In the servants’ quarters, below the Bamboo Training, School Sirrin, and her daughters Jayme and Faya had the run of the place. No self respecting cadet would come down here, let alone Master Quo.
They had fashioned sleeping areas, a study room and a long chapel from barrels and crates. In that dusty basement they had created a sacred space. Somewhere they could practice the forbidden arts – dance, prayer and fighting of the ancient style.
Jayme and Faya were young women. Old enough to remember when the past ways were respected, but too young to remember a time before the civil wars. A time when their ways had been supreme.
Sirrin had taught them what she could. They worked by day but the nights were their own, the school all but empty but for Master Quo and the four senior cadets. This gave the women a chance, in their own space, to practice, to perfect and to pray to their God.
Sirrin was in the chapel, gliding in fluid, soundless circles. She flowed from one end of the room to the other, over and over, silent, relaxed. Sometimes she moved with eyes closed. Sometimes she would watch the rough, clay ceiling as she flowed beneath it; admiring the warmth of the stone, the texture of the surface.
Neither dance, nor fighting style, this was a delight in moving through the world unseen. Leaving no mark upon its surface as she passed through; terrifyingly swift whilst hardly seeming to move at all.
For years she had done this almost every day, social collapse permitting. When she caught feelings of pride in her abilities she scolded herself – she was nothing. The world was an illusion. What was there to be proud of? Dust, that through an accident of God had gained the power of thought for a few decades, before reverting to nothing.
Jayme called out in complaint from the other room. This was the fifth time. It had not broken Sirrin’s concentration but she did not want to neglect her daughters’ training by allowing them to spend time on petty bickering. She glided to a halt and took a calming breath. Only then did she walk to the study area, in truth a small room of boxes and barrels, with a table placed in its centre.
Jayme was seated, book in one hand and an arrow in the other. Her plain black and white servant’s smock giving her a shadowy appearance in the dim light, “Mom! She keeps firing arrows at me! I’m trying to study the thirty seven tenets of being and unbeing.”
Sirrin looked to Faya, seated in the corner. Similarly dressed she perched on a barrel, feet up, holding a bow with a quiver of arrows by her side. Faya grinned and shrugged, knocking another arrow to the string.
“Enough children’s tricks – you two have too much energy and need to burn some of it off!” Sirrin scolded, “Both of you, into the chapel, now. Time to spar.”
Jayme threw her book down in disgust, “I’m reading! Just because Faya has the attention span of a…” she searched for something with a short attention span, “sparrow, then I’m not allowed to learn? How is this fair?”
Faya looked quite happy. Springing to her feet she skipped backwards to the chapel, still holding her bow and quiver.
“It’s as fair or unfair as everything else in this world.” Shirrin said, “you’d know that if your sister had let you finish the tenets.”
Jayme looked exasperated, but followed into the chapel, book forgotten on the table.
Shirrin gestured to her daughters to stand at either end of the chapel, perhaps thirty feet apart. Looking at Faya she said, “what’s the point of the bow? You’ll not succeed in hitting your sister. It is a poor choice of weapon. We practice a way where there should be no wasted movement. Simple efficiency in all things. A fight begins thirty years before the first punch is thrown. You have come ill-prepared and, so, are at a disadvantage.”
Faya grinned. “It annoys her. That’s enough.”
Jayme was warming up, push ups, squats, sprinting on the spot. Shirrin shook her head, “It’s exhausting watching the both of you. You wear who you are for all to see. A cautious opponent will know you before ever entering combat. So they will win. Be seen less, and be more.”
“Ready?” Faya said, raising her bow and firing an arrow. Jayme half-stepped to the side. The arrow clonked into the wall behind her, knocking clay dust into the air.
“A warrior understands that they are never ready. We are flawed. Anyone can be beaten. We all make errors.” Shirrin recited, “know you are imperfect. Account for it. Strive to shore up weaknesses or turn them to your advantage. Persevere over those who believe they have already earned victory.”
Jayme studied her sister, making no move to close the gap between them. Hands loose by her sides. Faya stuck out her tongue.
Shirrin admired Faya’s ease. How effortlessly she goaded an opponent, tempting them to make mistakes. But if she inhabited that character too rigidly she’d be as predictable as anyone she hoped to defeat. It was a mask that could end up wearing her.
Faya knocked another arrow to her bow. She made a great display of aiming it, tongue poking out one side of her mouth in mock concentration. She loosed it, then another, then a third, leaving one in her quiver. Jayme snatched each arrow from the air. When she had collected all three she placed them on the ground beside her, giving a little nod of the head.
“One arrow left and then we can finally begin.” Shirrin sighed, suppressing her annoyance.
“Yes. Let’s begin.” Faya said and with that launched her last remaining arrow at her mother. Both daughters hurled themselves forwards, converging on Shirrin. Their mother had anticipated the arrow but not how angry it would make her.
The young women were a flurry of kicks and punches, Shirrin was like fog, never where they thought she would be. Without conceding an inch she swayed, danced and flowed. Untouchable. Here and there she would give a push, a trip or a feint, ensuring neither woman got comfortable in their attacks.
“It makes me sad Faya.” Shirrin said, keeping the exertion from her tone, “that it will be said that you always missed your mother.” With that she spun her daughters into each other with a quick wrist lock and throw.
Shirrin stepped back. Jayme lunged forward into the space where she’d expected her mother to be, leaving her off balance. Faya was lashing out with a wild kick, realised too late to change course, and struck Jayme hard in the head. Faya darted around trying to press Shirrin further. With two swift movements Shirrin had Faya face down on the ground, one foot on the back of Faya’s neck.
“Enough.”
Faya looked at her sister who lay unconscious, crumpled in her servant’s clothes. Faya made to get up but Shirrin pressed her foot down, pinning Faya’s head in place against the dirt.
“Look at her. This is what we are. Flesh, bone, spit and blood. Nothing but wet dust. Fragile and temporary. Blown away with the slightest breeze. Never believe that our training changes this basic fact. Everyone is mortal. This is the strength of our order. We understand that everything that stands before us must fall.” She paused, “And that our own fall is inevitable.”
Jayme groaned and put her hand to her head. Shirrin released Faya, who shot to Jayme’s side.
“Uh,” Jayme moaned, “How long was I out?” rubbing her face and blinking.
Faya creased her face in concern and love. “You’ve been out for two months. Much has changed.”
“What?” Jayme said, confused and concussed.
“Two minutes,” her mother corrected. “Now Faya, let your sister study in peace.”