by Ginn Hale
“We can stay in bed all day if we want to.” Ravishan leaned forward and kissed John’s shoulder and then the curve of his neck. The anxiety churning through John melted into a languid pleasure. He could worry about the Black Tower, the Issusha’im Oracles and Rathal’pesha later.
Right now he didn’t want to waste the privacy and freedom that had been granted to them.
He kissed Ravishan once on the mouth and then again much lower. Ravishan gave a soft, ecstatic gasp. But this morning they were both rested and John wanted more than a few minutes of glorious friction. He took great care as he taught Ravishan what he knew of giving pleasure and taking it from another man’s body. After only a little instruction, Ravishan applied himself with all of his natural enthusiasm and physical prowess.
They rose from bed late and took their time washing together. At last hunger drove John to disturb their isolation. After their meal of poached doves had been served and then the sad remains cleared away, a flock of tailors descended upon both John and Ravishan in a flurry of supple leather and costly silks.
By the time he and Ravishan left the Ivory Bower to explore the streets of Nurjima the sun was setting. Gold and scarlet streaks of light burned against the twilit blue of the darkening sky. Like stars flickering to life, the pale flames of streetlights illuminated their own corners of the descending night.
“It’s beautiful,” Ravishan said. “I didn’t expect it to be beautiful.”
For a moment John thought Ravishan was only commenting on the city, but then something in his expression told John that he meant much more. He was talking about what had passed between them.
“It’ll get even better,” John assured him.
“I can’t imagine how,” Ravishan replied, though he looked a little embarrassed by his own wistful tone. “I’ve already gotten to sleep in and eat four entire doves.”
John laughed in part at the sad truth of Ravishan’s words.
They had both lived in deprivation so long that this simple day of pleasure and ease came to them like a gift. Standing next to Ravishan, feeling the warmth of his body and gazing at the open sky, John felt suddenly overwhelmed with happiness. He didn’t know if he had ever appreciated a moment of his life more than this. He glanced to Ravishan.
“Thank you,” John said quietly.
Ravishan smiled and asked, “For what?”
“For everything.” John didn’t know how to convey the feeling that rushed through him. He was certain that words would fail. Ravishan seemed to sense this as well. He brushed his fingers against John’s hand.
“You’re welcome,” Ravishan said, at last.
They continued walking beneath the flickering streetlamps and dark architecture in a quiet communion.
Chapter Forty-Nine
They passed the next day exploring Nurjima and they discovered that the city remained vibrant and fascinating even after dark. At last, late in the evening, they stopped in a teahouse to rest and refresh themselves.
Thick humid warmth hung through the packed tearoom. Polished brass kettles released clouds of steam as they were emptied over loose leaves of daru’sira and other fragrant herbs. The young men working the tables swiveled and swung past one another, their arms loaded with steaming pots and trays of porcelain dishes.
At the far end of the room, behind a high wooden counter, women mixed the dry ingredients for the teas. Three girls rushed up and down ladders, picking dried leaves, flowers and roots from the towering shelf of jars. The two older women then took the ingredients and distributed them into wide white cups and then slid those back across the counter to the waiters. As quickly as they sent out filled cups waiters called out new orders.
John watched in fascination as the process repeated over and over, men sweeping past each other, girls bounding up rolling ladders and old women scattering arcane herbs perfectly into porcelain cups. Constant practice had transformed what should have been utter chaos into a kind of fluid choreography.
Despite the late hour, more patrons filed in through the green-painted doors. Little rushes of winter air followed them, only to be enveloped by the heat and perfume of their surroundings. All around him, John could catch snatches of conversations. People complained and laughed about their long day at work. Intimate friends sat close at small tables whispering to each other, while crowds of white-robed students slumped and slouched over heaps of papers and tiny, leather-bound books.
John leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs under the table. His knee brushed Ravishan’s. Ravishan smiled but didn’t look up from the pamphlet in front of him. John studied the newspaper he’d found on the table when they had come in. It had been left open to what looked like a letters column. John skimmed over the words,‘…the teeming ghettos of yellow aberrations must be cleared, for they represent not only a danger to the health of the city, (as your article indicated) but the gravest danger to the moral character of this entire country. If they choose to live like vermin, then let them do it where they cannot harm decent people…’
Yellow aberrations. A day ago John could have misunderstood that phrase, but he’d now seen enough of Nurjima to understand that the descendants of the Eastern Kingdom lived as an underclass in Basawar. He had only seen them employed as street sweepers in the city and as menial laborers at the river docks. He supposed there were more in the back kitchens washing dishes and in the night factories pouring molten metals.
He had caught people staring at his own bright blonde hair more than once, and when anyone had needed to ask them a question, it was always addressed to Ravishan and not himself.
John recalled Lady Bousim speaking of the few blondes that she had seen. John guessed that, due to her rank, she would have known almost none. There were certainly none among the gaun’im or even the wealthier merchants. It was quite clear now why Fikiri and his mother had been banished to the north. Among the gaun’im, Fikiri’s light hair would have been taken as a testament of his mother’s adultery.
When John and Ravishan had gone walking along the docks, they had encountered entire city blocks teeming with light-haired men and women. Most had been filthy and underfed.
A slim young girl there had slipped a pamphlet to John and then disappeared into the tight crowds of wagons, fishmongers, and laborers. Ravishan had wanted to read it and John had given it to him.
“It says the Fai’daum are the only path to equity,” Ravishan had commented. “They’re really very bold about their support, aren’t they?”
John had replied, “I guess they are.” In Amura’taye no one would have dared to say such a thing, much less write it down and distribute it. “They probably don’t have much to lose.”
The two of them had paused a moment, simply taking in the overflowing sewers, crumbling buildings, coughing smokestacks, and ragged poverty of the crowds. In Amura’taye people had been poor, but they hadn’t been forced to live in filth. They’d had fresh air and clean water.
But in the slums of Nurjima, there had been garbage in the streets and the walls of buildings had been plastered inches thick with old peeling posters. Some had been calls for temporary workmen; others had offered rewards for wanted criminals. Here and there, he had seen simple line drawings of Payshmura priests dangling from nooses.
“It’s a good thing that we aren’t in our church robes,” Ravishan had said as he’d gazed at one of the faded posters. John had agreed.
They had been, in fact, dressed in the perfectly tailored, glossy black coats and ornate vests of the moneyed upper class. John had never owned boots that fit so well or felt so good. But their appearance of wealth attracted more than a few glares from the surrounding populace. They hadn’t stayed long near the docks, just long enough to purchase the sheaves of dried river grass that Hann’yu had asked John to look for.
Now, in the steamy warmth of the teahouse, John flipped through the pages of the paper, skimming over reports of new milling machines, gaun’im alliances and scandalous plays. Fine-lined engraving
s illustrated a few of the articles. John gazed at a detailed rendering of the twisting girders and cables of the Black Tower then started to absently peruse the article below. Immediately his wandering attention focused on the words. He read them quickly, then slid the worn newspaper across the table to Ravishan. “You should read this.”
“Ushman Serahn denies that a Kahlil has been selected, much less trained,” Ravishan read the first line aloud but then continued reading to himself. Finally, a derisive snort escaped him, and he continued reading aloud, “The Gaunsho’im Council would be informed if such a course were ever to be considered.”
“Apparently the Gaunsho’im Council recesses at the end of the week.”
“So, there’ll be no council to inform. That’s convenient.” Ravishan pushed the newspaper aside and picked up his drink.
“What about yours?” John nodded at the pamphlet Ravishan had been reading so intently. “Anything interesting?”
“I don’t know.” Ravishan sipped his tea, then frowned at the porcelain cup. “What did I order?”
“Infusion of red blossoms.”
“I should try to remember that. It’s good. How’s yours?”
“A little too subtle for me,” John replied.
Ravishan drank a little more of his tea, then set the cup aside. “I don’t know how to feel about it.”
“I thought you liked it.”
“This pamphlet,” Ravishan clarified.
“I see.” John poured more honey than he had intended into his own drink. He stirred it, watching the pale green fluid turn golden. Ravishan glanced at the smudgy pamphlet in front of him but didn’t say anything more.
John didn’t attempt to force the subject. He knew that Ravishan had to feel some conflict deep within himself. His parents had been Fai’daum. And while his achievements within the Payshmura were a source of pride, the church itself had been cruel to him.
“The Fai’daum are enemies of Parfir.” Ravishan lowered his voice. “I’m the companion to his holiest incarnation. When I think of it that way it’s all very clear. But other times…” He frowned down at his hands. “You probably think I’m such a weakling. It’s just hard for me to hate them as I should.”
“Why would I think that made you weak?”
Ravishan looked up at him. “Because I’m going to be Kahlil and I shouldn’t be unsure. And it’s not that I don’t believe. Parfir’s presence burns through me. I believe in him as I believe in life. But I know that men like this Ushman Serahn misuse their power. All of the ushman’im of Nurjima live like gaun’im while farmers in Amura’taye struggle to pay their tithes. And the conditions those people at the docks were living in…I don’t know how that can be Parfir’s will.”
John picked up the pamphlet. He could feel the outline of the press type letters through the back of the thin paper. The accusations enumerated against the Payshmura Church each rang true. They did demand huge tithes. They did rarely, if ever, pay a fair price for goods purchased. They did keep the common populace in fear of death. But nothing in the pamphlet mentioned the god Parfir.
“Just because they oppose the church doesn’t mean that they oppose Parfir,” John reasoned. “Things aren’t always so clear cut.”
“True,” Ravishan agreed, but he didn’t look happy about it. “I suppose it’s because of uncertainties like this that a man simply has to have faith. He has to believe that Parfir’s will shall be done in the end. I want to believe that, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder...”
“What?” John asked.
“Nothing.” Ravishan surveyed the crowd of strangers at the surrounding tables. “How many more people do you think they can fit inside here?”
More students were pouring in through the green doors, their faces pink from the cold and the hems of their white scholar’s coats muddied. Most carried books, though a few seemed to have come along just for the company. They threw themselves into their chairs with a theatric air of nonchalance. John could tell when one of them thought he was being particularly clever, because his voice would rise just enough to carry his words over the general roar of the group conversations.
One or two of them peered at John in a curious manner. He guessed that they weren’t used to seeing a blonde man dressed so well. When he met their gazes, they looked quickly away.
Another cluster of students rushed in from the cold night outside. They crowded in around already full tables. They laughed among themselves, sharing seats and balancing on the arms of chairs.
“I’d say we’re about fifteen past maximum occupancy already,” John said.
He almost let the earlier conversation with Ravishan go at that. He was used to abandoning political discussions. Most of them would have no bearing on his life once he returned to Nayeshi. He was used to thinking of the philosophy and politics of Basawar as both ephemeral and inconsequential in that regard. The knowledge that he would return home saved him from having to concern himself too deeply.
But this was different. Ravishan would be with him in Nayeshi. What Ravishan felt about the Fai’daum would impact how he dealt with the Rifter and responded to the orders sent to him from Basawar.
“Do you know what I think?” John asked.
Ravishan regarded him with slight surprise. “I never know what you’re thinking. You keep things so private even from me.”
“I know. It’s one of my bad traits.” John extended his leg, so that his calf stroked Ravishan’s. Ravishan offered him a brief, secret smile.
“Are you thinking that you want to get back to our rooms?”
“I do, but not just yet.”
“Then what is it?” Ravishan asked.
John sipped his tea. The honey had made it incredibly sweet. Ravishan waited as John poured a little more water from their kettle into his cup, diluting the honey. He sipped his tea again. It was better.
“You’re not good at this, are you?” Ravishan asked.
“No, I’m not,” John admitted.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” John said. “It’s important that we talk about this because someday they’re going to send word to you in Nayeshi and you’re going to have to decide whether to obey those orders or not.”
Ravishan nodded. “So, tell me what you think.”
“I think that you know the church is corrupt and what they’re doing to common men and women is wrong. But they have your sister, so you can’t afford to challenge them.”
“That’s what I think.” Ravishan cocked his head slightly. “I thought you were going to tell me what you thought.”
“That doesn’t really matter. I’m not the one who will have to decide what to do.”
“It matters to me.” Ravishan leaned a little closer to him. “So, tell me.”
John frowned. It had been so much more simple to reveal himself physically to Ravishan. He had not needed words.
Ravishan folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his seat. John recognized the posture. Ravishan was willing to wait all night for his answer.
“I think that the Payshmura have to change,” John said at last. “They can’t just keep ripping the world apart every time the issusha’im warn them of a possible conflict.”
Ravishan gave a silent nod, plainly waiting for him to continue.
John went on, “They claim that the land is Parfir’s flesh and yet they summon the Rifter to destroy it for their own sakes. You can see the damage it’s done. The Great Chasm hardly supports life now. But if you read back through the texts, that area used to support a huge diversity of—”
“Jahn,” Ravishan interrupted, “I know how you feel about diversity and about the disruption of environs. What I want to know is how you feel about the church.”
“They need to relinquish power and learn to compromise,” John said.
Ravishan raised his brows.
“And it’s not just the Fai’daum they’re up against,” John went on. “The gau
n’im are obviously stoking the dissent against the church in hopes of grasping more power for themselves. And the kahlirash’im at Vundomu seemed pretty damn pissed off at the Payshmura ushman’im as well.”
“Pissed off?” Ravishan asked.
“Angry,” John clarified.
“About what?”
“The inequity of power within the church—the way the ushman’im are dealing with the Fai’daum. A lot of the kahlirash’im come from farming families and they know what the tithes are doing. I don’t think it strikes them as Parfir’s will so much as the greed of the ushman’im. When they talked about the Rifter, a lot of them seemed to think he would return to wipe out the corruption within the church.”
“They told you that?” Ravishan asked.
“Not directly,” John admitted. “I overheard it when they were speaking among themselves.”
“Maybe you misunderstood them.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. And I don’t think that you think so either.”
“No?” Ravishan seemed amused by John’s presumption.
“No,” John said firmly. “I think that you might feel the same way, but you wouldn’t dare to admit it because you have too much to lose if anyone ever found out.”
“Maybe,” Ravishan said softly. He gazed down at his hands. “I don’t like the idea of the Rifter returning to destroy the church.”
“It isn’t as though he’s selective. He rips apart entire landmasses. You can feel how injured the land is already. I don’t know if Basawar could withstand another wave of destruction.”
As John spoke, Ravishan’s expression changed. He began to look almost sick. The color drained from his cheeks and mouth, making his dark eyes seem like black holes.
John suddenly realized that as Kahlil, Ravishan would consider himself directly responsible for that destruction. More than the corruption of the ushman’im, it was the thought of unleashing the Rifter and tearing the world to pieces that filled Ravishan with doubt in his faith. The Payshmura had already made him take responsibility for his own mother’s death. They had forced him to burn women alive as a kind of precursor to his greater duty as Kahlil.
