The Final Strife

The girl returned to the wardrobe a few seconds later.

“I had to pretend that I was rehearsing for the summertime opera.” She looked shaken. “Curse the blood, I’ll have to audition now.”

She looked at Sylah as if remembering she was there. “Please don’t scream again, they’ll kill you, you know.”

“Is it true?”

“What?”

“That the Aktibar sign-up is over?”

“Yes, well, no, it’ll be open again in ten years.” She said the words as if they were some comfort to Sylah. There was another sharp rap at the door. It filled the room with an echo of authority. The girl, Anoor, gulped.

“Please be very, very quiet, she will kill you, there’d be no mercy for either of us.”

Sylah was curled up on the floor, and although Anoor no longer lay on her, she felt the weight of failure even more keenly. Her body trembled with the distinctive need for a joba seed, but for once her mind didn’t notice.

Shapes and shadows moved in the gap between the wardrobe doors. The murmurs between Anoor and her guest were just out of reach. Sylah didn’t mind.

It was not until the gray suit caught her eye that she realized who the woman was. She wore the same color clothing from the Day of Descent. Sylah sat up and pressed her cheek against the wood of the door.

“Do you realize what you have done?”

“No, mother.” Anoor was sprawled on the floor.

“Do not call me that when we’re alone. It’s bad enough I have had to continue this charade for so long in public.” The slap slammed against Anoor’s cheek.

“Yes, Warden.” There were no tears in her voice.

“You know you won’t even get through the first round?” When Anoor didn’t reply, Uka spun on her heel. As soon as the door shut, Sylah pushed open the wardrobe with her shoulder and fell onto the plush bedroom carpet. She attempted to squirm toward the door in the wake of Uka’s scent—lilies and radish leaf smoke. Her mother, her real mother, just a few handspans away.

Would she recognize me?

Anoor started to laugh, big belly laughs that jiggled through her in happy ripples and quivered the curls around her face.

“What’s going on?” Sylah rolled over to face Anoor.

“She…she…was so angry!” Tears squeezed out of her eyes in mirth.

“And that is funny because?”

Anoor didn’t reply; she couldn’t get the words out. Sylah waited for the laughing to stop.

“You signed up for the Aktibar?” Sylah asked, bitterness twisting her mouth.

“Yes,” she answered, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief, but the corners of her lips quivered, threatening to lift again.

“To become the Disciple of Strength?”

“Yes, it’s quite funny, really.” Anoor sat up and leaned on the bed. “It was you, actually.”

“What was me?” Sylah tried to sound threatening, but pieces of the plush carpet kept wafting into her mouth. She tried to push herself up.

“You made me realize I could do it.” Anoor squared her shoulders. “So I’ve decided to keep you.”

“Keep me? You realize I am not a pet.”

“Well, it’s that or I turn you in.” Anoor wet her lips with her tongue. All humor was gone from her face.