10: His Holy Bones

by Ginn Hale

  John’s legs felt numb. His arms were like weights pinned to his shoulders. It took all of his concentration to retain his grip on the yasi’halaun. The blade shuddered as if trying to shake free of him and drop down into the incision where it would fit like a key into a keyhole.

  “Place the yasi’halaun!” Laurie leaned over the dais to shout down at John. “Do it now!”

  John clenched his numb fingers around the hilt of the blade. He would never do what Laurie asked of him, he knew that. And yet it frightened him that he couldn’t offer Kyle his protection. It made him pause even when he knew he had to act. He only had seconds.

  “Don’t fuck with me, John!” Laurie shouted down at him.

  John knew he couldn’t wait any longer. All he could do for Kyle was protect Basawar. He could only hope it was enough.

  “I’m so sorry,” John whispered. He saw the look of fear in Laurie’s face. Then he hurled the yasi’halaun up into Laurie’s chest. It split through her ribs and knocked her back against a tangle of wires. Arcs of the yasi’halaun’s hunger bolted up from the blade and burned through Laurie’s body.

  Even burning black, Laurie managed to lash out and rip three lines of wires free. They splashed down into the water and brutal volts of electricity shot through John’s body. The yellow stones suddenly gave off an icy cold hiss and John felt the Gray Space ripping open all around him.

  He tried to move, to escape the terrible grasp of the opening gates, but the poison made his motions clumsy and weak. John fell to his knees and brackish green water lapped his face. He closed his eyes.

  And for one instant he saw Kyle standing in the glittering chamber where Ravishan’s bones had rested. His skin seemed radiant. He lifted his head as if he felt John’s gaze and for a moment a joyous heat burned through John. He felt the bond between them and it overflowed him with a sense of safety and hope.

  And then every sensation stopped. The Gray Space engulfed him and John began to slowly suffocate in its grip.

  Chapter One Hundred and Seven

  Jath’ibaye was here in the ruins. Kahlil could feel him. The thought alarmed Kahlil as much as it reassured him. Here was where where Loshai had wanted Jath’ibaye to be. He had stepped into her trap. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, Jath’ibaye’s presence completely vanished. Cold fear clenched through Kahlil’s body.

  Kahlil knelt down in front of Rousma. “Do you have any idea where Loshai might try to trap the Rifter?”

  “She catches him in the Chamber of Gates and he is swallowed in the yellow rock and she is burned up. I sees it once.”

  For a moment Kahlil wasn’t sure what Rousma meant by Jath’ibaye being swallowed by the yellow rock. Then he realized that Loshai had to be following the rituals of the Payshmura. She had locked Jath’ibaye in the Gray Space between the Great Gates where the Rifters before him had been trapped and slowly killed.

  “You have to take me there right away,” Kahlil told Rousma. She backed away.

  “It’s not safey. He brings the yasi’halaun and it eats all us bones. Eats all them ruins.” Rousma crept forward and clenched her skeletal hand around Kahlil’s. “We goes far away where it can’t reaches us.”

  “I can’t leave Jath’ibaye,” Kahlil insisted. “I can’t let him die.”

  “But the yasi’halaun burns you. It burns right through your bones.” Rousma’s hard fingers dug into Kahlil’s hand.

  Out on the wastes, the yasi’halaun hadn’t reacted to him, but Kahlil suspected that he was different now. The yasi’halaun would be drawn to the holy bones that now nestled beneath his flesh, just as it had been drawn to Ji’s bones.

  “It feeds and burns all the ruins down to the deep waters,” Rousma told him. “We goes now. Far away.”

  Kahlil shook his head.

  “I can’t. I have to reach Jath’ibaye. I have to save him.” Kahlil pulled his hand out of Rousma’s grip. He touched her small skull. “You know I’m going to go to him. It’s what I have to do. If there was a reason for me to live, a reason that I found this key again, it’s to save him.”

  Rousma bowed her head.

  “Please help me, Rousma,” Kahlil said. “Take me to him.”

  “Promise me you won’t dies,” Rousma whispered.

  “I won’t die,” Kahlil assured her. “And I will take you away from here. I promise.”

  Rousma pressed her head against Kahlil’s bare chest and hugged his waist.

  “Don’t be a liar,” Rousma said. Then she pulled back from him. “We goes quicksy now.”

  She turned and skittered back to the pool of bright moon water. Kahlil raced after her. They swam through the filthy water and then rushed up into the higher chambers of the ruins. As they traveled, Kahlil noticed an almost electric charge in the air. Tiny sparks skipped between the stone walls and Rousma’s bones. Now and then white shocks arced up and crackled across Kahlil’s exposed bone finger. It stung. Kahlil curled his left hand into a fist, gripping the golden key and hiding his exposed bone under his other fingers.

  Kahlil caught glimpses of hungry bones scrambling through the ruins, racing away from the burning shocks of the yasi’halaun. Some let out pathetic moans as they fled. Others were silent in their desperation. Black burns cratered all of their white bodies. Some of them seemed to be turning to ash as they ran.

  He and Rousma turned down a half-collapsed corridor and Rousma stopped. The air rolling up from the dark confines felt hot and wet. It smelled like a forge, filled with steam and burning minerals.

  “Through the door at the end,” Rousma said. “She traps him there.”

  Kahlil knew she couldn’t come any further with him. His flesh offered him some protection from the yasi’halaun, but she had nothing but exposed bone.

  “Can you wait for me out in the courtyard?” Kahlil asked. “Will you be safe there?”

  “I climbs up in the apple branches. Big bones can’t catches me up theres,” Rousma said.

  “Good.” Kahlil patted her skull one last time and then raced down the corridor. As he descended, the smell of steam and molten stone grew stronger. It burned his throat and made his lungs ache. The floor felt hot under his bare feet. He noticed larger arcs of white light dancing over the blessings carved into the walls. In places the rock walls glowed dull red from the constant assaults.

  A single door stood at the end of the corridor. Plumes of acrid smoke and steam rolled out from between the hinges and the walls. Bolts of white light skipped over the iron reinforcements. This had to be where Loshai had attempted to recreate the Chamber of Gates.

  Kahlil started to reach for the door but jerked his hand back as a searing white bolt arced up from the iron towards him. The light crested like a wave, crackling at the air, and then collapsed back down to the surface of the door. He couldn’t even touch it. It would burn him apart before he could even push it open.

  But he knew of more than one way to get into a room. Kahlil closed his eyes and flicked his fingers apart. The Gray Space tore roughly, throwing off arcs of flame. Kahlil stepped into the cold gray world.

  The ropey texture of the Gray Space resisted him and Kahlil twisted and bent as he fought his way forward through the door and into the huge chamber.

  High on a dais, the yasi’halaun hung in a tangle of wires. Huge bolts of white light shot from it, scorching the walls and then flashing out to the surrounding stones. They lit the room like flashes of lightning. Pieces of the stone cracked and crumbled into the rolling waters. Even from the Gray Space, Kahlil could feel the intensity of the yasi’halaun’s power. It was only a matter of time before it ripped the entire chamber apart. There was no way that Kahlil could leave the Gray Space to free Jath’ibaye as long as the yasi’halaun continued to feed.

  Kahlil raced up the dais. The yasi’halaun seemed to sense him. Arcs of light lashed out, striking the air as he passed through it. Kahlil’s skin tingled, but the Gray Space protected him. The yasi’halaun, like the Rifter whose body it came from, could
not penetrate deep into the Gray Space. Kahlil wondered if the Gray Space could destroy the yasi’halaun the way it could kill a Rifter.

  He hoped that the Gray Space could at least contain its fury.

  He stood over the yasi’halaun. He reached out so that his right hand hovered over the yasi’halaun’s hilt. Hopefully his flesh would disguise the bones beneath for at least a moment. Terror blossomed through his chest at the thought of what he was about to do. His heart pounded violently. Despite the cold of the Gray Space, sweat beaded his arms and back. If he was wrong, the yasi’halaun would burn him to ash and leave Jath’ibaye to die.

  But he didn’t have time to come up with a better plan.

  He tore open the Gray Space, dropping out into the raging heat of the huge chamber and at the same moment yanking the yasi’halaun into the Gray Space he had just escaped. Searing pain shot through his right hand, but he didn’t release the yasi’halaun until it was buried deep in the Gray Space. Then he jerked his seared hand back and snapped the Gray Space closed.

  The chamber plunged into silent darkness. A few patches of moon water glowed dimly at the edges of the steaming, choppy waves. Kahlil felt the blisters rising across the palm of his right hand with a kind of relief; at least he still had a hand.

  But what he didn’t have wa time.

  He rushed to the ladder and bounded down from the dais. Struggling through the hot water that filled the chamber, he raced from one of the yellow stones to another, reading the burned, eroded Payshmura script.

  He found incantations of distance, words of sacred spaces, and worlds crossed. The Palace of Night, Kingdom of Day, holy exaltations, they were useless to him. Then across the chamber he saw the simple engraving that he needed. A small black keyhole cut into the stone face.

  Kahlil slogged through the water, twice slipping, but never losing hold of the key. Finally he reached the stone and jammed the ush’hala into the keyhole. He wrenched open the deathlock. Chilling air hissed up over him from the Gray Space contained within the stone.

  Kahlil thrust his hands through the stone, groping desperately into the frigid Gray Space. His right hand brushed something hard. A shoulder. His knuckles scraped the curve of a chest. He groped a thick arm, but it hung limply in his grasp.

  Kahlil grabbed the body and wrenched Jath’ibaye out of the Gray Space. He tried to take Jath’ibaye’s dead weight, but his own body was too exhausted. Kahlil’s grip failed and Jath’ibaye fell into the water.

  Kahlil caught him roughly and jerked his head above the water. Jath’ibaye’s skin looked deathly pale, almost blue. He felt frigidly cold in Kahlil’s arms.

  “You have to be all right,” Kahlil whispered against Jath’ibaye’s icy cheek. “You have to be here with me, because I came back for you. I died and I came back, because I had to be here to save you.” He knew he was babbling, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t think. All he could do was hold Jath’ibaye and beg him to live. “I am your Kahlil. Nothing can harm you while I am here. I swore that. Don’t make me a liar.” Tears burned down Kahlil’s cheeks.

  “John,” Kahlil whispered, slipping into English, hoping that hearing the words might call him back to his human body. “John, I love you. Please wake up.”

  Kahlil felt the slightest breath of air against his wet cheek. Jath’ibaye still slumped against him, but his chest rose as he drew in breath. Ripples spread across the water.

  Jath’ibaye’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again. He drew in another deep breath and straightened just a little in Kahlil’s embrace. His lips were still white and his skin a waxy blue, but he was alive. Joy surged through Kahlil.

  Jath’ibaye raised his hand weakly and touched Kahlil’s chest. He drew in another deep breath and his hand slid over Kahlil’s shoulder and down his back. Rivulets of water dripped from his wet fingers and slid down Kahlil’s bare skin.

  “Kyle?” Jath’ibaye’s voice was rough.

  “I’m here,” Kahlil assured him.

  Jath’ibaye slowly opened his eyes. “I came for you.”

  “I knew you would,” Kahlil replied.

  The slightest smile curved the corners of Jath’ibaye’s pale mouth.

  “Is that why you aren’t wearing any clothes?” Jath’ibaye asked and Kahlil laughed, though the sound emerged as more of a sob. The relief that swept through him equaled what he’d felt when Jath’ibaye had come for him before, tearing through the armies amassed at Vundomu, when he’d thought he’d lost his lover to the inhuman fury of the Rifter only to find this same man, still caring for him, still taking him in his arms. All at once exhaustion rose up in Kahlil like a wave. It was over. They could go home now. Together.

  Jath’ibaye seemed to arrive independently at the same conclusion. He clumsily pulled his feet beneath him and stood.

  Kahlil wrapped his arm around his broad chest, steadying him.

  “You feel different somehow…” John’s gaze searched his naked body. “Your hand…”

  “It’s just a little singed.” Kahlil held up his blistered right palm. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I meant your other hand. Loshai sent me your finger—”

  Feeling strangely smug, Kahlil lifted and displayed his left hand. In the dim light, the protruding bones of his ring finger looked as delicate as porcelain.

  “I found a spare,” he said.

  With plain hesitation, as if he were afraid he might shatter it, Jath’ibaye reached out to touch the finely carved bone.

  “How did you…?”

  Kahlil shrugged. The answer seemed obvious to him now. “It was the will of Parfir.”

  “That you should find a spare finger?” Jath’ibaye’s confusion showed on his face.

  Kahlil couldn’t keep from rolling his eyes. “That I should be divided to bring you here and then be made whole again so that I could protect you. You really should read the holy book sometime. You might find that you understand your own miracles better.”

  Jath’ibaye stared at him for a long, searching moment, and suddenly Kahlil felt the bond between them open, radiating up from his bones. Jath’ibaye’s face lit with sudden recognition and joy. He laced his fingers with Kahlil’s and drew him close.

  “I understand myself just fine,” Jath’ibaye murmured. “The miracle here is you.”

  •

  Six days later John waited in the high courtyard of the kahlilrash’im barracks. Overhead, rays of morning sun lit the heavy mist clinging to Vundomu’s heights. Warmth would come with the afternoon, but just now winter’s chill still filled the air. John’s breath drifted in white wisps, trailing the words he silently mouthed.

  He paced slowly over the incantations that Ji had so long ago instructed him to carve into the flagstones. His blood had fed the countless names of suffering and pain, of fury and rage, but at the time he hadn’t seen a function beyond those words. He’d looked at the immense maze and had only perceived how any outside forces would be funneled inescapably inward to the name of death at the heart of it all.

  He hadn’t ever stood at the center of it, in the place of death, and surveyed the immense spell encircling him. That had been Ji’s domain; he’d created this incantation at her instructions and for her. But now, turning slowly and taking it in, John had no doubt that even then Ji had possessed the insight and foresight to know that one day he would stand here in her place.

  John knelt and ran his hand over the weathered flagstone. For a moment he forgot about the power and purpose locked away here and only thought of Ji. He missed her, probably more than he could have ever missed even his own mother. He took consolation in knowing that she had chosen her death and that with it her soul had at last been set free.

  The wail of the Gray Space wrenching open brought John’s attention to the edge of the courtyard.

  Pesha staggered out of the thin, cold air. Her black eye and the dark bruise coloring her jaw lent her the appearance of a badly battered child. But pride radiated from her bright expression and s
eemed to animate her movements as she hefted the massive blade of the yasi’halaun up and brought it to John.

  “Saimura and Ravishan freed the last six ushissa’im and destroyed the remaining hungry bones from the northern ruins last night,” Pesha informed him. “There are no more left for the yasi’halaun to feed on.”

  John nodded; last night Kyle had brought him the same news from the ruins—as well as three more botanical texts.

  “How is Saimura holding up?” John asked and for a moment Pesha’s smile wavered.

  “He’s sad. We all are,” she said. “But…he’s all right. He seems to cheer up whenever I ask him about all the music and entertainment in Nurjima. He misses the city.”

  “Well, if Hirran has anything to say about it, he’ll be back there soon enough,” John replied.

  At the mention of Hirran a kind of hopeful expression lit Pesha’s angular, bruised face.

  “Representative Hirran hasn’t returned from the Bousim lands already, has she?”

  “Not yet.” John suspected that Joulen would delay her as long as he possibly could. “Her younger sister, Par’sho, returned yesterday. As I recall she was asking about you.”

  “Was she?” Pesha’s delight brought a smile to John; despite all the horror of the past, the killing incantations at his feet, and the deadly blade in his grip, life went on all around him. The knowledge warmed him more than the thin rays of morning sun.

  “Would you mind if I—I mean, if you don’t need me to do anything more—” Pesha began.

  “Go,” John told her easily.

  Pesha grinned at him and something in her expression reminded him just a little of Kyle when he’d been the same age. Then Pesha bounded out of the courtyard, leaving John alone once again.

  John lifted the yasi’halaun and felt it shiver in response to his touch. Twenty-nine years ago, here in Vundomu, he’d taken the remains of the Rifter before him and made them his own. Now he held the same bone, but from a different history—one that had imbued it with hunger and rage and made it an embodiment of everything John fought against in his own nature.