to Dayyid. They simply allowed John to go where he pleased.
The highest chamber both drew and repulsed him. It was like a scabbed injury that he wanted to forget about but always found himself scratching. When he stepped onto the stairs leading up he felt a change, as if the stones themselves had become infused with something terrible. As he ascended, John heard voices. They were not the clear human sounds of the ushiri’im speaking through the Gray Space. These were quiet and strangely distorted, almost indiscernible. But they piled over each other. They bumped and muttered through each other, building hundreds of tones, thousands of words. As John came closer, the voices grew louder but not more distinct. He only became more aware of the chaos of them. Their disjointed sentences crashed and jarred, hissed and murmured, like the ramblings of a hundred paranoid schizophrenics.
At the top of the stairs, the gray stones of the floor and walls seemed to have been infected with the same disorder. They were pitted and yellowed, like diseased teeth. The grain of the stones jutted in one direction and then abruptly broke into a different formation. Wisps of bluish smoke curled out from the edges of the single iron door in front of him. The smell of seared ozone mixed with an odor of taxidermy.
John stepped closer and placed his hand against the cold iron of the door. A feeling of utter revulsion swept over him. He pulled his hand back. The same feeling had come to him from the yasi’halaun and from the broken stones of the Great Gate.
“ The men in red ride south. We holds them back. Then men in red ride north. We cannot sees them. We cannot sees...”
John picked out one murmuring voice only to lose it in the hisses of another. “ We sees the tower. Falling. The tower is falling. The tower falls. The tower burns...”
“It is near water. The water knows it, loves its flesh...”
“Blue eyes. We sees it. Yellow hair. Running. Dirty feet...”
“The convent burns. We smells our bones blackening. We smells us...”
“Traitors in the palaces. Gold and guns to the men in red. Traitors...”
Then a shriek suddenly broke through all of the soft whispers. “NO! IT HURTS! I HATES YOU! It hurts! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...” Slowly the cry died to a whimper and then was lost in the depths of thousands of other murmuring voices.
“Quiet her, can’t you?” This time the voice was distinct and familiar. It was Ushman Nuritam.
“Forgive us, Ushman.” The response came from a strong, female voice. “Rousma is young and still not broken into the collective of the issusha’im. But her potential is great. She has given us our first glimpses of the Rifter.”
Rousma. Ravishan’s sister. She had sounded like a little child. It was wrenching to hear her in such obvious pain and yet John knew there was nothing he could do. She was one of the issusha’im now, pared down to a skeleton, strung together with copper wires and carved with Payshmura incantations.
The issusha’im were kept in the southern convent of Umbhra’ibaye and yet it had seemed like they were just behind that door. There had to be some kind of gateway between the two places, here in the highest chamber of Rathal’pesha. He remembered Ushman Dayyid and Hann’yu both mentioning conversations with the ushman’im in the Black Tower of Nurjima. Perhaps there was more than one gate.
“I dislike her outbursts.” Ushman Nuritam’s harsh voice cut through John’s thoughts.
“She will be reprimanded,” the woman assured him.
“Very well. What of the Rifter?”
“Rousma has caught glimpses. We hope to bind him to the Kahlil within two years. That is, if a Kahlil has been ordained by then.”
“He will be.” Ushman Nuritam sounded slightly annoyed at the question. “The issusha’im have seen as much, have they not?”
“What they have seen changes, Ushman,” the woman replied. “You have heard them yourself. Since Fikiri’ro’Bousim
The highest chamber both drew and repulsed him. It was like a scabbed injury that he wanted to forget about but always found himself scratching. When he stepped onto the stairs leading up he felt a change, as if the stones themselves had become infused with something terrible. As he ascended, John heard voices. They were not the clear human sounds of the ushiri’im speaking through the Gray Space. These were quiet and strangely distorted, almost indiscernible. But they piled over each other. They bumped and muttered through each other, building hundreds of tones, thousands of words. As John came closer, the voices grew louder but not more distinct. He only became more aware of the chaos of them. Their disjointed sentences crashed and jarred, hissed and murmured, like the ramblings of a hundred paranoid schizophrenics.
At the top of the stairs, the gray stones of the floor and walls seemed to have been infected with the same disorder. They were pitted and yellowed, like diseased teeth. The grain of the stones jutted in one direction and then abruptly broke into a different formation. Wisps of bluish smoke curled out from the edges of the single iron door in front of him. The smell of seared ozone mixed with an odor of taxidermy.
John stepped closer and placed his hand against the cold iron of the door. A feeling of utter revulsion swept over him. He pulled his hand back. The same feeling had come to him from the yasi’halaun and from the broken stones of the Great Gate.
“ The men in red ride south. We holds them back. Then men in red ride north. We cannot sees them. We cannot sees...”
John picked out one murmuring voice only to lose it in the hisses of another. “ We sees the tower. Falling. The tower is falling. The tower falls. The tower burns...”
“It is near water. The water knows it, loves its flesh...”
“Blue eyes. We sees it. Yellow hair. Running. Dirty feet...”
“The convent burns. We smells our bones blackening. We smells us...”
“Traitors in the palaces. Gold and guns to the men in red. Traitors...”
Then a shriek suddenly broke through all of the soft whispers. “NO! IT HURTS! I HATES YOU! It hurts! It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...” Slowly the cry died to a whimper and then was lost in the depths of thousands of other murmuring voices.
“Quiet her, can’t you?” This time the voice was distinct and familiar. It was Ushman Nuritam.
“Forgive us, Ushman.” The response came from a strong, female voice. “Rousma is young and still not broken into the collective of the issusha’im. But her potential is great. She has given us our first glimpses of the Rifter.”
Rousma. Ravishan’s sister. She had sounded like a little child. It was wrenching to hear her in such obvious pain and yet John knew there was nothing he could do. She was one of the issusha’im now, pared down to a skeleton, strung together with copper wires and carved with Payshmura incantations.
The issusha’im were kept in the southern convent of Umbhra’ibaye and yet it had seemed like they were just behind that door. There had to be some kind of gateway between the two places, here in the highest chamber of Rathal’pesha. He remembered Ushman Dayyid and Hann’yu both mentioning conversations with the ushman’im in the Black Tower of Nurjima. Perhaps there was more than one gate.
“I dislike her outbursts.” Ushman Nuritam’s harsh voice cut through John’s thoughts.
“She will be reprimanded,” the woman assured him.
“Very well. What of the Rifter?”
“Rousma has caught glimpses. We hope to bind him to the Kahlil within two years. That is, if a Kahlil has been ordained by then.”
“He will be.” Ushman Nuritam sounded slightly annoyed at the question. “The issusha’im have seen as much, have they not?”
“What they have seen changes, Ushman,” the woman replied. “You have heard them yourself. Since Fikiri’ro’Bousim
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