by Ginn Hale
Besh’anya opened her leather bag and brought out a red bottle of some kind of liquid. A sharp metallic tang rose from it, and as she poured the stinging fluid over his hand, it turned acid yellow.
“I can make you a bandage as well,” Besh’anya offered.
“No, I—” His reply was cut off by a blast of unexpected wind that cut through the courtyard. Looking to its source, Kahlil saw a tall, blond figure striding towards them from the barracks. He should have known that the violent disturbance in the Gray Space would bring Jath’ibaye.
He quickly retrieved his discarded coat and started towards Jath’ibaye.
“Your bandage,” Besh’anya called after him. She held the roll of white cloth as if it were an enticement.
“I’m fine.” Kahlil rolled his sleeve down quickly. The last thing he wanted Jath’ibaye to see was him wandering around swathed in bandages.
“But…” Besh’anya seemed to give up before she even began.
Kahlil started towards Jath’ibaye and Pesha hurried to his side.
“Can you do me a favor?” Kahlil asked.
“Of course,” Pesha replied.
Kahlil dug several coins from his coat pocket and handed them to Pesha. “Buy Besh’anya and yourself a nice meal on me.”
Pesha took the coins but looked uncertain.
“What if the devil comes back?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“He won’t.” Not while his armor was cracked, Kahlil felt certain. “Not today, at least. Go on. Have a little fun. I’ll be putting you through hard training again soon enough.”
“Yes, sir.” Pesha gave him a quick salute and then dashed back to join Besh’anya.
Kahlil smiled at her from over his shoulder, then quickened his own pace to meet Jath’ibaye.
“I thought you went out to the Silverlake Islands,” Kahlil called as they drew close.
“I did,” Jath’ibaye said. His gaze roved over Kahlil. “Is everything all right here?”
“Just fine.” He adopted what he thought was a confident stance.
“I felt the Gray Space tear and burn,” Jath’ibaye commented. “It felt like Fikiri.”
“It Fikiri,” Kahlil replied, in as casual a manner as he could muster. “I spanked him and sent him crying back to his Lady.”
Jath’ibaye gave him a long, silent look. All around the courtyard, the kahlirash’im stood furtively watching for Jath’ibaye’s response. Finally, he said, “Were you hurt?”
“Just a scratch. My new shirt got the worst of it.”
“Let me see it.”
Kahlil held out his hand. Jath’ibaye took in the small gash and the deep concern in his expression faded away. Then he pulled Kahlil into his arms and held him. Kahlil felt his entire face flush red. Two troops of kahlirash’im as well as Pesha and Besh’anya stood only a few yards away, and who knew how many of the kahlirash’im were gaping at them from the barracks?
And yet it was so reassuring to feel Jath’ibaye’s arms around him. It was so pleasant to return Jath’ibaye’s embrace, and to savor the warmth and strength of his body.
A moment later Kahlil drew back.
“We should be more careful in public,” Kahlil said quietly.
“The kahlirash’im are faithful to me,” Jath’ibaye said. Still, he stepped back from Kahlil slightly. “If any of them start grousing, I have no doubt that Wah’roa will pound the Sixty-Six Fai’daum Edicts of Equality into them before treating them to a truly tedious speech concerning the sacred bond between the Rifter and his Kahlil. He doesn’t tolerate bigotry.” He glanced up to the wall and exchanged a wave with Wah’roa.
“But is it wise?” Kahlil couldn’t keep himself from lowering his voice further. “I mean, to acknowledge anything so…intimate between us?”
“It’s honest,” Jath’ibaye replied. “And it isn’t as if my persuasion is a secret here. Everyone in my holdings and on the council already knows about me. Ji, Wah’roa, all of my friends know.” Jath’ibaye studied Kahlil for a few moments and then went on, “Even if some asshole doesn’t like it, here in the Fai’daum lands our laws protect gay relationships.”
Kahlil should have suspected as much, he supposed, but the idea still surprised him.
Jath’ibaye smiled wryly at his startled expression, and said, “You know, I did have a little something to do with codifying the laws here. What did you expect?”
Hazy memories flickered through Kahlil’s mind as he studied Jath’ibaye. He remembered feeling this same sense of pride and anxiety the day he had watched from the Gray Space as John came out to his father. The steely major general had not taken his son’s revelation well, but John had not wavered. He’d held his head high, even when the old man had cuffed him across the face and ordered him to leave and never come back.
Of course, Jath’ibaye would not bow in the face of other men’s bigotry. Kahlil longed to be that confident, but his history was nothing like Jath’ibaye’s.
“I…It’s so hard to imagine lovers living openly here in Basawar.” Kahlil shook his head. “Dayyid executed men for having sex with each other. He would have killed me twice over if he’d had even a single other ushiri as strong as me.”
Kahlil lifted his hand to the corner of his mouth, where Dayyid’s knife had torn through his flesh. The scars had vanished with another lifetime, but Kahlil still remembered the humiliation and agony of that punishment. Every one of the other ushiri’im had known why Dayyid had mutilated him. None of them had been kind. Only the sad, drunken ushman who ran the infirmary had even spoken to him after that. Something inside of him had broken then. He’d never touched another man again, not even in Nayeshi.
Not until now.
Suddenly, he remembered Dayyid’s blood covering Jahn’s hands. All at once he knew what had become of the scars he so clearly remembered disfiguring his face. Ravishan had never borne them. Jahn had stopped Dayyid.
“It was different in Nayeshi,” Kahlil said.
“Yes, it was.”
“I was amazed by the parades and seeing men marching in each other’s arms. You can’t imagine how shocked I felt when I discovered that men openly declared themselves lovers there, that they had lives together.” Kahlil understood that people were not always kind to them, but they chose not to live like frauds and criminals. He’d envied their honesty and pride.
“I don’t want to make a liar of you,” Kahlil said at last. “And I’m not ashamed of what’s between us.”
“I’m glad.” A subtle pleasure showed in Jath’ibaye’s expression.
“But this is still Basawar and not everyone is your friend or governed by Fai’daum laws,” Kahlil went on. “Right now you are facing two very dangerous enemies, and if either knows that I’m your lover, then they won’t hesitate to attempt to harm you through me. I don’t want to become a tool to be used against you.” As Kahlil spoke he felt a chill pass through him. What he once would have thought was some kind of premonition, he now recognized as recollection. He’d been used against Jath’ibaye before; he wouldn’t let it happen again. “For now we need to be discreet.”
For an instant Jath’ibaye looked like he might argue, but then his expression turned grim and he simply nodded his assent. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his heavy coat.
Kahlil hated to see him withdraw in this manner but he knew his decision was the wisest.
“Does this mean that I shouldn’t invite you out to a romantic lunch with me?” Jath’ibaye’s tone was only half teasing.
“Of course not,” Kahlil replied. “Just don’t bring anyone else along.”
Jath’ibaye gave a dry laugh.
“Between the two of us there wouldn’t be enough food for anyone else.”
•••
They walked through the barrack gates and crossed a small paved courtyard to the walkway leading up to Jath’ibaye’s holdings. A few men and women with goods from the lakeside market passed them on the way. Small carts and stalls offering hot food crowded
the alleys between the shops and residences that had been built into the walls. A strong smell of seared fish and hot oil drifted by on clouds of steam and smoke.
No one seemed to take much note of the two of them beyond a first glance to Jath’ibaye. He offered a friendly smile to a pair of boys hauling a cartload of raw wool down the narrow street.
“Do you think we’ll ever have cars or trucks here?” Kahlil asked.
“I hope not too soon. Right now the environment just isn’t strong enough to withstand the kind of explosive industrial development that comes with automobiles,” Jath’ibaye replied. “But maybe some day.”
“I can’t imagine you ever wanting that time to come,” Kahlil commented.
“I don’t,” Jath’ibaye admitted. “But I can’t stop technology from moving forward.”
“You could,” Kahlil said. “If you wanted to, you could wipe everything clean. No trolleys, trains, roads. You have the power to destroy all of that.”
“I could.” Sadness crossed Jath’ibaye’s features and Kahlil knew he shouldn’t have brought the subject up. “I don’t think I’d feel too good about myself afterwards. I’ve already razed enough of Basawar to keep me busy rebuilding for decades. Last time thousands of people died. I don’t want to go through that ever again.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s all right,” Jath’ibaye assured him. “It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but you shouldn’t think that you can’t speak of it.”
They crossed the wide walkway to a narrow, gated staircase. Intricate braids of iron leaves and branches decorated the gate. Jath’ibaye took a ring of keys from his coat pocket and quickly flipped through them. A moment later he pushed the gate open and led Kahlil up the stairs.
Like much of Vundomu, the stairs were a mix of the old black iron tiling and organic swaths of stone. Ancient urns embossed with the kahlirash symbol of crescent moons hung from the walls of the staircase. Despite the winter conditions, woody vines cascaded down from the urns.
As he walked, Jath’ibaye absently ran his hands over the dark leaves. The plants seemed to lift slightly, reaching for his touch as they might reach towards sunlight. Jath’ibaye didn’t take any note of it. If he had, no doubt he would have stopped immediately.
Jath’ibaye seemed to go out of his way to downplay the immense power that he wielded. He used keys when no natural lock could bar him. He walked at a natural pace, even allowing common men and women to outdistance him when he could cross miles in seconds if he wished. Across a short distance he could even keep pace with an ushiri moving through the Gray Space.
He restrained his power and seemed to take steps to mitigate the impact of his immense physical prowess. He was a god who dressed in the rough, ugly clothes of a laborer and who walked among fishmongers and street traders almost invisibly.
If their positions had been reversed, Kahlil knew he wouldn’t have been so self-effacing. He’d always liked beauty and ceremony. He supposed it was a holdover from his Payshmura upbringing. Even in the supposed austerity of Rathal’pesha, the walls had been inlaid with gold and ivory. The books had been gilded; the curse blades intricately carved.
Unlike Jath’ibaye, Kahlil took great pride in his power and sacred title. The two years he had spent unable to remember who or what he was had been the most disconcerting of his life. Living bereft of identity and purpose, he had simply given himself over to the first man who could use him. He needed the knowledge that he was the Kahlil. It resonated through his sense of himself.
But he suspected that Jath’ibaye could never feel the same about being the Rifter. It simply wasn’t in his nature to take pride in sheer destruction. He did not glory in the thousands who had died at his hands. Another man might have relished being the Rifter. A man who enjoyed the power it gave him over all other life would have exploited every opportunity to terrify and punish those around him. A man like Ourath would have crushed the world on a whim—just because he had one bad day. Kahlil himself would have demanded temples and palaces. He would have expected and taken dominion over all of Basawar.
Jath’ibaye had done none of that. He suppressed the devastating forces within himself with a constant, almost reflexive self-restraint.
So many years spent with John lent Kahlil easy insight into Jath’ibaye’s nature. Doubtless his restraint was in part concern. Jath’ibaye did not want to cause another cataclysm. But there was extremism to Jath’ibaye’s self-deprivation—his rough clothes, tough food, constant exertions and injuries—that bordered on punishment for the thousands he’d killed. He would not allow himself to forget or forgive. Kahlil wondered if he ever would.
Kahlil realized that there might have been more behind Ji’s insistence that he watch over Jath’ibaye than just a little sleep deprivation. Kahlil himself had been shocked to discover that Jath’ibaye had known Ourath was planning to kill him. He had known and still followed Ourath anyway.
On a sudden impulse, Kahlil caught Jath’ibaye’s hand. Jath’ibaye looked at him, slightly startled.
“Stop worrying so much,” Kahlil told him.
“I…” Jath’ibaye began, but then he cut himself short. “Was it that obvious?”
“I can’t think of any other reason you’d miss this opportunity to describe the unique attributes of this oddly winter-hardy vine,” Kahlil replied.
Jath’ibaye laughed.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I must have been distracted. The vine is called frostbraid. It’s notable for its very high content of glycerol, which aside from being a natural anti-freeze, also comes in handy in the production of smokeless gunpowder.”
“A very useful botanical then,” Kahlil commented, and Jath’ibaye nodded a little absently. Kahlil squeezed his hand.
“Whatever’s bothering you, let it go. If trouble comes, I’ll handle it.”
Jath’ibaye seemed amused and Kahlil knew it was because Jath’ibaye found his arrogant statement charming. He interlaced his fingers with Jath’ibaye’s.
“So, how are you going to avoid a war for me?” Jath’ibaye asked.
“The older gaun’im will remember the last wars. They won’t want another,” Kahlil replied.
“Let’s hope so,” Jath’ibaye said. “But I wasn’t just thinking of the gaun’im.”
“You mean Fikiri?” Kahlil asked. “I think I handled him pretty well.”
Jath’ibaye nodded gravely, then said, “You did, but he came alone this time.”
“Does he have the forces to mount a large offensive?” Kahlil felt slightly cold at the thought of a battle on two fronts. How could a country as small as Vundomu fight the gaun’im in the south and Fikiri in the north at the same time?
“Every year there are more hungry bones. And they get bigger. He’s bringing up creatures from the ocean, using their bones.” Jath’ibaye frowned at the clear blue northern sky.
“I could go now and take him out,” Kahlil said.
“No.” Jath’ibaye suddenly returned his grip with force. “I need you here when the gaun’im arrive. Fikiri will come to us again. He always does.”
“It might take him off guard if I went—”
“No.” Jath’ibaye didn’t raise his voice, but Kahlil couldn’t miss the finality of his expression. “Right now I need you here, with me.”
“All right,” Kahlil agreed. “I just want to do something to help you.”
“You can. You have,” Jath’ibaye replied. He pulled Kahlil close and kissed him. Kahlil guessed that it had been meant to be a brief, mollifying gesture. But he returned the kiss with passion. It wasn’t in his nature to accept a chaste peck and quiet down—especially not after winning a fight. Instantly, he felt the response in Jath’ibaye’s body.
Jath’ibaye’s hands slid inside Kahlil’s coat. The chill of Jath’ibaye’s fingertips traced the line of Kahlil’s back. Jath’ibaye’s hands were warming up quickly. He touched and held Kahlil as they kissed. Kahlil pressed closer
, slipping his hand into the front pocket of Jath’ibaye’s pants. A brief gasp escaped Jath’ibaye. His arms tensed around Kahlil’s body.
From above them, there suddenly came a soft cough. They bolted apart and turned. Ji stood on the steps ahead of them.
“Eriki’yu asked me to tell you that your meal is ready,” Ji said to Jath’ibaye. She glanced to Kahlil, and for an instant, he thought that she might have been grinning.
Chapter Sixty-One
Over the next five days Fikiri stayed away, but the gaun’im drew nearer. Jath’ibaye hardly ate or slept but seemed occupied every moment by either preparations or evacuations now necessitated by the threat of a gaun’im attack against the southern border. Kahlil occupied himself by honing Pesha’s skills and training with the kahlirash’im.
Though, late in the afternoon, he found himself trailing along beside Ji as she surveyed the incantations etched into the flagstones of the kahlirash training grounds. Kahlil hoped that she could adapt them in some manner to secure the grounds so that Fikiri could not breach them. At the very least he wanted to offer Pesha some security when he was called away to deal with the gaun’im.
“Yes,” Ji murmured. “Yes, these will do.”
Kahlil leaned against one of the black pillars of the kahlirash’im’s barrack. Overhead, the sky was growing dark. The faint disc of the moon shone overhead like a luminous drop of wax. Kahlil lowered his gaze and studied the distant white line of the northern horizon. Somewhere out there beyond his sight was an army. Fikiri and his Lady were waiting, amassing thousands of hungry bones.
Much closer and more immediately visible were the gaun’im’s armies that had converged just south of Vundomu at the mouth of the river in the city Mahn’illev.
Through Jath’ibaye’s telescope he’d seen the banners of all seven families flying over battalion after battalion of troops. But they did not disturb Kahlil quite as much as the possibility of an attack from the north. He could count the numbers of men assembled in the south. He could see riders and foot soldiers clashing while their commanders argued among themselves.
