5: The Holy Road Read online

  THE HOLY ROAD

  Book Five of The Rifter

  Ginn Hale

  The Holy Road

  Book Five of the Rifter

  By Ginn Hale

  Published by:

  Blind Eye Books

  1141 Grant Street

  Bellingham, WA 98225

  blindeyebooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Nicole Kimberling

  Cover art, maps and all illustrations by Dawn Kimberling

  Proofreading by Jemma Everyhope

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and situations depicted are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are coincidental.

  First edition July 2011

  Copyright © 2011 Ginn Hale

  ISBN 978-1-935560-05-0

  Huge thanks to Josh Lanyon. You’re an inspiration.

  —Ginn

  The Story So Far:

  When John uses a key that belongs to his mysterious, scarred roommate, Kyle, to unlock a door in a crumbling ruin, he and two friends are transported to the world of Basawar.

  John and his best friends, Laurie and her lover Bill, befriend a young priest named Ravishan and learn from him that their only hope to return home is to find a way into the monastery of Rathal’pesha, where talented young men like Ravishan are trained to travel instantly across countless miles through the Gray Space.

  But ongoing attacks by peasant revolutionaries called the Fai’daum make church leaders and the ruling class highly suspicious of newcomers like John and his friends, and after witnessing witches and suspected revolutionaries being burned on the Holy Road, John knows he can’t simply appear at the city gates, much less the doors of Rathal’pesha, and expect a warm welcome. His chance to prove his character arises when he overhears Fai’daum members planning an attack against the noble Bousim family’s caravan.

  John warns the men guarding the caravan but then must take part in a counterattack. During a night of brutal battle, John saves the lives of both a Bousim soldier named Alidas and a young Fai’daum revolutionary called Saimura. In the process, he comes face-to-face with the demoness, Ji Shir’korud, who wears the flesh—and teeth—of a large golden dog.

  Because of his bravery, John and his friends are allowed to join the Bousim household.

  Lady Bousim takes Laurie and Bill into her personal entourage. John, on the other hand, chooses to accompany Lady Bousim’s son Fikiri to Rathal’pesha. There, John hopes to find the key that will take him and his friends back home. John’s handsome friend Ravishan is overjoyed to see him again, but Ushman Dayyid, second-in-command under Ushman Nuritam, takes an immediate disliking to John. Despite the fact that John wins the friendship of many priests, including Ushiri Ashan’ahma, Ushvun Samsango, the physician Ushman Hann’yu, as well as Ushiri Ravishan, Dayyid’s animosity only grows.

  And all is not well in Lady Bousim’s household either. Not only has the Lady Bousim begun instructing Laurie in the forbidden art of witchcraft but the commander of the cavalry, Rasho Tashtu, has taken an unseemly interest in Laurie.

  When Tashtu assaults Laurie during the yearly Harvest Fair, John intervenes to save her. But later that night, when John learns that a young woman accused of witchcraft is to be burned alive, he can do nothing. Worse still, Ravishan must light the pyre.

  As the woman burns, John unknowingly shows the first hint of the true power that lies dormant within him by unconsciously summoning a torrent of rain. But it comes too late to save the woman. While sheltering from the storm with Ravishan, John learns that Ravishan’s parents were members of the Fai’daum. When they were apprehended, Ravishan was forced by Dayyid to burn his own mother alive so that he could save his sister, Rousma, and himself.

  As the months pass, John finds he can hardly contain his growing disdain for Dayyid and his bullying. John fears that if he doesn’t find a way home soon, the animosity between himself and Dayyid may escalate to violence.

  Dayyid even convinces Fikiri to spy on John and Ravishan from the hidden depths of the Gray Space. Fikiri discovers John and Ravishan’s budding romance, which is forbidden in Basawar, and blackmails them, insisting that Ravishan bring him and his mother with them when they leave for Nayeshi.

  Finally the news that Laurie is pregnant with Bill’s baby only makes their situation more urgent: they must get home before the child is born and Laurie is no longer able to protect it from the dangerous passage through the Great Gates with her body.

  And now, in the fourth year of John’s exile in Basawar, another Harvest Fair begins…

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Despite the heavy canvas walls of the taverner’s tent, the noise and perfumes of the surrounding Harvest Fair infiltrated the air. John easily picked out the musical calls of taye sellers and salt vendors. He could smell frying dumplings and freshly cut onions. The laughter of men and children drifted past, as did the soft murmurs of women’s conversations.

  Inside, his surroundings felt far more subdued. The muscular, bearded proprietor and his serving women gathered around the stacked barrels of beer, wine, and liquor. They spoke quietly among themselves as they filled flagons and rough clay pitchers. One girl tended a small charcoal fire where kettles of daru’sira stood heating.

  The majority of the men seated around the tables spoke in lowered voices and wore expressions that struck John as somber if not solemn. He supposed it wasn’t the joyous men of the world who needed to drink themselves into oblivion before noon. Though, the dampening presence of both an ushiri and an ushman among their company could also have been responsible for the oddly sober atmosphere.

  “Such a serious expression, Jahn.” Ravishan swayed on the bench seat beside him. A flush colored his pale cheeks and his eyes were both dark and glistening beneath the shadows of his sharp black brows. “You should have a drink.” He held up his small glass and the strong floral tang of potent flower liqueur drifted from it.

  “I promise you there is no point in attempting to lure Jahn,” Hann’yu commented from across the table. He cupped a mead glass gently between his tanned hands but drank little from it. “Nothing tempts him.”

  “I’m sure something does.” Ravishan’s speculative stare was only interrupted by the arrival of a plump young woman with thick black bands tattooed around her tanned fingers. She placed another steaming pot of daru’sira down on the table in front of John. He thanked her and she smiled in a long-suffering manner. Her livelihood was not made by plying men with inexpensive daru’sira. However, her expression lit up as she noted the nearly empty pitcher of flower liqueur in front of Ravishan. But Hann’yu caught her attention and requested a plate of cutlets before she could offer Ravishan a second round of the liqueur.

  Ravishan dropped his gaze from John to the small glass in front of him. He threw back another shot, shuddered at the strong alcoholic burn, then slowly refilled his drink.

  “You should probably let the first few settle before you have another,” Hann’yu suggested.

  Ravishan frowned.

  “I’m speaking from firsthand experience,” Hann’yu informed him. “You have to wait, or you’ll throw up the liqueur you’ve been working all morning to put away.”

  “Just as well.” Ravishan sighed. “The stuff tastes like hell.” He pulled his hands back from the full glass as if he were dragging limp birds across the table.

  John poured himself a fresh cup of the bitter daru’sira, aware that Ravishan was again watching him intently. A smoky breeze drifted from some nearby cooking fire through the tent and Ravishan shuddered.

  John searched for something to say to R
avishan but could think of nothing of any value to offer him. He knew too well why Ravishan had fled Dayyid’s company and was now intently drinking himself into a stupor. But whether Ravishan was drunk or sober, nightfall would come and with it his duty to bear the torch that would burn some young man alive.

  John could think of no consolation for that inevitability.

  And in any case, Hann’yu was certainly more experienced as far as Basawar liquor was concerned.

  “A gentleman drinks as he might ravish a lovely woman,” Hann’yu stated with an easy smile. “He paces himself, prolonging the pleasure and ensuring that he enjoys all that is offered.”

  “You imagine that I’m a gentleman?” Ravishan gave an unlovely snort of derision and stole a sidelong glance at John.

  “You have the potential,” Hann’yu replied, though he seemed more amused than serious.

  “No, that’s Jahn.” Ravishan slumped against the back of the wooden bench and studied John openly. Something in the intensity of his stare warned John to look aside—at all costs avoiding that hungry, penetrating gaze. He took a quick drink of his daru’sira.

  “Ah, good, decent Jahn,” Ravishan murmured. “He only drinks daru’sira. Never shirks his duties. Isn’t there anything bad that you’d like to do?” Ravishan’s seductive smile alarmed John with both its blatancy and its effect upon him. He felt his skin flushing and then stole a guilty glance across the bench to Hann’yu.

  Hann’yu took a long drink, then lowered his mead glass. He just shook his head at John.

  “Pour him a little daru’sira,” Hann’yu suggested. John handed his own cup to Ravishan. Briefly their hands brushed, but John quickly withdrew. Ravishan scowled at the brown clay vessel.

  “I’m sick of daru’sira,” he grumbled. “I’m sick of tea and taye and prayers and practice. I want to do something else. I want to get drunk and neglect my duties. Maybe I want to be seduced.”

  “This brew’s not actually all that bad—” John was cut off as Ravishan toppled into him. He felt Ravishan’s hand brush against his thigh and Ravishan’s lips press against the bare skin of his neck. An instant later Hann’yu helped him pull Ravishan upright. Ravishan grinned blearily at John.

  “Just don’t try to move too suddenly,” Hann’yu advised Ravishan. “You’re not used to flower liqueur. It goes to a man’s head quickly. Wait a little while.”

  “All I do is wait,” Ravishan growled. “I want to do something. I don’t even care what, just something.”

  “You’re not doing anything in the condition you’re in right now,” Hann’yu said.

  “Why not?” Ravishan demanded.

  “Because Dayyid would be furious if he discovered you staggering around drunk in front of all the common folk at the fair,” Hann’yu informed him.

  John stole a glance back at the men seated nearby. Most kept their heads down and spoke softly among themselves. Only one or two openly observed Ravishan’s inebriated behavior and they looked quickly away when they noticed John returning their gazes.

  “And what would Dayyid do?” Ravishan lifted his head challengingly. “Take away my torch-bearing privilege? Let him.”

  “He’d blame Jahn and I for letting you get into trouble,” Hann’yu replied.

  “As if Jahn would ever let me get into trouble.” Ravishan picked up the cup of daru’sira John had passed him and then set it back down on the table. “Dayyid doesn’t know anything about anyone.”

  “He knows a great deal more than you give him credit for.” Hann’yu looked like he was going to go on, but then the woman serving them approached the table again. Hann’yu offered her a silent smile as she placed a tray of bread and salt-cured goat meat in front of them. John thanked her but declined when she offered to bring them more flower liqueur.

  After she drifted to the other tables, Hann’yu turned his attention back to Ravishan.

  “I understand why you might want to be relieved of your duties today,” Hann’yu said quietly, “but tomorrow and all the days after you would regret it if Dayyid made you step down.”

  “He has no one to take my place,” Ravishan said.

  “There’s always Fikiri,” Hann’yu replied.

  Ravishan responded with a contemptuous sneer. “I could rip Fikiri apart with my bare hands and Dayyid knows it.”

  “Jealousy is unbecoming in an ushiri,” Hann’yu stated. “You shouldn’t hate Fikiri for his skill.”

  “I don’t.” Ravishan contemplated the platter of goat meat and bread for a moment. “I hate him for his cowardice and conniving.”

  In spite of himself, John smiled at the frankness of Ravishan’s response. It was like him to be too honest.

  “Well then,” Hann’yu pressed on, “you don’t want to be replaced by him, do you?”

  “Maybe.” Ravishan stared at the stained tabletop. He slumped forward slightly, letting his chin rest on his hands. “I think I’m ready to start drinking again.”

  “Have some food,” John suggested.

  Ravishan scowled at the tray of rough bread and salt-encrusted goat meat. He tore a piece of bread off and took a bite. He chewed unenthusiastically and didn’t eat anything more. Instead he simply stared at the pitcher of flower liqueur.

  Hann’yu sighed and then stood up. “I need to stretch my legs.”

  “You’re not going to tell Dayyid where I am, are you?” Ravishan demanded.

  “No, Ravishan, I’m a gentleman. And more than that, I’m your friend,” Hann’yu replied offhandedly. But he shot John a meaningful glance. “If I see Dayyid, I’ll tell him that I have no idea where you are, though it isn’t as if Dayyid won’t find this place once he decides to come looking.”

  John knew Hann’yu was right. Dayyid would only tolerate Ravishan’s absence for so long before he’d hunt him down.

  As Hann’yu departed, two young women held the tent flaps open. John watched Hann’yu disappear into the crowds of passersby.

  Golden light poured in through the open mouth of the tent and John glimpsed the world outside. The common, weathered inhabitants of Amura’taye flirted and gossiped as they bustled past, all of them caught up in their surroundings. The loud calls of vendors, the songs of working women, the bright swaths of cloth, the pungent scents of food and animals, all swirled and rolled into an exotic atmosphere of constant experience. The fair sparkled and cried for all attention to be focused on the spectacle of the moment. It was not a place of recollection, reflection, or regret.

  A herd of small black goats rushed past, followed by two laughing young boys.

  Then the tent flaps fell closed again, enclosing him and Ravishan in this oasis of alcohol and shadows where the very air seemed to hang with loss and melancholy.

  Beside him, Ravishan tossed back another shot of flower liqueur. He shuddered and glanced to John.

  “I have a right to get drunk one day out of the entire year,” Ravishan murmured.

  John studied him intently and Ravishan dropped his gaze back to the tabletop. This wasn’t like him and it wasn’t doing him any good.

  Exuberant rebellion didn’t drive him to toss back drink after drink. They both knew that. Outside, in the midst of the fair, there would at least be distractions.

  John stood up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before Dayyid finds us.”

  “I haven’t finished my drink,” Ravishan objected, but he rose to his feet. John started for the exit. Ravishan caught up with him just outside of the tent.

  Despite the blue sky and high noon sun, a chill pervaded the air. It was particularly notable after the warm darkness of the tavern tent. John took in a deep breath, smelling honey and the crispness of the approaching winter. At his feet, drifts of red and gold leaves colored the packed dirt. Ravishan kicked several aside, stirring up that musky autumn scent that even now evoked John’s childhood memories of Halloween.

  The shifting weather and changing colors of the foliage conjured memories of wild costumes and sacks full of candy. But now a dre
ad infused his sense of the season. The red-flecked and fallen leaves looked as if they’d been spattered with blood. For a moment just the smell of smoke and roasting meat brought him visions of bodies writhing in the flames of a pyre.

  John searched the surrounding corridors of brightly dyed tents and painted stalls for something to distract the morose direction of his own thoughts. He wasn’t going to cheer Ravishan up by brooding himself.

  Behind them a vendor sang out the astonishing attributes of his cast iron pots. Two older women flaunted strings of glittering beads and a shabby quartet of men strummed their instruments beside a stall displaying a variety of southern quill pens. A small black goat butted into the back of his leg and bleated loudly before being pulled away by a young man. The music all around him, the stalls of bright beads and fragrant southern fruit, only seemed to make him think of it all the more. The joy and fervent energy of the Harvest Fair struck him as a desperate deception, an attempt to overcompensate for the terrible cruelty yet to come.

  Next to him, Ravishan watched a group of laughing young men with an almost wistful expression.

  “Why don’t we try to find more of that violet ink that Ashan’ahma likes,” John suggested. “He’s nearly out.”

  “I still had half a pitcher left back in the taverner’s tent,” Ravishan commented, but he didn’t look too annoyed.

  “It was nearly empty,” John replied. “Come on, Ravishan, walk with me and I’ll buy you something that tastes decent.”

  “All right,” Ravishan agreed. “But I should warn you that I’m a little drunk and perhaps slightly surly as well.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” John told him. “I’m still glad for your company.”

  Ravishan flushed handsomely in response.

  They strolled together, their arms brushing a little more closely than other men, but in the shove and push of the crowd no one noticed. John made what light conversation he could, but often as not they fell into a companionable quiet. Somehow in the chaos of surrounding song and noise just brushing Ravishan’s hand and meeting that flash of his smile seemed to carry far more between them than any number of words.