4: Witches' Blood (12 page)

“The greatest compliment, indeed,” Ushman Nuritam muttered to himself.

 
John rushed back down the staircase. The ushiri’im might allow him into forbidden chambers but Ushman Nuritam wouldn’t so easily overlook his trespass.

He reached the hall a floor below and hurried back to the scroll room. He was supposed to meet Ravishan there after the next bell. It was a relief to escape the staircase and those voices.

Hundreds of small deep nooks had been carved into the walls of the scroll room. Delicate silver grates hung from hinges over each one. Inside were dozens of cloth and leather scrolls enclosed in wooden cases. The writings here were older than the books in the library. The Basawar words were archaic and difficult for John to read.

 
But oddly, no matter how old a scroll was, the Nayeshi words it contained were always modern English. Ages passed between writings, but the Nayeshi that they described was always within the same few decades. It made John suspect that the Great Gates could only allow travel between a very limited area and age of Nayeshi. That was good, in that it meant he, Bill and Laurie would be sent back to the same region. But it also brought up a far more troubling thought. One that John had never considered before. It was time as well as space that they would be crossing.

At first, John had hoped that each of the Kahlils’ crossings into Nayeshi had progressed chronologically in Nayeshi history as they had in Basawar history—the first crossing into the forties, the second into the fifties, and so on. That would have ensured that he, Laurie and Bill would return a few years after they’d left. But reading the scrolls, he had discovered that this was not the case.

The issusha’im hunted the limited window of access that they had to Nayeshi. They searched back and forth, past and future. They accepted the first Rifter they could find. Then they cast a spell that bound the Rifter and the Kahlil together. It was that bond that drew the Kahlil to the correct time and place.

That meant that whatever decade this new Rifter was living in, it would be the decade that Ravishan would be taking them into.

John drew out one of the scrolls. A perfume that almost smelled like cinnamon drifted off of it. The supple leather was familiar in his hands. He had looked over this scroll several times already, slowly deciphering the ancient script. Faded sepia images of flowers ran along the top of the scroll while skeletons knelt in prayer on the bottom. He read the first lines easily.

The holy bones, the Issusha’im Oracles, saw far and spoke the words of ruin. They spoke of the end of kingdoms, of the fall of those who had crafted them.

And so we called the blood of the seas and the breath of the air, the longing of fire and the strength of stone. We called Parfir to us and would have given him form, but it would not hold. For he was all life, land, water, fire and sky. No body of this world could contain all his vastness. Only cut away, only wounded and severed, could he be captured in flesh.

And that flesh was of Nayeshi, near as the night, distant as the day.

And the world of Nayeshi held him, for it did not know him as god. And he did not know himself.

John felt the chill and heard the hiss of the Gray Space. He turned, expecting to see Ravishan. Instead, Dayyid stood frowning at him. John rolled the scroll closed.

“Already reading the divine history.” Dayyid glanced at the scroll in John’s hands. “Hann’yu said that you learned your letters quickly. I see that he was right.”

“He’s an excellent teacher,” John replied offhandedly. He had no idea how Dayyid could find fault in any of this but he suspected that the ushman would find a way.

“Indeed.” Dayyid gave John a piercing look. “I’ve heard the same said of you.”

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“My ushiri’im seem to have taken to practicing battle forms with you.” Dayyid watched John like a cat preparing to pounce on an unsuspecting robin.

“I think they just enjoy beating me.” John returned the scroll to its case, then slid it back into its nook and closed the silver grate over it.

“I’ve been told that they rarely have that pleasure.” Dayyid stepped up next to John. “In fact, none of them have bested you. Isn’t that so?”

“I’m sure some of them have. They’re probably just being modest.” John wondered who had passed all this information on to Dayyid. It wasn’t like one of the ushiri’im to brag about being beaten.

“Who’s bested you?” Dayyid asked.

“I don't know,” John replied as casually as he could with Dayyid staring so intently at him. “We’ve been practicing so much that I don’t recall all the matches.”

“When I asked, each of them told me that you had won every bout.” Dayyid remained standing just a little too close. “Why do you think they would wish to lie to me?”

“I’m sure that none of them would have lied to you,” John said quickly. Lying to Dayyid could get an ushiri whipped mercilessly. “We just practiced holds and defenses, so it’s hard to say who’s won.”

“You seem to be the only one who is uncertain of the outcomes,” Dayyid replied.

John sighed. A year ago he would have just bowed his head and apologized until Dayyid sent him away in disgust. But John didn’t think he could stomach any more of that. It wasn’t that his fear of Dayyid had lessened, but rather that his anger towards the man had grown.

There had been the beatings during his first days in Rathal’pesha. There had been the slights and only half-veiled insults; he’d constantly reminded John of his lowly rank. But none of that infuriated John as much as the memory of how easily Dayyid had condemned that girl to burn while knowing that Ravishan would be the one to take her life.

“I beat them.” John straightened so that Dayyid had to look up to meet his gaze. “So what?”

Dayyid stepped back just slightly. His dark eyes narrowed, as if taking John in for the first time. Distantly, John heard the bells ringing out the new hour.

“Hann’yu is expecting me in the infirmary,” John said. It was a lie that meant that he would miss Ravishan, but he couldn’t stay in this room with Dayyid. He was too likely to lose control of his temper and lash out at the man. That wasn’t something he could afford to do.

John walked out before Dayyid could make a response. It was one of the only times he had gotten in the last word. Not much of a victory, but John supposed it would be enough to enrage Dayyid.

At the moment he didn’t care.

Autumn passed quickly in Rathal’pesha and deep winter soon settled over the monastery. John searched out work that would keep him clear of Dayyid. He had spent most of this day chopping wood for the fires and hauling casks of oil up from the storerooms. It had been dirty, tiring work but at the end of the day he felt good, knowing he’d accomplished so much.

Now John gazed down from one of the raised walkways. Snow swirled past him. The empty grounds below appeared deceptively still and peaceful. Thick white drifts smoothed the stone paths and raised garden beds into a single flowing plane. The perfect white was broken occasionally by stone walls or the exposed branches of a dark pine. Just below him, smoke billowed from the kitchen chimneys like clouds.

“You’re going to freeze out there,” Hann’yu commented loudly from the shelter of the kitchen doorway two stories below. The two ushiri’im standing next to Hann’yu studied John. The shorter of them waved John over. He crossed the walkway and then took a staircase down to meet them.

 
All three men wore heavy wool coats and scarves. Their thick wool caps were pulled so low that their eyes were barely visible. It took John a moment to recognize Ashan’ahma. He could have been any of the ushiri’im in those clothes. Only the loose strands of his light brown hair and the sharp crescent scar that bit into his right cheek identified him.

Ravishan, however, John knew instantly. He had hit his last burst of growth this winter and now stood only a hand shorter than John himself. Of the rest of the ushiri’im and ushman’im, only Dayyid came close to Ravishan’s height now.

The tan of summer had faded from his skin and the dark stubble shadowing his jaw now showed clearly. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes as well, signs of the intensity of his training. Now that the Rifter was so close to being found, Dayyid was working the ushiri’im relentlessly. At the center of Dayyid’s attention was Ravishan, his best hope for a Kahlil.

Ravishan leaned against the doorframe, letting the building take his weight. His hands were loosely tucked into the pockets of his coat while his arms hung slack. No twenty-year-old should have looked so at ease with exhaustion.

Behind Ravishan John could see the oven fires flickering. He thought he smelled bread. Samsango must have started baking already. Normally he waited for John to join him.

John regarded Ashan’ahma, Hann’yu, and Ravishan curiously. The kitchens were one of the last places he expected to see any of the ushiri’im, much less two of them and an ushman. Hann’yu’s mouth kept curling up at the edges as he tried to suppress one of his huge grins.

“Dayyid gave all three of you scullery duty?” John asked.

“He can be so cruel,” Hann’yu said.

“If he had me cook, it would be more than cruel,” Ashan’ahma said. “It could kill us all.”

Ravishan simply yawned.

“So?” John asked. “What are you doing down here?”

“You’ll never guess.” Hann’yu was beaming.

“All right,” John said. He waited a moment. “You’re not going to tell me?”

“No, you have to try,” Hann’yu insisted.

“You’ve baked Dayyid into a giant cookie which we will offer to the unsuspecting leaders of the Fai’daum?” John responded glibly. Both Ravishan and Ashan’ahma exchanged a brief smile.

“No. Where do you get these ideas?” Hann’yu shook his head. “I can’t believe you can’t guess. It’s so obvious.”

John frowned. What could be so obvious and yet elude him? Snow continued falling. The tops of John’s boots were slowly being hidden under a layer of white.

“I have no idea,” John admitted at last.

Hann’yu looked at him in disbelief. “You have no idea what might be special about today?”

“It’s snowing?” John guessed. Hann’yu’s exasperated look told him that he had given the wrong response. Then Samsango stepped out through the doorway. He wore only his undershirt and pants and his cheeks were still red from the heat of the cooking fires.

“With all respect, Ushman,” Samsango lowered his head slightly to Hann’yu, “Ushvun Jahn is going to freeze to death if we keep him out here guessing all night.”

Hann’yu sighed. “All right. But I can’t believe you, Jahn. Such a sharp mind and then to miss something like this.”

 
“I told you he wouldn’t remember,” Ravishan said. “We common people don’t celebrate our births the way you gaun’im do.”

A celebration of his birth, John thought, and then he suddenly remembered.

Today was the tenth day of the Snow Month, the day John had supplied to Samsango as his birthday. That had been years ago. It hadn’t come up again and John had almost forgotten about it. The tenth day of the Snow Month was nowhere near his real birthday. At the time, John hadn’t been sure of the names of the summer months so he had simply chosen a date that he knew how to say.

“None of us are gaun’im any longer,” Ashan’ahma said.

“A tree can never forget its roots,” Ravishan replied. Then he glanced to Hann’yu. “We should get inside.”

They hurried into the warmth of the kitchen. John pulled the door shut. When he turned back, he saw that the worktable had been covered with a cloth. Two bundled gifts were placed on it, as well as a pot of daru’sira and a platter of stuffed rolls.

“Goat cheese,” Samsango said to John. “I’m afraid this late in the winter there wasn’t much else to make them with.”

“You shouldn’t apologize,” John said. “They smell delicious.”

They all seated themselves. Ravishan dropped down next to John on the long bench. Ashan’ahma and Hann’yu sat across from them. Samsango remained on his feet, obviously unsure of where he belonged at the table. Normally, he would never have been allowed to seat himself next to an ushiri or ushman. He eyed the edge of the bench next to John, but it was too short for him to fit. John started to move, but then Hann’yu invited Samsango to sit with him.

“Jahn has spoken so highly of you,” Hann’yu said.

“Has he?” Samsango looked almost bashful.

“He certainly has.” For his part, Hann’yu seemed amused by Samsango’s obvious awe. John could see why. Of the two of them, Samsango was certainly the more pious. “Jahn said you were originally from the Hishii Monastery.”

“Yes.”

“You must have come here before the fire.”

“No,” Samsango replied, “I was there when the Fai’daum burned it down. After that, the few of us who escaped fled to Rathal’pesha.”

“The winter march,” Hann’yu said. “I’ve read about it. I can’t imagine how you lived through it.”

Samsango looked a little embarrassed. But the attention had to be expected. Even John had heard of the winter march from Hishii. Over three hundred ushvun’im and ushman’im had started out and less than twenty had survived. The mountain winter had been harsh and the Fai’daum relentless.