Thousands of Dusters and Ghostings had gathered in the courtyard. It was one of the few times Dusters were allowed to enter the Keep, usually barred from everyone but Ghosting servants and Embers. Today, the army kept them in check in a segregated section away from the Ember nobility who sat on seats at the front.
The four wardens stood at the top of the five hundred steps that led to the great veranda. Truth, duty, strength, and knowledge: the four pillars of the empire. They were stoic figures dressed in fine silk suits. Most wore heeled boots. Not the Warden of Strength, though. At sixty-eight she was always prepared for combat. Her boots were well worn, stained blue with the blood of many a rebellion.
As was customary for Embers, each warden had one obscenely bejeweled bracelet on their forearm. Bloodwerk required easy access to their blood. So although elaborately decorated, the cuffs, known as inkwells, were also functional with a space for a stylus to be inserted to pierce the wearer’s vein and draw blood to the tip. The bracelets were bespoke to the wearer’s writing arm. Sylah had once tried to make an inkwell with a sharp knife and a brass cuff she’d stolen from the market. It did not go to plan.
The four disciples had already begun their ascent from the courtyard below. Disciples trained under their warden’s guild for ten years before taking over as warden themselves. They were second-in-command but also a ready replacement for any warden who met an untimely demise. It was rare, but it happened. Not often enough, in Sylah’s opinion.
The Disciple of Strength was leading the way up the five hundred steps. Sylah could just make out the sneer that painted the Warden of Strength’s face as her disciple, her daughter, ran toward her. Yona had first won the title of disciple forty years ago and had reigned as warden twice since then. Uka, her daughter, had won her Aktibar trials at fifteen—the youngest disciple to enter the court. The Elsari family was a force of nature stronger than the tidewind. Sylah wondered if Uka’s daughter would be entering the Aktibar this year.
“The Aktibar.” The words sent sparks flying in Sylah’s mind. “The Aktibar.” She repeated. “The Aktibar, the Aktibar, the Aktibar.” The words merged together into a low drone.
“The Aktibar is the reason you exist,” Papa Azim had once said to her. And she knew the words to be as true then as they were now.
It was why she chose this semi-existence. She had lost the one purpose in her life.
Sylah’s gaze fixed on the four wardens until her eyes stung, their expensive silks blurring together.
What tests would they set for the competitors this Aktibar? It was always the same skills, but the trials varied each decade. The trials for the guild of strength started with aerofield, where competitors had to showcase their skill in ranged combat. The tactics trial would be next, where competitors had to showcase their military maneuvers. Stealth was the third skill tested, and the trial always involved a covert mission. The mind trial challenged the competitor’s mental stamina, and the bloodwerk trial their ability to use runes.
The final trial was the combat trial. First to blood.
Six mooncycles. Six trials.
“And only one Disciple of Strength!” Sylah added her cheers to those below. It dripped with sarcasm and self-loathing.
It was meant to be Sylah. It could still be Sylah.
The Day of Descent marked the opening of the Aktibar. Any Ember over the age of fifteen could enter. Sylah ran her hands through her braids and thought of them, her family. Guilt clouded her mind, and she let her braids go, dragging her eyes back to the courtyard.
Uka Elsari, disciple turned warden, was halfway up the steps, showing no indication of slowing down. The woman was built like an eru, all muscle and bone. She even zigzagged up the steps with the same grace as the large lizards. She didn’t have the scaled skin or the long tail, though. Sylah checked.
Uka’s suit was gray, like the roots of her afro. The slits of her trousers were crisscrossed with string to keep them out of her way as she ran.
Sylah spat over the edge of the water tower and cried out when her joba seed went with it.
“Monkey’s hairy bollocks.” She leaned over the edge as if peering at it would somehow will it back between her teeth. It had at least half a strike of juice left in it.
“Not quite sure what monkey’s hairy bollocks have to do with anything,” a voice commented behind her. A voice she knew like the thunder of her heartbeat. She turned around.
Her eyes couldn’t be telling the truth. She’d been the only survivor to make it out of the massacre alive. It must be the drug. She looked at her hands. They were shaking, the joba-seed high receding. And she could smell him, fresh basil and jasmine. Could she touch him? She reached out a quivering finger and poked him hard.
“Ouch,” he grumbled. How could she hear him when he was dead? He poked back harder. It hurt in all the places she’d hidden away.
It hurt like a smile breaking chapped lips.
“Jond?”