by Davis Ashura
All of it was absurd, and in fact, the truth was far less impressive. The Society had been founded in Hammer and initially tasked with unlocking the secrets of The Book of First Movement. Though they had utterly failed their original purpose, somehow the Society had still spread, branching out into every other city on Arisa. Over time, its charter had also changed. In general, the Rajans sought to be a positive force by inculcating a higher state of equality and acceptance amongst society in general.
Depending on who was asked, it was a notion that was either breathtakingly brazen or hopelessly naïve.
Dar’El, the Kumma Journeyman, had asked for this gathering, and as he spoke, his fellow Rajans eyed him with polite expressions of curiosity. For a half-hour now, he had explained the importance of bringing Rukh home, and why such an endeavor was worthy of the Society’s resources. While he had been laying out his plan, he had noticed a few of his fellows covering a yawn. They weren’t bored — at least Dar’El hoped not. More likely, they were simply tired, which was understandable given the lateness of the hour.
“You’ve spoken eloquently in defense of your son,” said Thrivel Nonel, the Master Sentya. Like everyone else in the Society, he was a person of influence in his Caste, and he took his time in formulating his thoughts. “But I have yet to hear why we should believe he has The Book of First Movement.”
“I wrote to Rukh about The Book,” Dar’El said. “I know him well enough to believe he will eventually go after it.”
“Meaning we can never truly know if he ever obtains it or even makes the attempt,” said Anian Elim, the heavyset Duriah Journeyman.
“Correct,” Dar’El answered, knowing this was the weakest part of his argument. “But as I said before, I think he will. In this, I must simply ask for your trust.”
“And of all the warriors in Ashoka, Rukh would have the greatest hope of success in reclaiming The Book,” said Silma Thoran, the Kumma Master. “Whether he makes the attempt from Stronghold or after returning to Ashoka.” For her statement of support and so many other reasons, Dar’El could have kissed the elderly Master Kumma. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts, but her mind remained just as bright and focused as the day twenty years ago when she had approached Dar’El about joining the Society.
“And if he chooses never to go to Hammer?” asked Minet Jorian, the Apprentice Cherid. “After all, it is a journey fraught with danger.”
“In that case, at least Rukh would be returned to us, a notion I find appealing,” Dar’El said with a smile. “I know it sounds like a nanna’s pride speaking, but my son is special. Remember all he accomplished in his first Trial, and how critical he was for the survival of dozens of our warriors after the battle in the caverns. Imagine if everyone could do as he can. There would be so much we could accomplish.”
“It is also heresy,” said Gren Vos, who — in addition to her position as a Magistrate — was also the Shiyen Master. She thrust out her chin in challenge. “How will you answer those who quote The Word and the Deed, which is quite clear on the matter?”
Dar’El nodded acknowledgment to the old Shiyen. Gren was an ally in this. She was merely giving him an opportunity to address some of the worries that others around the table were likely considering. Rajans were chosen, not simply because of their influential status in their Castes, but more importantly for their ability to think critically and with an open mind. Right now, most of his fellows were worried about how Rukh’s presence might affect the city, especially amongst Ashoka’s reactionary elements.
“There will be many who will despise Rukh for what he can do. But, consider the name the city has given him: the Hero of the Slave River. The people of Ashoka have already made their decision with regards to my son: they have embraced him.”
“But not all,” said Grain Jola, the obdurate Master Rahail. Of all the Rajans, he was the prickliest, and the one least likely to agree with the others. There were times when meetings were prolonged for no other reason than Grain just had to voice his opinion, no matter how inconsequential the matter being discussed. Sometimes Dar’El wondered if the old patriarch did so more out of obstinacy than conviction.
“Not all,” Dar’El agreed, allowing no hint of irritation to enter his voice. “But if our decisions are based on how we fear the more reactionary elements of our city might react, Ashoka would never change. She will never become what we all want.”
“Yes, but thus far, we’ve simply pushed for Castes other than Kumma and Cherid to obtain leadership roles in the city. We strive for equality of opportunity, and we’ve done well to further it,” Grain countered. “Your son represents a much greater test to Ashoka’s culture. His Talents are a direct affront to everything we hold to be true about the Castes. His mere existence, as well as these OutCastes with which he will always be associated, would threaten the holy truth of The Word and the Deed.”
Sim Chilmore, the Cherid Master, chuckled softly. “My old friend, I share your fears,” he said to Grain. “But this is also an opportunity. One we could have never foreseen or expected.” He glanced around the table, his eyes bright. “The Book of All Souls,” he continued. “Don’t you see? The Word and the Deed teaches equality, but The Book of All Souls teaches fraternity.”
Sim’s words resonated, and Dar’El found himself nodding in agreement.
“I read your son’s report from his Trial,” said Bravun Silan, the Kumma Apprentice, and the man Dar’El had sponsored for the Society. “Is fraternity not what the Baels claim to worship as well?”
Thrivel Nonel cackled laughter. “How ironic. What we have always sought, the Baels learned first.”
“If they spoke the truth,” Grain Jola muttered.
“I call for a vote,” Dar’El said.
Grain’s head jerked up. “Wait. There are other issues to discuss. You seek our help in convincing the Chamber of Lords to rescind their verdict on Rukh, to no longer find him Unworthy. To entice us, you offer up the possibility that he might have The Book of First Movement. What if he has it but refuses to part with it? What then?”
Dar’El was about to reply but was spared from having to speak when Gren Vos answered in his stead. “How likely do you suppose that might be?” she asked. “And if Rukh refuses us, so what. Rukh Shektan, for all his Talents and exploits, is but one man, and like all men, he will eventually pass from this world. We are the Society of Rajan. Time is on our side. The Book will be ours.”
Her answer must have mollified Grain because while the old Rahail settled back in his chair with a grumble, he remained quiet.
“I still don’t like the fact that you pushed your son to quest for The Book without consulting the rest of the Society,” Diffel Larekin, the Cherid Journeyman grumbled.
“And I already explained why,” Dar’El replied evenly. “At the time, I was focused on how to keep my son safe. I didn’t think to seek approval, and by the time I realized I should have, it was too late.” He shrugged. “I used my discretion.”
“You aren’t yet a Master to make such decisions for the rest of us,” Sim Chilmore, the Cherid Master, reminded him.
“But I am the ruling ‘El of a powerful House, and father to the man who will retrieve The Book.”
His words earned him a sour look from Sim as well as a brief nod of understanding.
“There is one other consideration,” Gren Vos said, looking around the room and making sure she had everyone’s attention. “Kumma politics is a minefield. What if Rukh obtains The Book, takes it to the ghrina city … this Stronghold, but we are unable to overturn his banishment? The Book would be lost to us.”
Gren shrugged apology at Dar’El, but he didn’t mind her words. It was a possibility he had already considered. “First, The Book is already lost in Hammer, so if it is taken to Stronghold, we really don’t lose anything. Second, Kumma politics is exactly why I asked for this meeting. If pressure from without is brought upon the Chamber, they will feel it. Even those who voted to find Rukh Unworthy will feel it. They k
now they can’t afford to alienate the rest of the city.”
Sim sighed. “Life would be so much easier without politics to muddy it up. Imagine a place like that.”
Grain chuckled. “Good luck finding such a world. You might as well call it Salvation.”
“Are there any more questions?” Dar’El asked.
Gren Vos shook her head. “We’ve run around this issue long enough,” she said. “It’s time to vote.”
Unsurprisingly, the Society voted to throw its weight behind Dar’El’s plan to bring Rukh home.
Grain Jola grinned when the final tally was read. It was twenty for and one against. “I couldn’t allow it to be unanimous,” he said.
Afterward, the meeting ended, and Dar’El accepted the congratulations and promises of assistance from his fellow Rajans. They also offered advice on how to proceed and warnings not to fail.
As a result, Dar’El was one of the last to leave the Hall. It was left to him to turn down the firefly lamps and clean the room. He did so, organizing the chairs about the table as part of his final pass through. By the time he was finished, the room was dark except for a small lamp in the entryway
Dar’El slipped on his wool coat, settling it about his shoulders and tucked his hands into his coat pockets. It was then that he discovered a small folded piece of paper in one of them with his name upon it.
Dar’El glanced around, but no one else was about.
He recognized the handwriting. It was another note from the one who claimed to be a MalDin. Which also meant that Satha was right: the writer of the note was a member of the Society. There had been no servants tonight. Dar’El felt the weight of all he had to do, and his shoulders slumped. He’d known most of the people here for years, and in many cases, decades. It made him sick to realize one of his fellow Rajans could be a part of the Sil Lor Kum. One of his dear friends would have to die for their crimes.
Dar’El tried to set aside his anguish as he unfolded the paper. The note contained two words. It was a name: Drin Port.
*****
Jaresh and Bree made their way as quickly as they could to Hold Cavern. There had been another murder, this one occurring many months after the last one. Bree’s face was a mask, but Jaresh could tell she was just as upset and angry as he was. With so much time passing since the murder of Slathtril Apter, they had grown lax, the urgency of finding the killer fading. This was the price for their idleness: another man dead.
Jaresh’s teeth gritted. Idiot. Spending so much time mooning over Mira, worrying about something that could never be when he should have been doing his job. He vowed it would never happen again. They would catch these fiends before anyone else died.
Soon enough, they arrived at the scene of the crime. It was a quiet road of tall, slate-roofed houses painted sedate colors ranging from brown to russet, but all of them adorned with elaborate trim. Dogwoods lined the sidewalk at regular intervals. It was dusk, and along with the lampposts, firefly lanterns of red, gold, and violet were woven into the bare branches of the trees, providing a multihued light. It would have made a lovely scene except for the section of the road blocked off by wooden barricades, and the small crowd gathered behind them.
The Watch had already arrived and taken charge of the situation. Jaresh grimaced when he saw Rector Bryce.
“Stop scowling,” Bree whispered. “We want Rector to allow us through.”
Jaresh took her advice and did his best to school his features to stillness. It must have worked because Rector glanced their way and said something to one of his men, who came their way and allowed them inside the cordoned-off area. As they were passed through, Rector acknowledged them with a brief nod before turning aside to speak to someone else.
Mira met them at the top of a wide flight of stairs that led to the front door. She briefly looked Jaresh’s way before turning to Bree.
It had been months since the two of them had decided to go their separate ways, but Jaresh’s stomach still tightened with longing when he saw Mira. At least it wasn’t the painful clenching it had once been. Progress.
“His name was Van Jinnu,” Mira said. “That’s all I’ve learned so far. Dar’El may know more.”
She drew them inside and within the foyer was a tarp-covered body lying atop a bloodstained rug. Nanna stood nearby, speaking with one of the members of the Watch. He broke off and gestured them aside. “Van Jinnu. A Rahail,” Nanna began without preamble. “A warrior. Two Trials to his name. Wealthy and widowed three years now.”
“Anything else?” Jaresh asked, forcing himself not to look too long at Mira.
Dar’El nodded his head. “But not here,” he said. “Come.” He led them deeper into the house, to the kitchen. From the ceiling hung a small rack of pots and pans. Several plates and utensils littered the sink, and a round table with two glasses of water upon it took up one corner.
“I need to talk to Rector,” Mira said, excusing herself.
“You said Van Jinnu was a widower,” Jaresh said. He pointed to the glasses. “Did he have servants?”
“From all accounts, he lived alone,” Nanna answered.
“Then why are there two glasses of water on the table?” Jaresh asked.
“Could the killer have been brazen enough to have had a drink with Van?” Bree asked.
It actually sounded like it might have been the case. “What a cold son of a bitch,” Jaresh said with a scowl.
“We should talk more,” Nanna said. “Outside.” He motioned toward several members of the Watch, who were drifting their way.
They followed Nanna to the front floor landing, and when they stepped outside, Jaresh saw Mira and Rector holding hands. The Watch lieutenant whispered something to her, and she smiled. He spoke again, and Mira nodded before turning away.
The earlier pangs of longing Jaresh had felt upon seeing Mira rose again in a crest of confusion and jealousy. What was going on? She had always claimed to dislike Rector Bryce, but here they were holding hands.
“I thought Mira didn’t like Rector,” Bree said, echoing Jaresh’s thoughts.
“She doesn’t,” Nanna said, which made Jaresh feel better but did nothing to answer the confusing scene of her and Rector holding hands. “All will be made clear later.”
Mira came to them. “Rector didn’t find anything else,” she said.
Jaresh tried to catch her attention, wanting to ask what was going on between her and Rector, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“In two days,” Nanna said. “I want to know everything about Van Jinnu and what happened here.” Anger crackled in his voice. “These murders will not continue.”
Chapter 5: Choices
The Chimeras are not a mindless horde of unthinking killers. In their own fashion, they possess reason. So are they our brothers? This question has haunted us since the time of Li-Charn and Hume.
-From the journal of SarpanKum Li-Dane, AF 1938
Chak-Soon stood on the heights and watched the battle play out down below amongst the broken stones of the plain. A quarter-mile away, the Chimeras he had sent to scout the Humans were being systematically butchered. He felt no pain at the loss of the nest, but the loss of his claw hurt. He wanted to leap forth and destroy the Kumma monster who was killing the Tigons he had fought so hard to lead — but he couldn’t. He had been ordered to observe. Nothing more. And so he watched as the Human warrior moved like the wind, flickering in and out of view. Soon grunted as the final Tigon died. He’d seen enough. It was only a matter of moments before the last of the Chimeras was killed.
Alongside him stood the two remaining members of his claw, his minions, bound to serve him unless they found a means to overthrow his rule. Until that day, though, Chak-Soon was their ordinate, in complete command of their lives. It was the way of his kind: whoever was strongest ruled. And while Soon wasn’t as physically imposing as the two Tigons standing beside him, he was far more cunning and ruthless. There were some who likened his plans to those of their once-masters, t
he Baels. It would be hard to take Soon by surprise. In addition, he was known to be a brutal warrior, willing to accept as much damage as was needed so long as he could latch his great teeth upon the throat of his enemy. Soon was young, but older ordinates were already starting to take note of his savagery. They watched him carefully, certain his ambition was not satisfied with a single claw.
And as for that claw, it was all but dead, but Soon could always win control of another. Of that he was certain. What was life without domination of those who were weaker? Soon knew he would one day rise high in the ranks of the Chimeras … with Mother’s blessing.
“Kumma killed brothers,” said one of the Tigon, his voice guttural as his tongue tripped around his oversized great teeth. “We kill back?”
Soon glanced at his fellow Tigons. The one who had spoken was huge and had a lion’s mane of fur. He wore a simple breechcloth, a sheathed sword hanging from his waist, and a leather case containing his bow and sheaf of arrows strapped to his back. The other Tigon had a leopard’s spots and was dressed similarly to the first. He was smaller than the lion but still larger than Soon. All were naked to the cold wind, although Soon knew none of them felt the air’s bite. Tigons were strong; not weak like the evil Humans.
As for Soon, in addition to the breechcloth, sword and bow, he wore a braided leather necklace banded with feathers: the mark of leadership. It had been difficult to get used to it. No Tigon in generations had been so adorned. For centuries, the Baels had been the only Chimeras graced with the feathers of command. But the Baels were now all dead. They were enemies to Mother. Mother had declared it so.
Still, it had been easier when the Baels had led. Life hadn’t been so complicated then. Soon found that following orders he could understand was easier than issuing them. This one realization sometimes made him hesitate at striving for greater leadership within the Tigon ranks. But those ordinates, who were the commanders of all Chimeras, were the ones who also communed with Mother. What greater glory in life could there be than to speak with Her? She was everything.