view out the tiny portal. Outside, dark blue-green waters swirled and twisted past.
Kahlil took it all in with a kind of stunned wonder. Even a day ago, he would never have imagined that he could have ended up here. Or with John, again.
“I should go above deck and tell Ji that you’re awake,” Jath’ibaye said suddenly. “She wasn’t sure if you would pull through.” He started for the door, but then turned back to Kahlil. “Do you think you can eat anything yet?”
“I can try.”
“I’ll find something easy to start with.”
“Thank you,” Kahlil responded automatically, but as he studied Jath’ibaye’s stark figure and pale face, he did feel genuine gratitude and wonder.
He had come back to Basawar to kill the Rifter and instead the Rifter had saved him. Now the idea of killing John seemed laughably pointless.
He had never wanted to do it in the first place. He had liked John—more than liked him, if he was truly honest. He thought that he might even like Jath’ibaye if he got to know the man.
“Wait,” Kahlil called just before Jath’ibaye stepped out the door.
“Yes?” Jath’ibaye asked.
“Thank you for saving my life.” The words couldn’t convey all of his relief or gratitude, but they were all he could offer at the moment.
“I wish I had.” Jath’ibaye gave him another smile. He looked so exhausted and worn that the expression almost seemed sad. “You should thank Ji. She’s the one who did the work.”
“Oh, I certainly will.” He wanted to say something else, something that would make up for reminding Jath’ibaye of the life he had lost. No comforting words came to him, so he settled for a question instead. He said, “Where are we going now?”
“Home.”
“Home?” Kahlil echoed the word as though he had just learned it. He had no idea where home was anymore.
“Vundomu,” Jath’ibaye clarified. He lingered, halfway out the door.
“I see.” Kahlil knew he could have asked another question and kept Jath’ibaye with him, but there was no point in it. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. If Jath’ibaye was pained by the memories that Kahlil brought back, then he would want to be alone. He had always guarded his privacy that way.
Kahlil let him go.
Arc Four: Amidst the Holy and Profane
Chapter Twenty-Seven
John pushed the hair back from his face and drew in a slow, deep breath.
After two years in Basawar, he had grown used to the thin air and the hungry quality of the soil and stones. It felt comfortable to him. The wet earth moved beneath him, curling around his heels and squeezing between his toes. Pools of yesterday’s rain had turned the sparring ground into a wallow. As he moved, the mud slithered and squelched beneath him, but he didn’t feel as if he was slipping. Instead, it seemed that the soil accommodated him, shifting and folding to support him.
The priest opposite him charged. John swung to the side. Mud squelched beneath both their feet. John caught the other man’s arm in a loose grip, and with the slightest nudge, threw him off balance. The priest flailed out, attempting to catch John and pull him down with him. John stepped back and the priest tumbled down into the mud.
From the sidelines, John heard Samsango’s laugh. The old priest sat with several other ancient priests, watching the battle practice and quietly making wagers. Their faded gray robes seemed to melt into the pale stone steps that surrounded the arena. The thin morning sunlight gleamed across his bald head. John guessed, from the collection of polished stones in Samsango’s lap, that he had won a fair number of wagers.
John gave him a jaunty wave before turning back to offer his opponent a hand up.
More than a hundred low-ranking ushvun, like John himself, were gathered on the steps of the arena. Normally, only the thirty men who shared the same dormitory practiced on the training grounds at the same time. Today, men from all of the dormitories encircled
Kahlil took it all in with a kind of stunned wonder. Even a day ago, he would never have imagined that he could have ended up here. Or with John, again.
“I should go above deck and tell Ji that you’re awake,” Jath’ibaye said suddenly. “She wasn’t sure if you would pull through.” He started for the door, but then turned back to Kahlil. “Do you think you can eat anything yet?”
“I can try.”
“I’ll find something easy to start with.”
“Thank you,” Kahlil responded automatically, but as he studied Jath’ibaye’s stark figure and pale face, he did feel genuine gratitude and wonder.
He had come back to Basawar to kill the Rifter and instead the Rifter had saved him. Now the idea of killing John seemed laughably pointless.
He had never wanted to do it in the first place. He had liked John—more than liked him, if he was truly honest. He thought that he might even like Jath’ibaye if he got to know the man.
“Wait,” Kahlil called just before Jath’ibaye stepped out the door.
“Yes?” Jath’ibaye asked.
“Thank you for saving my life.” The words couldn’t convey all of his relief or gratitude, but they were all he could offer at the moment.
“I wish I had.” Jath’ibaye gave him another smile. He looked so exhausted and worn that the expression almost seemed sad. “You should thank Ji. She’s the one who did the work.”
“Oh, I certainly will.” He wanted to say something else, something that would make up for reminding Jath’ibaye of the life he had lost. No comforting words came to him, so he settled for a question instead. He said, “Where are we going now?”
“Home.”
“Home?” Kahlil echoed the word as though he had just learned it. He had no idea where home was anymore.
“Vundomu,” Jath’ibaye clarified. He lingered, halfway out the door.
“I see.” Kahlil knew he could have asked another question and kept Jath’ibaye with him, but there was no point in it. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. If Jath’ibaye was pained by the memories that Kahlil brought back, then he would want to be alone. He had always guarded his privacy that way.
Kahlil let him go.
Arc Four: Amidst the Holy and Profane
Chapter Twenty-Seven
John pushed the hair back from his face and drew in a slow, deep breath.
After two years in Basawar, he had grown used to the thin air and the hungry quality of the soil and stones. It felt comfortable to him. The wet earth moved beneath him, curling around his heels and squeezing between his toes. Pools of yesterday’s rain had turned the sparring ground into a wallow. As he moved, the mud slithered and squelched beneath him, but he didn’t feel as if he was slipping. Instead, it seemed that the soil accommodated him, shifting and folding to support him.
The priest opposite him charged. John swung to the side. Mud squelched beneath both their feet. John caught the other man’s arm in a loose grip, and with the slightest nudge, threw him off balance. The priest flailed out, attempting to catch John and pull him down with him. John stepped back and the priest tumbled down into the mud.
From the sidelines, John heard Samsango’s laugh. The old priest sat with several other ancient priests, watching the battle practice and quietly making wagers. Their faded gray robes seemed to melt into the pale stone steps that surrounded the arena. The thin morning sunlight gleamed across his bald head. John guessed, from the collection of polished stones in Samsango’s lap, that he had won a fair number of wagers.
John gave him a jaunty wave before turning back to offer his opponent a hand up.
More than a hundred low-ranking ushvun, like John himself, were gathered on the steps of the arena. Normally, only the thirty men who shared the same dormitory practiced on the training grounds at the same time. Today, men from all of the dormitories encircled
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