by Davis Ashura
“Relatives,” Bree corrected. “My vadina and her cousin-sister.”
Mistress Shull nodded acceptance. “Sit down and let's hear this proposal of yours.” She led them to a set of chairs around a low, glass-topped table. All four women took a seat. “So what is your plan?” Mistress Shull asked.
“The OutCastes are farmers, and they would like to sharecrop some of Clan Weathervine's fallow fields,” Bree said. “It would profit both of you.”
Mistress Shull was shaking her head before Bree had even finished speaking. “You know I can't allow that. No Clan can,” she said. “Though what you said to the Magisterium about The Word and the Deed caused many to wonder about our beliefs, most of my Caste and Clan remain devoted to what we've always been taught. We would never allow an OutCaste to work alongside our own.”
“What if the OutCastes farmed your land but never worked alongside members of Clan Weathervine?” Bree suggested.
Mistress Shull frowned. “I don't see how that's possible,” she said. “When would they work? At night when the rest of us have retired from the fields?”
“No,” Bree replied. “There is land your Clan has rights to but has never worked. Mount Crone.”
“Mount Crone?” Shull's eyes widened in understanding, but again, she shook her head. “That land is too rocky to be properly farmed.”
“Not for them. Stronghold was in the Privation Mountains, and so were their farms,” Bree explained. “They're used to working land that's stony.”
Mistress Shull glanced in Jessira's direction, her face full of skepticism. “Murans are born farmers. It's what we do. You're saying you can work land and cause it to bloom in places we cannot?” she asked in disbelief.
“Not at all,” Jessira answered, keeping her voice even and nonconfrontational, which was a challenge for her even in the best of times. “We're not better farmers than Murans, but necessity taught us what you never had to learn. When Stronghold was founded, the surrounding land was far from ideal, but it was all we had to work with. Our choice was to either make the rocky soil bloom or starve.” She gestured around them. “For you, it's different. You have these lush lands.” She smiled as she gazed about the glorious fields. “Your fields are so bounteous that even a Kumma might bring it to life.”
Mistress Shull chuckled. “Let's not get carried away,” she said, “but I see your point.” She fell silent as she tapped her chin in consideration. “You really think your people can do this?”
“Absolutely,” Sign answered.
“And Clan Weathervine will share in the profits?” Shull asked.
Bree nodded. “Which is where I come in. I've been authorized to negotiate on behalf of the OutCastes.”
Mistress Shull turned to her. “Then let us begin. But remember: we bargain hard.”
Bree smiled, predatory and anticipating. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”
Before the patient man's hardened heart, even the finest of warriors must quail.
~The Warrior and the Servant, (author unknown)
The training grounds of the House of Fire and Mirrors were a broad quadrangle of trampled fields that resisted the finest efforts of the Muran groundskeepers to keep them green and vibrant. The memory of generations of warriors had been beaten into the hard-packed dirt, and for some, the continually torn grass was the House's truest sigil. North of the grounds loomed the bulk of the main building of the House of Fire and Mirrors, while to the south rested an array of barracks and barns. East and west, a hedge of ligustrum softened a tall, brick wall upon which were mounted regularly spaced firefly lamps.
With the early spring weather, the scent of cut grass, azalea, and dew mingled in the air while the ground reverberated with the shouts of Martial Masters barking out instructions and critiques to their senior cadets. From a distance, the din and movement of the two hundred or so young men pushed through another round of drills might have seemed purposeless and without pattern, but such was not the case. To the discerning eye, it quickly became clear that the movements of the warriors did have purpose. They did have a pattern. Their sliding motions were supple, smooth, and focused, informed by years of training and discipline. Today, though, those same fluid movements seemed somewhat forced and frenetic, even frayed. Technique appeared traded for speed, and a few students found themselves slipping head over heels on the slick grass. They cursed loudly before rising to their feet and resuming their matches.
This was the final months-long push for the Trims—the senior cadets—of the House of Fire and Mirrors. This was the training meant to hone them to Ashokan sharpness, to the keen edge needed—not just for their upcoming Trials—but also for something else. It was something seemingly trivial, and yet it was also something the Trims feared to fail. A few months from now would come Hellfire Week. It was held every spring and was the annual competitions and exhibitions in which all the military academies took part.
Hellfire Week began with the Wrath, the competition pitting the finest seniors of the House of Fire and Mirrors against those from their brother Kumma academy, the Fort and the Sword. No one wanted to lose, and it went without saying that the Wrath was bitterly contested. Whoever won the contest would invariably lord their victory over the defeated academy for the entirety of the following year, and for many in Caste Kumma, it was one of the most important competitions of the year.
However, for the rest of the city, the more anticipated contest was what followed after: the Advent Trial. Other than the Tournament of Hume, there was no other event in Ashoka that was more eagerly anticipated. All the Trims from the four military academies: the House of Fire and Mirrors, the Fort and the Sword, the Sarath, and the Shir'Fen—the latter two were the schools in which Rahails and Murans trained as warriors—would take part.
In some ways, the Advent Trial was even more popular than the Tournament of Hume. Since Kummas were utterly dominant in matters of the sword, most martial competitions never had any other entrants other than those from the warrior Caste. Such wasn't the case with the Advent Trial. This wider involvement of other Castes was a large reason for its popularity.
In addition, since the goal of the competition was simple and obvious, it was easy to follow. Two armies, each containing a mix of cadets and commanders from the four military academies, would battle against one another. Their straightforward goal: capture the opposing team's flag and bring it back safely to their own 'Oasis'.
The competition always took place just outside the borders of Ashoka's Outer Wall, and as a result, there were plenty of vantage points by which to view it. But given the contest's popularity, the best places to watch the tournament had already long since been reserved, and a few months from now, the Outer Wall would be thronged with Ashokans cheering on whichever of the two armies caught their fancy.
But first would come the Wrath—and the Prank.
Rukh smiled as he remembered his own participation in the Prank several years ago. In the few short years since, it had already achieved the status of legend. What a fine joke he, Keemo, Farn, and Jaresh had managed to carry out. Keemo had been the instigator and planner while the other three had merely added on some final flourishes to make the Prank come off without a hitch.
His smile became wistful as he remembered the beloved friend he had lost, a man who had been akin to a brother. In a more just world, Keemo should still be with those who loved him. He should be walking the streets of Ashoka, wearing his easy smile and offering his infectious laughter. He should be living out the life he so obviously found so vivacious. In his presence, even Farn hadn't been able to remain dour for long.
Rukh shook his head in sorrow before returning his attention to the here and now. After his return to Ashoka, it had been decided that he had survived six Trials: the failed journey to Nestle, the journey to and from the Chimera caverns, the trip to Hammer and back where he and Jessira had retrieved The Book of First Movement, and finally, the return to Ashoka from Stronghold. Therefore, according to the judgment o
f the Chamber of Lords, Rukh had fulfilled his obligations to his Caste and would never again have to leave Ashoka if he so chose—which he wouldn't. He was a married man after all.
The one obstacle he had yet to overcome, though, was what to do with the rest of his life, and how he would be able to afford it. He had no money. Kummas were given shares in the caravans in which they participated, and through this investment, those with three Trials to their names were generally quite wealthy by that point. However, Rukh was the exception that tested the rule. The Trial to Nestle had ended in disaster with all the men and material destroyed. The expedition to the Chimera caverns had not been for monetary gain, and the journey to Hammer had resulted in the recovery of The Book of First Movement, but had yielded nothing in the way of saleable items. And, of course, the return to Ashoka from Stronghold had been due to genocide.
All this meant that Rukh had needed to find a means to earn a living. As a result, he'd applied to become a Martial Master at his alma mater, the House of Fire and Mirrors. He was grateful to Master Sinngin, the Dean of the academy, for hiring him on, but it was still a challenge finding a balance in his work situation. He was expected to offer instruction and reprimand warriors who he had first known as fellow cadets, and it wasn't easy to make the transition to judging Master.
Farn, however, seemed to have little trouble making just that transition. Farn, like Rukh, had also been deemed to have survived enough Trials to remain in Ashoka with his honor intact. In his case, it was four Trials—to Nestle, the return from Stronghold, and the Trial to and from the OutCaste city. And also like Rukh, he had no wealth to his name, which meant he, too, was an instructor at the House of Fire and Mirrors.
Right now, Farn was working nearby with his own group of seniors, and his voice rose when he saw one of them make a first year error.
Rukh smiled when he saw the chagrined student redden with embarrassment. At least the Trim wouldn't be making that same mistake again.
Rukh turned his attention back to the seniors he'd been tasked to oversee. There were six of them, and he'd split them into two teams of three: the Reds and the Golds. He thought them well-matched, which meant that victory would be achieved by whoever was best able to maintain unit discipline and cohesion since Annexes weren't allowed.
Rukh reckoned he'd given each team enough time to map out their tactics. “Begin!” he shouted.
Immediately, the two teams closed with one another. Rukh measured the placement of each team's warriors. He frowned. Unless there was an unexpected accident, the Reds would lose badly.
Before he'd even finished the thought, a member of the Reds was down. The teams fought with shokes and the cadet fell to the ground, grunting in pain. He'd taken a figurative disemboweling thrust. With his demise, another of the Reds also fell, and seconds later, it was over. The Golds were the victors, and they stood proudly as they surveyed their handiwork.
Rukh went to the first member of Red Team who had fallen, Lince Chopil, their nominal lieutenant.
The Trim had his jaw clenched in pain, and his hands clutched over his abdomen. He had to be hurting, and while Rukh could have called over one of the Shiyen physicians to Heal the cadet, there was no need. He drew Jivatma from his Well and stretched it out as thin as a silken thread before placing his hands on the Trim's abdomen. He let his Jivatma empty down into Cadet Chopil, Healing him and removing the senior's pain.
Soon enough, the Trim was breathing easily, and Rukh turned to the other members of the Red Team. He Healed them as well until all of them were moving about without evidence of discomfort. None of them mentioned Rukh's non-Kumma Talents or looked askance or fearful while he had Healed them.
It hadn't always been the case. The first time the members of the House of Fire and Mirrors had witnessed Rukh Healing, an uneasy hush had fallen upon them. The silence had included both his fellow Martial Masters and the cadets who had been involved. All of them had heard the stories about Rukh's non-Kumma Talents, but hearing wasn't the same as experiencing. Thankfully, their discomfiture had faded over time, and now, it was gone entirely. Any who required Rukh's help simply accepted it without comment or concern.
“Why did your unit perform so poorly?” Rukh asked Cadet Chopil.
The Trim stood at attention. “It was my fault, sir! I shouldn't have engaged with Cadet Prind,” he replied.
“At ease,” Rukh ordered. “Why should you not have engaged Cadet Prind?”
“I underestimated him, sir!” Chopil shouted.
Rukh's lips thinned. It wasn't the answer he had been looking for. He stepped closer to the Trim. “Who took your life?”
“Sir?”
“Are you deaf?” Rukh barked. “I asked who took your life.”
Chopil licked his lips. “I believe it was Cadet Dristh.”
“So it wasn't Prind?”
Farn arrived just then, and he added his glare to the situation.
Chopil glanced askance at Rukh's cousin and stiffened his spine. “No, sir,” he replied.
“Then why do you think your mistake was in engaging Prind?”
Chopil licked his lips again. “I'm not sure what my mistake was.”
“Pathetic,” Farn said. “Victory is taken by those who deserve it, but even in loss, a wise warrior should be able to understand why he was defeated.”
Impossibly, Chopil stiffened even further, his face turning red with anger or embarrassment.
“You have something to say?” Farn demanded.
Rukh held his tongue, waiting to hear how the Trim would answer.
Chopil hesitated. “Would the Martial Master be willing to instruct me?”
Rukh smiled. “Of course. You lost because you set your strongest against Gold Team's supposed weakest. In essence, you engaged in one-on-one combat while the Golds fought as a team. Cadet Beol recognized your mistake and exploited it. Your supposed strongest was held up by Gold's weakest just long enough for the other Golds to support him and 'kill' you. After that, with their three to your two, the Reds were doomed.”
Chopil frowned. “But in the accounts of your battles in the Chimera caverns and Stronghold, it's how you fought. You stood alone and unbending with your skill and faithful blade against the rage of a horde.”
Rukh scowled. Was that truly the lesson the cadets of his martial academy had taken from his battles? And what was it with the manner in which Chopil had just spoken? It sounded like the Trim had recited some bad drama he'd read. It was absolute stupidity.
“If I could have fought with my brothers against the Chimeras, I would have,” Rukh growled. “And Stronghold was a massacre. Without the Kesarins, we would have all died. I never fought alone there.”
“But, sir, we've watched you train. You defeated two Martial Masters by yourself.” Chopil's voice sounded eager, young, and full of awe.
Rukh wanted to shake the Trim loose of his foolishness. How could a senior cadet at the House of Fire and Mirrors be so wrongheaded? Just a few years ago, Rukh had been just another student to these Trims, but all too often, it sounded like some of them harbored some sort of hero worship toward him. It defied reason.
“I was only able to defeat two Martial Masters because I can Blend,” Rukh reminded the rest of the Trims, all of whom appeared to be listening intently. “Once they accounted for my Talent, they were able to defeat me.”
“But you're still victorious once every third time—”
“Once every third means I'm dead two out of three,” Rukh snapped, having heard enough. “Ten laps. Get it done!”
Cadet Chopil rammed back to rigid attention. “Yes, sir!”
Members of Gold Team snickered as the Reds trotted out behind Chopil.
Rukh's attention surged to them. “And you've earned the privilege of joining them,” he barked. “Move it!”
Groans met his command, but Gold Team was soon trailing after the Reds.
“I've never seen you get so angry at Trims like that,” Farn noted.
“
Never had a reason to,” Rukh replied.
Jaresh arrived just then and whistled at the swiftly retreating Red and Gold Teams. “What happened to them?” he asked, walking up to join Rukh and their cousin.
“Your brother lost his temper,” Farn said in his inimitable, laconic style.
Jaresh did a double take. “Really? Everyone keeps going on and on about his patience, like he's some sort of latter-day Maha Sidtha.”
“Don't you have some accounts to receive?” Rukh asked, annoyed by his brother's overly chipper manner.
“Those would be accounts payable, and they've already been paid,” Jaresh corrected in a pedantic tone. “So what did the Trims do?”
“They're just filled with all sorts of idiotic ideas,” Rukh answered. “Speaking of. What brings you out here?”
Jaresh smirked. “Droll,” he said. “Durmer just finished running me and Bree through our paces when Nanna told me to bring you home.”
Rukh nodded, understanding what Jaresh meant about Durmer. Ever since the Kesarins—Aia, Shon, and Thrum—had given Jaresh the Talents of a Kumma, he had been training hard under the Great Duriah's tutelage to master his new abilities. Joining him in his practice was Bree.
The last time Rukh had watched them spar, he'd been surprised by how far their sister had come. There were times when she was able to hold her own against Jaresh. Of course her ability to stand against their brother wasn't because of perfect form or technique on her part—in fact, she was relatively raw in the use of a sword—but because she was just that much faster. Just like Rukh couldn't Blend as well as a Muran or a Rahail or Heal like a Shiyen, Jaresh, though he was now much swifter and stronger than most people, still didn't have the speed, endurance, and strength of a Kumma. Most of the time, his excellent technique and form were enough to overcome Bree's advantages, but not always. Her quickness was an undeniable advantage.
“Did Nanna say what he wanted?” Rukh asked.