4: Witches' Blood

by Ginn Hale

  Ravishan was there, crouched beneath an outcropping of gray rock, staring down at the monastery below. His black hair blew across his face and he pushed it back. Absently, almost carelessly, he turned his black-bladed knife through his hands.

  John opened his eyes.

  He felt a slight shock as the surrounding stone walls and walkways of Rathal’pesha instantly rushed over him. Reflexively, he gripped the walkway railing, as if the world had truly shifted beneath him. For a few minutes, John simply stood where he was, wondering how he had just seen Ravishan.

  His first instinct was to disregard the experience. For all he knew, it had just been an effect of a sleepless night, deep guilt and wishful thinking.

  It wasn’t as if he’d opened the Gray Space or caused spontaneous combustion. He’d just imagined Ravishan, whose image came to him all too often and too readily.

  Still, John decided that it was worth following. Seeing Ravishan turn the sharp knife through his hands so carelessly had disturbed him. Even if his vision had been completely wrong, John knew he had to go up the mountain.

  He went quickly, only stopping to get a heavy coat and gloves.

  #

  John followed the narrow animal tracks leading up between the outcroppings of rock and scrub pines. A few wild goats paused atop jagged stones to watch him pass beneath them. He climbed higher and the air began to burn in his lungs. Despite the snow and wind, sweat beaded his body.

  It was tiring work, and yet not as difficult as he had expected. He had anticipated more trouble keeping his footing, but that, at least, seemed to come easily. Even scaling the face of a steep incline, with his body pressed against the frigid rock, hand and footholds seemed to simply open where he needed them. It gave him an odd feeling of security, as if the mountain itself were cradling him, and it would not let him fall.

  Just the kind of thought that would come to a man suffering from oxygen deprivation, John told himself. He shook his head and continued climbing. He was almost there. He could already see the outcropping where Ravishan knelt. John picked his way closer. Ravishan’s black coat and hair stood out sharply against the white snow.

  Ravishan’s gaze was distant, almost unseeing. He raised his empty hands to his mouth and breathed over his fingers, presumably to warm them. A rush of relief washed over John as he saw that Ravishan had sheathed his black curse blade. Slowly, Ravishan shifted his gaze from the distant sky to the field of gray stone and white snow surrounding him. When he suddenly saw John, he looked as startled as if John had leapt out from nowhere.

  John smiled and gave a tired wave.

  Ravishan seemed expressionless. He straightened and stood. For a moment, John thought Ravishan might just slip away through the Gray Space. Instead, he remained where he was, watching as John closed the distance between them.

  It was only when John stepped in close to Ravishan, sharing his shelter beneath the stone outcropping, that a red blush spread across Ravishan’s cheeks. Then it seemed incredibly natural for John to wrap his arms around the other man and draw him close. Ravishan surged into the embrace, hugging John so hard that it was almost painful. When he pressed his face against John’s neck, his skin felt icy. The fragrances of incense and pollen still clung to Ravishan from the night before. His body felt so good in John’s arms.

  “Are you all right?” John asked.

  Ravishan nodded, not lifting his face from where it was pressed against John’s neck.

  “I shouldn’t have left you the way I did,” John spoke softly, his lips brushing Ravishan’s cold hair. There was no one to overhear them, but secrecy had become a reflex to him. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Ravishan finally looked up at him. “I’ve been thinking about the things you said—”

  “You shouldn’t.” John wished he could have taken the whole thing back somehow and been less of an arrogant bastard. “I don’t know half of what I’m talking about.”

  “But you were right,” Ravishan told him. “I hadn’t thought about what could happen to us. When I did...when I thought of what Dayyid could do to you if he discovered us…” Ravishan bowed his head against John’s chest.

  “It’s all right,” John whispered. “We aren’t going to do anything. So nothing will happen to us.”

  Ravishan lifted his face again. The afternoon light lit golden flecks in his dark eyes. Traces of a blush still colored his cheeks, but his mouth remained pale from the cold.

  John bowed his head and gently kissed Ravishan’s lips. He only meant it to be brief and sweet. But then Ravishan closed his eyes and opened his mouth to him. Desire surged through John’s body. He pulled Ravishan against him hard, kissing him with a savage hunger.

  Then John caught himself and drew back.

  “Nothing’s going to happen?” Ravishan asked. Slowly, he opened his eyes and offered John one of his dazzling, rare smiles.

  John loved that smile—the joy in it, the honesty of it, and most of all the fact that it was meant just for him. Suddenly, John desperately wanted Ravishan. The wind, snow and stone surrounding them didn’t matter. All he wanted was to kneel with Ravishan beneath the shelter of this outcropping and make love to him. It took all of his will to stop himself from pulling Ravishan back into his arms.

  “I told you, I didn’t know what I was talking about,” John answered.

  John forced himself to let go of Ravishan and step back. Ravishan released him hesitantly.

  John’s entire body ached with an almost overpowering longing. It had been years since he’d touched another man and felt his arousal returned so fervently. And Ravishan wasn’t just any other man. He was strong, smart, beautiful, and so very eager—everything John could have wanted.

  But neither of them could afford to embark on this affair. Only this morning Hann’yu had warned him that at least one man had lost his life for such a thing. Homosexuality wouldn’t be tolerated even in jest here.

  John had to look away out over the frigid mountains for several moments before he could regain his composure.

  “It’s so cold,” he said just to fill the silence. “You wouldn’t even know it was spring.”

  “It always feels like winter up here,” Ravishan replied.

  John didn’t trust himself to look at Ravishan, so he occupied himself by digging through his coat pockets for the pair of heavy gloves that he had brought.

  “Here.” John handed over the gloves. “Your hands looked cold.”

  “You could see them, behind your back?” Ravishan asked.

  “Not just now. Earlier.” John glanced to him and watched as Ravishan pulled the gloves on and flexed his fingers against the stiff leather.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I could do.” John fell silent, unable to find anything safe to say. His mouth still burned from Ravishan’s kiss. His body ached.

  “So…” Ravishan said, but then didn’t add anything else.

  At last, John said, “I suppose we should get back to Rathal’pesha. Dayyid has the ushiri’im looking for you.”

  Ravishan sighed. As he gazed down at the monastery, that distant, hopeless expression returned to his face. From so far above, the stone walls and dark green trees seemed so small. John could blot the entire monastery out with one raised hand.

  “I don’t want to go back,” Ravishan murmured. The words were so soft that John wasn’t sure that he had been meant to hear them. “I hate it there.”

  John opened his mouth to tell Ravishan that he was sorry, that it was unavoidable, but then stopped himself.

  When he had climbed up here he had only been thinking of Ravishan’s safety. Obliquely he’d imagined shepherding Ravishan back down to Rathal’pesha, as if he would be bringing Ravishan home. But now it struck him that the monastery offered Ravishan none of the security or protection of a home.

  John knew that Ravishan’s right arm, hidden beneath his coat sleeve, was swathed in bandages. John realized that at some point he had stopped t
hinking of the perpetual injuries those bandages masked. He had begun to accept the countless small scars and fresh cuts tracing Ravishan’s body as if they were natural. Scars on the skin of an ushiri seemed as harmless as freckles. But they weren’t natural, and they weren’t harmless. They were years of pain carved into flesh.

  Those injuries were all that Rathal’pesha offered Ravishan. Of course he hated the place. Of course he wanted to run away. Who wouldn’t? He didn’t cry like Fikiri, but John knew that Ravishan had endured far worse for much longer.

  John frowned down at the monastery. In his own way, he needed Ravishan to be an ushiri and become Kahlil as much as the Payshmura priests did. The Kahlil offered him a chance to get back home. But if that meant that Ravishan had to endure injury and agony so routinely that pain became commonplace, then it wasn’t worth it. Ravishan deserved better, and if there was nothing else John could do for him, he could at least give Ravishan his freedom.

  “There must be somewhere you can go where Dayyid and the other ushman’im can’t find you,” John said softly. “Somewhere far from here. Nurjima, maybe.”

  From Hann’yu’s descriptions, John knew it to be a vast city with a diverse and liberal population. It seemed like just the kind of place where a smart young man like Ravishan could remake himself and his life.

  “You want us to run away to Nurjima?” Ravishan asked as if John had suggested something unimaginable and wondrous.

  You want us to run away…

  Yes, right now he wanted to go anywhere, so long as he could be with Ravishan. But John stopped himself from saying as much. He couldn’t travel through the Gray Space and it would be idiotic for Ravishan not to. If he was going to escape from Dayyid, then he needed to go very far as fast as possible.

  Besides that, John knew he couldn’t just abandon Laurie and Bill here.

  “You should go,” John told him. “You could probably be there in a few minutes. Dayyid would never be able to track you down.”

  Ravishan studied his face for several moments and John could see the realization dawning in his expression. Ravishan shook his head.

  “I’m not going to leave you.” He scowled down at the distant grounds of Rathal’pesha but then looked back to John. “I promised you that I would take you home and I will.”

  “You made that promise years ago—”

  “I want to keep it. For you,” Ravishan said firmly. He shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. “And in any case, you aren’t the only one I made a promise to. There’s Rousma as well.”

  “Rousma?” John thought he might have heard the name before but he couldn’t remember when. Then he recalled the girl who Ravishan secretly spoke to through the Gray Space. John recalled her strange cadences and awkward sentences whispering through the air. The same tones often hunted him through his dreams of the holy bones.

  “When we were children, they took her to Umbhra’ibaye,” Ravishan said. “Now she’s one of the Issusha’im Oracles.”

  “They’re going to skin her?” A shudder of revulsion coiled through John’s stomach.

  “They did that years ago. At least she’s still alive. By holy law, we both should’ve been executed along with our parents. But there was too much power in our blood and bones for them to let us go.” Ravishan kicked at the snow beneath his feet. “If I run away they’ll take it out on Rousma.”

  It was so wrong, John thought. He wanted to curse the sheer injustice of Ravishan’s entire life. But Ravishan’s determined silence held him back.

  “I swore to her that once I was Kahlil I would find a way to free her. So, you see, there’s no running away for me,” Ravishan said at last. He leaned into John’s shoulder and John instinctively wrapped an arm around him, offering his silent comfort.

  “Don’t look so grim, Jahn,” Ravishan told him. “Before I met you, becoming Kahlil was something I had to do to keep myself and my sister alive. I endured my training. But after I met you I began to truly want to become Kahlil. I want to cross into Nayeshi with you and…I want the life I can have there with you.”

  John met Ravishan’s gaze and Ravishan flushed and looked down at his boots.

  “Things are very different for men like us in Nayeshi,” John assured Ravishan. He didn’t want brood over the liberties he’d lost in Basawar, because it would only depress him, but in comparison Nayeshi was a welcoming haven.

  “When we reach Nayeshi...” Ravishan began, but then faltered.

  “Yes?” John asked.

  “Will you live with me? Will you be my lover?” Ravishan asked in a rush.

  Despite the surrounding snow, John felt a flush of warmth. He didn’t know quite what to say. There were so many reasons that they shouldn’t even be discussing such a thing.

  “You don’t have to say yes.” Ravishan shied immediately, taking a step away, eyes downcast. “I’ll take you back no matter what you say.”

  “Of course I’ll be your lover,” John said quickly. “I can hardly keep my hands off you now. Do you think anything would stop me once we’re in Nayeshi?”

  Ravishan looked up at him, as if he were startled, then slowly his expression melted into a radiant smile.

  John realized that part of what made Ravishan’s smiles so charming was the sense of surprised delight that they conveyed. He never seemed to expect happiness and that made giving it to him so much more of a pleasure.

  John leaned forward and stole one last quick kiss, then turned and started back down the steep trail.

  Despite the fact that he could have stepped through the Gray Space and reached Rathal’pesha in an instant, Ravishan followed John on foot. When the path grew wide enough, they walked side by side, their arms brushing in an easy communion.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  As the short months of northern spring passed quickly into summer John managed little more than a furtive embrace and one desperate kiss with Ravishan. The rest of his time seemed dominated by Hann’yu’s need for assistance in the infirmary.

  It seemed that Dayyid pushed the ushiri’im harder every day and steadily more and more of them suffered greater injuries. In early spring, John feared that bearing the brunt of the ushiri’im’s wounds would kill him, but his body adjusted and by the time the taye flowers were blooming on the mountainsides he found himself shrugging off even the deep punctures that seemed to plague Fikiri.

  John took some consolation in the fact that he saw less of Ravishan because he was by far the least likely ushiri to be badly injured.

  When Hann’yu didn’t need John to bear the wounds of the ushiri’im, he kept busy with ushvun battle practice and studying holy texts for his formal initiation. Steadily his knowledge of the Payshmura history increased and his skill in dispatching an opponent became a reflex.

  The only interruption of John’s routine came one summer afternoon when Hann’yu attempted to teach him the spells that healed lesser injuries and eased pain. The result was disastrous.

  Hann’yu had brought up two injured lambs for John to practice on. But the moment John had laid his hands on them, their skins had ripped open as their bones tore through their flesh. Shrieks of pain had choked as vertebrae had exploded into their throats. In an instant, they’d become nothing but blood, gristle, and fragments of bone.

  John had staggered back in horror and vomited into an empty water basin.

  “I don’t think you were meant to be a physician,” Hann’yu had remarked, his face pale.

  John had nodded but hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at what he’d done. After that, Hann’yu hadn’t attempted to instruct John in any healing spells, much to John’s relief. He continued to bear wounds, clean beds, bandage injuries, and prepare medicines, but did nothing beyond that.

  Once he passed the trials of his initiation, winning the right to wear a single honor braid, he gained a little more free time.

  Now as the summer neared an end, John took to visiting Samsango down in the kitchens. After long days in the heights of Ratha
l’pesha, bearing deep wounds, feeling the air tear asunder, and overhearing whispers of oracles and rumors of the destroyer god, he found Samsango’s company relieving. They did simple work and often discussed the mundane news that the other ushvun’im brought up from Amura’taye.

  “Another witch,” Samsango said sadly. He settled his frail, aged body on a bench before one of the weathered cooking tables. “When I was a boy, there was only one witch that had to be burned. Now, it’s nearly one a year.”

  John frowned at the pale flames flickering in the bread oven. Waves of heat rolled out over him. He shoved the tray of uncooked loaves inside and closed the oven door. Outside, predawn light had yet to soften the night sky. It would be hours before the majority of the ushvun’im woke.

  John sat down at the table across from Samsango.

  “It’s the Fai’daum, you know,” Samsango told him. He slowly measured out two more handfuls of ground taye into the mixing bowl. John cracked three weasel eggs into the bowl and began mixing as Samsango looked on. Slowly the red yolks of the weasel eggs colored the dough dull pink. John turned out the dough. Samsango scooped up the soft mass and began to expertly knead it.

  “Their leader is in the thrall of the demoness, Ji Shir’korud,” Samsango informed John.

  John nodded. He recognized the name and remembered the large yellow dog he’d seen addressing the Fai’daum on the night he had been taken in by the Bousim. It felt like ages ago.

  “The demoness teaches all the girls witchcraft and heresy. Then the poor, pretty things end up being burned. Such a waste.”

  John gazed at Samsango. A cold unease gnawed at him. The old ushvun went on working the bread dough as if the brutal murder of these girls was of no more consequence than wasted food. Samsango glanced up and gave John a gentle, warm smile.