The Castes and the OutCastes: The Complete Trilogy

by Davis Ashura

  Jessira cast about, searching desperately for her discarded towel. There. She grabbed it, wrapping it around herself before she turned to face him. Rukh looked anguished. Good. “What in the unholy hells did you think you were doing!” she shouted, not sure whether she was mad because of what he’d done or because of how much he’d scared her.

  Rukh looked crestfallen. “I thought you were…I thought I was—”

  “You thought what!”

  Rukh shook his head. He hesitated. “I thought I was Linder Val Maharj.”

  Jessira waited a moment for Rukh to say something more, but he remained mulishly silent. He wore a distracted look on his face. She threw her hands in the air. “Fine. Who in the unholy hells is Linder Val Maharj?”

  “The Son of the Desert,” Rukh said. “We know him as the First Father.”

  Jessira blinked and settled back on her heels. Her anger was momentarily quenched. Was Rukh losing his mind? He didn’t look mad, but his actions certainly had been. She sighed. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and just tell me what happened.”

  Rukh nodded. “It happened when I opened The Book. It felt like I was falling into a shimmering blue disk, like a perfectly circular lake.” For the next few minutes, he spoke, telling an unbelievable tale, one about the last moments in the lives of the First Father and the First Mother. And of their daughter Lienna who all knew now as Suwraith. “And when you woke me, all I saw was a naked woman with the same color hair as Lienna’s. I wasn’t sure who I was. I thought I was Linder and….”

  “Call him the First Father,” Jessira interrupted. “It sounds disrespectful when you call him by his first name.”

  Rukh nodded. “I thought I was the First Father, and you were Lienna, the daughter who killed everyone I…I mean, he loved.”

  “And so you attacked me? Because you thought you were the First Father, and I was your daughter, Lienna? The one who murdered your wife and became Suwraith?” Jessira asked.

  “No! I mean yes. I mean….” Rukh trailed off. He glanced up, finally meeting Jessira’s gaze. “You believe me?”

  Jessira nodded. A year ago she wouldn’t have. But so much had changed in her life since she’d first met Rukh Shektan. In comparison to what she’d been exposed to thus far, believing Rukh had somehow experienced the last moments of the First Father’s life seemed a paltry stretch to make.

  Jessira stood. “Can I trust you not to read The Book while I clean up?” she asked, gesturing to the dirt she was once again covered in.

  Rukh nodded, still looking anguished and miserable.

  Jessira knew why. She sighed and knelt before him, taking his head in hands and making him look at her. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “And I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.” She kissed his forehead. “We’ll talk more when I’m finished.”

  After Hume opened my eyes and my heart, when I next beheld the Queen, I found myself simultaneously saddened and angered. I pitied Her. How terribly evil and pathetic Mother is.

  ~From the journal of SarpanKum Li-Charn, AF 1754

  “And what of Hume?” Mother asked.

  “He is long dead,” Li-Choke said, his voice steady, and carrying no hint of the fear coursing through his body.

  On the very day he and Chak-Soon had separated from Rukh Shektan and Jessira Grey, Mother had called to them, telling them to prepare for Her arrival. She had come to them at dusk, a twilight visitation from a brooding, malevolent storm. And though She continued to maintain a firmer grip on reality, She still slipped now and again, such as when She had asked about Craven, the supposed sister city to Ashoka. No such place existed. Craven had been the inspired creation of Li-Dirge, used as a means to distract the Queen from carrying forth Her immediate plans to destroy Ashoka. The SarpanKum’s wild gambit had worked, but perhaps it had worked too well. Though Jessira Grey did not admit it, there was a city in the Privation Mountains, secret and unknown. With Mother’s focus upon Craven, it would be a tragedy if Li-Dirge’s lie somehow allowed the Queen to learn of Jessira Grey’s hidden home.

  However, while Mother was confused about Craven, Li-Choke sensed She was not confused about Hume. There had been a probing, questing nature to Her question. She was testing their loyalty.

  “And Hammer?” Mother asked.

  “Also long gone,” Li-Choke announced.

  “Is that so?” Mother said. “Then why do you suppose I sent you so far west to search for a man centuries dead in a city dead for equally as long?”

  “Loyalty,” Chak-Soon growled. “We truth tell.”

  Li-Choke kept himself from tensing by the barest of margins. Mother would notice his fear.

  The Queen turned to the Tigon, who trembled now and then. “You fear Me? You fear your Mother?”

  “Yes,” Chak-Soon admitted.

  Li-Choke gasped, soft and quickly snuffed. He prayed Mother hadn’t heard his inadvertent sound of shock.

  Either She hadn’t or She didn’t care. Instead, Mother laughed, a mad swirl of Her clouds. “Finally. I have honesty. Too often the Baels, and even the Tigons lie to Me. It is good to find two of My children who are willing to speak the truth.” Thunder rumbled. “For your next task, you will return to the Eastern Plague and report to Li-Shard, the SarpanKum recently reassigned from the West. There you will assist him in the assault on Craven. As soon as I locate the city, I will send word.”

  Her final words spoke, Mother roared skyward, quickly disappearing.

  Chak-Soon stared at the night sky. “Why Mother speak normal?” he asked, once She was long gone.

  Li-Choke shrugged. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good. Not for any of us.”

  Chak-Soon appeared bewildered. “Why?”

  “An insane Mother could be tricked and thwarted. One who is sane—it will be much more difficult.”

  “Why trick at all?”

  “Mother may seem saner, but She is unchanged in this most important aspect: She still wishes to murder all Humanity. And remember, it was a Human woman who Healed you when by rights she should not have done so given what your kind has done to hers over the centuries. Given all that, is Jessira not worthy of life?”

  Chak-Soon nodded. “She should live.”

  Lienna soared through the night sky, well pleased with what had just transpired. Li-Choke, of the treacherous Eastern Baels, had held to his word. He had hunted down and slain Hume, just as She had ordered. Or at least had confessed that Hume was long dead. The truth of the matter was irrelevant. The important detail was this: Li-Choke had gone west, discovered a dead Hammer and hadn’t lied about it. He had been truthful just as She had hoped he would be. Hammer was extinguished. When it had been killed was of no consequence—years or centuries, Lienna couldn’t recall.

  She tended to shy away from Her memories. Her recall of events wasn’t so clear, and if She focused too much on them, Mother and Father sometimes returned, even Mistress Arisa. It couldn’t be allowed, not after Her centuries of confusion and lonely toil.

  Her newfound clarity was all because Lienna had finally decided to share Her pain with Her children. For millennia, She had sought to spare them, but She could no longer do so. They would have to share Her burden, which only made sense since it was why She had created them in the first place: to help Her with the execution of Her holy task. Even now, two of the Plagues of Continent Catalyst slumbered, resting as they took on a portion of Her illness. Only Her loyal Baels were unaffected, standing guard over their brethren.

  Just then, an essence called to Her from many miles away. It was a trace sensation of sight, sound, and smell; a memory from millennia ago. Lienna recognized it. Lightning flashed in response to Her trembling fear. It was impossible. He was dead. She’d seen to it Herself, back when She was mortal. And yet, here was His presence, borne on the air like a pestilential wind. She could taste it. She could never forget it. Or Mother’s stench. Could They still live? How? Or had the voices in Her head been real all this time?

  Thunder pealed as
Lienna screamed in fury. Where was He?

  There! She had Him. And this time, She would end Father for all time!

  Choices made in the past resonate throughout the years, limiting and expanding options in the future. It is an obvious but often overlooked truism.

  ~The Sorrows of Hume, AF 1789

  Farn paused at the entryway to Dar’El’s study, surprised to see the House Council waiting for him. He had been called to the Shektan Seat for an afternoon meeting, but he hadn’t realized he would face such a formal gathering. Everyone looked so serious. It had Farn wondering if he’d done something wrong, or if something had gone wrong.

  Sophy Terrell, the Hound, sat perched upon the couch. She had an intense air of concentration about her, and Farn quickly looked away. As a child, he had always tried to avoid the Hound’s notice. She was so intimidating, and time had done little to diminish her fearsome presence.

  Sharing the couch with Sophy was Satha Shektan, who smiled warmly at him. Farn nodded greeting, smiling in return. He’d grown up in the House Seat as much as he had his own home, and Satha was like a second Amma or a favorite auntie to him.

  Seated in a chair next to the hearth was Durmer Volk. The Great Duriah—an appellation none would dare say in his hearing—remained the same blocky, stolid man Farn remembered. Even his thin, shoe-polish black hair and thick, curling mustache drooping past his perpetually frowning lips were the same.

  Of course, Dar’El was also here. He was the one who had called for the meeting after all.

  But where was Garnet Bosde? Since Farn’s return to Ashoka, he had yet to see the old Councilor. Rumor stated Garnet was in declining health, that his mind wasn’t what it had once been. Or so went the euphemistic description. Farn could read between the lines. He’d seen something similar happen to his nannamma—his father’s mother. It had been painful for everyone involved; to watch helplessly as the light of knowledge, love, and laughter faded from Nannamma’s eyes. It had taken a toll on all of them, especially Nanna.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Dar’El said to Farn, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Now that you’re here, we can begin.”

  “As you know, we had always hoped the Chamber of Lords would rescind Rukh’s judgment,” Satha began. “We never expected for it to happen, but Fate has decided to grant us her favor.” She smiled wryly. “Which leaves us with a conundrum.”

  Durmer cleared his throat, and for a wonder he was grinning broadly. “They—” he gestured to Satha and Dar’El “—never planned what to do if the Chamber voted in favor of our petition. For Rukh’s sake, for his honor basically, all they cared about was getting the judgment overturned. Now that it has, they have to figure out what to do next.”

  Farn knew what was coming. Dar’El and Satha had already discussed it with him once before. “I’m the only one who knows Stronghold’s location,” he said.

  “You would have to go back,” Satha confirmed, hesitating a moment later. “I hate to ask this of you given how recently you returned home, but we need to get word to Rukh as soon as possible and let him know what’s transpired.”

  “Take some time to think it over,” Dar’El urged. “Discuss it with your family. This is your decision.”

  Farn already knew his answer. It was the same as the one he had given the last time he’d been asked. “Of course I’ll go,” he replied. “You know I’m not going to change my mind on something so important.”

  Satha stood and drew Farn into a startled embrace. “You have no idea how grateful I am,” she said, her eyes tearing.

  “I love him, too,” Farn said, uncomfortable with Satha’s appreciation. “How could I do anything less?”

  “There are several other details we need to discuss,” Dar’El said. “First, I have proposed the funding of a Trial to Stronghold. Based on what you’ve told us, it seems we have many items the OutCastes might find useful, and their new firefly lamp designs could prove very valuable to us as well. Second, Jaresh wishes to go with you; and we’ve given him our blessing. He’s yours if you wish.”

  “I thought the commander of a Trial had full discretion with regard to the compliment,” Farn said.

  “He does,” Dar’El said. “Which leads me to the third item. You will be the one to lead the Trial.” He smiled. “Congratulations, Lieutenant. Get used to coming to the House Seat for many meetings in the upcoming weeks. We have a lot to planning to complete. I want to see this Trial ready to depart in a month’s time.”

  Dar’El was worn to the nub. For the past three weeks, he had worked from well before sunup to hours after sundown, trying to make sure the caravan to Stronghold was properly provisioned. This would be a Trial unlike any other in Ashoka’s history: the first caravan sent to a new city and with no previously established routes or landmarks to follow. Such an expedition hadn’t been attempted since the Days of Desolation, and putting it together had required new ways of thinking. The warriors would need food and equipment to take them through everything from a hot spring day to a snowfall in the mountain passes. And since the normal caravan wagons couldn’t make it through the Privations, new, smaller versions had to be designed. In the end, though, much of the required gear would still have to be hauled on horses, mules, and donkeys, a far costlier means to haul freight than for other Trials.

  The cost of such an approach was staggering. It might have even proven ruinous, except a number of Houses had stepped up and offered to help bear the expenses. Of course, they wanted something in return; likely a discount on whatever items Stronghold was willing to trade, especially any materials and goods that could find a market in Ashoka or elsewhere. It was a grand bargain as far as Dar’El was concerned. House Shektan wouldn’t lose money on the Trial, and Rukh would come home.

  Right now, however, all those issues were far from his mind. Even the ongoing meeting of the Society of Rajan couldn’t hold his attention. He’d barely even registered the many hearty congratulations for his victory in the Chamber or the actual proceedings themselves. All of their warm wishes somehow seemed unimportant. Thankfully, the meeting was soon to adjourn. Thrivel Nonel, the Sentya Master, had a few final words to say before it was over.

  And then Dar’El could confront Ular Sathin.

  Ular Sathin whose fingertips were faintly stained the orange-brown color of henna.

  Dar’El had found the Sil Lor Kum.

  The knowledge should have filled him with great satisfaction, but all it did was bring him a churning stomach, one full of upset, betrayal, and heartache. Ular Sathin? How could he? He and Dar’El had been friends for years. Anger and anguish coursed in equal measure through Dar’El as he stared across the table at the Muran Master. The older man had his hand in front of his mouth as he and Anian Elim, the Journeyman Duriah, chuckled over a private joke.

  The meeting concluded, and Dar’El made his way toward Ular.

  “May I have a word in private?” he asked the Muran Master.

  “Of course,” Ular said with a friendly smile. A moment later, upon taking in Dar’El’s forbidding countenance, his smile faded. “What’s happened?” he asked.

  “In private,” Dar’El said. He glanced meaningfully at the other Rajans.

  Ular nodded understanding. “Ah. For my ears only.” His expression turned more serious. “You’ve learned something about one of our fellow Rajans.”

  Dar’El nodded, unable to say anything more. He was too heartbroken over what he had to do, and a part of him still prayed that there was a more innocuous reason for Ular’s stained fingers. In fact, Dar’El had always hoped the traitorous Rajan would turn out to be an Apprentice, someone with whom he didn’t have decades of friendship.

  The Hall finally emptied and he and Ular were alone. It was time.

  He turned to the Muran Master. “The fingertips on your right hand have an unusual color,” he noted.

  Ular glanced at his hand and chuckled. “You should have seen them before,” he said. “I was handling henna and…
.” He shrugged. “I was clumsy and got some on me. It only started fading a few days ago.” He gave a puzzled smile. “Why do you ask?”

  It was all smoothly said, a reasonable explanation. It could have happened just as Ular claimed.

  But it was a lie. Dar’El knew it.

  While he had been speaking, Ular had darted a glance at the closed entrance to the Hall. And right now, though he stared at Dar’El with wide, guileless eyes, a bead of perspiration tracked its way down his forehead. He was nervous.

  Dar’El didn’t reply. He merely stared flat-eyed at his one-time friend.

  Ular licked his lips. “Surely you didn’t ask for this private meeting in order to discuss henna,” he said, darting another glance at the closed door.

  “I know who you are,” Dar’El said.

  More sweat broke out on Ular’s forehead. “What do you mean? Of course you know who I am.” His smile became uneasy. “We’ve known each other for years.”

  “But until an hour ago, I didn’t know you were Sil Lor Kum.”

  The accusation produced a deathly silence, one eventually broken by a shaky laugh from Ular. “Is this a jest?” he asked. “If so, it’s in unbelievably poor taste.” He made to stand. “I think I’ve wasted enough time on your sick humor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important—”

  Dar’El snarled. He conducted Jivatma and grabbed the Muran Master by the collar, lifting him from his chair and slamming him onto the table.

  Ular screamed out in terror. “Don’t kill me,” he choked out. “I know many things.”

  Dar’El’s hold tightened. He wanted to snap the other man’s neck. It would be so easy, and Ular deserved it. But it wouldn’t be right. With a cry of disgust, he threw Ular aside. The man didn’t deserve an easy death. “I know you know ‘things’,” Dar’El said. “And you will tell me all of these ‘things’, especially the name of the Withering Knife murderer.”