The Final Strife

The area backed onto the army barracks, giving them easy access for the officers to train at all strikes. Weights and weapons lined the walls with multiple training rings stacked side by side in the middle. It was no surprise that a lot of the aerofield weapons were being put to good use, considering the first trial of the Aktibar was only three weeks away. Sylah watched a group of young Embers take turns practicing throwing daggers. They were laughing, and it struck her as odd. When the Stolen trained, they trained in silence; they focused their minds with total dedication.

“Want a go?” A cocky competitor interrupted her thoughts. The boy was a few years younger than Sylah, and his body still a way off its full size. He’d be tall, she realized—tall but stupid. He waved a dagger in his hand, and it gleamed.

Everything gleamed in the Keep. It dripped with luxury and opulence.

It made her rage.

All she wanted to do was take the dagger and fling it into his treacherous Ember heart. She wouldn’t miss; she was one of the Sandstorm. The blood would soil his silks, but who trained in silks anyway?

“Sylah!” Anoor rounded the corner waving frantically. Slung through one shoulder she held a bow the size of her whole body. Sylah walked toward her briskly; the farther she was from the boy, the safer he would be.

“Could we maybe go somewhere else to train? It’s a little busy here,” Sylah said.

Anoor looked past Sylah at the group of Embers who were exchanging glances their way. “Well, we could go into the gardens, I guess.”

“Yes, yes, let’s go.” Sylah swept her arm out for Anoor to lead the way.

Sylah hadn’t been in the gardens yet. They were located at the back of the Keep and not visible to outsiders.

Gardens was a misnomer, suggestive of a well-maintained and structured space, perhaps big enough to do a lap or two around, like the Ember Parkside Gardens or even the Duster Quarter Green that had a few potted plants here and there. But the Keep’s gardens weren’t what Sylah understood the word “garden” to mean; they spanned for leagues toward the horizon where a wild and rich forest grew out of the blue sand of the Farsai Desert. Preceding the forest were orchards full of gleaming red fruit and fountains teeming with fish. Landscaped hills were being pruned, their spring flowers sprinkled like powder on the landscape. The gardener’s tools were like weapons themselves; they had to be to be able to cut through the tough skin of the empire’s fauna, evolved to withstand the winds. The tidewind takes and takes.

“Are those apples?” Sylah asked, her pace increasing as she walked toward the fruit.

“Yes, but they’re not ripe yet.”

Sylah had never seen one up close before.

“This place is beautiful.” The word sounded too dull to describe such organic artistry.

“Yeah, I guess.” Anoor shrugged. “I used to swim in the lake during summer…”

Sylah wanted to scream. The girl didn’t know how good she had it. Sylah clenched her fists beside her and breathed through her nose. She didn’t want to have another spasm today. The last one had left her muscles weak and aching.

When Jond is warden, we’ll balance the scales. We’ll make sure Dusters rise to the top.

“That was before Mother asked me to stop wearing a bathing suit,” Anoor continued.

Sylah remembered Anoor mentioning her mother’s cruelty before. Especially cruelty based on something that should be celebrated. Anoor’s curves were beautiful. She looked away before she spotted Sylah surveying her.

“What’s that?” Sylah noticed gray concrete towers looming beyond the forest on the left. They marred the landscape with their foreboding presence blocking out the view of the sea beyond.

“That’s the new arena to house the trials. Mother had it built over the last ten years…”

“The Aktibar?”

“Do you know any other trials?” Anoor laughed prettily. Sylah thought of the trials Dusters were more likely to face, the ones that ended in the rack. She shook the thought away.

“Well, I can tell you it’s a trial being around you.” Although Sylah sounded serious, her eyes shone with a mischievous glint. “I want to see it,” she added. “Come on, extra practice.” And with that Sylah launched into a swift jog toward the arena.

—

The gray monstrosity got bigger and bigger the closer she got. A set of stairs lit by runelamps led the way to rows and rows of seats, held in place by eight pillars, each the width of a villa. The competitors would fight on the rough terrain down below. Like flies in a spider’s web. She wondered if Jond and the Sandstorm knew about it.

“Do we get to skip running tomorrow?” Anoor appeared moments later, sweat dripping from her brow, her bow still hanging limply over one arm.

“This thing is huge.” Sylah raised her voice as if to fill the cavernous space. “Bugs, they’re just going to look like bugs from here.” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before; the gray towers seemed impossible to hide, but the Keep was set on top of a hill, masking the arena beyond.

“Mother said there are a hundred thousand seats. And then enough standing room at the back for half that again.”