by Ginn Hale
“Forget that,” the older woman told him. “The ladies are arriving and they aren’t half-hungry. Take a tray and get out there.”
Kahlil picked up a silver tray and strode out to the ballroom. The musicians had situated themselves behind their blinds and played quietly. Kahlil followed the other men in white uniforms, serving the exquisitely dressed gaun’im women at the tables.
As more gaun’im arrived, Kahlil’s duties changed. He took out trays of drinks for the men and candies for the youngest girls. All of the noblemen came dressed in their house colors and carried at least one long string of fine silver chain. Though the chains were symbols of the wealth that they could offer to their future brides, Kahlil still found them sinister.
Esh’illan Anyyd arrived with several of his brothers and a particularly sturdy set of silver wedding chains. Draped over his silk clad arm, the chains just brushed his knee. No one else seemed to take any note of them. Ourath arrived with his three wives and his young son, all clad in the rich tawny colors of the Lisam house. Ourath’s hair looked particularly red and his low voice seemed to brim with happiness as he spoke. He took a glass of wine from Kahlil without even sparing him a glance.
The music grew louder, competing with the rising hum of conversation. The heat from the lamps and chandeliers swelled with the warmth of so many bodies.
Several members of the Bousim family were announced, but Nanvess was not among them. Then the massive doors swung open again and a boy in blue and gold announced, “Welcome his honor, Jath’ibaye’in’Fai’daum.”
Kahlil and every other person in the entire ballroom turned toward the door. Even the musicians seemed to pause a moment to steal glances at Jath’ibaye.
Unlike any of the gaun’im, Jath’ibaye had come alone. His wild blonde hair blazed gold under the profusion of light. The blood red of his clothes declared his Fai’daum loyalty. He hadn’t brought a single silver chain.
Kahlil thought he heard an audible sigh of relief from some of the girls near him.
As Jath’ibaye scanned the crowded ballroom, Kahlil bowed his head. He could remember too well how Jath’ibaye had picked him out even in the darkness.
Ourath broke away from his conversation with a Tushoya woman and her unwed daughters. He strode easily through the crowd, lesser gaun’im men quickly making way for him. He greeted Jath’ibaye with a smile and led him into the ballroom. Kahlil stepped back behind a vivid yellow bouquet as Ourath looked around for a server. At last he stopped a young man in a white uniform and took two drinks. Ourath handed one to Jath’ibaye and offered a toast of some kind.
They drank together and Ourath introduced several other gaun’im to Jath’ibaye. After a few moments, the room seemed to return to normal. More guests arrived. The ancient Bousim gaunsho shuffled through the doors, followed by his dozen wives. Steadily, couples began to fill the middle of the dance floor. Ourath escorted his first wife out for a dance, but afterwards he returned to Jath’ibaye’s side.
Kahlil still hadn’t spotted Nanvess when he noticed Ourath drawing Jath’ibaye away from the crowd towards the back of the building and the gardens. Kahlil set his tray full of iced fruit down and cut through the kitchen to the west garden.
Once outside, Kahlil raced up the hill, keeping to the side of the path where the deep evergreen leaves hid him. He waited for Ourath and Jath’ibaye. A few moments later they appeared, walking slowly along the path. Far behind them, Kahlil caught sight of Esh’illan.
As Ourath led Jath’ibaye closer, Kahlil moved farther ahead. Though now they were close enough that he could hear their conversation. Suddenly, Jath’ibaye drew to a halt.
“You shouldn’t depend upon my affection,” Jath’ibaye told Ourath. “It’s not my strong point.”
“No?” Ourath asked. “What is?”
Jath’ibaye didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied the knots of dark trees and undergrowth ahead of him. Kahlil stood still as a statue, holding his breath. Eventually Jath’ibaye turned back to Ourath and asked, “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Ourath flushed.
“Absolutely.” He smiled at Jath’ibaye and this time the force behind it showed a little. “I know you’ll want to see these herbs.”
Ourath started forward, but Jath’ibaye caught him by the shoulder.
“I’m not a fool, Ourath. I know you’re not planning on showing me any herbs up there.” Jath’ibaye’s tone was oddly gentle in comparison to his harsh expression.
“Really?” Ourath slid his hand around Jath’ibaye’s, twining their fingers together. He lowered his head to brush his lips over Jath’ibaye’s wrist.
“So I want to be alone with you.” Ourath gazed up at Jath’ibaye. “You can’t be disappointed, can you?”
Again, Jath’ibaye glanced to the shadows beneath the pine trees before looking back to Ourath.
“We could stop it here, now.” Jath’ibaye spoke so softly that Kahlil hardly caught the words. “I wouldn’t hold it against you. People make mistakes.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re still so young,” Jath’ibaye said. “You can’t understand how badly this could end for you.”
“How can you still think that I would regret being with you?”
Jath’ibaye just sighed heavily.
“Do you regret being with me?” Ourath suddenly demanded, his voice edged with what sounded like genuine anger.
“I regret using you,” Jath’ibaye said at last.
Ourath glared at Jath’ibaye and smiled at the same time. “Well, come. Regret it one more time.”
Jath’ibaye allowed Ourath to lead him along the path.
Kahlil rushed ahead of them, cutting through the trellises of ivy, while they took the curving path upward. When Kahlil reached the edge of the clearing at the top of the hill, he came to a halt. There was something different about the place now. Despite the warmth of the evening, a chill emanated from the center of the clearing. The tiny flame in the stone lamp flickered and spat. Kahlil hung back in the shadows.
Ourath and Jath’ibaye rounded the last curve in the path.
“Here.” Ourath caught Jath’ibaye’s hands and suddenly pulled him forward. It was clear to Kahlil that Jath’ibaye allowed this.
Coming up from behind, Esh’illan made his move. He swung the silver chains and whipped them around Jath’ibaye’s throat.
Jath’ibaye shoved Ourath aside, pushing him clear. Then he caught hold of the chains at his throat and jerked Esh’illan off his feet. Esh’illan gave a startled yelp as Jath’ibaye swung him up like he was spinning a child and then hurled him to the ground.
Jath’ibaye’s calm speed stunned Kahlil.
Then the scream of rending Gray Space split the air. In an arc of flame and searing cold, Fikiri appeared. Kahlil almost rushed him, but then he realized that Fikiri’s hands were empty. The yasi’halaun was nowhere on him.
At the sight of Fikiri, Jath’ibaye’s countenance changed utterly. The cold, almost bored expression that he had worn even while Esh’illan attempted to strangle him transformed into raw fury. Jath’ibaye kicked Esh’illan’s prone body aside and launched himself towards Fikiri.
Kahlil caught a flicker of a smile from Fikiri as he backed away, drawing Jath’ibaye farther into the clearing.
Then Kahlil saw Nanvess, crouching in the deep shadows of the evergreens and holding the yasi’halaun. His green clothes melted into the surrounding leaves; his black hair matched the shadows. He lunged for Jath’ibaye.
It was such a simple plan, Kahlil realized. Nanvess would feed the yasi’halaun on Jath’ibaye’s blood before Jath’ibaye even registered his presence.
Kahlil threw himself into the Gray Space, passing straight through Jath’ibaye’s body. He burst out directly over Nanvess. Instantly, he snapped his fingers apart and punched the razor edge of a Gray Space through Nanvess’ throat. Nanvess’ hot blood gushed over his hand and splashed up his arm. Nanvess crumpled to the ground.
Fikiri stood, staring at him in abject shock.
Jath’ibaye too stood motionless, blood dribbling from his neck where Esh’illan’s chains had cut through his skin. His blue eyes were wide, his expression haunted.
Kahlil felt sickeningly cold. His entire body shook. He fought to remain on his feet.
Only Esh’illan seemed able to move. Kahlil saw him draw his pistol. Fikiri caught the motion as well and a look of fear passed over his face.
“Don’t!” Fikiri shouted.
Jath’ibaye spun back just as Esh’illan fired directly into his chest. Jath’ibaye rocked slightly with the impact.
Then the entire earth seemed to shudder beneath them. The stone lamp split. From above them came a sudden, tiny white burst of light, like a streak of lightning, and then the entire sky darkened. Pale clouds writhed and blackened as if they were burning.
Jath’ibaye strode forward and gripped Esh’illan by the throat. With a vicious snap he twisted Esh’illan’s head back. Esh’illan convulsed and then fell lifelessly to the ground.
Kahlil could see guards running up the path. The gunshot must have brought them. Jath’ibaye didn’t seem to notice or care about them. His eyes blazed blue, inhumanly bright. He glanced over his shoulder to the empty space where Fikiri had stood, then he turned his attention to Kahlil.
Thunder crashed above them.
Jath’ibaye simply stood there, watching him as a dirty black rain began to slap down. Three guards came running with lanterns. Other people—curious guests and servants—trailed behind them.
Kahlil brought his hand up.
“Wait,” Jath’ibaye whispered.
Kahlil tore open the Gray Space and stumbled into its lifeless depth.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The dark cables and girders of the Blackbird Bridge blurred and wavered in front of Kahlil. Out of reflex, he reached for the railing to steady himself. His hand passed through. He staggered down to his knees.
In the colorless, silent realm of Gray Space, there was neither night nor day, and yet it seemed to be growing darker all around Kahlil. And colder.
He curled his hand over the wound in his belly. In the Gray Space, his blood shone glossy black. It spilled through his fingers and seeped across the entire front of his white jacket and pants. He could feel it soaking into his socks. If he had been outside the Gray Space, it would have been warm. It would have steamed against the night air.
Kahlil pushed himself back up to his feet. He couldn’t stop, not here. Not yet. He concentrated. The black mass of the bridge whipped back behind him. Narrow streets blurred past. He moved through walls and gates.
Ranks of rashan’im on tahldi patrolled all streets. Word of the attack at the Bell Dance had doubtless traveled fast. Both Esh’illan Anyyd and Nanvess Bousim murdered. Alidas would be furious. There would be no refuge for Kahlil anywhere in the Bousim district of the city.
No. He needed to go somewhere else. Dim, tangled shapes washed past him. Kahlil shuddered. He could hardly recognize the haze of darkness and light all around him. Boats, perhaps. A wave of numb cold pulsed through him.
He should get out of the city. Go somewhere better. Somewhere warm and light. Somewhere like the apple orchards that grew around the convent of Umbhra’ibaye. They’d been beautiful. It would be so nice to go there and see them again. The trees would be blooming.
But he wasn’t going anywhere, he realized.
He wasn’t even going to be able to stay conscious much longer. Panicked energy burst through him. He had to leave the Gray Space before he was too weak to escape it at all.
He lifted his hand. He’d get out.
And what then?
Again his gaze fell to the black wound in his belly. It gleamed and dripped with a constant flow of black blood. Despite the muting numbness of the Gray Space, Kahlil felt the ache of it tearing through him. Outside the Gray Space it would be agony.
This wasn’t a wound that a man recovered from.
Only the Gray Space had allowed him to bear it this long. Now the best of his strength had gone. He could hardly see, hardly move. He was dying.
He squeezed his fingers around the hilt of the yasi’halaun. It had grown heavier, fed by his blood. It almost felt warm against his icy skin. At least he had it again. He had accomplished that much. Neither Fikiri nor his lady would use it to open the Great Gate.
He closed his eyes. There was no point in keeping them open. Only a dull dark haze came to him now.
If he left the Gray Space, it wouldn’t save his life. It would only mean that his last moments would be ones filled with the brilliant red of his own blood and shattering pain. He would leave a corpse for someone to stumble across. And the yasi’halaun would be lying there in his hand.
It was better to die here, hiding the yasi’halaun forever.
A tremor of fear still moved through Kahlil. He didn’t want to die, but the choice wasn’t his. The pain and cold melted into a consuming darkness that engulfed him, surrounding him in soothing emptiness.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A wrenching scream tore through Kahlil’s insentience—the sound of Gray Space being torn open. Then blinding, burning light exploded over him. He wanted to flinch back from it, but he couldn’t move. A weak rasping cry escaped him as the heat of living hands seared his frigid skin.
He tried to pull himself away. His body remained limp. He couldn’t even make his eyes focus. All he saw were faint blurs of color—dirty red, pale yellow—then they were burned away by the sharp, blinding white light that poured down over him.
Reflexively, Kahlil dragged in a desperate breath of the hot air. It tasted of sweat, blood, salt, and animals. It was too much. Kahlil didn’t want to take another breath, but his lungs demanded it. Agony flooded over him. It burst up from his abdomen and tore like lightning into his chest. Kahlil’s throat tightened around a reflex scream. It came out as a dry hiss.
“He’s still breathing.” The man’s voice was rough and low. Jath’ibaye’s voice.
“It’s too late.” The woman sounded older. She spoke with a careful softness. “I’m sorry, Jahn, but he—”
“No! He won’t die. I don’t care what sorcery you have to use, Ji. Save him!”
Why would Jath’ibaye want to save him? What did he want? Kahlil tried to clench his hand, to feel for the yasi’halaun. His fingers barely twitched.
“I can’t bear his wound. It was made by the yasi’halaun. It would burn me to ash before I could heal him,” the woman quietly insisted. “I’m sorry.”
“Then let me bear it.”
“When the blood transfers, the yasi’halaun will feed—”
“I don’t care,” Jath’ibaye cut her off. “Just bring him back to me.”
“Jahn, he’s not—”
“Do it!” Jath’ibaye flatly commanded.
A shadow moved over Kahlil, blotting out the blazing light. A hand touched his cheek lightly. It was still too hot, and yet Kahlil didn’t care. Even the terrible pain in his belly seemed somehow distant. Perhaps it was simply unimportant.
The shadow deepened, growing nearly black at the edges of his vision. Steadily, it curled in over him. A dull numbness crept in its wake. It came as a relief after so much burning and hurt.
Low words were muttered over him. Kahlil could not understand them anymore. They were just sounds, whispers and rumbles. It was so much easier to let them drift away.
“No,” Jath’ibaye growled, “I won’t let you go.”
Kahlil wished he could laugh.
He was already slipping away, even within the grasp of Jath’ibaye’s hands. It was like a magic trick, like stepping into yet another space, one that carried him o
ut of his own body. It was a perfect escape.
If only he had figured this trick out sooner. It would have saved him so much pain. If only he hadn’t been so terrified of this dead darkness. But it was nothing. Not pain, not fear. Nothing.
This, absence and silence, seemed to stretch out forever and through all time. It devoured his future and past, engulfed his present, and absolved all with an endless, soothing darkness.
Darkness.
And a slight rocking. But still dark—a soothing, cool dark. Then a creak, almost like the noise of straining wood. Faintly, almost imperceptibly, a scent of river water drifted over him.
He hadn’t thought that death would be so much like being on a boat.
Kahlil cracked one eye open and saw polished wood and portholes. Instantly, he realized that he was aboard one of those narrow river clippers. He could tell just from looking at the close angles of the walls and the swift blur of water outside his round windows.
He pulled his other eye open and surveyed the tiny cabin. Apart from the bed that he lay in, it contained a small built-in desk and a chair, which Jath’ibaye occupied. His long, broad body looked absurd slumped in the frail chair. His chin rested on his chest, his wild blonde hair fell over his face, and his breath rose and fell with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Kahlil tried to sit up as quietly as he could. His muscles ached and resisted. His right hand bumped against something heavy on the bed next to him.
Sheathed, and resting on top of the blankets, lay the yasi’halaun. It had grown to nearly the length of his arm and its once black body now shone a lusterous gray. It had tasted the Rifter’s blood.
“You’re awake.” Jath’ibaye’s voice sounded rough.
Kahlil eyed him cautiously. The last time he’d been alone with Jath’ibaye the man had threatened to kill him.
“It’s all right. You’re safe.” Jath’ibaye winced slightly as he straightened in the chair, then offered him a tired smile. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, his mouth almost colorless.
