A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Book 2: Epilogue

"There is a time for practice, and a time for tea," her father often remarked. She peered into her cup, remembering the girl that had searched for answers within the warm brown liquid. Answers that had remained elusive until this day. She idly traced the rim of the small vessel, releasing a sigh that had worn thin from years of repetition.

In moments like these, she could not help but liken her past self to the delicate porcelain cup. How was it that something so inherently beautiful could also be so fragile? Each tiny vessel was a testament to an artisan's painstaking effort over many years, an eternal snapshot of snow captured in white clay.

Did she regret the path she had chosen? If she was to be honest, she did. At least, a very small part of her did. The part that harbored the ghost of her guilt. She witnessed her childhood friends, born into prestigious Shareholder families, as they strolled gracefully up and down the boulevards of the city, and felt envious of them. Like the teacups, they were attractive, part of a set. And like the teacups, they were property, their life paths decided by their elder brothers or fathers. Exchanged as tokens of power or to cement new or existing alliances. Their futures were drafted, signed, and sealed in their marriage contracts. The certainty of their happiness remained dubious, but they would enjoy a life of carefree ease. Unlike her, they were spared the severity and rigor of harsh training. But then again, that had been her choice.

Then there was, of course, the horror that was childbirth. Beautiful words describing the joys of motherhood; but even with the best of healers, that joy could not be measured against the pain, the terror, and the risk. She had killed her own mother as she was forcibly spat out to take her first breath in this world. This, she knew, was what fueled the tension between herself and her brothers. She would not wish the fate of a broodmare on anyone.

Her eyes drifted to a portrait of one of her ancestors, their true name lost now, but their title and deeds preserved forevermore within the collective memory of her House. Her glorious ancestor, the Shield of Hope, had been the reason that she had chosen her path. The tales of her valor were countless and were an inspiration, but it was the Shield’s deeply-held beliefs that resonated within her.

The tales often spoke that the Shield hailed from a land far, far away, a place beyond the stars and the rising sun. And, if the legends were true, a different world altogether. According to some of the popular accounts, the Shield had claimed that in her homeland, women were considered lesser than men, but in Gesthe, she demonstrated that they could be equal, even superior. Her legendary deeds testified to this truth, did they not?

A woman could be a man’s superior. The words had ignited a spark within Kanaia of House Alim that her youthful imagination had fanned into a blazing fire. It was what pushed her to train, even when the others had long retired. At first, it was simply a parent’s indulgence that allowed her to practice with the males of the House. The disparity in strength and endurance seemed overwhelming at first. The boys were faster, could train for longer, and could withstand more physical punishment.

Then there was the allure of the surrender, the call of the easier path. Giving up. Oh, how simple that would have been. There would be no honor lost, her brothers told her, jokingly at first, if she just signed a marriage contract that would benefit House Alim. That was, after all, how girls upheld the honor of their House. Their jests turned more serious as time went on, and as Kanaia narrowed the gap between them.

She had grown strong enough to rival her brothers, for she had read the more esoteric parts of the Shield’s legend. Exchanging unwanted jewels and trinkets for scraps of knowledge, she found out that the source of the Shield’s power was more than just the blessings of Mana, or the gifts that she had been born with. The Shield would offer up the lives of her foes as sacrifices to the Gods and, in turn, would be granted power. Her ancestor answered the pleas of the masses. Whether it was to clear out an old cellar teeming with mouse-like Wise Ones, or to stop a rampaging Ogre, no task was deemed too grand or too humble for the Shield to accept. In turn, she would be rewarded by the Gods with greater insight. Surely, if Kanaia followed in the Shield’s example, she would reap the same rewards? So that was what she did.

She helped the servants with their tasks. From cleaning plates in the kitchens, to scrubbing the floors alongside the menials, and giving water to the messengers that delivered her father’s letters - she did it all. These same letters, she would occasionally open, swiftly perusing their contents before resealing them. All to learn more about the business of her House and to support her father, of course.

The Steward of her House thought it unbefitting of a lady of her stature to go about doing such crude and humble work, but he was like a second father to her, and could deny her nothing. Smiling, the menials of the house all doted on her, praising her at every turn. Like the Shield, she would form her strength from the bedrock of humility.

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Over the course of the months, she felt herself grow stronger. Faster of mind and stronger of body. But was this just due to just natural growth and training, or was it due to her following the Shield’s example?

She started to hunt the animals about the estate, praying to the gods whenever she made a kill. The Desert Rockcrabs and the little Wise Ones were her prey. She barely spared a second thought when she killed the insectile Desert Rockcrabs, but she felt guilty slaughtering the little Wise Ones. Apart from their disgusting sinuous tails, they were cute in their own way. Fluffy brown things with beady eyes and soft fur, they would often find their way into the kitchen stores and were a general nuisance.

In time, the animals learned not to show themselves about the grounds. Frustrated, she was forced to throw her net further afield. Under the cover of darkness, she would slip outside of the estate to kill the stray animals that wandered the streets.

She felt herself growing ever stronger as the gods blessed her, but with each animal’s death her heart had begun to harden, growing cold and callous. A seed born from jealousy and nourished by her need to reject a woman’s lot had blossomed into a hunger for more power. She killed the animals in droves. Still, it was not enough. It would never be enough.

Her worried brothers had assigned her ‘guards,’ who followed her on these little excursions. She knew what their true reasons were for giving her this escort. They were envious of her and sought out the source of her sudden rise in strength and power. But Kanaia had grown cunning and fleet of foot. With the help of the servants and her own physical prowess, escaping her new minders was child’s play.

She recalled one moonlit night. She would have a revelation as she ran through a narrow alleyway in search of prey. From the detritus and rubbish of the streets, a hand reached out, a frail pathetic thing that latched onto her ankle, causing her to stumble and almost fall. Grimacing, she looked down to see a gaunt face, desperation and longing in its eyes. Clad in filthy rags, it was a Dust addict. One of the invisibles of Al-Lazar society.

A shudder had gone through, as she felt utter revulsion. How dare this thing even touch her! She was Kanaia of House Alim, was she not? Angrily, she had mouthed a curse to the Withered Tree as she lashed out with a kick, caving in its disgusting skull, and freeing herself from the Dust addict’s clutches.

Almost immediately, shock filled her at what she had done. What had she done? Had anyone seen it? Panic ran through her mind, and a thousand and one possible scenarios unfolded before her. This was followed by the most unexpected of sensations. A feeling, similar to how she felt when she secretly touched herself, coursed through her. A feeling of euphoria, causing her to shiver in delight, and causing her muscles to grow taut and strong.

Once the last wave of bliss and power had left her, she fell to her knees panting. Tears of pure joy tracked down her face. This was what she was looking for. This would be the key to unlocking the true power within her. With this, she would be the next Shield of Hope. No one would miss a few Dust Addicts, would they? They were broken things, so lost in their own dreams of desire that they could not even work the Dust Fields. Useless. Like the Rockcrabs and the Wise Ones, she would be doing the city a favor by removing their ilk.

Ever since that night, when she had found the key to her power, she had only grown further in strength and power, as the gods themselves blessed her actions. At first, she had felt soiled as she cleaned the streets of the dregs of society, but slowly she had learned to put aside such childish feelings.

Draining the last of the tea, she realized that sacrifice was ever the burden to be born by those gifted with talent and power. A sacrifice that she had resigned herself to make.

Sighing to herself, she got up to her feet and stretched. It was time for practice with the head of the House, her father. Out of all of her siblings, she had shown the most promise, and thus had received special attention and training. She would crown herself in glory at the next Saint’s, the competition that would decide the city’s strongest. It would be her, and not one of her pathetic brothers, who would represent House Alim for Arbitration.

She nodded to one of the servants as she entered the Haql Tajriba, the training ground of her house. The servant anointed her with sacred oils, running a finger across her forehead before she bowed and took her leave, and closed the sliding door.

Her father was still deep in meditation on the hard-packed clay floor of the Haql Tajriba. As was his habit, he used no mat, saying that it made him closer to the element of the earth. His face looked still and untroubled to the average onlooker, but she knew well the tautness about his eyes that made his serenity a lie. Even now, she knew she was being observed as she went through the basic Raks Qowa, the body conditioning forms that she had mastered long ago, when her peers had been learning how to sew. Her body took over, allowing her mind to formulate a strategy to defeat her father this day.

“Good. Your form is passable and your Ma’at is strong. That is good. I only wish that you had been born with a dangle and not a cleft, then I would not be so worried for the future of our House. Come, it is time,” her father pronounced as she finished the last segment of her form.

There was no time for her usual bitter response, for without warning, her father’s swift blow came. She had seen the attack coming, but seeing and being able to move her body in time were almost two different things, and she was barely able to put up a defense. However, she would offer no excuse. No claim of unfairness. Such things had already been beaten out of her.

What came next was an adrenaline-fuelled exchange as blows were traded. Attacks, blocks, counters, and feints melded together, as she was forced to adapt to the storm that came upon her.

She lashed out with a low kick, making it look like she wanted to buy herself some time or to create some space between them, setting herself up for an orthodox attack. Her father easily saw through her ruse, stepping into her inner circle and launching an attack that, from this distance, she could not divert.

The young girl took it full on, absorbing the blow with a hard block, stopping the hammer blow in its tracks using her raw strength. For a moment she imagined that she saw a flicker of surprise in her father’s eyes before the two resumed their deadly dance.

She would surprise him more as she launched a counter-offensive. Using the Willow Weeps followed by Iron Anvil, she blended the soft and hard forms of her House’s ancient art into something unique. Against an opponent such as her father, simple mimicry of the techniques that he had taught her would not be enough. She adapted the forms to her body, creating something new that did not simply bludgeon, but something that also cut.

Old and new came together, blended by a strong will.

She did more than match her father’s strength, she exceeded it. What she lacked in reach, she more than made up for in youth, and raw lightning speed. Kanaia launched herself into an almost-perfect combination of blows that would have made her ancestor proud.

Almost perfect, save for one opening, an opening she knew her father would never take. If he placed any importance on her House’s future or had even the smallest scrap of affection for her. It was a gamble that she was more than willing to take.

For a split second, she sensed a dark moment come. An ugly thing that emanated from the soon-to-be defeated man. Thankfully, her father did not give into his baser emotions, and moments later the killing intent left his eyes. Glad that the threat had passed, the rest was relatively simple as she went through the preordained sequence that would spell his defeat. She ended the competition with a knife-hand at his throat.

“I yield,” her father stated flatly, a mixture of emotions playing about his face. Anger, surprise, and injured male pride. He had expected this day to come, if not so soon. As he had learned from his own father, eventually youth would always catch up to, then outrun, the lead that age and hard-won experience gave. Still, It was a bitter pill to swallow. And to be beaten by a mere slip of a girl, his own daughter, doubly so.

“You had given me the perfect position. Had I used the Blow that Shatters, you would be dead,” he added, looking to save face.

“Perhaps. But I knew you would not. I will use whatever it takes to win. Even a father’s affection. That is what is important, is it not? Besides, I doubt your Blow that Shatters would have been enough. I am not made of the river’s reeds” she countered, looking down at her defeated foe. Had he always been this small? He had seen so much bigger before.

“Duty and sacrifice are the words of House Alim.” The man before her blurted out the ritual words, with none of the solemnity they deserved. She almost felt pity for him.

“And I will sacrifice anything in the name of honoring those words. For House Alim is the Shield of Lazar. I will hold you to your honor, father. It will be I that will compete at the Saint’s. And it will be me, and only me, that will represent our House,” she replied coldly, her voice hollow, yet at the same time filled with the echo of divine purpose.

The man could only nod and stare dumbly at the monster he had raised.