The office was immaculate, the walls swathed in deep green paper and the ceiling supported by stone columns that were elegant, but not distracting. A bookshelf was set in the left wall, bearing the weight of numerous Rashani tomes, each holding knowledge too sacred to record digitally.
Koyla sat at a desk carved from solid Utopian wood, coloured a deep chocolate brown. The desk was sparsely decorated, as befitted a master Rashani; a single, sweet smelling flower leaning in a vase, a small computer, and a framed picture of a much younger Koyla and her late husband. A broad painting stretched across the wall behind her grey head, depicting the Holy Master Kris, with her long blonde hair and flowing silver robes, leading the first true Rashani against the armies of pretender-witches.
Koyla’s dark eyes, still young and vivid in her lightly wrinkled face, fell on Vis as he peered into the room from the half-opened door. She folded her hands on her desk and beamed at him.
“Hello Vis. Please, come in.” She gestured to the padded seat at the front of her desk.
Vis took the seat as Koyla directed, adjusting his light blue training tunic so it didn’t ride up his back. He folded his hands in his lap awkwardly, not used to following formalities like this. He fought the strong urge to lean back and put his feet up on the desk; Koyla didn’t deserve that disrespect.
“How are you?” Koyla’s voice was sweet and soothing. Despite her position, she always spoke to him as a friend. Among Rashani that was a rare thing indeed, especially in light of Vis’s status.
He refrained from letting his sour mood ruin their meeting. “Well enough, for the moment. It is good to see you, Master Koyla.”
Koyla’s smile broadened further. “You’ve never been one for formalities, Vis. Speak as you please.”
Vis grinned. “For you, Master, I make an exception.”
Koyla nodded, but a weariness began to creep into her expression. She tapped a key and glanced at her computer screen, which was turned away from Vis. “You have requested a change of teacher. This is, I believe, the sixth time you’ve made such a request.”
“Seventh,” Vis corrected, humourlessly. “My sixth request went curiously unanswered.”
“My apologies,” Koyla said. “As Chairwoman of the Council, I have many appointments and duties, and sometimes things get lost in the scramble.”
“I understand, Master.” He bowed his head in respect, a gesture he seldom bothered with. But when Koyla said she was busy, he believed her.
Koyla took a deep breath and rubbed at her temples in anticipation of the headache they both knew was coming. “All right, then. What is the reason for this request? Do you not find Syla a suitable teacher?”
“You damn well know I don’t!” Vis snapped. He stopped and took a deep, calming breath, grabbing hold of his feelings. “I’m sorry, Master. I believe I’ve stated my opinion of Syla before.”
“For the sake of proper protocol, I must ask you to repeat it.” Koyla’s voice strained at those words, tired wrinkles standing out around her eyes.
Vis slumped in his seat, folding his arms. “Fine. Where should I start? Oh yeah, she hates me! I know that’s pretty common around here, but she acts as if I murdered her children. In the ten years I have been her student, she has never once encouraged me. Her lessons are largely useless and unnecessarily harsh, and she takes every opportunity to humiliate and degrade me. More than once she has assured me that I will never become a Rashani, and has then suggested many creative ways in which I might take my own life.” He took another breath, then added with a good dose of sarcasm: “I fear all this may be stunting my growth as a Rashani.”
“That’s quite a claim,” Koyla said, voice impartial.
Vis narrowed his eyes. “You know it’s true.”
Koyla shook her head in resignation. “I cannot deny the possibility. You’ve come to me with these complaints before, and my talks with Syla have suggested she may hold some sort of enmity towards you.”
“You’ve spoken with her about this?” Vis straightened up in surprise, fears playing across his mind. How much had they shared? It was very possible Syla’s malice had grown worse as a result of these “talks”.
“It is my duty to hear both sides of the story,” Koyla answered, her voice becoming strict. “Whatever Syla may have done, she is a Rashani, and deserving of fair treatment.”
Vis scowled. “So? What did she say?”
Koyla furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure it’s my place to say. She admitted to being stricter than most teachers are, but claimed that if you had the will to withstand it, you would rise to be a strong Rashani.”
“She never said that,” Vis insisted. “If she did, she was lying. Syla is the last person who would want to see me become a Rashani.”
Koyla’s stern expression faltered. “I’m inclined to agree with you, but there is little I can do about it. I cannot force a teacher to take on a student, and at the moment Syla is the only Rashani willing to educate you, in light of your condition.”
“My condition?” Vis leaned towards Koyla with a bitter smile. “Come now, Master, let’s call it what it is—my penis. Say it with me, P-E-N-I-S. It’s not a dirty word—I’m quite fond of it myself.”
Koyla shot him a gentle glare. “Many have also complained of your tendency to be abrasive.”
“Then they should stop rubbing up against me,” Vis muttered.
Koyla thumped her hands flat on the desk. “Please, Vis, if you won’t take this seriously, then how can I?”
Vis’s face flushed with anger. “Do you take it seriously? I’ve been here five times before, asking for some kind of change, but so far, you’ve done nothing. Do you take me seriously, Master, or am I just a distraction to you?”
He expected her to get angry, to yell and demand he leave, as was her right. He expected whatever last bit of sympathy Koyla had for him to snap like a frayed rope, expected her to start hurling insults as so many of her Sisters did. Rasha knew, she had a right to be as angry with him as anyone else. Instead, Koyla reached across the desk and took Vis’s hand, squeezing it kindly.
“I do take you seriously, as I take every person in the Enclave seriously. The problem is that there are so many to take care of. I would like to help you, but I’m not sure what I can do in this situation.”
Vis was momentarily disarmed by Koyla’s kindness, though it was completely in character. He felt her hand grasping his own, unexpectedly warm. She was in her fifties now, although she radiated the strength and elegance of a woman half that age. So few showed Vis even this mild kindness, and for a brief, unguarded moment, he considered asking a question that he had long held back: was Koyla his mother? Who else would be so kind to a freak like him?
He collected himself before he did anything embarrassing and gently pulled his hand free of Koyla’s. “I would like to become an apprentice.”
A confused crease crossed Koyla’s brow. “You believe becoming an apprentice will improve your situation?”
“Well, yes,” Vis replied, excitement rising. She hadn’t said no, yet. “A teacher might refuse a particular student, but there are always Rashani willing to be Sikkat to an apprentice if they show potential. I am of age, just, and I imagine there are some who would overlook my sex.”
Koyla bobbed her head, brow still wrinkled in thought. “There may be some Rashani whose honour might drive them to do so, but there is a hole in your plan. The basic requirement for apprenticeship is the ability to manipulate a Lucidil. Can you? Syla hasn’t reported anything of the sort, and it’s her duty to do so.”
Vis closed his hands into fists, keeping them out of sight on his lap. “Syla does not create an encouraging practice environment. If I could have a chance to demonstrate…” He trailed off, hoping Koyla might resolve his half-finished solution for him.
Koyla reached into her dark robe and produced her Lucidil. “Very well. Show me.”
The silver sphere filled Koyla’s hand, about the size of a large orange. It appeared to be made from solid metal, and could become as hard as such with a focused thought, but minuscule ripples passed across its surface sporadically. Vis looked on it with awe and a touch of reverence; a Lucidil was a personal tool, one given to each individual Rashani, and it was a great honour for a Master to volunteer her own for use by a mere student such as himself. He took the Lucidil, holding it with the same sort of care he might use with an infant, cupping it between his hands. The surface dimpled slightly from the pressure of his fingers, but the sphere of Lucidite held its spherical shape through some secret even the Rashani were unsure of. It was lighter than it appeared, about the weight of a large book, but that could be changed on a whim. The question was, could it be his whim?
“What would you have me do?” he asked, instinctively looking to Koyla for guidance.
“Shape it, of course,” the aging Master replied. “Put that sharp wit of yours to a constructive use for once. Start with something simple—I don’t expect dodecahedrons from you just yet.”
At that moment, Vis’s imagination sputtered out, struggling to pick a shape as one might struggle to choose a proper word. He stared into the Lucidil, as if its proper form might divulge itself. His own pale reflection looked back at him, steel grey eyes peering into his own soul. A crop of black hair framed his delicate features; on any other planet, he could have easily passed for a girl. Here in the Enclave, though, his gender was plain to everyone.
He risked a glance at Koyla, fearing to see how she took his hesitation, when inspiration struck. The flower on her desk; a Utopian rose, crimson red with silver veins running through its petals. It was said it shared the Blood of Rasha with the Rashani, and it did have some resonance with their abilities. The flowers were strewn across the Enclave gardens, and they were often used as a symbol for the Sisterhood; he even had the image of one embroidered on his tunic. It was not a simple shape per se, but how poetic would it be for his first shaping?
He focused his attention on the Lucidil, blocking out all else. Syla had taught him to do that at least, or rather he had learned the technique to block out her incessant jibes. He emptied his mind of everything but the rose, willing the Lucidil to mimic the shape of the delicate petals. The silver surface rippled, a minuscule motion, but one that gave Vis heart. He could do this, so long as he kept his focus. He pushed and prodded at the sphere with his thoughts, making more ripples.
He closed his eyes tightly, picturing the rose and Lucidil side by side. The Lucidil gave way easily in his mind as he carved away at the sphere to find the rose within. His body tensed with the effort, his stomach clenching. He could barely spare the mental effort to keep from squeezing the Lucidil too hard as he felt the liquid-like surface twitch beneath his fingertips.
A memory of Syla leapt into his mind’s eye. Her face, aged beyond her years by bitterness, radiated pure hatred, and a cacophony of insults issued from the void around her. Vis bit his lip, bristling with anger and resentment. He felt the Lucidil spasm in his hand and panicked, eyes shooting open. He fought to keep his focus, struggling to rein in his emotions, but it was too late. The Lucidil went still in his hands, a cold piece of metal. Vis bowed his head in shame, sweat dripping from his brow.
It felt like an eternity before Koyla finally cleared her throat to speak. “I’m sorry, Vis. I truly am.” With a small gesture of her hand, the Lucidil leapt from Vis’s grasp and into her palm.
Vis lifted his head, waiting for her to speak again. He was empty of words, frightened to speak and humiliate himself further. He should have practised more, been certain of his abilities before coming before Koyla. He could not tell if the Master’s slight frown was from pity or disappointment.
“Continue your training,” Koyla said, firmly. She hesitated a moment, then added, “I saw promise there, but you must keep a hold on your emotions. Anger is a useless feeling, which only works to your detriment. You know this.” She pinched the bottom of the Lucidil between thumb and forefinger, then lifted her hand upward to squeeze a stem through the space between, pushing the rest of the mass upwards until it unfurled into a silver imitation of the rose. “An interesting choice of shape, but not one I would recommend for a beginner.”
Vis looked at the silver rose, stunned. It was perfect, just as he’d envisioned it should be. How had she known? But of course, Koyla must have watched his every move, noticed every shift of his gaze, sensed every erratic emotion. To her, he must seem simple to understand, predictable.
Koyla twisted the silver rose between her fingers absentmindedly, then collapsed it back into a sphere. “I shouldn’t have allowed this—it is against tradition and protocol. You must return to Syla’s teaching and try to put aside your differences.” Her voice was strained, and Vis could sense that she hated saying this on a personal level. She was speaking as Chairwoman of the Rashani Council now, not herself.
“It’s impossible,” Vis said, hope slipping away. “I don’t think I’ll ever become a Rashani under her guidance.”
“There are other futures for you,” Koyla said. “Not all who carry the Blood of Rasha become Rashani.”
Vis met her eyes with a level gaze. “No. I will be a Rashani, or I will be nothing. If that means enduring Syla, I will try once more.” He had his doubts, but the alternatives Koyla had hinted at were unthinkable, as they must have been to others who had been forced to take them. Janitors and librarians, crippled Sisters who had once dreamed of their blood-given destiny, only to have their hopes dashed by circumstance. Vis would not have it; he wouldn’t give Syla and her ilk the satisfaction of seeing him sweeping the floors.
Koyla nodded, picking his feelings out of the air. “Were the other teachers willing, I would find you another class, one where you could train with other trainees. There are some in the Enclave who would train you, if it were not for the stigma that would come with it.”
Cowards, Vis thought. They were almost as bad as those who hated him. They might support his training in principle, but none of them had the courage to take up the task themselves, leaving him with Syla. It only stoked his anger further. He tried to wall his feelings off, but Koyla could probably see through such feeble mental defences. Hell, she could probably tell by the expression on his face.
Sensing their meeting was coming to a close, Vis made one last desperate grab. “You could teach me, Master.”
Koyla’s head seemed to hang heavily as she shook it. “Twelve years ago, I would have gladly done so. But with my seat on the Council and my duties in the Enclave, I have no time to take on a pupil. But I would if I could, Vis, whether you were a man or woman.”
It was hardly a helpful statement, but the earnestness Vis felt from Koyla touched him. He stood and bowed, nearly touching his forehead to the desk. “Thank you for your time, Master. I hope I might speak with you again sometime.”
“Keep practising,” Koyla said, firmly. “Come back to me when you are ready, and we will see what can be done. Unofficially, I’ll be happy to speak with you whenever I can.”
Vis left Koyla’s office with a storm brewing in his heart. Their meetings always gave him hope, pushing him to persevere through training. He never doubted he could be a Rashani when he spoke to Koyla. It was only afterwards, when he walked the pristine halls of the Enclave alone, that his confidence began to waver.
He hadn’t chosen the way he’d been born, both male and carrying the Blood of Rasha. If he’d been given the choice between the two, Vis would have taken the blood and all that came with it, to share in the honourable calling of a Rashani. They were the heroes of Utopia, the groundwork of its legends and culture, and the link that connected the neutral world with the rest of the cosmos. They ventured out to distant stars, taking on tasks worthy of their special abilities and warrior skills, improving the galaxy and bringing back grand tales of their adventures. More than anything, Vis wanted to go to faraway places, to make stories that even the most traditional Rashani would be proud of.
At the same time, he was also a man, though at eighteen years some still called him a boy, and he’d accepted that as a part of him as well. There was no fault in being a man on Utopia, but Rasha’s Blood only manifested in select women. There was no reason for this; it was simply a known fact, like the sun rising in the east, since the goddess had blessed their world. But then Vis had been born, and thrown that sure knowledge out the window, upsetting quite a few people. Other Rashani hated him for it, saw him as an abomination that should never have been brought into the world. Those like Syla spat on him, criticized his every action and treated him like dirt. In response Vis had built up a wall of spite to shield himself. He would be the first and only male Rashani, a son of Rasha, and if they didn’t like it, they could go fuck themselves.
A couple of girls near his age, dressed in their trainee tunics, rounded the corner. They spoke in hushed voices, but giggled loudly at some conspiratorial joke, their merriment broadcast for any Rashani to sense. Vis kept his head down, fixing his eyes on the smooth stone floor under his feet as he walked. It would be better if they didn’t notice him; he was exhausted with the sort of looks others gave him. But then the muffled talk drew near, and their spike of surprise told Vis he’d been spotted, and their chatter ceased immediately. He raised his head, met their wary expressions, and gave them a bitter smile before passing them by. Foolish girls; they would make for mediocre Rashani if even he could upset them.
He had nowhere to be, as he’d picked a rest day to visit Koyla; Syla would have given him an extra earful for missing one of their sessions. If there was one thing he could say in his teacher’s favour, it was that she was always present and punctual when it came time for lessons. She probably enjoyed it; instead of doing actual work, she spent her days abusing him. Never for an instant did Vis entertain the notion that Syla meant to help him; he knew her too well.
He made his way outside, stepping onto one of the Enclave’s many balconies and taking in a breath of sweet air as he leaned against the railing. The city of Iden, capital of Utopia, spread out before him, surrounding the small Rashani territory. The ivory spires of parliament sprang up only a few blocks away, built within walking distance as a sign of respect—or possibly dependency—towards the Rashani. Similar pure white structures squatted in the shadow of the two great symbols of Utopian society like prostrating angels. The city had been built large, stretching out to meet the green mountains on the horizon. Thick vegetation clung to the walls of many places, draping over roofs in heavy sheaves. On some days, this view took his breath away. Today was not one of those days, and a bitter fog clouded his vision.
His parents might be out there, somewhere. It was a thought he sometimes entertained, and it always came at the strangest times. His father was a complete mystery, and all Vis knew of his mother was that she was a Rashani, as he’d been born and raised in the Enclave; while the Blood of Rasha could manifest in any Utopian woman, it was often carried through genetics. Everything else was a secret to him. Rashani were no strangers to marriage or starting families on Utopia, but they were sworn to their duty above all else, which could take them from their homes at the discretion of the Council. But casual relations were common as well, and it was not unusual for a Rashani to return home from a years-long mission with a child, a remnant of a passing passion. Vis’s father was probably some long-forgotten citizen of the Kinship who didn’t even know he had a son.
Rashani took their mother’s name as a title, such as Koyla, Daughter of Chel, or Syla, Daughter of Allai. He was Vis Unclaimed, raised by reluctant custodians and left to guess at his parentage. Perhaps his mother had been sent out on another mission and been killed, or maybe she was in the Enclave right now, too ashamed at having birthed an abomination to make herself known. Most Rashani didn’t have any idea, as if he’d materialized in the nursery one day, and those he suspected might know were silent on the matter.
He had formed theories, of course, sifting through possible candidates. Koyla had always treated him with respect and kindness, but it was mere wishful thinking to consider her. She was just being what a master Rashani should be, and such fair characteristics had earned her a seat on the Council as Chairwoman, no less. Vis liked her, and very much wanted her to be his mother, but it was improbable.
He had another theory, one he kept close to his heart. There was one other Rashani he had known for but a fleeting moment who felt like a likely candidate. She was dead now, though, and all but the most damning records of her life had been destroyed, making it hard to find any proof of a connection. Merely thinking such thoughts might be considered heresy. Then again, some might say Vis’ very existence was a heresy. He pushed the thought away, knowing it could only lead to trouble.
“Vis!” A familiar voice and equally familiar presence grabbed his attention, and he turned at the soft patter of feet behind him.
Nue stepped out onto the balcony, hands clasped behind her back. Although they were but a few months apart in age, Nue stood a head shorter than Vis, and in many ways still looked a young girl. Her dark brown hair was cut in a bob that framed her round face. Her eyes were a distracting green, her nose small and unassuming, and her mouth seemed to naturally curve in a smile. Her blue tunic hung almost comically off her small frame, a look that would shame a trained Rashani, but looked perfectly natural on her.
Vis smiled; a genuine, happy smile. “Hi, Nue. How are things?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you!” Nue exclaimed. “What did Master Koyla say?” Vis’ earlier hopes were mirrored in her face, and it tore at his heart that they had to be crushed again.
He simply shook his head. What was the point of words? In response, Nue’s face collapsed into a deep frown, as if she herself had been refused. Vis could sense her gentle sympathy, which did something to salve the wound to his pride.
“Nothing?” she asked.
“Not nothing,” Vis answered. “She let me use her Lucidil, to prove myself.” He heard Nue’s breath catch in her throat, sensed her anticipation as he carried on. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep my emotions under control.”
“Oh, Vis, I’m sorry,” Nue said, face downcast.
“Not your fault,” Vis replied, trying to keep the misery out of his voice and his thoughts. “I just have to keep trying and not let Syla get to me.”
“You’ll get there one day. I’m sure of it,” Nue insisted, quietly.
Gratitude sparked within Vis. “Thank you—that means a lot coming from you. Then again, you used to think I could fly when we were younger.”
“You mean you can’t?” Nue gasped in mock astonishment. “You mean all those times I tried pushing you off this balcony were actually dangerous?”
They shared a laugh, and Vis was more than happy to turn his thinking to lighter subjects. “How’s your day been so far?” He recalled that Nue had had lessons earlier that afternoon.
Nue suddenly averted her eyes, her feet fidgeting. “Oh, it went all right. It’s not really worth talking about, not right now. Do you want to go for a walk around the gardens?”
Vis observed Nue with suspicion. Rashani could not sense lies in one another as they could in regular people, but Nue had always been a terrible liar despite that, and Vis did not need the Blood of Rasha to see right through her evasions. What could she be hiding from him? He noted that her hands were still clutched behind her back.
“What have you got there?” He stepped closer, craning his neck to see over her shoulder.
Nue’s eyes went wide, and she took a step back. “Nothing—just stretching my arms.”
“Come on, Nue,” Vis said, only half-amused. “We may be adults now, but I’m not above tickling the answers out of you.”
Nue looked utterly mortified. “You wouldn’t.”
Vis lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers in Nue’s face, grinning broadly. “The inside of your elbows are your weakest points, if I remember.”
“All right, I’ll talk!” Nue said, lowering her gaze and then her voice. “Just promise not to get angry, please?”
What was there to get angry about? “I promise.”
Nue steeled herself, then extended her hand. The silver sphere sat perfectly balanced in her palm, rippling in rhythm to her breathing. Vis felt his chest tighten; trainees were not allowed to carry a Lucidil freely. That was a right that only came with becoming an apprentice.
He swallowed. “Show me, please.” His throat felt dry; it was hard to speak.
The corner of Nue’s mouth pulled back in concentration, and the Lucidil reformed into a four-sided pyramid in her hand. She gave Vis an apologetic look, and just as quickly the Lucidil returned to its former shape.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked.
“I have no right to be.” He was though, just a little. How had she succeeded where he had failed? He’d always thought the two of them would become Rashani together, but Syla had stunted his learning and now Nue was leaving him behind. But that was not Nue’s fault, he reminded himself.
“I’m angry with myself,” he said, touching Nue’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you. Congratulations. You’ll make an excellent Rashani.”
“You will too,” Nue insisted.
Vis smiled, but his heart was already withering. “What’s next?”
“I must be apprenticed to a proper Rashani, a Sikkat, who will educate me further and test my abilities,” Nue explained. “That will take some time to arrange, I think, but I might not be here in a few weeks.”
An icy chill ran down Vis’s spine. In all his dreaming, he had never considered that their duties would separate them. He would be alone and friendless then, with only Syla for company. It was a vile thought.
“Vis?” Nue leaned forward to peer into his face. “Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m fine,” Vis said automatically, well aware Nue could sense how he really felt if she wished. “I’ll miss you.”
Nue returned to her usual smiling demeanour, tucking the Lucidil beneath her robes. “I’ll be back—I promise. Whether you become a Rashani or not, I will always be your friend. Not even my duty will change that.”
Vis nodded. “Thank you, again. I think I’d like that walk now. You’ve got to tell me everything, down to the tiniest detail.”
They left the balcony, chatting away about Nue’s most important lesson. Vis listened to what she said, as any friend should, but he was haunted by questions of his own future. Could he really earn his own Lucidil? And if he couldn’t, could he bear to live with the humiliation? He wasn’t sure on either count.