5: The Holy Road (17 page)

“No, only Ushman Hann’yu knows and he will tell no one.”

“If the prior notices that you’re missing—”

“It’s too late to worry about that now.” Samsango moved closer with the tray.

“But if he takes your braids…” John couldn’t imagine Samsango enduring a year of ostracizing and punishment. It would kill him.

“We don’t have much time, Jahn. Certainly not enough to waste it arguing over what’s already done.” Samsango unwrapped a loaf of bread. He tore off a piece and held it out to John. “I’m already here so you might as well come and eat with me.”

John sat down beside Samsango and took the bread. He ate a little, but he didn’t have much of an appetite. Samsango didn’t seem hungry either. He hardly ate more than a bite.

“You should get back to Rathal’pesha,” John said softly.

Samsango shook his head. The lamplight glistened across the tracks of tears slipping along the deep wrinkles below Samsango’s eyes.

“They’re going to burn you on the Holy Road, Jahn,” Samsango only whispered the words. “The rest of the ushvun’im think that you’re staying in Nurjima. But Ushman Hann’yu told me.”

“Did he tell you what I did?” John asked.

Samsango nodded. He wiped his eyes with the worn sleeve of his robe.

“There’s daru’sira.” Samsango picked up a clay bottle and handed it to John. “You should drink it before it gets bitter.”

John accepted the bottle and drank from it. It tasted different from the daru’sira he had grown used to. This was more earthy, faintly chocolate tasting. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until now. He took another deep drink and then passed the bottle back to Samsango. Samsango drank a little.

“Ushman Dayyid was never fair to you,” Samsango said quietly.

“It doesn’t matter now.” John accepted the clay bottle from Samsango. He was past worrying about Dayyid.

Dayyid was dead. That made him the least of John’s problems.

John leaned back against the wall and drank more of the tea. It left an almost numbing tingle on his tongue and throat. John closed his eyes. Now that he wasn’t trying to crack apart the walls or break his chains he could feel how deeply tired he was.

“This tastes good. What is it?” John held up the bottle. He had nearly finished it all.

“Tumah’itam,” Samsango replied softly. “Ushman Hann’yu gave it to me to bring to you. He did not want you to suffer.”

“He didn’t want me to suffer?” John’s eyes popped open. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tumah’itam brings the blessing of a painless death.” Samsango’s voice was quiet as if he, too, were on the verge of falling asleep. “Normally only the ushiri’im and ushman’im are allowed its respite. But Ushman Hann’yu did not want you to suffer. He brought it to me last night and told me everything.”

“It’s poison?” John asked.

“Yes, but painless,” Samsango replied.

“But you drank it as well.”

“The guards wouldn’t have allowed me in if I hadn’t tasted and drank a little of what I had brought. They’re young men and can’t imagine anyone freely drinking poison.” Samsango smiled almost slyly at John. “I’ve seen so many worse deaths, Jahn. Old men grow weak and sick, becoming burdens to everyone. I never wanted to be one of those.”

“You didn’t—”

“Jahn.” Samsango placed his hand on John’s arm. “I have already made my choice. And it is done. There’s nothing left for you to argue against.”

“But I don’t want this…” John glared at the clay bottle in his hands. “I’m not ready to die.”

“Ushman Dayyid did not want his death either. But all our actions have consequences. The quality of our souls lies in how we face those consequences.” Samsango bowed his bald head. “You do not deserve to suffer. You should not have to burn. But you murdered a man, Jahn, and you must pay for that.”

John’s throat felt almost too tight for him to speak. “How can you tell me about the consequences of murder, when you’ve just poisoned me?”

Samsango glanced up at him. He looked a little startled by John’s angry expression.

“I’ve already accepted the price for my actions. I did not come to you to harm you, Jahn. I came to save you from pain. It was never my wish to hurt you.”

“No,” John said. He wanted to be furious. But the strength simply wasn’t there. The tumah’itam, like fathi, seemed to soothe his emotions. John didn’t feel the radiant happiness that he had experienced with the fathi. He simply felt calm and strangely reasonable.

John gazed at Samsango. The old man had always been good to him, always cared for him. Samsango had no way of knowing that John had a chance at escape. Neither he nor Hann’yu would have ever guessed at what John could do. And it wasn’t just that they couldn’t have known that he was the Rifter. They didn’t know what kind of man he was.

If their positions had been reversed, John knew Samsango would never have considered the sacrifice of dozens of other prisoners for his own sake. And John doubted his own courage would be great enough to swallow poison just to ensure that his friend did not suffer.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” John said. “I’m not the kind of man who deserves a sacrifice like this. I’ve done things—”

“I know.” Samsango’s voice was hardly a whisper now. “We have all done things, Jahn. I have made terrible mistakes. When I was young…you would not believe me. But our mistakes are not all that we are. To me, you have been a great kindness. I have been my happiest when I was with you. I tasted apples from Umbhra’ibaye. I sat among the most divine ushiri’im and spoke with them. You have brought me so much more than I…”

John waited for him to finish his sentence, but the end never came. Still smiling, Samsango slumped to the floor. John dropped the clay jar and pulled Samsango up into his arms.

“Don’t,” John whispered. “Please don’t.”

Samsango’s skin was warm. He felt alive, but John couldn’t find a pulse. Samsango’s body began to grow cool in his arms. John’s own breathing felt labored. He felt suddenly weak. Then a terrible feeling of absolute relaxation washed through him. His arms and legs crumpled. He slumped, half across Samsango’s body, half on the dirt floor.

Briefly, his vision faded but then slowly it cleared. He gazed down at himself, his naked body sprawling over Samsango’s frail form. Shattered pieces of the clay bottle spread out from beside them. He was filthy and bruised. Samsango looked almost as small as a child beneath him.

John desperately willed himself to rise, even if just to push himself off Samsango. But his flesh did not respond.

The city bell rang in the new hour. The guards would return soon. John didn’t know what they would do when they discovered his and Samsango’s bodies.

Get up, he thought desperately at his inert body. A slight tremor moved through his right hand but nothing more.

From above, John watched as the cell door swung open. Two guards came in. They were the same guards who had shown Samsango in earlier. The taller of the two carried a torch. The light cast a sick yellow hue over the dirty walls of the cell. John’s bruised, pale skin looked jaundiced. Samsango’s flesh looked like it had been sculpted from butter.

“Damn it!” The shorter guard crouched down beside John’s and Samsango’s bodies. He shoved John’s body roughly off Samsango and felt for the old priest’s pulse.

“Dead as a stone,” the guard announced in disgust.

The taller guard cursed under his breath and quickly closed the cell door. “What about the other one?”

The shorter guard stepped over Samsango and hunched down next to John’s body. He groped and prodded at John’s throat. Despite the roughness of the man’s touch, John felt nothing.

“He’s warm. I think I can feel his heart, but it’s weak.”

“The bastard.” The taller guard strode to John’s body and kicked him hard. An involuntary groan escaped from his lips.

“He’s not dead yet,” the taller guard said with an angry smile.

“We’ll be whipped through the street if the commander finds out we let the old priest in.” The shorter guard glanced back to where Samsango lay. “What do we do?”

The taller guard kicked John again. This time John remained silent. The guard scowled.

“We can’t just leave him here,” the shorter guard said. The taller guard studied Samsango’s body. “Any marks on him?”

“None that I could see.” The shorter guard scowled at the clay shards on the floor. “I think they drank poison.”

“Cowards,” the taller guard said. “You take the old man. Throw him out into the street. It’s cold enough for him to have frozen. Dump him near Candle Alley.”

“What about the yellow bastard?” The shorter guard eyed John’s body.

“I’ll get him cracked and trussed for the Holy Road. The boys will just think he’s another fainter.” He prodded John’s limp arm with the toe of his filthy boot.

“Right then.” The shorter guard opened his heavy coat and unlaced a short tool from his belt. As he handed it to the taller guard, John realized it was some kind of hammer. There were blessings carved into the wooden handle.

“Good luck with those big bones of his.”

“I’ll do well enough.” The taller guard shrugged. “Make sure no one sees you with the old priest.”

“He’ll be out in no time. Parfir forgive me.” The shorter guard easily hefted Samsango’s frail corpse over his shoulder. He opened the cell door a crack and then slipped out into the hall. The taller guard gave John’s body an appraising look. He turned the hammer experimentally in his hands.

“Just speak up if I’m a little too rough.” The guard smirked at John’s sprawled body. Then he slammed the hammer down across John’s shin. The skin went instantly red. With a second blow the flesh began to swell. The skin tore and bled. A third brutal blow cracked John’s tibia. A shudder of pain moved through him and a gasp escaped his body.

“Still got a little life, don’t you?” The taller guard grabbed John’s left leg and jerked it straight. It took him four hard blows with the heavy hammer to break John’s left shin. After that he brought the hammer down across John’s hands, crushing his fingers.

When he was done, the guard was breathing heavily and sweating. He leaned back against the cell wall and wiped the blood from the head of the hammer on a corner of his stained coat. The cell door opened and the shorter guard came in. His nose and cheeks were pink from the cold. He carried a leather bag.

“All taken care of.” He grinned at the taller guard. “How’re things here?”

“Not bad. He’s a lot less trouble than the bitch before him.” The taller guard wiped the sweat from his face.

The shorter guard dropped the bag to the cell floor and opened it up. The strong smell of veru oil rolled off of the contents.

“Has the commander gotten in yet?” asked the taller guard.

“Just.” The shorter guard lifted yellowed rolls of oil-soaked cloth from the bag. “Let’s get him trussed, shall we?”

The taller guard took two of the rolls and began wrapping them around John’s chest. He folded John’s broken hands into fists and bound them to his torso with the oil-soaked cloth. Red pools of blood seeped up from John’s hands. Droplets of oil glistened across the surface, giving his blood the iridescent sheen of gasoline. The smell of veru oil was overwhelming. Tremors passed through John’s body but he couldn’t offer any other resistance. He simply watched as the two men bound him from head to foot in the long strips of cloth. Then they left him lying on the cell floor.

Soon the door opened again and a group of teenage boys came in. They wore heavy leather aprons, which were streaked black from veru oil. Cursing his size, they hauled John’s body out of the prison.

Outside, the air was frigid and still. Pale clouds filled the morning sky. Drifts of dirty snow lined the walls of the prison courtyard. But the middle of the grounds had melted into an icy wallow from the constant passage of wagons and tahldi.

The boys dragged John across the open grounds to a cart loaded with other bound men and women. They hurled John onto the pile. The people directly beneath John struggled as his dead weight crushed onto them. Next to him a woman was crying while another moaned and screamed. The sharp smell of urine mixed with the scents of blood and oil. There were sobs and muffled pleas from all around him.

Neither the boys nor the surrounding city guards seemed to take any note of the desperate whimpers and cries. They hitched a pair of tahldi to the cart. Two guards took the seat at the front of the cart. The boys piled into a second cart, talking quietly among themselves. Then they started out for the Holy Road.

As they traveled through the streets of Amura’taye, physical sensation crept back into John’s consciousness. At first he only felt slight throbs of pain as the movement of the cart jarred his broken limbs. Then it grew more intense. The smell and taste of veru oil began to burn in his throat. The muscles of his thighs convulsed and jerked as the belated rush of shock washed through them. As the pain built into agony, John sensed his composure eroding.

The tumah’itam was wearing off. He should have known it would. It took more than poison to kill the Rifter. He had read as much in the holy texts. Nothing but suffocation in the Gray Space could kill him. He didn’t even know if burning would destroy the Rifter. He was sure that it would awaken his fury first.