderly, appearing frail and grandmotherly, but it was said her cutting sarcasm could filet a side of beef and her biting bluntness could pound that same filet into scaloppini.
“Let us try to hold this meeting in as sensible a fashion as possible,” Fol Nacket began. “Magistrate Belt, as the secretary, please make certain all
present here are listed in the accounts. If the other Magistrates could state their names?”
“Oh, piss on that,” Gren Vos said. “You know who we are.”
Nacket was about to respond, but the Sentya Magistrate, Poque Belt, spoke first. “I know everyone here,” he said. He pointed his pen at Jessira. “Except her.”
Nacket turned to Jessira. “Who are you…ah, miss?” he asked, obviously put off by Jessira’s covered face.
“And why is she all wrapped up? It’s hot as a fever in here,” Vos said. “Her thyroid hasn’t failed, has it?”
“Her name is Jessira Viola Grey,” Nanna said.
“An interesting name,” Dos Martel, the Muran, commented.
“By interesting, I assume you mean odd,” Krain Linshok said
“What Caste?” Magistrate Belt asked.
“We will explain her reason for being here later,” Nanna said.
“That’s not what I asked,” Poque Belt said. “I asked her Caste.”
“The reason for my reluctance will soon be made clear,” Nanna replied. “I’m sure you’ll agree with my decision once you understand the reason for it.”
Magistrate Belt shrugged. “We’ll see. It certainly adds to the mystery anyway,” he said. “I’ll include her as Jessira Viola Grey, a woman without a Caste for now.”
“I don’t like it,” Fol Nacket growled.
“Oh, let it be, Fol,” Gren Vos said. “We’ll have our answers soon enough.”
Magistrate Nacket grumbled something under his breath but settled back into his chair.
Gren Vos turned her gaze to Rukh. “What’s going on, boy?” she asked. “There’s all kinds of crazy rumors floating around ever since you made your unexpected return to Ashoka.”
“The meeting hasn’t been called to order,” Fol Nacket said, looking irritated. “Strike her question,” he instructed Belt.
“Then call it to order,” Vos replied.
“Besides, you’re only going to ask the same question she did,” Poque Belt added.
Magistrate Nacket, who was about to speak, closed his mouth with a snap. He glared at Belt and Vos before turning back to Rukh and the others.