The Final Strife

But as she had looked at herself in the mirror, she thought of the ripping still so fresh in her mind, the injustice of the empire laid so obviously bare like the fresh cadaver of a corpse. Her research into the empire’s inner workings swirled through her thoughts constantly.

And as she looked at her reflection, the injustice of it all blurred her vision. All she wanted to do was give it all away, her clothes, her jewelry, every last thing. So she’d changed into a plain dress of yellow flowers and thrown all of her favorite clothes into a basket.

She wished Sylah had got to see her in her emerald outfit before she changed, though, but Anoor didn’t want to parade into the bathroom. She found it hard enough to keep her eyes steady on Sylah’s face.

“Rasa, please would you brew some coffee?”

“Coffee, Miss?” Rasa pursed her lips.

“Yes, well, you told me I have a bit of a wait, so some refreshments would be nice.” Anoor’s hands were shaking. She clenched them together.

“Yes, miss.”

“Oh, and Rasa, please bring me anything sweet you might have. Even better if it’s also fried.”

She nodded curtly.

As soon as Rasa left the room, Anoor made her way to the bookcase at the back. Not for the books, though her fingers ached to touch them, but for the weapons cabinet beside it. She cast a furtive glance behind her as her fingers rummaged for the latch she had once blasted to pieces with bloodwerk. She found it and gave it a sharp pull. It relinquished a satisfying click, the door giving way to a waft of stale air. The cupboard was smaller than she remembered. She wasn’t sure how she ever fitted in. The weapons that lined it were long gone. Anoor wondered what her mother had done with them. She looked for her blood in the grooves of the wood, for any remnant of the horrible incident that happened six years ago, the last time she lived in the Elsari residence. The last time she let her mother lock her up.

“I will not let her darkness overcome me,” Anoor whispered to herself.

Her heart raced, and her body broke out in a cold sweat. A low moan escaped her, and tears began to seep from her eyes. She was not sure how long she rocked to and fro on her heels, but footsteps eventually brought her out of her haze. She pushed the door closed and with it blocked out the memory.

“Looking for a book, miss?” Rasa’s voice sounded a little brittle. She placed the tray of coffee and biscuits on the table.

“Yes.” Anoor could feel her hair shaking around her, the traitorous curls quivering with each heartbeat. She slowed her breathing, loosened her shoulders, and tried to embody the meditative state of battle wrath. She dragged her finger along the spines of the books with mild interest. Stiff with disuse, the books had been dusted—her mother would have her servants’ heads if they hadn’t—but Anoor could see the discoloration of the wooden shelf beneath them. They hadn’t been opened in years.

A love of stories, that’s what she’d gotten from her father. The bookcase had been lovingly organized with a specificity that only her father knew. He was here, in the books—a folded corner, a pencil mark, a thumbprint of ink. She ran her thumb over some of the titles. The Embers in the Castle, A Hundred Sparks of Fire, A Letter for an Officer. The third title made Anoor blush when she recollected the romantic encounters within.

Once her father died, Gorn had taken up the mantle of storyteller. She sat by Anoor’s bed every night trying to inject her voice with adventure and intrigue. Eventually Gorn gave up, after she realized Anoor was faking sleep to speed up the routine, and brought Anoor her very first zine.

Anoor smiled, remembered the delight reflected in Gorn’s eyes when she asked for the next installment in the series. Anoor had a tantrum when she realized she’d have to wait for a week for it to be published in The People’s Gazette.

She laughed at the memory. Anoor returned to reading her zines, but she saw them for what they were: tales that glorified the army’s power.

But tales all the same.

“What are you doing?” Rasa asked.

“Reminiscing.” And it was true. Her father’s memory lifted her out of the horrors of the past.

I will not let her darkness overcome me.

“Right. Shall I pour the coffee?”

“Yes, please. No sugar for me.”

“Me neither.”

Anoor turned at the sound of her grandmother’s voice and grinned.

“Grandmother.”

Uka had kept Anoor away from her grandmother, Yona, for most of her life, but Ardae had always been an exception. Age was an important attribute of the religion, and paying respect to elders was a requirement on days like Ardae. Uka couldn’t disrespect the Abosom without snubbing Warden Pura and so was forced to keep up appearances.

Yona wore a deep mustard dress simply adorned with a small black diamond brooch of a spider on her breast. The collar was high, the sleeves long—Yona’s signature style, along with a new wig for every formal occasion.

Today her hair fell in perfect curls reaching her waist. Anoor wondered for the first time how many Dusters had gone bald at her grandmother’s whim.