The Final Strife

This Act makes provisions for the disclosure of information held by wardens and their disciples during their term as leaders of the Wardens’ Empire. During their tenure, all wardens and disciples must document, to the fullest degree, their daily lives under the laws enacted by the guild of truth. This legislation will provide learning and insight for the future leaders of our empire and be stored exclusively for their use.

In the eyes of our God, Anyme, may this be so.

—Legacy Rights Act, year 216

The days passed by in a steady rhythm of work and training. The regime, so different from Sylah’s life from six weeks ago, took a toll on her body and mind. She was deathly tired. Not the kind of tired that had her falling asleep in doorways, but the satisfying kind, like a hard day in the field.

If she wasn’t thinking about bloodwerk runes, she was thinking about shantra; if she wasn’t thinking about shantra, she was thinking about Anoor’s combat training. And if her mind wasn’t full already, Gorn would pile on yet another thing, and suddenly she was struggling to recollect which color soap was for silk and which was for cotton.

Bet Papa didn’t think that laundry would be a part of my mission.The smile was still playing around her lips as she climbed the steps to the water tower.

Jond was already there, the noonday sun warming his skin to a deep bronze. The wind whipped around his face, ruffling his curly hair into a frenzy around him. Sylah found herself grateful for her shaven scalp. He gave her a lazy smile, and her stomach flipped.

“How’s it hurting?”

“Not bad.” Sylah settled her skirt around her on the stone ground. “I’ve got some new runes to teach you. I learned the one known as repetition last night, so we can now make runelamps.”

“Great, maybe we can start a glasskeep together, selling globes.”

They laughed, their imagination conjuring the unlikely image.

Jond sobered. “Before we begin, the Sandstorm have a message.”

“Skies above, finally we can stop this secrecy nonsense. When do I get to meet the new leader?”

Jond shifted his feet.

“You don’t. Not yet. They have a task for you.”

“A task? I’m a bit busy fulfilling the last one.” Sylah waved her hand at their inkwells.

“And they appreciate that,” he conceded with a tilt of his head. “I told them that you wanted in, that you wanted to be part of the rebellion again, but they don’t trust you. Not yet. I warned you this would happen.”

“How can they not trust me?”

“It’s not the same, Sylah. It’s different from what you remember. Papa…Azim, he was weak.”

“Weak? Papa was weak? That’s not what I remember. I remember a warrior who toiled and toiled to hone us into what we are: weapons.”

“He was too emotional, he loved us. You know how love makes you do…crazy things.” He avoided her eye.

“Papa also used pain to manipulate and hurt us into submission every day.”

Jond frowned, ignoring Sylah’s comment. “We are harder now. We don’t let emotions hold us back.”

Sylah couldn’t bring herself to respond. Irony held her tongue in its grasp.

“There’s a library in the Keep, where the wardens stow all their secrets.”

“What?”

“Journals,” he explained. “It’s required by the Warden of Truth. An account of their days.”

“You want me to steal books that document what the wardens eat for dinner?”

Jond exhaled through his nose. “The journals document everything, every thought, feeling, belief.”

Sylah thought of the library in the Keep where they played shantra. There was no way a warden had ever stepped foot in there.