41. Unspoken Truth
Unspoken Truth
The training court behind the Resh’Agar’s wing smelled of the smoke still rising from the Han far below the Jade Lattice. Lu’ma rolled the weight of her training staff from palm to palm, the cool grain grounding her. Across the chalked ring, Zarrek stood loose-shouldered and watchful.
Step. Guard. Strike. Breathe. They had fallen into rhythm these past days.
Today, her body remembered shapes, not timing.
An echo lingered between intent and motion.
The ring at her thumb pressed tight against flesh, not with pressure but with dread.
The vellum inside did not need unfolding. She knew its ledger script by heart.
Zarrek moved first. Lu’ma pivoted, staff up—half a beat late. The blow caught her shoulder. Pain sparked, but he did not press. He reset, blade-still, watching.
She signed, formal, steady, 'This Nameless requests another pass.'
He tipped his chin, a soldier’s nod that gave nothing and granted everything.
They circled. She read the coil of his hip, the tell in his left shoulder.
She saw it, then thought of Her Radiance’s pale hands, the tremor even after the black veins in her neck disappeared.
Her heel slipped. Zarrek’s staff hooked her ankle and the mat struck.
The world tilted, and the ground slammed into her ribs.
She lay flat, air gone. Smoke trailed toward rafters. Zarrek offered a hand. She rose alone, dusted her sleeves. Reset.
“You’re off kilter,” he grunted.
Her reply was curt. 'Again.'
They clashed. This time, she caught his sweep. Turned it. Wood bit wood at her angle. He pressed. She met him. Breath steadied.
They broke for water. Zarrek drank without clatter, his gaze combing her in intervals. Checking for a wound unseen. Lu’ma wrapped her palms in her sash until sensation returned. The ring bit into her palm from her thumb.
A reminder.
She inclined her head, 'This Nameless is grateful for the lesson.'
He answered with a nod. "Got too many knots to untie in that mind of yours."
Lu'ma blinked at him. Pressed the ring into her thumb.
'Her Radiance has too many enemies. First the painted ones and the Council. Now the Solutus,' she signed.
"She wasn't the target," he grunted. "Not this time."
'The rebellion has never—'her hands paused as she searched for the right words. 'This wasn't a simple act of zealots. Rebels living in tunnels beneath the city, scarce in resources, hiding from the Doctrine could not have—'
"Nothing scarce about the Cataclyss," Zarrek said.
Lu'ma straightened, waiting for him to explain.
"Yeah," he said, "I was there. Walked the roads. Saw the ward systems they've got in place. It's organized."
'Is that where you met the golden creature?' she asked.
Zarrek stilled. Completely. A shadow crossed his face, and when he looked at Lu'ma, she tensed. The question was unwelcome, but that did not mean she wouldn't ask it again.
'In the Han, you pretended not to see her. But This Nameless witnessed how your gaze lingered.'
They stared each other down, neither one giving quarter.
Suddenly, the unyielding lines of his scarred face twisted into a rather hideous grin. His white teeth gleamed in the light.
"You're something," he said. "When I first saw you, I knew you were trouble. Never been wrong before." He stood, crossing his huge arms over his chest. "You've got something hidden in that blank stare of yours, but I'm not about to go digging. You want my help, then work for it."
Lu'ma surged to her feet. 'This Nameless needs nothing from you.'
"Then why do your eyes say otherwise?"
She did not answer, but the ring pressed into her thumb so hard she nearly flinched.
"Enough of this." He gestured with his head towards the Resh’Agar’s wing. “Take care of what you need to. We’ll pick up at third bell.”
She returned the nod, then turned to tend to her duties.
Safe to report: The Scarred One continues to train This Nameless.
Lie to report: This Nameless still does not know why His Quintessence ordered this training.
Not safe to report: Her Radiance is still unwell.
The palace carried rumor like stone carried cold. The Lattice had still not calmed after the Blightsphere had destroyed the Han. Everywhere, Attendants clustered, fingers flicking news, eyes relaying secrets.
'Glider marks on the remnant,' one signed. 'Lines cut like feathers.'
'Estár forbidden for a year,' another added. 'Sponsor displeased. Bowls will sour. Zeera at the Jade Lattices before dawn. No escort.'
No one looked at Lu’ma and her heavy limp. She kept moving. Listening. This was how one read a city unseen.
She paused at a service bend, turning into an alcove.
A lectern stood there with a pile of folded cloth stacked on top.
She sifted through the rags and removed a bit of parchment hidden their folds.
Then she lifted her thumb to her lips and breathed into the ring there.
Mana sparked. Vellum slid free. Warm breath lifted letters pale from black.
Combining her vellum with the parchment, she read and interpreted the message.
'Reports overdue. Deliver: Host condition; Council conclusions; artifact sigils; private movements; remnant sample. By next session.'
Lu’ma closed her eyes. Her Radiance’s condition now had names—Flares when she burned too hot and Fades when her mana vanished and black veins took its place.
But she would sooner die than have the Choir learn of them.
She set the vellum on her palm and used the stylus to scribble a tiny piece of truth.
'Host recovering under care. Council secured artifact remnant. High authority controls access. No travel outside sanctioned routes. No private movements.'
Movements existed, of course. Her Radiance’s slow recovery, the way His Quintessence gave her breath. But those truths stayed in her heart, far from parchment.
She breathed across the vellum once more. The letters sank, bled, vanished. She tucked the parchment into the lectern. On her thumb, her ring clicked shut.
On her path back, she tuned to the palace’s pulse.
A cook in the kitchens signed of the Council, 'Resh’Agar’s temper stormbound, thunder held only by the Sokar’s hand.'
Two Attendants gossiped of Zeera’s silk, pink and heavy, for a procession not listed. A Reskala smoothed his sash and signed, 'Varrow says too many hands touched the remnant.'
Lu’ma stored each fragment. Later, they would be useful. When the pieces came together.
The sitting room smelled of tea when Lu’ma brought meals to the Resh’Agar’s wing. Her Radiance dozed amid the cushions on the divan, blanket drawn, brow eased. Lu’ma set down a kettle, cups, and cloth. The kettle sang, and Lu’ma brewed Her Radiance’s favorite herbal blend.
She left the cup by Her Radiance’s hand, smoothed the blanket. Checked her hairbrush one more time before departing. On her way back, she took the eastern colonnade. A cluster of Selen Attendants passed by her, their steps measured, their crimson robes pressed and perfect.
'The Frayed,' one signed, sneering. 'Disfigured. Wrong.'
Lu’ma did not meet his petty challenge. She continued walking. Ran more errands. Retrieved fresh linens. Went to the Servitor to fetch freshly washed and tailored gowns.
Second bell rang.
She returned to the training ring early. The training staff sat honest in her hands. She set her stance. Feet. Line. Breath. When Zarrek came, he would read what she let him. When the Choir came, they would take only what she gave.
She breathed steady—slow as first light on stone—knowing this secret could not be kept much longer.