Authors: Ginn Hale
“Ushman Nuritam has to know that Ravishan would never kill Dayyid,” John insisted. But Hann’yu’s desolate expression assured him that he was wrong.
“Ravishan does not come from a background that inspires much trust in Ushman Nuritam,” Hann’yu said. “He ordered me to speak to Dayyid’s wounds, to summon his spirit and find what I could.”
“And?” John felt his hands clenching Hann’yu’s kerchief as if he were holding onto it for his life. Knives of lightning split black clouds and thunder crashed so loudly that John had to strain to hear Hann’yu’s response.
“From the wounds I realized that the blade used against him was one of our own, a curse knife. That lent a ring of truth to Fikiri’s accusations. Nuritam wanted to summon Ravishan back from Nurjima immediately, but I argued that he should give me more time to find Dayyid’s spirit. He agreed to a week. We asked the Usho to delay the rituals.”
“We had wondered about that,” John said numbly.
“I tried with all my strength to draw Dayyid’s spirit back to the remains of his flesh.” Hann’yu closed his eyes for a moment. “The curse blade that killed him must have consumed him utterly. I can’t even imagine how much anger and power the man wielding it must have had. I couldn’t rekindle a shred of Dayyid’s soul from the darkness that had devoured it. It nearly killed me just trying.”
“So there’s no evidence against Ravishan?” John asked.
“There is Fikiri’s word, the blade that was used, and where Dayyid’s body was found. It was a place called Candle Alley. Dayyid had caught Ravishan there once already—a year before you arrived, I think.”
That would have been why Ravishan’s hair had been shorn when they first met. It was how Dayyid had known exactly where to look for Ravishan when he had gone missing at the Harvest Fair.
“If it weren’t for Fikiri’s accusation, it would seem suspicious but it wouldn’t be enough. But as is…” Hann’yu trailed off.
“You can’t be serious,” John said. “You can’t think Ravishan killed Dayyid.”
“I…I don’t know. My soul tells me that he didn’t. Ravishan has always had willfulness about him but not the kind of pure malice that I felt in Dayyid’s wounds. I have never in my life touched something so malevolent. It felt nothing like Ravishan.” Hann’yu sighed heavily. “But I’m not the one that has to be convinced.”
“So how do we convince Ushman Nuritam?”
“I don’t know. I summoned you because you were with Ravishan most of the day of the murder. I thought that you might be able to account for Ravishan’s whereabouts.”
“He was with me until just before the Fai’daum attacked. I sent him to find you then,” John said.
Hann’yu frowned. “He didn’t find me until after the attack. He was in a bad state when he did. Drunk and very shaken. That won’t convince Nuritam.”
“If we can’t convince him, then what happens to Ravishan?” John asked.
“Instead of the consecration wine he will be given poison to drink. It will be over quickly, at least.” Hann’yu bowed his head.
“At the Black Tower?” John asked. “Right now?”
“Tonight,” Hann’yu said. “He’s too powerful to handle in any other way.”
Outside the window John heard the wind screaming and he knew it was his fault. This was all his fault.
“He didn’t kill Dayyid,” John said slowly. “I…take me to Nuritam. I’ll tell him.”
“Tell him what?” Hann’yu asked.
John didn’t want to confess to Hann’yu. He didn’t want Hann’yu to know that the darkness, the malevolence, and hatred that had horrified him had been John’s doing.
“I know Ravishan did not murder Dayyid,” John said firmly.
“You were there?” Hann’yu asked.
“Yes,” John replied.
“And you can swear that it wasn’t Ravishan? Even after drinking fathi?” Hann’yu peered at him intensely.
John remembered the golden liqueur that Hann’yu had served to Dayyid and how even a small sip of the stuff had seemed to draw unwilling admissions from Dayyid’s lips. A sick, trapped feeling crawled through him.
“Yes, I can,” John answered.
Hann’yu regarded him for one long, silent moment. Outside, lightning flickered through the clouds and sheets of snow began to tumble down on the walls of Rathal’pesha.
John imagined it wouldn’t let up for some time.
“You have to help my sister,” he said at last.
“I’ll do everything I can for her,” Hann’yu replied in a whisper. He looked devastated.
“You’d better take me to Ushman Nuritam.”
Hann’yu didn’t move. Instead he studied John with a searching gaze as if trying to see the murderous hatred that he’d felt in Dayyid’s fatal wound.
“Dayyid’s body was found with his blade drawn,” Hann’yu said at last.
“Yes,” John replied.
“He didn’t give you any choice, did he?”
“No,” John replied. He knew that Hann’yu needed to know that. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to even look John in the face.
Hann’yu leaned close, whispering, “Are you sure that you want to go before Nuritam?”
“I have to,” John said. “Ravishan shouldn’t suffer for something I did.”
Hann’yu looked away and wiped something from his face. When he turned back to John, he forced a wan smile.
“Let’s walk together then,” Hann’yu offered.
They went in silence. John stared down at the stones beneath his feet. He couldn’t stand to think any farther than that. He could hear thunder crashing far above in the heights of the clouds as the sudden storm worsened.
“I wish…” Hann’yu began and then he trailed off. There was nothing either of them could say.
They reached the chamber where Ushman Nuritam held audiences. John came to a halt at the foot of the raised stone dais, where the old man sat. He knelt in the same place he’d knelt before when Dayyid had tested him by laying two black-bladed knives down in front of him. John had chosen the knife he had later used to kill Dayyid. He wondered if it would have been any different if he had chosen the other blade.
A white arc of lightning illuminated the chamber, making the shadows of the columns jerk and twist as if they were shattering. The stones beneath John felt like blocks of ice.
Hann’yu approached Ushman Nuritam. The two of them spoke in soft whispers. Unlike Hann’yu, Nuritam looked exactly the same as John remembered: long white braids, skin so aged that it verged on translucence. Behind Ushman Nuritam the huge statue of Parfir arched up. His raised hands extended to the ceiling. John extended his awareness out to feel the weight and strength of the stones beneath Parfir’s fingers. If he tried, John wondered, could he tear it all down?
If he did, what good would it do? John dropped his gaze. Ravishan would still be killed. And Laurie…John couldn’t even think about that right now. He had to take consolation in what Hann’yu had said. Until her baby was born, she was safe.
Nuritam’s dark eyes shifted from Hann’yu to John. His colorless mouth curved down into a deep frown.
“Do you know what you are claiming to have done, Ushvun?” Ushman Nuritam asked.
“I do.”
“You will swear to it with fathi in your blood?”
“I will,” John said.
Nuritam nodded to Hann’yu. John watched as Hann’yu walked back behind Ushman Nuritam to the small altar at Parfir’s feet. He poured a golden, honey-like fluid from a dark glass bottle into a small white cup. Then, moving almost furtively, he selected a second bottle. He poured a clear liquid from it into his own flask and then slipped that into the pocket of his coat. John frowned but said nothing. He supposed Hann’yu had the right to sneak some holy narcotic after all he had been through.
Hann’yu turned back and carried the white cup of fathi back to Ushman Nuritam. To John’s surprise, Nuritam took a sip from the cup. He closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded to Hann’yu. When Ushman Nuritam opened his eyes, his expression softened slightly. John remembered seeing Ushman Nuritam looking distant and unconcerned often. He guessed the fathi must be the source of the ushman’s tranquility.
Hann’yu brought the cup of fathi down to John.
“You must drink it all,” Hann’yu whispered to him.
“Is it going to make me sick?”
“No.” Hann’yu placed the cup in John’s hand. “It’s quite pleasant, actually. You will feel relaxed and perfectly at ease. Don’t fight it and you’ll be fine.”
John took the fathi like a shot. Apart from a slight sweetness, it had little flavor. Some of the thick fluid still clung to the sides of the cup. John guessed he’d only drunk about half the contents. Hann’yu took it back anyway.
John waited to feel some change. There was nothing. He gazed out the delicate mica panes of the windows. The storm outside churned and twisted. Then, from the north, a little beam of sun shot through the clouds. The shaft of light fell across John. Its warmth felt relieving after so much cold.
Suddenly John wondered if the fathi might not affect him. He was the Rifter, after all. He glanced to Hann’yu. He ought to have told him that.
“Hann’yu, I should tell you—” John just barely caught himself. What was he saying?
“Yes?” Hann’yu asked.
“I gave the book you bought me away,” John substituted quickly. “Alidas loved the poems so much that I let him keep it.”
“Don’t worry about that now, Jahn,” Hann’yu spoke gently to him, as if he were talking to a child. “You just need to answer Ushman Nuritam’s questions.”
“I really don’t want to. I think I might get into trouble,” John admitted.
“I know,” Hann’yu replied. “But don’t worry. Whatever you say will be the truth. There can be nothing wrong with telling the truth.”
Hann’yu’s words were so soothing, so reassuring. John smiled. Sunlight poured in through the windows. John turned his face into the light. Dark storm clouds hung back at the edges of the clearing sky, black and sorrowful. A shudder passed through him.
Suddenly he remembered that Bill was dead and Laurie was imprisoned. Ravishan was going to be killed. Those black clouds were the remains of that knowledge. They lingered, reminding him that this warmth and happiness was only an effect of the fathi. John forced himself to keep smiling.
He grinned up at Ushman Nuritam while fighting to keep his thoughts clear.
“You say you were there when Dayyid was killed?” Ushman Nuritam asked the question gently. He smiled slightly at John and John felt as if it were an expression of genuine affection. Like a child, John found himself flushed with pleasure at the thought.
“Yes, I was there.” John hardly recognized the chirpy tone of his own words.
“Who killed Dayyid?” Ushman Nuritam asked.
“I did.” John beamed.
Hann’yu flinched, as if deeply pained, and John felt an ache of sympathy for all that Hann’yu had endured these past weeks.
“I’m sorry that it makes you sad,” John said to Hann’yu. “I didn’t want that.”
“I know, Jahn.” Hann’yu offered him another of his strained smiles.
“Why were you both in Candle Alley?” Ushman Nuritam reasserted himself.
“We were both looking for Ravishan.” John had to choose his words carefully so as not to give too much away.
“And why did you kill Dayyid?”
“I thought he was going to kill Ravishan.” John knew that if he left the response at that, then Ushman Nuritam would ask why he thought Dayyid would kill Ravishan. That could lead to a confession John did not want to make, so John continued on, “It was inevitable that one of us would kill the other. What it was over didn’t really matter. He hated me and I hated him. If it hadn’t happened at the Harvest Fair, it would have happened in the golden chamber.”
“So you murdered him?” Ushman Nuritam asked.
“Yes.” John was astonished at how easy it was to say. Why had he been so worried about it? John sighed. The sun felt so good, pouring in through the golden panes of the windows. Life should always feel like this.
“Ushvun Jahn?” Ushman Nuritam asked.
“Yes?” John yawned.
“Can you answer a few more questions?”
“Of course.” A sloppy, wide grin spread across his face in response to Ushman Nuritam’s fatherly regard of him.
“Why do you think Fikiri would accuse Ravishan of the crime?”
“Because he wants to take Ravishan’s place as Kahlil and escape from Basawar.” John shrugged. He had thought that would be obvious.
“Of course.” Ushman Nuritam appeared very pleased with the answer. He leaned forward, observing John intently. “And do you know whether your sister practiced witchcraft?”
John snorted at the idea of his sister practicing witchcraft. His sister wouldn’t let her daughter watch Sesame Street because it was full of the devil’s work.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Ushman Nuritam asked.
“It’s a stupid question,” John replied. “My sister would never practice witchcraft. Never.”
“I see.” Ushman Nuritam nodded.
“Lady Bousim is the one you ought to be asking about.”
A few feet away, John saw Hann’yu go pale. Then the horror of his own words struck John. What had he just done? How could he have said that?