3: Black Blades

by Ginn Hale

  “I believe we can discuss provisions later,” Dayyid stated. “Right now, there is the matter of Ushvun Jahn’s placement.”

  Again Ushman Nuritam nodded. “This is a difficult matter.” He shifted slightly and looked at John. “You obviously are of an Eastern bloodline.”

  John nodded. He had no way of contesting the statement. He certainly wasn’t going to tell them that he was from the bloodline of an entirely different world.

  “So, it is not so surprising that you felt the power of the curse blade.” Nuritam patted his robe, where he had tucked the knife away. “But you also seem to have some sense of the Gray Space. That would indicate that your bones may be blessed by the god Parfir.”

  “Or, it may simply be that he comes from a strong line of witches,” Dayyid said. “An Eastern taint can remain strong through generations. Witch’s blood is not the same as the god’s bones.”

  “True.” Ushman Nuritam nodded and gazed out at the panes of mica that filled the tall windows. “It is hard to know what should be done.”

  “Even if his power arises from an Eastern ancestor, that doesn’t mean it can’t serve the god.” Hann’yu glanced to the small tray beside Ushman Nuritam. “Do we have any more tea?”

  “No,” Dayyid stated flatly.

  “We should have made more.” Hann’yu glanced to John. “Are you thirsty?”

  It was a simple question and yet John wasn’t sure of what to make of it. His life was being discussed. Whether he was thirsty or not seemed like an utterly insignificant and unrelated question.

  Hann’yu nodded, despite the fact that John had said nothing.

  “Dayyid,” Hann’yu said, “have someone bring us more tea. I can tell that Ushvun Jahn is thirsty and confused. He doesn’t even know what we’re talking about.”

  “Of course he knows,” Dayyid replied. “He’s not an idiot.”

  “Well, perhaps we should let him have a little more say in the decision, then,” Hann’yu remarked.

  Dayyid shook his head but then glanced over to John. “Tell me, have you ever dreamed in another place? Have you ever felt that you have slipped through walls or doors into places you have never been before?”

  “You mean, in a dream?” John asked.

  “It would seem like a dream,” Dayyid replied.

  “I don’t remember most of my dreams too well.” John didn’t want to tell too much. “But I may have had one like that.”

  “You may have.” Dayyid shook his head. “There are already too many young men struggling as ushiri. I don’t need another.”

  “Of course you do. Someone should take Ashid’s place,” Hann’yu answered.

  “And follow him to his grave?” Dayyid demanded. “It does no good to have a hundred ushiri if they are all torn apart by the Gray Space. A taint of witch blood simply isn’t strong enough to protect them in the Gray Space. They must have Parfir’s blessings. They must carry it in their bones.”

  Hann’yu shook his head. “You see, this is why we need some tea. It would give us a chance to pause and think over each other’s points.”

  Dayyid scowled. “I won’t train him. The signs aren’t sure enough. If he only has witches’ blood, then the first time he enters a Gray Space, it will chew him to pieces.”

  “But if his bones are truly blessed and you don’t train him, you may have passed over the Kahlil,” Hann’yu replied.

  Listening to the two of them, John suddenly realized he wanted Dayyid to win this argument. He didn’t seem to be accusing John of being a witch, as John had feared. Instead, Dayyid seemed to be arguing that he couldn’t withstand the Gray Space. A sick shiver wriggled through John’s stomach as he recalled feeling the edge of a Gray Space against his flesh. He knew he never wanted to be inside one.

  And suddenly, he remembered where he had heard the name Ashid before. He had been the mutilated ushiri in the bed a little ways from John’s.

  “Ravishan will be the one,” Dayyid said. “His flesh may be sinful and his will wayward, but I know his bones are the god’s own. He will be Kahlil.”

  “What of Fikiri?” Hann’yu suggested. “His bones broke a prophecy. He crossed death itself to be delivered to us.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s too early in his training.” Dayyid’s assured expression wavered slightly.

  “You see, you don’t know,” Hann’yu went on quickly. “Not one of us knows. The Kahlil could be a heretic’s son or a gaun’im’s by-blow. We can’t afford to cast even one possibility aside.”

  “Ushvun Jahn is not even a possibility,” Dayyid stated. “It would be a waste of my time and his life.”

  Hann’yu’s smile flattened. “He has power. You couldn’t even touch him in the test. How can you let such potential go untrained?”

  “Moving through the spaces is not just a matter of power. There is a...” Dayyid scowled as he tried to find the word. His fingers moved as if trying to pull the word from the empty air. “There is a particular character that a man must have. And Ushvun Jahn does not have it.”

  “How can you say?” Hann’yu asked. “You hardly know him.”

  “When he first came, I practiced against him on the ushvun’im grounds. He has no passion. No fury. He will take beating after beating without question. To walk between the worlds a man must fight. He must struggle even when he may be beaten. That is not Ushvun Jahn’s nature. If a Gray Space closes on him, he would simply allow it to devour him.”

  A small, egotistical part of John wanted to tell Dayyid that he had no idea what he was talking about. But John kept his mouth shut. If Ushman Dayyid thought he was weak-willed, so be it.

  “With all respect,” Hann’yu replied, “you’re only describing men who share your own nature, Dayyid. But you, yourself, could not become Kahlil. Despite your devotion and your fearless nature, you failed that test. So, it could be argued that you do not know what qualities are required for a man to become Kahlil.”

  As Hann’yu spoke, John could see a dark flush spreading across Dayyid’s tanned face. Ushman Nuritam shook his head.

  “I have heard enough,” Ushman Nuritam said softly. “Thank you both for arguing the matter before me.”

  Both Hann’yu and Dayyid bowed their heads.

  Ushman Nuritam turned to John. “It seems that you have great potential, Ushvun, but perhaps not among the ushiri’im. I am sorry.”

  A wave of relief rolled over John. He didn’t think he could have stood another assault from Dayyid, much less having to train under the man every day. John noticed Dayyid’s slight smile and Hann’yu’s sigh.

  “If I may make a request.” Hann’yu kept his head lowered.

  “Go ahead,” Ushman Nuritam said.

  “At least allow Ushvun Jahn to be trained under me. I could use him to bear wounds, if nothing else.”

  Ushman Nuritam nodded. “Of course. Ushvun Jahn, you will be given the honor of serving Ushman Hann’yu in the infirmary.”

  “Thank you.” John lowered his head to the stone step. A queasy feeling was already seeping through him. Bearing wounds. He wondered if he had just gotten a better, or worse, appointment.

  “So, now we should have our tea,” Hann’yu suggested.

  Ushman Nuritam nodded slowly and somberly.

  “If you could excuse me,” Dayyid said, “I must return to the ushiri’im. We will have to break in a new welter-body.”

  “Of course. You are excused, Ushman Dayyid.” Ushman Nuritam smiled at him. “May Parfir walk with you.”

  “And with you,” Dayyid replied. He bowed to both Ushman Nuritam and Hann’yu, then quit the chamber.

  John remained on the step, apparently forgotten, while tea was sent for and then brought. Ushman Nuritam discussed the division of tithes and how much would be allotted to Rathal’pesha as opposed to the holy fortress of Vundomu. As Hann’yu nodded and listened, he passed John a cup of tea with the ingrained politeness of the Basawar nobility.

  The irrelevant conversation was restful to John af
ter so much intense focus on himself and his training. He relaxed and rested on the lower step, only half-listening to the discussion concerning southern nobility and rumors of their secret fundeding of the Fai’daum. Then the conversation turned to the vague prophesies surrounding the Rifter. It was good to hear about things that had nothing to do with him for a while.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A month later, John had learned his way through the twisting halls of the higher floors. These days he spent most of his free hours in the library attempting to reclaim the prowess literacy offered.

  This morning the yellowed panes of sheet mica in the skylights turned the harsh light soft and golden. The heavy hand-bound books filling the shelves and lining the walls added insulation against the cold that would have otherwise crept up through the stones. The books themselves all seemed infused with a scent of incense, and perhaps in a few volumes, just the hint of fires. It made him feel drawn into autumn.

  Paging through a strange-smelling old book under the warm light reminded John of returning to school after the summer break. But of course, here in Basawar, all his associations were wrong. It was spring, and there were no summer vacations or post-graduate classes. Here, no one had even heard of ecology, much less an ecology degree, and John was far from a scholar. He could hardly read.

  Ravishan rocked his stool back onto two legs and peered over John’s shoulder.

  “Par. Fir. Ati. Hyy. An. Pahr.” Ravishan gave the sound for each of the letters as he pointed to them. “Parfir’ati hyy’an pahr.”

  Parfir brought rain. John understood the spoken sentence perfectly.

  John traced his fingers beneath lines of faded brown symbols. One after another, they flowed and arced together into the long sentences that filled page after page of the aged book in front of him. He knew most of the letters now. Hann’yu had insisted that he learn them and John had been happy to. But it was frustrating to have to go so slowly, sounding the words out like a child.

  “It’s boring stuff,” Ravishan commented. “Parfir creates earth and air and water and then gives them all life by pouring pieces of himself into each of them. His blood, his skin, his flesh, and his tears. All that, until the world is alive and he’s just...I don’t remember exactly. An eyeball, finger bones, and some ribs, and I think some teeth.”

  John glanced down at the page. He thought he recognized the word for eye. It even looked a little like an eye, with a circle and a single dot in the center.

  “Then the first empire of demons arises and Parfir creates the first Rifter from what remains of his body, except one finger bone, which got lost.” Ravishan tapped the small, brown illustration at the bottom of the page. “The Rifter slaughters them all.”

  It was of a woman with long, wild blonde hair and wide staring eyes. The ground buckled and split beneath her feet and bolts of lightning cut the air above her head. She vaguely resembled Laurie.

  “But the Rifter, the sacred destroyer, was made too well, made too strong, and Parfir’s own body shuddered as she walked across his back.” Ravishan shrugged. “The same story everyone knows.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Really?” Ravishan sat all four legs of the stool firmly on the ground.

  “Really.”

  “They don’t speak of Parfir’s sacrifice in Nayeshi?” Ravishan asked.

  “They don’t even know about Parfir in Nayeshi.”

  “Such a strange place.” Ravishan leaned closer and studied the picture. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”

  “When you become Kahlil, you’ll see it for yourself,” John told him.

  Ravishan radiated pleasure at John’s words.

  It struck John that Ravishan had a disarmingly handsome smile, and then John recalled that he had thought the same thing the last time Ravishan had flashed him that charming grin. He supposed it wouldn’t have had such a strong effect back at home, where dental care and toothpaste were common. Here it was different.

  Ravishan’s white teeth shone like pearls in contrast to his tanned skin. His eyes caught the afternoon light, glowing gold.

  “When I am Kahlil,” Ravishan whispered. “I like the way that sounds.”

  John smiled. When Ravishan was Kahlil, hopefully he would help John, Laurie, and Bill get back home. But that was probably still years away. John returned to learning his letters, but found himself distracted by the illustration of the first Rifter.

  She reminded him of Laurie more each time he looked at her. The small mouth, the thin body, it resembled her in that simple but clear way that some police sketches seemed to exactly capture a suspect.

  “So, my guess would be that Parfir has to destroy the Rifter.” John skimmed the page, picking out words that he recognized and skipping those he didn’t.

  “Parfir can’t destroy the Rifter. They’re made of the same body, just as the living world is. They are all one divinity.” Ravishan smiled. “That’s why the Payshmura were created. One holy man found Parfir’s single finger bone and it guided him. He created a poison to calm the Rifter, and when she slept, he cut off her leg, then used her own hungry bone to bleed her until she couldn’t fight.”

  Ravishan leaned close to John and ran his finger under a line of gold script. “From Parfir’s single remaining finger bone, the first priest forged a golden key that could open the Rifter’s death. And from the Rifter’s own blood-soaked thigh bone, he carved the first yasi’halaun.”

  John studied the words, sounding them out under his breath as Ravishan read.

  “The yasi’halaun?” John asked. “It looks like one of the knives I was offered at the test.”

  “Yes. All our curse blades are carved to resemble the yasi’halaun. But the divine blade must be carved by the Kahlil from one of the Rifter’s bones. Right now, the Holy Kahlirash’im guard the sacred bone at their temple in Vundomu. When I become Kahlil, I will bring the bone back to Rathal’pesha.” Ravishan flipped ahead in the book, then stopped on an ornately decorated illustration of two black knives and one long gray sword. Golden words were written in minuscule script around all three.

  “This is just a curse blade.” Ravishan tapped the first black knife in the picture. “They’re made from bone like the yasi’halaun but just animal bones, so they aren’t all that powerful. Really, any blade made from bone can be made into a curse blade. All the ushiri’im have them. Even you carry one, though yours doesn’t carry a curse.”

  “The knife I chose in the test?” John asked and Ravishan nodded. John was glad that his knife wasn’t cursed. It now hung in its sheath from his belt. He had grown accustomed to the way it swung against his thigh when he walked.

  Ravishan briefly drew his own black blade from its sheath. “You can place any kind of curse on a blade. ‘Burn the blood, silence the cries. Sear the flesh, blind the eyes.’ Then when you use the blade on an enemy, the curse infests them.”

  “Infests them?” John asked.

  “Well, it kills them.” Ravishan shrugged. He slid his knife back into its sheath.

  “You’re sure the wound doesn’t do that?” John asked.

  “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt. But the wound doesn’t need to be fatal. If you can cast a curse, then all you need is to draw blood. Your enemy won’t be able to escape it.”

  John didn’t respond. He wasn’t inclined to believe in curses, but he also wasn’t inclined to believe in gateways to other worlds or men who traveled through the Gray Space. He’d been living around too many things that he wasn’t inclined to believe in to feel completely secure in his skepticism.

  “And this second black knife is the yasi’halaun?” John thought he now recognized the symbols that made up the name.

  “Yes.” Ravishan smiled at the drawing. “The Kahlil carries both a curse blade and the yasi’halaun.”

  John nodded. He remembered the knives that Kyle had carried. He glanced down at the drawing again. This time he studied the long gray sword. Kyle had carried one like it as well.
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  “Nayeshi’hala,” John sounded the name out, recognizing the words as he heard them. The key to Nayeshi. John looked to Ravishan. “The key to my world?”

  Ravishan nodded, as if this were common knowledge. And John guessed it was, here in the libraries of Rathal’pesha.

  “When the yasi’halaun drinks the blood of the Rifter, it grows into the Nayeshi’hala. That, too, is carried by the Kahlil.” Ravishan beamed at the picture.

  “It drinks the Rifter’s blood and is made from her bones?” John asked.

  Ravishan nodded. “Exactly.”

  “And the Rifter is...who?”

  Ravishan frowned at him as if the question didn’t make sense. “The Rifter is the Rifter, the destroying aspect of the divine Parfir.”

  “But...” John tried to think of another way to get his answer. “How does the Rifter end up having her bones carved up and her blood drained?”

  “First, the Rifter must be poisoned. Then the blood is fed to the yasi’halaun. Then the golden key opens the Rifter’s death. Once the Rifter is dead, the bones are taken and another yasi’halaun is carved.”

  Ravishan’s description sounded like some kind of terrible ritual sacrifice. And it still didn’t tell him what he wanted to know.

  “They don’t just pick some woman to be the Rifter, do they?” John asked at last.

  Again Ravishan paused a few moments, looking at him as if he had asked something completely bizarre, almost incomprehensible.

  “No, the Rifter is Parfir’s own flesh, not just someone who can be appointed. If the Payshmura could just choose a Rifter, then they would be rid of the Fai’daum already.”

  “Oh.” John frowned. There was something he failed to understand about the Rifter, something that made his questions seem absurd to Ravishan. John flipped back to try and find his place in the book.

  He turned page after page, scanning the black, brown, and gold illustrations for a familiar image. Absently, he wondered if numbering pages had just never occurred as an idea or if somehow the Payshmura had deemed it sinful. So far John hadn’t encountered a single page number in any of the massive texts he’d thumbed through.