3: Black Blades (7 page)

Jath’ibaye’s calm speed stunned Kahlil.
 

Then the scream of rending Gray Space split the air. In an arc of flame and searing cold, Fikiri appeared. Kahlil almost rushed him, but then he realized that Fikiri’s hands were empty. The yasi’halaun was nowhere on him.

At the sight of Fikiri, Jath’ibaye’s countenance changed utterly. The cold, almost bored expression that he had worn even while Esh’illan attempted to strangle him transformed into raw fury.
 
Jath’ibaye kicked Esh’illan’s prone body aside and launched himself towards Fikiri.

Kahlil caught a flicker of a smile from Fikiri as he backed away, drawing Jath’ibaye farther into the clearing.

Then Kahlil saw Nanvess, crouching in the deep shadows of the evergreens and holding the yasi’halaun. His green clothes melted into the surrounding leaves; his black hair matched the shadows. He lunged for Jath’ibaye.

It was such a simple plan, Kahlil realized. Nanvess would feed the yasi’halaun on Jath’ibaye’s blood before Jath’ibaye even registered his presence.

Kahlil threw himself into the Gray Space, passing straight through Jath’ibaye’s body. He burst out directly over Nanvess. Instantly, he snapped his fingers apart and punched the razor edge of a Gray Space through Nanvess’ throat. Nanvess’ hot blood gushed over his hand and splashed up his arm. Nanvess crumpled to the ground.

Initially, Kahlil didn’t even feel the yasi’halaun’s smooth blade driven deep into his abdomen. Then sharp pain exploded through him. The blade pulsed inside him, tearing through muscle and drinking in his blood. He gripped the hilt with his bloody, slick hands and wrenched the yasi’halaun free.

Fikiri stood, staring at him in abject shock.

Jath’ibaye too stood motionless, blood dribbling from his neck where Esh’illan’s chains had cut through his skin. His blue eyes were wide, his expression haunted.

Kahlil felt sickeningly cold. His entire body shook. He fought to remain on his feet.

Only Esh’illan seemed able to move. Kahlil saw him draw his pistol. Fikiri caught the motion as well and a look of fear passed over his face.

“Don’t!” Fikiri shouted.

Jath’ibaye spun back just as Esh’illan fired directly into his chest. Jath’ibaye rocked slightly with the impact.

Then the entire earth seemed to shudder beneath them. The stone lamp split. From above them came a sudden, tiny white burst of light, like a streak of lightning, and then the entire sky darkened. Pale clouds writhed and blackened as if they were burning.

Jath’ibaye strode forward and gripped Esh’illan by the throat. With a vicious snap he twisted Esh’illan’s head back. Esh’illan convulsed and then fell lifelessly to the ground.

Kahlil could see guards running up the path. The gunshot must have brought them. Jath’ibaye didn’t seem to notice or care about them. His eyes blazed blue, inhumanly bright. He glanced over his shoulder to the empty space where Fikiri had stood, then he turned his attention to Kahlil.

Thunder crashed above them.

Jath’ibaye simply stood there, watching him as a dirty black rain began to slap down. Three guards came running with lanterns. Other people—curious guests and servants—trailed behind them.

Kahlil brought his hand up.

“Wait,” Jath’ibaye whispered.

Kahlil tore open the Gray Space and stumbled into its lifeless depth.

The dark cables and girders of the Blackbird Bridge blurred and wavered in front of Kahlil. Out of reflex, he reached for the railing to steady himself. His hand passed through. He staggered down to his knees.

In the colorless, silent realm of Gray Space, there was neither night nor day, and yet it seemed to be growing darker all around Kahlil. And colder.

He curled his hand over the wound in his belly. In the Gray Space, his blood shone glossy black. It spilled through his fingers and seeped across the entire front of his white jacket and pants. He could feel it soaking into his socks. If he had been outside the Gray Space, it would have been warm. It would have steamed against the night air.

Kahlil pushed himself back up to his feet. He couldn’t stop, not here. Not yet. He concentrated. The black mass of the bridge whipped back behind him. Narrow streets blurred past. He moved through walls and gates.

Ranks of rashan’im on tahldi patrolled all streets. Word of the attack at the Bell Dance had doubtless traveled fast. Both Esh’illan Anyyd and Nanvess Bousim murdered. Alidas would be furious. There would be no refuge for Kahlil anywhere in the Bousim district of the city.

No. He needed to go somewhere else. Dim, tangled shapes washed past him. Kahlil shuddered. He could hardly recognize the haze of darkness and light all around him. Boats, perhaps. A wave of numb cold pulsed through him.

He should get out of the city. Go somewhere better. Somewhere warm and light. Somewhere like the apple orchards that
grew around the convent of Umbhra’ibaye. They’d been beautiful. It would be so nice to go there and see them again. The trees would be blooming.

But he wasn’t going anywhere, he realized.

He wasn’t even going to be able to stay conscious much longer. Panicked energy burst through him. He had to leave the Gray Space before he was too weak to escape it at all.

He lifted his hand. He’d get out.

And what then?

Again his gaze fell to the black wound in his belly. It gleamed and dripped with a constant flow of black blood. Despite the muting numbness of the Gray Space, Kahlil felt the ache of it tearing through him. Outside the Gray Space it would be agony.

This wasn’t a wound that a man recovered from.

Only the Gray Space had allowed him to bear it this long. Now the best of his strength had gone. He could hardly see, hardly move. He was dying.

He squeezed his fingers around the hilt of the yasi’halaun. It had grown heavier, fed by his blood. It almost felt warm against his icy skin. At least he had it again. He had accomplished that much. Neither Fikiri nor his lady would use it to open the Great Gate.

He closed his eyes. There was no point in keeping them open. Only a dull dark haze came to him now.

If he left the Gray Space, it wouldn’t save his life. It would only mean that his last moments would be ones filled with the brilliant red of his own blood and shattering pain. He would leave a corpse for someone to stumble across. And the yasi’halaun would be lying there in his hand.

It was better to die here, hiding the yasi’halaun forever.

A tremor of fear still moved through Kahlil. He didn’t want to die, but the choice wasn’t his. The pain and cold melted into a consuming darkness that engulfed him, surrounding him in soothing emptiness.

A wrenching scream tore through Kahlil’s insentience—the sound of Gray Space being torn open. Then blinding, burning light exploded over him. He wanted to flinch back from it, but he couldn’t move. A weak rasping cry escaped him as the heat of living hands seared his frigid skin.

He tried to pull himself away. His body remained limp. He couldn’t even make his eyes focus. All he saw were faint blurs of color—dirty red, pale yellow—then they were burned away by the sharp, blinding white light that poured down over him.

Reflexively, Kahlil dragged in a desperate breath of the hot air. It tasted of sweat, blood, salt, and animals. It was too much. Kahlil didn’t want to take another breath, but his lungs demanded it. Agony flooded over him. It burst up from his abdomen and tore like lightning into his chest. Kahlil’s throat tightened around a reflex scream. It came out as a dry hiss.

“He’s still breathing.” The man’s voice was rough and low. Jath’ibaye’s voice.

“It’s too late.” The woman sounded older. She spoke with a careful softness. “I’m sorry, Jahn, but he—”

“No! He won’t die. I don’t care what sorcery you have to use, Ji. Save him!”

Why would Jath’ibaye want to save him? What did he want? Kahlil tried to clench his hand, to feel for the yasi’halaun. His fingers barely twitched.

“I can’t bear his wound. It was made by the yasi’halaun. It would burn me to ash before I could heal him,” the woman quietly insisted. “I’m sorry.”

“Then let me bear it.”

“When the blood transfers, the yasi’halaun will feed—”

“I don’t care,” Jath’ibaye cut her off. “Just bring him back to me.”

“Jahn, he’s not—”

“Do it!” Jath’ibaye flatly commanded.

A shadow moved over Kahlil, blotting out the blazing light. A hand touched his cheek lightly. It was still too hot, and yet Kahlil didn’t care. Even the terrible pain in his belly seemed somehow distant. Perhaps it was simply unimportant.

The shadow deepened, growing nearly black at the edges of his vision. Steadily, it curled in over him. A dull numbness crept in its wake. It came as a relief after so much burning and hurt.

Low words were muttered over him. Kahlil could not understand them anymore. They were just sounds, whispers and rumbles. It was so much easier to let them drift away.

“No,” Jath’ibaye growled, “I won’t let you go.”

Kahlil wished he could laugh.

He was already slipping away, even within the grasp of Jath’ibaye’s hands. It was like a magic trick, like stepping into yet another space, one that carried him out of his own body. It was a perfect escape.

If only he had figured this trick out sooner. It would have saved him so much pain. If only he hadn’t been so terrified of this dead darkness. But it was nothing. Not pain, not fear. Nothing.

This, absence and silence, seemed to stretch out forever and through all time. It devoured his future and past, engulfed his present, and absolved all with an endless, soothing darkness.

Darkness.

And a slight rocking. But still dark—a soothing, cool dark. Then a creak, almost like the noise of straining wood. Faintly, almost imperceptibly, a scent of river water drifted over him.

He hadn’t thought that death would be so much like being on a boat.

Kahlil cracked one eye open and saw polished wood and portholes. Instantly, he realized that he was aboard one
 
of those narrow river clippers. He could tell just from looking at the close angles of the walls and the swift blur of water outside his round windows.

He pulled his other eye open and surveyed the tiny cabin. Apart from the bed that he lay in, it contained a small built-in desk and a chair, which Jath’ibaye occupied. His long, broad body looked absurd slumped in the frail chair. His chin rested on his chest, his wild blonde hair fell over his face, and his breath rose and fell with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

Kahlil tried to sit up as quietly as he could. His muscles ached and resisted. His right hand bumped against something heavy on the bed next to him.

Sheathed, and resting on top of the blankets, lay the yasi’halaun. It had grown to nearly the length of his arm and its once black body now shone a lusterous gray. It had tasted the Rifter’s blood.

“You’re awake.” Jath’ibaye’s voice sounded rough.

Kahlil eyed him cautiously. The last time he’d been alone with Jath’ibaye the man had threatened to kill him.

“It’s all right. You’re safe.” Jath’ibaye winced slightly as he straightened in the chair, then offered him a tired smile. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, his mouth almost colorless.

Kahlil arched an eyebrow. “You said you were going to kill me the next time you saw me.”

“I never could have...” Jath’ibaye’s smile faded and his eyes sank to the floor. “The first time I saw you, you were in Fikiri’s territory, and then you came to me with that letter and the poison from Ourath. I thought it had to be some trick of Fikiri’s. I didn’t know how else you could have come back.”

Kahlil himself hadn’t been sure how he’d come back from Nayeshi; he’d needed to and he’d been willing to die trying. He supposed that had been enough.

Kahlil pulled himself up a little in the bed. The profusion of pillows on either side of him made the motion awkward. He expected to feel a sharp complaint from the wound in his abdomen, but there was nothing.

“I came back on my own power, but I didn’t do a good job of it. I was a mess for a while and the only work I could find was for the Bousim family.” It felt strange and relieving to be able to say this, to tell someone and know that he would understand. “They wanted to avoid the conflict that an attack against you would cause, so they sent me to take a job as a Lisam runner to try and stop your assassination.” Kahlil stared at Jath’ibaye, then scowled. “Did you just tell me that you knew Ourath sent you poison and you still accepted his invitation to the Bell Dance?”

Strangely, Jath’ibaye smiled at this. He nodded without looking up from the floor.

 
“Did you want to be killed?” Kahlil demanded. He suddenly had an insight into how Fensal must have felt about him eating the goatweed.

“I have, from time to time, but no.” Jath’ibaye stole a brief glance up at him. “Not now. I was just tired and it would have offered me an excuse to make a clean break from Ourath. It wasn’t as if he could have killed me.”