The Final Strife

“He was the man in the courtyard earlier…I was trying to make allies.”

Sylah’s anger was punctured by Anoor’s words. She sagged against the back of her chair. Gorn pushed a mug of verd leaf tea in her hands, but the seizures had already abated. Sylah turned to Kwame, but he had gone.

“I think I might have overreacted,” Sylah said. “Can we go back to your chambers?” Though the other servants averted their eyes, Sylah still felt them tiptoeing around her.

“I’ll find Kwame later and apologize.” If he would listen.

The walk back to Anoor’s chambers was solemn, Sylah all the while trying to put her disappointment into words.

“I don’t need to tell you how stupid you were, do I?” was the question Sylah settled on.

“No,” Anoor said quietly, closing the door behind them. Anoor ran a hand through her hair, and Sylah saw the weariness spread like a poison. She was giving up.

“I can’t win this without the jambiya. We don’t have enough time. Three weeks, Sylah, three weeks until the combat trial.”

Sylah had to put her annoyance for Anoor’s actions aside. She held Anoor’s chin in her hand and tilted her face toward her.

“You can do this.”

“Sylah…” she whispered.

“You must do this. And when you win, you need to tell everyone the truth.” She guided Anoor’s face to her desk where the two parts of the map connected as one.