The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  Jaresh must have realized the same possibility. “We can’t wait on them,” he said. “We have to be the ones to attack. We take out the ones up front and then deal with the ones behind us.”

  “What do you need me to do?” Bree asked, trying to work some moisture into her dry mouth.

  “Stay behind me,” Jaresh said. “I’ll divert one of them to the center of the alley. Take him with a Fireball, and I’ll deal with the other.”

  Bree managed to nod, an icy lump of dread lodged in her stomach. It was growing stonier and colder with every step the men took. The terror she had hoped to banish surged back to life. Incipient panic bubbled to the fore.

  “We’ll be fine,” Jaresh said.

  He took her hand, and Bree felt a calm come over her. Lucency. Jaresh’s Talent. It soothed her terror-stricken thoughts, and her mind cleared. The fear faded, still present, but no longer overwhelming.

  Jaresh looked her in the eyes. “Ready?”

  Bree nodded.

  “Wait for my signal,” Jaresh said. He stared at the men coming their way, waiting an impossibly long moment. “NOW!” Jaresh flowed forward, his sword flashing.

  Her brother had engaged the enemy. He fought a Blended Muran but seemed to know where the man would be. Jaresh delivered a stroke against the empty air, but a ringing clash marked where his sword met resistance. Jaresh pushed his hidden opponent away before turning to face the still-visible Rahail.

  Bree sent a Fireball screaming the short distance to where Jaresh had diverted the hidden Muran.

  A terrible cry of pain echoed throughout the alley, and her opponent was visible, wreathed in flames. The stench of burning flesh made Bree gag. She held down her gorge even as Jaresh finished the Rahail he had been fighting. Together, they turned to face the other two men.

  Jaresh rushed past her. His sword cleaved an arc, hammering onto the blade of a Blended opponent. Jaresh fought air, but somehow he always knew where the other man was. Two more strokes and a Muran flashed into view, gasping with pain as he flopped to the ground.

  Bree watched, clear-eyed from Lucency, but she had yet to see the Rahail. Where was he! Bree had lost sight of him. A distortion in the air directly before her. The Rahail! Bree stumbled back. Usually, she was so graceful, but in that moment, she was clumsiness personified. She tripped over her own feet and fell to the ground, smacking her head. Her Shield disintegrated. Bree desperately tried to get it back in place. Too late. A tearing pain ripped across her stomach. Bree cried out.

  Someone else’s deep-voiced shout of pain was the last thing she heard before she lost consciousness.

  As soon as Mira heard of Bree’s injuries, she set off for the Moon Quarter hospice where her friend was being treated. She arrived out of breath—she’d literally run the entire distance. All the while, she had been praying for Bree. Let her be all right.

  Jaresh was already there, alone in the waiting room. He looked as distraught as Mira felt. He numbly explained the brazen attack that he and his sister had barely survived just a few blocks away.

  “How is Bree?” Mira asked. “What does the doctor say?”

  “She’s stable, but the sword cut deep,” Jaresh replied. “He thinks she’ll be fine, but she’ll need more surgery if any infection sets in.” He wouldn’t meet Mira’s eyes. “I wasn’t fast enough to protect her.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Mira said. She wanted to offer Jaresh some semblance of support; to hold him, even just squeeze his shoulder, but she couldn’t. She had to keep her distance. They were of different Castes, and as a result, physical contact between them was impermissible. It was a sin, and just as important, Mira had worked too hard to suffocate the feelings she had once held for Jaresh. But looking at him now, seeing his anguish, she realized those feelings had yet to entirely fade.

  “The Rahail who did this got away,” Jaresh growled, drawing her away from her thoughts about their relationship.

  “They were Sil Lor Kum?” Mira asked.

  “Who else?” Jaresh said. “The sooner those fraggers get staked out on the Isle of the Crow, the better for all of us.” He fell into a sullen silence, and Mira left him to his thoughts.

  They sat quietly in the waiting room, a white-walled room with narrow windows and old landscape paintings meant to brighten the space.

  Minutes later, the door to the hospice opened. It was Mira’s amma. “What happened?” she asked.

  Jaresh described the attack in the alley. “Where are my parents?” he asked after he finished his explanation.

  “Dar’El and Satha weren’t at the Seat when your message arrived,” Mira’s amma said. “I’m sure they’ve been informed by now. They’ll be here soon enough.”

  Jaresh sighed. “I wish Rukh was here,” he said. “He could have protected Bree from all of this.”

  “On this, we are agreed,” Amma muttered. Jaresh stiffened, but Amma continued on, overlooking the offense she had delivered as if it had never occurred. “If your brother had only shown the good sense to protect his reputation, his honor would have never been challenged.” She cast a glance in Mira’s direction, who reddened in embarrassment.

  Mira knew what her amma really meant. She bowed her head and waited for the next verbal blow. How could she have been so stupid as to discuss Jaresh in front of her? Embarrassment built into shame. Apparently, Amma had nothing further to add, and Mira dared look her way. Her mother was staring at a painting, and Mira felt like she should say something, apologize, or at least find a means of mollifying her amma.

  Instead, Mira held silent as Bree’s words from several weeks ago came to her.

  Her friend had been right. Mira had always been the sort of woman who sought to please everyone else, even at the expense of her own happiness. Her annoyance rose. So many times she had accepted her amma’s criticisms. Annoyance became anger. Mira had spent her life trying to placate Amma. Anger built as if stoked in a furnace. She had sought to become the perfect, hardworking daughter.

  “His sister lies gravely injured,” Mira said to her amma, trying to contain her rage. “And you would cast aspersions on him? Now is not the time.”

  Amma’s expression of stunned disbelief would have been comical at any other time and on any other person. But not now. Jaresh stirred in his chair, sensing a brewing argument. Amma recovered her shock. She turned her basilisk gaze at Mira, who held firm, refusing to look away from her amma’s quivering anger.

  “Now also isn’t the time for an argument. Not when my sister is recovering from surgery," Jaresh said forcefully as he rose to his feet. “She needs quiet.” Mira and her amma both glared at him, but he refused to back down. “I mean it. If you plan on shrieking like scalded cats, then you can leave. I don’t need Bree bothered by your yelling, and my parents don’t need to hear it either.”

  Mira and her amma both nodded reluctantly and took seats opposite to one another in the small waiting room.

  They waited and several minutes later, Dar’El and Satha arrived, their expressions full of bleak fear.

  Jaresh rushed to his feet. “She’s recovering,” he said before they could ask the question. “The doctor will let us see her when she’s ready.”

  “Thank Devesh,” Satha murmured in sudden relief. Tears came to her eyes as she and Dar’El moved to embrace their son.

  Mira felt like an interloper. She glanced at her amma, who gave her a tight nod and a gesture. It was time for them to leave, and have a discussion of their own. Mira swallowed down a small lump of trepidation.

  News of the attack on Bree whipped through Ashoka like a firestorm. The news was shocking: a Kumma woman nearly murdered in the Moon Quarter with her attacker or attackers still free. Information was unreliable and soon, a thousand rumors sparked to life as everyone offered up their own competing theories as to what might have happened. Some claimed it had been the Withering Knife murderer. Others said it was members of House Wrestiva, seeking retribution for the death of Suge Wrestiva. Others were certain i
t had been the Sil Lor Kum. A dozen of them had sought Bree Shektan’s death, but thankfully, a passing Kumma had heard her cries for help and defeated them all. But in doing so, he had bled out his life in the protection of hers. It was a scandal that had everyone outraged.

  Rector Bryce was just as furious as anyone. No woman should have to fear for her safety, and he was determined to see justice done on those who had committed this heinous crime. However, if he wanted to be of use, he had to consider what had happened with as much dispassion as possible. Emotions would be of little use in this situation, and he suspected Bree’s family would be too furious and scared to think clearly.

  Thus, the rumor Rector believed most likely to be true was the one that claimed that the attackers had numbered but four, and that it had been Jaresh Shektan who had been the warrior who had saved Bree’s life. It was the least outrageous possibility, and in Rector’s experience, that generally meant it was also the one closest to the truth. Corroboration came when he spoke to the members of the City Watch. They still lingered near the cordoned-off area and according to what they had learned, a single, wounded Rahail had been the only one to escape Jaresh’s sword.

  Rector’s opinion of the Sentya rose further when he learned the details of the attack. Two men, ahead and behind, had trapped Bree and Jaresh in the alley; but rather than submit, Jaresh—as he had been trained—had attacked. He’d fought off four Blended opponents, killing three and wounding the other. And while Bree had been gravely injured, all news said she was likely to recover.

  Which meant the most pressing matter was finding the wounded Rahail. The Watch had already begun scouring any nearby hospices where he might have sought help, but so far, they had been unable to find him. Rector suspected they never would, not if they searched for him in a Shiyen-sanctioned hospice. The Rahail likely was a member of the Sil Lor Kum, and for treatment of his injuries, he would need someone discrete, someone who wouldn’t ask questions, and who might not necessarily have a license to Heal.

  Rector knew of just such a person. Jaciro Temult, a disreputable Shiyen physician whose addiction to opium and alcohol had resulted in the forfeiture of his medical license many years ago. Jaciro owned a rundown herb shop in the Moon Quarter, selling simple cures for afflictions such as headaches and diarrhea. Rumor suggested that, for the right coin, he also offered back-alley medical services to those for whom discretion was of greater import than legitimate care—men, for instance, like the injured Rahail.

  Rector quickly made his way to the Tired Life, the herbal shop owned by Jaciro. He tried the front door, but it was locked, and a sign in the window indicated that the store was closed. Rector peered inside. The firefly lamps were off, and the interior was dim but a light leaked beneath the door leading to the room out back. Someone was there.

  Rector made his way to the rear of the building. There, he found another door. This one unlocked. He drew Jivatma and Shielded. Who knew what was waiting on the other side of the door? He eased the door open.

  Jaciro had his back to him, facing a man sitting on a table: a Rahail with his leg heavily bandaged. The man saw Rector, and his eyes widened in dismay. Before Jaciro could react, the Rahail spun him about. He locked one arm under the elderly Shiyen’s throat and held a dagger to the side of his neck. “Come closer and he dies,” the Rahail promised.

  Rector fully entered the room, closing the door behind him. Despite his feelings toward Jaciro, he didn’t want to see the old Shiyen dead. “There is no reason to hurt the old man,” he said. “He’s done nothing to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I want you gone, or his blood is on your hands.”

  Rector shook his head. “You know I won’t,” he replied. “No matter what you think you can do, your life is over. It cannot go any other way.”

  The Rahail smirked, but Rector could see the fear in his eyes. “I have friends who—”

  “I know the kind of friends you have,” Rector interrupted. “And you know what happens to those who are Sil Lor Kum.” Jaciro whitened at his words. So. The Shiyen hadn’t known what kind of a man he had been Healing. “You will be hung, drawn, and quartered with your body left to rot on the Isle of the Crows.”

  The Rahail licked his lips and darted a glance at the closed door.

  “It doesn’t need to end in such torment,” Rector said. “Make the right choice, and I’ll end you as swiftly and painlessly as possible.” It was an offer meant to simply keep the Rahail from doing anything foolish and give Rector time to think. It certainly wasn’t a promise he wanted to keep. He had never killed a man. His stomach roiled at the thought.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” the Rahail said.

  “You were part of the group who attacked Bree and Jaresh Shektan. And you are Sil Lor Kum. Tell me everything, and I promise to finish you here.” Rector swallowed heavily. He was committed now. Hopefully, the fear and uneasiness wasn’t evident on his face. “Otherwise, you will face Dar’El Shektan.” Rector paused. “Or, worse, the one holding the Withering Knife.”

  That got the Rahail’s attention. His face tightened with fear. “If I agree, you promise to see me finished quickly?” he asked in a tremulous voice.

  “Let Jaciro go, and we’ll talk,” Rector said. “If you tell me what I wish to hear, then your death will be as quick as I can manage.” Rector spoke the words as calmly as he could, but his insides were an agony of rising dread. He would actually have to go through with killing this man, something he knew would haunt him.

  Rector’s own inner torment must not have reflected on his features because the energy seemed to drain out of the Rahail. He relaxed his hold on Jaciro and dropped his knife. “What do you want to know?”

  Strive for greatness always and overwhelm mediocrity. Honor those who achieve this guiding principle, for their actions are a reflection of Devesh’s glory.

  ~To Live Well by Fair Shire of Stronghold, AF 1842

  Sign craned her head, trying to see past Cedar and get a better view. The Home Arena was packed. Almost everyone was here tonight, including her family. It was the Trials of Hume, after all. Would Wheel Cloud become the greatest champion in the city’s history? No one had ever won three consecutive Trials. Or would a new stud, like Toth Shard or Strive Loane, wrest the title from the aging stallion.

  The Arena was as bright as the noonday sun with thousands of firefly lanterns all blazing as brilliantly as Sign’s emotions. She was so excited she could barely sit still.

  She just wished she had a better view.

  Laya—bless her—must have noticed Sign’s squirming and took pity. She nudged her oblivious husband to move aside. Cedar was a good man. He rose out of his seat without complaint or question. He gestured to Sign as he stepped aside. She took him up on his offer, slipping into his vacated space while he clambered past her in an exchange of seats.

  Ahh! Much better. Now she could see everything. The people in front of Sign were all relatively short, and she got to sit next to Jessira and Laya, two of her favorite people in the world.

  A roar went up from the crowd as the combatants filed into the stadium, taking their seats along a small section of the stands directly above the arena floor. The warriors were so close that she could make out their faces. Sign looked for those she knew well.

  Her regard eventually fell on Rukh. Cedar had risked his reputation by sponsoring the Kumma, and Peddananna and Peddamma had risked their money by paying the cost of his entrance fee. Sign hoped the risks were worth it, and Rukh didn’t end up embarrassing himself or her family.

  Sign’s brows furrowed in worry as she studied the Pureblood. What was wrong with him? Usually, he was so lively and funny, but right now, he looked as emotionless as a dead fish. Even his appearance was pallid. Was he scared? It was hard to believe he could be frightened. He should be brimming full of confidence given how Jessira, Cedar, and even Court went on and on about his skills.

  Something else must be bothering him.

  Sign had heard from Je
ssira that a few weeks back, Rukh had been ambushed by a group of unnamed warriors. Jessira had said it was the second such assault he had experienced, and both times, the authorities had paid him no heed, refusing to seek justice on his behalf. Had he been injured in the attacks? Was that the reason for his wan expression? Not that Sign believed he’d been mugged. It simply couldn’t be true. First of all, if Rukh truly had been ambushed, then why wasn’t he injured? Such an assault should have landed him in a hospice. He certainly wouldn’t be walking about without any visible injury and about to take on Stronghold’s best. More impor-tantly, the people of Stronghold were civilized. None of her people would dare tolerate such barbarism. Maybe things like that happened in Ashoka but not here.

  While Sign knew some of the OutCastes had been unkind to Rukh, she couldn’t imagine any of them would actually try to hurt him. Yes, Rukh’s life in Stronghold wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t unsafe. She mentally grimaced. Of course, safe wasn’t the same as welcoming; and Rukh deserved at least that much. He was a good man, kind and generous, just like Jessira described him.

  Maybe if he won a few matches in the Trials, his life would finally improve. He was a Kumma after all, and there had to be something to their legendary fighting prowess. Although, looking at him now, as he stood amongst the other warriors, it seemed distinctly unlikely. His bearing didn’t lend confidence that he would somehow beat one of Stronghold’s finest. Her brows furrowed. How could a person manage to look so uninspiring?

  In contrast, Stronghold’s warriors held expressions of furious ambition and barely controlled rage. They seethed and walked with the scarcely contained bloodlust of wolves on the hunt. Some seemed to literally growl at Rukh, probably sensing his weakness. Sign felt a surge of pride. These were Stronghold’s greatest warriors: fine, fierce, and unfettered.