to lay claim to the richness and luxury of this world while what was left of Basawar was torn to pieces.
Kahlil had been entrusted to watch over the Rifter: to find him in this world and protect him until it was decided if the Rifter would be needed or not. If he had been needed, then Kahlil would have brought the Rifter back and released him like an apocalypse over Sabir’s red army of Fai’daum. If the Rifter was not needed, then it fell to Kahlil to destroy him.
It had been simple, only the matter of the single word “Don’t” and the tiny key that opened the Rifter’s death. And he had missed it.
He stroked the dog’s head. When the order had come, he had been in the orchard, carrying her on his back. He had saved her, but at the cost of his whole world.
She deserved this life, the warm sunlight, the pungent scents and lush tastes. He didn’t.
Kahlil opened his eyes.
“I have to go,” he said. “I have to try to stop him.”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, little sister.” He stroked her head, ran his fingers over her soft, warm ears. She gazed at him and then slowly pulled herself up.
“Doors all closed,” she said. “No words yous can say to opens them again.”
“There’s still one way.” Kahlil drew his longest knife.
A small, involuntary whimper escaped the dog. The same kind of knife had been used to lay her open once. She took a step back from him.
“It’s not for you,” Kahlil assured her.
She sat back down but didn’t come closer to him.
He didn’t have his sword or the key, but the blood of a witch flowed in his veins and, offered in sacrifice, it might awaken the shattered gates one last time.
If he used his blood and the bond that linked him to John, then he might be able to follow him. But there was no certainty. He might bleed to death here on this hill or, worse, be torn apart and scattered across two worlds and countless ages. If he died, then it would be what he deserved for his failure. But he had to attempt his redemption.
Kahlil set the knife down on the stone and pulled off his coat. Stripping the bandage from his shoulder, he pulled the wound open again to start the blood running. His hand trembled as he picked up his knife again, but he forced himself to keep it steady. He sliced it quickly down his right arm, opening a wide furrow. A sharp pain rushed up in the blade’s wake. Hot rivulets of blood ran along his arm. He could hear the dog whimpering, but he didn’t look at her.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on finding John— feeling that gentle pull as constant and strong as his own heartbeat—and following him back to Basawar.
At first the images were faint. Black branches faded in and out, as if coming to him through fields of static. Steadily, as his pounding heart pumped more and more blood from his wounds, the image became clearer. He could feel a searing cold wash over him. White masses of snow flurried against a pale sky. He pushed the air out of his lungs and threw himself into the shattered gate.
Everything went silent. Agony sheared through his body. His mouth opened, releasing a mute scream. His vision seared to an intense white as if he were staring straight into the sun. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop it. He burned and writhed, as though he were being dragged apart in a hundred different directions.
•••
He hardly sensed his impact against solid ground. His mouth was full of snow and blood. It tasted like rusting iron. He lay on his back in a snowbank between rows of brick buildings.
He got to his feet and walked to the mouth of the narrow alley, his body moving almost of its own accord. Pain tore through him, but he didn’t make a sound. He clenched his jaws tight and drew in deep, cold breaths through his nose. His head pounded, and the ground seemed to lurch beneath his feet. He realized that he wasn’t sure what it was that he was looking for and, more worryingly, he couldn’t quite recall who
Kahlil had been entrusted to watch over the Rifter: to find him in this world and protect him until it was decided if the Rifter would be needed or not. If he had been needed, then Kahlil would have brought the Rifter back and released him like an apocalypse over Sabir’s red army of Fai’daum. If the Rifter was not needed, then it fell to Kahlil to destroy him.
It had been simple, only the matter of the single word “Don’t” and the tiny key that opened the Rifter’s death. And he had missed it.
He stroked the dog’s head. When the order had come, he had been in the orchard, carrying her on his back. He had saved her, but at the cost of his whole world.
She deserved this life, the warm sunlight, the pungent scents and lush tastes. He didn’t.
Kahlil opened his eyes.
“I have to go,” he said. “I have to try to stop him.”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, little sister.” He stroked her head, ran his fingers over her soft, warm ears. She gazed at him and then slowly pulled herself up.
“Doors all closed,” she said. “No words yous can say to opens them again.”
“There’s still one way.” Kahlil drew his longest knife.
A small, involuntary whimper escaped the dog. The same kind of knife had been used to lay her open once. She took a step back from him.
“It’s not for you,” Kahlil assured her.
She sat back down but didn’t come closer to him.
He didn’t have his sword or the key, but the blood of a witch flowed in his veins and, offered in sacrifice, it might awaken the shattered gates one last time.
If he used his blood and the bond that linked him to John, then he might be able to follow him. But there was no certainty. He might bleed to death here on this hill or, worse, be torn apart and scattered across two worlds and countless ages. If he died, then it would be what he deserved for his failure. But he had to attempt his redemption.
Kahlil set the knife down on the stone and pulled off his coat. Stripping the bandage from his shoulder, he pulled the wound open again to start the blood running. His hand trembled as he picked up his knife again, but he forced himself to keep it steady. He sliced it quickly down his right arm, opening a wide furrow. A sharp pain rushed up in the blade’s wake. Hot rivulets of blood ran along his arm. He could hear the dog whimpering, but he didn’t look at her.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on finding John— feeling that gentle pull as constant and strong as his own heartbeat—and following him back to Basawar.
At first the images were faint. Black branches faded in and out, as if coming to him through fields of static. Steadily, as his pounding heart pumped more and more blood from his wounds, the image became clearer. He could feel a searing cold wash over him. White masses of snow flurried against a pale sky. He pushed the air out of his lungs and threw himself into the shattered gate.
Everything went silent. Agony sheared through his body. His mouth opened, releasing a mute scream. His vision seared to an intense white as if he were staring straight into the sun. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop it. He burned and writhed, as though he were being dragged apart in a hundred different directions.
•••
He hardly sensed his impact against solid ground. His mouth was full of snow and blood. It tasted like rusting iron. He lay on his back in a snowbank between rows of brick buildings.
He got to his feet and walked to the mouth of the narrow alley, his body moving almost of its own accord. Pain tore through him, but he didn’t make a sound. He clenched his jaws tight and drew in deep, cold breaths through his nose. His head pounded, and the ground seemed to lurch beneath his feet. He realized that he wasn’t sure what it was that he was looking for and, more worryingly, he couldn’t quite recall who
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