4: Witches' Blood (13 page)

 
“Parfir was watching over me.” He glanced to the steaming stuffed rolls as Hann’yu started to reach for one of them.

 
“Perhaps we should have a blessing so we can eat.” Samsango bowed his head.

“Yes, of course.” Hann’yu drew his hand back from the rolls. John caught Ashan’ahma’s grin at the exchange. John had only seen Hann’yu say a blessing on the most formal of occasions, when Dayyid or Nuritam was present. Otherwise, he was known for being lax.

“Jahn,” Hann’yu said, “why don’t you speak for us?”

“You should wake Ravishan up first,” Ashan’ahma said.

“I am awake,” Ravishan answered. His eyes remained closed and his head was bowed to his chest. Under the table one of his hands rested against John’s thigh. Even through his cassock John could feel the heat of Ravishan’s skin.

“I’ll make it fast in case you nod off,” John said quietly.

Ravishan frowned slightly but didn’t open his eyes.

John bowed his head. “Holy Parfir, we thank you for your blessings and your bounty. From your sacred body you have fed us and given us shelter. You are with us always and we are forever thankful—”

“Well spoken,” Hann’yu cut in. “Let’s eat.” He snatched up one of the rolls.

Samsango seemed surprised by this new abbreviated blessing, but he said nothing. Ashan’ahma helped himself to a roll, and then John took one for himself and handed a second to Ravishan. Samsango took one of the rolls as well but just held it, obviously watching for the others’ reactions.

Hann’yu let out a groan of delight as he took his first bite. “This is delicious. These aren’t the rolls we normally have, are they?”

“No, they’re something I like to make for special occasions.”

“I haven’t tasted anything like this since I lived in Nurjima.” Hann’yu sighed. “You could have been a private cook to a gaunsho.”

“They’re really good,” Ashan’ahma added. He took another.

Bald, weathered and nearly toothless, Samsango still managed to take on the air of a star-struck girl as he beamed and blushed at Hann’yu’s and Ashan’ahma’s compliments.

John smiled and ate his roll. The bread was soft and simple while the hot cheese inside burst with a subtle sweetness of toasted spices.

Ashan’ahma helped himself to a third with a look of slight guilt. Hann’yu had his second. Ravishan gazed at the roll in front of him, his eyes only half open. John imagined that he was assessing whether the sustenance was worth the effort of eating it. After a moment Ravishan picked up the roll and ate.

“It’s good,” Ravishan said.

“I think that you’ve outdone us all in our gifts, Samsango.” Despite their difference in rank, Hann’yu’s manner was effortlessly gracious. He addressed Samsango not as a lowly ushvun but with the warmth and familiarity of a respected elder. Both Ashan’ahma and Ravishan followed his example.

Briefly, John wondered what Rathal’pesha would have been like if men like Hann’yu were in charge of it instead of Ushman Nuritam and Ushman Dayyid. He didn’t get far with the thought before Hann’yu pushed a bundle of cloth in front of him.

“Here, open it up and see what you think,” Hann’yu instructed him.

“Thank you.” John took the bundle. It was light and soft. He unwrapped the scrap of cloth and lifted out a pair of supple leather gloves. Fur lined the insides. John carefully pulled them on and flexed his hands. The leather stretched and gave without binding.

“You’re a hard man to fit,” Hann’yu remarked.

“I know.” John gazed at the tiny stitching that decorated the backs of the gloves. It was a simple pattern of two leaves curling out from a single vine.

“Thank you,” John said again. Hann’yu smiled.

Ashan’ahma handed a second bundle to John. “Just remember that we aren’t all able to appropriate funds from the treasury as easily as Ushman Hann’yu.”

 
Like Hann’yu’s gift, Ashan’ahma’s was wrapped in rough scrap cloth that would later be used as rag for making paper. John unwrapped it and found an ivory and silver pen inside. It had obviously been used. Most likely it was one of the few things that Ashan’ahma had been allowed to bring with him when he had been tithed to the Payshmura. The arching Basawar letters of John’s name had been freshly carved into its body.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” Ashan’ahma asked.

“No, not at all. It’s beautiful.” John held the pen. It looked incredibly white against the dark leather of his new gloves. “It was yours?”

“Yes.” Ashan’ahma nodded. “Before my ushiri talents were discovered, I fancied the life of a writer for myself. Everyone gave me pens, of course. So, now I’m passing one on to you.”

“Thank you,” John said.

Ashan’ahma smiled and then looked oddly embarrassed. He squinted at Ravishan’s still form. “He’s asleep, isn’t he?”

“No.” Ravishan’s voice was slightly rough but the response came quickly.

“So what have you got for Jahn?” Ashan’ahma asked.

“I’ve got some laundry.” Ravishan yawned.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Ashan’ahma said.

Ravishan frowned at him and then straightened. “All right, but it’s not much to look at.” He dug into the deep pockets of his coat and then brought out three small red apples. The flesh of each of them bore a number of sharp gashes, the kind of injuries that came from the Gray Space.

“Fresh apples,” Samsango gasped. Hann’yu and Ashan’ahma looked amazed as well. It was the dead of winter. The last fresh fruit or vegetables any of them had eaten had been bitter greens a month ago. It would be another three months before they had anything better than leathery pieces of dried berries.

John could smell the sweet tang of the apples rising from their sliced skins.

“How did you get them?” Samsango asked.

“I picked them this afternoon from an orchard in Umbhra’ibaye.” Ravishan smiled slightly.

“No wonder you were so torn up in the infirmary,” Ashan’ahma said. “Umbhra’ibaye is too far to go.”

“I’ll go farther when I’m Kahlil.” Ravishan shrugged. “Anyway, it was only a few scratches.”

John glanced questioningly to Hann’yu. Hann’yu only gave a small shake of his head. John glanced down at the apples again. Their red skins and pale white flesh were split and torn. One of them was sliced all the way to the core. It was no wonder Ravishan was so exhausted.

“Well?” Ravishan asked. “Are they too ugly to eat?”

“Not at all,” John replied. It embarrassed him to feel so touched while staring at three small apples.

“We should cut them up and share them,” John decided.

All five of them carried knives. But only Samsango’s short paring knife wasn’t infused with curses or carved from sacred bone. John stood and found clay cups for all of them. He poured out servings of the strong daru’sira.

The sweetness of the apples balanced the bitter edge of the daru’sira. John closed his eyes, savoring the taste. In Nayeshi this would have been nothing to him. He could have gotten all the varieties of apples he liked at a grocery store. The gloves and the pen, even the stuffed rolls were things that he would have taken for granted.

But here, he knew the kind of rarity and effort that they represented. Because life was harder here, because resources were more scarce and convenience virtually unknown, each offering meant much more. Hann’yu couldn’t just pick up a pair of gloves at a department store. Ashan’ahma wouldn’t ever be able to replace his pen with another. Samsango couldn’t just order a meal in. And Ravishan had bled to bring him these three sweet apples in the dead of winter.

If he had never lived here, he never would have been able to understand how precious each of these gifts was. For a brief moment John was so moved that he felt tears begin to wet the corners of his closed eyes. He quickly drew in a breath and stopped himself from going any further with these thoughts.

 
“So,” John said, “do you think that the sisters in Umbhra’ibaye would like to trade residences with us?”

Hann’yu laughed.

“Wouldn’t that be great?” Ashan’ahma asked.

Samsango nodded. “I suppose it’s warm there, even now in the Snow Month.”

“It’s like a nice day at harvest,” Ravishan said. “You can smell the ripe fruit and the leaves are just beginning to turn gold. I don’t think it ever snows there.”

“It doesn’t,” Hann’yu said. “I lived in Amura Milso when I was young. I never saw snow until I went north to Nurjima for my schooling.”

“In cold months like these I imagine you miss it.” Samsango refilled his cup of daru’sira.

“I miss Nurjima more,” Hann’yu said. “But there’s no point in brooding over it. And Rathal’pesha has its good qualities as well.”

“Does it?” Ravishan asked.

“Certainly it does.” Samsango smiled. “It is the most sacred honor to be so near the holy ushiri’im.”

 
John could see how that wouldn’t be much of a consolation to Ravishan or to Ashan’ahma, for that matter. But for Samsango it truly was a kind of blessing. The ushiri’im were living testaments to Parfir’s power. They were men who carried the god’s own bones.

“There is something very sacred about the presence of the ushiri’im,” Hann’yu agreed. “At times the very air feels different in the rooms where they have been housed for so many generations.”

“And there are all those fine lines left behind from where they’ve passed through the Gray Space,” John added. He poured more daru’sira into his cup.

Hann’yu regarded him questioningly. “Fine lines?”

“Well, not obvious lines but, you know, scratches. You can follow them...” John trailed off as he became aware that none of the other men at the table were showing any sign of recognition of what he was describing.

“You can follow where we’ve gone?” Ashan’ahma asked.

“Yes, but...” John tried to think of a way to retract what he had said. “It’s just what Hann’yu was describing, the texture of the air is different. It’s scratched. You can feel it like a scrape in the grain of wood.”

“You can, perhaps,” Hann’yu said. “But I certainly can’t.”

“I’ve never noticed it either,” Ashan’ahma said, “and I am an ushiri. You, Ravishan?”

Ravishan shook his head.

“I’m probably not describing it correctly,” John said.

“No, I think you’re describing it perfectly,” Hann’yu said. “I’ve never seen it but I’ve read about it. The Kahlil Vash’illoun wrote about a current running through all of Parfir’s creations. When an ushiri opens the Gray Space, he cuts into that current and either moves with it or against it. Most ushiri’im can’t sense it and so their movements are at odds with Parfir’s currents. The paths they leave were described as the marks a sharp blade leaves on ice.”

“Exactly,” John said.

“And you’ve seen this?” Samsango stared at John.

“Just once or twice,” John lied.

“That’s how you can always find Ravishan for me. You can see the path he’s left.” Hann’yu shook his head. “Dayyid really should have accepted you as an ushiri.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference if he had,” John said. “Ravishan is going to be the Kahlil.”

 
“But having you with the others might have allowed you to share your sense of the currents sooner,” Hann’yu said. “From what I’ve read it’s moving against those currents that causes injuries to the ushiri’im when they are within the Gray Space.”

“What do they look like?” Ashan’ahma asked.

Ravishan also looked intently at John, waiting for his answer.

“The currents or the paths?”

“The currents,” Ashan’ahma said.

“They don’t look like anything. They just feel right. I don’t know how to describe it except...You know when you’re swimming and you can feel the water flowing around you? It’s like that.”

“Just like that,” Ashan’ahma said ruefully.

“If you can feel these currents,” Ravishan said quietly, “you ought to be able to open the Gray Space.”

“I can’t,” John said. The idea of touching, much less creating, an opening to the Gray Space repulsed him utterly. He had no idea how Ravishan or any of the ushiri’im managed to overcome the feeling of revulsion that the Gray Space generated.

“But you can feel Parfir’s living current?” Ravishan asked. “Right now in this room, can you feel it?”

“Yes,” John admitted after a moment.

“So,” Ravishan held up his hand over the table, “if I were to open a space, you could tell me which way the current was running?”

John gazed at Ravishan’s hand. His long fingers were nicked and scraped. Faint red lines streaked across his palm where earlier cuts had only half healed.

“I think so,” John said.

“All right then.” Ravishan’s tone was almost challenging. This was an area that Ravishan was used to dominating. Perhaps a hint of combativeness couldn’t be helped. John didn’t bother to linger on it. Ravishan had a right to his pride.

 
John concentrated on the empty air surrounding all of them. He felt the weightless atmosphere that washed over him, caressed his skin and rolled into his lungs. Each breath he released sent tiny breezes rolling through the room. Invisible currents slipped out cracks in the walls to rejoin the cold night sky. Outside, it was snowing and the winds chased each other like children intent on a game of tag.