Chapter One Kdara, 1316

In two hours, thirty – no, twenty-nine – minutes, seven acts, and eight costume changes, we would find out if we’d wasted the last seven years of our lives. In two hours and nine minutes, we’d know if we would be hailed as geniuses or be condemned to walk the line of dual exile, unwelcome by Mruians and Outworlders alike. It was a dangerous path we’d chosen, to make deified legends into mortals and turn three hundred years of research on its head.

As I glanced at the clock, I realized I still hadn’t taken off my watch. My fingers shook with a mixture of nerves and thrill as I deposited it with the rest of my gear in the dressing room below the stage where our fates would be decided. In just over two hours, we would either be given slips asking us to leave Kdari University or letters announcing the fulfillment of our shared dream – ascension to the mystical ranks of Kdari Scholars and the proverbial key to Kdara.

With a glance at my friends and fellow actors and actresses, I saw I was not the only one as pale as new-fallen snow beneath the caked layers of stage make-up. Mareku Okiran, who was dressed to play the rather large role of Lord Marshal Kayiko Jireshan – my character’s famously steady and reserved lover – looked anything but self-confident. My hand twitched at my side, longing to slap him straight.

Beside me, my four friends were dressed to perfection in the authentic, incredibly feminine gowns Kaita had so painstakingly created. If the play itself received boos instead of applause, even the most cynical member of the audience would be astounded at the work we’d put forth to bring the three-hundred-year-old story to life. It wasn’t just the costumes, which were all made from materials and colors that had been used back then, but the music Tsuki had written to accompany the play, the incredible feast Hiara had assembled for the audience and the choreography of the battle scenes that I had so carefully researched and taught. People would see a dance of swords like none beheld since the Gate of Kdara had been locked. From time to time, I had thought it would be the death of me trying to get some of the actors we’d chosen – I glanced to where another of the male leads, Tomisu, was fidgeting with his tunic – how to properly accomplish some of the intricate moves.

We were a shoe-in to become Kdari Scholars, I told myself as I took a deep, steadying breath. If, of course, the judging professors weren’t so deeply offended that they missed the point we were trying to make and threw us out on our asses. Either way, win or lose, here we were, at the deciding moment of our careers and lives.

“Normally, I would introduce the five young women responsible for the theatrical treat you are about to witness,” said Professor Diamonte up on the stage. “However, they have asked me to let their play speak for itself, without any introduction on their part. The writers – nay, I speak wrongly – the creators of this play, entitled simply, ‘Kdara’s Gate’, will appear before you in a few short minutes. They are Kaita Dashinya, Surya Kanjiru, Tsuki Moramuto, Hiara Mreku and Taryn Aduri. We ask that you refrain from applauding until the end of the production. Also, be courteous and please turn off any and all communication devices. For those wishing to relive the performance, we are recording the show and you will be able to pre-order a copy after curtainfall. The show will begin in eight minutes. Until then, sit back, relax and enjoy the food.”

There was a smattering of applause. Professor Diamonte stepped into the dressing room moments later, stern-faced as always. He was said to be the hardest professor at Kdari University and nearly impossible to impress – as my friends and I knew well – and it was he who, as our advisor, had handed our Secondary Degree project over to the Board of New Scholars. While he wouldn’t be in on the final decision, the recommendations made by an advisor held a lot of sway with the Board. When he’d finished reading through the last of our research weeks ago, the only word he’d given us was a letter saying, “I’m interested to see your play performed in front of an audience.” He’d attended every rehearsal and I hoped that was a sign that he’d given us a good recommendation. The memory of the words in that letter made me shiver. Was it bad luck or good that Professor Diamonte had been drawn to be our advisor? The tree that survives the storm is the stronger for it, I told myself. But would we survive?

Professor Diamonte’s gaze slid down the line of actors, pausing now and again to frown. He was our advisor, not our director, but I got the feeling that our play was somehow nearer and dearer to him than the works of other students may have been. It seemed as though he wanted “Kdara’s Gate” to succeed as much as we did. My heart giddily skipped a beat. Maybe we would make it after all. Then his icy gray eyes fell on Mareku, who promptly raced out of the room toward the men’s restroom. I cringed as the sound of wretching reached us.

“I’m going to throttle him,” Hiara snarled before I could voice my desire to do more than wring his neck.

“If he ruins this, we all will,” Tomisu replied. When Hiara glared at him, he added sheepishly, “If there’s anything left of him when you ladies are finished, that is.”

“I really hope he’ll be all right in time to go on stage,” I muttered.

“He’d better be,” Kaita replied. “If he isn’t, we’re screwed.”

“Surya, you’d better head up,” Professor Diamonte said, nodding his head at the clock on the wall.

Four minutes. How on earth was Mareku going to get his act together in four minutes?

I swallowed the anxiety that rose. “He’s not going to make it. We’re done and we haven’t even started! He can’t poss––“

“Surya. Go. You will have your Kayiko,” he assured me. When I hesitated, his eyes softened, pleading me to obey. “Go. I promise you, it’ll be all right.”

There was something unusual about his words and the tenderness in his voice, but I didn’t waste the time to ponder it. I glanced in the mirror one last time, nodded and pulled the fur-lined hood of my beautiful star-white cloak over my head. Flashing a brief smile at my friends, I gathered my skirts and bounded up the stairs to stage right. The stage was still invisible to the audience’s eyes behind the midnight blue curtains and I took a moment to marvel at it in the dim light of the gaffer’s lamp.

In the center was Taryn’s incredible fountain with reflective, filmy plastic that moved like real water in the gentle breeze of a small, silent fan. The set had been made to be a functioning replica – nowhere near to size – of the palace that spanned the precipice between the two mountains on the northwest and southwest sides of the Court of the Goddess. At its center were seven stairs leading down to the Court, flanked by two leafless trees. Out the windows of the set, Kaita and Taryn’s artistic handiwork could be seen in the backdrop of a night sky. In front of the sky, more of the reflective plastic had been stretched with a fan at one end and pulsing soft blue, green and red lights placed strategically along its bottom to resemble Kdara’s famous auroras. I wouldn’t have to act much to believe I was in Kdara on that fateful night three hundred years ago.

“Curtains open in thirty seconds, Surya,” the gaffer hissed in my ear.

I took his hint and found my place inside the “palace”, atop the stairs and hidden in the shadow of set’s corridor. My heart pounded as the seconds ticked away. This was it. The hooks of the curtains hissed as they were pulled along the tracks. The orchestra took up the first notes of a slow melody and I started down the steps as the blue lights brightened to a staged night. Behind me, the aurora ribboned and the fountain threw spears of blue and green light through the auditorium where hundreds of faces concentrated on me, waiting with anxiously-held breath.

“These are strange feelings that have dug talons of ice into my heart,” I said, lifting my eyes to the rafters. More blue and green lights pulsed between the larger stage lights and traced the dance of an aurora on the white deck of the stage. I was hard-pressed to stay in character and not smile with pride at our accomplishment. “The stars seem so far away tonight and the aurora dim.”

Pulling my gaze from the heavens to the crowd, I took a few steps toward the audience, straining to hear the sounds of footsteps in the corridor of the set. At last I heard them and nearly lost my reserve. Everything would be all right, I thought, trying not to dwell on the kisses with Mareku that would no doubt taste of bile.

“And my love is late. What ill omens has Kayiko discovered that keep him from me?”

The crowd gasped in surprise and I counted the steps trailing softly down the stairs toward me. I knew he now stood behind me more from the heat and strength of presence that radiated from him than from the cessation of footfalls. My hood was pulled back and tender hands caressed my shoulders just moments before his lips touched my neck and sent shivers fluttering through me. Strange, I thought. That’s never happened before.

“I am here, my love.”

It was not Mareku’s voice that uttered those words and it was with honest startlement that I turned to face Professor Diamonte, still locked protectively in the circle of his arms. The faintest smile lightened his face. In the full light of day, he was a handsome man, but in the sharp contrast of the pale glow of the stage lights and dark shadow, his finely-chiseled features, shoulder-length dark hair and intensely observant gray eyes were utterly beautiful.

“You’re tense, Miyara,” he said with such intimacy in his voice that my face heated. “What shadowy premonitions lurk in your mind?”

“I had a waking dream,” I said, my voice quavering. The audience inhaled collectively in appreciation. “I saw dragons dying in the lower fields, their blood and the blood of their riders and the soldiers staining the grass. Outworlders walked among them, killing the wounded and hacking at the already-dead.”

“Dreams do not always show us the truth,” the Professor said. “Perhaps your dreams reveal only unfounded fears.”

“There is too much red in the sky tonight. Kayiko, I saw Jenara die.”

He tightened his arms around me. “It was a dream, my love. Jenara is fine. I saw her only moments ago, heading toward her suite to ready herself for the ball. Which reminds me, we need to dress as well.”

“Did you learn nothing these past hours?” I demanded, pulling away.

“Miyara, my love…”

“No, Kayiko, don’t try to soothe me when I sense your tension. You learned something. Tell me what you have seen.”

Professor Diamonte’s shoulders dropped as his gaze left my face. He looked so forlorn and resigned. Mareku, even at his best, had never come close to being so perfect a Kayiko Jireshan. I doubted anyone had ever played Kayiko so well as the Professor did now. Stealing a glance at the audience, I smugly noticed the open awe and intense concentration on the hundreds of faces.

“The commander of the Outworlder army is here,” Professor Diamonte said after a moment. When he lifted his eyes again, I expected to see believably acted regret, but the helpless anguish was achingly real. I again found myself reacting rather than acting and inhaled sharply as I took another step farther away from him.

“We and the Elders would never allow one of them here,” I barked. “Why is he here?”

“I can only imagine and none of my musings are pleasant. Perhaps we will learn more of this matter at the ball.”

“I’m frightened, Kayiko. And I see in your eyes that you do not doubt my dream.”

“Doubt it? No, I fear it may be one of your true Seeings. But until we know more, we should not let it take away our joy. The ball will begin soon and I wish to remind all those jealous beasts that I am the man you claimed for your lover.”

“Not only my lover, Kayiko. My mate.”

As the script requested, the Professor lowered his head and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to my lips. My knees threatened to collapse and take me with them to the stage.

“My sweet, beautiful Miyara. If only Iyoku was so lucky as I, to win his lady’s love. I cannot imagine his torment at Jenara’s hands.”

“And torment it is. I worry that she is making an enemy of a willing servant.” I stepped back as far as he would allow and scowled. “You ox! You just told me not to let such things worry me! And here you are sewing the seeds of shadow in my head!”

With perfect, persistent gentleness we’d intended in writing the play, Professor Diamonte touched a hand to my face and said, “I apologize, my love. I was only trying to express how lucky I am to be yours.”

I relented and smiled. “And I am lucky to be yours. Come, my love, let us make them all jealous.”

The stage faded to darkness as Professor Diamonte offered me his arm and we walked toward stage left. The scuffling of a set change could be heard as we passed Kaita, Tomisu, and the girl who played Jenara’s trusted maid in the wings.

“That was perfect!” Kaita whispered. “Who would have guessed Mareku’s stage-fright would turn out for the best?”

There was no time to say more, as the second scene was set. I watched over my shoulder as the stage became a brightly-lit study. Kaita sat at the desk while the maid stood beside her with seal and wax at the ready.

“Another request from the Outworlders for a dragon carcass,” Kaita said angrily. “As if we held the power to overrule Kayiko, I share his opinion. I will not allow them to butcher one of our precious dragons, either.”

“There are more and more of them coming every day. The Outworlders, I mean. It seems as though they mean to take over Mrui.”

“Indeed, it does.” Kaita sat up and addressed the maid directly. “Just yesterday, their president sent his minion to demand our cooperation on a proposal for Kdara’s aid in bringing Mrui up to their standards of technology.”

“Why would we want their technology when we have magic? You know, my Lady, that the only reason they want to cut apart a dragon is to learn why our magic has always bested their technology.”

“Even if Kayiko and Miyara were both to consent, they would find nothing that their science could understand.”

The echoing boom of someone knocking on the door sounded across the auditorium. The maid walked to stage right, vanished from sight of the audience for a moment, then reappeared, trailing after Tomisu.

“But, sir, my Lady has been asked to be without disruption! Sir! Stop!”

“Leave off, woman!” Tomisu turned his attention to Kaita, his eyes those of a man betrayed. “You really are a selfish slut, my Queen. All I have ever asked of you is a chance to love you.”

“Sir!” the maid cried in outrage.

“Let him speak. He obviously has something to say.”

The expression of boredom on Kaita’s face was priceless. In a few moments, when the gist of our play became a little clearer to the audience, their shock would be priceless, too.

“Why not just rip my heart out and spit on it?” Tomisu began. “It would be far less cruel to me than propositioning my best friend. Kendu is like a brother to me! I thank his kindness toward me for declining you. My heart breaks every time you turn me away, but this––”

“Whom I desire for a lover is not your concern.” Kaita’s absolute lack of concern was right on target. My heart fluttered gleefully. “My maid will escort you out, Iyoku. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Do you think so little of me that you would hurt me like this?” Tomisu asked, his voice cracking in magnificent grief with Iyoku’s torment.

“I think of you hardly at all.”

Ouch, I thought, smiling even as I winced.

The audience gasped.

I know, I know. Now, why would five native Mruians make their beloved Jenara out to be so cold? Because she was human, not a god, and it’s time people remembered that.

Professor Diamonte touched my arm and I turned to follow him downstairs to the dressing room. Questions bubbled up so quickly that I had a hard time trying to grasp one. At last, I sputtered, “Why did you take Mareku’s place?”

He turned toward me slowly, frowning. “Mareku was too sick to hold his head up, let alone go on stage.”

“I understand that, and please don’t misunderstand me, because I appreciate what you did. You were incredible, but––”

“What would possess me to do something that could mean my job?”

“Well… yes.”

“You and your friends have worked so hard on this play and will open doors with your innovative ideas, even if they are controversial. I want to see you succeed because I think you’ll all do even more if you have access to Kdara.”

I might have blushed with his uncharacteristic praise, but the questions kept my mind on a single track. There was a shadow in his eyes, a hint of something else that he wasn’t telling me. “You’re hiding something, Professor Diamonte. What? Why, when you have pushed us to the brink of giving up, are you now suddenly so concerned that we succeed?”

“You’re perfectly suited to the role of Miyara,” the Professor replied. “You seem to be as bluntly insightful as she is said to have been. All right then. Let us say this play of yours is very close to my heart. Leave it at that, Surya, because you won’t get any more from me.”

He turned and walked away from me then, disappearing into the men’s restroom before the myriad of quickly-multiplying questions could spill out of my mouth. I shed my cloak and sat on a stool in front of the make-up table mirror. Up on stage, the actors in the roles of Kendu, General Ardan Greyesh and the Deyamoran President’s chief assistant, Reymi Danes were forging the petition for a dragon carcass. Historically, the act was a waste of their time and resources, for they’d been overrun with dead dragons in the days and weeks following that ill-fated night. Were it not for the fact that we were heaping a lot of the blame that had been piled on Iyoku onto Kendu, we wouldn’t have even included the scene in the play.

“I’m sorry, Surya.”

I glanced up in the mirror to see Mareku standing in the doorway. He still looked quite ill, his face pale and strained. It had to be more than stage fright. I offered him a sympathetic smile. “We’ll be all right. Professor Diamonte is filling the role for tonight.”

“I know.” Mareku frowned, clearly wanting to say something else, but he turned away instead.

“Mareku. I hope you feel better.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder. A flicker of a smile flashed across his face. “Me too.”

I didn’t watch him go. The performance would go smoothly with the Professor filling the important role of Kayiko Jireshan, I was sure of it. Now, if only I was as certain that everything else would go as planned.

Two hours later, I was back on stage, battling Tomisu in the final battle of the play. Several other actors were on stage as well and the metallic clashing of blades rang shrilly through the auditorium. The speed was barely slower than an actual fight and the audience was silent in stunned wonder. As we’d written, Tomisu’s blunted katana darted through my guard. Unlike what we’d been taught, it was a minor wound, a glancing cut along the ribs. Certainly not the stroke that had fatally wounded Miyara Ryu. In retaliation, I brought my own sword in a wide, graceful arc that sliced an imaginary gash through Tomisu’s shoulder muscle and down across his chest. With a quick turn, I plunged the sword at his belly, thrusting the blade up his shirt. Tomisu stumbled backward and fell to his knees with an audible thunk that made my knees cringe in protest. Holding my katana in a white-knuckeled grip, I stared down at him, breathing raggedly.

“Miyara…” he whimpered. “I never… I never meant to… hurt her. I never meant for any of this.”

“I know,” I replied. Tears welled in my eyes, so potent were the emotions flooding through me. “By the Goddess, Iyoku…. I’m so sorry.”

Tomisu reached out a trembling hand and, leaning on my katana, I dropped to on knee and gripped his hand. His eyes widened and he tried to warn me, but it was too late. Rizai, playing Kendu, kicked me to my hands and knees from behind and the audience cried out in horror. Had I not been so lost in the play, I might have slipped into a smug grin. Whatever the outcome, the audience was getting one hell of a show. Sword still in hand, I rolled to the side, but Rizai – Kendu – had been expecting it and, gripping his katana inelegantly with both hands in a ham-fisted grip, plunged the blade in the killing stroke.

“Miyara!” Professor Diamonte bellowed. He broke free from the Deyamoran soldier he was fighting and rushed at Rizai, who did not have time enough to react. The Professor swung his own sword with frenzied precision across his enemy’s throat and Rizai twisted aroung and crashed down beside me. Nothing in any book we’d ever read contested that Kendu had been decapitated, but we could hardly replicate that on stage.

There would be a lot of bruises to compare after the show, I thought as Professor Diamonte hit the stage with the same speed as everyone else. With incredible tenderness, he gathered me into his arms and, rocking back off his knees, cradled me to his chest. I was only a little surprised to see that he was crying.

“Miyara…. No, no, no. Don’t leave me. Not like this.”

“I’m sorry, my love.” I took a shallow, wracking breath and pinched my eyes closed. Tears slid hotly across my cheeks into my hair.

The final, devastating kiss of Kayiko and Miyara was a thing of legend. There were hundreds of paintings and pictures in books depicting that moment and countless songs and poems describing the timeless devotion, love, and loyalty and the staggering pain of loss enveloped in that single, potent caress.

When the Professor’s lips met mine, I felt the depth of love and agony wash over me and knew we had done the last kiss of Kayiko and Miyara justice.

I sagged lifelessly in Professor Diamonte’s arms and listened in fascination as he gave in to the grief. The lights dimmed to black on that scene and the curtains were pulled across the stage. There was no music to end the play, no narrative to detail what had happened to the survivors of that bloody battle after the Locking of Kdara. The silence in the auditorium was total. There was no applause. There were no boos. There was nothing.

Professor Diamonte and I began to disentangle ourselves. Kaita, Taryn, Tsuki and Hiara, who had been watching the final scene from the wings with the rest of the cast, came to help us, Tomisu and Rizai to our feet. The actors all gathered on stage in the dim glow of the aurora lights and we glanced at each other in confusion. What was happening on the other side of the curtains? The nerves that had left me during the play returned tenfold. Oh goddess, we were doomed. They’d hated it and were just waiting for the curtain to open to begin hurling the remnants of Hiara’s beautiful feast at us.

Then it started, hesitantly at first. Applause. Cheers joined the claps and soon the expansive auditorium was booming with it.

When the Chancellor made her way onto the stage, she had to yell over the roar. “Curtains in one minute!” She paused in front of Diamonte, who regarded her with resignation. “You have some explaining to do, Professor.”

As she strode away, Diamonte muttered, “You have no idea.”

The house lights were dim, just bright enough to reveal the entire audience on their feet. It was more than we had dreamed possible. We were not doomed to be outcasts. With our hands knitted together in a line that stretched across the entire stage, we raised our arms and bowed in perfect unison. We did not rise immediately, humbly thanking the audience for their positive response. The cheers did not die down. They grew louder and we bowed again. Then a third time.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the Chancellor called into the microphone.

It was pointless. The crowd would not be silenced. The cheering continued for a full fifteen minutes. There was not one among us who was not beaming, not even Professor Diamonte, though shadows swam in his clear, gray eyes.

“Yes, yes, thank you!” the Chancellor began again.

At last, the audience began to quiet.

“Let me now, at last, introduce our actors.”

She ran up the list from the minor roles to the leads. “Playing Kayiko Jireshan to perfection is our own Katsuri Diamonte, Professor of Warfare and the Old Language, who stepped in at the last minute for Mareku Okiran. Now I come to the roles of the Last Queen’s Union and the five writers of tonight’s radical production. Along with filling the role of Queen Mage Jenara Akaeru, Kaita Dashinya also designed all of the stunning costumes for the production. The young woman who played Priestess Mage Taresu Mitsa, Hiara Mreku is also the force behind tonights delicious fare. As Scholar Mage Kyra Shinaki, Tsuki Moramuto wrote all of the accompanying music. In the role of Healer Mage Alera Koriku, we have Taryn Aduri, who oversaw the creation of the incredible sets. And, true to the tradition of her role as Warrior Mage Miyara Ryu, Surya Kanjiru choreographed all of the fight sequences in the play. These five young women have, I think, more than earned your enthusiastic applause.”

If the Chancellor had more to say, we’d never know because the audience took up their cheering again. With a shrug and a smile, she left the stage to gather the staff members who were on the Board of New Scholars. The cast bowed again as the curtains closed. Impulsively, I turned to Professor Diamonte, threw my arms around his neck. Unexpectedly, he hugged me in return, but gone was the gentle abandon of Kayiko. He was humoring me.

“Thank you,” I said, unable to contain my glee. “The play was incredible.”

“You’re welcome, Surya, though the play was incredible because of all the work you and your friends put into it, not because of anything I’ve don,” he replied. “I need to find the Chancellor.”

I was drawn into a writhing, joyful group hug with my fellow students. Nothing could bring us down. Except that, while the obvious acceptance of audience was grand, we still had to face the Board to see if we would become Kdari Scholars. The final decision was being made while we celebrated and in a few short minutes, the curtains would open again and we would face the Board on stage.

All too quickly, we found ourselves standing nervously before a capacity crowd and eight, gray-haired professors. Professor Diamonte would have been the ninth member – and the youngest of them all – but as our advisor, he was excluded from the decision. I wondered what recommendations he had made to the Board when he’d given them our research.

“We’ll discuss it after they defend their work before the Board,” I heard the Chancellor say to Professor Diamonte as they both joined us on the stage to witness the decision.

I shuddered. Defend? Of course, that was nothing unusual. Every group or student was expected to “defend” their Secondary project to the Board of New Scholars, but something about the way she said it made nervous. My mind was no less eased when I glanced at each of the nameplates in front of the Board members. Every one of them was Deyamoran by blood and two of them were Deyamoran-born. Pride in my homeworld was bruised by the injustice and irony of it.

“Ms. Dashinya, Ms. Kanjiru, Ms. Aduri, Ms. Mreku, and Ms. Moramuto, are you prepared to defend your Secondary project?” Barydon LeDorik, head of the Mruian History department, asked.

“We are, Professor,” Kaita replied.

“Very well. Your play is, to say it mildly, controversial. You have chosen to ignore three hundred years of study. Are you merely seeking your few minutes of fame or do you truly believe yourselves more learned that the hundreds of Scholars who have come before you?”

The words cut deep, but Professor LeDorik had never liked any of us, perhaps because all of us, at one point or another, questioned his teachings. It wasn’t really surprising that a man who loathed anything that remotely contradicted his own Secondary project findings would be insulted by our play. I tried to shrug it off.

“Neither, Professor,” Tsuki replied nonchalantly. “We are simply testing the boundaries of history. Has it not been written from before the ancient empires of Earth rose and fell that history is not always truth?”

Sevarra Rey, the department head of Magical Studies, smirked. “Well said, Ms. Moramuto. However, as convincing as your research is, I personally would like to know what possessed you to bring such controversy to the stage.”

“In our searches through texts and memoirs that date back to before the Locking of Kdara, we came across a lot of references to Kendu being what you saw on stage tonight,” I explained. “Most of these texts I refer to have been passed over for decades as being too different from what our history books tell us and because there wasn’t much that tied the accounts together. But we found a key that unlocked a lot of possibilities for us.”

“The word is haka’oru, which roughly means ‘Gate of Union’,” Tsuki explained. “We believe that when it was originally translated, haka’oru was lumped together with hakanu, which means simply ‘gateway’. At best, it might have been thought to refer to the physical gateway into Kdara – what used to be called the Court of the Goddess. The gate that remains locked to this day.”

“Interesting,” the Chancellor remarked. “Please continue.”

“That the gate couldn’t be open might actually be the reason why the word was mistranslated,” Taryn said. “We believe, from our research, that the reason it won’t open is because of a gate of another kind. A magical gate, created by the Queen’s Union. That was our starting point. From there, we started looking for anything and everything that could verify our belief. We found a lot more, as you may have noticed.”

Professor Rey smiled and a couple of the others chuckled. Relief and hope flickered through me. A glance at Professor Diamonte showed me that his face was as expressionless as ever, but his eyes again belied him. I nearly smiled at the pride brightening his gray gaze.

Hiara picked up the defense. “None of our textbooks mentioned this of course, so we had do dig deeper. In a library in New Raisha, we found a letter from Kendu Mirama to his father in Dei-ga in what used to be Rotorua Province, mentioning Jenara’s proposal to him. He and Iyoku were as close as brothers and he was outraged that Jenara could be so harsh. But he was also ambitious. He had a half-sister, borne of a Mruian mother and a Deyamoran father. President Demira wanted a Deyamoran to be admitted to the Court of the Goddess and thought the Queen’s and Lords’ Union could be convinced to take her. She was gifted, and she was half Mruian. President Demira promised Kendu what he seemed unable to gain – money and power – if he could get his sister into Kdara. She’d been born and raised Deyamoran and so was loyal to the President and had promised to detail what went on––”

“This is all in your research,” Professor LeDorik interrupted. “Three hundred years and no one has found anything like what you’ve written. You have presented a very articulate argument defending your findingsm I will give you that. As far as I’m concerned, your research is a load of glory-seeking fabrications.”

“As far as you’re concerned, Professor, yours was the only original Secondary project that holds any truth.”

Stunned quite met Professor Diamonte’s remark. I felt my mouth fall open a little as he folded his arms and stared his fellow Kdari Scholar down. There was something unsettling about the anger resonating from our advisor and it was more than the fact that I’d never heard him raise his voice or so scathingly contradict anyone, let alone another professor.

“Katsuri!” the Chancellor exclaimed.

He turned his furious gaze on her and she abruptly snapped her jaws closed. “I fully believe that these young women have put together something brilliant and I will not stand silently by while Professor LeDorik berates them in front of an audience of hundreds with all the tact of a jealous six year old. The very least he owes them is the professional courtesy of his rank, even if it is only a façade. Why should they fail because you all are too blinded by your own supposed superiority to see that they may just have the right of it?”

Somewhere in the audience, a young child murmured in frightened curiosity and the sound was like a clap of thunder in the stillness. I’m not sure our mouths could have hung much farther open. What was he doing? And why was he so concerned about our project? We were fairly certain we were right, but as Professor LeDorik had said, nothing similar had been proposed in three hundred years of studying Kdara’s unusual history.

“Professor Diamonte…” the Chancellor began again, but faltered, seemingly unable to find the correct words.

“Yes, Chancellor Tarken, I am well aware that my actions tonight warrant a hearing with the Disciplinary Board, but let me first clarify a couple of things. My stepping in for Mareku Okiran had absolutely nothing to do with fraternizing with my students and everything to do with the simple fact that I believe strongly enough in this piece of work that I want it to succeed. If it costs me my job, so be it. If you cannot see what genius you have before you and punish rather than reward such a daring project, then I have no desire to continue here. Make your decisions and, if need be, I will bring you my letter of resignation. Ladies, excellent work.”

Without another word and without giving anyone a chance to object, Professor Diamonte turned and strode off the stage. Then, the strangest thing happen. Applause. The discussion of our project was officially over. The audience quieted down only long enough for the Board of New Scholars to announce their decision.

“Contrary to what our comrade accused,” Professor Rey said, projecting her voice to the audience, “we are open-minded enough to accept that the Secondary project of these young women is indeed a work of genius. Whether or not it holds any truth is yet to be proven, but the effort that has gone in to it, both the research and the play, deserves recognition. Taryn Aduri, come forward.”

Taryn stepped forward the accept her Letter of Admittance, then rejoined us.

“Kaita Dashinya, come forward.”

Kaita accepted her Letter.

“Surya Kanjiru, come forward.”

Someday, I might brag that my hands were steady as I accepted the Letter from the scowling Professor LeDorik, but it would be a lie. It was too new for me to realize we’d made it and my nerves still rattled with anxiety. Even after Hiara and Tsuki were called forward, I couldn’t grasp what the parchment envelope with its traditional wax seal meant.

“In a display of uncommon valor and unconditional gratitude, these incredible young women have asked that all of the major players in their play be granted Admittance to Kdara with them on their first expedition to the Court of the Goddess. Three of these actors will also be given Letters of Admittance into the ranks of Kdari Scholars for their participation in researching and writing the play, ‘Kdara’s Gate’. Tomisu Motosan, Rizai Motosan, and Mareku Okiran, please come forward.”

We hadn’t told them and their shock was nearly as fulfilling as the applause for our play had been. After they’d accepted their Letters, they hugged each of my friends and I in turns. We were heading downstairs to change before anyone capable of speaking.

“I don’t care what everyone says about you five,” Tomisu said, beaming. “You are the most incredible… wow. Thank you!”

“Yes, thank you,” Mareku agreed.

Rizai only smiled, still speechless.

“Hey, you earned it, guys,” I replied. “We might not have gotten where we did without your help.”

“See you in the common room in a while?” Hiara asked.

“You bet your cute ass,” Tomisu answered.

We nearly tripped over Professor Diamonte when we reached the bottom step and turned the corner toward the dressing room. For a moment, he didn’t seem to realize we were there and he looked utterly drawn. When he finally looked up, he smiled tiredly.

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Professor? Are you all right?” Hiara asked.

He nodded.

“You look… tired.”

“Not really. Just pondering the consequences of letting my temper get the best of me. Don’t worry yourselves.”

“Hey, Professor, thanks a lot,” Tomisu said. “I mean it. We’d’a been done for if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“Glad I could help.” The professor pushed to his feet and smiled wearily down at me. “Good work on the fights, by the way, Surya.”

“You taught me well,” I replied. “And thanks, for everything.”

He started to walk away when Kaita called, “Join us?”

“I appreciate the offer, but it’s probably not a good idea. Despite what I said, I rather enjoy my job.”

Later that night, as I reclined on the couch in the common room of the dorms and sipped contentdedly at my soda, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen in Professor Diamonte’s hearing with the Disciplinary Board. After seven years of feeling like he was trying to make us give up, it was surprisingly easy to be grateful for it. Without that constant push, we might not have tried so hard to prove him wrong – or, as it turned out, to prove him right. My friends and I were all more than a little stubborn, I mused. We’d worked hard, there was no doubt about that and we’d all performed beyond our most unimaginable dreams, but somehow it seemed like Professor Diamonte had pushed us into higher achievements once again. And tonight’s performance brought a wealth of other thoughts to mind, the most startling was that those on-stage kisses had been more like reality and less like acting. I’d actually enjoyed it. And now, I tried to convince myself that that was a lie.