4: Witches' Blood

by Ginn Hale

  “Is he here with Ushvun Jahn again?” Dayyid asked.

  “Who?” Hann’yu didn’t look up from his herb table.

  “Ravishan.” Dayyid scanned the infirmary, seeming disappointed with its emptiness. For a moment a small pile of dull green leaves and white flowers bore the brunt of his disapproving expression. Then he looked to Hann’yu.

  “No, they’ve finished their practices. Ravishan has gone to the golden chamber, I imagine, and Jahn is sleeping.” Hann’yu glanced to the curtained bed. It gave John an odd feeling of vertigo to take in the space where he knew his own body lay in a deep sleep.

  “In the middle of the day?” Dayyid frowned at the canvas panels.

  “He was up early training with Ravishan.” Hann’yu looked up at Dayyid. “Did you know that he goes down to the kitchen after the eighth bell and helps the ushvun’im bake for the next day? He hardly sleeps at all.”

  “How could he, when he’s so busy doing every job that isn’t his to do?” Dayyid responded.

  Hann’yu sighed. “You sound jealous, Dayyid. I can see why you would be. The ushiri’im practice with him and Ravishan follows him around like a milk-pup. It leaves you out. But it’s unbecoming to succumb to such a petty feeling.”

  “I’m not jealous,” Dayyid replied coolly. “If he improves the ushiri’im, then I’m glad for it.”

  “You don’t seem glad for it,” Hann’yu replied. He stood and picked out another jar. A dark golden fluid swirled in it. “But perhaps I’m misinterpreting your glares, scowls, and threats.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “Is there anyone you do trust?” Hann’yu searched his shelves. At last he found two small clay cups. He set them down on the herb table.

  John would have liked to have heard the answer to Hann’yu’s question but Dayyid offered none. He stood in silence and watched as Hann’yu filled the two cups with golden liquid. It poured like honey. Hann’yu pushed one of the cups to Dayyid and took the other for himself.

  “Fathi?” Dayyid raised a dark brow.

  “The drink of divine truth and joy,” Hann’yu confirmed. “It suits our conversation, don’t you think?”

  Dayyid eyed the small cup as if it were a trap of some kind.

  “He hides things,” Dayyid suddenly stated. “When I placed the curse blade before him he felt its power, and yet he didn’t choose it.”

  “He has a right not to choose it,” Hann’yu replied. “Anyway, you were the one who said that you didn’t want him as an ushiri.”

  “I didn’t and I don’t.” Dayyid picked up his cup. He held it between his hands as if it offered him some kind of warmth, but he did not drink. “He’s hiding something.”

  “What?” Hann’yu laughed. “His dread of being cut to ribbons by the Gray Space? It’s not all that desirable of a test to pass, really.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean,” Dayyid grumbled.

  “I don’t, actually.” Hann’yu met Dayyid’s intense expression with an easy smile. “So tell me what you’re really bothered by.”

  “He holds back,” Dayyid said. “When he first arrived, I took it for pure cowardice. He took his beatings like a dog. But when he came to the golden chamber, I felt something stir in him and he restrained it. He tried to hide it from me.”

  Hann’yu frowned. “Hide what, exactly?”

  “Power. Immense power,” Dayyid said after a long pause. “When he collapsed the God’s Razor, I felt it for just a moment. A raw, dark power. It struck me, but then he pulled it back. During the test he suppressed it and lied. I assume you’ve noticed it as well?”

  “There is a force to him,” Hann’yu admitted. “But it’s, as you say, raw and strong. That makes it no use in the infirmary. As far as I’m concerned it’s best if he does hold it back.”

  “Then you have sensed him hiding it.” Dayyid’s voice rang with vindication.

  “Certainly,” Hann’yu agreed, but he only appeared amused by Dayyid’s serious expression and tone. “But don’t you think that would be natural for a man who obviously comes from Eastern blood? He has witch’s child all but written across him. He’s probably had to hide his power all his life just to keep clear of harvest fires.”

  Hann’yu frowned down at his small cup. Dayyid said nothing. John wondered if the conversation would end there. It seemed unlike Dayyid to allow anyone else to have the last word. Hann’yu drank from his cup while Dayyid simply held his.

  “If he had done nothing wrong,” Dayyid spoke as if the long silence in their conversation had never occurred, “then he would have no reason to hide. In itself, his power could be Parfir’s blessing. Only if Jahn misused it could he have been accused of witchcraft.”

  Hann’yu gave a dry laugh at that.

  “Well, that’s the letter of the law,” Hann’yu replied, “but we both know that misuse is a matter of interpretation. There are jealous, petty people willing to cry foul against anyone they can. And Jahn doesn’t just have himself to think of. He has a sister as well.”

  “Yes, I recall that he made a spectacle of himself for her sake.” Dayyid took a small sip from his cup. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste.

  “Don’t pretend that you weren’t proud to see one of ours knock a rasho flat.” Hann’yu grinned. To John’s surprise a slight smile tugged the corners of Dayyid’s mouth upward.

  “Perhaps,” Dayyid admitted. “But his prowess isn’t a matter of contention.”

  “Of course it is,” Hann’yu replied. “You just won’t admit it.”

  “No,” Dayyid replied.

  John wasn’t sure if Dayyid meant that he wouldn’t admit his jealousy or if he was refuting Hann’yu completely. Hann’yu seemed not to need to pursue the matter further.

  “How’s the fathi?” Hann’yu glanced to the small cup in Dayyid’s hands.

  “Still too sweet,” Dayyid replied.

  “Better than last year’s, though.” Hann’yu poured himself another serving.

  “Much,” Dayyid agreed.

  “Another five or six years and it may be quite smooth,” Hann’yu pronounced after another sip.

  “If there’s any left,” Dayyid replied.

  This time Hann’yu’s laugh sounded genuine and warm. “The pursuit of perfection has its costs,” he declared.

  Dayyid sipped a little more of the golden drink.

  “Go on,” Hann’yu said to him at last. “Sit down, before it knocks you down.”

  “I have no intention of drinking it all,” Dayyid replied. He set the small cup aside on Hann’yu’s table. It was still nearly full.

  “You need to relax sometime, Dayyid,” Hann’yu said. “Go ahead. Have the rest.”

  “No.” Dayyid shook his head. “I should find Ravishan and make sure he’s at his practices.”

  “He’s at his practices,” Hann’yu said. “He’s always at his practices. He wakes Jahn up before sunrise to practice. He stays in the golden chamber until sunset. He does nothing but practice.”

  “You disapprove?” Dayyid asked.

  “I just wonder what he’s going to do when he crosses to Nayeshi.”

  “Find the Rifter,” Dayyid replied as if there could be no other response.

  “Yes, obviously, but I mean besides that. It takes years, doesn’t it? Then he has to wait for word from the Black Tower. He hardly knows how to relax or talk about anything but becoming Kahlil. What will they make of him in Nayeshi?”

  Remembering Kyle, John had a good idea of what people would make of Ravishan—a weird, knife-wielding, scarred milkman. But it would be different for Ravishan. John planned on being there with him, helping him.

  “My only concern is that he becomes Kahlil,” Dayyid replied.

  “He will.” Hann’yu gestured as if waving any doubt aside. “The Issusha’im Oracles have seen the Prayerscars over his eyes. They have seen him cross through the Great Gate.”

  “They also saw Fikiri’s blood spilled on the Holy Road.” Dayyid reached o
ut to the cup he’d set aside and ran a finger over the rim before drawing his hand back. “We can’t depend upon their scrying.”

  “Then perhaps we should have faith in Parfir,” Hann’yu said.

  “You’ll say anything not to have to drink alone, won’t you?” Dayyid picked his cup up again and took a quick drink from it. He closed his eyes.

  “Even now, drinking fathi,” Dayyid said softly, “he doesn’t stop picking at my thoughts.”

  “Ravishan?”

  “Ushvun Jahn.” Dayyid opened his eyes and gazed back to the curtained bed.

  “He’s like a splinter in my mind.” Dayyid stepped closer to the bed and caught hold of one of the canvas panels. “He learns too quickly, fights too well...What will we do if he’s one of theirs?”

  “Fai’daum?” Hann’yu asked. He looked amused by the idea.

  Dayyid drew one of the panels back and scowled at John. Seeing his own body stretched out in the bed utterly exposed as Dayyid leaned over him sent a shudder of fear through John. He wanted to wake up but couldn’t quite rouse himself.

  Dayyid released the panel and it fell back closed.

  “He isn’t Fai’daum,” Hann’yu stated with certainty.

  “You can’t know that.” Dayyid turned back to Hann’yu.

  “I can.” Hann’yu’s smile was a little crooked. His small cup of fathi sat nearly empty.

  “You think you know him,” Dayyid said. “You think he’s trustworthy, but to me he reeks of lies.”

  Hann’yu rolled his eyes.

  “Even if I didn’t like him I would still know he isn’t Fai’daum.” Hann’yu leaned back in his chair. A soft pink glow had spread across his nose and cheeks. “The Fai’daum brand their men so that one can never desert the cause.”

  “I’ve heard the same thing, but it could just as easily be a rumor, like almost everything else you hear about the Fai’daum.”

  “No, I met members when I lived in Nurjima.” Hann’yu smiled at Dayyid’s horrified expression. “In the south it’s not like it is here. It’s not an all out war. There are public speeches and debates...Well, there used to be. It’s all changed by now, I suppose.”

  “Southern intellectuals making speeches and giving themselves burn scars hardly speak for the true Fai’daum. They’re children compared to the real insurgents we battle here in the north.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told many, many times,” Hann’yu said. “But even if I know nothing of the northern Fai’daum, Jahn should be the last person you suspect of being one of their spies. What would he be doing? If he was going to kill the Kahlil, he’s had more than ample opportunities to end both Ravishan’s and Fikiri’s lives. Instead, he’s improving the ushiri’im by training with them. He’s born wounds for all of the ushiri’im. He could have refused and let several of them die. What kind of Fai’daum member does that?”

  “I don’t know,” Dayyid admitted.

  “You do know,” Hann’yu stated firmly. “He’s not a member of the Fai’daum. He’s a man who Parfir has blessed with strength and power and that threatens you. Jahn has the potential to become a powerful ushman, perhaps even more powerful than you. The ushiri’im sense as much and so do you. That’s why you mistrust him. That’s why he nags at your thoughts.”

  “If you weren’t drunk on fathi,” Dayyid glowered at Hann’yu, “I would call you out onto the fighting grounds for saying such a thing.”

  “But I am drunk.”

  Dayyid leaned across Hann’yu’s table and glared down at him. “Someday you will have worn that excuse too thin,” Dayyid growled.

  “Today?” Hann’yu’s smile faded but his tone remained teasing as he met Dayyid’s glower.

  “Not today.” Dayyid straightened. He turned and started for the door. “When he wakes, send him to the golden chamber.”

  “Ushvun Jahn?” Hann’yu asked.

  “Of course.” Dayyid stopped at the door and glanced back to Hann’yu. “Don’t make me wait too long.” Then he left.

  Hann’yu took Dayyid’s abandoned cup of fathi and raised it toward the curtained bed. “Well, Jahn, let’s pray that wasn’t the wife you dreamed up for me.” He tossed back the last of Dayyid’s fathi. “Sheep are sounding better already.”

  #

  John no longer found the chill and harsh odor of burnt ozone remarkable when he entered the golden chamber. Even those faint bloodstains that marred the perfect white of the practice mats no longer perturbed him. He’d fought and seen blood spilled—both his own and that of the ushiri’im—in combat practice.

  But the emptiness of the space bothered him. He was used to entering the chamber to find many of the ushiri’im practicing their battle skills. Some afternoons the number of men and the intensity of their exertions managed to warm the chamber, despite the cold that emanated from countless rifts in the Gray Space.

  This afternoon only Dayyid occupied the room; John recognized him despite the fact that he wore neither his black coat, nor his cassock. Hundreds of long white scars marred the dark skin of his bare arms. He knelt before the large bronze statue of Parfir, dressed in simple pants and an undershirt. His long black braids were tied back and he gripped a black curse blade in his right hand.

  Powerfully built and handsome, he reminded John more than a little of Ravishan, and yet as John studied him, he felt nothing but loathing for the man.

  “You sent for me, Ushman Dayyid?” John called from the doorway.

  “I did.” Dayyid remained where he was for several moments. John waited for him to complete his prayers. At last Dayyid stood and turned to face John directly. He didn’t sheath his curse blade.

  “I will not pretend to like you, Ushvun Jahn,” Dayyid announced.

  “I don’t think you ever have,” John replied before Dayyid could go on.

  Dayyid narrowed his dark gaze and John knew he should have remained silent. But ever since the Harvest Festival, when he’d realized just how cruelly Dayyid used Ravishan to enforce his own brutal ideals, John had found himself overwhelmed by his outrage at the man.

  “Perhaps I have not,” Dayyid said at last. “Such deceit is not in my nature, after all. Just as honesty is not in your nature.”

  Dayyid gave him a hard smile and made a small sweep with his curse blade, almost absently.

  John ground his teeth but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to be baited into attacking Dayyid and being run through with that poisonous blade.

  “Hann’yu seems to think differently of you,” Dayyid stated. “And it seems that many of my ushiri’im have found a use for you as well.”

  John nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a repeat of the interrogation that Dayyid had already put him through in the library.

  “I won’t have my ushiri’im training against an inferior opponent. After all, one cannot sharpen a blade with a soft stone.” Dayyid watched John like a cat watching a fallen crow. “From this point on I will personally see to your battle training…Unless, of course, you wish to withdraw from practices with my ushiri’im.”

  John stared at Dayyid for a moment, almost unable to believe that the man could be so petty. At the same time he knew Dayyid was serious and would take the greatest satisfaction in beating John to a pulp while claiming that it served a higher good. The smartest, fastest way to diffuse the entire situation would be to withdraw from practicing with the ushiri’im as Dayyid wished.

  But even knowing as much, John couldn’t bring himself to do so. Training was the only excuse he could claim for time alone with Ravishan and it offered John a reason to be in the upper reaches of the monastery. More than that, he refused to give up his friendships with the ushiri’im and the freedoms they had won him just to mollify Dayyid’s jealousy.

  “When do we begin training?” John asked.

  “I believe your first lesson will start right now,” Dayyid replied. He sheathed his black curse blade, and then with a flick of his hands, wrenched the Gray Space
open and punched it towards John’s chest.

  John lunged back. Dayyid pursued him with fast, sure strides and an expression of pleasure on his face. John’s heel hit the wall behind him. No further retreat in that direction.

  Dayyid obviously saw as much as well and pressed his assault with a quick jab for John’s face.

  John dropped to a crouch, feeling the sick cold of the Gray Space slash the air just above his head. He immediately pounced up, driving both fists into Dayyid’s exposed torso. Dayyid stumbled back and John bounded after him. He landed another powerful body blow to Dayyid’s chest and saw the look of pain and fury as he knocked the breath out of Dayyid. But in an instant Dayyid struck back with a hard kick into John’s right knee. Pain shot through John’s leg and he staggered.

  Dayyid pressed his advantage, tearing open the Gray Space to create a Silence Knife. The air screamed and flames followed the arc of Dayyid’s fist as he plunged the Silence Knife down.

  Two years ago John would have been too overwhelmed, too hurt and off balance to do anything but fall beneath the killing edge of Dayyid’s Silence Knife. But since then John had trained hard and constantly, not only against his fellow ushvun’im, but also against Dayyid’s ushiri’im.

  They fought just as Dayyid fought, because he had trained them. Their speed and relentless attacks were Dayyid’s, but so too were their weaknesses. They never expected anyone to challenge their divine weapons; they could not seem to even imagine an attack across the line of their Silence Knives and Unseen Edges.

  With a roar of sheer rage, John punched directly into Dayyid’s Silence Knife. Agonizing pain tore across the back of his hand, but John threw himself into the blow. Blood gushed from his hand and then the frigid cold of the Gray Space snapped closed and John’s bloody fist smashed into Dayyid’s jaw. Dayyid’s eyes went wide with shock.

  John hooked Dayyid’s ankle with a fast kick and pulled him off his feet.

  As Dayyid hit the practice mat flat on his back, John dropped to one knee, aiming a blow straight down into Dayyid’s exposed throat. A killing strike.

  Then, reflexively, John pulled back. He wasn’t about to kill another human being, not even someone as cruel as Dayyid.