Except for the finger length of height Basma has on Giza, the sisters are identical, with rounded faces and tiny underbites that become more pronounced when they hold back tears.
Tinley grumbles from across the arena, the tail end of her long silver braid singed. Indah, acting Aquifier instructor, soaked her down with water from the practice barrels. Neither woman needed much persuasion to stay in Vanhi and train our bhuta children, though right about now Tinley must be rethinking her decision. Indah and Pons, her partner, are content raising their baby girl here, and Tinley will seize any excuse not to go home to her parents and four younger sisters in Paljor. Though I have tried to figure out why, she has not provided any hints to her self-banishment.
Across the arena, Tinley returns to instructing the five Galer trainees, teaching them how to manipulate the sky and wind to their advantage. The archery target Basma missed remains untouched and will remain so for now.
“Practice looking for your inner star,” I tell my students. “Don’t open your eyes until you find the brightest one.”
While the girls look inward for the manifestation of the fire powers, I stride to Tinley’s section. Her apprentices push a massive granite block across the arena with their winds.
“I smell like charred yak meat,” she grumbles.
“More like roasted lamb,” Indah says.
Her five Aquifiers rest in the shade for a break. High above us, the benches that encircle the roofless amphitheater are empty. Even higher, on the rafters, the gongs glint in the late-morning sunshine and the Tarachandian red-and-black pennants lie slack without a breeze. We divided the oval arena into four equal parts. The bhuta children ages five to sixteen train in their respective sector.
A little over a moon ago, Brac petitioned Prince Ashwin on behalf of our bhuta youth. Accidents with their powers were occurring all over the empire. The half-god children with elemental abilities passed down through their parents’ bloodlines no longer lived in fear of execution but had no masters to train them. After one mishap led to a six-year-old Aquifier drowning in her village bathhouse, Brac gathered the bhuta children, mostly orphans, and converted the arena into a training ground. Princess Gemi, a Trembler, has agreed to instruct our four Tremblers once she arrives. In the meantime, Indah oversees them.
The Aquifier lifts her wavy hair and fans the back of her neck. She has slimmed down since birthing her baby, while her proportions have fluctuated. What stayed of her pregnancy weight redistributed to her curves.
“I thought winters in the desert were cooler,” she says. Perspiration shimmers across her golden-brown skin.
“This is cooler,” I reply. I watch my apprentices search inside themselves for their soul-fire. Neither seems able to find it.
“Are you going to leave them like that all day?” Indah asks.
“I would,” replies Tinley. She twirls a gust at a Galer boy who quit pushing the granite block. He scrambles to rejoin the others. Their massive rock reaches the arena wall, and she yells, “Next time finish faster!”
The children slump against the ground, panting.
“You should reward their progress,” Indah says.
Tinley examines her talonlike nails. “Compliments breed laziness. They must always be on guard.”
“Always be ready” is our training motto. My teaching style is less aggressive than Tinley’s. Brac taught me about my Burner abilities, and I had formal weapons training at the Sisterhood temple—all wards do. Jaya put in the longest hours with me. She was firm yet heartening during our sparring sessions.
I return to my students.