3: Black Blades (10 page)

He knew better than to try to open the door. It would be locked. All of the doors on the upper three floors were always kept locked. There was just one door that he would be allowed through, the door to the golden chamber.

As John continued down the wide gray stone hall, gentle spring breezes drifted in through the windows that ran along the opposite wall. The deep quiet of these upper floors always reminded him of the ruins of an aging, abandoned palace in some forgotten empire.

With its locked towers and inner sanctums that slowly spiraled down and out into nothing but latticed, roofless halls, and moss-covered stone paths, the monastery seemed as if it were ever so slowly eroding back into the earth.

Only the scent of incense hinted at the presence of the men who inhabited this level.

John followed the hall as it opened into a raised walkway that arched out to another building. At the end of the walkway stood a heavy black iron door that looked like it had been made to withstand gun blasts and battering rams.

Two silver Payshmura eyes stared down at John from above the doorway. Beneath them, beaten into the door itself, a tight gold script arched over a gold sun and a silver moon. The letters were unusually clipped and square. John didn’t think he had seen that style of Basawar script before. Then, as he reached out to the heavy knob, he realized that the gold letters weren’t Basawar at all. They were English. A little disfigured, but clearly English.

Through this door to a thousand more.

John read it and frowned. A thousand doors. He remembered the words from a Basawar prayer. Samsango had taught it to him while they had been hiking down the Thousand Steps to Amura’taye to pick up supplies. At the time John had hardly been paying attention. His thoughts had been more focused on his plans to visit Laurie and Bill in the Bousim house. Now he frowned, attempting to recall the words.

Parfir sleeps behind a golden door

His blessing opens a thousand more

His blood and bone, my sea and stone—

 
John’s thoughts were broken by a sudden shriek.

At first he thought it was human scream, but it didn’t sound right for that. It sounded more metallic and inanimate, like sheet metal rending apart. Then, a faint but familiar smell drifted over him.

It was the same smell his old computer used to produce when it began to overheat: burning ozone. But that couldn’t be possible, not here. It had to be something else.

A moment later, the scent was lost in the breeze rolling across the walkways. John supposed he would find out what the smell was soon enough. Or he might find himself in such pain that he wouldn’t care. Either way, he had wasted too much time already.

He pulled the heavy latch and swung the door open. A stronger wave of the ozone smell wafted over him. As John stepped from the outdoor glow back into a darker interior, he found himself momentarily blinded. The door fell shut behind him while he waited for his eyes to adjust. When they did, John realized that he stood in a dark hallway only a few feet from two black-coated ushiri’im.

Payshmura emblems of silver suns glinted on their high, straight collars. Both men were older than John. Their faces showed that strange, worn texture that John had noticed in many ushiri’im. They weren’t tanned, wrinkled or chaffed like
 
the ushvun. These men’s skins were pale and too fine, almost as if their features had been eroded to an unnatural smoothness. Eight black honor braids cascaded down their backs. They were each only one braid short of being first rank ushman’im.

John immediately bowed before them. “Ushman Dayyid sent for me.”

“So he said,” one of the ushiri’im replied. “It certainly took you long enough to get here.”

“I’m sorry.” John bowed again. “I was instructed to bathe.”

“You’ll be dirty again soon enough.” The other ushiri smiled, but not kindly. “Come along. You’ve already kept the ushman waiting longer than he likes.”

The first ushiri gestured for John to precede him down the hall.

The oil lamps gave a yellow glow to the inlaid writing on the doors they passed. John lowered his eyes. More and more of the words were in English. He had never realized just how difficult it was not to read words written in his native language. Just glancing at a few letters sent the words ringing through his mind instantly.

Holy...Forbidden...Sacred...Eternal...Divine.

He read the words with the same reflexive quickness that his lungs drew in breath. Only keeping his eyes squarely lowered to the floor allowed him to maintain the appearance of ignorant awe that any other ushvun would have possessed. Maybe later, under better circumstances, he would dare to read the doors, but for now, he couldn’t afford to act out of his place.

The ushiri ahead of John stopped in front of a door. John pulled to a halt behind him. Despite himself, John stole a glance to the letters on the door.

Golden Chamber, Burn and Shine.

The ushiri lifted his finger to his lips and John heard the hiss of a Gray Space tearing open. A chill seeped through the air.

The ushiri’s mouth moved, his lips pressing words against his raised fingers. John couldn’t hear anything, not even a faint whisper of breath. It was like watching television with the mute on. The ushiri’s voice slipped into the Gray Space to be heard by someone else.

Then Dayyid’s low voice split the air above them.
“Bring him to me, and we will see.”

Again, John thought he smelled searing ozone, but this time he was more disturbed to note a tiny flash of flame shudder through the air. It died in an instant, and John might have thought he hadn’t seen it at all, if that burning scent hadn’t lingered after it.

The door opened and the ushiri led John through.

The golden chamber was neither gold nor a chamber. It was a long, white training hall. The polished stone floor was covered with heavy, stuffed mats. Intense light poured in from windows cut in the upper third of the high walls. Lower on the walls there were iron racks holding spears, swords, axes, and other weapons John didn’t even know the names for. There was even a locked cage of rifles and pistols.

Directly ahead of John on a raised dais rose a huge iron statue of Parfir. John didn’t think he had ever seen the god’s face carved into such a proud expression. The only hint of his usual smile was a cruel upturn at the corners of his mouth. Two rows of ten ushiri’im, dressed only in their gray pants, stood with their backs to John. They had the builds of young men in their late teens and twenties. None of them wore more than seven braids. Most only had six.

Only Dayyid, standing at Parfir’s feet, faced him.

The room was weirdly cold and the smell of ozone caught in John’s throat.

“And, at last, here he is.” Dayyid gestured to John.

At once the gathered ushiri’im turned to face John. They moved with a tight militaristic precision that unnerved him. He almost stepped back from them, but he forced himself to hold his ground. He didn’t want their first impression of him to be that of a cowering giant.

He straightened slightly and returned the uniformly cold stare the group gave him. For an instant, his eyes caught on Ravishan’s face. His hair had grown out some, but not enough yet to braid. It hung around his face in silky strands. He’d grown since John had last seen him. The boyish softness had gone from his cheeks, and now even a hint of dark stubble shadowed his jaw.

 
Ravishan’s dark eyes widened at the sight of him and John looked quickly past. As far as anyone here could know, this was the first time they had met. It was safer for him to meet Fikiri’s surprised eyes.

Fikiri too had grown, but not so markedly. There was certainly a lot more meat on him now, but his proportions remained those of a boy, his feet and hands a size too large for his body. His dark blonde hair was pulled back into five braids, and his right arm was swathed in white bandages. John gave Fikiri a brief smile and the young boy returned it, only for an instant, before schooling his expression back into the hard stare of an ushiri.

As Ushman Dayyid stepped down from the dais, the ushiri parted before him, then immediately closed ranks again. Dayyid stopped just out of John’s reach. He turned slightly to address the ushiri behind him while keeping his eyes on John.

“This is Ushvun Jahn. He will be serving as our welter-body for today.”

John couldn’t help but steal a glance at Ravishan. He had no idea what a welter-body was, but the way that Ravishan’s face went slightly pale assured John that it couldn’t be good. Samsango had said that the ushiri would be training against him with blades. John’s eyes drifted across the racks of spears, swords, and knives. They didn’t just look painful. They looked deadly.

“We will begin with a demonstration.” Dayyid held his right hand up. It was empty. A momentary relief filled John, but he didn’t trust it. Samsango had been too upset for John to even hope that he would get out of the golden chamber without suffering.

“The Unseen Edge.” Dayyid snapped his fingers apart and John heard the hiss of Gray Space tearing. “This is only the edge of the space. It is not open and does not lead to any destination, but it may still have a use.”

Dayyid stepped closer. John frowned at him, unsure of what he should be doing. Then Dayyid swung his hand out towards John’s shoulder.

Frigid, tearing pain slashed through John’s flesh. He jerked back. A weird nausea pulsed through his whole body. He clamped his hand over his wounded shoulder to staunch the hot blood spilling down his sleeve. But the injury didn’t alarm John as much as the sense of utter revulsion—a physical sickness—that came from touching the edge of the Gray Space.

Dayyid’s dark eyes twinkled. He smiled at John as if he were just on the verge of laughter. To the ushiri’im, he said, “A long, thin cut is produced. It often hurts more than it harms.”

 
Dayyid held up his right hand again. This time he flicked his first two fingers up and folded the rest down against his palm. Again, John heard the hiss and felt the chill of Gray Space shredding open.

Dayyid said, “The Silence Knife.”

Animal panic shot through John. He suddenly wanted to run for the door. But he forced himself to stand his ground as Dayyid turned on him.

Dayyid jabbed his right hand at John’s chest. Automatically, John blocked with his left arm and drove his right fist at Dayyid’s throat. Sick agony tore through his left forearm, as if Dayyid had driven a stiletto of ice through the muscle. John jerked back out of Dayyid’s reach. Blood poured from a deep puncture just above his elbow.

This time Dayyid wasn’t smiling. His left hand was lightly pressed to his throat, where John’s knuckles had grazed his flesh.

If he hadn’t jerked away from the pain, John realized, he could have brought Dayyid down. The thought sent a warm rush through John’s body.

If only he had held his ground.

Then what? Would he really have killed Dayyid? He couldn’t do something like that. He wouldn’t. It was just the rage of so much pain boiling up in him. John forced himself to lower his gaze.

To get through this day he would have to let his anger go.

John kept his eyes down. Dark rivulets of blood slipped down his trembling fingers and spattered across the white mat.

Dayyid began again, “The God’s Razor—”

“Don’t!”

John, and every other man in the room, instantly looked to Fikiri. Dayyid scowled at him.

“He’s a good man.” Fikiri’s voice trembled and he dropped his gaze submissively to his own feet. “You shouldn’t be hurting him.”

To John’s surprise, Dayyid’s voice was soft, almost kind. “Fikiri, I am not punishing Ushvun Jahn. This is an honor for him. And I am not hurting him much. Certainly not more than he can endure.” Dayyid glanced back at John. “Just a scratch and a pinch. Demonstrations always look far worse than they are. Isn’t that right, Ushvun?”

John forced himself to smile. The last thing he wanted was to cause Fikiri trouble. He just had to get through this, he reminded himself. Just take what Dayyid dished out. It would be over soon enough.

He said, “I’m fine.”

Dayyid continued, “It requires determination and great will to perfect your blade work, but it will be necessary if any one of you is to become Kahlil. I know this, and Ushvun Jahn knows this. For the sake of your education, Ushvun Jahn has offered himself to assist you all to learn. Now, it does him and you no good to refrain from practicing the forms of the sacred blades because you might spill a few drops of his blood. That is why he is here and why you are here. Do you understand, Fikiri?”

Fikiri nodded glumly.
              

“Very good.” Dayyid smiled. It was a professional expression, one that conveyed pleasure in mastery more than any warmth. “Now, let us return to our lesson. The God’s Razor is an extension of the Unseen Edge. It is formed when two or more ushiri’im or ushman’im create a field of unseen edges. I will need an assistant for this.” Dayyid glanced over the gathered ushiri’im. For an instant, Dayyid paused on Ravishan.

If Ravishan felt any hesitation at the thought of slicing through John’s flesh, it didn’t show. He kept his expression as cold as the rest of the ushiri’im. He met Dayyid’s eyes defiantly.