4: Witches' Blood (2 page)

“Before the war with the Eastern Kingdom, there were no witches. Women with witches’ powers were considered Parfir’s holy brides, equal to the Kahlil in the depth of the god’s blessings upon them. Look back through the books for yourself. You won’t find a mention of a witch until after the first siege at Ganaa.” Hann’yu glanced up at him. “Am I scandalizing you?”

“No.” John lifted his hands from the water experimentally. His fingers felt slightly stiff but the burning was gone. “Were you hoping to?”

“A little,” Hann’yu replied. He tossed John a cloth to dry his hands.

John smiled tiredly, sad to see Hann’yu disappointed, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t be surprised by heretical disclosures when he lacked the instinctive knowledge of what was normal and what was profane here in Basawar.

“You just don’t believe me, do you?” Hann’yu asked.

“I believe you,” John assured him, and he did. “Even holy doctrine is bound to be altered by wars. A church can’t remove itself from the society in which it exists.” John dried his hands. His skin felt tender against the rough cloth.

Hann’yu studied him. “You’re a strange man, Jahn.”

“How so?”
                                    

“You seem so unconcerned sometimes, as if even the most startling revelation means nothing to you. It makes a man want to surprise you.”

“You could just jump out from a dark room,” John suggested. It was something of a shame that the provocative, social impact of Hann’yu’s conversations were so wasted on him.

“Jumping out of closets might be just a little beneath my station,” Hann’yu replied. “I may just have to stop trying to shock you. Parfir only knows what I might end up saying.”

John shrugged. “So long as you don’t confess to a burning passion for me, we’ll be fine.”

 
Hann’yu’s dark eyes went wide with shock. His face drained of all color. John instantly recognized the expression of horror, but the words were already out of his mouth. He had unintentionally struck upon a subject far more profane to Basawar society than either immolating women or skinning them alive. Backtracking would only get him in worse trouble, so he pushed on. “You’re not in love with me, are you?”

“No.” Hann’yu coughed. “My god, what a thing to say.”

“I haven’t scandalized you, have I?” John asked in a deadpan voice. He gazed levelly at Hann’yu with a slight, sardonic smile.

Hann’yu stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. It was loud, relieved laughter.

“I see your point, Jahn. It is a little cruel of me to just say things to you in hopes of getting a startled reaction.” Hann’yu shook his head and then lowered his voice. “But you truly must take care, as far as such desires are concerned. Before you came here there was an…incident…” Hann’yu looked a little sick and John felt afraid to ask what the outcome had been.

“A young man was put to death,” Hann’yu said at last. “Now Dayyid will not tolerate the mention of such abominations, not even in jest.”

“Not to fear. Dayyid and I don’t share many jokes.” John forced a smile.

Hann’yu nodded but his expression was bleak. He stepped back to the table and picked up the sealed jar of goatweed roots. He studied it for a moment, and then placed it back among the smoked glass jars and dark bottles on one of the tall shelves behind him.

John watched him and wondered what would be done with the poisonous, knotted roots. As if sensing his curiosity, Hann’yu said, “The goatweed will be distilled into a poison, potent enough to lay even a god low. Though for now it is nothing but an ugly irritant.”

He sighed heavily and turned back to John. “You know, I don’t just say things to you to see if I can disgust you—”

“You didn’t disgust me,” John assured him. “It’s just that sometimes I don’t know why you tell me these things. I know it isn’t just to shock me. There are obviously simpler ways.”

“Yes, obviously,” Hann’yu agreed. He offered John a half-smile. “It’s not easy to be alone, not even when it’s just in knowledge. A man wants someone else he can talk to. In Nurjima, there were dozens of us who would gather at teahouses and discuss these things. The conversations could go on for hours, and sometimes people got angry. We’d argue and rant, but I always came away from the discussions feeling alive with thoughts. But here, no one wants to know more than they have to. No one wants to ask questions. You’d think knowledge was a poison.” Hann’yu glanced briefly to the dark jar of goatweed, then returned his attention to John. “You don’t seem like the other men here. You’re not afraid to learn new things. You pursue knowledge. I suppose it makes me nostalgic, talking to you like this.”

John nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you?” Hann’yu smiled at the idea. “There was a large intellectual circle in Shun’sira?”

“No, but I understand isolation—” The rest of John’s words were cut off by a loud pounding on the infirmary door. John strode across the room quickly and pulled the door open. Fikiri and another ushiri stumbled in. Their arms, chests, and faces were crisscrossed with long, narrow gashes.

John led them both to beds and had them sit down. He had now seen enough of the ushiri’im’s injuries to be unsurprised by the profusion of blood. These kinds of long, narrow slices weren’t usually lethal. They bled a great deal and were obviously very painful. But it was the deep, organ-piercing punctures and bone-shattering impacts that killed most ushiri’im.

Those internal injuries could be easy to miss at first glance. Often, the shocked ushiri’im weren’t even aware of the extent of the damage to their bodies.

Hann’yu walked quickly to them. “All right, let’s get a look at the two of you.”

While Hann’yu undressed the other ushiri, John swiftly and efficiently removed Fikiri’s clothes. The heavy wool of Fikiri’s coat was still cold from the Gray Space. Jagged rents marred the coat’s front and back. The leather vest Fikiri wore beneath his coat had fared better. Only one cut punched all the way through it. A single, tiny scratch marked Fikiri’s thin chest and that had already stopped bleeding. His legs, too, were unharmed. His worst injuries seemed to be a deep cut along his right arm and a gash across his chin.

From the next bed, John heard a quiet hiss escape from Hann’yu. John glanced up to see Hann’yu tossing aside the other ushiri’s blood-soaked underpants. The ushiri’s face was white and he shook violently. His hands were folded over his groin.

“It looks worse than it is,” Hann’yu assured the ushiri. “A few stitches will patch everything up good as new.” Hann’yu glanced to John. “How’s Fikiri?”

“Two superficial cuts. He’ll need stitches in his arm and maybe his chin. Otherwise just bandages.” John studied Fikiri for a moment. There was a dark bump on the side of his temple. “Did you hit your head?”

“In combat practice two days ago,” Fikiri said. “Ravishan did it.”

John nodded. Nothing life threatening, then.

Hann’yu moved swiftly, gathering his needles and stitching thread. “Get Fikiri’s cuts cleaned up and bandaged. I’ll start sewing up Thuum.”

“Will you need my help with him?” If the wound was very bad Hann’yu would want John to bear it for Thuum. John didn’t relish the thought, but if absorbing some of the ushiri’s injuries would save Thuum’s life, then John would do it.

“No.” Hann’yu gave him a quick smile. “This will just require stitches. It would be most helpful if you could prepare Fikiri.”

John nodded, relieved. As Hann’yu pulled the canvas panels shut around the bed where Thuum lay, John turned back to Fikiri.

“Is he going to live?” Fikiri asked.

“He’ll be fine.” John didn’t know if that was completely true, but it was what Fikiri and Thuum both needed to hear right now.

John filled the washbasin with water and brought bandages and towels over to Fikiri’s bedside. He sat down on the stool next to the bed and kicked Fikiri’s discarded clothes out of his way. Bright red splotches of blood spattered the sheets all around Fikiri. The boy looked scared. He held his right arm close to his body and pressed his left hand over his slashed chin.

John tore a strip off one of the towels, folded it into a pad and held it out to Fikiri. “Hold this against your chin.”

Fikiri obediently did as John told him.

Gently, John cleaned and bandaged Fikiri’s injured arm and then the deep gash in his chin. Then, John turned his attention to the smaller scratches that slashed across the skin of his arms, neck, and face. Fikiri looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a gang of angry cats. After John was done with him, he resembled a poorly wrapped mummy. Tufts of his blonde hair had come loose from his tight braids and now hung like wisps of smoke around his pale face. John found the blood-stained sheets beneath his skinny body and the heap of torn, bloody clothes at the foot of the bed too depressing to look at. A fifteen-year-old boy shouldn’t have to endure this kind of life.

“Come on, let’s get you into a clean bed.” John easily lifted Fikiri’s thin body and carried him to the next bed. Fikiri lay back into the pillows and pulled the blankets over himself. John thought the boy might just go to sleep, but instead Fikiri looked up at him with a strange, yearning expression.

“Do you want me to get you something for the pain?” John asked.

Fikiri nodded and John brought a cup of yellowpetal water. Fikiri took the small clay cup with his left hand and sipped the liquid. After taking several more drinks, he set the cup aside on a small medical tray that stood beside the bed.

“When we were on the Thousand Steps…” Fikiri’s voice was just a whisper. John stepped closer to the bedside and knelt down to hear him.

“What about it?” John asked.

“We could have turned around,” Fikiri murmured. “You could have let me turn around and we could have gone back to Nurjima.”

John didn’t say anything in response. He didn’t even move.

Fikiri continued to fix him with that intense look. “Why didn’t you let me turn around?” His voice wasn’t angry, but soft and confused.

John stood and retrieved the empty cup. He didn’t want to look at Fikiri. Seeing the boy’s pain and knowing that he was complicit in it made him sick with himself.

“I’ll get you another drink,” John said.

“My mother promised to take you and your family with us,” Fikiri persisted in a whisper. “Didn’t you believe her?”

“I had to bring you, Fikiri—” John cut himself short, knowing he couldn’t explain himself to Fikiri. He turned, found more yellowpetal water, and refilled the cup. Without looking at Fikiri, he set it down on the bedside tray.

“I have duties in the common sickroom.” John forced the words out with a mechanical flatness. “You should rest. Hann’yu will be with you soon.”

“Why can’t you tell me?” Fikiri persisted in a whisper. “Even Behr and Loshai don’t know why you did it.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. Then he turned and walked away.

#

The common sickroom was located outside the infirmary down a flight of wide stairs. It was a larger, open chamber with more beds lined in close rows. The shelves that lined the back wall were not packed with medicines but with bedding, canvas panels, and bedpans. Hann’yu rarely sent John down to the common sickroom to work. He seemed to think that it was in some way beneath John.

John surveyed the few men who occupied the beds. Most were older and sleeping. Two gray-haired ushvun’im stood near the large windows that opened to the gardens. They held buckets and scrub brushes, but seemed lost in conversation. Neither of them took note of John, which suited him.

There were several baskets of clean sheets and beds that needed to be remade. John needed to do something. So he started with that.

 
He didn’t want to think about what he had done to Fikiri. At the time, he hadn’t really known what would be expected of the boy. But even if he had, John knew he would have forced Fikiri up those steps anyway. He would have done it because Rathal’pesha was the key to his return home.

He could offer himself the excuse that Laurie and Bill were both depending on him. He could tell himself that it was only a matter of numbers—the needs of three to that of one. He could say that Fikiri wouldn’t have been alive at all if it hadn’t been for him. John had simply made the best of the options he had been given. He had done what needed to be done. He wanted to take some consolation in the truth of all that, and yet none of it made him feel good or just. It made him feel sick with himself and with the world that surrounded him.

Sometimes his life seemed like nothing but a series of ugly choices. Putting his dog down or having it live on in crippling pain, lying to his family about his life or losing them for the sake of honesty. There never seemed to be a painless option, only degrees of what he could live with and what he could not bear.

John made the beds quickly, with focused intensity. Crisp, tight corners came to him easily, as did high polish on boots and miles of silent marching. His father would have been proud of that, at least. These were beds the old man could have flipped a quarter on.

John stopped, staring at the basket of sheets. He didn’t know why he was suddenly thinking of his father. That was pointless. Even if John did ever get back home, his father wouldn’t spare him a word.