by Ginn Hale
Kahlil curled his hand around the back of Jath’ibaye’s neck, pulling him into a deeper, more desperate kiss. Desire eclipsed all other thought. They tore aside what little clothing they each wore and took their pleasure in the drive and rhythm that their bodies had never forgotten. And when they were done, exhausted and breathless, they slept in each other’s arms.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Kahlil didn’t want to wake up. He pressed his face deeper into the warm darkness of the blankets. Distantly, someone called to him. The voice broke and cut out like a bad radio signal. It was thin and desperate. Something white skittered through his sleeping mind.
Bones wired together with copper.
Kahlil awakened suddenly, tense and searching. Next to him, Jath’ibaye shifted.
“Don’t go,” Jath’ibaye whispered without quite waking up, his hand curled protectively over Kahlil’s stomach. Kahlil relaxed back into the bed. The first rays of morning sun streamed through the windows, filling the room with soft gold radiance. A restful quiet still reigned over the household and the courtyards below.
Kahlil ran his hand over Jath’ibaye’s.
Jath’ibaye’s fingers were callused and strong. The sprinkling of freckles beneath his fine blond body hair evoked summers long since past. Kahlil traced the line of Jath’ibaye’s sinewy muscles up from his tanned forearm and bicep to the curve of his pale shoulder.
Lying so close to him, Kahlil could see the faint blue shadows of veins and the kick of Jath’ibaye’s pulse in his throat. Gently, Kahlil ran his hand down over Jath’ibaye’s chest. The fine blond hairs tickled his palm. The raw, pink scars remaining from his fight with the hungry bones looked ugly—and reminded Kahlil of how readily Jath’ibaye threw himself into danger.
Kahlil pressed his palm against Jath’ibaye’s chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart.
Jath’ibaye sighed and curled his arm around Kahlil’s back. A brief smile lingered on his lips and then faded into an expression of serenity as he settled back into a doze.
As Kahlil watched, the scars marring Jath’ibaye’s chest seemed to fade away.
Kahlil slipped his hand beneath the blankets. His fingers brushed over the ridges of Jath’ibaye’s ribs. He felt the rise and fall of Jath’ibaye’s breath and the smooth hardness of his abdomen. The muscles curved down into a deep cleft. Kahlil followed it to Jath’ibaye’s belly button. His fingertip slid around the small circular indentation.
“Belly button,” Kahlil whispered the Nayeshi words. It sounded so absurd, almost childishly cute. A belly button had to be the absolute antithesis of the world-crushing Rifter. And yet he had one.
“That tickles,” Jath’ibaye murmured.
Kahlil glanced to Jath’ibaye’s face. His eyes were open now. Kahlil could feel the languid torpor of Jath’ibaye’s body giving way to attentive awareness. His skin felt just a little cooler. Kahlil wondered if he should pull away. Then Jath’ibaye smiled at him.
The expression was neither brilliant nor breathtaking. Kahlil doubted that many people would have found it alluring. Jath’ibaye’s smile was simply too pure. He radiated an innocent, unguarded happiness.
Kahlil bowed his head to kiss Jath’ibaye’s chest and felt the heat flush instantly through Jath’ibaye’s body. There was an exhilarating flattery in seeing how easily he could affect him.
Last night Kahlil had been too desperate to notice little things. He had mindlessly and ravenously taken his pleasure. But now in bright morning light he could see how Jath’ibaye watched him with open desire and devotion. Again the edge of jealously touched him. This adoration rightfully belonged to Ravishan, not to him. But then, Ravishan wasn’t here to claim Jath’ibaye. It was Kahlil’s turn to have a lover. This lover.
He brushed his lips over Jath’ibaye’s abdomen, taking in the tiny shivers of excitement that his attentions aroused. Then he kissed Jath’ibaye long and low—exalting in Jath’ibaye’s surprise and breathless joy. He took a private, almost profane pleasure in witnessing how just the flick of his tongue could move a god. After the taste of ecstasy spilled over his lips, Kahlil drew back expecting nothing. But Jath’ibaye drew him close and returned Kahlil’s attentions with a tenderness that left Kahlil dazed and sticky with spent pleasure.
For the first time he felt truly happy that he’d come back to this broken history—that he had survived to at last reach this moment.
Jath’ibaye settled down beside him.
“You know,” Jath’ibaye said softly, “you have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”
Kahlil suddenly realized that he was smiling, grinning, in fact. He attempted to school his features into an expression of a little less arrogance but he doubted that he succeeded.
“It’s my Colgate smile,” he said.
Jath’ibaye’s expression went completely blank. Then he said, “That was from a toothpaste ad, right? God, I’d completely forgotten about the toothpastes of Nayeshi.”
“Not me. I have to admit I miss my minty-fresh gel.”
“Not so fond of our Basawar gum-scouring grit?” Jath’ibaye teased.
“Not so much.”
Beside him Jath’ibaye stretched, his expression thoughtful but for once not concerned.
“It’s been so long since I even thought of those days. It’s strange to have someone here who can remember it all—ramen noodles, BBC nature documentaries, The Cubs, cats.”
“I know,” Kahlil said. “You’re the only one who could possibly understand what I meant if I admitted to missing cheap gas station nachos.”
“I miss salsa,” Jath’ibaye said. “About four years back I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. I even tried to breed a hot pepper from blister-blossom.”
“I can’t imagine that went well,” Kahlil said. Not only did the plant’s flowers cause a rash of blisters, it stank.
“All the pain, none of the flavor. Ji finally forced me to stop. She thought I was trying to kill myself.” Jath’ibaye paused for a long moment, then said, “It must have been lonely for you. In Nayeshi, I mean.”
Kahlil smoothed a hand down Jath’ibaye’s chest, not wanting to answer his implicit question. Of course he had been lonely. But he’d always had John to watch over. He had always felt the connection of their bond.
Aloud he said, “Not really. I used to come out of the Gray Space and sit in your mother’s sewing room to eavesdrop on your family’s dinner conversations. Sometimes I’d sleep under your bed.”
“Really?” Jath’ibaye asked. “That’s a little creepy, isn’t it?”
“Just during the day when you were gone,” Kahlil said quickly. “Your baby brother saw me once though. I told him I was a ghost.”
Jath’ibaye laughed.
“I was the mysterious cereal eater as well,” Kahlil confessed.
“I knew we didn’t have rats. There were never any droppings.” Jath’ibaye absently stroked Kahlil’s hair. “I don’t believe you weren’t lonely, though. You love to talk, even to strangers.”
“Oh, I talked to plenty of strangers.” Kahlil kept his tone light. He rarely allowed himself to think back on the isolation of those first years watching John. “But I’ll admit that it was hard for me not be able to talk to you. Especially after your family disowned you. I wanted to find a way tell you that I was proud of you but I couldn’t. You didn’t know me. Then, about a week after that, you kicked Bill out and placed that ad for a new roommate. I took it as a sign from Parfir and I answered.”
“I remember…” Jath’ibaye squinted up at the ceiling. “I think you were the only person who did.”
“Well…” Sudden guilt moved through Kahlil, and he said, “That’s not exactly true. A lot of other people wanted the room, so I erased their messages and emails and then showed up with cash in hand on the day rent was due.”
“You erased my messages?” Jath’ibaye raised his brows.
“I knew you wouldn’t choose a knife-wielding freak if you had other options,” Ka
hlil admitted sheepishly. “Are you angry?”
“What? Now? No, I’m actually impressed with your ingenuity. It’s not like you to leave anything important to chance,” Jath’ibaye said, then added, “I’m sorry I described you as knife-wielding freak.”
“It’s not like I wasn’t one,” Kahlil said, laughing.
“I was an ignorant ass.” Jath’ibaye shook his head. “I should have been better to you.”
“You were plenty good to me. You have no idea.” Kahlil curled a little closer to Jath’ibaye. “You hardly knew me, but you still made me feel so…human. Nothing we did probably seemed special to you but just hanging out with you, watching baseball games and listening to the thunder during all those power outages—those were great times for me.”
Jath’ibaye’s expression went strangely tender. He said, “I wish I could offer you a life here that was as peaceful as that one.”
“I don’t need peace as much as somewhere that I belong,” Kahlil told him, because he felt certain that Jath’ibaye’s values were just the opposite. “If I have a purpose and a place, I’m not afraid to fight for them.”
“As far as I can remember,” Jath’ibaye responded dryly, “you’ve never been afraid to fight for anything.”
“I’m wounded by your implications,” Kahlil said, grinning. “I’ll have you know that I picked up numerous conflict resolution skills in Nayeshi.”
“Such as?”
“For one, I’ve learned to listen closely to an opposing point of view before delivering a rebuttal punch in the mouth.” Kahlil tried to keep a straight face but failed.
Jath’ibaye just shook his head.
“I didn’t smack the smirk off Representative Litivi’s face last night. I think that counts for something.” Kahlil ran his hand over Jath’ibaye’s thick forearm, feeling the tickle of fine, golden hair beneath his palm. “But overall I suppose you’re right. I’d certainly be the first to admit that my greatest skills are pretty much wasted on translation.”
“Yes, as I recall, you were the first to point that out,” Jath’ibaye agreed. He leaned forward and kissed Kahlil’s brow softly, almost absently.
Distantly, Kahlil heard the noise of someone working a waterpump. The first smoky scents of cooking fires drifted up from the stories below them. Soon Jath’ibaye would be inundated with people needing his attention, and Kahlil would be left with nothing but that moldering tome.
Kahlil sat up a little in the bed. Jath’ibaye propped himself up on an elbow. He met Kahlil’s gaze with an expression of curiosity.
“I’m thinking about the invitation Wah’roa offered me last night,” Kahlil volunteered. “He asked me to visit the kahlirash’im’s barracks. I think he wants me to demonstrate battle stances, probably some hard contact maneuvers as well.”
“Yeah, I think that would be a dream come true for Wah’roa,” Jath’ibaye replied. “Do you want to take him up on it?”
“I’d like to give it a try. But Eriki’yu mentioned that you have duties for me. If there’s something you need done, I’ll do that instead.”
Jath’ibaye started to say something but then just released a heavy sigh. He gazed at Kahlil and then looked past him to the model of Basawar spread across his table.
“No, nothing urgent. Just—” He cut himself off and then said, “Try not to show off too much, all right?”
“I won’t,” Kahlil replied offhandedly. Jath’ibaye’s expression told him that they both knew he was lying.
Chapter Sixty
Just as Kahlil belted his trousers, Wah’roa arrived to call upon Jath’ibaye in his private suite. Jath’ibaye stood beside Kahlil, dressed in only the bottom half of his russet long johns; his right hand brushed down Kahlil’s spine in a pleasant, sleepy caress.
But the moment Wah’roa stepped into the room Kahlil felt as aware of Jath’ibaye’s fingertips against his bare back as if hot brands stroked his skin. He jerked away, despite the fact that he knew it only made the two of them look all the more guilty.
Oddly, Wah’roa seemed utterly unconcerned to discover Kahlil and Jath’ibaye standing so close and only half dressed. While Kahlil reflexively scoured his mind for any explanation—other than the obvious—for his nearly nude presence in Jath’ibaye’s rooms, Jath’ibaye displayed no furtive behavior whatsoever.
He yawned and absently scratched his belly.
“You’re not taking any chances on missing him, are you?” Jath’ibaye inquired of Wah’roa.
“I suspected that he might be more interested in visiting the kahlirash compound than listening to you work out the taye seeding schedule.” The kahlirash commander offered Jath’ibaye a smug smile. “Oh, and I saw Gin’yu’s runners behind me on my way up.”
Jath’ibaye sighed heavily but then gave Kahlil a rueful smile. “You two might as well make your break for it. I’m probably going to end up spending most of the day discussing fish stocks on the Silverlake Islands.”
Kahlil quickly finished dressing and then swung the yasi’halaun over his shoulder. Minutes later, runners from the Silverlake District appeared at Jath’ibaye’s door. A group of taye millers from Greenhills followed them. Jath’ibaye offered Kahlil a quick goodbye before returning his attention to the demands of his early morning callers. Kahlil slipped out with Wah’roa.
After taking in the hearty offerings of the kahlirash’im’s mess hall, Kahlil followed Wah’roa past the high wall surrounding the compound’s training grounds. The crisp, cold air smelled of tahldi feed and gun oil. Captains called out fast commands and their troops responded with varying degrees of perfection. In the courtyards just below Kahlil, uniformed ranks of kahlirash’im performed their morning drills. Experienced riders raced through a maze of obstacles, taking out targets with precise shots, while in another courtyard young kahlirash’im practiced loading and firing their rifles in fast succession. Others charged straw dummies with bayonets or gathered around a heavy cannon to observe its maintenance.
Wah’roa pointed out a troop of first-year artillery women. Most of them were young, not even wearing braids yet; their Prayerscars shone like fresh blood on their brows. Their uniforms appeared to be secondhand and faded, but their rifles gleamed as beautifully as the finest gaun’im’s firearms. Despite the all-male training of his own upbringing, Kahlil had to admit that these women handled their weapons with professional speed and determination.
He told Wah’roa as much and the commander looked truly pleased.
“I’d bet my teeth on any one of my girls against those soft, spoiled gaun bastards,” Wah’roa pronounced. Kahlil nodded. With their filed teeth and toned bodies, these women seemed an entirely different breed from the demure, sheltered girls who inhabited so many noble drawing rooms and parlors.
“I’m not sure that I could teach them anything that you haven’t already,” Kahlil admitted. His breath came out white as steam in the frigid morning air.
“About guns and riding, probably not,” Wah’roa allowed. “But no matter how much they train at battle forms, no matter how fast they can ride or sharp they are with those rifles, it won’t be enough.” Wah’roa’s lip curled up into a snarl, showing his small sharp teeth. “Not if they have to go up against a man like Fikiri.”
Wah’roa pointed across the ranks to where an angular girl stood at attention with her rifle. Even from the distance of the wall, Kahlil noticed the red scar that carved a deep furrow from her hairline down through her right eyebrow and just past her eye. She didn’t appear to be more than fifteen, but something about the resolve in her expression resonated through Kahlil. He had no doubt that he’d worn a similar, hard look in Rathal’pesha.
“That’s Pesha,” Wah’roa informed him. “She lost her mother and both her brothers to Fikiri. Nearly lost her own life as well.”
“She’s just a child.” Kahlil couldn’t imagine how Fikiri could justify such an act. He’d been a cheat and a snitch, but assaulting a gawky teenage girl seemed low even for him.
�
��A child is all potential,” Wah’roa stated, “and Fikiri seems set on ensuring that Pesha and others like her never fulfill their potential.”
“What—” But even as Kahlil formed the question, he sensed the air around Pesha shudder and nearly split. Kahlil’s jaw almost dropped in shock. “She’s an ushiri?”
“She could be. That’s certainly what Fikiri fears she will become,” Wah’roa replied. “But right now she has no one to teach her or train her.” His gaze settled on Kahlil meaningfully.
“I’m not a teacher.” He hadn’t even been a particularly good student.
“There are only two of you remaining who travel through the Gray Space, and can bend it to your wills. You and Fikiri.” Wah’roa crossed his arms over his chest. “If Fikiri gets his hands on Pesha again, he’ll end her—her and every other child like her.”
“No, he won’t. As soon as Jath’ibaye gives me the order, I’m going deal with Fikiri,” Kahlil replied.
“And if you fail?” Wah’roa asked coolly.
“I won’t.” He couldn’t imagine any way that Fikiri could defeat him.
“He’s clever and he’s grown stronger since you’ve been gone. You shouldn’t underestimate how very devious he can be.”
A distant memory fluttered through Kahlil. He’d underestimated Fikiri once before and it had cost him. For a moment he concentrated, trying to capture the details of the memory. It had been here at Vundomu, but long ago. Fikiri had begged him to help rescue his mother and Kahlil’s sister from Umbhra’ibaye before the Fai’daum attacked the convent. Kahlil remembered agreeing to help. Then the thread of memory escaped him again, degenerating into confused images of bones, blood and smoke.
“What happens when you’re no longer here, then?” Wah’roa’s question snapped Kahlil back to his present surroundings.
“What do you mean?” Kahlil asked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“When you die,” Wah’roa said flatly. “We all die, don’t we? All of us but him.” Wah’roa’s eyes briefly lifted to the Temple of the Rifter. Its black-tiled walls gleamed in the cold morning sunlight. “He’ll survive us all. It is our duty to see that another generation arises to serve him after we are dust in his shadow.”
