The final strife, p.28
The Final Strife, page 28
As if she could burn.
* * *
—
Sylah waited for Anoor in her room. The Embers were keen to make acquaintance with the final forty competitors of the Aktibar. They needed to know who to bet on.
Sylah sat down at Anoor’s desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. She wet the nib of the pen and rested the flesh of her palm on the paper like Anoor had taught her. It still quivered out of her grasp, but Anoor’s teachings over the last two mooncycles had already improved her ability to command the alphabet.
Warden of Strength, Jond Alnua. She drew the words out slowly, with care. Curling her words like Anoor had taught her.
What was she doing? This was dangerous. She lit a candle to burn the page.
“What are you writing?”
Sylah jumped out of her skin, one hand stilling her heart as the other turned over the paper. “Anoor! You scared the hairs off my skin. I am now bald. Everywhere.”
Anoor laughed, a delighted sound. “Sorry. Did you see? We won.” Anoor had taken off her armor, but she still held her helmet in her hand. She looked so different from the girl she had first met. Her eyes were lighter, still hazel, of course, but brighter, her face eager to smile. The exercise had improved her posture while keeping her envious curves, and she was sure-footed, confident.
“Of course I saw.” Sylah wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of the hug as it clanged into her. “Ow, get off, your helmet’s getting blood on me.”
Anoor’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.
“We lost three teammates.”
More Ember blood spilled—it wasn’t enough.
“Good, less competition next round.”
Anoor recoiled. “You can’t mean that.” Her hand hovered near her mouth.
Sylah thought for a second, and the truth was, she really did. More Embers who died now meant fewer for Jond to remove later. The Final Strife was here, Anoor’s feelings be damned.
Anoor smiled, grief forgotten. “Can I see what you were writing?”
“No.”
She made to grab it. “I want to see your progress.”
Sylah slapped her palm on the paper before she could turn it over. “It. Is. Private.”
Anoor backed away as if Sylah were rabid. She probably looked it.
“Fine, I’m going to wash up.”
It took a while for Sylah’s heartbeat to slow. She turned over the paper, but the ink had smudged. The word “warden” had transferred onto the wood of the desk. Sylah licked her fingers and scrubbed at it until the black ink lifted onto her skin. She kept casting a glance over her shoulder, but Anoor let her be.
She looked at the mess on the paper. The words blurred as if she were seeing them through tears. Still, she couldn’t help but think that Papa would have been proud: one of the Sandstorm was going to get all the way. She blew out the candle and folded the paper, putting it in her basket.
Anoor came in from the privy. “I got you a new dress for the winners’ banquet. I know it will suit you for sure.”
“You were so sure you’d win, you got me a new dress?”
“I had the tailor make it.” Anoor met her gaze steadily. “I told you, I’m going to win this.”
Could she? Sylah hadn’t truly considered it before. A Duster at the top.
She looked at her ink-stained fingers and pushed away the thought.
“I’m not coming to the winners’ banquet.”
Anoor put a gauntleted hand on her hip. “It doesn’t matter that you’re my servant. Do we have to go through this again?”
“No, Anoor. I just, I have some stuff I need to do. Take care of, before I report to Gorn later.” Even though Sylah had been up all night, there was no doubt Gorn would expect her to be ready to work in the morning.
“Really? You can’t come?”
Sylah could tell she was hurt but was trying to hide it. So Sylah reached for her face and cupped her cheek in her hand.
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Enjoy your party. You deserve it.” She let her hand drop to her side and slung her basket on her arm, not really knowing why she’d just done that.
She needed to tell Jond that she’d made a plan to get into the warden library.
* * *
—
Jond answered the door after one knock.
“I’ve figured it out.” Sylah pushed her way into his flat.
“Hello, Sylah, won’t you come in? ‘Congratulations, Jond, on making it through the trial of tactics.’ ”
Sylah looked at him in confusion. “I didn’t doubt you for a second.”
A warm smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his shining eyes. He was dressed in a sharp suit, ready for his winners’ banquet. Sylah wondered what the clothes looked like on the floor.
“So you’ve figured what out…?”
“The journals, how to get them. I’ve scouted it out, and I think I’ll be able to get in using my blood, as I’m Uka’s daughter. I’m going to go tomorrow, during the tidewind.” Sylah omitted any mention of Anoor and the map. He didn’t need to know she’d be there, or that there was another reason she wanted to get into the library.
“Took you long enough,” he said and winced when he saw her withering expression, “I’m just saying, the Sandstorm ask me every day…”
“Why don’t they ask me?”
“We’ve been through this, Sylah, they need to trust you, and right now…they don’t.”
“Why don’t they trust me?”
Jond frowned and tilted his head as if the answer were obvious. “You gave up on the mission, Sylah.”
“I did not give up, the Sandstorm was gone. You were gone.”
She had given up. She hadn’t just given up, she’d suppressed every memory of them with the aid of the joba seeds.
He laughed, not unkindly. “Look, if you get the journals then all will be well. Okay?” He held out a hand to her, leading her to a chair by his kitchen counter.
She remembered the paper. “I made you something.”
Jond took it, his severe jawline softening in a smile. “You wrote this?”
“Yes, Anoor’s teaching me how to write.” Sylah wasn’t sure why those words bubbled up guilt inside her gut.
“It’s a bit…rough.”
“Hey!” Sylah grabbed the paper out of his hand with so much force it ripped the corner. “I’m still learning.”
“Clearly.” He laughed.
“I could teach you too, you know,” Sylah said, sensing that somehow Jond disapproved.
“That’s okay, I know.”
“Wait, what? The new Sandstorm taught you to write?”
He shrugged. This new Sandstorm were more connected than she knew.
“They’ve gained a lot of knowledge over the years,” Jond conceded.
“Sounds like it.”
Sylah wondered, not for the first time, about who and what the Sandstorm had become.
“I know you’re frustrated,” he said, reaching for her hand. “But it’ll be worth it when all the Embers are gone, and the board is reset. Everyone equal. No more bloodwerk to segregate us.”
“All of the Embers? What about us?”
What about Kwame? Annoying, insistent Kwame, who had thrust his friendship on her like a rash she couldn’t shake.
Jond’s fingers entwined in hers.
“We’ll be exceptions.”
“Will we?” She thought about what Hassa had said at the armorsmith’s. They’re all masters to me, even you.
Jond didn’t answer, and Sylah wondered if he knew the answer. His hand slipped out of hers, and he changed the subject.
“Anoor has a good eye for strategy.”
Sylah snorted. “I’m just a good teacher.”
He nodded, his lips quirking. He ran a hand over the shadow of his beard.
“Have you got anything to drink?” she asked, just to break his stare.
“Last time you were drunk here, you passed out and snuck out before I woke up.” He laughed.
Sylah looked at his armor now standing up in the corner of his flat. The desert fox helmet was terrifying up close. The teeth looked sharp enough to cut skin.
“Nice design by the way.”
“You think?” He went over to it and detached the gauntlet. He brought it over to her.
It was even more exquisite up close, the gold detailing of a fox’s claw carefully embossed onto each finger.
“Turn it over,” Jond said.
Sylah frowned but did as he asked. It was like seeing the inside of a skeleton, the rough inner workings of the body of metal. She moved the fingers up and down. Then she saw it, the engraving on the inside of the wrist. She ran her fingers over it.
“For my Akoma,” she whispered. It was what he had called her, all that time ago and then again here, in this house. She looked into his eyes, the usual arrogance softened to tenderness in his gaze.
He kissed her. Tentatively at first, a stumbling, wet, mashing together of lips. He drew away, looked for something in her eyes.
“Is this what you want?” His breath was hot.
“Yes.” The assent from Sylah came out as a growl and he leaned in again, stealing her breath.
This time the kiss was surer. Basil and jasmine and urgency. An urgency she matched with each nip of her teeth. His mouth teased open her lips, his tongue stroking hers lazily. His hands roamed her body, over her breasts and the curves of her back.
He pulled her up onto the kitchen counter, the coldness of the stone underneath a balm on her blazing skin. He parted her legs and moved into the space between them, removing her clothes with sure, steady hands.
She ripped off his shirt with a growl, and he matched her sentiment as he grasped for her undergarments, leaving them in heaps around the room. His fingers found the apex of her thighs, circling her, making her ready. But she was ready, she’d been ready for him for a long time.
He grasped her waist and lifted her off the counter, the length of him inside her in moments. He held them together with the strength of his arms, her legs wrapped around his broad back, her nails sliding along his shoulder blades.
Then he was moving within her.
“Jond.” Her voice was sandpaper rough. He leaned into her lips as she murmured his name again. Their bodies moved in rhythm, a drumbeat of lust thrumming through their muscles. Her breasts were beaded with sweat, and he licked them, teased them, with his tongue.
“I love you,” he murmured into her ear. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
The words shivered down her veins toward her heart—her Akoma.
Sylah groaned at the deepness of her pleasure as he moved to a steady beat, faster than her heart but slower than her need. She wanted all of him.
And he gave it to her.
* * *
—
They lay entwined in each other, their limbs sticky with sweat. Jond’s nose rested in the sensitive area below her ear, and she delighted in his warm, even breaths on her skin. She felt them lengthen into sleep.
A small smile lingered on her lips. She’d needed this. It had been two mooncycles since she’d bedded anyone, and the release had been satisfying, if brief.
Her hands slipped into the curls of his hair. She felt a pang of jealousy.
The curls were longer than hers.
* * *
—
Dawn split the sky in two, cracking the dark of night with the yolk of the morning sun. Sylah woke to the smell of coffee beans roasting, but when she looked up, Jond was nowhere to be seen. There was a note on the counter next to a mug of coffee.
Gone out, stay as long as you like. Look forward to the delivery tomorrow.
“Delivery?” she asked herself. “Oh, the journals.”
Tonight. They’d sneak into the library tonight.
Sylah stared at Jond’s tight, neat handwriting. There was so much she wanted to know about the six years they’d been apart.
What did you do in that time? The voice in her mind sneered. She was making up for it. She would prove herself to the Sandstorm, to Jond. Then he could tell her everything.
A yawn cracked her jaw. From the fatigue in her bones, she knew she’d only slept a handful of strikes. She took a gulp of the coffee and winced. It was cold.
“Time to get back to it.”
Sylah began to search for her clothes.
There are only three things a Duster needs to be taught: basic arithmetic in order to manage the market stalls, reading in order to follow written orders, and the religious sermons in order to preserve their soul for the afterlife in the sky. This can be taught to all Duster children by the time they are ten, ahead of their branding.
Ghostings need not go to school at all. As long as they can listen, they can follow their master’s orders.
—Extract from Education: The Greatest Gift by Wern Aldina, Warden of Knowledge
It looked like Anoor had been back from the winners’ banquet for some time. She’d even put her own clothes away instead of leaving them in a pile beside her bed until Sylah had to remind her she wasn’t going to pick them up.
“Where’ve you been?” she demanded, an errant curl pulsating beside her temple.
“I had some business in the city.”
“That family friend again?” She was trying to probe with the subtlety of a cantering eru. Sylah was tired.
“Remember the deal.” Those three words had always stopped her questions before.
“I’m just asking. All seems a bit sneaky. I know you’re a trained assassin and all that, but why are you meeting him? Is he an assassin too?”
An assassin for every Ember in the empire, Sylah thought. Instead, she stared out of the window, waiting for the questions to stop.
“Why’s your uniform ripped?”
Sylah looked in the direction Anoor was pointing. The clasp on the top of the pinafore had frayed, keeping the strap on by a thread.
“Must have fallen.”
Onto a very, very beautiful man.
Anoor let out an annoyed sigh. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
“We’re going to sneak into the warden library tonight,” Sylah said, breaking the silence.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
The map lay open on Anoor’s desk, and it looked like she’d been studying it for the hundredth time.
“Tonight.” She nodded deeply, her eyes lighting with mischief.
“That’s what I said.”
At least with Anoor by her side, if Sylah was caught she’d be given a much lighter punishment. She would just be the servant doing her master’s bidding.
“Sylah?” Gorn called through Anoor’s bedroom door.
Sylah groaned. “Back to work. See you tonight.”
* * *
—
Once the tidewind began to batter against the shuttered windows of the Keep, Anoor and Sylah left their chambers.
Sweat was still drying on Sylah’s brow, cooling her fevered skin. They’d trained for three strikes, Anoor learning the second Nuba formation. She’d failed every time, but every time she got up and tried again. Sylah respected that.
They were both wearing their training clothes: head-to-toe black cotton. It reminded Sylah of one of the stories she’d read in Anoor’s zines, the Inquisitor sneaking through the night in dark clothes trying to solve a murder or some such.
Gorn didn’t wake as they slipped past her room. The door made a creak as it opened, and they froze for one bated breath, but she didn’t emerge.
“Step one. We made it out of your chambers.”
Anoor leaned on the back of the door catching her breath.
“That was the easiest bit,” Anoor said.
“I guess.”
“Come on, we haven’t got long.”
They made it down to the tunnels beneath the Keep. Sylah had rarely used them, as she was often still training with Anoor during the tidewind. The red runelamp that lit their path reminded Sylah of the Intestines in the Dredge. Her thoughts turned to Loot and soured. When was he going to cash in his favor?
Her eyes caught on a shape engraved into the stone below the lamp. “Is that a rune?”
“Yes, good spot.” Anoor had her teacher’s voice on. “That rune is featured in a few places around the Keep…in the older buildings.” She stroked it with her finger. “It never fades, never crumbles…and yet we have no idea what it does. There’s no blood in the grooves either. It’s like the clock in the cloisters, written in runes we don’t recognize. They’re not featured in the Book of Blood. And no one can replicate it.”
“Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Anoor frowned. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
Sylah’s fingers ran over the engraving.
“I wonder who drew them.”
Someone moved in the darkness behind them. Sylah spun on her heel, searching through the shadows. The face that emerged was ethereal. A Ghosting.
“Oh, hello.” Anoor’s body relaxed, her shoulders drawing down and the air pushing out of her in a whoosh.
The Ghosting paused, their gaze shifted between the two of them, confused at being addressed. They had a basket of laundry between their arms.
“Sorry, please don’t let us stop you,” Sylah said with a placating hand toward the tunnel behind them.
A furtive glance, prey being freed by a predator. Sylah smiled with what she hoped was reassurance. The Ghosting moved on, faster than was really necessary.
“Phew, thought we were going to be caught then.” Anoor held a hand to her chest.
