The Final Strife

Anoor separated her legs with confidence and crouched into the attack stance. She tried to lunge, but the sword nosedived into the floor, flinging her rigid arm backward. Sylah leaped out of the way as the sword catapulted through the air toward her.

“Fucking arse hair!” Sylah screeched. “That was why we’ve been using a broom.”

Anoor’s shoulders slumped as she went to retrieve the sword.

“Let’s try the spear.”

Sylah nearly lost a toe during that attempt.

“Okay, okay, the spear was a bad choice.” Sylah kicked the wooden handle to the side.

“Let’s try with the jambiya.”

“The what?”

“The curved dagger,” Sylah said through gritted teeth.

Anoor managed to stay standing as she lunged with the short weapon.

“I like this one! Stab, stab, stab.” She lunged across the mat toward Sylah, grinning all the while.

“You won’t be doing much damage with that weak wrist.” The voice made Sylah jump. The captain who had been shooting arrows earlier walked up to Anoor. He kept his hair in coils that brushed the tips of his large ears. He was nearing his middle years, and gray speckled the twists of his hair. Sylah supposed he was attractive, but she was certain he knew it. He scratched his wide nose as he observed Anoor’s technique.

“Training for the Aktibar, right?”

Anoor dropped the jambiya and held her elbows close to her chest. She nodded once.

“I think I remember you, the warden’s daughter? I am competing as well.”

Sylah didn’t recognize him, though there had been more than two hundred Embers at the first trial. Still Anoor didn’t speak.

“You should try it with the curve facing inward, it’ll give you more control.”

“Thanks for the tip…Captain,” Anoor said quietly.

“Yanis, call me Yanis. You better be heading in soon. The tidewind’s wrath has been fierce lately…” He raised a dismissive hand to the sky. “I’ll see you on the arena floor.” He smiled at Anoor as he walked away.

“Are you quite done?” Sylah said once Yanis had left and Anoor stood silently looking after him.

She nodded sheepishly.

“Come on, pick up the weapons, we’ll have to train somewhere more private if you’re going to drool over every person who shows an interest.”

Anoor started to protest, but Sylah wouldn’t hear it.

That night Sylah dreamed of Jond. The wardens’ journals poured from his mouth like blood.

And drowned her.

—

“It’s the Aktibar for duty today, right?” Sylah asked Anoor, knowing the answer. Every week it rotated between the four guilds. The first week had been the aerofield trial for strength, the second had been the first trial for knowledge—on biology of all things. All the competitors had to dissect one fish and one mammal. Sylah smelled the blood in the air, and it had reminded her of the rack.

“Yes, I think it’s on tax.”

Sylah tried not to grimace as she picked a piece of omelet off Anoor’s plate. Her own breakfast of verd leaf tea was cooling in a mug beside her. Sylah was tired; the Sandstorm’s task still plagued her nightmares. It had been over a week, and she was no closer to getting into the warden’s library.

“And all the wardens go, right?”