The Final Strife

After the servant left, Uka leaned over Anoor again, her nose crinkling at the smell of excrement and urine. She lunged for Anoor, her hand clamping on the wound at her wrist.

“Oh no, you don’t get to die.”

“I…I…I can bloodwerk?”

“No, the cupboard must have given way.” The lie was barely palatable on Uka’s lips.

“Dusters can bloodwerk?” Anoor tried again, loosening her dry mouth with saliva.

Uka hissed, “No.” But Anoor saw the fear in her eyes.

“You knew. Do all the wardens know?”

Uka looked at Anoor’s wrist and lessened the pressure, the blue blood running over her knuckles. She sat there watching her adoptive daughter die.

“You speak a word of this to anyone and you will die.” The pressure returned to Anoor’s wrist.

“Why not kill me now?” she whispered.

Uka’s eyes narrowed, the vein throbbing.

“I’ve thought of it many times, false daughter of mine. But how can I protect the empire if I can’t protect my own daughter?” She choked on a laugh, and Anoor wondered if she knew how ironic her sentence was.

“Then you’ll never kill me.”

Uka squeezed her wrist painfully tight, and Anoor whimpered.

“You think you’re clever? How about I kill those servants you run around with? How about I kill Gorn? She will be watching you, I should add. So use your blood at your peril. Attheir peril.”

The horror of her mother’s words was enough to silence her. Reluctantly Anoor spoke, her voice clear, unshaking, despite the earthquake within herself.

“I want my own chambers. This is the last time you lock me in the darkness.” Anoor didn’t voice the threat, she didn’t want to give her mother purchase to hurt those she loved, but Uka sensed it anyway.

Her mother smiled, and it was the face of a merchant having made a very good deal. She gave a short nod.

It was a small win for Anoor, a small defeat against her mother.

—

Anoor knew she couldn’t blast through Sylah’s runes, as blood recognizes blood. She could explore weak points in the doorframe, a separate object from what Sylah had presumably drawn on, but it could pull the tower down around her. She also assumed that Sylah had been very cautious; after all, she’d been taught by Anoor.

Instead Anoor focused on another way out. She created a circle of runes through a weak bit of floorboard and blasted a hole in the floor to the room below. Before she left the training room, she put on her armor and strapped on the sword she had won from the tactics trial. The only weapon and protection she was allowed in the combat trial. She jumped down to the room below and scanned the area through a crack in the wall. It wasn’t large enough for Anoor to fit through, so she spent some time slowly chiseling at it with the bloodwerk rune Kha.

Eventually the gap was large enough for Anoor to escape. All she had to do was time it right. She watched Gorn circle the tower, followed by a group of Ghostings. She lifted the dagger high and threw it as hard as she could in the opposite direction.

It had the desired effect, drawing their attention away while she made her way out of the tower, scaling down the whitestone to the floor. The cracks in the neglected building sometimes gave beneath her grip, but she made it to the ground safely.

Dawn had come, and Anoor could hear the sound of the kori birds waking. Their sweet tune guided her through the forest, toward freedom.

Her own chambers were too risky. If Sylah managed to scale the wall to her window, then Jond could too. So Anoor went to the place she least wanted to go. Her mother’s office.

The west wing of the Keep was quiet and still, the morning rota of servants only just rising to dust the remnants of debris the tidewind had brought. Anoor made her way through the corridors as quietly as she could with the armor strapped to her. The clanging echoed through the empty rooms, and she hoped the Sandstorm wouldn’t find her here. If they had infiltrated the Aktibar, Anoor didn’t doubt that they had gained access to the Keep.

The room smelled of lilies and radish leaf smoke as she entered. She turned on the runelamp illuminating the oil painting of her mother and grandmother. Instead of feeling the mockery in their paintbrush expressions, Anoor felt something hotter than anger build up inside her.

“Today I reclaim my name. I am Anoor Elsari, not born but bred. Not wanted but kept. I am going to be the next Disciple of Strength, and I vow to do better than either of you.”

“Is that so?” Her mother’s voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and she turned, coming face-to-face with Uka in the doorway. Her armor made her feel protected from the terror her mother instilled in her.