The Final Strife

The battle we wage is not merely for the Sandstorm, but for every citizen in this land. It is a war of ideals, of integrity, in the face of discrimination. Some of you will die in this fight. But it will be a death gained in emancipation, and Anyme will welcome you to the sky, freely. It is our right to claim for ourselves the same freedom given to every Ember in this empire. It is our time to reclaim the power they have stolen from us. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of injustice.

We will not descend into indifference like our ancestors. We will soar.

And we will harvest their red blood in retribution.

—Azim Ikila, leader of the Sandstorm

Hassa watched Sylah leave Turin’s from her bedroom window on the first floor of the maiden house. Though Hassa didn’t work for Turin, she rented a bed in the dormitory to stay close to Marigold. From her vantage point she had watched Sylah pay off her debt and buy another stash with the money she had won from the Ring.

Sylah put another joba seed in her mouth before her weaving gait disappeared off into the distance. Hassa rubbed her eyes and sighed.

Someone touched Hassa’s shoulder, and she jumped.

Are you ready?It was Marigold.

Marigold wasn’t her parent, though they came close to it. They’d been the one to cut Hassa out of her mother’s cooling body. They’d tried to hide Hassa’s mother’s pregnancy from Turin, tried to get her out of the city through the tunnels only Ghostings knew about and used, but the Ember who had impregnated her mother had been the son of an imir. An imir’s power, though diluted compared to the wardens’, was far reaching as they governed the twelve districts outside of Nar-Ruta at the wardens’ behest. Hassa’s father’s money got him the information he needed.

When money is everything, everything is for sale.

There was half a chance Hassa’s blood would have run red. And if that were the case, Marigold would have slaughtered her and left her body for the tidewind. Better to be dead than hunted by Embers who wouldn’t tolerate an unlawful babe. Coupling of different blood colors was illegal. If caught, that is. And no sensible officer would raid a maiden house. Half of the court would end up sentenced.

If she’d been born a red-blooded Ember, Marigold wouldn’t have been able to hide it. She might have been able to pretend Hassa was a Duster, but a Ghosting looking after a Duster child? It was unheard of. Dusters shunned Ghostings almost as much as Embers did.

Hassa gave Sylah one more glance as she walked away.

You should take your coat, it might take all night,Marigold signed as they pulled on their own jacket. It was black, just in case anyone caught them in the dark tunnels.

Hassa nodded. Marigold took care of her, even if it wasn’t for reasons as pure as a parent’s love. Ghosting children were rare and sacred. But in Marigold’s case protection had quickly turned to affection, though they rarely showed it. There was a detachment to Marigold’s emotions that Hassa recognized as a product of being a nightworker at Turin’s. It meant Marigold’s features were often schooled into a smile. But never when they were alone. When they were alone, Marigold threw away the grin from their features like soiled underwear.

Their face was blank now, their wrist idly stroking the growth of beard across their chin.

Hassa went to the box under her bed and withdrew her coat between her limbs. The room was tiled with beds, close as they were. The dormitory housed all the Ghostings who worked for Turin—and Hassa, for a fee—though the beds were empty now. Despite the wardens claiming the Day of Descent a national holiday, Turin still made money. Hassa was glad Marigold hadn’t been requested that night.

The coat was too large for Hassa, but the billowing fabric covered her brown servant attire, and for that she was glad. Hassa was small, and skinny, with a shaved head, another requirement of her servant uniform. She was beautiful too, she knew that from what she saw in the mirror, though she recognized that she had too many sharp edges and not enough filling.

She slipped a limb into the pockets of her coat and felt the packet of the hormone herbs there. Hassa had been taking them for years, transitioning into the body that felt right for her. Reaffirming surgery was also readily available throughout the empire, but it was certainly not a requirement. Anyone could identify as a woman, man, or musawa without exception. And Hassa had always been a woman.

Marigold sighed softly, and Hassa looked up at them. They were smiling, not the fraudulent type reserved for the Embers, but a genuine, open smile that Hassa rarely saw. Their eyes were filled with love. Ghostings believed that musawa were born with two spirits, both man and woman, and Hassa felt the weight of two sets of eyes looking back at her now.

Anyme bless you, my child, how seventeen years have gone faster than I could have imagined.

Anyme was a musawa deity the empire prayed to, though the Ghostings worshipped them differently. Anyme wasn’t the all-seeing God the Embers preached and the Dusters repeated, but an energy fueled by their ancestors’ spirits. It was a guiding force of the path unseen.

Hassa touched her limb against Marigold’s forearm, before signing, Time may move quickly, but every second of it I remain grateful to you for giving me life.

The emotion ebbed from Marigold’s face, causing their soft features to droop. The memory of Hassa’s birth was a bloody one, and it reminded them of the horrors of the empire.

We should go. The elders won’t wait for us,Marigold signed.

No, they won’t, Hassa agreed. Tardiness was a sin not tolerated among the four Ghosting elders.

Let’s go.

—

Sylah had been wandering the streets in a daze for some time. She didn’t realize how late into the night it was until sand whipped around her face, threatening to draw blood. Once Sylah had paid off her debt to Turin, she’d bought the last of Turin’s hoard of seeds. The price was higher than a Ghosting would trade for, but Sylah didn’t have the patience to shop elsewhere. It had been too long since her last taste.

Fifty slabs. Gone. Their weight replaced by red beads of ecstasy.