Prama had come to expect that, with every visit from Ren, Viji would leave the Maninder open after regular closing time. If it wasn’t to share drinks with her late into the night, it was to ease his nerves from watching her leave for another mission. Prama didn’t exactly object, as she enjoyed making money as much as the next person, and it wasn’t as if their home wasn’t a mere staircase away. If she had gotten tired, she could always just climb the stairs and into bed. This shop had been a mainstay in her life she she was a child, as had Viji, who at their first meeting solder her a very fine talisman that she still wore around her neck. She had only been six or seven, and he was ten years older than she, but the two struck a friendship on that day, one that kept well into her late forties when they finally decided to marry. Their union was not a surprise to anyone, least of all themselves, although there was frequent discussion as to who would continue running the Maninder after their passing. Viji often deflected the question, as he was wont to do, and Prama told them it was none of their damned business.
The Maninder had been in Viji’s family for as long as Torch had existed, well before it established itself as a city-state worthy enough to be recognized as such by more influential powers. His ancestors manned a small trading cart, offering exotic imports from the far reaches of the continent, and sojourned into territories that were most uninviting to the bravest of souls. Prama remembered Viji telling her stories about his many great-grandmother’s discovery of the Amir’chavi tribes as she was navigating what she thought was a shortcut to the Dremmin Mountains in the north. Even then, the Amir’chavi were difficult, as their religion forbade them any possessions that could not be burned back into the earth during their annual Festival of Amir, a tenet to which they held all possible traders, but she was able to barter for food and wine, sine both would most definitely be returned, in full, to the ground from whence it came. Even as relations with the Amir’chavi were now tenuous, at best, Viji still maintained a decent relationship with certain individuals, although not to the degree that his progenitors did. Prama blamed this on her own attempt at interacting with the Amir’chavi named Beito; she was never very good with finesse, and Viji had spent nearly an entire two-month period trying to undo what her curtness had done. In the end, the Maninder was still the only shop in the south that carried Amir’chavi wine in its regular inventory.
As Viji walked the last customer out of the star, Prama began counting the day’s earnings. She nodded in satisfaction, even though she’d fretted nearly the entire day as the baby Scholar fumbled about. His knowledge of Torchin was abysmal and he’d almost chased away a handful of customers. One young woman was looking to buy some Amir’chavi wine for a chance to impress her new in-laws, since it was often said that it was more potent than most alcohol and somewhat hallucinogenic, and Mason attempted to tell her that she should wait to speak with the owner. Instead, he said that the owner would orate while drunk, and it was only due to Viji’s proximity that the sale was saved.
“I think that boy lost us about ten customers today,” Prama complained as Viji locked the front door. “We should have made him wear a sign that said, ‘Ask me no questions, for I know no answers.’”
Viji chuckled. “We are not in this for the money, my dear Prama.”
“Well, maybe you aren’t, husband,” she retorted, “but I don’t wake up at daybreak for my health.”
He rubbed her shoulder and kissed her lightly on her cheek. “You do that for love, yes?”
She playfully shoved him away and went to check on the perfume oils, of which she was especially protective. She made most of them herself, using techniques she’d learned from her mother, Rashana, who was a local legend. Some said that her oils had magickal powers and that Rashana herself was proof enough of the Torchi ancestral connection to the exiled Fortulans, a claim that most Torchi would prefer to be completely denied. To be affiliated with the people that caused the breaking of the world was no something to announce to anyone, and it was an unspoken rule that such conversations were to be brought to an abrupt end, no matter the setting.
Prama growled as she found that the level of manuka oil had been greatly diminished, recalling a customer who was being a little too liberal with the test application of the rare Kuwahine oil. Her supplier, a polite if not detached gentleman named Gohon, had given her a wonderful deal on his stock, but even that generous discount set her back significantly. If she hadn’t been distracted by the Scholar’s lack of business sense, she might have prevented this.
“We need to hire someone for the oils,” said Prama, drawing the curtain around the oil kiosk. “Preferably before Gohon comes again. That way, she’ll be trained well.”
The Kuwahine rarely left their island, if ever, and Gohon kept his trips spread out, usually twice a year. She expected him in about eight months — plenty of time to find someone skilled … or at least trainable.
“That’s a fine idea,” Viji agreed, dusting the incense shelves.
Prama abruptly stopped pulling the curtain and turned to face her husband. He was never that easily convinced; it took her nearly five years to persuade him to allow his own great-nephew to run the stockroom and an even longer time to hire the weekend cashier that was so little used that Prama had a hard time remembering her name. His reluctance had nothing to do with greed or distrust, but with passion for the Maninder. He wanted his hands in every aspect of it, even to his own detriment.
“What’s that?” she asked.
As if pulled from a dream, Viji shook his head. “I said, it’s a fine idea. The hiring of help, I mean.”
She narrowed her ees as she watched him go back to dusting. When he reached the shelf that had Ren’s miniature sculptures, his attention immediately became much more focused. He picked up the figurine that she’d done as a caricature of him, with his large smile and wrinkles, and grinned.
“I don’t know why you do this,” Prama sighed. “Ren is going to be fine. You said so yourself not two hours ago.”
Although they never told anyone, the main reason Viji and Prama had waited to get married for so long was because of what he considered to be his real job: a Vision. True, it was not a paid position, although Prama often asserted that it should, as he could be woken at any hour to perform any duties required of him. Most of those included simple tasks, like telepathically summoning Legions or scrying to locate demons, but he was occasionally called upon for his skills in the magicks. And this is what had frightened her.
When they began their courtship nearly two decades after their initial meeting, he had taken her aside and told her of his abilities with a voice so hushed that she remembered having to get so close to his face and had to fight from kissing him. She probably should have felt somewhat slighted, as they had been friends for so long, but Prama had only stared at him.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean I am a direct descendent of the Fortulans,” he’d assured her, knowing exactly where her mind was going. “There are many people who possess those talents.”
“Those are not talents,” she had said. “They are a curse. You will be hated, chased out of Torch!”
She didn’t tell anyone what he’d told her. To even hint at such a thing could have been disastrous, and she quit her job at the Maninder and refused to even go within a few streets of it for nearly a year. Most assumed that he’d refused to propose to her, as he was known for being odd, and she was happy to let them think it. The truth was that much worse. She would occasionally see Viji about town, meeting with vendors, eating with friends, and it pained her to know that the man she loved could be ruined for just being who he was. She also felt cowardly and selfish but pushed those thoughts away, preferring the security of leading a proper Torchi life over fear.
“Of course, she will be fine,” said Viji, shrugging. “This is a simple mission. She’ll return.”
Prama raised her eyebrows. “My dear, it’s been a long day. You must go to bed. I will wait for her.”
Her husband smiled at her, and she knew that meant he was respectfully declining her offer. She exhaled loudly and scuttled over to the light switch next to the front door to turn off the exterior sign.
“Well, at least come upstairs for something to eat. The store’s ready for tomorrow.”
She knew that he only reluctantly followed her upstairs, but she was grateful that he did, like she had been grateful when he came to her house after a year of her avoiding him to request that she come back to work. He didn’t plead, didn’t get on his knees, only told her that he understood her fears and that she wouldn’t ahve to worry about them. He would be a known Vision to her and to the Guardians only; to everyone else, he would be a simple shopkeeper who kept strange hours.
“I will keep it to myself, Prama,” he had said. “And of course, if anyone asks, we will just tell them that my late-night visitors are our suppliers.”
She returned to work, and twenty some-odd years later, the two were married, a simple ceremony overseen by a local shaman, covered in traditional Torchi tattoos. Though Prama initially objected, Viji invited another Vision from Sarkor, Fethaan, and a Sain Barthonite Scholar, Harolan, who requested that he bring his young apprentice, a neophyte Phelan Dormani. At that point, the rest of Torch assumed Viji was a Scholar, since his intellect and business connections would allow for such a title, and it was only when Prama heard this from other townspeople that she acquiesced. She had made it known, however, that she did not like Dormani, who spent most of his time disdainfully observing the quaint gathering, to which Viji had laughed and secretly agreed with her.
Dinner was nothing fancy, only a bunch of leftovers from the previous night, but Prama insisted that they ate at the table, as they had every night since their wedding. She was proud of the linens she’d been able to purchase from the East, and, even if they were the only ones that saw them, they were not going to be stored for only special occasions. They didn’t often have dignitaries or Grand Scholars visiting any longer, which was perfectly fine with Prama, but she hated the notion of wasting anything.
Viji nodded, thanking Prama as she placed a plate in front of him, and nearly dove into the two-day-old casserole. This was also a normal behavior for when Ren was in town on a mission. He’d get himself so absorbed in his responsibilities that he’d forget to eat and then seemed surprised at his own appetite. Prama was glad she’d made as much food as she had the night before, since she was also a little on the hungry side after running the Maninder for several additional hours, not to mention waking a few hours earlier than usual.
“I must go downstairs, Prama,” Viji said softly after he took his last bite and placed his napkin on the table. “What if I cannot hear Ren knocking?”
Prama angrily dropped her fork and glared at him. “She bangs on the door so loudly that I’m surprised we haven’t received any complaints!”
This was not the first time she’d brought this to his attention, but Viji seemed to want to dismiss Ren’s occasional disruptive behavior, even when she accidentally destroyed their property. He would scold her at times, but the Legion would shoot him a look and they’d begin daily laughing at his attempt. Prama did not dislike Ren and considered her an extension of their family, but the girl was also a threat, but not because her presence could connect Viji to magicks. She had long forgotten what it meant to fear for their lives if people discovered what her husband was, what all Torchi might be. During their married life, Prama had found that she also had latent abilities, although she did not intend to embrace them and only used them to infuse her oils as her mother had done. But Ren could easily wound him in a way that not even Prama could. A few years prior, Viji had spent an entire month away from town at a hospital in the East after Ren had sustained severe injuries when fighting a gra demon. She had never seen him that worried, not even when she’d been bedridden for two weeks and nearly died from fever, and in the few holocomm conversations they’d shade, she witnessed her husband’s mental deterioration. He’d even wept, a sight she’d only witnessed a handful of times in their life together.
“Prama,” he reached out to touch her but she stood from her seat.
“Viji, you cannot do this forever,” she said loudly. “What if one day she does not come back? What then?”
They rarely fought, if ever. Friends had told Prama that this was an indication of a poorly communicated marriage, but Prama insisted that it was the opposite. She never once had to worry what her husband was thinking, and even without his mind-reading, Viji could say the same of her. If they disagreed, it was settled over a bottle of wine; if one felt slighted, they discussed it while taking a walk down to the Pasquo River. Raised voices were sometimes employed, and that was usually from Prama’s end.
“She will come back.” He did not meet her eyes, only sat in his chair with his hands folded neatly in his lap.
“Maybe tonight, yes.” She sat back down and placed her hand on his knee. “But one day? She will die, Viji. If not by a demon’s hand, but mortality itself. You know this.”
“As will we,” he said.
Viji rose from his chair and picked up their plates, taking both back into the kitchen for washing.
“She is not our daughter,” Prama said firmly. “She will not be the one to take over the Maninder. She will not carry our names with her if we pass into the next life before she does. She would not give you grandchildren, even if she could.”
Viji immediately stopped and turned around. Prama expected a rebuke; she knew she had crossed a line. She worried for Ren, as well, but she could not watch him collapse into a fugue state and slowly fade away. She’d seen her mother do the same when her father died nearly fifty years ago. No amount of pleading could rouse Rashana from her trance, and Prama had to watch her mother, who was only a few years over 100, pass into the realm of the spirits without a fight. She would not experience that again.
“I know,” replied Viji with his trademark calm. “But she has no one else, Prama.”
She recalled the evening Viji had returned from Bekame. He’d woken in a cold sweat five days prior and had abruptly left without saying more than, “I will return. I am needed.” The next day, he still hadn’t come home, but she’d barely had time to notice, since all Torchi media outlets had flooded the city-state with news from further east, where the Lillimayan armies had begun a campaign to reunite their centuries-dead empire. At least four city-state laid in ruins, thousands dead, and both Sarkor and Tarkor — the Twin Cities — had started their own offensive to stop the Lillimayans from extending further. When Viji walked through their front door, Prama had nearly toppled him over, knowing that he’d been in harm’s way. She forgot the curses she wanted to scream at him and instead burst into tears. Once she’d settled a bit, he had told her of a new Legion.
“She’s going to be good, I think,” he had said. “She is strong. Has something to fight for.”
“Which is?”
“Those she could not save.”
His face was solemn. What he must have seen at the desolate Bekame. From video reports, the destruction was complete; even the rubble was in flames, and bodies had been thrown into deep trenches serving as mass graves. Prama had been unable to watch much of the coverage without worrying that her husband was one of them.
The resurrection of a Legion was something Prama knew little about and cared even less to learn. It was enough to hear stories from her husband; she didn’t know if she could have stood to watch a helpless person scramble in confusion when their last memory was of death. All she needed to know what that Viji sensed when one was brought back and that he fell sick every time.
A few weeks later, a knock sounded at their door right after the lunch rush. Both Viji and Prama had looked at each other, perplexed since the store was open. Prama shrugged and went to open it, revealing an expectant young Southeastern woman. Her eyes wide, she bowed a little and tucked her dark hair behind her ear. She obviously hadn’t had a chance to redye it: her black roots went nearly four or five inches before turning into a lovely teal color.
“My name is Ren. I’m here to see Viji,” she said uncertainly in heavily accented Trade, something that would diminish over the following years.
Prama felt ashamed, although she knew that Viji’s fatherly love for Ren might be his downfall. She did fight alone, and most days, she seemed ontent for it to remain that way. As a Shadow, most of her assignments were performed solo, occasionally teaming up with one or two other Shadows, although that hadn’t happened in a few years, but she had successfully completed every charge given to her, sometimes walking away with little more than flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. Prama wondered if the outcome would be the same tonight.
“Well, that’s not completely true,” said Viji with a bit of amusement in his voice. “She has Master Alderic now.”
Both broke into laughter, and Prama’s tension dissipated. They had each voiced their opinion on the matter, and now it was done. Ren would continue to come to Torch, for work or pleasure; Viji would fret; and Prama would worry for all of them, as she had done for years.
Prama and Viji washed the dishes together and joked about Mason’s various mishaps throughout the day, although Prama was still quite annoyed about his shoddy efforts of speaking to people in Torchin.
“Why couldn’t he have just stuck with Trade?” she complained.
The dishes clean, they headed toward their bedroom and changed into their bedclothes, when they both heard the knock at the door downstairs. Prama smiled, and hand in hand, they went back down to the Maninder. The light from the street lamp was enough to illuminate the path to the door, which gladdened Prama since she didn’t really want to fumble for the light switch on the wall. She really should have known its exact location by now.
Viji turned the knob and pulled the door open, where Ren stood on the low stoop with a sad smile. Prama could see Mason’s hair behind her, so she was quite certain the stupid boy hadn’t been killed as she thought he might have been. The woman before them had much more confidence than the girl Prama remembered from over eight years ago, even if she also carried a great deal more sorrow.
But, like Viji had predicted, she was strong.
“I’m back,” said Ren with a sad smirk. “And I’m a little hungry.”
a little more juju 