The Silent City

Chapter Eighty-Seven

After only a day escorting the caravan of wagons, Lafi’shir noted John’s ability to move at speed through the dense forest and deep snow drifts that lined the narrow roads they followed through the mountains. Lafi’shir immediately assigned John scouting duty and John found that he took to it.

Three days later, John leaned against the rough bark of a tall pine. Its shadow offered him cover. The wind churned white veils of snow through the air, obscuring the view of the road below. John narrowed his eyes, concentrating. The wind shifted and John had a clear view.

He counted the rashan’im. Ten of them rode in single file through the deep snow. They carried rifles, but not at the ready. Instead their guns were holstered at their backs. Several of the riders tucked their hands, reins and all, into the fronts of their coats.

John willed them to turn down onto the lower road that descended into the valley. The rashan’im rode past the fork and continued up the high road. In an hour they would reach the summit of Whitestone Hill where Lafi’shir’s troops rested.

John turned and sprinted up the hill. The frigid air burned in his lungs. He bounded from the outcropping of a boulder to the narrow goat trail. The hard-packed snow caught him. As he ran, the earth seemed to throw him forward. The wind caught him and lifted each of his wild leaps up the jagged rock face.

He reached the top of Whitestone Hill in a matter of minutes. A snow-covered outcropping of stone thrust out over the narrow road. Beneath the stone stood four of the Fai’daum’s heavy wooden munitions wagons. A corner of the oiled leather tarp that covered the crates of rifles came untied and flapped up in the wind like a startled bird. A young man caught the loose end and roped it back down.

Other men rested behind the wagons, using them as wind breaks. Some huddled close, sharing dry goat meat and keeping as warm as they could without a fire. Others lay curled in their coats, sleeping.

They had been marching three days straight and most of them were too tired to do more than eye John as he rushed past them to Lafi’shir.

"What’s got you running so fast, Jahn?" Lafi’shir only glanced up briefly from his careful work of cleaning a rifle. Two of Lafi’shir’s chosen men stood close at hand. John remembered Pirr’tu from Tanash’s comments about him. The other man, Tai’yu, John recognized by his red hair and hooked nose.

"Ten rashan’im." John bent over, gasping for breath. He wasn’t sure he’d ever moved so fast. The muscles of his thighs felt molten hot. "Bousim men. They’re coming up the high road from the north side."

Both of Lafi’shir’s men looked immediately to their leader. John didn’t know what they could hope to read from the man’s countenance. His heavy beard and thick black brows obscured much of his mouth and eyes. His hands were steady and his motions calm as he finished with the rifle. John thought he might be frowning but he couldn’t be sure.

A few feet away, Saimura stood and then quickly drew closer to Lafi’shir’s side.

"How soon will they get here?" Lafi’shir turned the rifle over in his broad hands. He checked the sights and then tossed it to Saimura. John saw him flash a quick hand sign to Saimura. Yours.

Saimura caught the rifle and silently loaded it with his own strangely carved bullets.

"They’ll reach the crest of the hill in an hour." John straightened. "They weren’t moving fast."

"Only ten. Moving slow," Lafi’shir said quietly. The fingers of his right hand moved thoughtfully between half formed signs.

"They probably aren’t looking for us," Saimura commented. He smiled briefly at John and offered him a drink from his canteen. John took it happily.

"They may not be looking, but they’ll find us," Lafi’shir said.

"We could pick them off," Pirr’tu said. "We’ve got the high ground."

"We kill them and more rashan’im will come looking for them. Ten riders don’t just disappear," Tai’yu replied. "We’ll only end up drawing more attention to this road."

"That we can’t do." Lafi’shir stood and looked to both Tai’yu and Pirr’tu. "Get the men up. We’ll have to make for Gisa and hope they don’t wonder too much about our wagons once they crest the hill."

Tai’yu and Pirr’tu went to work. John noticed that despite the danger of their situation, both men kept their voices low and their expressions calm.

John considered the four big wagons and the teams of tahldi. Unlike the Fai’daum fighters, they required the even ground of an open road to move easily, especially in this snow. The winding road leading down to Gisa could clearly be seen from where they stood.

Once the rashan’im reached the crest of Whitestone Hill, they would spot the Fai’daum wagons right away. Maybe they would mistake Lafi’shir’s men for merchants, but John doubted that. It would be a strange group of merchants who traveled in such a large number and took such heavy wagons along this narrow, treacherous route to the Gisa railway station.

"What if we distracted them? Drew them away from the hill?" John asked.

"What are you thinking of?" Lafi’shir’s heavy brows rose slightly and John caught a rare glimpse of his pale gray eyes.

"I’m a fairly recognizable man, here in the north," John said. "By now all the Bousim rashan’im will have seen my bounty poster. If they encountered me on the road, I bet they’d follow where I led them in the attempt to take me."

"They might well succeed," Lafi’shir said.

"But it could be worth the risk," John replied.

John dreaded his own words, but at the same time, he knew he had to find out if he could control his power in a battle. He needed to see how much the Rifter could endure without pulling down destruction on his own allies. This way he would be able to test himself without endangering the other Fai’daum.

"No, there has to be another way." Saimura shook his head. "What if we blocked the road before the rashan’im could reach the top of the hill? We could start a rock slide."

"The shipment behind us will need the road clear," Lafi’shir replied. He turned his attention back to John. "Arren and Ji both swear that you’re something special. So, go on and show me what you can do. Get me two hours and I’ll be in your debt."

Yes, sir. John gave the hand sign.

"I should go with him," Saimura said softly.

"Not today, Saimura," Lafi’shir replied calmly. "The men need your strength. And if Jahn fails, I’ll need your gun."

Saimura bowed his head.

"Be careful," Saimura told John. Then he turned and strode back to where the men hunched beside the wagons.

Don’t let them take you alive, Lafi’shir signed to John. Better to die in battle than betray your comrades under torture.

The last thing John wanted to think about was torture. He’d endured enough of that in prison already. Instead he tried to keep his thoughts calm and practical.

"You should probably take my rifle." John swung it off his shoulder and handed it to Lafi’shir. "If I’m carrying a gun, the rashan’im will know I’ve been with the Fai’daum. They might wonder if there are others."

Lafi’shir took the rifle.

"If you live, meet us at the Hearthstone Hostel in Gisa. We should be there by late afternoon and we’ll stay at least three days after that."

John saluted and then moved quickly back down the slope. Snow rolled and split around his legs as he ran. He reached the edge of the road in minutes. He lingered beneath the cover of the dark pines that lined the road. He could hear the rashan’im coming closer. Their tahldi made soft huffing noises and the riders absently murmured to the animals.

John didn’t want to think of the night he had ridden behind Alidas as Bousim rashan’im slaughtered Fai’daum men, but he couldn’t keep it out of his thoughts. He remembered Alidas firing his rifle and the side of a young man’s head spattering apart.

Would that hurt worse than two broken hands? Could he recover from it? John’s hands trembled and he knew it wasn’t just because of the cold.

He took in a deep breath of the cool air and felt oxygen saturate his lungs and blood. If anyone could survive this, he could.

John pushed the hood of his coat back, knowing his curling blond hair would quickly catch the attention of the approaching riders. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of the dark green Bousim uniforms. He stumbled forward onto the road, pretending to stagger as if he had not expected the sudden open expanse. The riders reined their mounts to a halt.

John froze before the riders, returning their startled, wary gazes. He took in their tanned faces and their sleek rifles. A panicked urge to run surged through him, but he forced himself to stand still and wide-eyed like a stunned tahldi surrounded by wild dogs while the rashan’im took him in. A look of recognition lit the closest rashan’s face.

"You," the rashan said.

John bolted off the road and down the hill. He heard the rashan’im charging after him. They were too close. John dodged into a tight cluster of trees. He heard the loud crack of a rifle shot. A sapling to John’s left suddenly split apart. Fear clenched through John’s gut. He poured his strength into his legs and sprinted ahead.

He ducked beneath branches and leaped over jagged stones, knowing by instinct where they lay beneath the deceptively soft snow.

Behind him, he heard his pursuers crash through the trees. One of them shouted at John, ordering him to halt. John ran harder. Again, he heard the loud report of a rifle. Something hot punched into his shoulder. John threw himself forward with the force of the impact. He leaped over a thick tangle of dark brambles and kept running.

The muscles of his legs burned. A dull pain throbbed out from his shoulder. He dodged between trees, running half-blind down the steep incline of the hill. His heartbeat hammered through his body, every pulse racing to sustain his desperate pace.

Three more shots rang out. Almost instantly John felt bullets tear into his back. One slashed across his neck. A spray of brilliant blood colored the snow. Explosions of pain burst through John’s body as he forced himself ahead.

Another bullet ripped through the meat of his thigh. John’s leg buckled. He couldn’t afford to fall. He couldn’t let the rashan’im take him. John plunged through a cluster of sagging fir trees. He collapsed down to one knee, then shoved himself up to his feet.

The rashan’im charged after him. John glanced back in time to see the dark silhouette of a tahldi rising over him. He caught a glimpse of the rider’s triumphant face. John threw himself forward. His back and leg screamed against the movement. The tahldi landed, sending snow flying. The rider urged the tahldi after John.

John limped backwards as the tahldi lowered its long horns towards him. Tears of pain poured down John’s cheeks.

He felt the ground beneath his feet tremble. The sky shuddered, growing dark. His pain raged for release. Fire and lightning flickered through his thoughts. But John didn’t allow them free reign. Instead he drew the agitation from the earth and air, feeding its power into his ruined body.

A deep heat flushed through him. Suddenly the lightning motion of the tahldi seemed slow, easy to anticipate. John dodged the animal’s horns and sprang aside. He turned and ran. This time his muscles flexed and threw him forward as if he were weightless. Blood poured from his wounds, but he felt nothing. John gasped in deep breaths of the frigid air, tasting the sharp pine of the forest. He exhaled white steam. His body flooded with wild exhilaration.

The rashan swore.

Another rider opened fire. He felt the air ripple around him. He leaped forward as bullets cracked through tree limbs and branches. John felt almost giddy.

Then he broke from the dim shadows of the forest into a huge, open field of snow. He charged forward, knowing the rashan’im would follow him. Beneath the deep banks of snow, John felt the glassy surface of a lake. He charged across the frozen water, racing for the far bank. John stole a glance back as four rashan’im broke from the forest. The other six came behind them.

The cover of the forest on the far shore rose in front of John. He reached the far bank of the lake and turned back to face the rashan’im. Two of them had already reached the center of the lake. The others came close behind. John plunged his hands down into the snow. The cold bit into his fingers. He reached down until his hands touched the smooth surface of the ice. He felt the brittle formations of suspended hydrogen and oxygen spilling out like glass beneath his feet.

The closest rashan lifted his rifle, taking aim at John.

John thought of the sign of awakening that Ji had taught him. His fingers hardly moved in response, but the ice shuddered. A low noise, like thunder, boomed across the lake. Then the ice shattered. John and the rashan’im dropped down into the water. At the bank’s edge, John only sank to his calves. The rashan’im and their tahldi plunged deep into the frigid water. John didn’t remain to see which of them would come up.

He clambered up the bank and sprinted into the cover of the forest. He thought he heard one of the rashan’im call another man’s name. Another of the rashan’im shouted and swore furiously.

John kept running. He continued west, in case the rashan’im decided to track him further. He imagined that those who escaped the water would be far more concerned with keeping themselves from freezing to death than following him. Still, he had to be careful. He couldn’t lead them straight back to Lafi’shir.

The scent of the dark pines rolled over John and aching cold wrapped around him. Icy needles shot through the nerves of his feet and calves. Snow caked his wet legs. Deep throbbing hurt pulsed through his back and thigh.

It wasn’t worse than his broken hands and legs had been. When the adrenaline and endorphins burned out of his system, he had no doubt that his opinion would change.

He concentrated on the white fields of snow ahead of him and the blue shadows of the trees. He ducked under snow-laden branches. Above him, several small white birds burst into flight. John kept running even after he knew no one followed him. He slowed his pace but didn’t dare stop. Only his momentum kept him going now.

The winter shadows lengthened and the air grew even colder. John turned west. His strides came in a numb, clumsy rhythm.

He thought of Ravishan, not of him fighting or spying in the south, although he knew Ravishan was doing that right now, but of his warm, inviting mouth and his hard, flat stomach. He thought of Ravishan’s strong legs and his supple back. He fought back the overwhelming cold and pain with memories of the heat of Ravishan’s body, the pleasure of his touch. He imagined absurd positions and impossible acts. Anything to hold his inevitable collapse at bay.

Staggering and delirious, John reached Gisa long after dark. Moonlight seemed to ignite the white snow, so that it almost glowed against the black shadows of the city walls. Even at a distance, John could make out the hard line where the train tracks bisected empty fields and disappeared into the city.

Briefly he recalled the afternoon he had first seen Gisa. A little more than three months ago, he stood here with Ravishan and Alidas. The fields had been filled with freshly cut bales of taye. Shepherds had herded flocks of sheep through the city gates to the railway station. John tried to recall the afternoon warmth. He swayed on his feet.

Slowly, he walked around the perimeter of the city wall. At first, he only encountered a few wooden shacks. Many of them appeared to have been abandoned for the winter. But steadily the quality and number of buildings increased. Rows of stone winehouses spilled out from the city wall. The shadows of drinking men flickered across the oiled hides stretched over the windows. John heard laughter and even a few phrases of song as he passed the painted doors. Farther along, hostels and stables loomed up over the worn ruts that served as a street.

In the autumn, the whole area had teemed with men and women hawking cheap food, copper jewelry, and cages of fat weasels. Sheep, dogs, and tahldi had filled the pens of the stables. The constant commerce of the trains drew hundreds of people through this rutted, dirty street. But the harvest had passed and few merchants traveled through the winter snows. Now the street was quieter, though still not empty. Even in the dead of winter people missed their trains and needed places to sleep. A woman wearing surprisingly little clothing considering the weather led two young men around the back of a hostel. John kept back in the deeper shadows and continued walking.

A man stepped out from the dark alley between two winehouses, buttoning the top of his pants. He glanced at John, then with a horrified expression, stepped quickly back into the alley.

John touched his neck where the man’s eyes had lingered. His fingers came away dark with blood. John glanced down at his leg and for the first time realized that the rashan’s bullet had ripped through his thigh. The wound had already closed but blood still stained the entire left leg of his pants. His back had to look worse. He couldn’t just walk into a hostel looking like this. Even with his hood hiding his blond hair, he’d still attract too much attention.

Eventually, John spotted the painted sign for the Hearthstone Hostel. Beside the hostel there stood a small wooden stable. John slunk around the building and past the empty animal pens. The stable doors were secured with a heavy padlock.

Ravishan would have slipped through the doors in elegant silence, John thought. He could have come and gone without leaving a trace, like light passing through glass.

John grabbed the padlock. He felt its bright metallic nature glimmer against his palm. He closed his fingers around its mass and pushed just a little of his will against its structure. It blackened and crumbled, falling through his fingers to lie in smoking hunks on the snow.

Inside the stable, the darkness was deeper than the night outside, but John’s eyes adjusted quickly. He recognized eight of the tahldi in the stalls, but no more. Lafi’shir had already accomplished his mission and loaded men and cases of rifles on the train heading south. He, Saimura and the few remaining men were probably enjoying a warm meal in the comfort of the hostel. They’d most likely taken their packs and saddles with them, which meant he wouldn’t find a change of clothes in here that he could use to hide his injuries.

A perfunctory search revealed that this was true, but John noticed they’d left several saddle blankets behind. He couldn’t wear those, but he supposed he could climb up into the hayloft, curl up in the dirty blankets and sleep until Lafi’shir and the others came to retrieve their tahldi in the morning. He shoved his hands down into the pockets of his coat and considered the climb up into the hayloft.

His fingers brushed against a smooth, warm shape in his pocket. It was the bone Saimura had given to him for strength. John pulled it out and studied its incised surface.

Saimura’s carvings were different from the Eastern commands Ji taught. They weren’t Payshmura either, but they seemed to be a melding of both. Observing them now, they struck John as having been carved in Saimura’s own secret language.

Endowed with Saimura’s own blood, this talisman seemed far more individual, or perhaps more personal, than the charms John had carved in Ji’s classes. This warm bit of polished bone seemed intimately Saimura’s.

John closed his hand around it. He didn’t need strength, so much as he longed for some small comfort.

John didn’t attempt to push his will against the talisman. He knew that would simply overpower and destroy it. Instead he tried to pull at it. Gently, he coaxed its warmth into him. The fine carvings glowed a pale gold.

John felt heat and breath. He tasted the faint salt of a man’s skin. A sound like a supplicant gasp brushed over his ear. The intense ache in John’s thigh grew warm and then eased. John pulled at that warm strength a little more.

The talisman shuddered against John’s palm. The soft, whispered gasp seemed to grow more ragged until it took on the tremor of a sob. Slightly alarmed, John quickly dropped the talisman back into his pocket.

John had no idea of what to make of that, but he felt better – at least strong enough to endure the climb up into the hayloft. He went to where the saddle blankets hung. The pungent odor of tahldi sweat emanated from them.

Then John heard someone outside the stable doors. He stepped back into one of the empty stalls. Moonlight poured into the stable and then Saimura leaned in through the open door. He held his rifle at the ready and glared into the darkness of the stable.

"It’s me, Saimura," John whispered.

"Jahn?" Saimura said his name as if he couldn’t quite believe it was him. "What are you doing in here? What did you do with my talisman?" There was a tremor in his voice. John wondered suddenly if he’d somehow injured Saimura when he’d tried to use the talisman.

"I tried to use it. I’m hurt," John replied. "But I didn’t know what I was doing."

"Where are you?"

"Right here." John stepped out from the stall.

"Why are you in the stable?" Saimura peered through the darkness at John. John moved closer so that a little of the light from outside fell on his face. Saimura stepped back at the sight of him but then stopped. He lowered his rifle.

"I didn’t think I should be seen by everyone in the hostel. Not looking like this," John said.

"You’re right," Saimura said. His expression was still oddly drawn. "I hadn’t thought about that. Sorry."

"It’s fine," John said. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know what he thought was fine. "I could use a blanket and something to eat if you could manage it."

"You look like you need bandages and stitching as well." Saimura started to turn away, then paused. "Will you be all right until I get back? I should only be a few minutes…"

"I’ll be fine. Thanks."

Saimura stepped back and closed the door. John considered sitting down on one of the tack benches. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand again if he did. He gazed up at the beams of the roof. For the first time he noticed the clusters of birds up there, huddling close to each other. Something scuttled along the edge of the rafter. A weasel, John realized. They were such adaptive animals.

Yellow lamplight flashed through the crack beneath the stable doors. Instinctively, John drew back into the shadows of the stall. Saimura came through the door carrying a lamp. Lafi’shir followed, holding blankets and a leather case. Saimura pulled the stable door shut.

When John emerged from the stall, the lamplight felt like a spotlight as it fell across him, illuminating the full extent of his bloody state. Saimura stared at him in silence. The lamp shook in his hand, making shadows jump up the stable walls. Lafi’shir’s eyes widened enough for John to see the whites.

"I didn’t want to just walk into the hostel." John moved closer to them. Saimura hung the lamp on a wall hook and stared intently at John’s injuries.

Briefly, John feared that Saimura might bolt from the stable. But then he seemed to regain his composure. He walked to John’s side.

Lafi’shir followed Saimura. He glanced over John’s neck and thigh, then shook his head.

"How the hell are you still standing up?" Lafi’shir asked.

"If I lie down I don’t think I’ll get back up."

"Lay the blankets down for him," Saimura said.

Lafi’shir scowled at the stable floor.

"Just a minute." Lafi’shir picked up the saddle blankets John had considered earlier and tossed them on the floor. He spread the finer bedding over the saddle blankets.

"I’m going to need warm water," Saimura said.

Lafi’shir set the leather case down beside Saimura and left the stable.

"Jahn." Saimura addressed him softly, soothingly, as if he were speaking to a wary animal. John smiled at him.

"I know I’m in bad shape, but I’m not going to panic. What do you want me to do?"

"Let me get you undressed." Saimura sounded a little more like himself now, calmer and sympathetic. "I need to see the extent of your wounds."

John nodded. He didn’t try to remove his own clothes. Saimura stripped his coat and thick snow pants off with the gentle efficiency of a man well used to treating the injured. Just as he finished, Lafi’shir returned with an enamel basin and a second lamp.

Saimura then peeled John’s shirt off his back. John felt the dried blood clots pull away. Fresh blood trickled down his back and over his bare buttocks. Deep pain seemed to wrench up from his bones. He shuddered.

"Can you keep standing?" Saimura asked.

John didn’t trust his voice. He nodded.

"Are you sure," Saimura asked.

John nodded again. He needed to know what the Rifter was capable of. He needed to prove to himself that he could do more than just survive pain and exhaustion, but that he could take strength from it.

"All right." Saimura whispered incantations over the basin of steaming water and then washed John’s wounds. John expected the pain to intensify as Saimura rinsed the blood and torn flesh from him. Instead the water dulled the hurt. It smelled sweet and John wondered if Lafi’shir had poured yellowpetal into it.

John glanced to Lafi’shir, who sat on one of the weathered benches. He stared at John with both of his hands buried deep in the pockets of his heavy coat. John wasn’t sure if it was an effect of the harsh lamplight, but Lafi’shir’s face seemed deathly white.

"This may hurt," Saimura said from behind John. John heard him open his leather case. He glanced down and caught the flash of polished blades, needles and forceps against the dark luster of the leather. John lifted his head and stared up into the rafters. He tried to pick out the shape of the weasel again.

Saimura pushed something into his torn shoulder.

John choked on a cry. A rush of rage surged through him. Crumbling mountains and black, shattered skies flickered in John’s thoughts. The air shuddered. John clenched his jaws and drew the furious, churning power back into himself.

His pain receded. His fatigue seemed to lift.

He felt Saimura pause.

"Just a few more," Saimura told him.

John simply nodded in response and continued to focus all of his will against the reflex to lash out in pain.

One by one and in total silence, Saimura pulled the bullets from John’s wounds. John thought he could feel Saimura’s hands shaking, but he didn’t think too hard about it. He concentrated on his own anger, restraining it.

Saimura stitched the bullet wounds in John’s shoulder and back closed. Then he rinsed John’s back again with the warm yellowpetal water.

"I don’t think your neck or thigh will need stitches." Saimura wiped his needles down with an acrid, red fluid and then replaced them in the leather case.

"I feel better already," John said.

"You should rest," Saimura told him. As soon as he’d packed away his medical supplies he withdrew. John turned back to thank him only to catch an expression that was as much horror as exhaustion on Saimura’s face. Then it was gone.

John wondered what could have caused such a change in Saimura’s demeanor. Had he sensed the fury crackling in the air as he’d removed the bullets from John’s body? But then Saimura had been acting strangely since he had first found John in the stable. The sight of his torn body might have simply overwhelmed Saimura.

Then John remembered Saimura’s strained demand to know what he’d done to his talisman. It had trembled and whimpered when he had drawn strength from it and Saimura had found him in the stable only minutes after that.

"Saimura – " John began.

"You should rest, if you can," Saimura cut him off immediately.

John nodded. He wasn’t about to force Saimura to talk to him – certainly not in front of Lafi’shir. And he wasn’t sure he truly wanted to hear what Saimura would say. Not tonight at least.

John knelt down on the bedding and then lowered himself onto his right side. His neck ached and little, biting pains flared up his back, but it all seemed inconsequential. The slight softness of the blankets came as a vast relief.

"We’ll need to get those clothes cleaned and patched." Lafi’shir spoke for the first time in nearly a half hour. He frowned at the blood-soaked heap of John’s discarded clothes.

"I’ll give them to Tai’yu. He has a sister here." Saimura gathered up the clothes but held them away from his body. He walked to the stable doors, then glanced back to Lafi’shir.

"Go on," Lafi’shir said. "I won’t be much longer."

Saimura took his leave.

Lafi’shir remained on the tack bench, studying John. The silence between them stretched on. John thought suddenly of his father. There had been several nights, just before his father had been sent on active duty, when he would stand in the doorway of John’s bedroom studying him in silence. Then, at last, he would wish John goodnight.

Now Lafi’shir watched him with that same uncertain expression.

"What are you really called?" Lafi’shir asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Jahn is an animal’s name." Lafi’shir’s tone conveyed the disapproving expression that his beard and thick brows hid. "You’re no animal. What is your real name?"

"It really is just Jahn," John replied. "I don’t have another."

"A man who takes six bullets and keeps his feet shouldn’t be addressed like an animal. You’re a man. You need a man’s name," Lafi’shir stated.

"I’m used to Jahn," John replied. He had even grown used to the animal hand sign that indicated his name, though he hated the sneer that often accompanied it.

"Tell me how you occupied the rashan’im," Lafi’shir asked suddenly.

"I…" John paused at the change of subject but then answered, "I led them west to Mirror Lake. The ice broke under them when they tried to follow me across and I lost them there. Then I backtracked."

"That was clever," Lafi’shir said.

"Thanks." John rested his head against his arm.

Lafi’shir didn’t say anything. He didn’t even seem to be paying much attention to John now. Instead he gazed at the tahldi in their stalls. John closed his eyes. The soft warmth of sleep spread slowly through his muscles.

"Jath’ibaye," Lafi’shir said quietly.

"What?" John cracked his eyes open.

"It was my uncle’s name," Lafi’shir said. "I think it might suit you. What do you think?"

"Jath’ibaye," John said. He closed his eyes against the harsh lamplight. The name evoked a solitary green refuge. It conjured the image of a calm moment in a deep forest, when the sun filtered through leaves and cast warm emerald shadows. The sweet perfume of bramble flowers mixed with the salty scent of his own sweat. He thought of Ravishan’s lips on his skin and suddenly realized that he was drifting into a dream.

John pulled his eyes open. Lafi’shir still sat looking at him.

"Jath’ibaye sounds good," John said. He felt oddly touched that Lafi’shir would take the trouble to name him. They’d only known each other for a few days.

"Then it’s yours." Lafi’shir stood and walked to the stable doors. "I’ll have Pirr’tu make sure no one bothers you. Get some sleep."

John nodded. Only moments after Lafi’shir closed the stable door, John drifted back to his dream of that warm green sanctum that his new appellation seemed to promise.

To be continued…