The Final Strife

Take me to the fields of Jin-Gernomi,

In the green grass you’ll build a home for me.

And when the night falls and the tidewind feeds,

We’ll hold each other close, love the only armor we need.

—Lyrics from The Fields of Jin-Gernomi

Sylah shifted in her skirt. It wasn’t exactly a skirt, but trousers slit so many times they showed a scandalous amount of flesh. Her suit jacket was corseted at the bottom, cinched so tightly she could barely breathe.

When Anoor had first presented her with the outfit, she cringed, but she had to admit the effect was…alluring.

“Please, just wear it, it’s a present. You can’t not accept it.”

“I can accept it, then use it as tinder.”

Anoor sucked on her bottom lip and tilted her face up to Sylah.

“Just try it on, I promise you’ll love it. You can’t wear your servant uniform if you’re coming as my guest.”

“Well, that sorts that then. I won’t come at all.” Sylah crossed her arms and collapsed onto Anoor’s bed. Despite not being the one who had competed earlier, she was surprisingly exhausted.

“You have to come. The banquet celebrates all the winners, and it’s our victory.”

“I’m a chambermaid, Anoor, I can’t just dress up and go.”

“Actually, you can; servants are allowed to be competitors.”

“Anoor, I’m not a competitor,” Sylah said, her head sinking lower into Anoor’s pillows.

Anoor waved her hand in dismissal. “Semantics. Every competitor gets a plus-one, and you’ll be mine. Besides I’m not going without you.”

She laid the outfit down next to Sylah on the bed. Sylah turned her head to survey it. At least it wasn’t as glittery as some of Anoor’s clothes. Anoor had had it tailored in a burnt orange, a color Anoor had said she “was positive would complement your dark complexion.” There was even a custom headdress that would wrap around her head and knot in a large bow at the front.

“I also got you these.” Anoor was cradling something in her palm. Sylah could see the sparkle of jewelry between her fingers.

“No.”

“Just look at it first,” Anoor protested.

“Fine.” Sylah looked at Anoor’s outstretched hand. There in the center lay a cuff of silver, the two edges molded into gold leaves.

“No.”

“It’s not even that fancy! It’s just a simple armlet. I had it made just for you; it’s in the shape of a poison ivy leaf like your inkwell.”

It did match. Maybe Jond would like it?

She sighed, and Anoor took that as conceding defeat. Which it was, eventually.

Now she found herself standing in an alcove of the great veranda watching as the competitors danced and drank and ate. Her eyelids were heavy with the white makeup used by Embers on special occasions. Anoor had applied the dashes and flicks to her face with the same determination as her fighting. It had made Sylah laugh, smudging the process more than once.

The atmosphere at the winners’ banquet was almost sterile compared to the Maroon. There was no pounding from the scythes or the shrill cries from the plantation workers.

Here Anoor’s glitter sparkled, her bright blue, yes blue, dress still marked her in the crowd as she twirled and spun. Embers never wore blue; it was the color of dirt and Dusters. The dress was a small rebellion, and it made Sylah smile. She knew Anoor was pretty, but there was now a lightness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. The training had lifted her out of the monotony of her life. The victory had further proved she was a serious competitor now. She had to be if Sylah was to fulfill her purpose of learning to bloodwerk for the Sandstorm. Anoor caught Sylah watching and danced toward her.

Anoor was not a good dancer. Her arms flailed around her like a baby kori bird trying to leave its nest. Her neck bobbed forward, out of rhythm with her arms, attempting to propel her toward Sylah as Embers parted away from her.