by Davis Ashura
Never again.
Yesterday, Durmer had agreed to start her training over again. This time she would learn what she had once dismissively labeled as being ‘a man’s warrant’.
“He didn’t,” Jaresh said, interrupting her thoughts and sounding aghast.
Bree turned around. Her brother and Farn sat at the table. As usual, they were sharing a meal—did young men ever stop eating—and getting caught up with one another. It was how they had spent most of the two weeks since Farn’s return.
And of course, the object of their conversation was likely to be Rukh. Jaresh was eager to learn every event in their brother’s life since his departure from Ashoka. Of course, Bree, like the rest of the family, felt the same way. She was just as desperate to know even the smallest detail about Rukh’s life, but even more, she prayed for her brother’s safety and happiness. It made her feel like a sinful woman praying for absolution, which, in a way, was the truth. She certainly needed Rukh’s forgiveness.
“He didn’t what?” Bree asked, joining their conversation.
“Rukh once called Jessira priya,” Farn explained.
Bree gasped. “To her face?”
Farn nodded.
Bree threw her head back and laughed. “Well, at least he won’t let her go without a fight,” she said. “And what did she say to him?”
“She called him priya first,” Farn said, explaining the events leading up to Jessira’s declaration. “I think she only said it because she thought he was dying. The pneumothorax and all.”
“Does priya mean the same thing in Stronghold?” Bree asked.
Farn shrugged. “I’m not sure, but from what I could gather, it might be even more intimate than just ‘beloved’. More like ‘eternal beloved’ or ‘only beloved’.”
“Why wouldn’t ‘beloved’ be enough?” Jaresh asked, sounding genuinely confused. “There’s no such thing as ‘only beloved’. It’s like saying a person can only ever love one person in their entire life.”
Bree shook her head at her brother’s lack of imagination and romance. “It’s probably not supposed to be taken literally,” she explained. “It’s figurative; like a hope that the person you love will be someone for whom your life was crafted. In the dramas it’s called a ‘soulmate’.”
Farn and Jaresh both rolled their eyes at her, which only exasperated Bree further. Just as she was about to let loose with a cutting remark, she noticed their twin grins of triumph at her annoyance. She swallowed her words.
They laughed anyway.
Jackholes.
Bree prayed for patience as they only brayed louder. “Anyway,” she said, speaking in a loud, long-suffering voice, “it’s easy to understand why Rukh would call Jessira ‘priya’. She’s wonderful.” Bree tilted her head in thought. “A bit scary, but she makes up for it by being beautiful.”
Both men looked uncomfortable at her last statement.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Jaresh said stiffly.
“She’s attractive enough, but a bit too muscular for my taste,” Farn added.
Now it was Bree who rolled her eyes. “You’re only hedging your bets because she’s an OutCaste, and you don’t want to admit you find one of them attractive.” She wagged a finger at them, knowing it would annoy them, but they deserved it after laughing at her. “But both of you know the same as I: Jessira is beautiful. Rukh was only following his heart.”
“And what of morality?” Jaresh asked in a serious tone.
“What about it?” Bree asked. Given how Jaresh had once felt about Mira, his question was either hypocritical, or he had something else in mind.
“Morality is a large part of why Rukh was found Unworthy,” Jaresh began. “No matter what we think of his feelings toward Jessira, others will feel differently. And the judgment of these others is critical. With tomorrow’s meeting of the Chamber, they hold Rukh's future in their hands. Should they learn of his true feelings toward Jessira, their decision becomes easy. They’ll never allow us to bring our brother home.”
Bree wanted to scoff at Jaresh’s worry. Who amongst the three of them would ever expose what Rukh had said to Jessira? However, she also remembered a saying her Nanna liked to quote: The finest of intentions are ruined in a moment of thoughtlessness.
“No one else will hear about it,” Farn promised as Bree nodded agreement.
Dar’El tried to think past the sudden leaden lump hollowing out his chest. What he’d just been told was a disaster. The Society had gathered at his insistence, meeting in the Hall, and the heptagonal table was full. Everyone was here—Masters, Journeymen, and Apprentices—and everyone had presented their findings. Dar’El had needed a final reckoning of what the Rajans had accomplished. Tomorrow’s meeting of the Chamber of the Lords was too important to allow for anything less than a full accounting.
And what his fellow Rajans had to tell him was terrible news indeed.
“We don’t have the votes,” Dar’El said, trying—and failing—to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Ular Sathin, Master for Caste Muran, cleared his throat. “The influence of those who aren’t Kumma is limited in the Chamber of Lords,” he explained. “You always knew this was the likely outcome.” Polite sympathy suffused his voice.
“Knowing isn’t the same as accepting the finality of never again seeing my son,” Dar’El growled. He crumpled the pile of papers before him, his fury and despair unmaking his normal control.
“Is there nothing more to be done?” Gren Vos, Master for Caste Shiyen, asked into the silence caused by Dar’El’s words. “We are the Society of Rajan. Surely we can do more than this pathetic effort.” She glared around the room, looking for answers. She wasn’t beaten yet, and Dar’El took heart from her strength.
“The Kummas who voted against Rukh’s banishment at his original tribunal were few to begin with,” explained Anian Elim, Journeyman Duriah. “We started from a position of weakness.” He shrugged. “To have lifted the tally to what it is now is a bit of a miracle.”
“I don’t need miracles,” Gren snapped. “I need effort and achievement. We can do this.”
“No we can’t,” Ular refuted. “The vote is tomorrow. We’ve all called in every chit and favor owed to us. There’s nothing left.”
“Some of us have even resorted to not-so-subtle threats about the financial futures of certain Houses,” said Chime Plast, Apprentice for Caste Sentya. “The threats have worked on some, but not on all. The more powerful Houses have simply disregarded our urgings. They believe they are too wealthy to fall prey to whatever pressure we might bring against them. They think our threats are toothless, and that if they wait long enough, it will be we who will beg for their business.”
“They may not be wrong,” mused Thivel Nonel, Master of Caste Sentya.
“They are wrong,” Diffel Larekin, Journeyman for Caste Cherid, said in disagreement. “What happens tomorrow will not be forgotten, at least not by the Society.”
“None of which helps Rukh Shektan,” said Grain Jola, Master of Caste Rahail.
Dar’El had heard enough. He slapped the table. “The votes aren’t there,” he repeated. It was time he, along with everyone else, faced the truth. He would never again see his eldest son. His gambit hadn’t paid off. Jessira had taken Rukh to Stronghold, but it had been Dar’El who had failed his son. He had been unable to muster the votes needed to bring his boy home.
Silma Thoran, Master for Caste Kumma, was seated next to Dar’El, and she reached across the intervening space between the two of them, gripping Dar’El’s forearm. “All is not lost,” she said. “The votes aren’t in our favor, but they can be.”
Dar’El stifled the sudden bloom of hope. He couldn’t afford it. Besides, from everything he could reckon, Silma was wrong. There was no way to save Rukh.
“Hear me out,” Silma said, likely reading Dar’El’s pessimism. “You need a tally of sixty percent of the Chamber in order to rescind Rukh’s banishment. Right now, you’re
at fifty-six.” She held up an admonishing finger. “But what you don’t know is how many of those who say they will go against you might change their minds if you were to make a direct appeal to them. Instead of using threats and bribes, appeal to their better natures. Many of them lost warriors in the caverns, and many have warriors who survived the expedition entirely due to your son’s valiant efforts. In my view, that is your most powerful argument. Use it.”
Dar’El closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He exhaled fully and sought to master his pessimism and loss. He needed to think clearly. “How do you propose I proceed?” he asked, still doubtful and unwilling to allow even a thread of optimism into his heart.
“You need to weave the thread of Rukh’s accomplishments into a narrative. You need to explain how he came to possess his ill-gotten Talents. And you need to explain more fully his relationship with the ghrina woman. It was this impropriety more than anything else which led to the pronouncement against him.”
“It was my fault,” Dar’El whispered with a mouth full of guilt. He stared at his crumpled papers, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Outside of his immediate family, he had never told anyone the role he had played in Rukh’s banishment. He did so now.
“This changes much,” Silma mused after he finished. “I only wish you had discussed this plan with us before executing it.”
Gren Vos looked mad enough to chew a plank of ironwood to splinters. “How could you? We might have been able to prevent the initial judgment had we known all the facts. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking how to save my son,” Dar’El said, reining in his rising temper.
“And your actions resulted in him being found Unworthy,” Gren snapped back.
“And don’t you think I know it?” Dar’El replied, fists clenched. He wanted to hit something, hurt something, especially himself.
Silma held up a hand, calling for silence. “Enough,” she said. “The deed is done, and hindsight is always a clear summer day. It is the fog of the present which concerns us. But let us return to the past just this once. In my opinion, given the circumstances at the time and the sentiments against your House, Gren is wrong. Rukh’s fate was sealed the moment Ashoka learned of his other Talents. And what you did with the ghrina, convincing her to take him to Stronghold, likely saved your son’s life. It kept him alive long enough for us to have tomorrow’s vote and hopefully bring him home.”
Dar’El let out a breath, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Silma’s pronouncement relieved much of the guilt he’d carried all these long months, ever since Rukh’s exile. He’d told no one how much he blamed himself for his son’s fate, not even Satha. “You were saying there’s a chance for Rukh tomorrow,” Dar’El said, steering the conversation back to what was most important. “What else do you suggest?”
“Tell the Chamber what you did to Rukh and why. Hold nothing back,” Silma said. “The ‘Els are all fathers first. They’ll understand a nanna’s fear. Even those who have an acrimonious relationship with your House will be sure to feel pity. Next, speak of Rukh’s accomplishments. They are not inconsiderable. Everyone knows of them, but recite them one-by-one, so that all can truly understand what Rukh actually did, all of it. And finally, you must not be so controlled in how you talk. You need emotion. You need passion. You need to touch the hearts of your fellow ruling ‘Els.”
Dar’El nodded. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. He wouldn’t fail his son again. “You really think it can work?” he asked.
Silma nodded confidently, no uncertainty marring her face. “Absolutely. But much of it depends on your words. And they must be your words. Only you can speak them and make others feel and think as you do.”
Afterward, the meeting wound down. Everyone departed, and they offered Dar’El their best wishes. As usual, he was one of the last to leave. He shrugged on his jacket and tucked his hands into the pockets. There was a piece of paper inside one of them. He knew from whom it had likely come even before he pulled it out and read the letter.
Suwraith intends to come against Ashoka this year.
Dar’El glowered. He didn’t have time for these games right now.
But when he did have time, he’d find out who this MalDin was and wring his fragging neck. One way or another, he’d have the truth.
Were the battles in the Chamber fought with swords, they would leave the floor dripping with blood.
~From the journal of Hal’El Wrestiva, AF 2059
Satha chewed her lip as Dar’El gathered the papers on his desk and slipped them into his leather satchel. He’d come home from the last night’s gathering of the Society and explained what his fellow Rajans had managed in preparation for today’s meeting of the Chamber of Lords. The news hadn’t been good. Even added to what House Shektan had accomplished on its own, they simply didn’t have the votes to bring Rukh home. Satha had almost despaired. They had been so close. If they could have only convinced a handful more Houses to change their votes, then Rukh’s judgment would be have overturned.
But it wasn’t to be, at least not according to their own polling.
Satha hadn’t known whether to cry with fury or weep with sorrow over the news. She might have been able to accept Rukh’s death in the Trials—it was a horrid truth every Kumma mother had to face—but this…it was so pointless. Her son was lost to her because of inter-House politics. And she couldn’t help feeling that it had been her ambition that had caused it. While her personal aspirations had earned House Shektan great wealth and prestige, it had come at the cost of powerful enemies, and those enemies had stolen the life of her oldest son. It was a bitter pill to swallow.
Only after learning Silma Thoran’s assessment of how the Chamber might still be swayed to House Shektan’s favor had hope rekindled within Satha’s breast. There was still a chance. Silma was a fine reader of inter-House politics, possibly even more so than Garnet. If she said the tally could still go House Shektan’s way, than Satha had to believe her. What other choice did she have?
Which meant that only Dar’El’s persuasiveness could bring Rukh home. Today’s meeting of the Chamber would be decided on the eloquence of her husband’s tongue. It wasn’t a proposition that filled Satha with a great deal of confidence. Dar’El was brilliant, able to see past the fog of confusion, while others fumbled about in blindness. His was cool, quiet leadership; competent and steady. Unfortunately, those same admirable attributes weren’t what was needed today. To sway the Chamber, Dar’El would have to allow his passion free rein. Even though the ruling ‘Els were generally older, in their hearts they were still warriors, and their inner fires remained lit. To sway them to House Shektan’s purpose, an inspirational call to battle would be needed. Satha wasn’t sure it was something Dar’El could manage.
When Dar’El straightened and looked her way, Satha was tempted to question him, ask if he was prepared, but she held her tongue. It would be the least helpful thing she could do. Dar’El needed her unquestioned support. She didn’t allow the slightest hint of worry or doubt to mar her features. She made sure to radiate support. Dar’El didn’t need second-guessing right now. Today would be difficult enough as it was.
Satha walked across the study, her long gown wisping across the rug. She straightened the collar of Dar’El’s shirt. “You’ll do well,” she said, looking up into his dark eyes. She’d almost said ‘fine’, but fine wouldn’t do. Not today. He needed to hear her confidence as much as his own.
“I’ll bring our son home,” Dar’El promised. His voice was firm and his eyes clear. There was no hint of doubt in his voice or face.
Satha searched his features. Dar’El was never one to offer false promises. “I believe you,” she said, feeling some of her quailing doubts recede like the tide.
Dar’El took her hands in both of his. “Have Cook Heltin prepare a feast. When this is over, we will celebrate.” He kissed her fingertips, his face growing somber. “And for all the pain I’ve caused you, with what I’v
e done to Rukh—I will make amends. I won’t fail you.”
Satha’s eyes softened. He felt the same guilt she did. Somehow it made bearing her own a little easier. They had worked so hard, side-by-side, in building House Shektan; but none of their previous work had ever brought them as close together as they were now. The series of challenges they’d had to face this past year, beginning with Jaresh’s killing of Suge Wrestiva, had rekindled their love. It was ironic. “You did what we both thought was best,” Satha said. “I agreed with you, remember? So did Silma. If you don’t trust my opinion, then trust that of your Kumma Master in the Society.”
Dar’El smiled. “It helps to hear you say that, priya.” He still held her hands, and his head dipped until his forehead was resting against her fingers.
Satha kissed the top of his head. “I love you. Now go and bring back our son.”
Sunshine poured through the eastern-facing windows of the Assembly, the amphitheater where the ‘Els met. It lit the room in a golden glow and rendered the numerous chandeliers hanging from the coffered muralled ceiling superfluous. As a result, they remained dull and unlit. The wide planks of dark wood, which made up the flooring, also glowed beneath the bright sunshine. They held an inner sheen while fragrant smoke filled the Assembly, rising from the incense candles spaced throughout the room.
The Assembly was large enough to hold over a thousand people, but today it held but a little more than fifty. This was to be a private gathering for the ruling ‘Els of Caste Kumma. They were faced with a unique entreaty, one that required intense concentration and thought. As such, the ‘Els did not desire the attendance of anyone else other than their own peers. The conference today would be difficult enough without a gathered audience loudly voicing their unneeded opinions or suggestions on the matter at hand. For good reason, those gathered in the Assembly wore serious demeanors. Some even appeared worried.