16. The Anashi Collection (Vaye)¶
Vaye’s chamber was tiny, but she loved it all the same. Daylight, piped in through witchglass cables, passed through a filigreed wooden lattice to cast intricate shadows on the pale blue walls. A thick hexagonal carpet, a straw mattress, a small desk with a wooden stool, and an incongruously-ornate tile washbasin completed the furnishings. Tiny as it was, the cell was the nicest place she’d ever lived. The intact roof and lack of soot were a real upgrade.
She sat cross-legged on the carpet, her journal propped on the stool. The journal was a cheap thing, bound in waxed canvas and filled with rough paper, but she wrote in it every day, recording her most private thoughts. She wrote in High Anashic, both for secrecy and to keep her skills sharp, arranging the letters into clever puzzles that played the meanings of the words off the spacing between them. She alone would enjoy her clever jokes, but when had that not been the case?
A knock on the lintel made her jump. Ladrana, the red-haired Dzharian from the Challenge, gazed down with trepidation. “Vaye?” she said, as if there were some other Anashi nearby.
“That’s me,” Vaye said, closing her journal. Unlike some of the cohort—most notably Hainzu, who sneered every time Vaye passed by—Ladrana had exhibited only curiosity, seemingly unbothered that Vaye had skipped the Challenge. Perhaps the Dzharian thought she had connections, like Hainzu. Vaye had unwittingly achieved an awkward celebrity status by virtue of being the first Anashi many novitiates had ever met. It was marginally better than overt bigotry, although she still found it best not to dwell on why they’d never met any others.
“Preceptor Yobaza wants to see you,” Ladrana said. She seemed about to continue, but paused.
“Okay.” Vaye rose and brushed off her trousers. “Was there something else?”
“What’s Anash like? Is it really covered in molten—” Ladrana blurted, then immediately covered her mouth with her hands. Her silver-blue cheeks bloomed with a purple blush. “Oh, Dark River! I’m so sorry. I’ve just... I’ve never met...”
“It’s okay,” Vaye said. “But I’ve never been to Anash.” She smiled and switched to Dzharian. “I actually grew up in Dzhar.”
“Oh!” Ladrana said. “Wow! I bet that was, um... amazing?”
“That’s not the word I’d use,” Vaye muttered. They stood awkwardly for a long moment, staring at each other. “Uh, I’m just gonna…” Vaye trailed off, indicating the doorway Ladrana was blocking.
“Right, yeah!” The Dzharian jumped back as though Vaye had grown a stinger. “Sorry.”
Vaye squeezed past with a tight half-smile. The hallways had no windows, but the ceiling lights throughout the building were capped with refractive witchglass that split the daylight into gorgeous rainbow hues. The extravagance of all that witchglass was mind-boggling, although Adranaya claimed that it saved money in the long run, since no other lighting was needed during the day. Vaye couldn’t imagine how long it would take for that math to work out.
She passed briskly through the patches of multicolored light, not looking into anyone else’s cell. The rules were quite clear: novitiates were not to fraternize with each other except in expressly sanctioned settings, such as training, self-criticism sessions—informally referred to as “crits”—or the nightly meridian cleanse. Vaye was all too happy to keep to herself, determined not to give anyone an excuse to kick her out.
The School was an odd building. It was shaped like an overgrown ice crystal, the large central hexagon tessellating outward in ever smaller versions of itself. Preceptor Yobaza’s office was deep in the interior of the building, in a corner of the innermost hexagon. The door was made of thick ironwood, with massive metal hinges and a no-nonsense lock, as though a dangerous animal were trapped inside. Knocking on it stung Vaye’s knuckles.
“Enter,” said a muffled voice.
The Preceptor’s office was skeletally austere. It reminded Vaye of The Estuary, a sacred mausoleum in Edeweri kept spotless by a horde of Dzharian monks. An array of the same fancy witchglass skylights installed throughout the school admitted harsh slices of daylight, slashing the room into zones of light and shadow. The panels were capable of growing more or less opaque, controlled by sliding a finger along a strand of witchglass embedded in the wall. She sorely wanted to study the mechanism. Below the skylights, long shelves held rows of glass boxes, each one carefully labeled.
Yobaza didn’t look up from her reading. Vaye glanced around awkwardly, suppressing an urge to fidget, until her eye caught on an ornate silver and witchglass sculpture of a woman’s arm mounted on a sunlit patch of wall. The arm was dented and tarnished, but the craftsmanship was astonishing. The inlaid witchglass of the fingernails refracted a thousand shades of orange across the wall.
“That piece is hollow,” the Preceptor said, glancing up momentarily. “It supposedly contains an ancient Anashic codex. A single page from an unknown manuscript, centuries old, painted on vellum with ink made from ashes, blood, and ironwood sap. If legends are true, the codex speaks of using thorns for pleasure and other blasphemous filth. I haven’t seen it, of course. The case is locked, and I’m told it can’t be opened without destroying the page within. Even if it could, there are few alive who can interpret it. The Anashi High Priests were so jealous of their tongue.”
Vaye looked around slowly at the other items lining the walls and shelves, realization creeping over her like fog. A silver candelabra in the shape of a sparrow. A pair of finger drums with handles of ancient bone. A horn with a silver mouthpiece, made from the shell of a giant snail. Every one of them was an Anashi artifact, stolen from her homeland or looted from a temple. Even worse were the pieces she didn’t recognize, parts of her own heritage she had never seen.
Yobaza steepled her hands beneath her nose. “Feel free to admire the collection,” she said loftily, gesturing to the display cases. “The School allows me to rotate out pieces from the archive downstairs. Like Tadevi, I’m a bit of a connoisseur.” She paused, looking Vaye up and down. “Although I limit myself to artifacts that have been thoroughly disinfected.”
Vaye inhaled sharply, straightening. “Have I done something to displease you, Preceptor?”
“Yes. You are here,” Yobaza said, leaning back in her chair and smiling mirthlessly. “Taking the place of a truly worthy candidate, simply because Tadevi finds you amusing. A basic ability to conduct the flowstream is quite common, but apparently he saw something unusual in you. He has not deigned to tell me what.”
Vaye strove to unclench her fists and control her breathing. “I’m just doing the best I—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re wearing your stained little heart out. However, running this School is expensive. Novitiates must either pass the Challenge, thus proving worthy of the Vorkyrda’s charity, or earn their keep by other means. Obviously, your family has not made a donation, so instead, you will work.” The Preceptor had the smile of a disturbed child pulling off a dragonfly’s wings. “Tonight, and every night for the rest of this term, you will report to the Hall of Vapors for kitchen duty, to serve the Orumir.”
Kitchen duty. Just like Hainzu had said. Vaye’s lower lip wanted to quiver, but she willed it to stop. She would not appear weak in front of this woman. “Every night?”
“Yes.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You haven’t done anything right, either,” Yobaza said sharply. “Besides, serving the Orumir is a great honor. Without them, there would be no Eyewall, and without the Eyewall, there would be no Sarmala.”
Vaye gritted her teeth. When would she sleep? When would she study?
“By the way,” Yobaza said, “Thank you for your contribution to the collection. I’m not sure how long they’ll stay in rotation, but they look nice for now.” She indicated a part of the wall Vaye had missed. Hanging on a wooden rack beside a threadbare shawl with embroidered Anashic lettering were her mother’s tzashim, the woven witchglass cables wrapped neatly around their handles. The weapons had been confiscated upon her arrival at the school. Vaye had assumed they were locked in an armory somewhere, but this was much worse.
She had spent much of her life angry. She was no stranger to it, the way it formed a leaden ball in her throat, the hot pressure behind her face. But seldom had she experienced the incandescent rage that now threatened to burst through her restraint. “May I go?” she spat before she could say something she truly regretted.
Yobaza waved her away dismissively. “Report to the Hall of Vapors before the beginning of the second watch tonight. And close the door on your way out.”
It was all Vaye could do not to slam the heavy slab shut.
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