3: Black Blades (13 page)

John found himself willing away the Gray Space with the same intense concentration that he had called upon as a young child to destroy the monsters he imagined awaiting him beneath his bed. It was all he could do, and he hated it.

 
One space after another opened and closed beside and behind him. Each time, John felt the air writhe. Even after the spaces closed, a wounded feeling remained etched in his mind like the gashes a skate left in ice. The air seemed to be growing thinner and torn. It felt rough, almost ragged, as John drew a breath into his lungs.

Behind him, he could hear Dayyid drawing in deep breaths, as if he were winded. John wondered if the grainy, broken texture of the air bothered him as well.

John waited for another space to open but none did. All he heard was Dayyid taking in one deep breath after another. John opened his eyes a little wider. Rows of unfamiliar ushiri’im and ushman’im stared at John. John stole a quick glance to Ravishan but his head was bowed, hiding his expression. Fikiri’s eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open in surprise. He turned back to Dayyid.

Instantly a Gray Space arched up over John like a mouth about to swallow him. A flare of repulsion, fear and anger rushed through John in a wave of heat.

“No!” John shouted. His breath burned as it rushed from his mouth. Dayyid shuddered. Flames seared along the edges of the Gray Space above John. Then, it snapped shut. John swayed on his feet, feeling dizzy.

Dayyid stood before John, breathing heavily, his pale skin beaded with sweat.

“Parfir has blessed you with strength, Brother Jahn,” Ushman Nuritam said at last.
         

“Or there’s witch’s blood in your veins,” Dayyid whispered.

John felt the blood draining from his face. He had been here long enough to know what the Payshmura did to witches. They flayed them alive or burned them on the Holy Road along with Fai’daum traitors.

“The test has not been as conclusive as we could have wished. We must discuss your candidacy,” Nuritam declared from the dais. “Dayyid, Hann’yu, you will attend.”

Dayyid nodded.

“All rise,” Dayyid called out to the gathered ushiri’im and ushman’im. All fifty men in attendance stood.

“See to your duties,” Dayyid ordered. “Hann’yu, please remain to attend Ushman Nuritam.”

The other priests filed out. John watched them, wondering if he, too, should leave. Dayyid clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“I am sure you will want to stay to hear this out, Ushvun Jahn.”

It was only a matter of moments before the chamber emptied. Dayyid led John up the steps of the dais. Hann’yu followed them. All three of them sat down on the broad step just below Ushman Nuritam.

Up close, Ushman Nuritam’s skin looked like a veil of fine silk. John thought he could see the man’s bones just beneath the surface. His gaze drifted past John and seemed to settle on the distant wall.

Hann’yu offered John a quick smile—nothing like the hard flash of teeth John so often caught from Dayyid. Hann’yu appeared genuinely friendly. He stretched his legs and massaged his ankles.

“Jahn, don’t you think we should have cushions? They have them at the Black Tower in Nurjima and so do our sisters at Umbhra’ibaye. I don’t see why we shouldn’t. We’re not fanatics like the Kahlirash’im in Vundomu, you know.”

“I have spoken to the Usho.” Ushman Nuritam nodded seriously. “He has approved the purchase of 400 cushions.”

“Then we could add them to the supply list for next month.” Hann’yu’s smile widened almost comically. “My butt will be so happy.”

Ushman Nuritam returned Hann’yu’s smile in a wide grin that almost startled John. He had grown used to seeing the ushman’im with dour and distant expressions. At just this moment, Hann’yu and Nuritam seemed suddenly very human and approachable. It was a relieving sight after being attacked, cut, and put through an incomprehensible test. It offered John some small hope of being able to appeal to either of the two men.

Then John glanced to Dayyid. His expression remained cold, almost grim. And for the first time, John noticed that the insignias on Dayyid’s collar and the style of his braids were different from Hann’yu’s. Hann’yu wore emblems of suns on his collar where Dayyid wore a both a sun and a small crescent moon. Hann’yu’s braids hung forward where Dayyid’s were pulled back close to his skull and fell behind his shoulders.

“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 after 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.

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.