5: The Holy Road (13 page)

Ravishan nodded. “So, tell me what you think.”

“I think that you know the church is corrupt and what they’re doing to common men and women is wrong. But they have your sister, so you can’t afford to challenge them.”

“That’s what I think.” Ravishan cocked his head slightly. “I thought you were going to tell me what you thought.”

“That doesn’t really matter. I’m not the one who will have to decide what to do.”

“It matters to me.” Ravishan leaned a little closer to him. “So, tell me.”

John frowned. It had been so much more simple to reveal himself physically to Ravishan. He had not needed words.

Ravishan folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his seat. John recognized the posture. Ravishan was willing to wait all night for his answer.

“I think that the Payshmura have to change,” John said at last. “They can’t just keep ripping the world apart every time the issusha’im warn them of a possible conflict.”

Ravishan gave a silent nod, plainly waiting for him to continue.

John went on, “They claim that the land is Parfir’s flesh and yet they summon the Rifter to destroy it for their own sakes. You can see the damage it’s done. The Great Chasm hardly supports life now. But if you read back through the texts, that area used to support a huge diversity of—”

“Jahn,” Ravishan interrupted, “I know how you feel about diversity and about the disruption of environs. What I want to know is how you feel about the church.”

“They need to relinquish power and learn to compromise,” John said.

Ravishan raised his brows.

“And it’s not just the Fai’daum they’re up against,” John went on. “The gaun’im are obviously stoking the dissent against the church in hopes of grasping more power for themselves. And the kahlirash’im at Vundomu seemed pretty damn pissed off at the Payshmura ushman’im as well.”

“Pissed off?” Ravishan asked.

“Angry,” John clarified.

“About what?”

“The inequity of power within the church—the way the ushman’im are dealing with the Fai’daum. A lot of the kahlirash’im come from farming families and they know what the tithes are doing. I don’t think it strikes them as Parfir’s will so much as the greed of the ushman’im. When they talked about the Rifter, a lot of them seemed to think he would return to wipe out the corruption within the church.”

“They told you that?” Ravishan asked.

“Not directly,” John admitted. “I overheard it when they were speaking among themselves.”

“Maybe you misunderstood them.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. And I don’t think that you think so either.”

“No?” Ravishan seemed amused by John’s presumption.

“No,” John said firmly. “I think that you might feel the same way, but you wouldn’t dare to admit it because you have too much to lose if anyone ever found out.”

“Maybe,” Ravishan said softly. He gazed down at his hands. “I don’t like the idea of the Rifter returning to destroy the church.”

“It isn’t as though he’s selective. He rips apart entire landmasses. You can feel how injured the land is already. I don’t know if Basawar could withstand another wave of destruction.”

As John spoke, Ravishan’s expression changed. He began to look almost sick. The color drained from his cheeks and mouth, making his dark eyes seem like black holes.

John suddenly realized that as Kahlil, Ravishan would consider himself directly responsible for that destruction. More than the corruption of the ushman’im, it was the thought of unleashing the Rifter and tearing the world to pieces that filled Ravishan with doubt in his faith. The Payshmura had already made him take responsibility for his own mother’s death. They had forced him to burn women alive as a kind of precursor to his greater duty as Kahlil.

Ravishan looked quickly away from John’s gaze. He caught hold of his cup and drained the last of his tea. “I don’t want to think about that. I can’t and still become Kahlil.”

“It won’t happen,” John told him quietly. “The Rifter will not destroy Basawar.”

“How can you know?”

John almost told him the truth then. But he stayed silent, thinking that it would be too much for Ravishan to have to accept. It was almost too much for John himself to accept.

“We won’t let it happen.”

Ravishan smiled wanly and repeated, “We won’t let it happen…as if it were our choice.”

“Maybe it is.” Again the urge to confess rose in John, but he held back.

“I want to believe you so badly.”

“Then believe me,” John told him.

Ravishan pressed his eyes closed the way a child would before making a wish. “Tell me it’s going to be all right.”

“It’s going to be all right.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” John assured him.

Ravishan opened his eyes. He looked out at the tables of debating students and men caught up in private conversations. The influx of patrons had ebbed. A pair of waiters leaned against the wooden counter at the back of the room, drinking their own cups of tea.

“I couldn’t do this without you, Jahn.”

“You could. But you won’t have to.”

Ravishan smiled a little wryly. Then he studied John for several moments.

“You should finish your tea,” Ravishan announced at last.

From under the table John felt Ravishan’s leg brush against his thigh. A rush of desire pulsed through John’s body. He glanced at his cup. It was still half full.

“I’m done,” John decided.

Ravishan nodded. “We should probably get to bed then. We have a long week ahead of us.”

It didn’t feel like it had been a week already. John shifted in the elegant velvet-backed chair. It was too small for his big frame. He stood up and slowly paced the ornately gilded hall.

He wanted more time. Another week. He and Ravishan had just begun to explore Nurjima. They had visited only a few of the brightly-painted bookshops and raucous theaters that Hann’yu had recommended.

They’d spent the better part of an evening listening to loud political debates in one of the teahouses near Scholars’ Park. Scattered between students’ and teachers’ orations, there had been a provocative speech from a red-veiled widow and one ferocious diatribe from a young blonde man. The diversity of opinion had given John hope. Nurjima was far from a utopia, but people here were free enough to say as much.

After that, Ravishan and he had sampled a few of the sweet and spicy dishes that came from the southern holdings. They had heard beautiful new music played by a blonde beggar and seen the brilliant gold uniforms worn by the priests in the city dress guard. John had caught glimpses of trees and animals he had never seen before, books he had never read. He had seen sculptures and paintings that made him wonder about the forgotten histories of Basawar. There was so much more than a week’s time had allowed him to take in.

But most of all, John wanted more time to simply linger in bed with Ravishan. He could have spent a week doing just that and still have wanted more. John traced his thumb across the edge of his lower lip, remembering Ravishan’s last hungry kiss.

He dropped his hand back to his side and scowled at the riot of intricate gold filigree that scrolled across the iridescent pearl-like walls. All along the length of the hall small portraits of past usho’im stared haughtily out from circular gold frames. John had imagined the interior of the Black Tower to be different than this. He supposed the dark exterior had led him to expect something more like the powerful utilitarian interiors of Vundomu.

Instead, little gold suns winked at him from the carpet beneath his feet. Two silk-clad acolytes strolled past him. They couldn’t have been younger than John, but their soft faces and careless expressions made him think of children. If Ravishan had seen them, he would have joked that the ushman’im of Nurjima were allowing girls into the priesthood.

But Ravishan wasn’t with him, so the two acolytes passed without comment.

John glanced to the arched white doors at the far end of the hall. He had no idea how long Ravishan would have to remain in the Usho’s audience chamber. Ushman Serahn had told John that he could wait if he liked, but he hadn’t thought that Ravishan would be released before nightfall.

John supposed he could have gone out and explored Nurjima alone. But he wanted to be there when Ravishan finally emerged. It would be the first of five days spent preparing for his blessings and John imagined Ravishan would be exhausted and probably injured in some manner as well. The Payshmura reverence for ushiri’im blood seemed to ensure that it would be spilled for as many rituals as possible.

John paced.

If Ravishan were released before it was too late in the evening, John intended to take him to a puppet theater. They had already been once, but Ravishan seemed to take an unusual delight in seeing glorified socks swear, carouse and beat each other. The theater had been dark and few other people seemed to ever attend it. The last time they had gone Ravishan had traced his fingers over John’s palm and wrist, communicating his own silent desires.

As John turned to close the circle of his pacing, a young red-haired acolyte came rushing up the adjoining corridor. He drew to a halt in front of John, taking in quick gulps of air with as much dignity as he could manage.

“You are Ushvun Jahn?” the acolyte asked.

“I am.” John frowned at the young man. “Why?”

“Ushman Serahn needs you at once.”

“What’s happened?” John asked, his thoughts already flashing through myriad terrible possibilities. What if something had gone wrong with the rituals? If Ravishan had been badly hurt, they would need someone strong to bear his wounds.

“I don’t know. The ushman said you must be brought at once. Please come with me.”

John followed the acolyte at a fast pace down the corridor and up a winding staircase. John would have gone faster but the young acolyte couldn’t keep up with him in a full-out run. Nor could the acolyte take the stairs with the speed that years of living in Rathal’pesha had imparted to John. Finally, the acolyte gave up and waved John ahead of him.

“Ushman Serahn’s at the very top of the tower. Keep going up.” The acolyte hunched over, trying to catch his breath. “The guards know that you’ve been summoned. They’ll let you pass.”

John bounded up the stairs without another word. He threw himself forward as hard and fast as he could. The first three flights were wide but also busy. John had to twist and bolt between clusters of priests going about their daily business. After the fourth floor the stairs became almost deserted.

Perfumed air burned through John’s lungs as he raced ahead. On the landing of the eighth floor, armed priests stood guard. As John charged forward they parted, allowing him past to the next flight of stairs.

“The gold door,” one of them called after him.

John’s heart hammered in his chest and his muscles felt like they were burning against his bones. He took a sharp turn, almost leaping up onto the next landing, and then suddenly
jerked to a halt.

The sick, torn sensation of open Gray Space washed over him. John paused briefly to fight his sense of violent nausea before continuing up. The winding staircase seemed to curl forever upwards in tighter and tighter turns. The walls on either side of him steadily shifted from pearly white to same odd yellow color he’d found in the highest reaches of Rathal’pesha. They grew increasingly tight as John ascended higher and higher, until he found himself almost enclosed. Another man couldn’t have passed him without them both flattening against the walls.

The feeling of the Gray Space increased and he caught the distant but distinct whispers of the issusha’im. He had to be well above the main building now, somewhere in the twisted column of the central spire.

He turned a corner and almost smacked into a dark yellow stone door. The stairs simply ended there. John couldn’t imagine how the door could open out to anything but the empty air swirling around the narrow spire of the black tower. Still he opened it and stepped through.

The room inside was huge and elaborately gilded with flowing Basawar script as well as English. Two wide stone arches filled the center of the room. There were no other furnishings. Ushman Serahn stood near the right arch, a small book in his gloved hands. Surprise showed on his soft, southern features as he took John in.

“That was quite fast. Did you run the entire way?” Ushman Serahn seemed amused by the thought.

John could hardly manage a word. The sensation of sickness that poured out over him from the two arches almost brought him to his knees. He bent over and drew in sharp breaths through his gritted teeth. The issusha’im’s cacophony of voices hissed and whispered desperately from the arch on the left.

They puts him in the fire
.

John caught one clear phrase from the hundreds of others.

“Catch your breath,” Ushman Serahn said. “I don’t think I’ve known anyone to run the whole way. Very blonde of you.” He flipped his long black braids back over his shoulder, opened his book, and began to read.

“Ravishan…” John panted.