The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

She sat up further, and the blanket pooled at her waist.

  The SuDin felt a stirring at the sight of her body. There were women far lovelier than Varesea that he could have chosen as a lover, but he wanted none of them. He only wanted her. With an almost painful start, he realized he loved her. He loved Varesea. In that singular moment of awareness, the SuDin made a decision: Varesea needed to know the truth. “The Knife drains Jivatma, just as I told the Council, but it does not send it against the Oasis. It transfers it to the wielder,” he explained. “It is why I don’t limp so much, and why I am able to…” he paused, a sly grin on his face, “…perform for you so frequently. And since there is a final victim to be killed, you can be the one who kills him. You can become like me.”

  “Him? You have chosen the next sacrifice?”

  “Your husband. I have seen the bruises on your arms and stomach, and I know you didn’t fall down some stairs or run into furniture.”

  She sighed, covering herself with the thin blanket, her arms folded. “He knows I share my bed with another. It infuriates him.”

  “Only your bed?” the SuDin asked, praying she would say something more, something to give him hope.

  She did not. Instead, she looked him in the eyes and smiled sadly. “What do you think we are to one another?” she asked. “What do you think we can ever be?”

  “I know what you are to me.”

  “And can we be together after my husband dies?” she gently scoffed.

  “We already are in all the ways that matter,” the SuDin said.

  “You are a hopeless romantic, my SuDin,” she replied, pulling him down to kiss her.

  His wife often chided Dar’El, saying he worried too much about the future and didn’t pay enough attention to the moment. As in so many other things, she was right, but Dar’El didn’t know any other way to live his life. He had to plan for the worst so when it didn’t come to pass, everything that came after was a bright, happy surprise. And if disaster did occur, then he and those he loved would have been prepared. Right now, what had him worried was his son’s future, specifically, Rukh’s. The boy’s first Trial had been extra-ordinary in ways no one could have predicted. Dar’El shook his head in disbelief. Words couldn’t describe how eventful it had been. To experience so much so quickly…even a lifetime would seem too short for all Rukh had seen and accomplished.

  But some of his accomplishments were dangerous, especially for the boy’s future.

  His ability to Blend and Heal, for instance. Dar’El wasn’t ashamed of Rukh’s new Talents, nor did he think of his son as a naaja, as Tainted. He would never feel that way about any of his children. Nevertheless, others did and would. Rector Bryce, for example. The Watcher would probably share his knowledge of Rukh’s abilities with those who did not have Rukh’s best interest at heart. His son might very well be found Unworthy because of his Talents.

  Dar’El had long ago learned to gauge the currents and eddies of the Chamber of Lords. Amongst the ‘Els of the older Houses, there was a growing sentiment to humble House Shektan. Dar’El’s House had grown too powerful, too quickly. That jealousy had only grown more potent, gaining steady traction since the death of Suge Wrestiva and his father’s humiliation at Dar’El’s hands. What better way to punish House Shektan then by casting down their most visible, successful member. If the Chamber learned of Rukh’s abilities, Dar’El felt certain, his eldest son would face ruin. And even if he avoided banishment, his life here would become unbearable. Rukh would be shunned and despised. He would never be allowed to marry and start a family. What was the point of such a miserable, stunted life?

  So Dar’El worried. He couldn’t see an easy path for Rukh’s happiness, at least not here in Ashoka. But he and Satha both recognized the strong bond between their son and the OutCaste woman, Jessira. The two young people didn’t share love, not yet anyway, but they did have a deep trust and friendship. If Rukh were found Unworthy, or his life here in Ashoka became a ruined wreck, then what about Stronghold? They would take him in. Dar’El had already confirmed it from Jessira.

  Rukh would hate it, which is why he couldn’t know of Dar’El’s plans for him – plans to keep him safe and give him a chance at happiness.

  Dar’El sighed. He hated manipulating others, but it was a skill he found came to him as easily as a bird took to flight.

  He was walking back to his study, but he paused at the open, windowed doors leading out from the sunroom. He smiled. A perfect scenario could play out even now.

  Rukh was alone in the courtyard out back, playing his mandolin. He sat upon a small bench with his back to Dar’El. As with all things outdoors, his wife had turned this area into a flower garden. It was her passion, and in another life she would have been a Muran. She had chosen ligustrum bushes to form a tall hedge that bordered the courtyard, and then shaped the flowerbeds with a winding path of chipped bricks. An arched passage opposite to where Dar’El stood led out into the rest of the grounds. Right now, some of the flowers – lilies – were in bloom with vibrant colors of bright orange, red, and purple. However, Dar’El’s favorite plants were the large gardenias flanking the bench upon which Rukh sat. He’d always found their floral fragrance intoxicating, which was why Satha always wove them through her hair.

  He smiled in remembrance, listening as Rukh played. His son obviously didn’t have the sublime skill of a Sentya master, or even the average ability of someone like Jaresh, but his heart was in it. For a Kumma, he was actually quite good. The boy had always loved music, and Dar’El would have been just as proud if his son somehow ended up earning his living through the mandolin instead of the sword. He felt the same way about Bree and her fascination with medicine, or Jaresh and his love of history. Of his children, it seemed Jaresh would be the only one who would have a chance to follow his dream. For Bree and Rukh, those choices could never be, not so long as the Castes existed.

  Perhaps Jessira’s arrival and the presence of the OutCastes could allow Dar’El to achieve his long sought after impossible dream: the end of the Castes. It was a dream only Satha knew or shared.

  From a purely pragmatic standpoint, it made sense. Dar’El imagined a Kumma warrior with the Talents of all the other Castes; not just able to Blend and Heal as Rukh could, but also with the ability to Cohese like a Duriah, achieve Lucency like a Sentya, and inspire and lead like a Cherid. Such a warrior would be all but undefeatable.

  And even from a moral standpoint, it made sense. The words Jessira had spoken, the quote taken from The Book of All Souls: Across the world, the Lord stretched forth His hand and caused Life. And those whom he gave understanding, He named as brothers and sisters. It was a passage Dar’El had long considered, one that had resonated with him since he had first read it decades earlier.

  Some philosophers claimed Humanity to be the seven spokes of an immeasurably large wheel, with each spoke representing a single Caste. But it was a metaphor Dar’El never understood. A wheel was a dead thing. It only moved if someone or something acted upon it. It was too passive to represent the vibrancy of Humanity.

  Instead, Dar’El thought of Humanity as a single, great tree with seven majestic branches, alive and growing. It was hardy enough to survive even the strongest of storms. And was it not true that in most every type of tree, the limbs and leaves intermingled throughout the canopy such that from a distance, a person could rarely tell the main branch from which an individual leaf drew its sustenance? For Dar’El, Humanity was one family. It should act like one.

  “It’s good to hear you playing,” Dar’El said as Rukh finished his song.

  His son turned, a look of surprise on his face. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  Dar’El smiled and took a seat next to Rukh on the bench. “You seemed so caught up in the music. I hated to interrupt you by announcing my presence.”

  Rukh cradled his mandolin. “It’s something I missed when I was out in the Wildness,” he said, a wistful longing in his voice.

  “But since you
can Blend, there’s no reason you can’t take your mandolin with you the next time you leave Ashoka. You can hide the sound of the music yourself and play to your heart’s content.”

  Rukh grimaced. “I’d rather no one else know what I can do.”

  “You think it would make things hard on you? The other warriors would handle it badly?”

  “Yes.”

  Dar’El nodded understanding even as he tried to figure out how to bring up the real reason he wanted to talk to Rukh in private. He chose the direct method. “I imagine your friend, Jessira, probably feels the same way,” he said. “You know she wears a scarf over her face whenever she leaves the House Seat?”

  Rukh nodded. He looked a bit guilty.

  “It’s a sad indictment of our culture, don’t you think?” Dar’El asked.

  “Yes it is.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Dar’El didn’t wait for Rukh’s answer. “Why do you act ashamed of her?”

  Rukh startled, looking uncomfortable. “Is it so obvious?”

  “I’ve noticed. Amma’s noticed. And Jessira is a bright, young woman. I’m sure she’s noticed as well.”

  Rukh frowned sadly as he looked away. “I’m not ashamed of her,” he began. “Jessira is a wonderful person, but it’s just…” he shrugged. “I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Dar’El’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Everything. I’m afraid for my future, my hopes, my dreams…all of it,” Rukh answered. “I’m worried about my reputation and how it will suffer if I’m known to be too friendly with her. Especially if my new Talents also become common knowledge.”

  “Then you aren’t a friend at all,” Dar’El said. He was pleased to see his son flinch, but he was also disappointed in the boy. Dar’El couldn’t tolerate cowardice.

  “I’m sure she hasn’t missed my presence,” Rukh replied, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself. He was wrong, and he knew it, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

  Dar’El took a deep breath. Now came the manipulation. “A true friend would stand with her,” he said.

  “Is that what you would do?”

  “It isn’t for me to say,” Dar’El replied. “This is your life, not mine. You have to find your own warrior’s path.”

  “Then what would you advise me to do?” Rukh asked, looking slightly annoyed.

  Good. He would be too focused on his irritation to see the true purpose of Dar’El’s words.

  “Friendship is a kind of love, and none of us should turn away from love. So you need to ask yourself this simple question: is Jessira your friend?” Dar’El answered, couching his words as carefully as possible, willing Rukh to take the correct lesson from them. “Think on it,” he said, slapping Rukh’s knee as he stood and went back into the house.

  As he left, Dar’El was both pleased and sad at the same time. He hadn’t missed his son’s countenance. Rukh had worn a troubled expression. It was another manipulation complete, but it was one that left Dar’El wanting to cry. He would see his son safe, even if it meant he would never see him again. The boy would do what was needed.

  Now if only his daughter would as well.

  The Martyr’s Plaza was every bit as beautiful as Rukh had claimed it would be. There were the glistening, gray paving stones with flecks of crystals sparkling under the warm noonday sun; the nine fountains splashing water high into the air, the droplets glittering like diamonds; and the green hills of Ashoka, upon which elegant homes and wide boulevards subtly blended with the scenery rather than dominated it. Watching over the Plaza were the bronzed statues – turned green with time – of great men and women of the city’s past. Especially gilded Union Fountain with Hume and all the heroes watching with proud attention over what they had wrought while happy, carefree children, ran and laughed under the warm gazes of their loving parents. Martyr’s Plaza was a vibrant place of history and hope, much like the city itself.

  Ashoka was as beautiful, warm, and safe a place as Jessira could have ever imagined. It was far lovelier than Stronghold. Her home was carved into a mountain fastness, in deep, dark caverns where even the Queen could hopefully not see or hear so well. Her home was quiet and utilitarian with everything designed for defense; they lacked the protective embrace of an Oasis and had no choice but to focus all their energies on making their city as impenetrable as possible. Safety was their only concern, not poetry or music or the oddity of theater. In Stronghold, the gentler arts had been left to lie fallow.

  She sighed. But she wished it could be otherwise.

  It had been three days since she had come to Ashoka and every day had been a revelation. The Purebloods had created a city of grace and loveliness but also of stern power, made manifest by the mighty Inner and Outer Walls and defended by the highly trained, highly disciplined army. She wondered if Ashoka’s brilliance was cultural. The people here had decided to create a place where beauty and fine arts could thrive, and in order to protect their heritage, those born to the sword had taken it to be their holy duty to safeguard this home their forefathers had struggled so mightily to build. The other Castes worked just as faithfully to keep it beautiful and thriving.

  Her own people could learn much from the Ashokans. In fact, they could learn from all of the Castes, but would the Purebloods share their learning? She didn’t think so. Not with a city full of ghrinas.

  “Are you ready to go?” Rukh asked, ending her reverie.

  Jessira nodded. “I’m more than ready,” she said, filled by an abrupt despondency.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, noticing her sadness.

  She grimaced, not wanting his sympathy. In the days since they’d arrived, he’d all but ignored her. She knew he was busy, having been chosen for the strike force aimed at the Chimera breeding caverns. The expeditionary legion was to be ready in ten days, a monumental undertaking, and one the entire city had thrown itself into with utter abandon. They might even make their departure date. So, yes, Rukh was busy, but why then, did he snub her even in the privacy of his home? It was obvious: he was embarrassed by his association with her. Their relationship was a stain lingering about him like a rotten stench – a description she had heard once while hidden in the anonymity of her cloak and scarf.

  As a result, her days had generally been spent alone, wandering the city, wishing her shoulder would heal so she could go home.

  However, for some reason, this morning Rukh had taken it upon himself to spend time with her. He had even offered to show her some of Ashoka’s sights. It might have been meant as an apology for his poor treatment of her, but she wasn’t in a generous mood. If he wanted to say he was sorry, he would have to say the words. She wouldn’t make it easy on him simply to assuage his guilt.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’d like to go back now.”

  “Is it your shoulder?” he asked. “We can take a rickshaw if you want. You don’t have to walk.”

  “I don’t need a rickshaw,” she said. “I can walk. The women of Stronghold don’t require coddling.”

  Rukh remained quiet, and they made their way back toward the House Shektan Seat. They travelled along Bellary Road. Here the boulevard was wide and straight with bookstores, cafes, and restaurants along its length. In the near distance was the gloriously domed Magisterium and the inaptly named Plaza of Toll and Toil – on the occasions Jessira had been to the Plaza, entry had always been free and she had never seen anyone toiling. On they walked, nearing the border of Fragrance Wall, and large houses and manors with lush gardens began to appear. Summer blooms of jasmine and honeysuckle wreathed gatehouses in their green growth while their lovely aroma drifted on the breeze.

  It would have been a nice, relaxing excursion, but throughout their walk, people had avoided both of them, and Jessira knew why. By now, her story was well known, and all knew the woman who walked Ashoka with her face covered was the ghrina, the OutCaste. She heard the muttered curses of the Purebloods as they crossed the str
eet, shunning her. Her nostrils flared in anger. Jackholes.

  Devesh help her, but she couldn’t wait to leave this place. Ashoka confused her senses and her mind. The city left her loving and longing for its beauty and yet unable to fathom its people. How could a culture produce such grace and loveliness and be so hard-hearted to those whose only sin was to be born different. The Shiyen physician, the same old woman who had first stitched her up, was one of the few who could bear Jessira’s presence without making an obvious show of her discomfort or disgust. It left her despondent.

  Worse, the same physician also said it would take Jessira another two weeks to heal before she would be ready to go home. It was a frustratingly long wait, but at least Rukh’s nanna had promised to provision her so she could make the journey home without too much hardship. He had even offered her a horse, which was a kind gesture, even if it had been made because he felt duty-bound to do so.

  She glanced at Rukh and shook her head in disappointment. How could he be so great a coward in his own home? Or had he always secretly despised her, like the rest of his brethren?

  An ugly voice inside spoke to her. You know the truth. Admit it now. The Purebloods will never accept you.

  She knew the voice was right.

  “I’m sorry,” Rukh said, breaking the silence.

  She was so lost in thought, she almost didn’t hear him. “You’re sorry,” she repeated. “About what exactly?”

  “For how I’ve behaved around you,” he said, stopping to turn to face her. “For how I’ve treated you. I’ve…I’ve been a coward, and for that I am sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must all be for you, and then to have your only friend pretend like you don’t exist. You deserve so much better, and I gave you so much less.”

  Some of Jessira’s cold anger thawed. “Am I a friend?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “A good friend.”

  “Then why have you treated me like this?” she cried, all the hurt, loneliness, and anger of the past three days coming out. “You’re the only person I can trust here, the only one I thought might treat me like a real person.”