6: Broken Fortress

by Ginn Hale

  “That’s hardly the same thing. The Gray Space would grind you apart,” Jath’ibaye said.

  “And what’s happening to you?” Kahlil asked. “I know you could keep going. Physically, you could survive without ever sleeping or eating or even breathing. So long as you are in this world, you will live. But that’s just your body. It’s not your mind. Certainly not your spirit.”

  “Did Ji put you up to this?” Jath’ibaye asked.

  “She told me you hadn’t slept in days, but frankly anyone looking at you could see that.” Kahlil frowned at him. “When was the last time you even had a bath?”

  “I have been a little busy,” Jath’ibaye responded tersely. “I did just evacuate my people out of Nurjima, after riding all the way from the northern chasm, and before that, I was occupied with saving ass.”

  “My ass could have taken care of itself.” Kahlil couldn’t quite keep a straight face at his own words. He caught the flicker of a smile on Jath’ibaye’s lips as well, so he continued, “My ass is highly trained.”

  “Your ass—” Jath’ibaye began and then cut himself off, face flushed. “I’m sorry. I’m obviously too tired to do my best talking.”

  “Obviously,” Kahlil agreed.

  Standing together like this, bickering without any real anger, it was easy to forget that they were not lovers. It was even harder to remember that they never had been. He knew the heat of John’s naked skin against his own body. He knew the feel of his lips and the taste of his sweat. Kahlil’s skin warmed at the memory.

  He had to stop thinking of making love with Jath’ibaye or he would never make it though this conversation.

  To distract himself Kahlil made a study of the jungle of terrariums filling the shelves along the walls. The flash of a yellow moth’s wings momentarily caught his attention. He watched the small insect flit from one white bell-like flower to another. He wondered what Jath’ibaye would tell him if he asked about this creature.

  Probably too much. He always concerned himself about such small things. Microscopic things. Ever since he’d been a little boy.

  Kahlil said, “If you won’t take care of yourself for your own sake, you ought to do it for the population living here in Vundomu.”

  “I can’t possibly look that bad.” Jath’ibaye finally took off his coat. He tossed it across one of the chairs. “I might smell that bad but—”

  “The people here look to you for their protection,” Kahlil said. “They don’t want to see you looking haggard and filthy when they’re facing the threat of a war.”

  “You realize you’re advocating for the same people who just tried to sacrifice you to the Bousim house?” Jath’ibaye asked.

  “They’re just scared,” Kahlil replied. “And they don’t know me. As far as they were concerned, I was a Bousim spy who went against his own masters. Why not sacrifice me to save their own people?”

  “Maybe that was what they were thinking,” Jath’ibaye said. He frowned at the table. “But if it’s Hirran we’re talking about, then the whole thing probably just struck her as an opportunity to reopen trade negotiations.”

  At the time of the meeting, Kahlil hadn’t gotten much of an impression of Hirran. She had been pretty and soft spoken. But Kahlil trusted Jath’ibaye’s opinion. Oddly, Jath’ibaye seemed to sense that and he shook his head.

  “I shouldn’t say that. Hirran’s a good girl, when it comes right down to it. She’s just very driven, very focused on building relations with the gaun’im.”

  “A war might make that difficult.”

  “It might, but I’d bet my teeth that if anyone could come up with a way to trade with the gaun’im while fighting them it would be Hirran.” Despite his disapproving words, affection carried through Jath’ibaye’s tone.

  Kahlil pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. He had to shift a little to accommodate the length of the yasi’halaun.

  Jath’ibaye dropped back into the chair opposite him. Against the dark red upholstery Jath’ibaye’s skin looked deathly pale and the shadows beneath his eyes appeared almost blue. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “I know the people here count on me,” Jath’ibaye said.

  Studying him, Kahlil thought that perhaps too many people counted on Jath’ibaye for too much. He turned rivers, defeated hungry bones. He represented them in Nurjima and protected their lands. He was their first defense as well as their last hope. It was too much to expect of one man, no matter how powerful he was. Kahlil knew from his own experience how crushing such responsibility could be.

  “Well, you’re no good to anyone like this.” Kahlil caught hold of Jath’ibaye’s hand. His skin was warm and dry. “You need to have a bath and get some sleep.”

  “I should go down to the forges—” Jath’ibaye murmured but Kahlil cut him off.

  “Is your bath on the left? Mine is. The layout of our apartments seems pretty similar.”

  “They’re identical,” Jath’ibaye said.

  “Let’s go then.”

  “Fine,” Jath’ibaye said at last. He stood and allowed Kahlil to pull him into the tiled bathroom. The tub was much larger than the one in Kahlil’s rooms, apparently specially made to accommodate Jath’ibaye’s long limbs.

  Kahlil pumped the first rush of cold water down the drain and then closed the trap to catch the hot water that followed. Wisps of steam curled up to fog the mirror mounted on the wall.

  “You’d better get in while it’s still hot,” Kahlil told Jath’ibaye.

  Jath’ibaye began, clumsily, to undress. Kahlil stepped out of the room but didn’t close the door. He heard Jath’ibaye’s filthy clothes fall heavily to the floor. Then came the quiet whisper of the water breaking as Jath’ibaye eased himself into the tub.

  Kahlil went to the table and dragged one of the chairs over and sat with his back to the bathroom door to give Jath’ibaye his privacy.

  Kahlil gazed again at the huge glass case in front of him. A thick vine twined its woody stem between the planes of glass, using them to support its canopy of green and gold leaves. Tiny red mushrooms and velvety green moss covered the soil.

  “So, why all the plants?” Kahlil called back to Jath’ibaye.

  “What do you mean?” Jath’ibaye countered. Kahlil could hear him unscrewing a soap tin.

  “You’ve got this huge collection. What’s it for?” Kahlil asked.

  “Does it have to be for something?”

  “They don’t have to be for anything, but knowing you, they are.”

  Jath’ibaye gave a soft, low laugh. Kahlil smiled to himself.

  “So?” Kahlil prompted.

  “Just a minute. I have to rinse my hair.”

  Kahlil waited, rocking his chair back against the wall, while Jath’ibaye dunked his head under the water.

  “I’m trying to rebuild the natural diversity of these lands,” Jath’ibaye said at last. “Every time the Payshmura opened the Great Gates it placed an incredible strain on the land. The soil weakened; the air lost much of its nitrogen and oxygen content. The plants and animals that I’ve been gathering were all once native to this area. I’m trying to reintroduce them.”

  “I didn’t know that the Great Gates damaged the lands,” Kahlil remarked.

  “When they’re opened, living force drains from Basawar to Nayeshi. The Eastern sorceresses knew about it, but they couldn’t convince the Payshmura to destroy the gates.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t think the Payshmura widely publicized their dissent. But even when I first arrived I felt something was wrong with the land. It felt weak, almost sick. I had no idea why, of course.” The water sloshed as Jath’ibaye rose from the tub. “Ji told me about the rest.”

  Kahlil glanced back, catching a glimpse of Jath’ibaye’s naked body. He was as strong and lean as Kahlil remembered. Tiny rivulets of water traced the curves of his muscles. The fine blond hairs on his chest, arms, and legs glistened with droplets of water. He reached for a towel.

&n
bsp; Kahlil whipped his eyes back around to the front.

  “So where did you find them, the plants, I mean? If there weren’t any left here?” Kahlil asked, though he was only half prepared to listen to Jath’ibaye’s reply. The image of Jath’ibaye’s body still played through his mind.

  “Some are common, just growing farther south. Others, like the moonvines, were propagated from one sickly plant that managed to survive at the edge of its natural range.” Jath’ibaye’s voice was slightly muffled as he toweled his hair. “I think a few species might have survived on some of the islands, east of the great rift, but so much has become extinct.”

  Jath’ibaye came to the door. He’d wrapped the towel around his hips. His skin was still pink from the heat of the bath.

  “Sometimes when I’m looking through the old bestiaries and botanical books this sense of loss overwhelms me…”

  “You do what you can with what remains.” Kahlil wasn’t sure if he was talking about his own life or Basawar’s mass extinctions. “It’s a beautiful plant. I’m glad you could save it.”

  “So am I.” Jath’ibaye crouched down beside Kahlil’s chair. He pointed to the tiny red mushrooms dotting the soil in the glass case in front of them. “Before we discovered that mushroom we couldn’t get any of the moonvine’s seeds to germinate. But once we brought the two together they started sprouting right and left. And not just moonvine, frond trees as well.”

  “Because of the mycorrhizae?”

  Jath’ibaye smiled, beautifully. “Yes. I’m amazed you remembered.”

  “I’m a little amazed myself,” Kahlil admitted. The scent of soap lingered on Jath’ibaye’s skin. Already, his hair was beginning to curl into disordered locks.

  “What we see above the ground are just the mushrooms’ fruiting bodies. Many of them only fruit every ten or twenty years. The rest of the time they lead existences that are invisible to us, but they are integral to entire forests.” Jath’ibaye gazed at the glossy red mushrooms almost affectionately. “Sometimes they remind me of you.”

  “Mushrooms?” Kahlil laughed.

  “It’s not a bad thing,” Jath’ibaye protested.

  “I know,” Kahlil said. “You’re probably the only man who would compare me to a fungus and mean it as a compliment.”

  “It’s just the hidden nature of what you both do.” A hint of red crept up Jath’ibaye’s face. “I shouldn’t be trying to talk. Everything is coming out wrong.”

  “Sleep might help that problem,” Kahlil suggested.

  “I know. I should just go to bed.” Jath’ibaye stood as if to bid him good night and see him out but then hesitated at Kahlil’s side. He said, “If you aren’t too tired, I would like to show you one last thing.”

  “I’m not the one who’s asleep on his feet,” Kahlil replied. “Sure. Show me what you’ve got.”

  Jath’ibaye gave a short laugh at that and then shook his head before Kahlil could ask why. He said, “Come back to my bedroom and have a look.”

  As Kahlil followed Jath’ibaye into his bedroom, his heartbeat quickened irrationally.

  Here too, the several Wardian cases and glass terrariums brimming with lush botanical specimens lent the cold stone walls the illusion of summer. Earthy scents permeated the atmosphere. Worn leather tomes littered the few shelves not overflowing with vegetation. A wooden writing desk and chair stood beside a larger table—the top of which appeared to be entirely engulfed by mosses and ground covers. It took Kahlil a moment to notice Jath’ibaye’s simple bed and dresser pushed back into a far corner, as if they were necessary inconveniences.

  Jath’ibaye went to one of the large terrariums that filled his deep windowsill. Kahlil followed, though he paused as he took in the display of mosses, stones and tiny flowers that dominated Jath’ibaye’s table.

  It was a scale model, Kahlil realized. He easily recognized the mountains surrounding Vundomu, though they were carved from black granite. He followed the stream of blue quartz pebbles that represented the Samsira River down through the emerald, moss-covered hills and valleys to Nurjima. Farther south, the rolling hills of the Du’yura lands flattened into the fields of tiny white flowers and the clover meadows of the Lisam lands. At every point where a major city, town or fortress would have stood, clusters of polished stones gleamed.

  Kahlil frowned at the fine white sand that covered the northern tip of the display. Kahlil recalled Fikiri speaking of stones that Jath’ibaye used as wards.

  “What is this?” Kahlil asked.

  “A model,” Jath’ibaye replied without much interest. “The soil and stones are linked to the real lands. Ji built it to keep track of things outside of Vundomu. I just use it to grow varieties of winter moss.”

  A dim red light flickered through the blue quartz of the Samsira River. Very slowly it moved northward towards Vundomu.

  “You can see the gaun’im’s forces approaching with this, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” Jath’ibaye said. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you right this moment. Will you come over here?” Jath’ibaye beckoned Kahlil to where he stood.

  Reluctantly, Kahlil left the model to join Jath’ibaye beside a terrarium filled with low-growing plants. Splashes of scarlet colored the dark green leaves and red runners spread from one plant to another. A few had produced small white flowers, while others sheltered dark red fruit beneath their leaves.

  “Are these Nayeshi strawberries?” Kahlil asked in amazement.

  Jath’ibaye nodded. “ I think they crossed to Basawar with me. I had all kinds of seeds and pollens on me and in my pack.” He shook his head. “I have no idea how these, out of everything, survived, but they did. I came across them in the Iron Heights three years ago. Would you like one?”

  Kahlil nodded.

  Jath’ibaye lifted the lid of one of the glass cases, picked several plump red berries, and then closed the case again. The sweet fragrance of the berries floated in the air. Jath’ibaye carefully placed the strawberries in Kahlil’s cupped hand.

  “Don’t you want any?”

  “No, I glutted myself a while back. You go ahead.” Jath’ibaye flipped back the blankets of his bed. Kahlil watched as Jath’ibaye reached under his pillow and fished out a pair of russet long johns. Kahlil nibbled at the first strawberry while trying not to be caught ogling Jath’ibaye’s nakedness as he tossed the towel aside and pulled on the long johns. The fabric clung to the muscles of his thighs.

  The berry was intensely sweet and tangy. He closed his eyes, and for the briefest moment, it seemed that he was back on Nayeshi. He remembered the first time he’d eaten a strawberry there. Unprepared for the brilliant taste, he’d been shocked at the way other people could simply toss them into their mouths and chew.

  “These are so good.” He looked to Jath’ibaye, who had settled on the simple bed. “You could make a fortune selling these to the gaun’im, you know.”

  “Actually, they seem to be something of an acquired taste, at least in Basawar. A lot of people think they’re too strong.” He stifled a yawn. “The fruit burns their mouths, apparently.”

  “Pineapple would probably kill them.” Kahlil sat down in Jath’ibaye’s desk chair. He knew he should leave, but it seemed so natural to remain beside him. Kahlil shifted the yasi’halaun so that he could lean back into the chair more comfortably. He stretched out his legs in front of him.

  “If I had just one jalapeño pepper I could bring them all to their knees,” Jath’ibaye muttered.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s all that’s holding you back.” Kahlil closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the chair.

  “Are you going to sleep there?” Jath’ibaye asked.

  Kahlil’s eyes popped open and he straightened. “No, I was just resting my eyes for a few minutes before I left.”

  “There’s room on the bed,” Jath’ibaye said. “You can stay.”

  “Things are already so complicated…” Kahlil said. “I should go back to my own room.” But
he didn’t move.

  “Stay,” Jath’ibaye said. His eyes were almost closed, his hands curled up close to his chest. He seemed disarmingly young, vulnerable, and human. He looked the way Kahlil remembered John looking years ago.

  “It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want. Just lie beside me, so that I can know you’re safe.”

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to keep you safe,” Kahlil told him.

  “All right,” Jath’ibaye agreed easily. “Stay and keep me safe. But just stay with me.”

  Neither of them was the man the other remembered. They couldn’t be. Kahlil knew that. But gazing at Jath’ibaye now, he felt that they weren’t so different either.

  Kahlil slung the yasi’halaun down off his back and laid it across Jath’ibaye’s desk. He removed his boots and coat, aware of Jath’ibaye watching his every move. He stripped to his underwear and guttered the lamps. Then he slid under the blankets, careful to keep to his side of the bed.

  He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, every part of his body aware that Jath’ibaye rested just a few inches away.

  It was torture. But he couldn’t bring himself to get up and leave.

  It was strangely touching to think that Jath’ibaye could know him so well and still trust him so completely. There had been a time when one of Kahlil’s duties would have been to kill him. They both knew that but it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  That knowledge had kept Kahlil from ever becoming too close to John while they had lived together in Nayeshi. The inhibition remained with him even now, as memories of Ravishan and Jahn’s first night together in Nurjima flooded back to him. The smell of Jahn’s sweat, the heat of his hard, naked body and the taste of his skin churned through Kahlil’s thoughts. An aching desire pulsed through him. He yearned to reach across those few inches and touch John the way he had never allowed himself to while they lived together in their rented house on Indian Street.

  Kahlil slid his hand across the bedding and lightly traced the line of Jath’ibaye’s shoulder. His fingers skimmed the thick mass of Jath’ibaye’s bicep. Hard muscle flexed beneath hot, delicate skin. Kahlil started to pull his hand back, but Jath’ibaye caught him in a firm grip. A moment later his soft mouth covered Kahlil’s.