3: Black Blades

by Ginn Hale

  As Ushman Dayyid stepped down from the dais, the ushiri parted before him, then immediately closed ranks again. Dayyid stopped just out of John’s reach. He turned slightly to address the ushiri behind him while keeping his eyes on John.

  “This is Ushvun Jahn. He will be serving as our welter-body for today.”

  John couldn’t help but steal a glance at Ravishan. He had no idea what a welter-body was, but the way that Ravishan’s face went slightly pale assured John that it couldn’t be good. Samsango had said that the ushiri would be training against him with blades. John’s eyes drifted across the racks of spears, swords, and knives. They didn’t just look painful. They looked deadly.

  “We will begin with a demonstration.” Dayyid held his right hand up. It was empty. A momentary relief filled John, but he didn’t trust it. Samsango had been too upset for John to even hope that he would get out of the golden chamber without suffering.

  “The Unseen Edge.” Dayyid snapped his fingers apart and John heard the hiss of Gray Space tearing. “This is only the edge of the space. It is not open and does not lead to any destination, but it may still have a use.”

  Dayyid stepped closer. John frowned at him, unsure of what he should be doing. Then Dayyid swung his hand out towards John’s shoulder.

  Frigid, tearing pain slashed through John’s flesh. He jerked back. A weird nausea pulsed through his whole body. He clamped his hand over his wounded shoulder to staunch the hot blood spilling down his sleeve. But the injury didn’t alarm John as much as the sense of utter revulsion—a physical sickness—that came from touching the edge of the Gray Space.

  Dayyid’s dark eyes twinkled. He smiled at John as if he were just on the verge of laughter. To the ushiri’im, he said, “A long, thin cut is produced. It often hurts more than it harms.”

  Dayyid held up his right hand again. This time he flicked his first two fingers up and folded the rest down against his palm. Again, John heard the hiss and felt the chill of Gray Space shredding open.

  Dayyid said, “The Silence Knife.”

  Animal panic shot through John. He suddenly wanted to run for the door. But he forced himself to stand his ground as Dayyid turned on him.

  Dayyid jabbed his right hand at John’s chest. Automatically, John blocked with his left arm and drove his right fist at Dayyid’s throat. Sick agony tore through his left forearm, as if Dayyid had driven a stiletto of ice through the muscle. John jerked back out of Dayyid’s reach. Blood poured from a deep puncture just above his elbow.

  This time Dayyid wasn’t smiling. His left hand was lightly pressed to his throat, where John’s knuckles had grazed his flesh.

  If he hadn’t jerked away from the pain, John realized, he could have brought Dayyid down. The thought sent a warm rush through John’s body.

  If only he had held his ground.

  Then what? Would he really have killed Dayyid? He couldn’t do something like that. He wouldn’t. It was just the rage of so much pain boiling up in him. John forced himself to lower his gaze.

  To get through this day he would have to let his anger go.

  John kept his eyes down. Dark rivulets of blood slipped down his trembling fingers and spattered across the white mat.

  Dayyid began again, “The God’s Razor—”

  “Don’t!”

  John, and every other man in the room, instantly looked to Fikiri. Dayyid scowled at him.

  “He’s a good man.” Fikiri’s voice trembled and he dropped his gaze submissively to his own feet. “You shouldn’t be hurting him.”

  To John’s surprise, Dayyid’s voice was soft, almost kind. “Fikiri, I am not punishing Ushvun Jahn. This is an honor for him. And I am not hurting him much. Certainly not more than he can endure.” Dayyid glanced back at John. “Just a scratch and a pinch. Demonstrations always look far worse than they are. Isn’t that right, Ushvun?”

  John forced himself to smile. The last thing he wanted was to cause Fikiri trouble. He just had to get through this, he reminded himself. Just take what Dayyid dished out. It would be over soon enough.

  He said, “I’m fine.”

  Dayyid continued, “It requires determination and great will to perfect your blade work, but it will be necessary if any one of you is to become Kahlil. I know this, and Ushvun Jahn knows this. For the sake of your education, Ushvun Jahn has offered himself to assist you all to learn. Now, it does him and you no good to refrain from practicing the forms of the sacred blades because you might spill a few drops of his blood. That is why he is here and why you are here. Do you understand, Fikiri?”

  Fikiri nodded glumly.

  “Very good.” Dayyid smiled. It was a professional expression, one that conveyed pleasure in mastery more than any warmth. “Now, let us return to our lesson. The God’s Razor is an extension of the Unseen Edge. It is formed when two or more ushiri’im or ushman’im create a field of unseen edges. I will need an assistant for this.” Dayyid glanced over the gathered ushiri’im. For an instant, Dayyid paused on Ravishan.

  If Ravishan felt any hesitation at the thought of slicing through John’s flesh, it didn’t show. He kept his expression as cold as the rest of the ushiri’im. He met Dayyid’s eyes defiantly.

  Dayyid moved on to Fikiri.

  Fikiri tried to control his expression but his mouth was obviously pressed closed too hard and his pale brows crunched together in misery.

  “Fikiri,” Dayyid said, “this will be an excellent opportunity for you to better your skills.”

  “But I don’t know how—”

  “It’s simple.” Dayyid beckoned him forward. Then he said to John, “Since Fikiri isn’t experienced, you should probably hold as still as you can while we practice.”

  For a few minutes John watched with a growing feeling of dread and sickness while Dayyid tutored Fikiri in opening an Unseen Edge. The rest of the ushiri’im watched Dayyid’s instructions with rapt interest.

  Except for Ravishan. His eyes seemed to be focused on John’s bloody right hand. When he looked up to John’s face, he seemed startled to find John looking back at him and a faint red blush spread across his face. John returned his attention to the lesson in progress.

  “Very good.” Dayyid nodded as Fikiri snapped his fingers apart and a Gray Space wrenched open with a shriek. John felt the air around Fikiri’s hands writhing as if it were in agony. The sensation sent a shudder through him.

  “Now, push the edge outward.” Dayyid extended his hand and snapped another edge of Gray Space open next to Fikiri’s. “Push and allow the God’s Razor to spread.”

  Fikiri emulated Dayyid, but the action didn’t seem easy for him. Sweat beaded his forehead and chest. Fikiri’s arm trembled as he extended the edge of Gray Space. A noise like nails being dragged across sheet metal filled the room.

  John found himself hoping that Fikiri would succeed, and at the same time, deeply worried about what would happen if he did.

  Dayyid held his own broad, tanned hand out over Fikiri’s and then lowered it, so that his palm just touched the back of Fikiri’s hand. He spread his fingers over Fikiri’s and a thin horizontal line of flames suddenly burst up midair. The thick smell of searing ozone washed over John.

  Instinctively, John’s arms came up, protecting his face and chest. Then the edge of the Gray Space hit him, ripping into the muscle just above his elbows. A choked gasp of pain escaped him. He wanted to scream, but he could hardly draw a breath. Nothing in his life had hurt like this. The edge ground through his skin and muscle like a saw blade.

  It had to stop. Now.

  John could see the thin, trembling edge of the God’s Razor. It blurred into a pale line, turning pink as his blood spattered along its surface. It looked absurdly small, like a tiny fissure in the air. Like a thread that he could just grab and snap if he wanted to.

  John wondered if he was in shock from the pain.

  He watched, feeling almost like a distant observer, as his right arm dropped down and grabbed the God’s Razor. He f
elt the jagged grinding edge of Gray Space bite into his palm, but the pain was muted and dull. His blood spattered up in a fine mist as he clenched his fist around the opening of Gray Space. He crushed it closed.

  Fikiri staggered back. Dayyid gaped in abject disbelief.

  John’s entire body shook. He felt hot and strange. He swayed on his feet and barely caught himself from falling. Every single ushiri stared at him in shock.

  Even Ravishan.

  He shouldn’t have done that. Whatever it was that he had done.

  John turned his hand to look at his palm. It glistened like ground beef. Nausea welled up. John looked away from his ruined hand to the men in front of him. They all stood perfectly still, as if paralyzed.

  Then Ravishan bolted forward. He placed a hand against John’s back.

  “Sit down,” Ravishan said. “You should sit down.”

  John sat on the ugly, blood-spattered mat.

  He wondered why his hand and arms didn’t seem to hurt so much now. Shock, he supposed. He tried to remember first aid procedures. Treat the wounds. Keep the victim warm and hydrated.

  “It’s just shock,” John mumbled. His words sounded strange and garbled. He started to say that he thought he needed stitches.

  Ravishan scowled at him and whispered, “Be quiet!” Then John realized that he had spoken to Ravishan in English and clenched his jaw shut. He had to be careful.

  A moment later, Dayyid crouched down opposite Ravishan, scowling.

  “You were a fool to grasp the God’s Razor. Your hand should have been severed.”

  John scowled back at Dayyid, not trusting himself to speak yet.

  “His injuries need to be treated,” Ravishan said.

  Dayyid narrowed his eyes at Ravishan.

  “I know what needs to be done and what does not,” Dayyid replied curtly.

  “Then you know that he needs to be tended to.” Ravishan stared straight into Dayyid’s face.

  John had the distinct feeling that the struggle between them could have been about anything. Effectively, treating his injuries had become secondary to the crisis of their opposing wills.

  For the first time, it struck John how much Ravishan and Dayyid resembled one another, not just physically, but in their mannerisms. The inflections of their voices and their expressions mirrored each other. No wonder Dayyid became so infuriated when Ravishan turned a commanding glower on him. It was Dayyid’s own glare.

  The pain in John’s arms grew duller and he wondered if Dayyid had been telling the truth when he had said that the demonstrations looked worse than they were.

  He glanced down and noted that both sleeves of his robe were dripping out little droplets of red. In the cupped curve of his aching right hand, a dark pool of his blood steadily welled up. He could feel tiny streams escaping between his fingers and slipping down the back of his hand. The color was brilliant against the white mats and the dull gray of John’s robe.

  “Please,” Ravishan barely whispered the words, lowering his head as he spoke, “please call for Hann’yu to treat his wounds.”

  Dayyid nodded and then stood. “Fikiri, go fetch Ushman Hann’yu.”

  John tried to stand and follow Fikiri, but Ravishan held him back. “Don’t try to move too much. It isn’t just your hand. You touched Gray Space. You could be hurt inside.”

  “I’m not. I’m fine.” John was pleased to note that his voice sounded stronger and the Basawar words came to him easily. He gave Ravishan a reassuring smile. Then, without warning, his vision went white and he crumpled down to the mat.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  John didn’t open his eyes. He lay still, hardly awake but listening. The softness of the mattress beneath him tempted him to return to sleep. An antiseptic smell hung in the air, reminiscent of a hospital emergency room but not quite right. Some botanical note, a hint of pine, instantly told John he was not in a hospital. Not anywhere close to home, but in some bed in Rathal’pesha.

  He heard the rustle of robes nearby. There was another man in the room with him. John considered opening his eyes and stealing a glance to see who it was, but the movement seemed like an immense exertion. Maybe in a few minutes he’d wake up enough to do it.

  A warm hand touched his forehead and then very gently pushed the hair back from his face. An instant later the hand was withdrawn.

  John caught the distinct sound of a door opening and then the snap of boot heels striking the stone floor.

  “Hann’yu.”

  John instantly recognized Dayyid’s voice. He forced his eyes open just a crack.

  He lay in a large room with tall, narrow windows. He counted five other beds, but only one seemed to be occupied and John didn’t recognize the man in it. He appeared badly injured, his body forming the wrong curves and hollows beneath his blankets. A leg and part of his arm seemed to be missing, but John couldn’t be sure. The indistinctness of the body, blankets, and pillows disturbed him.

  He turned his attention back to the other men in the room. Dayyid stood to the right of John’s bed with the painted red door behind him. Ravishan and another ushman stood a little closer to John on his left.

  “So, will he live, Hann’yu?” Dayyid asked.

  The priest standing beside Ravishan nodded. Like Dayyid, he looked to be in his mid-forties. His hair was walnut-brown and pulled back into eight braids. His gentle features reminded John of Samsango’s. His skin was much darker than either Ravishan’s or Dayyid’s.

  “He may wake up tomorrow or the next day.” Hann’yu smiled at Dayyid. “He’s surprisingly strong.”

  John wondered how they could not have noticed that he was, in fact, already awake and watching them.

  “Can you rouse him sooner?” Dayyid asked.

  “I don’t see why I should. Is there some emergency?”

  “Ushman Nuritam wishes to test his bones,” Dayyid replied.

  “Really?” Hann’yu’s grin was positively gleeful. “So, you nearly killed an ushiri candidate?”

  “We can hope. But I doubt he’ll pass the test.” Dayyid stepped closer to John’s bedside and gazed down over him. “He looks more like the tainted remnant of some Eastern bloodline.”

  “Well, who knows.” Hann’yu shrugged. “They say that even the sun started out as a blond boy from the east.”

  “Who says that?” Dayyid asked. His tone was harsh but his expression struck John as almost playful.

  “Story books. Didn’t you ever read any when you were a child?”

  “Of course not,” Dayyid replied. “I read only the holiest of the holy. My thoughts were never polluted by heresy or trash.”

  “Well, there’s no point in being bitter now,” Hann’yu responded. “I’m sure that your parents didn’t mean to deprive you.”

  Ravishan, who had until this moment remained silent enough to be overlooked, coughed to cover a little laugh. When he raised his hand to his mouth, John noticed the edges of white bandages poking out from beneath Ravishan’s sleeves. Dayyid glared at him and Ravishan bowed his head in quick supplication. When Dayyid turned back to Hann’yu, the lightness in his expression had completely gone.

  “Can you wake this one, or not?”

  Hann’yu shook his head. “Not so soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Right now I think he’s lucky to have a pulse. We should let him sleep as long as he needs.”

  How could they still not have noticed that he was looking at them? John frowned, and then realized that he couldn’t actually feel the muscles of his mouth move. He’d just thought of frowning, but his body had not responded.

  Dayyid asked, “Will you be keeping Ravishan as well?”

  “I might need him to bear another wound.”

  “What about Ashid?” Dayyid’s tone softened. John followed Dayyid’s gaze to the misshapen body in the other bed.

  Hann’yu’s gentle smile faded. Dayyid closed his eyes, head bowed.

  “Does he know? Is he suffering?” Dayyid asked quietly.

  Hann’yu shook
his head. “No, he won’t wake. Tomorrow he’ll be in better hands than mine.”

  Dayyid remained still and silent, gazing at the white blankets. Then he turned back to John.

  “See if you can get him on his feet soon.”

  “I will,” Hann’yu replied, “but next time don’t knock him off his feet so hard.”

  “I know.” Dayyid started for the door. “But they have to learn somehow. The Fai’daum certainly aren’t going to show them any greater compassion.” He pulled the door open and disappeared into the dark hall outside. The door fell shut behind him.

  John wanted to sit up and say something, but he couldn’t seem to do it. He wasn’t even sure that his eyes were really open now. When he concentrated intently, he could feel his lids pressed closed. He had to be dreaming then. It wasn’t the first time that he had slipped into a dream that seemed so deeply real. Still, he found it strange that he would dream of this. Maybe he was catching snippets of some conversation around him and building these images. Even as he thought about it, the dream continued just as the real world would have.

  Hann’yu drifted past the row of beds to a heavy, carved table laden with dozens of smoked glass jars. Farther back, John thought he saw a wide shelf stacked with even more jars as well as several leather-bound books. Hann’yu took a pen and started writing something.

  “Do you think Jahn’s bones will pass?” Ravishan glanced back when he spoke to Hann’yu, but remained at John’s bedside.

  “I don’t think it matters.” Hann’yu didn’t look up from his work. “It’s not as if he could take your place. I think Fikiri’s the one you have to worry about.”

  “Fikiri’s too scared to even walk through a Gray Space.”

  “He broke a prophecy.” Hann’yu opened two of the jars and poured dark powders from them into a mortar. “Even the Issusha’im Oracles don’t know how he did it. You shouldn’t underestimate him.”