The Final Strife

My daughter is like me in so many ways. And yet, I do not see the fire burning in her eyes when I look at her. Therefore, I cannot help but look at her in disappointment.

—The journal of Yona Elsari, year 417

Hassa moved through the Maroon with practiced silence. The griot was coming to the end of his tale, and though Hassa didn’t want to leave, she knew she had to meet Marigold. Every time the griot came to the Maroon, Hassa made sure she was there. Not because the elders told her to spy or because she needed to trade, though she did. It was because of the stories. Sometimes fantastical, occasionally humorous, always educational.

“Anyme knew the truth in the words, and so the spider joined Anyme above.”

She knew the tale of the spider God, though the Abosom would call it blasphemy. Some Dusters, and even some Embers, still worshipped the insect, the darkness to Anyme’s light. They left treats and offerings to both Gods during Ardae.

Ardae. A big day for the Ghostings. Made bigger by the Aktibar and the imirs who were visiting the capital city. Ghostings across the empire would wait on their Ember masters with fine wines and finer food. Then, once their bellies were bloated, their thirsts quenched, Hassa would slip out into the tunnels, and the night would really begin.

They had a hundred rescues planned. Some were pregnant, others were not, all were willing to risk death rather than stay in Nar-Ruta. A hundred Ghostings was the most they had ever tried to lead out of the city at once. There would be a surge of sleeping sickness crosses found in the morning and a lot of empty pyres to burn.

And for Hassa, a lot of people to guide through the tunnels.

She ascended the stairs to the street bathed in the full moon’s light. She looked at the Keep, a beacon of runelights in the distance. The preparations had taken up much of Hassa’s time. She hadn’t seen or heard from Sylah in a week, not since she missed their meeting. She wondered if she and Anoor were still searching for the truth.

—

“You’re not concentrating. Empty your mind. Connect to the ground,” Sylah barked.

“I’m trying.” Anoor puffed out as she balanced in Nuba formation three: both hands raised upward to the sky, her right leg flexed in a half twist behind her. When used in combat, the body weight from her back foot would propel her forward into a very violent kick.

They were in the tower, as was their new nightly routine. The tower protected them while the tidewind battered the world outside. Then they would slip back to their beds aching from the night’s training. Often Sylah would find she was light-headed from the bloodwerk practice, though she would never admit it to Anoor. Anyway, it aided her sleep.

Sylah took off her sandal and threw it at Anoor. It slapped against her thigh.

“Curse the blood, what did you do that for?” Anoor screeched, and she toppled to the floor.

“See, you’ve dropped the stance. I told you, you’re not concentrating. You haven’t reached battle wrath. You need to be able to connect with your muscles in a way that will block out all other distraction.”

“But we’ve done this formation three hundred times now.”

“Exactly, and you still can’t get it right. The mind trial is in three days, Anoor, and we have no idea what’s coming.”

“Last time they made the competitors swim across an eel-infested lake.” She picked up Sylah’s sandal and walked it back over to her.

“Do you see my point? If you can train your mind to block out distraction and isolate your muscles, you’d be able to swim that lake ten times over.”

“Anyway, the trial’s in four days.”

“No, three.”

“No, four,” Anoor repeated. “It’s Ardae tomorrow, we have an extra day.”

“It’s Ardae?”

Ardae, a day of family and celebrations. Sylah swallowed and rubbed her hand through her shaved scalp. She felt the glimmer of braids moving through her fingers and she craved to touch them again. She’d forgotten, how had she forgotten? A year had moved so quickly.

“An extra day. More time to practice. Get back to it.”

Anoor sighed but moved back into formation.

—

Sylah could smell blood in the air, and for once it wasn’t a ripping.

Their morning run had slowed to a limping jog, then a walk as their sweat cooled their heaving chests. As they turned the corner toward the courtyard, Sylah saw the cause of the iron on her tongue.