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.
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.
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