6: Broken Fortress (6 page)

Ravishan had rejected the Payshmura. He had turned away from his initiation as Kahlil to save the man he loved. He had abdicated his entire upbringing, his training, his church. For a moment, Kahlil reveled in Ravishan’s memories. They were filled with assurance and belonging. He had been happy and he had been loved. Ravishan had won friends, comrades, a lover, a home. He had known that he belonged to this world.

 
Kahlil’s own history was one of solitude, deception, displacement, murder and failure.

But he was not Ravishan. They might have been one at some point in the past, but they were no longer one and the same. He had not possessed the same brilliant faith that emboldened Ravishan nor had he made the sacrifices that Ravishan had. He’d done nothing to earn the joy and assurance that suffused Ravishan’s memories.
 

The idea of claiming Ravishan’s identity felt like theft or something worse. A wave of repulsion rolled through him as he realized how jealous and envious he was of Ravishan. Of course Kahlil wanted Ravishan’s life. He wanted it so much that it came as a relief to know that Ravishan had not lived to claim his own history.

But he knew down to his very bones that he neither deserved to claim Ravishan’s identity nor could he live up to it if he tried. The only decent course of action for him to take was to leave. Let the people who had befriended and loved Ravishan keep their memories of him intact.

That would be the right thing to do.

Kahlil kicked at the pebbled white sand in frustration at his own selfishness. For all his reasoning and ranting at himself, he remained where he was. He simply couldn’t bring himself to abandon the promise of a home. He couldn’t stop yearning for even a shred of the belonging that Ravishan had claimed here.

Kahlil lifted his gaze and glared out at the distant roiling mists.

He wasn’t Ravishan—he never would be—but there was still something he could offer. Even if he’d never become more than a lurking assassin, that was still what Jath’ibaye needed if he wanted to be free of Fikiri.

That was something. Maybe not noble, but useful nonetheless.

 
The faint call of a voice interrupted Kahlil’s thoughts. He turned and scanned the rolling white dunes behind him. He couldn’t see far through the haze of fog and mist. But the voice came again, closer and louder.

“Kyle!” It was Jath’ibaye, searching for him. But not really for him. For Ravishan.
 

Jath’ibaye had, apparently, been able to find him without much trouble. It had to be their bond. Jath’ibaye had probably learned to use the connection to find Ravishan. It annoyed Kahlil to think that he would never be able to hide from Jath’ibaye outside of the Gray Space.

“Kyle!” Jath’ibaye called again, this time from even closer. Kahlil didn’t reply. As he watched, a tall gray shadow appeared through the fog. Jath’ibaye strode forward as if he could already see Kahlil.

Condensation from the mist made Jath’ibaye’s heavy leather coat look black. Droplets of water clung to his hair. There was an easiness in the way he held his rifle that unnerved Kahlil slightly. Jath’ibaye caught sight of him immediately but paused a moment before he said anything.

A dim memory flickered to life in Kahlil, a scene from his other life. Jath’ibaye had found him like this before, but that time he had been high in the cliffs above Rathal’pesha. Jath’ibaye had not carried a rifle then or even gone by the same name, but his expression had been the same. That time Jahn had wrapped his arms around Ravishan and promised to be his lover. This time he kept his distance.
 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jath’ibaye said. His eyes only focused briefly on Kahlil before roving out to where the land plummeted away.

“I just wanted some time to think. Somewhere that wasn’t so busy,” Kahlil said. “I told Ji. I assumed that she told you—”

“Not here,” Jath’ibaye cut him off. “You can go anywhere else that you like, but not here. It’s not safe this close to the chasm.”

“I wanted to see where I—where Ravishan died,” Kahlil said.

Jath’ibaye’s mouth compressed into a hard line. When he spoke, his words came out clipped and cold. “It didn’t happen here. It was farther north, in Rathal’pesha. There’s no way you could go there now. And there’s no point. It was all ruined.”

Kahlil nodded. The lands had been so utterly torn asunder that even the Gray Spaces were disrupted.

“Once in Nurjima, when I was following Fikiri, I crossed into a twisted, contorted area of the Gray Space. That’s where the ruins are. Rathal’pesha didn’t fall into the ocean, did it?” Kahlil asked.
 

“No, it didn’t. The ruins of Rathal’pesha, the Black Tower, and Umbhra’ibaye form an island out there.” Jath’ibaye pointed the barrel of his rifle out into the clouds of mist. “In the summer, when the fog thins, you can see it from the Greenhills watchtowers. The hungry bones come from there. Though, some sleep in these cliffs as well. We should get moving.”
 

Jath’ibaye turned and Kahlil stepped up beside him. If Jath’ibaye didn’t feel safe, then Kahlil was pretty certain he wasn’t safe either. There weren’t many things that could threaten the Rifter.
 

“So what are these hungry bones?” Kahlil asked as they walked. “Issusha’im?”

“Some used to be.” Jath’ibaye moved quickly. Kahlil had to work to keep up with him. The sand slid away under his feet.
 

“What many of them used to be, I don’t know. I think they might be attempts at making issusha’im. Or maybe just punshiments.” Jath’ibaye grimaced. “They feed on blood. Scavenge corpses for more bones. In the winter, when food is scarce, they sleep. But the weather is getting warmer and some of them have to have already been feeding on birds and weasels.”

“Can’t you destroy them?” Kahlil asked.
   

“She makes more.” Jath’ibaye glanced back over his shoulder. Kahlil was about to ask who, when Jath’ibaye held his hand up for silence. He froze, listening. Kahlil strained to hear what Jath’ibaye heard. There was only the sound of the distant waves, a soft rolling hiss.
 

Kahlil frowned. He shouldn’t have been hearing the ocean from directly below him while he stood on solid ground.

“They’re digging through the sand beneath us,” Jath’ibaye said. “Come on.”
 

Jath’ibaye swung his rifle across his back and broke into a run. Kahlil followed.

“You should go through the Gray Space,” Jath’ibaye yelled back over his shoulder.
 

Kahlil could have done as he was told. It would have been easy. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to leave Jath’ibaye. Kahlil continued to run. The sand was sliding from under him much more rapidly now, as if the ground was being pulled out from below him.
 

 
Jath’ibaye had no such trouble. Every step he took was sure. He moved quickly and Kahlil suspected that Jath’ibaye could move even faster if he needed to. As Kahlil fell a few more steps behind, Jath’ibaye turned.
 

“Go through the Gray Space!” Jath’ibaye bellowed at him.

“I don’t want to leave you alone!” Kahlil shouted back. His voice was almost drowned out by an explosive, dry roar. Sand and smooth white pebbles spewed up from the ground like a geyser. Kahlil covered his head as the spray of sand and stone pelted down around him. When he looked up he saw a long serpentine form rearing up from the sand. Thousands of bones, human and animal, hung together on iron hooks and red cables. Sharp ribs bristled out from the body; some curved down, like the legs of a centipede; others jutted out as gigantic talons. Between the ribs, Kahlil caught sight of hundreds of toothy jaws. Other broken bones shot up like spears all along the length of the creature’s immense spine. Some were already stained with the blood of recently killed animals. Hissing, whispering voices filled the air with a hum like a multitude of flies.

The sand under Kahlil swept downward toward a set of gaping jaws. Kahlil crouched to keep his balance, but slid with the sand towards the bloodied bones.

Immediately his hands went to the yasi’halaun. Its hilt was hot against his fingers, almost alive.

“Get out of here now!” Jath’ibaye shouted.
 

Kahlil heard the loud crack of a rifle shot. The jawbone ahead of Kahlil shattered as Jath’ibaye’s bullet blasted through it. Broken bits of bone and tooth showered across the sands. The creature swung its body back, rising up over both Kahlil and Jath’ibaye.

Kahlil swung the yasi’halaun up as the creature came hurtling down upon him. The blade split bone and cables. Splinters of rib cut Kahlil’s bare hands and slashed his cheek. As the first bones snapped and broke, others swung into their place, churning up like shark teeth.

The yasi’halaun burned in Kahlil’s hands as it drank in the twisted, desperate souls that were bound to the bones. Kahlil heard them shrieking. But the creature as a whole hardly seemed affected. It curled around Kahlil and flexed its hundreds of jaws toward him. He swung the yasi’halaun through two animal skulls and then felt a blunt thigh bone hammer into his shoulder.

Instantly the bone was jerked back. At his back, Jath’ibaye snapped the bone in half. With his bare hands he caught hold of one of the massive ribs and ripped it from the rest of its body. Blood poured down Jath’ibaye’s arms and there was a deep gash in his throat. He snarled in unrestrained fury as he punched into the creature’s vertebrae.

Kahlil could feel the ground beneath them shuddering as Jath’ibaye cracked bones and ripped through iron cables. The sky flashed with gathering lightning.
 

“Get out of my way,” Jath’ibaye growled to Kahlil, “so I can kill this thing!”

 
Still, Kahlil hesitated. He couldn’t abandon John like this. But then he realized that this wasn’t John or at least not the John he had known. This wasn’t the gentle man who Kahlil had spent years guarding. The man with him now had killed thousands in battles. He had brought down mountains. The only thing stopping him from crushing this creature and all the land surrounding it was Kahlil’s presence. It would kill Kahlil to be caught up in such force.

“That’s an order, damn it!” Jath’ibaye shouted.
 

Kahlil snapped open the Gray Space and stepped into its cool silence. Miles of land stretched out before him, instantly obtainable. But Kahlil didn’t go. He watched as Jath’ibaye rent bone from bone. The ground rolled up in waves, twisting and crushing ribs, skulls, hips and leg bones into grit and pebbles. Jath’ibaye threw himself into the coils of the creature with a reckless fury. Bones speared through his body and he wrenched them out. From above, lightning split through the bones, shattering them. In minutes, the creature was torn to pieces and ground to swathes of fine white sand and pebbles.
 

From the Gray Space, Jath’ibaye’s blood looked black as it poured down his face and body. Where it fell on the sands, it remained only a few moments before the shards of bone drank it in.
 

Kahlil remembered how dry the sand had felt in his hands despite the surrounding mist. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now he realized that all of these thousands of white pebbles were drinking in the moisture just like they drank up Jath’ibaye’s blood. They weren’t hungry so much as thirsty bones. Their broken remains blanketed the ground for miles.

Jath’ibaye swayed on his feet, then straightened himself upright. He kicked through the sand for a few moments and then located his discarded rifle. He held it in his hands, not like a weapon, but like some unwanted consolation. He turned, staring out at the rolling clouds in the north. Kahlil didn’t think that he had ever seen a man look so unguarded and desolate before in his life.

A moment later, Jath’ibaye’s attention whipped back to where Kahlil stood, hidden in the Gray Space. Jath’ibaye’s gaze narrowed and Kahlil knew he shouldn’t have spied on such a private moment. Jath’ibaye brought his right fist up and flicked his fingers through three Fai’daum hand signs.
 

Vundomu. Go. Now.
 

What feeling was missing from the motions alone was incredibly clear from Jath’ibaye’s displeased expression. It had been less than a week since he had sworn obedience to Jath’ibaye and already he had wandered off on his own, disregarded an order, and lingered where he was not wanted.

This time Kahlil obeyed at once. He reached Vundomu even before the black clouds and flashes of lightning had cleared from the northern sky.

Chapter Fifty-Six

The sun had set nearly an hour ago. From his window, Kahlil watched the gas lamps being lit all along the main road far below him. Inside his room, the lamps burned pale green mashaye oil and perfumed the air faintly with the scent of almonds.

Kahlil sat on the wide window ledge, holding the tome that Jath’ibaye had given him to translate. He closed it and set it down beside his stacks of papers, ink bottle and pen case. It amazed him that a windowsill could accommodate so much. It was nearly the size of an entire desk. But then, everything about his room was big. The doors were high and heavy. The bed loomed up like an iron cathedral. The shower seemed like it would accommodate a half barrack of rashan’im.