2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows

by Ginn Hale

  “Thank you,” John replied, “but why would you want to help us?”

  “Because my great-grandmother was from the Kingdom of the East. She came here when she was just a child, before the Payshmura called down the Rifter from Nayeshi and had him tear that beautiful land to shreds.” Her small hands tapped nervously over the porcelain bowl, clicking the silver chains against its surface.

  John realized with some relief that the Lady Bousim did not, in fact, know who they were after all. He, Bill, and Laurie weren’t from a lost Kingdom of the East. They weren’t even from this planet. Ravishan had said that the Basawar name of their world was Nayeshi. Apparently, the Rifter was called from the same place.

  “My great-grandmother knew spells,” Lady Bousim went on in a quick whisper. “She could call fire and bind the waters. She was a proud, beautiful woman—a free woman. Her hair was golden like yours. Only a little of her blood flows in me. I don’t know her words of power. I speak only Basawar. I bow before the Basawar god in his temple and my hands are chained with Basawar wedding rings.” Her expression turned sad and she clenched her hands into fists around the chains. “But I have never forgotten that I am a descended from Eastern queens. I have never stopped looking for others like me. My people. I always knew a few of us had to have survived. Our home may be lost to us forever but we will never forget that there was once a great kingdom where there is now only that hideous chasm.”

  John felt a pang of sympathy for the woman. Her pained expression and voice alone would have elicited his compassion, even if he had not understood her words. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  She said, “I have prayed every night since I was a child that I would find you.”

  Laurie and Bill both looked to him for an explanation but John didn’t want to interrupt Lady Bousim.

  “Later,” he whispered.

  Ohbi held out a thin white circle of cloth and Lady Bousim took it and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “I’m so foolish,” Lady Bousim whispered. “Inholima must not know that I’ve been crying when she comes back or she’ll run to Rashan Pivan right away and tell him.”

  “How did you know that we were from the East?” John asked. He wasn’t sure how well she would take the revelation that they weren’t. If he could avoid telling her, he thought that would be for the best.

  “I’m sorry to say that I didn’t recognize you at all the night you brought warning to us on the Holy Road. When Ohbi peeked out from the carriage and described you to me, I thought you must have been some filthy peasant. You disguised yourself very well. But then Rashan Pivan came to me and told me that you, a ragged peasant, had stood against the demoness, Ji Shir’kurod. I knew you couldn’t be a common man, so I sent Bati’kohl to attend you in the bath and to listen to you when you were alone among yourselves.”

  John had thought that he had heard someone outside the door.

  “Bati’kohl brought me a piece of your raiments before he burned them.” She slipped her hand inside one of her long sleeves and pulled out a small strip of blue Gortex.

  Ohbi gave a small gasp as she saw it.

  “I have never seen such a brilliant color in all the world,” Ohbi whispered.

  “You never will again.” Lady Bousim turned the material through her fingers. “The great queens of the East are all gone and all that remains of their splendor is this scrap. My great-grandmother had gowns the color of the sunset and of violets. They all had to be burned when she went into hiding. Not a single thread could be saved.”

  “I’m sorry,” John said.

  “You’re sorry for me?” Her expression verged on defiance, and then she smiled. “I think I am sorry enough for myself. You must not indulge me too much or I will have myself weeping again. And what do I have to cry over that you three do not have worse? Here you three are, starved and beaten from a lifetime of living at the edge of the world. Here you are among strangers whose language only one of you knows and whose customs are all wrong to you. And yet you are not crying. It makes me proud to see you and a little ashamed that my ancestors hid among the nobles when yours did not.”

  She pondered the scrap of blue fabric in her fingers and then handed it to Ohbi.

  “Burn it.”

  The girl reverently carried it to the fireplace and then dropped it into the flames.

  “Seeing the three of you together,” Lady Bousim went on, “I knew at once that you were the children of Eastern mothers. Your golden hair, his blue jewel eyes, and Loshai.” She gazed at Laurie like she was looking at work of art.

  “Silver hair, pale eyes, delicate witch’s bones,” Lady Bousim said. “I might have known just looking at her. But I wouldn’t have been sure. It was only when I saw the three of you together before me and Bati’kohl had told me that you spoke in a strange language that he had never heard before that I knew instantly who you are.”

  “Do you think others here know?” John asked.

  “No, most of them don’t even know that customs of the Eastern Kingdom have survived. That is how well the Payshmura destroyed us. Now, you see a fair-haired child and no one thinks anything of it, not even the child’s own mother. She may have Eastern blood but it doesn’t matter because her soul has become Basawar. It’s pitiful.”

  “My lady,” Ohbi returned to her seat next to Lady Bousim, “I’m afraid Inholima will be returning soon.”

  Lady Bousim sighed.

  “I must not ramble during this little time we have left. There are things you must know.” She turned to address John directly. “If Rashan Pivan’ro’Bousim asks you why you were out in the wastes, you must tell him that you were on your way to Amura’taye to beg the priests to pray for your brother’s health. Rashan Pivan is a religious man. He will be pleased to know that you are as well. You will have to make sure he sees you going to the first step of the Thousand Steps and chanting prayers, but it’s a small price to pay for his trust.”

  “I don’t know any Basawar prayers,” John interjected.

  Lady Bousim gasped at John’s revelation but then smiled.

  “Of course you don’t. How perfect you are,” she said.

  “My brother, Bati’kohl, knows many,” Ohbi offered. “I can send him to Jahn with evening tea and he can teach Jahn what he needs to know.”

  “A good idea,” Lady Bousim complimented Ohbi, then returned her attention to John. “You should only need to pray tomorrow. The day after that is the Opening of Heaven’s Door. The steps will be cleared for the ushiri candidate.”

  “That would be your son?” John asked.

  “Yes, unfortunately Fikiri was chosen. If he reaches Heaven’s Door and passes, then we will all be stranded in this priest-riddled backwater. We will be expected to live out the rest of our lives here, praying for his success in reaching Nayeshi.” Lady Bousim’s lip curled in disgust. The silver beads hanging from her hair rang against each other like tiny bells.

  “But there is a good chance that my son could fail.” Lady Bousim and Ohbi both appeared to be relieved by this thought. “Rashan Alidas’ro’Bousim was to be his attendant, but the man can hardly move now. Fikiri can’t be sent without an attendant and the rest of the rashan’im are married men so they can’t enter Rathal’pesha. In two days time, we will likely turn around and return to Nurjima. The three of you must come with me. I will see that you never go hungry again and you will teach me what my mother was afraid to. You will teach me the wisdom of our lost kingdom.”

  “Nurjima is a long way to the south, isn’t it?” John asked.

  “Yes, but it will do you no good to remain here at the edge of the shattered world. The Kingdom of the East will never return. It is rubble beneath the black sea.”

  “Nurjima is beautiful,” Ohbi assured him. “The streets are lit with golden gas lamps and there are all the smartest and funniest people there. The theaters stay open until almost morning with actors and singers—”

  “Ohbi,” Lady Bousim cut her off gently, “they have
only lived on the wastes. They don’t even know what a street lamp is.”

  Ohbi looked amazed at the idea of this.

  “Nurjima is beautiful,” Lady Bousim told him. “There are people there who are open-minded and wise and they will help you if I ask them to. You must not be afraid.”

  John wasn’t afraid—at least not of the prospect of street lamps. But the idea of leaving Amura’taye worried him deeply. The key to Nayeshi lay in Rathal’pesha, not Nurjima. And Ravishan was here as well and he knew what Lady Bousim did not: how to cross between worlds.

  Still, refusing the lady’s offer might insult her so badly that she would reveal their identities to Pivan.

  Inholima’s return saved John from having to give Lady Bousim an answer. She opened the door very quietly and quite slowly as if hoping not to be noticed.

  After she poured them tea, she seated herself at Lady Bousim’s right. Lady Bousim commented on how pretty her hair was and asked what she thought the lady should wear for the Opening of Heaven’s Door.

  As Inholima answered the question and the others that followed, the lady offhandedly excused John, Laurie, and Bill. She hardly spared them a glance when they left the room. She seemed utterly rapt with Inholima. The girl smiled shyly and blushed a little from the compliments and attention that the lady gave her.

  If he hadn’t known better, John would have thought that the girl was Lady Bousim’s dearest companion, a girl whom she adored like a daughter. But he had seen how dead and cold her expression turned the moment the girl left the room.

  John found her ability to mask her emotions both impressive and frightening. She had looked into his eyes with the same sincerity and sweetness that she now turned on Inholima.

  “Behr and I need a little more rest,” Laurie said the Basawar words softly and carefully. “We were up all night, traveling here.”

  “Do you have rooms?” John asked.

  “We share one.” Laurie’s brow furrowed as she concentrated on her words. “It’s across from yours.”

  “Did you understand much of what she said?” John asked in a whisper.

  “Yes,” Laurie leaned close to John, “I listen better than I talk. I’ll explain to Behr while we’re in bed. I don’t think a spy will be able to sneak in there with us.”

  “I hope not. We should meet later.”

  “We’ll come and get you in your room after our...” Laurie frowned. “Short sleep.”

  “Nap,” John supplied the word for her.

  “I know that one,” Bill said. He would have gone on but two maids came up the stairs, causing all three of them to lapse into silence.

  Their rooms were on the first floor, at the back of the huge main building. They slunk through several large halls as well as the massive, steamy kitchen on their way. Everywhere John looked there were servants dressed in the green of the Bousim family.

  Dozens of men and women stopped work to greet them in a welcoming ambush. Women offered Laurie their shawls and gave advice for treating Bill’s ‘thin lungs.’

  The men were more reticent but they still wanted to know how long John and his family had lived out in the wastes. What had they eaten? What had the demoness, Ji Shir’kurod, looked like? Did she breathe fire? Did she speak in the tongue of men?

  John answered most of the questions, while Laurie avoided saying anything by stepping behind John and feigning shyness. Then a hunched old woman began to probe Bill with unceasing questions about his condition. Bill did his best, shaking his head and nodding, but at last he simply began to cough violently.

  John apologized and said they needed to get him to bed right away. And the three of them slipped out of the kitchen down the narrow hallways of the servant’s quarters. Once they reached Bill and Laurie’s door, John wished them both peaceful dreams. They disappeared inside together.

  John turned to face the door to his own room.

  He wasn’t sure what he would do in that tiny, empty space, but at least he would be alone and be able to relax in solitude and silence. He’d grown used to living in the wilderness and here, with the sounds of servants chatting, the smells of fires and perfumes and the close confines of the stone walls, he felt overwhelmed. Almost trapped.

  He needed to have a few moments when he didn’t have to concentrate on each grunt and syllable of every person anywhere near him. He wanted just a little time to be alone and quiet.

  And he wondered about Ravishan. The boy had an uncanny knack when it came to finding him. If he could be alone, Ravishan might simply step out of the Gray Space. The thought appealed to John in ways he could barely admit to himself.

  John opened his door to find Rashan Pivan in full uniform standing next to his bed, waiting for him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You have spoken with Lady Amha’in’Bousim?” Pivan asked. He seemed amused by John’s unhappy expression.

  “I have,” John replied.

  “Aren’t you going to come in?” Pivan leaned against the wall. The room was small and dark. It smelled slightly of John’s own body, his sweat and breath. The confines and the scent made it seem like a deeply personal space. The narrow single bed by its very nature implied privacy. Pivan, with his heavy coat and uniform, did not belong there.

  John stood his ground. The two of them crammed into the tiny confines of the windowless room smacked too much of a debasing locker room encounter for John to enter.

  “I was going out,” John said. “I just wanted to see if my coat had been brought back to my room.”

  “Lady Bousim had it burned,” Pivan said. “There are some old coats in the barracks that might fit you.”

  “I probably don’t need one.”

  “Don’t be an ass. If you’re going out, you’ll need a coat. We’re half way up a damn mountain.” Pivan stepped towards the door. “You can follow me to the barracks, unless you’d rather hide from me under your blankets?”

  John wanted to tell Pivan to go to hell, but he knew better. He couldn’t afford to offend anyone right now, much less a man who apparently had the authority to have him burned alive.

  “Fine,” John replied. He stood back from the door to let Pivan pass. It gave John a brief, petty pleasure to note that he stood a good six inches taller than the other man.

  He followed Rashan Pivan back through the huge kitchen with its massive fires and meat spits. This time none of the servants said anything to him. They only bowed their heads as Pivan passed. John followed him through a side door and out into the crisp morning air.

  The Bousim house was not just a single building but several structures surrounded by a stone wall. East, towards the front of the house, there were formal gardens, though now only a few squat spring starts poked up from the cold ground. Near the front gate, John also noted a line of short pine trees with wildly crooked branches. Small white cones nestled like birds’ eggs in the midst of dark green needles.

  At the back of the house stood several black brick buildings adjacent to a wooden corral, where six tahldi stood pulling dry grass from thick bales. In the light of day, John could see that the animals were the color of moss. Their long spiraling horns gleamed glossy black. The animals responded to the sight of Pivan. Their heads came up, their ears pricked with excitement, and they nuzzled their noses out to brush his hand. Even after he passed their dark brown gazes followed him.

  Pivan led John to the building across from the corral. It turned out to be a barracks. Men in dark green uniforms crouched around an iron woodstove in the middle of the big main room. Beds lined the walls. Canvas curtains, which could have been drawn around the beds for privacy, were tied back.

  Several men lay in their beds. John recognized Alidas’ pale face and curling brown hair. He slept, but two of the others seemed to be playing cards.

  As Pivan led him past the rows of beds, John noticed that the uniformed men, like their tahldi, watched Pivan as he passed. John hadn’t been sure of the animals’ expressions but the men’s faces shone with excite
ment and reverence. No matter what John thought of him, Pivan was clearly a good leader to his men.

  Pivan made a small motion with his gloved hand and immediately a slim, swarthy young man jumped to his feet and saluted Pivan.

  Pivan gave him a hint of a smile.

  “Mou’pin, this is our good dog, Jahn. He needs a coat.” Pivan frowned at John, taking in the poor fit of his clothes. “One that’s big enough to cover him.”

  “From the storeroom, sir?” Mou’pin asked.

  “He’s too big to fit in a cavalrymen’s coat,” Pivan said. “See if you can’t find a market somewhere in this backwater and get him something from there.”

  Pivan reached into his coat pocket and tossed Mou’pin a coin purse. “Don’t go alone and don’t take all damn day.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mou’pin saluted again.

  “Come on,” Pivan said to John. He turned and led John back through a door at the far end of the room.

  A bed and a dresser were shoved up against the left wall. A heavy wooden table and two chairs stood in the middle of the room. Next to the one small window there was a low shelf with a single leather-bound book, a dish of polished stones and a cloth decorated with the holy Payshmura symbols of the sun and moon.

  “Your room or your commander’s?” John asked.

  “Mine.” Pivan closed the door. “Rasho Tashtu is obligated to keep his bed in the great house, where he is close at hand should Lady Bousim call for him.”

  Pivan pushed out the chair closest to the door.

  “Have a seat. We should talk.”

  “What about?” John asked.

  “Sit down,” Pivan repeated and this time John obeyed him.

  Pivan removed his coat and threw it across his bed. Then he walked to the shelf and without looking chose one of the polished stones, a tawny colored one. He rubbed his thumb across its surface and then set it aside.

  Pivan asked, “Are you a married man?”

  “No.” John hadn’t expected that question.