“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.”
“You let him poison you because you thought it would be easier than breaking up with him? Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?” Kahlil spoke before he could consider either the intimate nature of the subject or the presumption of his words. Jath’ibaye didn’t appear to take any offense at either.
“Saying it out loud just now, I did notice that,” Jath’ibaye admitted.
“Maybe you should talk things out a little more often.” Kahlil felt oddly at ease with Jath’ibaye at this moment, almost as comfortable as he had felt when they’d shared a house. He could remember that now—their time together in Nayeshi.
He’d been so happy then. He remembered the strong smell of coffee and the absurd simplicity of their domestic troubles—a leaky faucet, no toilet paper, the odd smell the oven gave off when it was preheating. Kahlil recalled the sweet tang of an apple and sitting together in the dark, waiting for the electricity to come back on.
John, or Jath’ibaye as he now called himself now, hardly seemed to have changed at all. And yet, Kahlil knew that decades had passed since the Fai’daum leader he was looking at and the graduate student he remembered had been the same person.
“Do you remember our phone number?” Kahlil asked. “It started out 647…didn’t it? I can’t remember.”
“Phone?” Jath’ibaye finally met Kahlil’s eyes. “We never had a phone...”
“Sure we did. In Nayeshi we had a landline because you didn’t like cell phones.” Kahlil scanned Jath’ibaye’s face for a sign of recollection.
He didn’t know why he had expected Jath’ibaye to remember everything from those days. His own memory was hazy—to say the least—and it had only been two years for him. Jath’ibaye had fought wars and destroyed an entire kingdom since then. The seven arbitrary digits of a phone number probably had no meaning at all to him now.
He felt stupid for even bringing it up. There were so many other more important matters that they should have been discussing: the holy key, the yasi’halaun. But Kahlil had just woken up and he wanted to ponder something unimportant, something small and amusing, as was his habit.
Jath’ibaye’s expression was a study in blankness, as if he were holding himself back from any reaction at all.
“You followed me from Nayeshi,” Jath’ibaye said slowly.
Kahlil couldn’t understand why the thought should have such a strong effect upon Jath’ibaye. Maybe it was just the distant memory of Nayeshi. How long had it been since anyone or anything had reminded Jath’ibaye of the life—the whole world he had lost?
“It was hard, but I managed it. Forget about the phone number. It’s not important,” Kahlil said. Then he didn’t know what else to say.
Jath’ibaye pulled himself to his feet. His skin still looked unnaturally pale. Dark bruises ringed his throat and Kahlil could see the uneven, bulky mass of bandages beneath his clothes.
“So, you’re still calling yourself Kyle?” Jath’ibaye asked, though he said the name strangely, as if the Nayeshi pronunciation caught in his throat.
“It’s easy to remember.” Kahlil shrugged, an awkward movement, as his recently-healed muscles were still slow to respond.
Jath’ibaye gazed at him so intently that Kahlil felt an embarrassing flush begin to rise across his cheeks. Then Jath’ibaye looked away to the
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.”
“You let him poison you because you thought it would be easier than breaking up with him? Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?” Kahlil spoke before he could consider either the intimate nature of the subject or the presumption of his words. Jath’ibaye didn’t appear to take any offense at either.
“Saying it out loud just now, I did notice that,” Jath’ibaye admitted.
“Maybe you should talk things out a little more often.” Kahlil felt oddly at ease with Jath’ibaye at this moment, almost as comfortable as he had felt when they’d shared a house. He could remember that now—their time together in Nayeshi.
He’d been so happy then. He remembered the strong smell of coffee and the absurd simplicity of their domestic troubles—a leaky faucet, no toilet paper, the odd smell the oven gave off when it was preheating. Kahlil recalled the sweet tang of an apple and sitting together in the dark, waiting for the electricity to come back on.
John, or Jath’ibaye as he now called himself now, hardly seemed to have changed at all. And yet, Kahlil knew that decades had passed since the Fai’daum leader he was looking at and the graduate student he remembered had been the same person.
“Do you remember our phone number?” Kahlil asked. “It started out 647…didn’t it? I can’t remember.”
“Phone?” Jath’ibaye finally met Kahlil’s eyes. “We never had a phone...”
“Sure we did. In Nayeshi we had a landline because you didn’t like cell phones.” Kahlil scanned Jath’ibaye’s face for a sign of recollection.
He didn’t know why he had expected Jath’ibaye to remember everything from those days. His own memory was hazy—to say the least—and it had only been two years for him. Jath’ibaye had fought wars and destroyed an entire kingdom since then. The seven arbitrary digits of a phone number probably had no meaning at all to him now.
He felt stupid for even bringing it up. There were so many other more important matters that they should have been discussing: the holy key, the yasi’halaun. But Kahlil had just woken up and he wanted to ponder something unimportant, something small and amusing, as was his habit.
Jath’ibaye’s expression was a study in blankness, as if he were holding himself back from any reaction at all.
“You followed me from Nayeshi,” Jath’ibaye said slowly.
Kahlil couldn’t understand why the thought should have such a strong effect upon Jath’ibaye. Maybe it was just the distant memory of Nayeshi. How long had it been since anyone or anything had reminded Jath’ibaye of the life—the whole world he had lost?
“It was hard, but I managed it. Forget about the phone number. It’s not important,” Kahlil said. Then he didn’t know what else to say.
Jath’ibaye pulled himself to his feet. His skin still looked unnaturally pale. Dark bruises ringed his throat and Kahlil could see the uneven, bulky mass of bandages beneath his clothes.
“So, you’re still calling yourself Kyle?” Jath’ibaye asked, though he said the name strangely, as if the Nayeshi pronunciation caught in his throat.
“It’s easy to remember.” Kahlil shrugged, an awkward movement, as his recently-healed muscles were still slow to respond.
Jath’ibaye gazed at him so intently that Kahlil felt an embarrassing flush begin to rise across his cheeks. Then Jath’ibaye looked away to the
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