5: The Holy Road

by Ginn Hale

  Ravishan looked quickly away from John’s gaze. He caught hold of his cup and drained the last of his tea. “I don’t want to think about that. I can’t and still become Kahlil.”

  “It won’t happen,” John told him quietly. “The Rifter will not destroy Basawar.”

  “How can you know?”

  John almost told him the truth then. But he stayed silent, thinking that it would be too much for Ravishan to have to accept. It was almost too much for John himself to accept.

  “We won’t let it happen.”

  Ravishan smiled wanly and repeated, “We won’t let it happen…as if it were our choice.”

  “Maybe it is.” Again the urge to confess rose in John, but he held back.

  “I want to believe you so badly.”

  “Then believe me,” John told him.

  Ravishan pressed his eyes closed the way a child would before making a wish. “Tell me it’s going to be all right.”

  “It’s going to be all right.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” John assured him.

  Ravishan opened his eyes. He looked out at the tables of debating students and men caught up in private conversations. The influx of patrons had ebbed. A pair of waiters leaned against the wooden counter at the back of the room, drinking their own cups of tea.

  “I couldn’t do this without you, Jahn.”

  “You could. But you won’t have to.”

  Ravishan smiled a little wryly. Then he studied John for several moments.

  “You should finish your tea,” Ravishan announced at last.

  From under the table John felt Ravishan’s leg brush against his thigh. A rush of desire pulsed through John’s body. He glanced at his cup. It was still half full.

  “I’m done,” John decided.

  Ravishan nodded. “We should probably get to bed then. We have a long week ahead of us.”

  Chapter Fifty

  It didn’t feel like it had been a week already. John shifted in the elegant velvet-backed chair. It was too small for his big frame. He stood up and slowly paced the ornately gilded hall.

  He wanted more time. Another week. He and Ravishan had just begun to explore Nurjima. They had visited only a few of the brightly-painted bookshops and raucous theaters that Hann’yu had recommended.

  They’d spent the better part of an evening listening to loud political debates in one of the teahouses near Scholars’ Park. Scattered between students’ and teachers’ orations, there had been a provocative speech from a red-veiled widow and one ferocious diatribe from a young blonde man. The diversity of opinion had given John hope. Nurjima was far from a utopia, but people here were free enough to say as much.

  After that, Ravishan and he had sampled a few of the sweet and spicy dishes that came from the southern holdings. They had heard beautiful new music played by a blonde beggar and seen the brilliant gold uniforms worn by the priests in the city dress guard. John had caught glimpses of trees and animals he had never seen before, books he had never read. He had seen sculptures and paintings that made him wonder about the forgotten histories of Basawar. There was so much more than a week’s time had allowed him to take in.

  But most of all, John wanted more time to simply linger in bed with Ravishan. He could have spent a week doing just that and still have wanted more. John traced his thumb across the edge of his lower lip, remembering Ravishan’s last hungry kiss.

  He dropped his hand back to his side and scowled at the riot of intricate gold filigree that scrolled across the iridescent pearl-like walls. All along the length of the hall small portraits of past usho’im stared haughtily out from circular gold frames. John had imagined the interior of the Black Tower to be different than this. He supposed the dark exterior had led him to expect something more like the powerful utilitarian interiors of Vundomu.

  Instead, little gold suns winked at him from the carpet beneath his feet. Two silk-clad acolytes strolled past him. They couldn’t have been younger than John, but their soft faces and careless expressions made him think of children. If Ravishan had seen them, he would have joked that the ushman’im of Nurjima were allowing girls into the priesthood.

  But Ravishan wasn’t with him, so the two acolytes passed without comment.

  John glanced to the arched white doors at the far end of the hall. He had no idea how long Ravishan would have to remain in the Usho’s audience chamber. Ushman Serahn had told John that he could wait if he liked, but he hadn’t thought that Ravishan would be released before nightfall.

  John supposed he could have gone out and explored Nurjima alone. But he wanted to be there when Ravishan finally emerged. It would be the first of five days spent preparing for his blessings and John imagined Ravishan would be exhausted and probably injured in some manner as well. The Payshmura reverence for ushiri’im blood seemed to ensure that it would be spilled for as many rituals as possible.

  John paced.

  If Ravishan were released before it was too late in the evening, John intended to take him to a puppet theater. They had already been once, but Ravishan seemed to take an unusual delight in seeing glorified socks swear, carouse and beat each other. The theater had been dark and few other people seemed to ever attend it. The last time they had gone Ravishan had traced his fingers over John’s palm and wrist, communicating his own silent desires.

  As John turned to close the circle of his pacing, a young red-haired acolyte came rushing up the adjoining corridor. He drew to a halt in front of John, taking in quick gulps of air with as much dignity as he could manage.

  “You are Ushvun Jahn?” the acolyte asked.

  “I am.” John frowned at the young man. “Why?”

  “Ushman Serahn needs you at once.”

  “What’s happened?” John asked, his thoughts already flashing through myriad terrible possibilities. What if something had gone wrong with the rituals? If Ravishan had been badly hurt, they would need someone strong to bear his wounds.

  “I don’t know. The ushman said you must be brought at once. Please come with me.”

  John followed the acolyte at a fast pace down the corridor and up a winding staircase. John would have gone faster but the young acolyte couldn’t keep up with him in a full-out run. Nor could the acolyte take the stairs with the speed that years of living in Rathal’pesha had imparted to John. Finally, the acolyte gave up and waved John ahead of him.

  “Ushman Serahn’s at the very top of the tower. Keep going up.” The acolyte hunched over, trying to catch his breath. “The guards know that you’ve been summoned. They’ll let you pass.”

  John bounded up the stairs without another word. He threw himself forward as hard and fast as he could. The first three flights were wide but also busy. John had to twist and bolt between clusters of priests going about their daily business. After the fourth floor the stairs became almost deserted.

  Perfumed air burned through John’s lungs as he raced ahead. On the landing of the eighth floor, armed priests stood guard. As John charged forward they parted, allowing him past to the next flight of stairs.

  “The gold door,” one of them called after him.

  John’s heart hammered in his chest and his muscles felt like they were burning against his bones. He took a sharp turn, almost leaping up onto the next landing, and then suddenly jerked to a halt.

  The sick, torn sensation of open Gray Space washed over him. John paused briefly to fight his sense of violent nausea before continuing up. The winding staircase seemed to curl forever upwards in tighter and tighter turns. The walls on either side of him steadily shifted from pearly white to same odd yellow color he’d found in the highest reaches of Rathal’pesha. They grew increasingly tight as John ascended higher and higher, until he found himself almost enclosed. Another man couldn’t have passed him without them both flattening against the walls.

  The feeling of the Gray Space increased and he caught the distant but distinct whispers of the issusha’im. He had to be well above the main
building now, somewhere in the twisted column of the central spire.

  He turned a corner and almost smacked into a dark yellow stone door. The stairs simply ended there. John couldn’t imagine how the door could open out to anything but the empty air swirling around the narrow spire of the black tower. Still he opened it and stepped through.

  The room inside was huge and elaborately gilded with flowing Basawar script as well as English. Two wide stone arches filled the center of the room. There were no other furnishings. Ushman Serahn stood near the right arch, a small book in his gloved hands. Surprise showed on his soft, southern features as he took John in.

  “That was quite fast. Did you run the entire way?” Ushman Serahn seemed amused by the thought.

  John could hardly manage a word. The sensation of sickness that poured out over him from the two arches almost brought him to his knees. He bent over and drew in sharp breaths through his gritted teeth. The issusha’im’s cacophony of voices hissed and whispered desperately from the arch on the left.

  They puts him in the fire.

  John caught one clear phrase from the hundreds of others.

  “Catch your breath,” Ushman Serahn said. “I don’t think I’ve known anyone to run the whole way. Very blonde of you.” He flipped his long black braids back over his shoulder, opened his book, and began to read.

  “Ravishan…” John panted.

  “Pardon?”

  “Ushiri Ravishan,” John said, “where is he?”

  “With the Usho.” Ushman Serahn looked slightly puzzled. “Oh, you thought I summoned you on his behalf? No, nothing of the sort.”

  “What then?” John managed to straighten. A nauseous tension still played through his stomach. He tried not to look at the two sweeping arches. Their yellow stones made him think of rotting teeth and rancid butter. The issusha’im’s voices scraped and whimpered at John.

  It comes to cuts us open and cracks our bones.

  It sucks our marrow. It burns us.

  They must not brings it to us. Must not brings it to us!

  Hates it. Hates it. Hates it. Hates it.

  Get it out, a childlike voice was almost sobbing. Get it out. It hurts.

  John couldn’t understand how Ushman Serahn could just stand there looking so bland, reading. Not unless the man couldn’t hear the issusha’im.

  He kills us, one of the issusha’im suddenly howled. They puts him in the fire and he kills us all!

  “You are needed back in Rathal’pesha at once,” Ushman Serahn informed him offhandedly. He flipped a page in his book.

  “Rathal’pesha?” John asked. The issusha’im were growing more agitated, their words breaking down into hoarse screams and thin howls. He had to concentrate to hear Ushman Serahn over them.

  “Yes, Rathal’pesha,” Ushman Serahn replied with a self-amused expression. “It’s the monastery that you came from, the one up in the mountains.”

  John ignored the ushman’s patronizing reply. “What’s happened?”

  “Ushman Hann’yu only said that it was urgent and that you must be sent to him at once. He invoked the highest authority, so one imagines that it is rather important.” Ushman Serahn snapped his book closed. He stepped away from the yellow arch that filled the right side of the room and waved John towards it.

  John felt his stomach clench into a painful knot at the thought of touching the obvious Gray Space within the arch.

  “I can’t go through there,” he said. “The Gray Space will tear me apart.”

  “Ushman Hann’yu seems to think otherwise. It’s a gate after all. It will transport you on its own. All you have to do is step in. I wouldn’t think that was too much for you.” Ushman Serahn stepped past John and opened the door. “The choice is yours. You can cross through or you can return downstairs where the guards will place you under arrest for disobedience of your vows.”

  NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO, one of the issusha’im wailed above the noise of all the others.

  They puts him in the fire, another issusha hissed. They puts him in the fire and he kills us all.

  “As I said, it’s your choice.” Ushman Serahn leaned against the doorframe and opened his book once more. “I really don’t have all day,” he added without looking up.

  John took in a deep breath. The air felt sick and weak in his lungs. It tasted of seared ozone. If Hann’yu had sent for him, it had to be important. John regarded Ushman Serahn. He didn’t want to entrust the man with anything, but there was no one else.

  “Will you tell Ushiri Ravishan what’s happened?” John asked.

  “I’ll explain when I appoint a new attendant to take your place.” Ushman Serahn barely glanced up at John. “It’s not as if he needs anyone to carry his bags at this point anyway. He should be fine without you.”

  John couldn’t bring himself to thank Ushman Serahn, so instead he stepped forward into the arch. Instantly, he regretted his choice.

  The sensation was not pain. Pain, at least, would have assured him that he was still alive. This was an absence, a terrible numbness that felt as though it had ripped him from himself, as if the Gray Space had devoured and digested him.

  This was like dying. No, it was like being dead already—as if he were wide awake in a dead body. John could sense his thoughts building towards panic.

  It made him think of the desperate thrashing of a drowning man, his lungs consumed by the absence of air. It was a feeling like that. It was as if he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, and couldn’t move. It felt as if he had been swallowed by an utterly alien environment.

  He wasn’t dying, he told himself. It just felt like dying.

  And he realized why. The Gray Space isolated him from the world that sustained him. No, sustained was too weak a word. No, the world defined him. He felt the earth, air, water, and stones of Basawar as deeply as his own flesh. Without them he became some excised organ.

  A severed limb. A terrified self-aware amputation. He was the head on the wrong side of a guillotine’s blade. And he was dying. It didn’t just feel like it, John realized.

  He was dying. This was what killed a Rifter. This was how his death could be opened like a door. There was even a key to lock him in. He remembered that from the holy texts.

  He had walked right into it.

  John wanted to scream with anger and fear. He wanted to thrash and tear the enveloping Gray Space asunder. But he had nothing to grab, nothing to rip or beat against. The Gray Space was a vacuum offering no opposition and no sustenance. Its embrace was a slow suffocation.

  This was how every Rifter before him had died, John thought. After poisoning and bleeding, this last slow suffocation had destroyed them. They had died like kittens in a sack, sinking to the bottom of a lake. Later the Payshmura priests dredged the space for the Rifters’ bones and carved their keys to kill the next Rifter.

  One Rifter after another would die, until the world of Basawar had been utterly bled to death. They would murder the whole world with these endless little amputations.

  And John knew the shreds of his self-control were slipping away under waves of shock and horror.

  He couldn’t die now, not like this. But he had no way to fight it. He had nothing but a desperate, overwhelming refusal.

  “NO!” The word tore from his throat. Bile and blood followed it up. John staggered forward and then spilled onto the cold stone floor at Hann’yu’s feet. He had crossed through the Gray Space in just a matter of minutes.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Outside the infirmary window, dark clouds hung at the edges of the pale sky. Only a small circle of luminous haze betrayed the presence of the winter sun.

  “I’m never doing that again,” John whispered hoarsely. He accepted the cup of daru’sira from Hann’yu and sipped it cautiously. His throat still felt raw. The deep, involuntary shuddering had mostly subsided. Earlier, he had been almost unable to make it down the stairs from the upper chamber of Rathal’pesha
to the infirmary. John pulled the blankets closer around his shoulders. His body still felt as if his bones had turned to ice.

  Hann’yu watched him in uncharacteristic silence. He looked terrible. His skin had a yellowish tone and the bags under his eyes were as black as bruises. Hann’yu seemed to have aged years in the month that John had been gone. He’d lost a great deal of weight. His once lithe, tanned arms looked desiccated and skeletal.

  John sat his cup on the bedside table. “Why did you call me back? What’s happened?”

  “So much.” Hann’yu shook his head. “I have nothing but bad news. It was like the whole world collapsed as soon as you and Ravishan left. I don’t know how to tell you.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Your brother-in-law, Behr, is dead,” Hann’yu said quietly. “Rasho Tashtu murdered him. They were arguing and Tashtu shot him.”

  “No.” The word came out like a reflex. John’s chest tightened unbearably. They were only days from escaping Basawar.

  “No,” John repeated, feeling the terrible loss sweep through him. Distantly, he heard thunder crash through the sky. Droplets of freezing rain began to slap against the closed windows.

  “I’m sorry, Jahn.” Hann’yu gently pressed a kerchief into John’s hand. As his fist clenched around the cloth, John realized that tears were slipping down his cheeks. He tried to wipe them away, but his hands were still clumsy and numb.

  “There’s more.” Hann’yu’s voice was strained. “Your sister was there when it happened.”

  Laurie, John thought suddenly, God, what would this have done to Laurie?

  “She burned Tashtu to ash where he stood,” Hann’yu said. “Half a city block went up in the fire as well. The thatch caught sparks and just…just went. Two children were killed.”

  John opened his mouth, but he could hardly make himself breathe, much less speak. This was like some kind of terrible nightmare. And he knew it had to get worse. He knew that Laurie’s reaction wouldn’t be defensible.