by Ginn Hale
The men explained that the Usho’s greatest wish was for the Kahlil to remain in good health. They apologized profusely, bowing so low and for so long that their faces went red.
“For the sake of your safety, the Usho begs that you do not enter the Black Tower,” the younger of the two ushvun’im mumbled into the knees of his cassock.
“Of course I’ll do as His Holiness wishes,” Ravishan replied. “Can you direct us to the nearest church hostel?”
The older of the two ushvun’im looked pained.
“I’m afraid that we must ask you to consider other accommodations. As we said, the Usho has fears that a Fai’daum witch has discovered that the Kahlil is making his pilgrimage. If she were to cast out a curse, it would likely be over a church hostel where the Kahlil would be expected to stay.”
“I see,” Ravishan said, frowning. John knew what was troubling him and also knew that Ravishan was too proud to bring up a subject like money.
“The Kahlil,” John cut in quickly, “doesn’t possess any secular monies, only blessed stones. How is he to pay for this accommodation?”
The younger of the ushvun’im seemed baffled. “You have no money at all?”
“None. We do not use it in Rathal’pesha,” John replied firmly. He knew Ravishan had to be exhausted. He had spent half the night pacing the through the train car, reciting his prayers and preparing to meet the Usho. Neither of them had eaten since early afternoon. John glowered down at the two ushvun’im. What did they imagine he and Ravishan were supposed to do for food and shelter for a week?
“We are obviously dressed in the clothes of priests from Rathal’pesha.” John held out his arms so that the two ushvun’im could take in the rough wool of his coat and cassock. The only difference between his clothes and Ravishan’s were the silver moons pinned to Ravishan’s collar. Not even the lowest ushvun’im of Nurjima seemed to dress in such a rough, provincial fashion.
Even these two ushvun’im with novice braids wore cassocks of brushed silk and suede shoes.
“Turning the Kahlil out onto the street with no money and dressed in these clothes is hardly going to hide him from notice.” John drew himself up to his full height. “If you’re going to send him away, then at least you could provide us with money and clothes.”
The two ushvun’im gaped at him. John stepped closer to the older of the two, forcing the other man to crane his neck to look up at him. “Don’t you think that’s the least you could do?”
The man blanched and retreated toward the gate.
“Yes, certainly,” the ushvun said quickly. Then he turned to his younger companion. “Tell Ushman Serahn of the Kahlil’s request at once.”
The young ushvun bolted back inside the tower grounds. The older ushvun smiled faintly at John, his pale lips seeming to wilt with each passing minute.
“I’m sure it won’t be long,” the ushvun said.
John didn’t respond. He simply stood his ground. Ravishan remained a little behind him, looking both displeased and aloof. In truth, John guessed that he was simply exhausted and hungry.
At last the young ushvun returned. He brought an intricately embroidered moneybag and several pieces of paper. Immediately he offered the bag of coins to John.
“Ushman Serahn will make arrangements for his personal tailors and cobblers to clothe you.” He handed John several papers. They had addresses written on them. “They should be able to see you tomorrow. He has also written the names of a number of lodgings, which would be appropriate for the Kahlil. He sent for a runner to summon a carriage.”
John accepted the papers and scanned through the list of names and addresses. They meant next to nothing to him. He held them out to Ravishan, who only shook his head.
“Wherever you choose,” Ravishan said. “Just so long as we get something to eat.”
“How long will we have to wait for this carriage?” John demanded. He was a little surprised at himself. It wasn’t like him to be such a bully. But Ravishan deserved to be treated better. At Vundomu a thousand priests had gathered at the train station to cheer him. Here, two underlings had been sent to the front gate to tell him to come back in a week.
“A carriage should arrive before the seventh bell.” The younger of the two bowed his head down as if expecting John to strike him. A sheen of nervous sweat was beginning to show on the forehead of the older ushvun. They knew this was the wrong way to treat the Kahlil.
“In the meantime, don’t you think that you ought to offer the Kahlil some food?” John asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” the older ushvun replied. He bumped the younger ushvun’s leg with his foot. “Go get something from the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir.” The young ushvun rushed off again.
John and Ravishan waited in silence. The ushvun didn’t attempt to make any kind of conversation. He just stood in front of the gate with his head bowed as if caught up in a deep and sorrowful contemplation of his shoes.
When the young ushvun returned, it was with a tray of several meat-stuffed rolls. Surprisingly, Ushman Serahn’s ornate private carriage arrived only a few moments later. It looked like something from a Victorian fairytale—all gold and white, endlessly embellished with motifs of glittering suns. Even the driver and the team of four tahldi wore curling gold ribbons. John wasn’t sure if the adornments looked more out of place twined around the deadly sharp horns of the bucks or braided through the weathered driver’s grizzled beard.
After a few words with the driver, John settled upon an accommodation worthy of Ravishan’s status.
Then he and Ravishan climbed into the luxurious, perfumed interior of the carriage and sat opposite each other on the supple, overstuffed leather seats. Through the small window in the carriage door John could see the relief on the faces of the two acolytes. He let the silk curtain fall back.
Once they had pulled away from the gate of the Black Tower, Ravishan broke into a wide grin.
“Who knew you could be such a tyrant, Jahn? I thought that ushvun was going to soil himself.”
“I just asked him his opinion,” John replied.
“You have no idea how glad I am that you did.” Ravishan tore a huge chunk from his stuffed roll and wolfed it down.
“What did they expect us to do, just wander the streets for a week?”
Ravishan shrugged, his mouth too full to speak.
John continued, “And if they were so worried about contamination, then why didn’t they send word before you arrived? Why not have someone meet you at the train station?”
Ravishan finished off the last off his roll and flopped back against the leather seat. “It’s probably politics. Hann’yu said that many of the gaun’im are unconvinced of the need to return the Rifter to Basawar.”
John nodded. He had overheard a number of similar conversations between Hann’yu, Dayyid, and Nuritam. Apparently, many of the southern gaun’im strongly opposed the training of a Kahlil. Who could blame them? The return of the Rifter could mean the utter destruction of their holdings. After all, the Fai’daum weren’t agents of a foreign land. Their strongholds were bound to be on one or more of the gaun’im lands.
“Sending you away for a week isn’t going to solve anything.”
“It might give them a little time to silence the objectors or at least distract them from interfering with the ceremonies,” Ravishan said. “I don’t know. I’m just glad you got us somewhere to stay. I’m exhausted.”
John ate his own rolls. The delicate, faint flavors of the refined flour and soft meat were lost on him, but at least it stopped the ache of his stomach. After he’d eaten, he found his mood had mellowed somewhat.
He glanced to Ravishan. The diffuse light of street lamps poured through the silk curtains of the carriage, softening the hard planes his face. Ravishan’s head was bowed down, almost to his chest. His long legs drooped against John’s. He seemed like he might drift off to sleep. As the carriage jostled over the brick streets, their legs swayed and brushed each
other. John felt the heat of Ravishan’s body, even through the wool of their cassocks. Ravishan looked up, smiling slyly at the contact. And then, flushing, he glanced away. Reflexively, John shifted away from Ravishan. They were playing with fire here and they both knew it.
They rode on in silence over the brick road for several minutes.
“Do you feel someone is…watching?” Ravishan asked in a whisper.
John hadn’t sensed the slightest distortion in the air around them, but he’d grown deeply cautious. Some ushiri—usually Fikiri—always seemed to be skulking through the Gray Space. Of course, that had been in Rathal’pesha, not Nurjima.
And suddenly it dawned upon John that here the only ushiri capable of moving so far and so adeptly through the Gray Space was Ravishan.
“No, I don’t think anyone is actually.” John felt almost stunned by the thought—not quite able to trust it.
“We’re alone?” Ravishan sounded uncertain even asking.
“Who would be watching?” John asked.
“Fikiri, perhaps.” Distaste sounded in Ravishan’s voice and showed in his expression.
“But why would he bother anymore? We agreed to his demands.” And with Dayyid gone, who would Fikiri spy for? John didn’t say as much; both he and Ravishan refrained from discussing Dayyid as much as possible.
Lamplight flickered through the intimate confines of the carriage, momentarily illuminating the longing in Ravishan’s handsome smile.
John only leaned a little closer to Ravishan, and yet after restraining himself for so long, even so slight an overture felt dangerous.
Ravishan met John’s gaze and flushed as John continued to look into his eyes. Streetlamps flared and faded as they drove past. The rhythm of the tahldi’s hooves against the cobbled street pounded through the carriage like a racing heartbeat.
Ravishan tilted his head just slightly and John wondered if he should kiss him or wait. The way Ravishan was gazing at him, he didn’t think he could wait all that long.
Then suddenly the carriage jerked to a halt.
Ravishan rocked forward, smacking foreheads with John. Despite himself, John laughed at the absurd disruption. Ravishan looked much less amused. They both jerked back into their seats at the sound of the driver unlatching the door.
“We have arrived at the Ivory Bower, sirs,” the driver informed them.
Ravishan scrambled out of the carriage. John gathered up their packs and followed him. From the way the driver stood expectantly beside the open door, John surmised that tipping was expected in Nurjima just as much as in any cosmopolitan city.
He paid the driver and quickly followed Ravishan into the palatial grandeur of the Ivory Bower. Marble blossoms festooned the exterior of the towering hotel and inside sprays of exotic southern flowers perfumed the grand entry.
Throughout the process, Ravishan avoided John’s gaze and seemed strangely nervous about standing near him.
As an impeccably dressed footman showed them up to their rooms and then walked them through, Ravishan hung back, absently shredding the petals of a red lily that he’d plucked from some vase.
John hadn’t seen him snatch it, but Ravishan was fast and here flowers seemed to be abundant.
Beyond the ornate vases bursting with blooms, the rooms also boasted a silken master’s bed with a servant’s cot at the foot, a private tub, and an expansive view of the city streets all lit up and shining in the darkness like strings of jewels spilled across black velvet.
Once the footman—who had walked them through the amenities of their suite with the air of a sommelier handing a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite over to two hillbillies—had accepted his tip and departed, John locked the door and took a moment simply to observe Ravishan in these new surroundings.
He stood near the large window that overlooked the street but didn’t show any real interest in the view. Instead, he lowered his gaze to his hands. Discarded lily petals lay abandoned at his feet. He stole a glance at John and flushed ever so slightly as he realized that John was regarding him in return.
“I think that footman suspected us of stealing the money to rent this suite.”
“He accepted his tip readily enough,” John replied and Ravishan gave a fleeting smile.
John moved to Ravishan’s side. Ravishan watched him with dark, expectant eyes. John couldn’t remember him seeming this nervous…except that first night they’d met in Candle Alley. Flower blossoms had perfumed the air then too.
Though now, John could hardly think of that narrow alley without immediately remembering the heat of Dayyid’s blood on his hands—the dead body at his feet. John instantly pushed the memory from his thoughts.
He was alone with Ravishan. That was all that mattered right now.
“Come to bed with me?” John asked.
Ravishan lifted his dark eyes to John for just a moment and his entire face flushed.
“Yes,” Ravishan whispered, but he seemed rooted to the spot where he stood. John caught his hand gently and drew him back from the window. Ravishan’s hand trembled, just slightly.
He was probably as nervous as he was excited about this, John realized. What experiences Ravishan had had with sex had most likely been limited to furtive, anonymous groping in a dirty alley. And at least once it had ended with a murder. The thought tempered John’s own desire a little.
He stopped at the bedside and kissed Ravishan once gently, reassuringly. Ravishan returned the kiss slowly, as if just awakening to the idea of pleasure.
“It’s going to be all right,” John whispered to him. “In fact, it’ll be lovely. I promise.”
“Even if I’m a clumsy oaf who nearly knocks you unconscious trying to kiss you?” Ravishan hid his face against the curve of John’s neck.
“You didn’t come close to knocking me out.” John had to fight not to smile. “There aren’t many ways I’d rather get a bruise.”
“I don’t know how…not with someone like you.” Ravishan sounded almost miserable and John realized that he couldn’t tease him about this.
“I want to show you.” John kissed Ravishan deeply this time. Ravishan’s hungry response coursed through John’s whole body.
John only broke away to hurl his heavy coat aside, and Ravishan followed his example, throwing off his coat and rough cassock. John caressed Ravishan’s hard, scarred chest, marveling at how he could be so beautiful, despite his history of so much hurt.
Ravishan flashed one of his broad, joyous smiles.
“You have the most handsome smile, you know that?” John told him.
“I can do more than smile though.” Ravishan kissed him quickly but with an expression of sultry promise.
They both toppled back onto the big white bed.
Ravishan’s hands slipped under his clothes. His fingertips were like fire as they traced the muscles of John’s stomach and slipped down past the waistband of his trousers. A mindless, desperate pleasure flooded John. He flipped open the buckle of Ravishan’s belt. Ravishan gasped as John gently caressed and stroked him. They moved together, graceless passion building to an intimate rhythm that only broke in ecstasy.
•••
The next morning, John woke to feel soft sunlight pouring across his cheek. He rolled deeper into the down blankets, pressing his body against Ravishan’s.
Ravishan’s skin felt warm. John drew in a deep breath, smelling the low woody scent of his skin, their mixed sweat, and sex. Slowly, John opened his eyes. Ravishan still slept. His black hair spilled across the white bedding.
John smiled and gently lifted a lock of Ravishan’s hair. Ravishan mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over. It was good to see him get some rest at last.
Careful not to jostle Ravishan, John propped himself up onto his side. Beyond the sheer bed curtains, he could see the scattered piles of their discarded clothes. His heavy wool coat flopped across a delicate writing table. Ravishan’s gray cassock hung off one of the cherry red carved chairs. John thought he could s
ee the crumpled pale shape of his own underpants lying near the foot of the bed.
They hadn’t drawn the curtains completely closed last night. Now John gazed out the tall windows at the streets of Nurjima far below. At first glance it could have passed for a historic Victorian district of Seattle. Brick and stone houses curled out along circular lanes. Many were enclosed by ornate gates or surrounded by gold and red autumn gardens. A young man in brown trousers and a jacket zipped up the street on a bicycle. But after a few moments, the details of the scene below began to betray its alien nature. The leaves on the trees that lined the brick streets were strangely pale, almost translucent. A pair of dark green tahldi hitched to an exquisitely carved carriage pranced along the red brick street.
A glance to the north utterly destroyed the illusion of familiarity. The massive structure of the Black Tower soared impossibly up from the city. Its dark girders and cables twisted and coiled, converging in a single black spire. Even from this distance John felt the Black Tower’s presence searing the sky. All around it John could feel the deep, ragged open wounds of the torn Gray Space. If he concentrated, he could hear the faint hiss and whisper of the issusha’im as they prophesized endlessly to their master in the tower. John sensed currents of wind that ripped down from the heights of Rathal’pesha.
The Black Tower formed the center point of an immense, open doorway between the northern monastery and the southern convent.
John’s contemplation was interrupted by the sensation of Ravishan’s hand against his bare back.
“Jahn.” Ravishan gently pulled him back down into the blankets. “We don’t have to get up yet.”
John collapsed back into bed. Ravishan’s hands slid down John’s chest. Heat from Ravishan’s fingers lingered as he traced the curves of John’s muscles.
