6: Broken Fortress

by Ginn Hale

  Jath’ibaye sat at his table. Books and planting charts were stacked to his right. Polished stones were scattered across the papers, weighing them down in the face of the rushing gusts. Jath’ibaye looked up as Kahlil walked in. Without saying a word, he kicked one of the chairs out for Kahlil to take a seat.

  “Sorry I’m so late.” Kahlil walked to the chair but was hesitant to sit down. He studied Jath’ibaye and Jath’ibaye returned his gaze with a closed expression. The muscles in his jaw flexed and worked against each other. Jath’ibaye rolled a pale stone in his hand. As Kahlil watched, bits of the rock crumbled beneath Jath’ibaye’s fingers.

  “I went—”

  “I know where you went.” Jath’ibaye cut him off as if he couldn’t stand to even hear Kahlil say it.

  Jath’ibaye glared down at the book in front of him. Kahlil recognized it. It was the ancient tome he had been slowly translating. Despite his attentive expression, Jath’ibaye did not seem to be reading. His gaze focused on one spot as if pinning the words down. He continued worrying the stone in his hand.

  Kahlil was silent. He had known that his excursion would annoy Jath’ibaye, but he hadn’t thought it would warrant this kind of anger. He wasn’t sure how apologetic he could bring himself to act.

  “Are you all right?” Jath’ibaye’s tone was flat.

  “Fine,” Kahlil assured him.

  “Good. I’m glad that you weren’t hurt.” Again the muscles in his jaw flexed as if fighting for control of his words. “You could have been killed.”

  “No one even saw me,” Kahlil said, grinning. He had thought to play the entire matter off as inconsequential. Immediately, he realized that he’d made a mistake. Jath’ibaye snapped the stone in half.

  “You could have been killed!” Jath’ibaye shouted, abandoning the pretense of repose. He bolted to his feet, sending his chair skittering back behind him.

  Kahlil stepped back.

  “You could have died! You…you are so frustrating.” He didn’t seem to trust himself to go on. Several moments of silence passed. Kahlil waited, unsure of what to say.

  “I know I can’t expect you to follow my orders, but don’t you think that you ought to tell me when you go into enemy territory?” His words came out with an unnaturally measured precision.

  “Yes,” Kahlil allowed. “But if I’m planning on doing something that you don’t like, then you’ll argue with me.”

  “If you’re planning something stupid, it is my right to argue, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell me,” Jath’ibaye said.

  “I wasn’t doing anything stupid. I saved a girl. You would have done the same thing, if you could have.” Kahlil tried to keep his own temper from flaring. He wasn’t sorry he’d done it and couldn’t even pretend to be.

  Jath’ibaye’s jaw clenched against an immediate response.

  “It was possible for me to go down there and stop those rashan’im when no one else could,” Kahlil said. “It was the right thing to do and I don’t regret going.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Jath’ibaye replied. “And I didn’t say that what you did was wrong. I was glad to see those rashan’im die. I’m angry because you didn’t tell me that you were going to do it.”

  “Oh.” The righteous argument that Kahlil had been preparing to launch was suddenly pointless. “Well, you obviously found out what I was doing.”

  “I don’t want to find out after the fact,” Jath’ibaye growled. “We are on the brink of war. I need to know where you are.”

  “All right. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking about it.” Kahlil held up his hands in the Payshmura sign of peace. “At least no harm was done.”

  “Not this time,” Jath’ibaye snapped. “But you have to remember that I can’t protect you if I don’t know where you are.”

  “You can’t always protect me no matter what,” Kahlil replied, a spark of annoyance flaring through him. He had traveled between two worlds and survived in both of them for years without Jath’ibaye’s protection. “And I’m not defenseless on my own, you know!”

  “You’re not invulnerable either,” Jath’ibaye said.

  “The rashan’im couldn’t lay a finger on me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of rashan’im,” Jath’ibaye said. “What do you think would have happened to you if I had crushed the gaun’im’s armies while you were out there?”

  “You wouldn’t have,” Kahlil replied.

  “What if I had?” Jath’ibaye insisted.

  “But you wouldn’t—”

  “I could have. And I would have killed you. I wouldn’t have known you were there and I would have killed you accidentally.” There was such cold certainty in Jath’ibaye’s tone that it startled Kahlil. Jath’ibaye’s expression was a strange mix of sickness and conviction. Kahlil knew he wasn’t talking about a hypothetical situation, but something that had already happened.

  In an instant Kahlil realized that he even knew when. When Rathal’pesha fell, Ravishan had been there. He must have gone without telling Jath’ibaye, just as he had done tonight.

  And Jath’ibaye had killed him.

  A chill shuddered down Kahlil’s spine. He felt slightly sick at the idea. Reflexively, he wanted to escape the thought of it. But he couldn’t, not with Jath’ibaye standing in front of him in such empty silence.

  All at once, Kahlil understood Jath’ibaye’s clenched jaw and balled fists. The emotion that he restrained was not anger at all, but heartbreaking loss and fear. It was an expression that as a young man in Nayeshi, John had shown to no one. But Kahlil, watching from the Gray Space, had seen. He knew that Jath’ibaye wouldn’t speak now because the tremor in his voice would reveal him to be on the edge of tears.

  He would have to be the one to make this right.

  “I didn’t think of that,” Kahlil said. His own voice sounded dull. He had been an idiot. He, of all people, knew what kind of destruction Jath’ibaye was capable of unleashing and yet he hadn’t even considered what Jath’ibaye might have done in his absence. He hadn’t given the slightest thought to the idea that Jath’ibaye might take his own action.

  This was what Ji had been trying to tell him about—the mistake that he could avoid if he only allowed himself to remember his other life. And what had he done? The same thing twice.

  He would have thought that the knowledge that Jath’ibaye had killed him would make him angry or at least feel unsafe. But all he felt was embarrassment for having been so shortsighted and stupid.

  “I’m sorry,” Kahlil managed to say. He offered Jath’ibaye his open hands. It was all he had to give.

  Jath’ibaye caught hold of Kahlil and pulled him into his arms. He hugged Kahlil to him with desperate strength.

  “Just tell me where you’re going,” Jath’ibaye said. “Just tell me, all right?”

  Kahlil nodded numbly. The scents of leaves and green wood that clung to Jath’ibaye’s body curled around him. Kahlil leaned into Jath’ibaye’s embrace.

  “I didn’t think…I’m not used to having anyone to tell.” Kahlil didn’t go on. There was no point in making excuses. “It won’t happen again, I swear.”

  “All right.” Jath’ibaye’s grip loosened, but he didn’t release Kahlil. He bowed his head slightly and kissed Kahlil’s neck. A rush of relieved pleasure throbbed over Kahlil’s skin. The air in the chamber stilled.

  “I’m still not sorry that I killed those rashan’im,” Kahlil said.

  “To be honest, neither am I.” Jath’ibaye kissed Kahlil again. The sensation of Jath’ibaye’s lips against his throat pleased Kahlil deeply. He wanted to touch more of Jath’ibaye, to taste the expanses of his chest and thighs. He needed to smooth over that moment of fear and horror. Kahlil ran his hands down the curve of Jath’ibaye’s buttocks.

  “None of them saw you?” Jath’ibaye asked.

  “None that survived.” Kahlil couldn’t keep himself from smiling proudly.

  “I can’t imagine the gaun’im are going to be happ
y about it though,” Jath’ibaye said wryly.

  “They can’t blame anyone but their own men. The rashan’im shouldn’t have been looting Mahn’illev in the first place.”

  Kahlil frowned. This wasn’t the direction that he had wanted this conversation to go. Just seconds before he had been hoping that their reconciliation would lead the two of them to Jath’ibaye’s bed.

  But he knew that there were too many other things that he had to tell Jath’ibaye first. Disappointed but resigned, he drew his hands back and said, “I overheard things while I was down there.”

  “I suppose it can’t wait?” Jath’ibaye removed his hands from Kahlil, seeming to already know the answer to his question.

  “Fikiri was there with Ourath,” Kahlil said.

  Jath’ibaye’s expression was grim but not at all surprised. “Tell me about it.”

  Kahlil did. Though halfway through he had to wait while Jath’ibaye called for Eriki’yu and gave orders to send for Ji and the members of the council.

  None of them were going to get much sleep tonight.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Wah’roa and two kahlirash captains came first, followed by a waxy, haggard Gin’yu a few minutes later. Her gray hair hung in limp strands around her face. Numerous bleary-eyed attendants and secretaries trailed in behind her. Litivi hurried in just behind his mother. His clothes were rumpled and the distinct scents of wine and women’s perfume clung to him. He looked deeply embarrassed when his mother glared at him.

  Hirran appeared soon after Litivi. Her lovely, dark hair stuck up from her head at an unbecoming angle and would not lie flat, no matter how often she attempted to smooth it back. Tai’yu had evidently been at the advanced stages of sleep when the summons had come for him. The texture of his pillow had left an impression across his cheek and one side of his long hawkish nose. His shirt wasn’t even properly buttoned. The secretary accompanying him looked like he’d dressed in the dark.

  Remembering the cold dignity of the council members when they had summoned him before, Kahlil found this contrasting vision of unkempt clothes, disarrayed hair, and hazy gazes somewhat pleasing. The members of the council were obviously not people well accustomed to sudden awakenings in the dead of night. Of all of them, Wah’roa presented the least ruffled appearance. His uniform was as clean and crisp as always. His black boots gleamed as if they had just been polished. But even he dozed off between the arrivals of the rest of the council.

  Ji arrived at last. Saimura and Besh’anya accompanied her. Kahlil offered Besh’anya a friendly smile as she sat down, still pulling the curlers out of her hair. One of the kahlirash captains seemed to know Besh’anya well enough to tease her about wearing a nightshirt to a council summons. Besh’anya glowered at him.

  Saimura, oddly, arrived better dressed than usual. His auburn hair hung loose and looked like it had been brushed to a deep luster. Bright gold buttons adorned his russet coat. Fine silk threads gleamed across the deep garnet fabric of his vest and pants. A large ruby ring flashed on his smallest finger, and instead of his usual work boots, he wore leather shoes with polished brass buckles.

  “You’re dressed for an occasion,” Jath’ibaye commented. “Not this one, I imagine?”

  “Du’rai offered me a private recital,” Saimura said. He shook his head ruefully.

  Kahlil didn’t know who Du’rai was, but Jath’ibaye clearly did. He looked impressed.

  “That was quick,” Jath’ibaye remarked.

  “Apparently, I am not without a certain charm.” Saimura’s smug expression faded as he surveyed the gathering council members. “I’m not getting back there tonight, am I?”

  “Probably not,” Jath’ibaye said.

  Saimura sighed and settled down into the seat next to Ji’s. He fished into his coat pocket and, finding a ribbon, tied his hair back from his face. Ji sat in her chair and, like Wah’roa, dozed, still exhausted from the rituals she had performed at the kahlirash grounds. Her tail wagged sleepily when Saimura gently stroked her head.

  Once all were assembled, Jath’ibaye told them what Kahlil had seen and heard. He left out most of the choice obscenities that Kahlil had used when discussing Ourath. And he was evasive as to the kind of potion that Fikiri had given to Ourath. Jath’ibaye simply referred to it as a poison. Kahlil realized that the council did not know what kind of relationship had existed between Ourath and Jath’ibaye. Doubtless Jath’ibaye did not want them to find out.

  The subject moved instead to the gaun’im’s intentions.

  “They sent men in to raid Mahn’illev?” Hirran seemed deeply troubled by the idea.

  “They weren’t sent in,” Kahlil repeated. “Some of the rashan’im went in against orders.”

  “Certainly none of the Bousim.” Hirran spoke as though this were a statement of fact rather than a question.

  “No,” Kahlil answered. He wondered how Hirran could be so sure. “None of the men were from the Du’yura, Tushoya or Milaun houses either. In all, there were probably fewer than thirty men who raided the city.”

  “Then the raiding wasn’t an act of aggression from the gaun’im so much as a lack of discipline among their rashan’im,” Hirran said.

  “Yes, but arriving with armies is certainly aggressive enough.” Litivi gave Hirran a hard look.

  “They have always brought forces as a show of strength,” Hirran replied. “The gaun’im aren’t just going to come alone to our stronghold. Certainly not after two of their own have just been killed.”

  “But to have armies and Fikiri aiding them?” Gin’yu’s expression was bitter. “This is different. They think that they can take our lands this time.”

  “We must destroy them,” Wah’roa said firmly.

  Kahlil saw the way Jath’ibaye’s body tensed at the suggestion and yet Jath’ibaye said nothing. He remained impassive, standing back from the table. His expression remained a mask of studied indifference.

  “If we destroy them, then what about Mahn’illev?” Hirran demanded. With her tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes she resembled nothing more than a woman in mourning.

  “We must not allow the gaun’im to coordinate their armies’ attacks with those of the devil Fikiri. The wisest course is to crush them now, while they are unprepared.” Wah’roa’s expression was set. His dark eyes looked like chips of coal. “Mahn’illev can always be rebuilt.”

  A thin, cold breeze stirred, sending tremors through the leaves of the plants on the shelves behind Jath’ibaye. No one but Kahlil seemed to take any note of it. Catching Kahlil’s concerned glance, Jath’ibaye shook his head silently.

  “Attacking the gaun’im could mean war with all seven houses!” Hirran protested.

  “Yes, it means war!” Wah’roa snapped. Kahlil didn’t think he’d ever seen the old man looking so excited and alive. “War has been inevitable from the beginning. The gaun’im have denied the true god for too long. They have defaced his temples and defied his commands. They have dared to raise arms against him—to mock him! They have brought their own destruction with their vain greed. It is their own fault if their lands must be broken. Their armies will fall; their cities will burn. And they will bow down before his divine wrath!” Wah’roa thrust his bony arm out, pointing triumphantly to Jath’ibaye.

  Jath’ibaye’s hand clenched around something in his palm, but otherwise he gave no reaction.

  Kahlil stared at Wah’roa, stunned by his fervor and his fury. Kahlil felt his faith in Parfir and Jath’ibaye quite strongly, but he had never thought of punishing those who didn’t.

  Wah’roa slumped back into his chair, looking tired and pleased. The entire room was silent for a few moments.

  “There may be a complication.” Jath’ibaye’s voice was soft but it carried easily through the quiet of the room. “There are fault lines that run from beneath Mahn’illev to the south. If I disturb them too much, it could trigger extensive earthquakes.”

  “Extensive?” Hirran asked.

  “Nurjima
would certainly be destroyed.” Jath’ibaye’s tone remained even, as if he were announcing the possibility of rain. “The faults could spread much further. Most of the lands south of the Samsira River would probably collapse.”

  “But that could destroy all of the gaun’im.” Hirran’s face drained of all color.

  Revulsion washed through Kahlil. All the lands south of the Samsira River. That was more than half of Basawar. It would mean the destruction of hundreds of beautiful cities and thousands of miles of verdant, fertile lands. Millions of lives would be lost. People he knew and liked would die: Yu’mir, Fensal, and Alidas.

  Kahlil glanced to Jath’ibaye, expecting him to say that he wouldn’t commit such an act. Jath’ibaye stayed as silent as a stone. He lowered his gaze to the floor, keeping his hands close to his sides.

  “Still, it may be our only option.” Gin’yu’s voice held none of the enthusiasm that Wah’roa’s had. She looked angry and miserable and heartbroken. “If they have made an ally of a monster like Fikiri, we cannot allow their plans to be carried out. Better to destroy them all than let them take Vundomu.”

  “But not all of the gaun’im have allied with Fikiri!” Again it was Hirran who protested. She looked suddenly to Kahlil. “Only Ourath Lisam was involved, yes?”

  Kahlil shook his head. “Both Nanvess Bousim and Esh’illan Anyyd were plotting with Fikiri before they were killed. I don’t know which other gaun’im might be involved.” Kahlil realized immediately that he had to say something more, or his words would seem to condemn of all the gaun’im. “None of the gaun’im involved with Fikiri were speaking for their entire houses. Most of the gaun families want peace. When I was sent to stop the assassination it was because the Bousim gaunsho wanted to ensure peace with Vundomu.”

  “But you said yourself that your orders were changed when it was discovered that one of their own was involved,” Gin’yu countered. “None of the gaun’im can be trusted.”

  “But the gaun’im’s lands are not populated by the noble families alone,” Saimura protested. “There are far more common men and women than there are gaun’im. Many of the people in Nurjima are sympathetic to Vundomu and the Fai’daum. It would be nothing short of an atrocity to kill them all.” Saimura glanced to Jath’ibaye.