by Davis Ashura
“Boots,” Captain Wind suggested after his warrior had finished his inspection, not finding the throwing knives.
With a smile and a respectful nod in the captain’s direction, Rukh removed the blades on his own and passed them over to the waiting warrior.
With that, Rukh was led deeper into Stronghold. The tunnel continued unchanged until about a quarter-mile later when it expanded both upward and outward. Shortly thereafter, they came across a large wall barring their path. A portcullis was raised, and behind it, thick ironwood gates rested on heavy hinges, ready to be thrown shut at an instant’s notice. Upon the wall, to either side of the portcullis, alert warriors stared down impassively, their bows resting in their hands with arrows notched. Firefly lanterns, each with tens of lamps, lit the tunnel for fifty yards in front of the gates.
Rukh studied the warriors. They wore camouflage clothing, a mix of light and dark grays, which melded seamlessly with the surrounding stone. They looked like they knew their business—which made the earlier sloppiness from the warriors at the tunnel’s entrance harder to understand.
He mentioned his observation to the captain.
“We had you under observation the entire time,” Wind replied. “Given your Caste’s supposed fighting prowess, I wasn’t going to take any chances. We let you in, made you feel comfortable, and then trapped you deep enough so you can’t fight your way back out.”
Clever. His estimation of the man rose again.
They passed beneath the portcullis and the area beyond opened up even further. The ceiling was now more than fifty feet high and from it hung an abundance of huge firefly lanterns, each with hundreds of lamps. They were turned down for the night, but Rukh learned that during the day, they lit up the space to the brightness of midday. A large fenced off area took up most of the ground beyond the gates and was broken down into a number of training squares and a cluster of squat buildings. There, another wall and gate barred further passage into the heart of the mountain.
“East Lock,” Rukh guessed. “This is the fortress and barracks of the Brigade Eastern of the Home Army of Stronghold?”
“I suppose the scout told you,” the captain said, not looking pleased. He gestured, and the horses were led away. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” Rukh asked.
“Where you’ll be safe,” the captain answered tersely. “Now be silent and follow.”
Rukh mentally shrugged. At this point, his fate was no longer in his hands. He was probably going to be kept locked away somewhere for however long it took the Strongholders to decide what to do with him.
They crossed the open space in front of the barracks, and Rukh was led to a small building, separate and alone from all the others. He was gestured inside where a single windowless room held a narrow cot, a washbasin on a pedestal, and an overhead firefly lantern. Otherwise, the space was empty. It looked like a prison.
“You can rest here,” the captain said. “You’ll be questioned in the morning and have a chance to discuss your potential future with us at that time.” The captain didn’t wait for Rukh’s reply. He simply turned and left.
Rukh heard the catch as a lock was thrown shut after the door closed. So, he’d guessed right: he was a prisoner.
He sighed. He’d deal with it in the morning. Right now, his leg was aching, his arm felt like a dead weight, and he was dead tired. He stretched out on the cot and fell asleep in moments.
Once they were past East Lock, Jessira and Sign kept on going, heading for that most blessed of places: home. Her cousin had been given permission to accompany her and walked by Jessira’s side, helping to carry some of her bags.
“So, is your Kumma friend always such a jackhole?” Sign asked.
Jessira shrugged. “No. Usually he’s kind and considerate. I’m not sure what got into him today.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about him bothering you anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Jessira asked.
“He’s a Pureblood,” Sign said, as if the word alone should explain everything she was trying to get across. “You’ll be busy getting your life back, and he’ll have to figure out his own path. He’ll likely have to join the other one, Farn Arnicep, as a laborer.”
Jessira came to a stop. “Farn is a laborer?” she asked. “Why hasn’t a place for him been found in the Home Army?” She didn’t like Farn—detested him, in fact—but it also made no sense to waste his Talents and have him work as a laborer.
Sign snorted in derision. “He plans on returning to Ashoka as soon as he’s able.”
Jessira frowned in confusion. “But what about as an instructor for our warriors? He could teach us so much. Why waste his abilities as laborer?”
Sign shrugged. “You heard the lieutenant. Whatever happened to him in the Wildness did something to his head. He can hardly walk straight without bumping into a wall much less teach us anything he might know.”
Jessira’s mood soured. What would happen to Rukh? “And did anyone bother questioning Farn’s knowledge? There’s still much he could have taught our warriors, even if he couldn’t demonstrate it.”
“Cedar and Court took some lessons from him, and so did a few other warriors after they heard how incredible Farn was supposed to be, but his teachings made no sense,” Sign said. “He tried to tell us that our sword forms were too stiff; too formal and don’t allow for flow and balance.” She grimaced. “He was always whining on about flow and balance. Centering your core is what he called it.”
“And no one bothered to listen?” Jessira asked.
“Cedar and Court tried…”
“Why only those two?”
Sign shrugged. “They like him. The journey back in the Wildness, I guess. Anyway, maybe they learned something; but eventually their work and Farn’s didn’t allow them time for any more training.” Sign explained. “Truth to tell, I doubt he had much to teach us anyway. I don’t doubt that Kummas are fine warriors, but I’m guessing their reputations are probably more than slightly overblown.”
“They’re every bit as good as the stories say. I was there. I saw,” Jessira said, her mind already on other matters.
She was worried about Rukh’s future. All along she’d been certain that he would make a place for himself in Stronghold as a member of the Home Army. But with his arm so weak that he could barely lift it from his side and the dismissal of Farn’s knowledge by her fellow warriors, that possibility seemed less likely. Her heart sank. Farn and Rukh could talk until they ran out of breath about their fighting philosophy, but if they couldn’t demonstrate their skills, why would her people listen? Farn’s words about flow and balance and understanding one’s enemy were exactly how Kummas fought. It was what made them so deadly.
“…Farn’s quiet and doesn’t say too much, but he used to have this way about him. Pure arrogance,” Sign was saying. “Maybe it’s because he’s a Pureblood. I think the stink of his culture has probably seeped down into his pores and into his blood. He can’t wash it away.”
Jessira attention snapped back to the conversation. “What?” she asked, appalled by Sign’s bigotry.
“Not literally,” her cousin said in a placating tone. “Just figuratively. You know…”
“Listen to yourself,” Jessira said. “Purebloods carry a bone-deep stink that they can’t erase,” she mimicked. “How is that any different from when they call us ghrinas?”
“It’s different because ghrinas are born. We can’t change who we are. A Pureblood really only becomes a Pureblood if he’s raised in one of their cities. If he were raised here, he’d be fine. He’d be civilized.”
Jessira shook her head in disbelief. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Most Ashokans aren’t all that different from our own people. They want to live their lives in peace and raise their children to be happy.”
“They’re only peaceful as long as we’re not around. They kill us on sight, remember?” Sign replied, looking like she t
hought she had just scored some kind of decisive debating point.
Jessira rolled her eyes. “Then explain why I’m still alive,” she said. “I lived in Ashoka for months, and during my time there, I was never in any real danger. It wasn’t always pleasant, but I met a lot of good people there.”
Sign’s mouth puckered, like she’d swallowed something bitter, and she muttered something unintelligible under her breath. They walked in silence. “You and Court are insane if you think I’ll ever trust a Pureblood,” Sign finally said.
“Court?”
“For some reason, he took in Farn Arnicep. They share Court’s flat, and he says the Kumma is a good man who just wants to go home.”
Jessira’s brows rose in surprise. Farn was a good man? This wasn’t the same Kumma she knew. The man she’d met on the Hunters Flats had been everything she’d been taught to fear about Purebloods. He had been ugly in his judgment, ready to murder her simply for being who she was: a ghrina, an abomination. Just like that jackhole back in Ashoka, Rector Bryce.
“Why did Court take him in?” Jessira asked.
Sign snorted in amusement. “Because Court’s a simpleton.”
Jessira laughed. “Court’s not a simpleton. He’s just got an open heart.”
“And an empty head.”
“Sign,” Jessira said in admonition. “He’s your brother. Be nice.”
“I’m just teasing,” Sign said. “I know he’s being generous and all, but I just don’t know why he thinks so highly of the Kumma.”
Again, Jessira was surprised by the Farn Arnicep that her cousin, Court, apparently knew. Maybe his time in Stronghold had changed him, improved who he was. “Like I said before: not all Purebloods are the same. Most are good and decent people.”
Sign looked at her askance. “Like your Kumma?” she asked. “Because he sure didn’t seem ‘good and decent’ when I met him.”
Jessira’s scowled. What had gotten into Rukh? In the best of her times, her people didn’t like Purebloods, and they certainly wouldn’t take well to Kumma arrogance. “I don’t know, but something’s bothering him. I’ve never seen him act so rude.” She chewed her lower lip, worried for Rukh. It took her awhile to notice the look of speculation on Sign’s face. “What is it?” she asked.
“You care about him,” Sign said. “You only bite your lip like that when something is really bothering you.”
“Of course I care. He’s a friend. He saved my life and lost his own because of me.”
“I thought he was exiled from Ashoka because of his non-Kumma Talents.”
Jessira winced. Sign could act like a flighty idiot, but she was no fool. Very little got past her. “He kept me company in Ashoka,” she said. “It was that appearance of impropriety that turned out to be the final log on his funeral pyre.” It wasn’t the entire truth, but close enough.
“And nothing happened between the two of you?” Sign asked. “After all, he is easy on the eyes.”
“Sign!” Jessira said, scandalized. Yes, there had been the one kiss, and yes, in a different world, maybe she would have wanted to do more than kiss Rukh Shektan, but those were childish fantasies, empty dreams. This was the real world, and in the real world, her future would be ruined if even a hint of unseemliness were raised about her and Rukh. “Nothing happened,” Jessira insisted. “You saw how he was today. I had to put up with his moodiness for months on end.”
Sign seemed to study her through hooded eyes. “You said he was usually kind and considerate.”
“He is, or he was,” Jessira replied, getting flustered.
“If we weren’t cousin-sisters, I wouldn’t have noticed…but we are, and I did. The two of you are more than friends.”
“Nothing happened.”
Sign nodded. “And I believe you. You’ve always held on to your honor like a drowning woman clinging to a lifeline,” she said. “But you like this Kumma.”
“It’s not like—”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Sign said, laying a consoling arm across Jessira’s shoulders. She laughed softly. “I just wish your taste in men were better. A Kumma? Really?”
Sign scrunched up her face in such an obviously exaggerated expression of disgust, that Jessira had to laugh with her.
“So, what does he think of you?” her cousin asked a moment later.
Usually, Jessira kept her feelings and thoughts to herself, but for some reason, she was in a confessional mood. “He called me priya the other night,” she said, unsure why she was telling such a secret to Sign.
“Mercy,” Sign answered in a hushed tone.
“Nothing’s changed,” Jessira insisted. “I’ll marry Disbar Merdant and bear his children. Time will pass, and I’ll forget this infatuation.”
Sign eyed her with concern.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Jessira said. “Tell me what I’ve missed since I’ve been gone.”
Sign nodded, and they spoke of safer topics: family, friends, babies, and losses. The conversation had them distracted, and before Jessira knew it, they had arrived at her parents’ home.
“We’re here,” Sign said. “Peddananna and Peddamma—” Jessira’s Nanna and Amma “—will be so happy to see you.” Jessira found herself pulled into another embrace. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you home,” Sign whispered in her ear.
Jessira hugged her back. “So am I,” she whispered back.
Sign dashed aside a few fresh tears, and Jessira had to as well even though she knew many more would come the moment she stepped inside.
She took a deep breath and grinned widely as she knocked on the door and entered. Glad shouts greeted her appearance, and she was enveloped in her family’s love.
The next night, Amma and Nanna held a homecoming party in Jessira’s honor. There were so many people who wished to attend that they had to hold the party in Crofthold Lucent’s dining hall. They even had to hire several laborers to help with all the cooking and cleaning.
The celebration lasted late into the night. Her parents, brothers, cousins Court and Sign, and every auntie, uncle, nephew, and niece who were even remotely connected to her were present. Jessira greeted everyone with a happy smile, embraced in the love of family and friends.
Of course, everyone insisted on hearing her story from beginning to end, fascinated by her time in Ashoka. Many were taken aback when she spoke so lovingly of the city’s beauty and grace.
“The place is like a jewel, sculpted over the centuries until it glows from within,” Jessira said. “For Ashokans, everything they touch is an art, even food. They have places called ‘restaurants’, and in the best ones, they master cooking until everything they make tastes like magic.” This had earned her so many doubtful stares that Jessira had to laugh. “If you ever walk through Layfind Market and smell its thousand spices, you’ll know what I mean.”
“Why would they care so much about the flavors of their food?” Sign asked, perplexed.
Jessira shrugged. “Because they can. They insist on making their city and culture as beautiful as possible. I saw a play once,” she said. “Rukh and Bree—his sister—insisted I go with them.” She grinned. “What a waste of time to sit around watching people pretend to be someone they aren’t. At least that’s what I thought.” Jessira sighed. “It was one of the finest nights of my life. Then there was Dryad Park…it was like nature made perfect.” Her voice faltered then. Dryad Park was also the reason Rukh was here instead of safely home in Ashoka. “You’d have to experience Ashoka to understand what I mean. I hope I can go back and visit one day.”
“They would let you?” her oldest brother, Kart, asked, shocked.
“They wouldn’t welcome me with open arms, but Rukh’s parents say they will fight to allow me to come back if I ever want to.”
Her words left her friends and family further baffled. The picture she painted of Rukh and his family, and their openhearted nature went against everything all of them had ever been taught about Pur
ebloods. Jessira understood their confusion. A year ago, she would have felt the same way. From childhood, OutCastes were taught that Purebloods would mercilessly kill those they labeled ghrina. To hear how a Kumma warrior had saved her, protected her, Healed her, even spent time with her so she wouldn’t be lonely—it cut against everything they thought was truth about Purebloods.
Jessira could tell many people were skeptical, and it was perfectly understandable. But perhaps her words and experience could help her people overcome their prejudices, and maybe it could help smooth out Rukh’s transition in Stronghold.
“Well, it seems there is some amount of civility within the heart of Pureblood culture,” her nanna said. “We’ll have to have your friend, Rukh, over for dinner and thank him properly.”
“Yes. I look forward to getting to know this young man you admire so much,” Amma added.
All in all, the evening was wonderful, especially the next morning when she woke up in her own bed, safe in the home of her parents.
Inevitable odds can break even the strongest of warriors. We would be wiser to sway like the reed before a storm, bending before the hard winds. And if we hold fast to honor, then when the storm ends—as all storms must—
we will once again stand up straight and true.
~The Warrior and the Servant, (author unknown)
Rukh came awake the moment he heard the lock click open. Light poured through the crack between the door and the jamb. It must be Stronghold’s version of daytime with those massive firefly lanterns he’d seen last night lighted up to full glow. Rukh stood up, wanting to face whatever was to come while on his feet.
In walked three warriors, and another man, this one obviously a commander. He had the pale skin of a Rahail with brown eyes and ruddy hair and looked to be in his late thirties, although his freckled nose made him appear younger. He was of medium build and would have been unremarkable except for an indefinable essence to the man. He exuded confidence and competence. He was a born leader and charismatic based on the way his warriors watched his every move. Nanna would have called him a man of motion: someone who pushes the world in the direction of his wishes.