Smoke and Shadow: The Fireweaver, Book 1

Chapter 16. INTRODUCTIONS

CHAPTER 16. INTRODUCTIONS

"Must be the excitement of the games." Dimarrah walked with Rhoke toward the school grounds, toward hoots and shouts, and a steady thrum of chants. "The Trials were today. Might take us a while to find her." The sounds of shouting only grew louder.

Almost to the schoolyard, they could see its glass domes rising above the hedge walls, glinting in the sun.

Dimarrah was filling him in about Mehlie as much as she could.

"The girl definitely has a stubborn streak, but she can be really sweet—" Dimarrah stopped as they rounded the corner. There, near the west entry gate, in a huddle of kids with fists flying, whooping and hollering, was... Mehlie. With a boy nearly twice her size, whom she had pinned to the ground in an impressive headlock. The boy under her arm was red with fury, cheeks puffed out.

"Schezu," Dimarrah breathed, too stunned at first to even move. The girl swung a reflexive right hook that even a seasoned boxer would be proud of, and would have caught the boy squarely on the chin had it not been for his own quick reflexes to block it. Another boy jumped into the fray, trying to pull off the other.

Rhoke stood next to her, the corner of his mouth twitching to a grin. "You were saying the girl is...sweet?"

Dimarrah snapped out of it and went straight for the clump of arms and hair flying, nearly catching an elbow in the face. The red-faced boy backed up, wiping his mouth, leaving behind a streak of dirt. His copper-haired friend tried to tug him away, but he shook him off, the fury gleaming in his slitted eyes.

"My father could have you kicked out for this." He was livid, with all the righteous indignation that could only come from a Noble's progeny. "You guerrins don't belong in our cities."

Guerrin. The derogatory name for outerland refugees who came to live in the cities. It was jarring to hear, having been on the outside so long. The hatred still ran deep amongst the most devout of the Rejkav families, and especially among elites and nobility. The old ones who still believed that outerland people posed a threat to the city center's pure blood lines, to its safety.

When Dimarrah spoke, her words cut like a dagger's edge. "The cities wouldn't be here without outerland people." Without their numbers, without their knowledge, in the grappling beginnings of the rebuild, the cities would never have flourished. 

It wasn't until later that the grand inner walls were built with gates and locks and checkpoints. Fine enough to open the outer ring areas to influx, where the markets would thrive and diversity could flourish. The city center dwellers certainly made profits off the backs of those workers, artisans and markets, but all from a lofty, sanitized view.

The boy spat on the ground toward them. Dimarrah sensed Mehlie stiffen, like a panther ready to pounce again.

"Raschafe sharaya eyon reimiada." Rhoke's voice leveled over them all, in a tone meant to silence. "Shall I tell your father how a girl half your size got the better of you?" The boy's face drained a little as he noticed, too late, how Rhoke was dressed. A Noble. He bowed, remembering social graces. "No, my Lord," he muttered, and stalked off.

"Get out of here, all of you," Dimarrah shouted, and the kids dispersed, a couple kids even groaning a bit as they left, for there is nothing better than an impromptu schoolyard brawl. The copper-haired boy stayed back.

"You won, fair and square," he said. "See you around?" And as he turned to leave, he gave Mehlie a slow grin, which Dimarrah saw Mehlie return, with a sudden, uncharacteristic shyness.