2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows

by Ginn Hale

  “Candidate Fikiri, you have come a long way through hardship and danger but Parfir has reached out his hand and given you his protection.” The younger priest’s words boomed over them and John recognized his voice as one of those that had threatened and cursed Fikiri on the Thousand Steps to Heaven’s Door. “Now, Candidate, come this last small distance and know his will.”

  The younger priest beckoned for Fikiri to ascend the stairs. Fikiri stole a glance back at John. John nodded and Fikiri went.

  The old priest kissed Fikiri’s forehead and then whispered something over his head while tracing a symbol in the air. John waited at the foot of the stairs.

  Then the old man turned. The assembled ushiri pulled the huge doors of the Great Temple open. The dark-haired priest led Fikiri by the shoulders and directed him after the old priest as they walked into the Great Temple. The black-clad ushiri followed behind.

  Then the gray-robed priests who had gathered below cheered once more. All around John priests in plain gray robes surged forward, hurrying into the temple. Some cheered; others sang bits of prayers. A few seemed to be sneaking little conversations back and forth between refrains of prayers. None of them bumped him or jostled him but neither did they stop to talk to him. John felt almost like they didn’t see him at all.

  Then a bony hand caught his arm—the old priest who had given him the cookie. His head was entirely bald and the wrinkles of his face so deep that they looked like they had been etched into him. His drooping eyelids nearly obscured his dark eyes.

  “Ushman Dayyid is young,” the old priest told him. “It’s been too long for him to remember the last candidate who came to us with an attendant. Forgive him for forgetting you.”

  “I don’t mind, really,” John said.

  “Come.” The old man pulled him slightly towards the stairs. “Wine should be served to you. I remember these things even if these boys do not.” He indicated another priest, who looked to be about sixty.

  John allowed the old priest to lead him up the stairs, though after the third step John found that the old man was clinging to him for balance more than leading him. Other priests passed them. Some stopped, but the old man waved them on.

  “Save us a place,” the old priest told one of them and then waved him ahead.

  “I have heard you are called Alidas.” The old man smiled. “That’s a southern name, isn’t it?”

  “I believe it is, but I’m not Alidas,” John replied. “He was injured on the Holy Road and Rashan Pivan’ro’Bousim chose me to take his place. My name is Jahn.”

  “Really?” The old man’s brows lifted high enough that John caught a clear glimpse of his brown eyes. “Because of your hair, I suppose.”

  John nodded.

  “I’m Ushvun Samsango.” The priest grinned and John smiled back. The old man had obviously outgrown the name and its meaning, ‘swift runner.’

  When they reached the top of the stairs, the heavy black doors were beginning to swing shut, all of the other priests having already entered. In a way, John hoped that he might have the excuse of being locked out to escape whatever strange and alien ceremony he might be expected to take part in. Then John saw the look of hurt on Samsango’s face.

  John rushed forward and caught one of the doors. It was heavier than he had expected and he had to strain to hold it in place.

  “Truly, you were born an attendant,” Samsango commented as he walked past John through the door. John followed him, allowing the door to swing closed behind him. Hundreds of gray-robed priests knelt on the stone floor. They filled the space like paving stones, enclosing the bases of stone columns and stretching from wall to wall. Only a white walkway leading from the doors to the huge altar remained clear. Samsango sat down beside another priest but shook his head when John moved to join him.

  At the foot of a carved stone altar far at the front, Fikiri knelt before Ushman Dayyid. The old, white-haired priest sat in a high-backed stone chair, while the rest of the ushiri formed a half-circle behind him.

  In the absolute silence of the huge room, the door slammed shut behind John. It sounded like a thunderclap. For a moment every man in the temple looked up to where John stood.

  “Welcome, Attendant.” Samsango’s thin voice carried through the stillness. “You have traveled far and through danger...”

  “You have carried another’s pain as your own,” the old, white-haired priest took up Samsango’s salutation. His voice was surprisingly strong and clear. He gazed at John as he spoke. For the first time, John got the impression that the old white-haired priest was actually aware of his surroundings. “You have offered your body and will and Parfir has brought his holy protection through you. You are welcome among us.”

  While the old white-haired priest spoke, Ushman Dayyid stared at John with a cold assessing expression, as if he were trying to guess his weight or deduce his occupation.

  “Come sit here,” Samsango whispered. His bony hand waved, barely reaching past a younger priest’s shoulder. John stepped towards Samsango and the other gray-robed priests shifted and moved to make room for him. In a matter of moments, he was seated on the stone floor and the ceremony continued.

  John was glad that he had practiced so many prayers because he ended up needing to recite most of them as the ceremony progressed. He had learned enough of the phrases and rhythms of the prayers to easily follow along in those he hadn’t learned from Pivan or Bati’kohl.

  The black-robed priests undressed Fikiri, exposing spirals and swirls of black script written across his pale skin. Slowly, they began to wash it off. John peered at the writing. He recognized the flowing lines and sweeping curves of the Payshmura holy script, but he couldn’t read any of it.

  As the priests scrubbed Fikiri’s skin, Ushman Dayyid spoke of freeing Fikiri from the blessed bonds that gave his will, weight, and pain unto his attendant. John guessed that the markings were some kind of spell that had put Fikiri under the thrall of the prayers John had chanted. A year ago he would have found such a thought absurd. Now he simply accepted it.

  As the writing washed away, Ushman Dayyid went on, his voice rising and falling through the constant drone of the surrounding prayers.

  They bathed Fikiri in different waters and oils, each accompanied by its own prayer. Dayyid and all of the black-coated priests chanted blessings, passing what appeared to be bird’s eggs to Fikiri and between themselves. And all the while John and the gray-robed priests kept up their steady cycle of prayers. The roughness returned to John’s throat and when he could, he simply whispered the words.

  At last Dayyid’s deep voice boomed out through the chamber, calling out that Fikiri should live forever free from the desires and sins of the flesh.

  “Let only the spirit of Parfir live within him. Let only the will of Parfir touch him,” Ushman Dayyid proclaimed. Two black-coated priests pulled a gray cassock onto Fikiri and then slipped one of their black coats over his shoulders. Fikiri stood, looking pale and overwhelmed. He took the cup Ushman Dayyid handed him and drank from it.

  A wild roar of cheers echoed through the chamber.

  Then more wine was poured and the singing and music began in earnest.

  Thinking on it, John realized that this was the exact moment when the holy ceremony transformed into a festivity. John followed the lead of the men around him, particularly Samsango. He sang along with his fellow priests and accepted the clay cup of wine they passed to him.

  John didn’t trust himself to drink much. He doubted that he could maintain his grasp of Basawar when drunk. Some English phrase was too likely to slip out. So he pretended to sip from his cup and politely declined any more. As the priests around him slowly broke off into conversations with each other, John kept reciting the prayers that Bati’kohl had taught him.

  “Enough prayers,” Samsango said to him at last. “You will still have plenty more to say tomorrow and the day after that and all the rest of the days of your life.” Samsango wobbled a little and gazed dow
n at the full cup in John’s hand.

  “Are you going to drink it?” Samsango asked over the dull roar of surrounding conversations. John shook his head.

  John held the clay cup out to him. “Have it, please.”

  The ancient priest took the cup. “Not to your liking?”

  “I’m too tired to drink.” John had to raise his voice as a group of priests near them broke into loud laughter. “I’d pass out on the floor if I had much more.”

  Samsango nodded, drank John’s wine, and then asked if there was anything he needed.

  John replied, “A bath and a bed.”

  “You are too easy to please, Jahn.” The old priest laughed. “It’s just as well that you didn’t ask for a woman since there aren’t any here, but I had a good joke ready if you had.”

  Samsango told him the joke anyway. John failed to understand it but he joined the old man in laughing. At last, Samsango instructed John through a set of doors to the right of the altar where he could find the hot spring baths.

  John washed and soaked and allowed the hot waters to soothe his bruised, tired body. When he got out, he found that, once again, someone had taken his clothes. A towel and gray robes had replaced them. Another little cookie sat in a clay dish beside the robes. It was bland but not bad. John ate it quickly and wished that he had been left a few more. Or better yet, a plate of spicy enchiladas.

  He dressed and then simply wandered through the huge halls and over the raised walkways of Rathal’pesha. He traced his fingers along the curves and script-like lines of the latticed walls. The stone felt warm beneath his hands. Cool evening winds blew over him. Away from the party, the monastery was quiet and the solitude soothed him.

  He explored the depopulated chambers and courtyards as if they were a ruin he had discovered. The silver dishes of polished stones set in alcoves, the tiny white flowers growing between the stones of the walkways, he took in the small, alien details with fascination.

  Now and then, he noticed priests high up in the battlements on the walls, but they paid no attention to him. He passed below them in his simple gray robes just as any other priest might have.

  John wandered through Rathal’pesha while the sun sank. At last only the pale glow of the moon on the white stone walls illuminated the twilight darkness. He searched without thinking about it, without wondering what he was looking for. Finally, he reached an open courtyard and stopped.

  He already knew that dark dwarf pines grew up from carved alabaster spheres throughout the courtyard. He had dreamed of them and seen the tree roots cracking into the stones’ surfaces as if they were eggs. A surreal feeling suffused him as he observed the soft green moss growing along the edges of the white stone pathways. The air smelled of incense, wine, and pine needles.

  A man in dark gray robes leaned against the alabaster base of one of the dwarf pines. He sat deep in a shadow, with his head cocked as if listening. The position offered John a clear view of his muscular throat and sharp jaw. The rest of his face was in shadow, his tall body hidden in the folds of his priest’s robes. And yet John knew him at once.

  Ravishan.

  John had been hoping to see him all day, but suddenly he was glad he hadn’t. The soft darkness and evening quiet seemed so much more suited to their meeting. Earlier, in the crowds of priests, their words would have been drowned under the roar of hundreds of voices chanting prayers and the cacophonies of gongs, bells, and drums.

  John’s first instinct was simply to walk out to him. But then he felt the familiar cold whisper of the Gray Space opening. Then there were words. A soft voice brushed through the air and wrapped around Ravishan.

  “Rock a cradle cut from stone. Rock the baby, flesh from bone.”

  Ravishan lifted one hand to his lips and John felt him slice the air in front of him with a flick of his fingertips. Ravishan’s mouth moved, but John couldn’t hear his words. They slipped into the Gray Space, doubtless emerging somewhere miles away in the ear of the one they were intended for.

  “Them that knows,” the girlish voice whispered back to Ravishan, “says the glass is gone black and the Bousim bastard is delivered live when his blood should be water on the stones.”

  He didn’t know who Ravishan was talking to, but her words disturbed him. He didn’t want to hear this—not now when he had just found some brief sense of calm. John retreated, and the hem of his robe brushed across the surface of an alabaster stone. It barely made a whisper of sound, but Ravishan turned immediately. His wide eyes looked entirely black in the darkness. His face caught the moonlight with the same radiance as the stone walls.

  “Who are—” Ravishan began but then his jaw dropped in disbelief. “Jahn?”

  Ravishan sprang to his feet, rushed to John, and threw his arms around him in a hard embrace. It startled John. He had never been a person who displayed affection so openly. He didn’t even hug his own mother. And yet, at this moment it felt too good to resist. John wrapped his arms around Ravishan and returned his embrace.

  The strength and heat of Ravishan’s body pressed so close and the scent of his skin seemed almost heady. John felt his heartbeat skip in a wild rhythm as Ravishan’s jaw brushed against the tender skin of his neck. It felt so good after nearly a year of physical isolation.

  Too good, John realized. He caught himself before his relieved grip slipped into a caress. He stepped back, and hesitantly, Ravishan released him.

  “How did you get here?” Ravishan’s expression was a muddle of joy and disbelief. “I looked for you. I looked all that day and the next but...” He trailed off, apparently in awe of John’s clean-shaven jawline. “You look so different like this.”

  The apprehension John had felt while listening to the girl’s sinister whispers wrap around Ravishan vanished.

  “I came as the attendant to the ushiri candidate. I wanted to tell you but I didn’t have any way to send you word.” John leaned back against one of the alabaster stones and explained what had happened since Ravishan had last seen him. He left out helping the Fai’daum youth escape and Lady Bousim’s confusion about where he, Laurie, and Bill came from. Otherwise, he told Ravishan everything.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to tell you. I didn’t want you to be punished for staying out looking for us. Were you?”

  “Ushman Dayyid wanted to kill me but I told him that I had gotten lost and too sick to come back.” Ravishan shrugged.

  “He believed that?”

  “After I threw up, he did.” Ravishan grinned. “I ate a fistful of goatweed just before I came back to make sure that I would.”

  Ravishan leaned against the stone next to John.

  “You look so…handsome now,” Ravishan said. “I feel a little nervous, like I’m just meeting you. I don’t even know what I should call you. What name did you give them?”

  “Jahn,” John said, “I wasn’t in a position to be too creative.”

  “But that’s...” Ravishan furrowed his brow. “It’s my name for you.”

  “Well, now it’s everyone’s name for me.”

  “You deserve a better name,” Ravishan said.

  “I don’t think I’d remember to answer to a better name.” John smiled at how seriously Ravishan seemed to take the matter.

  “But now everyone will call you Jahn.”

  “Well, what would you want them to call me?” John asked.

  “I don’t know.” Ravishan lowered his gaze to where a knot of pine roots cracked through the alabaster. “Something else.”

  “Like wahbai?” John suggested. A look of horror washed over Ravishan’s face at the idea of John calling himself ‘asshole.’

  “Or faud?” John suggested the word he was pretty sure meant something close to ‘fuck.’

  “No,” Ravishan said quickly. “Don’t call yourself any of those things. Not even as a joke. Ushman Dayyid would skin you alive for it.”

  “Then Jahn wasn’t such a bad choice?”

  “I suppose it wasn’t.” Ravish
an reached past John to pull a spray of pine needles from the branch above them.

  “So you saved the candidate’s life?” Ravishan pulled one of the pine needles loose from the rest, and after a moment, let it drop to the ground.

  “I don’t know.” John shrugged. “He was pretty well guarded. He might have been fine without my help.”

  “The Issusha’im Oracles foresaw his death.” Ravishan shifted to face John, his hip and elbow resting lightly against the smooth alabaster. He leaned close, keeping his voice low. “But you stopped it.”

  “Maybe,” John said. “Maybe the oracles were just wrong.”

  “The Issusha’im Oracles are never wrong.” Ravishan let another pine needle fall.

  “They just were, weren’t they?”

  “Only because of you.” Ravishan studied his face and suddenly John felt aware of their close proximity. He could smell the sharp tang of pine on Ravishan’s skin. Someone coming across them like this might get the wrong impression. Hell, John was starting to get the wrong impression himself.

  Ravishan didn’t seem to notice it at all. He leaned closer, smiling.

  “No one in the Black Tower knows how the prophecy was broken, but I do.” He poked the sharp point of a pine needle against John’s shoulder. “You did it, my Jahn.”

  It would be wise to step back a little, John thought. Then he didn’t.

  “Up in the Black Tower, do they think that it was good or bad that Fikiri survived?” John remembered the words that had floated over Ravishan. ‘His blood should be water on the stones.’

  “Who knows what they think.”

  “But wasn’t that what you were talking about when I got here?” John asked.

  “You heard us?” The remaining pine needles slipped from Ravishan’s hand but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Not you,” John said. “Your friend.”