Sand Ch. 1: A Grain of Sand

There was a grain of sand.
It was only a single grain of sand, but it was a grain of sand.
There was nothing to distinguish it from any other grain of the sands of the vast Rashdan Desert, and would seem quite insignificant to most observers, but to those who were truly wise, it would be just as significant as a thousand worlds in the Universe where a thousand other deserts stretched with millions of grains of sand which were just as significant as our grain of sand here.
The truth of the matter is that if this single grain of sand did not exist, it would make very little impact in the grand scheme of things. However, if every other grain of sand followed suit, there would be no Folona, no Rashdan Desert, and no desert anywhere else in the Universe.
And if every other speck of dirt copied the sand, entire planets would disappear, civilizations would collapse, and no biological life would survive for want of food and a place to live. All the Universe, then, should regard every aspect of itself with respect, no matter how small, large, significant, or insignificant it may seem at first sight.
A human being is a grain of sand.

“Jada!” shouted Darim as he saw three men wearing gray tunics running towards them, silhouetted against the harsh desert sun. “Run back to the tent and warn Mayda and Parth! Try to get as much of the tribe out of there before they reach you. Hurry!”
Jada swallowed a lump in her throat and sprinted across the sand, the Rashdan settlement of Folona drawing nearer by the second. Even from here she could make out some of the many pictures painted or woven into the fabric of the bright tents. They gleamed in the noonday sun beautifully, the fine workings of the D’nal Threth tribe, and Jada normally would have stopped to admire them, but the need was urgent, and she had to get to her own tribe’s tent as fast as possible.
She entered the oasis, panting. At this time of day, it was only the tribes that relied on the desert heat for their work who still remained in the streets, who made it their trademark. She passed the Astul Lethya (Blue Hawk) tents, the D’nal Threth (Sand Smoke), and the Riya Dru (Sour Note) before reaching her own, the Erif Drathil (Fire Lizard).
To her horror, when she burst inside it was in great disarray: the neatly stacked scrolls of parchment were scattered all over the place, delicately flammable powders littered the floor, and wigs and costumes that had previously been folded and stacked neatly into trunks were now strewn about the room in rumpled and trampled heaps. The carefully-woven tent walls were sprinkled with slashes, the desert sunlight gaping in like blood from a wound. Not a single living soul was to be found.
“Mayda?” she called desperately but quietly, in case the men in gray were still there. “Parth? Is anyone here?” She heard a cough from the opposite side of the tent. She rushed over to find her cousin Sardith, a boy of only eight years lying draped over a pile of rubble. He was unnaturally pale and his teeth were clenched in pain.
She knelt by his side. “What happened?” she asked him. “Where is everybody?”
He muttered a few lines of the Rashdan litany against pain to himself, as Rashdan children are taught to under great agony. His expression calmed a bit, but he was still pale. “It was them, the Tre-revaj guard- they came looking for Darim. When they saw all of the tribe here, they assumed we all were Darim’s followers. When we tried to explain that we weren’t, that we were trying to reason with him, that-” he coughed again and gasped for breath, then continued. “They didn’t believe us. They arrested the rest of the tribe.”
“Then,” Jada puzzled, “why aren’t you with them? Where are they now?”
“The tribe put up a good fight, of course,” Sardith explained, “during which quite a few dishas went off. However, we were outnumbered three to one, even if you count my baby brother and your other four cousins. Your uncle was injured in an explosion, and my mayda was killed.” He was obviously fighting off the urge to cry; his face was full of forced impassiveness. “I walked in after everyone had been shackled up, though. I had been visiting Mirda Riya Dru when I heard the noise and decided to investigate. Mirda didn’t want to be caught in the mess, so she let me deal with it.
“When I got here, the Tre-revaj guards immediately seized me and started asking me questions about your brother. When I gave them the same answers they’d gotten from the rest of the tribe, they got really angry. They force fed me this terrible tasting stuff, then let me go, laughing their heads off. I came back here so I could warn you and Dar-”
Jada looked down at her cousin. “My brother’s been taken. He sent me to warn everybody else. What did the stuff they fed you taste like?” Anything but girca, she thought. Please, let it be anything but girca-
“Acid all the way down,” he said grimly. “From what I’ve been taught, exactly like girca.”
Jada’s heart sank. “Are you sure?” she asked desperately.
“Yes.” Although he did not show it, he was very frightened. Pain wracked his small body in frequent spasms, and he soon broke out into a sweat.
Jada quickly formulated a plan in her head. She wished she could do something about the poison in her cousin’s body, but she knew there was no antidote. It wouldn’t take as much time to kill him as it would an adult, but she calculated it would still take a good three or four days. She would hide in the large entrance room of the tunnel system until the High Court’s soldiers left and take Sardith with her. She was safe there, she knew; it was the duty of every Rashdan to keep the tunnels secret on pain of death unless the lives of at least fifty people were at stake. Even then, the Council would make each outsider involved swear the same oath of secrecy.
If she was lucky, the tribes coming into and out of Folona would give her enough news for her to be able to know when it would be safe for her to return to the surface. Until then, she would need to lie low.
She hurriedly bustled about the tent and packed some food into a large sack. As an extra precaution, she traded her orange silk dress for a tan-colored gi, covered her chin-length red hair with a black wig, and swapped her bottle-green glasses for blue ones. She disguised Sardith in a similar fashion and they quickly left the tent and strode past the outskirts of Folona, wary of every noise.
They soon left the town and came upon a dune, which they walked around. On this side, the side facing away from Folona, was a hole somewhere towards the base which seemed at first to be covered with brambles, but Jada strode right towards them, muttered “Jada Erif Drathil,” and removed from her neck a pendant of sorts, which she thrust into the branches. There was a slight pause as it was being read, then slowly the thicket opened to admit them both. It closed behind them. Jada replaced the pendant around her neck.
Jada immediately spread out a large, comfortable sleeping mat on the stone floor of the wide, cavernous chamber. On this she lay her cousin. She sat down next to him and stayed there for a long time, staring into the dim light.
In the last three hours she had lost her brother (though she had been prepared for that for some time), her parents, and the rest of her family-tribe. Except for Sardith, but he would be gone in a few days time. She would probably have to cremate him herself, and the prospect did not please her. Her brother’s followers would probably get by easily enough; as far as she knew, none of the Tre-revaj guard had thought to search any of the other tribes’ tents.
Darim was right, Jada thought. The Tre-revaj rulers are nothing but monsters. Of course, she had always agreed with him on that point; nearly everyone in Yaylithe did. That was why his movement had become so popular. Your average Yaylithean citizen would either have been arrested at some point in their lives or know someone who had.
The reason her brother had caused the tribe so much grief was not that; it was the way he went about trying to raise the people into rebellion and trying to convince them that he, Darim, would be the ideal replacement for the Tre-revaj government. He went around abusing the tribal secrets of the dishas, blowing up government buildings and spreading terror.
The tribe was going to disown him that very afternoon, in fact, and Jada had taken a walk with him to try and dissuade him. They were even going to destroy his identification pendant--which would not only cut him off from the tribe, but the entire Rashdan race as well.
But the Tre-revaj guards came and the Tre-revaj guards went, leaving Jada and Sardith, soon to be only Jada, as the last of the tribe. With a jolt, Jada realized that unless at least four of her tribe managed to get out of prison after Sardith died, she would have to get married since she was fifteen, the youngest age it was legal.
Sardith seemed to realize this as well, for he soon asked curiously, “Are you going to have to get married? You’re supposed to if the tribe dwindles to under five people.”
“I hope not,” she said gently to her cousin. “I guess I’ll find out when the results of their trial come in. If they are merely kept in prison, it will be up to the Council to decide. If they are sentenced to death-” her voice choked up, ”then I will have no choice. Rest now.”
The boy was obviously in too much pain to rest, so Jada gave him some kethona, wary on exact proportions. If she gave too much, it would put him into a coma, and she did not want that. Soon she heard his breathing slow into a rhythmic pattern. She desperately wanted to follow suit, but she knew she must stay awake, no matter what, so she could keep an eye out for anyone who could tell them what was happening on the surface.
She arranged herself into the most comfortable position possible; took out some inks, a very thin writing inkbrush, and paper; and began, quite calmly, to write.

For a long time no sound interrupted the swishing sound of the writing brush except for the occasional groan from Sardith and an occasional comment by Jada as she spoke to help some of the line of thought in her writing come together. Sometimes this was punctuated by a note or two of music; soft, ethereal music which seemed to give off wisps of color in the empty cavern.
After a while Jada quit writing and simply sang into the darkness. The wisps of color slowly took shape. Jada’s piercing green-blue eyes glowed a pale white, though this was difficult to see through the blue-tinted glasses.
The colors took on the appearance of a dancer wrapped in colorful shawls which fluttered in the wind. Gray-clad forms appeared and began to pursue it. The dancer seemed to let out a wail as the gray forms drew nearer. They seemed to be restraining the dancer, holding it back; it continued to wail until it diminished to a lizard, which scuttled away and shrank into nothingness.
“Jada?” Sardith, who had woken from his sleep and had witnessed the display, regarded her weary face with concern. “Are you all right?”
“I have a lot on my mind,” Jada replied, keeping her voice calm. “I had to let some of it out. You never mind that; just rest.”
“It’s well past sunrise, Jada. I don’t think I can.”
In the dim light that had just filtered into the cave, Jada looked down at her young cousin and shivered. In that one night he had become a pale ghost of his earlier self; his face had turned deathly white. His eyes were sunken in and had, like his face, turned white. His voice, when he spoke, quivered and broke.
“How much longer will it be, Jada?” he asked, sounding as if he were merely wondering when a performance would start. “When will I see my mayda again?”
Jada didn’t want to tell him, but she knew better than to lie. She so wanted him to not have to die this way, to suffer for so long. “I’m afraid it won’t be until tomorrow.”
“Listen,” he said, his voice quivering more than ever, “there’s no point in me being around for another day. It’s wasted time. I know you may not want to do this, but it’ll be a lot easier this way. You need to give me an overdose of kethona.”
Jada would have argued, but she knew she had to do as he said. Hands shaking, she slowly opened the drawstring bag of kethona powder, measured it, and mixed it in a cup with water. Numbly, she handed it to him.
“You know, Jada,” he said as he took the cup from her, “you’ve always been my favorite cousin. Shame about your brother, though,” he added suddenly.
“Yes,” Jada said, holding back tears. “I had so hoped he would turn for the better.”
“So did I,” he smiled encouragingly at her, then raised his cup. “Here’s to the Erif Drathil; in adversity may you remain strong!”
With that he drank it and died.
Jada stared numbly at his body for a while, not quite sure what to think or to do. She could hardly believe what had happened. Her charming, fun-loving, inventive cousin was gone. The cousin she had roamed the streets with, the cousin she had told innumerable stories to, spent hours laughing and making jokes with, was gone.
As she reflected on this, a traveler emerged from the Clevia-bound tunnel, which had an underwater connection to Jegundo, the capital city of Tre-revaj. He had curly black hair and brown-gold eyes, and was very tall. He seemed to be about a year older than Jada, around sixteen.
Jada hurried to cover Sardith’s body, but it was too late. The traveler had seen him, and asked her immediately, “Are you Jada Erif Drathil?”
“Yes,” Jada replied. There was no use lying to the stranger.
“I thought it was you,” he smiled, “but it’s hard to tell sometimes. My mayda said you might be in disguise. You always did excel at that.”
Jada didn’t know what to say. How did he know her name?
“Come on, Jada; don’t you recognized me?” She shook her head, though now she had gotten a grip on herself, there was something very familiar about him. “Stefus Astul Lethya.”
Then she suddenly remembered. “Of course! It’s been what? Two years?”
“Three,” he said. His eyes slowly moved to Sardith’s lifeless body, a slightly surprised look on his face, which meant he was probably shocked. “Isn’t that Sardith? My mayda told me, but I didn’t think they actually would-”
“They did.” Jada tried not to think too hard about it; it was too painful. “Listen,” Jada began slowly, “when I left, your tribe’s tents were still there. How...” Her voice trailed off. He had removed his satchel from his back and was rummaging through it, looking for something.
“The tribe sent me alone so that the Tre-revaj guards wouldn’t notice. I went to Jegundo, to hear the trial through, but when I got to Clevia to make the connection, our old friend priest Wylth at the temple there warned me that for any Rashdan; Erif Drathil, follower of Darim, or otherwise; to go to Jegundo would be extremely dangerous, as the government is putting up inquiries on all Rashdan tribes that are in Tre-revaj’s borders or entering them at this time. Wylth also told me to give this to you.” He handed her a roll of parchment; Jada took it and read.
To Jada Erif Drathil:
I have heard of your brother’s arrest. I have also heard, from my own sources, what sentence he and the rest of your tribe will receive. I wish I could say otherwise, but there is no use hoping for it to change; I have never known the court of Jegundo to look back on its decisions once they are made, except if there is a new offense to add to the charges.
I regret to inform you that your brother will be executed and your tribe will be jailed for life. I know it is probably your first instinct to try and rescue them, but I would like to remind you that no one who has ever attempted to either break out of Jegundo or rescue someone in it has come out alive. I would advise you not to join their numbers.
Please stay in Folona until your council has come to a decision about what should be done to preserve the Erif Drathil, and try not to do anything rash. The Tre-revaj guards don’t know you’re still out there, and for your safety it must remain so.
With best regards,
Wylth
After Jada read it, she stared at it for a while. Then, slowly, she folded it, rolled up the mat she sat upon, stuffed it in her satchel, and slung it over her shoulder. She was about to pick Sardith’s body up to carry it back to Folona, but Stefus stopped her.
“I’ll do that,” he said quietly.
Jada thanked him appreciatively, then asked, “How would Wylth know so soon--it was only yesterday, and it takes a very long time to cross the desert on foot, with prisoners nonetheless. I mean, you must have had to be running to reach Clevia that fast through the tunnel system.”
“Telepathy. The High Court keeps a corps of mages with that caliber of power and scatters them throughout Yaylithe, Tre-revaj, and the Desca Isles as a means of communication. Wylth’s connection in the High Court must’ve fed him the information.”
“I see.”
“So,” he asked, once they had left the cave, “what are you going to do while you wait for the Council to make its decision?”
She shrugged. They were walking across open desert now, the fine sand crunching softly at their feet as they trod over it. The sun was still barely over the horizon, not yet at its zenith, during which all foot travel would be miserable. Jada was tired from her vigil, but was not quite sure if she could bear returning to her tribe’s tent just then.
“Maybe I’ll visit the library tent. I could use some of the ancients’ wisdom about now,” she replied. “Then I guess I’ll go back to the Erif Drathil tent...” She swallowed hard. As much as she didn’t want to, she knew she had to. Otherwise, there was every chance that someone could steal the tribe’s secrets: exact instructions on how to make all sorts of dishas. For centuries the Erif Drathil had used them as entertainment, earning great renown for their spectacular outdoor shows.
However, every Erif Drathil since the one who had discovered the first type of disha knew that, although it was harmless entertainment (and income) for them, if it got into the wrong hands, it could possibly be extremely dangerous. This had been proven by Jada’s brother Darim, who had used them in his attacks against the government. He had broken his promise to keep the tribe’s secrets. Alongside everything else, it amazed the Council that the tribe had not disowned him earlier.


Queen Veladne of Manicolus strode quickly down the halls of her palace, swearing under her breath. She knew this wasn’t a very royal thing to do, but she was angry.
She passed a servant who was carrying a pitcher of water. She took it from him and poured herself a glass of water, giving him a tip before walking out onto the balcony at the end of the hall. She took a deep breath of the fragrant night air and rethought the last five minutes.
She had been talking casually with the ambassador from Tre-revaj about the recent case of the young Rashdan, Darim Erif Drathil, who had been stirring up a lot of trouble for the Tre-revaj government of late. This had led to a discussion about Darim’s claims against the government about their overbearing punishments for minor offences of law and the heavy taxation of the poor.
“Load of garbage, far as I’m concerned,” the ambassador had said as he took a sip of wine. “If they just followed our laws instead of complaining about them, they’d find them quite easy to deal with. As for taxes, they should know by now how much it costs to keep up an army in good repair and to feed and clothe the prisoners in Jegundo. I mean, it’s not our fault if they sit on their lazy backsides and don’t find themselves jobs to pay taxes with.”
“What do you do to citizens who don’t pay taxes?” Queen Veladne had asked curiously. She had heard rumors about this, but could not be sure.
“Put them in prison,” the ambassador replied. “And if they can’t pay their debts off within five months, we release them as jengdas so they can work it off. After that, we don’t bother guarding them; if they escape, they’ll just turn up the next month in the tax collection, at which time we can look at their record, give them a good beating, and put them through the same process again. Once they’ve gone through the process a few times, they get the picture and don’t bother.
“There are, of course, many who become jengdas by choice before they go into debt so they don’t have to spend the time in prison. Now in my opinion, those are the smart ones. When they escape, we don’t pester them if they managed to pay their taxes.” He looked at her over the rim of his glass and set it slowly back on the table. He slowly smiled a most unnatural grin that gave Veladne the impression that this was something he had only learned how to do to so he could be a successful politician.
“And what exactly do jengdas do, anyway?” she wondered.
“Oh, it depends on where we send them. For the most part, they do basically the same duties as a regular servant would here in Manicolus. Cook, clean, tend the horses, and jobs like that. We actually don’t employ servants any more; we just have jengdas.” He smacked his lips together and gave his politician’s smile again. “It actually varies from region to region what tasks they do; I understand that the University of Delixia offers overtime pay for jengdas to serve as test subjects for their research. If you were to go to the Makdrek mountains, you’d find more miners than anything else.”
“I’ve heard rumors that their working conditions are terrible,” Queen Veladne had commented as casually as possible. “And that they receive twice as much punishment for standard laws and are governed by even more than the average citizen.”
“Listen,” the ambassador said, “you shouldn’t be concerning yourself with how Tre-revaj runs Yaylithe. Especially not about scum like the jengdas. Why should we worry about them? They should be grateful we don’t just execute the lot of them for being so intolerably insolent. They do the dirty stuff; we do what’s important.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “The hour is late, so if you will excuse me,” his chair scraped as he stood up, ”I have business to attend to.” He bowed respectfully and left the room.
As Veladne stood outside in the sinking twilight, she realized that the ambassador had had a point: she should not be so concerned about how Tre-revaj was running itself. If her ancestors had remembered that, they would still have Yaylithe and the people living there wouldn’t be under Tre-revaj’s control.
How could she convince the High Court of Tre-revaj that what they were doing to these people was wrong? She had addressed the issue during trade negotiations before, but she had merely gotten a scoff from the official, who sneered, “How can you speak in your silks, jewels, and fine brocades? You can’t possibly know what jengdas go through as you sit in your fine palace, so how can you speak for them? I doubt you’ve seen a single day of work. If I were you, I’d forget about the jengdas and enjoy my luxury.”
She looked down at her dress and had to admit that her views would seem quite unconvincing to a commoner. She was dressed in such a way that it made the fact that she was Queen completely indisputable. It almost made her laugh to imagine what her magnificent gold silk gown with its purple brocade shift would look like alongside the brown tunics of the jengdas.
Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. It would be extremely dangerous and involve many risks, but it would work. It would require several years of preparation and careful planning besides. Her advisors would think she had gone mad.
But it would work.
She took a final gulp of water and laughed out loud. How could she explain to her advisors she hadn’t gone mad? She was beginning to believe it of herself. The idea was so simple and obvious, she could hardly believe she hadn’t thought of it before. It was insane, it was tossing out centuries of tradition, it was completely unlike anything any royal had done before...
But it would work.
She set her cup down slowly and sped back down the hall.
She had work to do.

Jada sat in the library tent, flipping through the ancient texts listlessly. She had already been back to the Erif Drathil tent and cleaned up as much of the mess she could, salvaging the prolific notes on the trade. They were now safely fastened in a hidden pouch at her side so that if anyone were to try and steal them, they would have to kill her first.
She wasn’t quite sure exactly what she was looking for amongst the long-aged texts. Her hand rested on one book, a beautifully illustrated one done by a tribe that had died out long ago, though their art had lived on through the notes they had left behind. Since it had been decided that book-binding and illustration were in no way dangerous, the Council had allowed other tribes to copy it, though the originals remained the best.
As Jada opened it and began to leaf through its contents, she realized that if she were ever to die without leaving behind a spouse or children to carry on her craft, it would never again light the skies. The Council would destroy the records to make sure that the same formulas used in the dishas were not used to create weapons, as Darim had.
She stopped at an interesting-looking page and read:
This is the word of Lr A’dl as spoken to Bashkt, the last prophet of this age:
“Fear not, for in each of you I have placed My blessing that you may prosper in adversity. I have placed it in every intelligent being that roams this planet. There will be those who will try and misuse it or claim it was not of me, but do not lose heart. For those who remain courageous in face of peril, who put away their desires to follow Me, who stand firm when challenged, I will always send aid.
“Trust Me in your darkest hour, and you will see My wonders. When the darkness closes in and you see no future, no salvation, and no hope; call upon Me and your eyes will be opened to see beyond the darkness and your ears will hear what they’ve never heard before.”
It went on to describe how Bashkt then went to the High Court at Jegundo, the capitol of Tre-revaj, and challenged their persecution of the Rashdan people (it was a result of this that the first tunnels had been dug). The High Court had scoffed at him, but he called upon Lr A’dl as the guards had started to drag him away.
Then, and this was confirmed by the records of Tre-revaj as well as the Rashdan accounts, the ground beneath them began to shake and the skies rained fire. Everyone present- even Bashkt- was frightened beyond imagination, but none were hurt. After a few minutes, Bashkt remembered the words Lr A’dl had spoken hours earlier and began to praise Him.
The High Court was convinced. Ever since then, The High Court of Jegundo has claimed absolutely no power over any Rashdan, provided they gave proof of their identity. Because of this, the Rashdans have lived peacefully under their own system of government (the Council, composed of a representative from each tribe) for many years. The only mark of their former submission to the High Court’s rule were the identification pendants they wore, but these had been used as keys to the tunnel system long before that.
Jada was astounded. She hadn’t even been consciously looking for it, but she found it. This was exactly what she needed, right here in front of her. Sending up a quiet, thankful prayer to Lr A’dl, she copied down the text and left the tent.
Trust Me in your darkest hour, and you will see My wonders.
She wasn’t afraid any more. She didn’t care what the Council decided. She didn’t care what trouble her brother might be talking her into at that very moment. She didn’t even care that the High Court had her on their list of people to find and get rid of. She knew one thing and one thing only; Lr A’dl would take care of whatever was ahead, and she would trust Him.
Outside it was nearing sunset, and the settlement of Folona showed signs of the dying day. Oil lamps were being lit, their scent wafting in pleasant waves around Jada as she strode down the lane of tents. Small children were running about the street as their parents chased them to get them to come inside. Many tribes were just then waking up and spreading out their wares to be worked on. She could hear looms slowly beginning to whir, hammers beginning to pound, and the spinning of potters’ wheels. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of a troupe practicing a new dance through a tent fold or an orator rehearsing a speech.
Yes, Folona thrived on the dark of the desert nights. Every day there was a switch of position at sunrise and sunset as the workers who needed the light and heat of the day traded with those who enjoyed the coolness of dusk to work their crafts. It was at sunset, especially, when Folona was at its busiest; it was then when they overlapped and sold their wares on the streets, their market calls adding to the other noises of the night.
There was only one sound missing from this orchestra of noises, and Jada knew it well. Those who passed her on the street gave her questioning looks, as if expecting her to give them an answer to this inexplicable absence. Jada merely gave them cheerful smiles and moved on. They would just have to get used to it.
As she walked, the tents slowly receded to permanent buildings. There weren’t many of these, the Rashdans being a widely nomadic people, but what was there was magnificent. These were gigantic edifices with graceful columns and elaborate stoneworking topped with teardrop- shaped roofing. There were carved details on every surface in white stone with paintings of red, blue, or green in between. These buildings had obviously taken centuries to build, each generation adding their own piece.
As Jada entered through the masterfully carved double doors of the largest of these buildings, she could not help but be awed by the vast amounts of time it represented. On the floor of the room was a huge tiled mural of a moon and sun in share of each other- the symbol of the Rashdan people. On the walls were magnificent paintings of the founding of Folona, Lr A’dl’s first prophets, Bashkt’s showdown with the High Court, and even a few scenes that were so old, they could barely be made out.
Jada walked pass these and came upon a vast corridor where the lamps were in the process of being lit. They weren’t alone, though. About ten scribes were seated upon cushions behind low desks, writing brushes ever darting about the pages of their work, obviously taking great care to what they were doing. They were so intent on their pages, Jada wondered for a moment if she should go up and tap one of them. However, she had always been taught that tapping was an unwise thing to do, as each Rashdan carried a set of two deadly-sharp chrys knives, elaborately worked daggers of the sharpest light steel, perfect for fighting in close quarters. When Rashdans went to war, which was rare, they carried much longer blades, but these were the Rashdan weapons of choice.
She didn’t have long to wait, though, before one of them put down their brush, stood up and said, “Jada Erif Drathil; the Council will see you in the morning. For the present, they advise you to get some rest while they review your position.”
Jada sighed in relief and went back out into the street once more to head back to the Erif Drathil tent. As she flopped onto a cushion and popped open a bottle of mirkith, a Rashdan drink known for its spicy yet sweet flavor, Jada realized how terribly tired she was.
Weary from grief, travel, and worry, Jada finished her drink and fell asleep instantly.
In her sleep, she was tormented by a dream. She saw a hundred backs bent in toil, covered by brown tunics. She saw a little boy, similar to her cousin Sardith, weeping about something. She tried to comfort him, but she found that her arms were covered in bandages- it was she he was weeping about! She looked down at herself and realized that she, too, had a brown tunic on.
There were faces swirling before her... a woman with mysterious gold eyes and thick black hair... a man in a crisp gray uniform... a girl no older than herself bent over a diagram of a plant with strange, sickly pale green flowers... a prison cell... pain... much pain....
Jada awoke with a start. For a moment, she thought it was because of the dream, but when she squinted into the darkness, she saw that there was a figure crouched over her, a finger pressed to his lips. He seemed to be listening to something intently. Jada listened, too.
“Aren’t we supposed to hear her testimony out before we act?” came a voice from outside the tent. “I know the dishas are potentially dangerous, but I’m sure she’ll be responsible enough to keep the secrets of their making to herself.”
“She is a threat to the safety of Folona, and as long as she stays here she puts us all in peril. Forget the preservation laws; her tribe’s nothing but trouble. Did you see what her brother did? Did you see how he painted all Rashdans with the black mark of protest?” a second voice cut in. “As long as she remains, it will be nothing but shame for all of us!”
The first speaker tried to reason. “But her father was such a nice man, and her tribe always did their best to try and reason with Darim, even when he was at the height of his attacks. Besides, the laws by which the Council governs are absolute; she should carry on with her tribe’s craft so it does not die out, get married, and join the Council.”
“That was before Erif Drathil started rousing up trouble and interfering with other people’s governments.” Jada suddenly recognized the voice; Dashad Riya Dru, head of the Council. Mentally she spat with disgust; she knew for a fact that he had bribed a good many of the Council for his position. “No, it is best that Jada Erif Drathil be disposed of immediately.”
The figure next to her whispered, “You are not safe, Jada. I tried to come before they got too close, but I was delayed. They are going to try to get you to surrender the scrolls concerning the dishas, but you must not, understand me?” Jada nodded. “Good. Take these; I tipped them with kethona while you were sleeping and will put them into a deep sleep when they are pierced.”
He tossed her her chrys knives, which she caught. Almost instantaneously, the tent flap opened and Dashad Riya Dru, in company of about five other men, entered, took one glance from Jada to Stefus (the figure who had warned her) to the pouch at her side, and lunged at her.
It wasn’t for nothing that Jada had spent more than half her life running away from recently set-off dishas to prevent serious burns; her reflexes were fine-tuned, and before any of the men could reach her she had already flipped the daggers up at the ready and flashed them about her in a blaze of steel. She was fast, precise, and skillful.
This, however, was not much more than her attackers suspected, although they had hoped to have a time advantage in her waking and orienting. All Rashdan children are taught at a very early age how to fight, and Jada had an even better advantage from the lighting-and-performance synchronization of the dishas. They knew this, and had prepared for it.
What they hadn’t counted on, though, was Stefus.
As they fought back to back, Jada asked him, “Why are these dratsabs going after me? I thought they were on the Council. They were supposed to help me, not murder me!”
“A technicality,” Stefus replied as he swung his daggers at one of the chargers. “They think you were part of your brother’s scheme to take control of Yaylithe. And that your tribe’s craft is going to lead to the destruction of the Rashdan people.”
“That makes perfect sense!” Jada exclaimed. “How do you know all this?”
“My tribe’s representative gave me the heads-up!”
Jada panted. There were only two assailants left. She and Stefus split up and took one each. Somehow she ended up with Dashad Riya Dru himself. She glanced over at Stefus, who looked as though he was doing well with his combatant, and concentrated her efforts on Dashad.
“Worthless piece of Erif Drathil scum,” Dashad snarled. “You and your brother are one and the same, aren’t you?”
“My brother may have been reckless,” Jada shot back with an extra flurry of blade work, furiously trying to use speed to make up for her shorter arm length, “but at least he didn’t manipulate people to achieve his goals.”
Dashad seemed to give out a grunt of laughter as Jada made a wide slashing movement with her right hand blade and took up guard with her left. He blocked her right blade and bore down hard on it, bending her arm backwards so he had a clear shot on her side. It all happened in a flash. He unlocked his right blade from Jada’s left guard and slashed her right side. At the same moment, she released her right arm from his grip and lightly pierced his shoulder so he slumped down, unconscious.
Jada immediately rushed over to where Stefus was still fighting his opponent and hit the assailant over the back of the head, ignoring the growing pain in her side. He fell to the ground, giving Stefus enough time to give him a quick flick of the knife to his arm. Stefus smiled at her and muttered, “Thanks. You know I’m not as good with knives.”
“Don’t mention it,” Jada replied, rummaging for some salve and bandages. She found some and carefully applied them to her side. “So what am I supposed to do? Wylth told me to stay here until the Council made up its mind-”
“Obviously they have, so I don’t think it would be such a bad idea for you to go into hiding,” Stefus interrupted. “Wylth didn’t count on the Council turning on you.”
Jada thought for a moment. The High Court was after her, and so was the Council. Where could she go where neither would find her? The Council knew the desert from top to bottom, and if she left Yaylithe, the guards at the border would want to see her identification pendant. She could, of course, use the tunnels to leave the country, but then she would face the tax collectors the next month, and the Council would be able to track her down too easily. She was trapped- and getting unpleasantly used to the feeling. Then it occurred to her.
“Stefus,” she said after she explained her idea to him, “it has been a privilege to fight alongside you; you have been extremely helpful in my time of trouble. You have proved to me that the entire world isn’t trying to kill me.”
“Thank you, Jada,” he replied. “Will I ever see you again?”
“I’m afraid not,” she answered as she began to pack up the contents of the tent. “It could be years before I return, if ever. If I do, though-” she gave an evil grin, “may Lr A’dl protect them.”
“Revenge isn’t the answer,” Stefus said wearily as he helped her pack. “Just patience. In about a decade, the Council will have an entirely different set of people on it who might be a lot more sympathetic. Even as it is, it’s just a few members who happen to have too much money on their hands.”
“Money,” Jada growled, ”is something I am seriously beginning to hate. It controls too many people who would otherwise be quite likeable. Our people were much better off in the days of trade, before we started using currency.”
“Everyone knows what a pain that was,” Stefus commented. “No one could decide what was worth what and it led to intertribal squabbles.”
“Ah, I guess there is that,” Jada said absentmindedly as she continued to fill sitting cushions with the delicate instruments that stood upon the low tables which folded neatly into easily portable squares of lightweight wood. She stood up and looked at him with a long, sideways sort of glance. “I must ask you one thing,” she said.
“What?”
“Tell none where I am going or what I am doing,” she replied. “You know too much as it is. And though I don’t think you would, I would also like to ask you not to follow me there. I don’t want you to have to see what will happen to me.”
“Yes, Jada.”
“Don’t tell anyone what happened.”
“Yes, Jada.”
She paused, then added, “Tell Wylth I’ve gone on a very long journey.”
“I will.” He sighed. “Do you really expect him to believe me?”
“No,” Jada replied, “he’ll probably track me down. I want him to figure it out for himself. That way he can’t say he’s heard anything about my whereabouts if the Council or the High Court comes to call.” She took the gear, only encompassing four large cushion-sacks, outside and began to take the tent down swiftly. All of the tent poles fit into the large, hollow center one around which she wrapped the cloth of the tent itself. She loaded the sacks onto the one animal the High Court’s soldiers hadn’t taken, a donkey named Revlis, took the staff made up of the tent in her hand, and took Revlis by the reigns. As they reached the edge of Folona, the vast desert spreading out before them, Jada turned to Stefus once more. She had never stared at him more fixedly than she did now.
“One more thing,” she said. “This is the most important of all.”
“What?”
“If anyone asks, you never knew me. I never existed. You never even heard of me until my brother started stirring up trouble.”
“Understood.” He laughed.
“It’s not funny,” she said earnestly. “You never knew me. Forget about me, if you can. Forget all of this.”
“That won’t be easy,” he said. “You make yourself extremely hard to forget.”
“Goodbye, Stefus Astul Lethya.”
She turned around again and set off into the desert, which spread out vastly before her. Stefus watched her until she was a tiny speck on the horizon, looking no larger than a grain of sand. She only looked back once, just before she disappeared over the rise of the dunes. A soft breeze rose and covered her tracks, as if encouraging him to forget she was out there.
“Goodbye, Jada Erif Drathil,” he sighed at the desert.
He turned back to the dim light of Folona’s oil lamps and slowly walked towards them.