6: Broken Fortress

by Ginn Hale

  Kahlil was more than familiar with his own mortality. And he knew that in principal the Rifter would live as long as the world of Basawar itself. But he’d always been so focused on the way that a Rifter could be killed—bled by the yasi’halaun and then sealed within a Great Gate by the deathlock key—that he hadn’t considered the implications of the Rifter’s survival. He hadn’t thought of the passage of years or decades, much less eons. Mountains lasted for thousands of years, didn’t they? And worlds?

  Jath’ibaye would live as long as the world. But Kahlil himself certainly wouldn’t. More than likely he wouldn’t outlive those saplings planted beside the barrack guardtowers. Someday someone else would have to take his title and his place as Jath’ibaye’s guardian.

  He glared down at the neat lines of young kahlirash’im parading across the nearest courtyard.

  “So, you asked me here because you want me to train the next Kahlil,” Kahlil said.

  “It has to be more interesting than translating that book,” Wah’roa replied, and apparently reading Kahlil’s surprised expression correctly, he added, “Ji mentioned it to me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Kahlil said at last. But he already knew that Wah’roa was right. There would have to be another Kahlil to guard the yasi’halaun after he was gone.

  Besides, he did need something to do aside from translate that dull botany tome.

  “Why don’t you introduce me to Pesha.”

  •••

  He soon discovered that despite her often hunched posture and lanky limbs, Pesha was quick and coordinated. In the company of other, prettier, girls, she brushed her ragged black bangs over her scarred right eye, but she wasn’t too shy to ask a question or even offer an argument under her breath—all of which reminded him just a little of his sister Rousma.

  But most importantly, despite—or perhaps because of—Fikiri’s assault, she was driven to master her innate skill. Only her panicked flight into the Gray Space had saved her the night Fikiri had butchered the rest of her family. Now, she habitually attempted to access the Gray Space. The countless fresh scars and ugly scabs on her hands attested to her relentless efforts.

  Kahlil remembered the discomfort of those same injuries from his first years under Dayyid’s instruction. He decided that if nothing else he could teach Pesha to avoid such pointless pain.

  He brought her heavy leather gloves on the second day of their lessons. Then he spent several hours describing and demonstrating how to sense the right point from which to seamlessly split open the Gray Space. Pesha imitated him enthusiastically, though as the morning stretched into the afternoon, her strength and concentration waned. In a momentary lapse of attention, she nearly slit her own throat when she unintentionally wrenched open an Unseen Edge.

  Kahlil lunged forward, knocking Pesha back and blocking the advance of the Unseen Edge with his left forearm. An instant later the edge collapsed on itself.

  The thin gash across Kahlil’s forearm looked worse than it felt, though he had to repeat that fact multiple times to Pesha and later to Jath’ibaye before either of them seemed to believe him. In truth, he’d suffered worse injuries while bicycling as a runner for the Lisam house. Though he did take an amused pleasure in the additional attention Jath’ibaye paid him that night.

  The next day Besh’anya met Kahlil outside the gates of the kahlirash compound with a medical bag.

  “Ji wants me to ensure that neither of you loses an arm,” she informed Kahlil.

  “Good to know I inspire such confidence.”

  Besh’anya flushed and protested that she had the utmost belief in his skills. “It’s just—well, it’s wiser to be safe, isn’t it? The kahlirash’im infirmary is all the way across the compound and you might need help sooner—not that I think you’d need help…”

  Kahlil tried not to laugh as Besh’anya followed him past the busy smithies and across the training grounds to the cobbled area where Pesha waited with her patched coat draped over her lanky arms.

  Kahlil, too, carried his coat. The morning felt unseasonably warm. Drifts of snow that had gathered in the corners of the kahlirash training courtyards melted away, exposing pale green mosses and young shoots of frostgrass. Warm shafts of sun glittered over the black iron tiles of the roofs.

  Most of the young men at the front of the courtyard had stripped to their waists to practice hand-to-hand combat. Another group of young kahlirash’im lounged in the sun, surreptitiously placing wagers on the men wrestling in front of them. The few who noticed Kahlil watched him pass with expressions of uncertainty. Over the past three days he’d overheard many of the kahlirash’im whispering about him, the Kahlil who supposedly had returned from death. Not all of them had sounded certain that his presence was auspicious. He, like Fikiri, was a remnant of the old church.

  But Pesha beamed at the sight of him. Her expression only faltered slightly when she noticed Besh’anya and the medical bag she carried.

  “Is your arm healing right, Kyle’insira?” Pesha asked.

  “It’s fine,” Kahlil told her. “Besh’anya’s really just here to spy on us for Ji.”

  “I am not!” Besh’anya protested.

  “She’s also amusing to tease,” Kahlil added and Pesha grinned. Besh’anya flounced down onto a bench and gave an annoyed huff that sounded exactly like the snort of an exasperated tahldi. Kahlil didn’t laugh at her, but it wasn’t easy. He laid his coat down on the bench but kept the yasi’halaun strapped across his back. Then he turned to survey their training grounds.

  He’d chosen this particular courtyard because old incantations lingered in some of the cracked flagstones, locking the Gray Space away from even him. He didn’t enjoy the sensation of those incantations, as they stirred boyhood memories of his own training, when Dayyid had trapped him in the darkest chambers of Rathal’pesha and done all he could to break him.

  Even as weak and worn as the incantations were, Kahlil would have avoided this place under most circumstances. But he’d discovered that, for Pesha, nothing helped her define the presence of the Gray Space like briefly feeling its absence.

  “All right, Pesha, let’s warm up by locating a few more of those locked spots we talked about yesterday,” Kahlil decided. He’d already sighted a few of the flagstones bearing the telltale scratches of Payshmura script.

  “Yes, sir.” Pesha laid her coat on the far end of the bench next to Besh’anya. As she did so, Kahlil noticed the look of infatuation that crossed her face and the glances she stole at Besh’anya from beneath her dark bangs. A pang of sympathetic dread shot through Kahlil when he saw Pesha’s emotions so clearly written in her expression.

  “That dress looks very nice on you, Lamiri Besh’anya,” Pesha commented.

  “Thank you, Kahlirash Pesha—or should I call you Ushiri Pesha?”

  “I-I’m not—”

  “Ushiri Pesha,” Kahlil confirmed and Pesha’s angular face lit with pride.

  “Well, Ushiri Pesha, allow me to return the compliment and say that your uniform suits you very well, I think.” Besh’anya smiled as indulgently at Pesha as she had at the fumbling adolescent boys who’d flirted with her when they’d walked past the smithies that morning.

  “This is just a hand-me-down…but thank you…I washed it yesterday…” A flush colored Pesha’s cheeks as she grinned and nervously brushed her bangs over her scarred right eye.

  Kahlil wondered if he’d ever flirted that awkwardly in his life. Then the memory of a halting confession amid the filth and flowers of Candle Alley came to him. It hadn’t been him but Ravishan who had stood there with his heart hammering and his hands shaking with both longing and fear. Yet he still felt a pang of sympathy for Pesha.

  Though, it would have been stronger if he hadn’t seen her flirting just as excitedly with one of the kahlirash artillery women a day ago.

  Kahlil cleared his throat loudly and Pesha quickly turned to him. She schooled her grin back to serious attention as she met Kahlil’s gaze.
r />   “Locked spots,” Pesha repeated his earlier order and then she got to work.

  She located the breaks in the Gray Space quite quickly once she had stopped peering over her shoulder to where Besh’anya sat reading a slim volume of poetry. After a half hour or so, Kahlil beckoned Pesha to a stretch of incantations covering five flagstones. Here it would be easiest for Pesha to sense the texture of Gray Space as it broke to flow around the line laid down by the incantations.

  “Here, try to feel the direction that the Gray Space opens most easily.”

  Pesha hurried to his side. She closed her eyes and held up her gloved hands the way Kahlil had taught her. He felt the air around her shivering as her fingers twitched and turned. Then she stopped and flicked her fingers apart. Yellow sparks lit the edge of the Gray Space as it tore open with low, scraping moan.

  “Good. Now hold it, if you can,” Kahlil instructed her. He extended his own hands above Pesha’s, safeguarding her, though she couldn’t see it. Pesha’s arms trembled but she held the Gray Space open.

  “You’re doing very well. Now we’re both going to step inside and let the Gray Space close around us. I’m right behind you, so there’s nothing to worry about, all right?”

  Pesha nodded and stepped forward. Kahlil followed her into the colorless, frigid silence.

  Kahlil had not been trained this way himself. The ushman’im at Rathal’pesha would have thought nothing of hurling an ushiri into the grinding depths of the Gray Space and simply praying that Parfir would lend him the strength to fight his way free.

  Kahlil had been among the few who had risen to the challenge. Many others had died—needlessly, he was now beginning to suspect—because in the mere two days that he’d shadowed Pesha in her training and protected her from the worst injuries the Gray Space could inflict, she had improved remarkably.

  Now she only glanced back at him once and then moved ahead, negotiating the ropy, cutting texture of the Gray Space. She ducked and sidestepped her way across the courtyard, weaving between the impenetrable, glassy distortions that the Payshmura incantations threw up from the flagstones. At last she lifted her hands and, flicking her fingers apart, wrenched open an escape from the Gray Space. Kahlil followed her out, feeling the rush of mountain air like a summer wind after the deathly cold of the Gray Space.

  Only an instant had passed but they now stood together halfway across the courtyard. The notes of birdsong sounded loud and sweet, but the gathered kahlirash’im went momentarily quiet as they stared at Pesha and Kahlil. Awe showed in their faces. Then their captain called them back to their own practice.

  Pesha hugged herself, shivering with cold but beaming with pride. He couldn’t keep himself from returning her smile. Many of the ushiri’im he’d known in Rathal’pesha had struggled for years before ever mastering such a controlled passage.

  “Uh, I can’t believe how cold it is in there.” Pesha rubbed her gloved hands over her arms. “I feel like my bones are made of ice.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Kahlil assured her. “But why don’t we cross back to Besh’anya and retrieve our coats?”

  Pesha shuddered but then raised her hands and again tore open a passage into the Gray Space. An arc of flames seared along the edge and the scent of burned ozone filled the air, but Pesha held the Gray Space open. Kahlil sensed her fatigue in the stiff motion of her arms but knew that only constant practice would build her endurance.

  As they crossed the courtyard the second time, Kahlil noted an odd, new distortion—a moving shadow, like a ripple passing through water, distorted his view of the surrounding courtyard and its busy occupants. Someone very near them was tearing his own passage through the Gray Space.

  Fikiri. Kahlil could almost feel his presence in the way he powered ahead with complete disregard to the grain and resistance of the Gray Space.

  Pesha was far too focused on crossing the courtyard cleanly to take note of Fikiri’s shadow closing in. She wheeled her way between cutting expanses and impenetrable planes with an expression of strained intensity. Kahlil didn’t attempt to break her concentration; fear wouldn’t help her right now.

  His hand went to his knife as he watched Fikiri draw nearer. For an instant he thought that Fikiri might attempt to rip through the membranous walls of the Gray Space to make his attack in the cold silence. But instead, Fikiri went still and Kahlil realized he was waiting to ambush Pesha when she re-entered the open air near Besh’anya.

  As Pesha rallied her strength to drop out of the Gray Space, Kahlil took careful aim between her and Fikiri’s shadow.

  Pesha broke free and Kahlil felt Fikiri explode from the Gray Space just to her right. White flames hung over his gaunt face. Terror contorted Pesha’s features and sudden shock showed on Besh’anya’s face. The surrounding kahlirash’im hardly had time to register anything beyond flames outlining Fikiri’s black-robed figure before Kahlil bounded out from the Gray Space to block Fikiri’s black blade as he thrust for Pesha’s throat.

  Fikiri stumbled back a step, his eyes wide.

  “You can’t be...” Fikiri gaped.

  “But I am.” Kahlil punched his knife into Fikiri’s chest, only to feel the blade skid across the hard armor hidden beneath his tattered black robes.

  “Damn it,” Kahlil swore.

  With his curse blade, Fikiri slashed for Kahlil’s extended arm. Kahlil bounded back. Fikiri took a second swing, but this time Kahlil charged into the thrust, blocking Fikiri’s blade with his own and using his free left hand to plunge a Silence Knife into Fikiri’s heart. Pain rocked up Kahlil’s arm as Fikiri’s armor held against his assault. After second fast blow, Kahlil felt something crack. The wailing screech of some dying creature rose from Fikiri’s chest and he suddenly went pale.

  Instantly, Fikiri dropped into the Gray Space and was gone. Kahlil nearly followed after, but then he remembered the tangled chaos of the Gray Space in the far north. He couldn’t afford to lose his bearings while he carried the yasi’halaun. He had to keep it out of Fikiri’s hands.

  Suddenly a roar of cheers erupted from across the courtyard. All around him half-dressed kahlirash’im hooted and clapped. Alarmed guards came sprinting into the courtyard with their rifles at the ready. As their fellow kahlirash’im described the fight, their stricken expressions transformed into joy. Besh’anya quickly regained her feet from where she’d toppled off the bench.

  “Everything is fine—” Kahlil began, but to his surprise, Pesha suddenly threw herself at him, gripping him in a fierce hug. She buried her head against his chest and squeezed so hard that Kahlil had to fight to breathe.

  “You fought the devil,” Pesha mumbled into his shirtfront. “You beat him8”

  Her raw gratitude touched Kahlil but made him uncomfortable at the same time. He wasn’t a hero. It would be unwise for these people to take him for one. Still, he patted Pesha’s head and allowed her to crush his ribs for a few moments more.

  “I can’t breathe, Pesha.”

  “Oh! Sorry.” Pesha released him immediately. The red scar over her eye stood out vividly against her deathly pale skin.

  “Those are some strong arms you’ve got.” Kahlil made a show of drawing in a breath and Pesha flushed. It was good to see a little color return to her pallid face.

  Then Kahlil took in the kahlirash’im gathered in the courtyard and those peering out from their barrack windows.

  “Sorry for the disturbance. Everything’s fine now,” Kahlil called out.

  He saw Wah’roa’s emaciated figure appear atop the training grounds’ wall. Wah’roa surveyed the gathering and then gave a hand sign for dispersal. Immediately the kahlirash guards returned to their duties and the troops in the courtyard made a show of taking up their battle stances again. Several of them grappled but more gossiped in soft whispers.

  “Kyle, your hand is bleeding.” Besh’anya snatched up her medical bag and hurried to Kahlil’s side.

  He glanced down and was annoyed to see a bloody gash across the
back of his hand. It wasn’t wide or too deep. Much of the blood was already congealing.

  Kahlil started to wave Besh’anya aside. But then he remembered Pesha, standing there watching him. He didn’t want her to get the idea that she should just shrug off injuries from the Gray Space or, worse yet, cursed weapons. Many of the wounds could be internal or feel nearly painless but too quickly turn deadly.

  “It doesn’t look bad, but it’s hard to be sure. I’d appreciate your opinion, Besh’anya.” Kahlil almost laughed at how unlike himself he sounded, but no one else seemed to be aware of it.

  He rolled up the cuff of his new white shirt—now stained red, damn it. Besh’anya took his arm in her hands almost reverently. As she caught sight of his forearm a little gasp escaped her. Immediately, Pesha drew closer.

  “There are so many scars,” Besh’anya breathed.

  Kahlil was so used to the masses of white scars that crisscrossed the muscles of his arms that he hadn’t given a thought as to how they might look to others. Most of them were remnants from Payshmura bloodletting practices.

  “Ji says that the Payshmura priests tortured the boys they trained.” Besh’anya held Kahlil’s arm as if it were a dying animal in her care. “Did they torture you?”

  That was the last thing Kahlil wanted to talk about, especially in front of Pesha. But Besh’anya clearly couldn’t see the alarmed expression on Pesha’s face; as far as Pesha knew, Kahlil was training her in the same way he had been instructed.

  “No,” Kahlil replied lightly, “they just punished me a lot for swearing.”

  “Oh.” Besh’anya seemed disappointed by his answer, but Pesha gave a little, nervous laugh.

  “So, it’s just a scratch?” Kahlil prompted.

  “What?” Besh’anya started slightly. She had been staring at the scars on Kahlil’s arm again. “Yes, it looks fine. I should probably clean it, just to be safe.”