9: The Iron Temple (6 page)

John relaxed somewhat. It was relieving to know that he hadn’t hurt Saimura the way the women had been hurt in Yah’hali Prison. Saimura reached out and flicked several pieces of yellow straw off John’s coat.

“I was a little scared of you after Gisa,” Saimura said, “but I was also jealous. I didn’t want to admit it, but half the reason I felt so betrayed was because I realized how much more powerful you are than me. I’ve studied witchcraft all of my life, but I could never do the things you do. Never.”

“You wouldn’t want to.” John couldn’t keep from thinking of Ashan’ahma’s horrified expression as John had held him.

“Are you joking?” Saimura looked up at John. “I would give my right eye to be able to shake off bullet wounds and break a storm. You tore open iron doors with your bare hands. You killed an ushiri. I can’t even imagine the kind of power you must wield.”

John frowned. Despite the yellowpetal, his chest ached.

“It’s too much power to ever let me heal another man’s wounds,” John said. “I can’t create charms or make someone sleep.”

“You’ll learn those things,” Saimura said.

“No,” John replied. “It’s not a matter of learning the words or learning control. The power in me is too much. It will never be any good for anything but destruction.”

“You really believe that?” Saimura asked.

John didn’t just believe as much. He knew it and he thought Saimura could read as much in his expression.

“Have you ever tried to heal a wound?” Saimura asked.

“Yes, I have, and you wouldn’t want to have seen the result. Even when I’m trying to heal, I’ll kill. Ji told me as much,” John said. He glanced to the black leather bag next to Saimura’s leg. He wondered how many lives Saimura had saved with his talismans, surgical needles, and medicinal poultices. Both Lafi’shir and Tai’yu had remarked on owing Saimura their lives. John guessed that many others did as well.

“Trust me,” John said. “As immense as it seems, you wouldn’t want the power I have. It’s no good for anything but war.”

“Perhaps,” Saimura replied, “but we are fighting a war right now. So let me be a little jealous, Jah—Jath’ibaye.” Saimura flushed at his slip and John laughed.

“I have a hard time remembering the name myself sometimes,” John said.

“I’m so tired I’m lucky I can remember my own name right now,” Saimura said. He leaned back against a grain barrel and closed his eyes.

They were both quiet for a few moments. John watched a weasel climb along the rafters overhead. Another smaller weasel scurried after it. From the floor below John heard the scraping noise of a tahldi marking a wooden support with its horns.

“Jath’ibaye meant a great deal to Lafi’shir.” Saimura gazed up into the rafters. His expression seemed wistful. “I think he’s really proud that you’re carrying his uncle’s name.”

“It sounds so much more formal than Jahn,” John said.

“It suits you,” Saimura replied.

John glanced to him and saw that Saimura had closed his eyes again.

“Will you forgive me for what I said to you at Gisa?” Saimura asked.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m sorry if I harmed you,” John replied.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

John found that deeply relieving to know.

“We’re still friends?” Saimura asked.

“Absolutely,” John replied.

Saimura smiled but didn’t open his eyes. John watched one of the weasels from the rafters slink down the far wall and gather a clump of straw. It eyed John warily as it stuffed the straw into its belly pouch and then scurried back up into the rafters.

“Can I give you some advice?” Saimura asked.

“Sure,” John said.

“Stop opening that wound in your chest.” Saimura’s smile disappeared and he opened one eye. “A man who stabs you isn’t your friend. Stop punishing yourself for his death.”

John felt a guilty flush spread across his cheeks.

“Lafi’shir is counting on you to fight, you know,” Saimura said. “You can’t just be tearing yourself up. He needs you to be strong.”

“I know,” John said.

“Good.” Saimura relaxed back against the grain barrel. “There will be more than enough people tearing you up in combat anyway.”

“I suppose there will be.”

In a way, he was counting on it. The strongest surges of power came to him in the wake of those deep, terrible wounds. At the prison he had hardly felt the pain of blades and pikes as they’d impaled him. So much power had surged up from the injuries that they had almost become a joy. In the midst of crushed bodies and drenched in blood, he had felt wild and alive with strength and fury.

The exhilaration, the pleasure of it, worried John a little. He glanced to Saimura. Saimura folded one arm under his head. John thought he might be falling asleep.

“Jath’ibaye,” Saimura murmured, “people are already talking about you the way they used to talk about Sabir. You’ve given them a real taste of victory, you know. I’ve never seen any of the Fai’daum as elated as they were after you killed that ushiri. Not one of us has ever managed to do that. I thought Sheb’yu was going to cry from the joy of it.” Saimura opened his eyes and gazed at John. “You have more power than anyone I’ve ever known. People are going to be looking to you now. They’re depending on you.”

“I know,” John said.

Since he had joined the Fai’daum, this feeling of responsibility had been growing stronger. He possessed strength that none of them had and he could endure what would kill them. He had a responsibility to fight for them, to discover just how much power he could draw from those deep, ugly wounds. It was what Ravishan had told him. He had to make Basawar a better world—not just for himself, but for all of them.

“I’m not going to fail them,” John said firmly.

“That’s not exactly my point.” Saimura shook his head. “I just thought that you should know that people are starting to look to you for inspiration. You should take better care of yourself.”

“If I was the kind of man who took better care of himself, I wouldn’t have volunteered to get arrested in the first place,” John replied. “I wouldn’t have taken that ushiri on in a fight.”

Saimura gave John an annoyed sigh.

“You know, before this, I was a little cold towards your lover. But now, I think the poor boy might deserve my sympathy,” Saimura said, smiling.

“Ravishan?” John asked. He found it difficult to think of Ravishan as a poor boy.

“It’s hell to care for a man with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Very funny,” John replied. “I have a sense of self-preservation. I’m just more resilient than—”

“Save it for someone who hasn’t picked bullets out of your back or sewn your throat closed.” Saimura lazily signed, Liar, at John. “You’ve got no sense at all. That’s what makes you so damn brave. It’s what makes you inspire people.”

John was embarrassed into silence by the compliment, even if Saimura had delivered it as an insult.

 Saimura reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the bone talisman he’d given John months ago. He turned it between his fingers. Tiny lines of script gleamed as Saimura touched them. He tossed the stone to John.

 “Saimura, I can’t—” John caught the stone out of reflex.

“It’s not for you,” Saimura said. “If you can’t heal any of the men at least you can give them my talisman. You may still be able to save their lives this way.”

“Thank you.” John carefully tucked the talisman into his own pocket.

“You’re welcome,” Saimura replied.

Saimura closed his eyes and John let a comfortable quiet stretch between them. The sweet scent of straw floated up to John along with the deep, earthy musk of the tahldi. The ache of his wound receded. John closed his eyes. He smiled to himself, imagining Ravishan’s expression at being referred to as a ‘poor boy.’

He missed him so much…

From below he heard Fenn calling for Saimura. Saimura didn’t sit up. He shouted that he was up in the hayloft. Fenn came charging up the ladder. Snow still clung to his coat and boots. He had some kind of bird in his arms. John saw a white wing flutter against Fenn’s dark coat.

“Jath’ibaye.” Fenn stopped at the sight of him. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, much better. Thanks.” Earlier, Fenn had offered to teach John to fish from the ice-covered river. Fenn had proffered the invitation with a look of such hungry enthusiasm that John had immediately declined, using the wound in his chest as an excuse.

Fenn glanced between the two big bales of hay where John and Saimura reclined. John knew his own clothes looked messy and quickly thrown together. Saimura’s coat hung open. He lay back in a languid, sleepy manner. Pieces of yellow straw were tangled in his auburn hair. More straw clung to John’s clothes.

John caught Fenn’s brief frown and wondered what conclusion Fenn had drawn from the sight of the two of them.

 The bird in his hands almost shook one wing free. Fenn gripped it harder.

“A message?” Saimura straightened and held out his hands for the bird. Fenn passed it to him.

The moment Saimura’s hands closed around the bird’s body it went entirely still. John frowned at its strange, limp form. It didn’t appear to have a head or legs. Its long white wings sprawled out from a tiny cage of carved bones. A dark red stone hung between the bones like a heart.  

Saimura whispered a word over the delicate bones and they spread open. He caught the stone in one hand and held it in silence.

John and Fenn waited quietly, but as the time began to stretch on, John started to feel strange just gaping at Saimura while he worked at something that obviously required his full concentration.

“How was the fishing?” John asked Fenn quietly.

“Decent for winter,” Fenn replied in a whisper. “Two big sweetclaw. Sheb’yu gave them to her cook. I guess we’ll have them for dinner.”

“It’ll be a nice change from all the mutton,” John said.

Fenn nodded, but his eyes were fixed on John’s shirt. John glanced down and realized he’d missed a button. An expanse of white bandage and a faint streak of blood showed through. John buttoned his shirt closed.

“I don’t think we’ll be staying for dinner,” Saimura announced.

John and Fenn both started at his sudden return to their conversation. Saimura appeared amused. He stood and picked up his leather bag. “Ji says we’re needed back in Gisa.”

“What’s happened?” John asked.

“I’m not entirely sure, but there’s been trouble at the prison there.”

“A prison again?” John asked.

“Yes,” Saimura said. “A group of old men and women blocked the gates. They’ve all been arrested and now their sons and daughters are throwing stones at the city guards. No one has been killed yet, but Bousim rashan’im have been sent for.”

“Do you think this is related to the girls being taken by the Payshmura?” John asked.

“Maybe. We’ll know more when we get back to the Hearthstone.” Saimura started down the ladder. “Lafi’shir will want to ride as soon as he hears this.” He sighed and glanced apologetically to Fenn. “Too bad, really. I was looking forward to tasting some of that fish.”

Chapter Ninety-Two

After four days of hard riding through the Stone Hills, they reached Gisa. It was late in the evening and John’s back ached. He stank of sweat, wool, and tahldi musk. It was a relief to see the painted sign of the Hearthstone Hostel.

While John, Fenn, and Saimura stabled the tahldi, Lafi’shir and Pirr’tu went to secure rooms in the hostel. Tai’yu departed to visit his sister in the Weavers Row. He would bring them as much news as he could tomorrow morning.

“His sister spoils him. She’ll stuff him with dove meat and blue leaf cakes,” Saimura said. “In the meantime we’re going to be chewing dried weasel.”

“Dove sounds good.” Fenn tossed a hide brush to John and another to Saimura.

“Right now even weasel sounds good to me,” John said.

He lifted his saddle and blankets off his tahldi. He carefully tucked his rifle under the blankets and then brushed the tahldi down. The big animal pressed against the stiff bristles of the brush as John groomed its withers and ribs.

Fenn brought fresh water and feed to the animals’ troughs. He scratched Saimura’s tahldi between its horns and the tahldi leaned into his hands, making soft pleased noises.

“Hot wine and a hot bath sound so good right now,” Fenn said.

“Lafi’shir might be willing to pay up for one of the big steam tubs. Particularly if he got a good whiff of you, Jath’ibaye.” Saimura grinned at John.

“You’re no bouquet of moonflowers yourself,” John replied.

“Pirr’tu’s the worst,” Fenn said. “I’d pay up just to get a bath for him.”

“I may hold you to that,” Pirr’tu called from the stable doors. “I hear they have a gaun-style bath at the Flower Palace. The dancing girls there would probably leave me smelling sweet enough for you, Fenn. It’s eight silver.” Pirr’tu grinned and held out his calloused hand for the money.

“You’re going to be waiting a few years for that bath if you expect Fenn to pay for it. He’s still paying for the rope he’s using to hold up his pants,” Saimura replied.

Fenn looked like he might argue but then obviously thought better of it.

 “So, do we have a room?” Saimura asked Pirr’tu.

“Two. Lafi’shir’s paid for a steam tub and laundry as well.” Pirr’tu glanced back to Fenn. “He wanted to know if you brought any of that hide stain you use to disguise the tahldi.”

“Some.” Fenn looked puzzled. “Has he bought more tahldi?”

“No.” Pirr’tu lowered his voice a little. “But our witches both have hair that’s a little too light to pass without notice in Gisa. Lafi’shir thinks we might be staying here a while.”

Fenn dug the hide stain and a pair of gloves out of his saddlebag. They locked up the stable and then hurried into the warmth of the hostel.

Inside, a large fire blazed in the hearth. The lamps gave off the faint scent of veru oil. A simple design of red flowers and green leaves decorated the walls. Only a few men still dined at the tables in the common room. Most had retired upstairs to sleep or gone out to one of the wine houses for an evening’s entertainment.