by Ginn Hale
“Careful.” Jath’ibaye caught the chains and slowly stilled Ourath’s lamp. “You don’t want to spill burning oil.”
Those tiny silver chains had to be hot. They had to burn into Jath’ibaye’s palm, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. Ourath’s full lips spread into a deep smile.
“I’m touched that you are so worried for me.” Then he gave a theatrical pout. “Or are you simply afraid that I might burn down your little forest?”
“Whichever you like. Just don’t do it again.” Jath’ibaye released the chains. His voice conveyed the cold authority of a trainer disciplining a dog. Hardly the manner of the malleable effeminate Ourath had made him out to be during his secret dinner.
“I didn’t mean to anger you,” Ourath said softly.
“You didn’t.”
“Really? You seem angry.”
Jath’ibaye looked at Ourath as if he were looking through him. “Would it please you if I were? Would it make this easier?”
“Of course it wouldn’t.” Ourath began to twist the lamp handle again but then stopped himself. “You know I want you to be happy.”
Jath’ibaye said nothing. Then again, Kahlil supposed he might become quite taciturn himself had he just been poisoned.
Ourath sighed and said, “You’re annoyed because I announced that you would be attending the Bell Dance, aren’t you?”
Again, Jath’ibaye didn’t respond, and now Kahlil began to wonder if his own questions would be met with the same stony silence Ourath currently enjoyed. He hoped not.
“I’m not asking you to attend because I want you to suffer.” Ourath shook his head and his red hair gleamed like polished copper. “And inviting you certainly hasn’t done my standing any good. But this is more important than a little social discomfort. If you do come, it will be the first real, meaningful, peaceful gesture since the truce. The Bell Dance is the night we celebrate the alliances of the noble houses. If you attend, I think it would demonstrate to the gaunsho’im that you respect their authority. They need to feel that you aren’t just out to destroy them. You say that you want real peace between—”
“I’ll go.” Jath’ibaye cut him off. “Just don’t expect a miracle to come of it.”
Ourath gave Jath’ibaye another handsome smile.
He said, “Thank you.”
Jath’ibaye simply turned again to stare down at the trees and greenery beneath him. Kahlil squinted up, trying to read his expression. Then he realized that Jath’ibaye returned his gaze. Jath’ibaye stood there, still and silent, looking through the darkness directly at him. A flush of embarrassment flooded Kahlil and he had no idea why.
Jath’ibaye’s expression remained as closed as that of a marble statue, his pale eyes luminous in the night.
Kahlil felt his skin flushing hotter, an alarming reaction that he couldn’t remember having since his awkward youth. In a sudden panic, Kahlil looked down at his boots as if they had become instantaneously interesting. Slowly, his cheeks cooled.
When he stole a glance back up to the walkway, Jath’ibaye was escorting Ourath across to the eastern side of the building.
“You can see the moon flowers blooming from here,” Jath’ibaye was saying. “They originally grew wild in the southern lands but have died out in the last ten years. I’ve found them to have a good effect on soils that have been over-farmed.”
Jath’ibaye went on describing the properties of weeds and bushes that had apparently died out in the south. The light of Ourath’s lamp grew dimmer. Kahlil strained to hear more, but Jath’ibaye and Ourath had moved too far away. He only caught the low rumble of Ourath’s voice and then nothing else.
Kahlil stayed put, too shocked by his own reaction to move. It had been inexplicable, unexpected, and humiliating. He’d probably been as red-faced as a bride caught on the chamber pot.
Time passed, while Kahlil hunched in the darkness feeling juvenile and self-conscious. Even Alidas had never been able to provoke such a reaction from him. He had to be more exhausted than he had thought. Or perhaps it had been the result of being caught spying on two men in such an obviously private exchange.
Were they really lovers? Last night Ourath had both implied and denied it. Jath’ibaye had seemed cold towards Ourath. Though, in the end, he had given Ourath what he wanted.
Somewhere in the distance of the greenery Kahlil thought he heard leaves rustling.
“Runner.” Saimura’s voice broke into his thoughts.
Kahlil jumped up to face the man.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to have startled you. I wasn’t sure where you were.” Saimura squinted through the darkness at him. “I thought that Addya lit a lantern for you.”
“She did, but I was feeling tired so I snuffed it.”
“I see,” Saimura said. “I came to tell you that Jath’ibaye has retired for the evening.”
Kahlil didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He supposed it didn’t matter. “You’ll want me to leave the package with you, then.”
Kahlil reached for his satchel, but before he could dig the package out, Saimura stopped him.
“I won’t be taking it.”
Kahlil scowled. He wasn’t actually going to be asked to come back tomorrow, was he? He wouldn’t do it. He’d just throw the damn package away before he went through this again.
“Jath’ibaye requested that you be escorted up to his personal chambers and deliver the package to him there.”
Jath’ibaye’s chambers were plain, almost ascetically so. There was a fireplace but no fire. The bare stone floors and walls radiated the night chill. The only light came from an oil lamp on the table and the room smelled of bitter medicinal herbs.
On the wide bed a roll of bandages lay next to a scalpel. But as Saimura escorted Kahlil into the room, Jath’ibaye snatched both items up and secreted them away in a blackwood box at the bedside.
He stood immediately and welcomed Saimura with a quick smile. His blonde hair hung loose, and this close, Kahlil could see how sun and weather had streaked it to white in places. He wore no coat now, just reddish work pants, and his white shirt hung open. Kahlil frowned at the white swath of bandages that encircled Jath’ibaye’s broad chest. As if sensing Kahlil’s attention, Jath’ibaye turned his back and buttoned his shirt.
“That was certainly fast,” Jath’ibaye commented over his shoulder to Saimura.
“I thought sooner would be better than later.” Saimura looked to the clay teapot and empty cup on the table. Kahlil recognized the scent of yellowpetal blossoms, so often used by northern physicians to ease pain.
“Should I have Addya bring up more tea?” Saimura asked.
“No.” Jath’ibaye turned to face them. He focused his attention on Saimura, hardly glancing at Kahlil. “I’m fine.”
Saimura nodded. “Has Ji spoken to you yet?”
“No, but I can wait till tomorrow.” Jath’ibaye tied his hair back from his face. As he did, Kahlil noticed that he moved his left arm carefully, guarding himself from pulling a tender spot on the left side of his chest.
“I thought as much,” Saimura said. “I couldn’t find her anyway.”
“She’s probably still out digging up the garden.” Jath’ibaye smiled slightly.
“Probably true.” Saimura shrugged, and then to Kahlil’s surprise, he simply walked away.
Kahlil wasn’t used to seeing servants, not even house stewards, taking leave of their lords so casually. Jath’ibaye seemed unfazed by Saimura’s presumption. He turned back to the blackwood cupboard and opened a drawer.
Kahlil waited, nervously watching Jath’ibaye’s back.
His presence dominated the room. Even now, with his back turned, bent over a drawer, Kahlil could focus on nothing else. Physically, he was intimidating, taller than Kahlil, with a sharp, muscular body. Even pale and poisoned, he seemed like he would be a tough man to take on.
But he was more than a physical presence. He had destroyed the Payshmur
a and held back the armies of the gaunsho’im. As one of the rare few who had altered the world to his will, Jath’ibaye both fascinated and frightened Kahlil. Yet he seemed strong, quiet, and perfectly human. And that made him even stranger. Kahlil expected demons and gods to change the world, not mere men.
“So.” Jath’ibaye straightened. Whatever he had been looking for he had either found or given up on. “You have something to give me?”
He turned but didn’t look at Kahlil. Instead, he seemed to be taking in the measurements of his room. Again Kahlil noticed how pale and bright his eyes looked. But this time he knew why. It was the brilliance of a fever.
Kahlil dug the letter and box out of his satchel. He offered Fensal’s seal but Jath’ibaye didn’t seem to care about it. He yanked the small white box and letter from Kahlil’s hands. With angry efficiency, he tore open the envelope and flipped the letter out and read. After a while he crushed the letter and dropped it to the floor. He tossed the box onto his bed, unopened.
“So,” Jath’ibaye’s voice was almost a growl, “am I supposed to take one look at you, fall to my knees, and hand you the keys to the kingdom? Is that it?”
Kahlil had no idea how to respond.
“I...don’t know. I didn’t read the letter,” Kahlil said. What was Jath’ibaye talking about?
“God,” Jath’ibaye whispered, “even your voice...”
He rounded on Kahlil, his expression cold and disdainful. “Well then, let’s play our little drama out, shall we? Shouldn’t you tell me your name?”
Kahlil stepped closer to the door. “Kyle’insira.”
“Kyle...of course!” Jath’ibaye’s smile was hardly more than a flash of his white teeth. “Very clever. Go on. You have to have more lines than just that.”
Kahlil stood silent. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that when Jath’ibaye had looked at him with recognition, it might have been the crazed expression of familiarity that a fevered man had for his hallucinations.
“Stage fright?” Jath’ibaye demanded. “Or did Fikiri just tell you to stand there and bat your eyelashes?”
“Fikiri?” At last Kahlil had some idea of what to say. “No, I’m not with him. I’ve been sent to stop him—to save you.”
“Nice delivery,” Jath’ibaye replied. “Very believable.”
“I’m telling you the truth—” Kahlil began, only to be cut off.
“I could kill you for this,” Jath’ibaye ground out. “I should.”
“But I’m not who—”
“Of course you’re not,” Jath’ibaye snapped. “You’re just an innocent boy who wandered in looking like this and delivered me a bottle of poison.” Suddenly Jath’ibaye caught hold of Kahlil’s shoulders and pulled him close. His grip was hard and burning hot.
“If they told you I wouldn’t hurt you, they lied,” Jath’ibaye growled.
He was so close that Kahlil could smell the blood in his bandages. He wasn’t about to stay here and find out how Jath’ibaye preferred to punish his enemies. Kindness to Fensal, duty to Alidas, and even his own curiosity weren’t worth this. Kahlil jerked his arm back and slammed his fist into Jath’ibaye’s wounded left side.
He felt the warm wet of blood soaking up against his knuckles. Jath’ibaye’s grip loosened fractionally and Kahlil sprung back from him. With a flick of his hand Kahlil tore open an entry to the Gray Space, but it crumpled closed before he could step in.
Horrified, he looked back to see Jath’ibaye clenching his hand into a fist. Kahlil felt the air shuddering around Jath’ibaye. Somehow he had closed the Gray Space. True fear surged through Kahlil and his heart pounded like a wild thing kicking in a trap.
He lunged for the door, but Jath’ibaye sprang forward, again blocking his escape. Kahlil stumbled back, evading Jath’ibaye’s grasp.
Jath’ibaye stalked slowly after him. Softly, he said, “Didn’t they tell you what I am? Didn’t they warn you?”
The back of Kahlil’s leg struck the bed.
Jath’ibaye dove forward and slammed into Kahlil, hurling him back onto the hard mattress and pinning him against the bed. He caught Kahlil by the throat. His fingers burned like heated irons against Kahlil’s skin.
Kahlil fought against Jath’ibaye’s grip, but his hands only tightened. He kicked Jath’ibaye’s leg as hard as he could, but the other man barely seemed to register it.
Jath’ibaye leaned forward over him. His blue eyes burned like phosphorus. “Didn’t they tell you that I am the Rifter?”
Kahlil’s arms and legs began to tingle. He clawed at Jath’ibaye’s tightening grip. He could put no force behind his kicks now. He gagged and gasped hopelessly.
“Do you understand what I could do to you?” Jath’ibaye whispered over him.
Kahlil’s ears rang; his mouth felt numb.
Then, abruptly, Jath’ibaye released him and stepped back from the bed. Kahlil sucked in a desperate breath of air.
“Get out,” Jath’ibaye said coldly.
Kahlil had already struggled to his feet. He stumbled toward the door.
“If I ever see you again, I will kill you,” Jath’ibaye warned him.
Kahlil didn’t stay to hear anything else. His mind burned with just one word, one thought.
Rifter.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kahlil lay curled on the cool surface of the tiled floor. Nausea welled up in him, rolling and rising. His throat ached. Painfully, he swallowed.
The Rifter. After a decade of watching over John, how could he have let his true identity slip from his mind? He had bled himself nearly to death just to pursue the Rifter, just to kill him. How could he have forgotten?
He squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his face against the floor. He remembered the overwhelming feeling of guilt that had enveloped him when he had first tried to find the Black Tower of the Payshmura. Even then, he had known its absence was his fault, his failing. He had allowed the Rifter to escape, and now the Payshmura were no more.
The sacred convent of Umbhra’ibaye and the holy Black Tower had both been lost in an instant, as if devoured by the earth. Rathal’pesha and the city of Amura’taye had been consumed by geysers of molten stone. The entire northland, where he had grown up, rendered a shattered ruin in a day. Whole mountains had fallen, chasms of magma and steaming waters swallowing them. People had died, thousands of them, in the first disaster and then more in the following wars.
It all could have been stopped, but he had failed.
Maybe that’s why he’d chosen for so long to forget.
Kahlil pushed himself up to his knees and lurched over the cold porcelain basin. His stomach heaved, bringing up nothing but bile. He coughed. There was nothing left in him to vomit up, but he couldn’t stop feeling sick with self-loathing.
He folded back down against the floor.
He had wanted to forget. He had needed to forget. That very first day when he had arrived in Nurjima he had known, somewhere deep in himself, that he had already been too late.
Now the solace of amnesia had been stripped from him.
He remembered the torn envelope, the letter with its single word: Don’t.
Don’t fail.
Don’t forget.
Don’t let him live.
Only one word to obey, and he hadn’t managed it.
Dayyid had been right: the taint in his blood, the weakness in his soul went even deeper than Parfir’s blessing in his bones. They should have burned him along with his mother.
He’d been sick for hours now, purging everything from his body as if it could somehow empty him of his guilt. He leaned his forehead against the edge of the basin. Strings of his long black hair hung against his damp face.
“Kyle?”
He glanced up to see Fensal, and then hung his head back over the basin, glad of the predawn dimness. No matter how bad he felt, somehow having a witness to his pathetic state made it worse.
“You’ve been at it all night. Are you dying?”
>
“I wish,” Kahlil managed to croak.
A smaller figure stepped out from behind Fensal. Yu’mir stared at him with wide, worried eyes. Kahlil hung his head in shame, suddenly aware of how badly he stank. Though men in the barrack routinely witnessed each other’s wretched states, it seemed somehow wrong to expose a woman to the sight of him.
“You should have called me sooner, Fensal.” She crouched down beside Kahlil.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Kahlil’s voice splintered as he tried to speak. His breath tasted of vomit.
“You’re hardly in any condition to take me by force,” Yu’mir said, misunderstanding his concern. “And I’m not too worried about falling victim to your seductive charms either.”
He heard the snort of Fensal’s repressed laughter.
“I brought whiteshell tablets.” Yu’mir took a small paper packet from the pocket of her apron and placed it in his hand. “Do you think you can keep them down?”
He didn’t know what he could keep down, or even if he wanted to keep anything down. A pathetic, tired part of him just wanted to die and have done with it. How hard could it be to simply die?
The moment the thought came to Kahlil, he rejected it.
He had failed. He had ruined the world. No amount of remorse would change that, and he had no right to expect the release of death. He had no right to dream of it, as he did each night. He deserved to feel bad and he deserved to suffer, but he didn’t deserve to die yet. He had too many obligations.
Just sagging here, making himself sick like this, was both pathetic and self-indulgent. Only he knew of the world that might have been, of the world that had been lost. To everyone else this was simply life. Fensal and Yu’mir had their own concerns. Alidas had his. They were all present and real. Kahlil’s guilt and sickness stemmed from an unalterable past and he needed to pull himself together and see to his present duties.
He opened Yu’mir’s paper packet and dumped the chalky whiteshell tablets into his palm. They smelled of salt. Certainly a fresher odor than the one currently clinging to Kahlil. He swallowed them with a gulp of the cool water.