by Davis Ashura
“Which is what?” Mira asked, playing for time.
“We are lovers,” Varesea replied evenly and without shame. “And you are in no position to judge us, not after your own dalliance with Jaresh Shektan.”
Mira didn’t bother correcting Varesea’s false assumption. Instead, she turned to Hal’El, relieved to see the Withering Knife had been sheathed. “What do you intend to do with me?” she demanded once again, anger lacing her voice. Somewhere in the shock of learning about Hal’El and Varesea’s relationship, she had forgotten her fear.
“You will tell us everything House Shektan knows, and then … ” Hal’El shrugged, his pregnant silence an all-too clear indication of what he intended.
“You’re not really offering me much motive to tell you anything,” Mira replied.
“Refuse me, and your fate will be sealed by the Withering Knife,” Hal’El said, his face forbidding. “Believe me when I tell you: there is not a more painful death. The Knife steals your Jivatma.”
So the legends about the Knife were true. Or at least Hal’El wanted her to believe they were.
“House Shektan knows everything,” Mira said. “They know you are the SuDin. Even now a troop of warriors are coming to arrest you. Before tomorrow night, you and your lover will be food for the crows. You’ll be forever reviled as the worst kind of degenerates.”
Varesea laughed. “We are far worse than degenerates, my dear. We are Sil Lor Kum, and we are lovers from different Castes. Surely you can do better with your insults.”
“You’re right,” Mira replied. “You are worse. You’re ghrinas, both of you.” She turned back to Hal’El. “And traitors.”
The crushing blow came without warning. Faster than she could follow, Hal’El backhanded her, sending her tumbling. Mira cried out as she crashed into a table, knocking it over. She had the wherewithal to conduct Jivatma and Shield. It cushioned her fall.
Mira rose to her feet with her sword leveled and ready to fight. She would die here, but not like a sheep.
She felt brave until Hal’El laughed at her defiance and readied his sword.
Just then, the door burst inward, smacking Hal’El in the head and knocking him to the ground. Rector and Bree charged in.
*****
Despite Jivatma flooding into her, the world was quiet and still until the instant Bree stepped into the flat. With a snap, sound and fury raged. It was chaotic, a roar of noise and movement. Images impinged on Bree’s senses. Hal’El rose from the ground, looking furious. A Rahail woman — Bree recognized her — Varesea Apter, squared off against Mira, both of them armed with swords.
Bree nearly panicked. She tried to control the surge of adrenaline and fear by taking a deep breath.
Rector and Hal’El needed no such time to gather themselves. They went after one another, a blur of blades. Bree ducked low as Hal’El’s sword arched toward her. Rector threw himself in the way, stopping the deadly stroke.
With a start, Bree got her mind working again. She remembered the lessons she’d worked so hard to learn since the attack in the alley.
She attacked Hal’El’s flank. He slid aside and then Rector was there. It was tight fighting, a twisting of bodies.
Bree never saw the kick that punched through her Shield and launched her into Mira. The two of them fell to the floor. Varesea loomed over them.
Mira surged to her feet and blocked. From her knees, still wobbly from the kick, Bree aimed a blow at Varesea’s legs. The Rahail managed to dart out of the way, but Mira used the distraction. She lanced her sword into Varesea’s heart.
Varesea gasped out a final breath. She slid off the blade and fell over dead.
Hal’El cried out.
Bree moved to flank the Wrestiva and Mira did so as well. Rector rose shakily from the ground. Blood flowed freely from a deep cut to his scalp.
“You will die,” Hal’El promised, moving toward Mira. At the last instant, he spun about, somehow sensing Bree’s thrust. He blocked her, pushing her back. Still spinning, he gut-kicked Rector. His final motion carried him around. His sword punched through Mira’s Shield and thrust into her stomach.
With a smile of satisfaction, Hal’El withdrew his blade. An instant later, his face filled with anguish as he looked at Varesea’s unmoving body. Without another word, his hand glowed. He threw a Fireball at a plywood-covered window and leapt through the hole he had blasted, disappearing into the night.
Bree crawled to Mira, fear for her friend almost stilling her heart. Rector stumbled over as well.
Mira’s eyes darted between the two of them as she gasped in pain. Her pulse fluttered in her neck.
Chapter 31: Midnight Vows
Soft as a rose petal is the light of dawn’s first blush.
But softer still your wine-kissed lips at midnight,
When fragrant blossoms fall around us like confetti.
-Midnight’s Sunrise by Maral, AF 702
Jessira settled into the old couch and sighed with comfort. She knew this sofa well. She knew all its lumps, its settled areas, and how best to position herself so she wouldn’t sink to the floor. The couch was as familiar as an old friend and had been in her parents’ home for as long as Jessira could remember. They had given it to her and Rukh as an early wedding gift, and now, it sat centered on the wall opposite the front door in the hearthspace of their new flat together. It was one of the few pieces of furniture the two of them had managed to scrounge together in the weeks since their return to Stronghold. The other was a bed — hers — the one she’d grown up with and also from her parents’ flat. It was another familiar memento to bring to the home she and Rukh would soon share.
Two more days until the wedding. Jessira couldn’t wait.
When she’d decided to end her engagement and follow Rukh out of Stronghold, her parents had been deeply upset with her. It wasn’t because they wanted Jessira to marry Disbar no matter the cost — in fact, by the time she had left, they had come to dislike her former fiancé as much as she had. However, there might have been a way to end the engagement without so many hard feelings on both sides. But by simply leaving Stronghold with Rukh, Jessira had ended any hope of a graceful termination. Her parents had worried that Jessira’s reputation would be irreparably sullied by what she had done.
It should have happened, but it hadn’t. Luck or Karma was the reason. It turned out Disbar did have something to do with his cousins’ attacks on Rukh. There hadn’t been definitive evidence, but there was enough to leave a black stain on Disbar’s honor. His own reputation was now in tatters.
As a result, Jessira’s homecoming — her second in months — had been a joyful occasion without any worries or concerns. Her parents had been more delighted than anyone, especially when they learned Jessira planned to marry Rukh, a man who was suddenly of high standing. And when they learned that the Governor-General himself would officiate the ceremony — in the Home House, no less — with the entire Senate in attendance, they had been beside themselves with joy.
Then had come the wedding preparations. Jessira and her parents had to complete in a few weeks what would normally require a few months. All the details were maddening. Who to invite? Where to seat them? What kind of food to serve? What kind of flowers for Rukh’s offertory bouquet? What clothes for the bride and the groom? Who to chaperone Rukh down the aisle since his parents were obviously absent?
Jessira hated every bit of it.
All she wanted was to get married in a small, simple ceremony, but it wasn’t to be. This morning, Jessira had finally had enough. It was too much. She couldn’t stomach any more useless planning, and as a result, she had turned over all decision-making to Amma. Frankly, she was so much better at all of this anyway. As of now, all Jessira had to do was show up. It was a situation both she and her parents were glad of. When she had left the flat this morning, Jessira had heard Nanna mutter something about ornery daughters finally getting out of the way.
By contrast, Rukh had had it easy. Since
their return, he’d been politely asked to report to the East Lock and teach the sword to anyone who was willing to learn. It seemed the senior officers didn’t want to waste Rukh’s Talents on simple scouting where he might be injured or even die. Instead, it had been decided that he could best serve the city by training her warriors. After his demolition of Stronghold’s finest, everyone wanted to learn from him, and a special lottery had been held for the ten spaces in Rukh’s initial class.
It also turned out that Rukh loved teaching. He enjoyed his work and was finally becoming a part of Stronghold. It was good to see.
Jessira was brought back to the present when Rukh brought her tea.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Jessira smiled, taking both his hands in hers. “I’m just glad you’re happy.”
Rukh smiled with her. “I’ve got a lot to be happy about,” he said, kissing her.
Jessira let the kiss deepen before pulling back and settling against Rukh with a purr of contentment. “When did you finally learn wisdom?” she asked. “I mean about how good your life can be,” she explained when he looked at her in puzzlement.
“When I took your advice and forgave your people,” he replied. “Or at least those who asked.”
“I told you before: you’re not a man made to hate,” she reminded him. “It was eating you up inside.”
Rukh answered by kissing the top of her head. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Jessira settled against him once more. She took a sip of tea and glanced around the barren flat. “We have a lot of work to do to make this place livable,” she remarked.
“We’ve got time,” Rukh said. “After all, everything we really need is already here.” He patted the couch on which they sat. “A comfortable sofa and a soft bed on which to sleep. We can pick up the rest as time goes on.”
“Sleep? Is that all you think we should do in bed?” Jessira asked.
“What do you have in mind?” Rukh asked, wearing a guileless expression.
He didn’t fool her. She could see the sudden intensity in his eyes. “Why don’t I give you a demonstration?” Jessira set aside their tea and pulled him forward. She kissed him, softly at first and then deeper. “Does that give you an idea of — ”
Her words were cut off when Rukh kissed her again. The kiss lengthened, and Rukh held her close, cupping her face in both his hands. Jessira nestled into the couch as Rukh’s weight settled against her. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his pants, but even as she struggled to unbutton it, Rukh leaned away. Jessira tried to pull him back, but he refused her urging. He clasped her hands, and gently disentangled them from the fabric of his shirt. He looked as frustrated as she felt.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Rukh stood and put further distance between the two of them. “In Ashoka, when a man and woman become engaged, according to our traditions, they can no longer share intimacy until the wedding night.”
“This isn’t Ashoka,” Jessira reminded him.
“But I’m still Ashokan. In my heart and soul, it’s who I am.”
“But you’re of Stronghold now,” Jessira said. “We don’t have those kind of antiquated traditions.” She reached for him again only to see him dance away. Jessira sat back in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Rukh merely nodded.
“Of all the stupid, Devesh-damned, fragging, backward traditions!” she cried out. “How in the unholy hells … ?” She looked at Rukh, wanting to make sure he hadn’t changed his mind. He hadn’t. He really wasn’t going to touch her, not until they were wed.
“I’m sorry,” Rukh said, looking miserable
Good. Let him be unhappy. Jessira flopped against the couch and closed her eyes, praying for strength and understanding. First Mother! Why did she have to fall in love with such a maddening man? Her frustration slowly ebbed, and she was able to consider the situation from Rukh’s point of view. She opened her eyes. Rukh stood near the hearth, clearly unhappy but just as clearly, still determined to follow through on his promise.
Jessira understood why. Rukh thought he had lost everything: his family, his friends, his honor, his home. He had nothing left except the traditions of Ashoka. She couldn’t ask him to give those up as well. The last of her frustration ebbed away and compassion took its place. Jessira stood and approached him slowly so he wouldn’t dart away. She took his hands in hers. “I understand why this is so important to you, love,” she said. “I can wait.”
“You don’t mind?” he said, sounding hopeful.
“It’s your traditions and you have to honor them. It’s who you are: a man of honor.”
Rukh smiled in relief. “I love you, Jessira.”
“You should,” she said. “And I love you, too, but you need to realize that I can’t be around you much until the wedding.”
“I know.”
Jessira kissed him, just briefly and not enough to tempt either of them to change their mind. “See you at the wedding.”
*****
Rukh waited alone in the antechamber, a high-ceilinged, square room with a crystal chandelier to provide a soft light. Warm tapestries of beige and chocolate covered portions of the pale blue plaster walls. An expensive, but uncomfortable, couch took up one side of the room and was faced by high-backed, leather chairs and a large, unlit fireplace. A painting — a scene depicting the founding of Stronghold — hung over the hearth. Shadows dappled the ceiling and tall, white double doors with fanciful gilding led into the ballroom.
Rukh paced about in nervousness, occasionally tugging at his collar, trying to loosen it and get some air. It felt like someone was trying to choke him. Unholy hells, but the thing was tight. In fact, his entire outfit was tight like that: stiff, and uncomfortable. It didn’t help that it was also as ugly as a Balant’s butt. Rukh grimaced. From the thigh-length, starched saffron shirt with its seven buttons — seven being a ‘propitious’ number — to the overwrought silver filigree vining up the sleeves and collar and down the placket; and the golden pants, billowy like sails and decorated with hundreds of tiny mirrors — it was not attractive. This didn’t even touch on the pointy saffron shoes also festooned with intricate, over-done silver filigree.
At least it was almost time for the ceremony. Timing was everything to the people of Stronghold. Here, every important event had a supposed ‘propitious’ moment when it was best for them to occur. For weddings, it was midnight. Even something as private as the consummation of a couple’s marriage was said to best occur with dawn’s light beaming down on them. A number of small cabins ringing Tear Lake had actually been built for just that purpose since very few could afford a flat with an eastern-facing window.
A knock came on the door, and the chamberlain — a tall, spare man in his fifties with a bald pate and a luxuriant, white mustache — poked his head inside. “It is time,” he said in a flat, formal voice.
Rukh took a deep breath. Here it went, the moment he’d been dreading all night when he would have to enter the banquet hall and face several hundred strangers, many of whom were very important here in Stronghold, all while dressed in as ugly a garment as he could recall seeing.
He smiled ruefully. A few months ago, their opinion of him wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest.
Rukh nodded to the chamberlain. “I’m ready.”
Jessira would already be inside. In Stronghold, the custom held that the bride entered the wedding hall first in order to soak up the admiration of all those in attendance. Rukh hadn’t seen her in the two days since his unfortunate decision to adhere to the traditions of Ashoka. He just hoped her dress wasn’t as ridiculous as his getup. She deserved to be beautiful on her wedding night.
Of course, he’d thought her beautiful even when she’d been sickened by the poison of a Kesarin’s claws, wearing the torn and bloody camouflage clothing of a warrior. He was sure she’d look lovely tonight — even if her wedding dress turned out to be as hideous and over-done as his own outfit.
Rukh stepped through the tall, double doors, and all thoughts flew from his mind.
The ballroom was full, but Rukh hardly noticed. His eyes were only for her.
Jessira stood at the far end of the hall. The glory of her honey-blonde hair was piled high, cascading down her neck and to her shoulders. Large, emerald-studded earrings graced her ears, and a slender, silvery net held up the mass of her hair. Mehndi tattoos covered Jessira’s hands, wrists, feet, and ankles and her bare arms rested at her side. Her dress was a soft cream-colored gown with threads of green, the same color as her eyes. It fit her every curve, trailing to the floor and swirling gently with her every movement. On one side, a single slit rose to her knee, exposing a riveting length of leg. Jessira’s emerald eyes sparkled with life, energy, and love.
Rukh smiled. The world was fine and wondrous.
*****
Jessira smiled when she saw Rukh.
The Governor-General, or whoever had picked out the outfit, had chosen well. Jessira had never seen Rukh look so handsome. His clothes fit him perfectly, and he wore them well. Nevertheless, she understood he wasn’t nearly as enamored of his outfit as the tailor who had fashioned them. He looked uncomfortable and self-conscious, but it didn’t show in the way he carried himself. He walked with poised self-assurance. He was confident without being arrogant. He was a man whose presence demanded attention.
Rukh stepped forward, moving with an unmatched elegance. His every step was precise and defined and yet somehow languid and unhurried. He could move swiftly without ever seeming to hurry. Sometimes, she thought even his stillness was a dance. He was in all ways a Kumma.
She had to remind herself to breathe when his gaze met hers. His dark eyes soaked in the light like inky pools of blackness, yet glowed with an inner warmth. And his face, so classically handsome with his proud cheeks and full lips, held an expression of love and devotion.
How had they come together? It seemed so unlikely given how often they’d argued, neither willing to give an inch in their beliefs. Time and hard lessons had followed, but she was grateful for all they had endured, even the instances when she had wanted to do nothing but hit him in the mouth. Wisdom had come from their toil and hardships, and now here they were, moments from being wed. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought, and she wondered anew why fortune had seen fit to smile so beneficently upon her.