The Final Strife

Boey shifted her shoulders, which altered the breeching rope connected to the carriage, sending it off balance.

“Go left, you hairy bullock, go left!”

Sylah was trying to lead Boey toward the Duster Quarter, but Sylah’s driving skills were always challenged. Swearing at the beast seemed to make Boey even more incompetent. It took some time, but Sylah managed to steer the eru down the street toward her mother’s home.

As Sylah hitched Boey to the small joba tree in the front of the villa, Lio opened the door. Sylah knew she wouldn’t have gone to the Ascent.

“Hello, Sylah,” she called out.

“Hello, Lio.”

Lio flinched. “I’m just making fufu. Come in.”

Sylah hesitated on the street. She looked back at Boey, who had already settled into the dusty road and gone to sleep.

“I can’t be long.”

Lio had already made her way inside. Sylah could hear the sound of her pestle as she pounded and pulverized the yams.

Sylah entered the house she once called home and made her way to the hearth at the back. She watched her mother for a few moments. Lio’s left hand pounded the yam with a pestle while the right hand folded the sticky mess.

Thump. Fold. Thump. Fold. Thump. Fold.

Lio jutted her chin at the stove. “Don’t just stand there, stir the soup.”

Sylah found her feet moving before she could stop them. She stirred the bubbling soup next to her mother.

“Why did you lie to me?”

Thump. Fold. Thump. Fold. Thump. Fold.

“Sylah, we all had to make sacrifices.”

“Don’t give me that shit.”

Thump.

“Do you remember what happened to you after we left the Sanctuary, Sylah?”

She put down the pestle, but Sylah couldn’t meet her eyes.

“You stopped eating, stopped sleeping, but worst of all you stopped speaking.”

Sylah stepped back from the stove as if struck, the memories bobbing to the surface in the murky swamp of her grief.

“It took you a whole year before you spoke again, and I thank Anyme every day for that Ghosting friend of yours. She taught you how to find your voice, teaching you their silent language out in the Dredge every day. Stir the soup, it’s going to burn on the bottom.”

Sylah nodded. “You are still not answering my question.”

“When Jond returned with the news of the Sandstorm, run by Master Inansi—”

“Loot.”

“Yes, Loot.” She elongated the “L” with distaste. “He came to see me. He explained that Master Inansi, Loot, had plans for you. You see, we thought Papa Azim was the leader. The Sandstorm was the family we had around us. Turns out he was but a shantra piece in Master Inansi’s scheme.

“He saw Azim’s reports on you and didn’t want to lose your talent. Jond told me it was Loot’s idea to develop the Ring. To provide you with tests, keep you fit, but keep you away from the others.”

It inflamed Sylah’s anger. “Why did you lie to me?”