Warden Yona,
I have arrived at the coal mines of Jin-Hidal to find a serious insurrection has occurred. A hundred Dusters have confiscated the weapons hoard and have taken up arms against the Embers in revolt against their working conditions. I suspect they had help from one of our own. I have sent for additional troops to enforce order. Their punishments will be swift, their actions condemned. I will ensure no other uprisings of this nature occur during my tenure as disciple.
They will all die.
—Disciple Uka Elsari, year 411
It was the day of the winners’ banquet, and Sylah had agreed, after copious amounts of begging from Anoor, that they could attend and forgo the night’s training. Even though the combat trial was the very next day, there was nothing more Sylah could teach her that wouldn’t take years. And they didn’t have years.
They had mere strikes.
Sylah stood by the open window that once upon a time she had climbed through in a haze induced by drugs and alcohol. She watched crowds of Embers milling in the courtyard discussing winner prospects. She heard Anoor’s name mentioned more than once, and her heart soared at the cadence of it. Sylah wanted her to win more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.
She jammed her hands in her pockets. Her fingers found the familiar shape of the joba seed and rolled it around in her fingers. She brought it up to the afternoon light, and it shone like a small bead of blood.
“What’s that?” Anoor startled her as she came up beside her.
“Nothing,” and that’s truly what it was. Sylah didn’t want to part with the joba seed, not because it still held that promise of possibility, but because it had somehow become an emblem of all she had overcome. She tucked it inside her undergarments, next to her chest.
Anoor’s face was slathered in a gloopy white cream. Sylah took a step back, her hands held up in attack mode.
“Where is Anoor and what have you done with her?”
Anoor laughed. “It’s a face mask. I want to look my best. It’s the final winners’ banquet before Ascent Day, and you know, I might not be invited to that…”
Similar to Descent Day, the appointing of the new disciples on the Day of Ascent rippled with festivities around the empire.
“Anoor, you’re going to win.”
“Do you really think so?”
Sylah thought by saying it she could make it true.
“Yes, but not with that on your face. Why is it so lumpy and patchy and”—Sylah sniffed—“smelly?”
“It’s oats and avocado pear. I make it myself with a bit of honey and vinegar—”
“Sounds like a meal.”
“A meal for my face. Want some?” Anoor peeled a globule off her cheek and stalked toward Sylah, her nose crinkling, eyes glinting.
“Get away from me…stop…Hey, I said stop. No, get off!”
Anoor launched herself at Sylah, and she let her pull her to the ground. Sylah held her wrists as they lunged for her face. The globule found the tip of Sylah’s nose.
“Ha!” Anoor was triumphant, her grin wicked. Sylah sprung onto her heels and readied herself to return the gloop to Anoor’s face when her leg began to cramp.
“Ach.” Sylah fell back onto her butt, her right leg spasming before her. Anoor was there in a moment locating the pain and massaging with her deft fingers. The pain was almost worth her gentle touch.
“I’ll get the tea.”
“The kitchen’s out.”
“I’ll go to the market.”
“Looking like that? No, it’s fine, I’m all right now. I’ll go.” The extra activity Sylah and Anoor had been partaking in had brought on additional tremors, and it galled Sylah that the symptoms were exacerbated by her happy state, and not just the anger of battle wrath. When would the withdrawal end?
“Are you sure?”