3: Black Blades Read Free

Ourath Lisam and Jath’ibaye.
    “You seem distracted this evening.” Ourath’s voice was tinged with concern. Light from the perfume lamp he carried glowed over his brown velvet jacket.
    “It’s nothing.” Jath’ibaye turned from the lamplight to survey the greenery beneath him. Though his long blonde hair was pulled back it still looked wild, as if it had been restrained in the midst of an escape. He wore clothes like those of his sentries: heavy and simple. But he carried no weapon that Kahlil could see.
    “Winter seemed so long this year,” Ourath commented.
    Jath’ibaye turned back to Ourath but said nothing. Despite his age—Kahlil knew he had to be fifty at the least, older most likely—he appeared as young as Ourath, more powerfully built and much fairer skinned, but still so young.
    Though it struck Kahlil that he should not look so very pale. He seemed almost ill. Then Kahlil recalled the poisoning Fikiri had mentioned.
    “It’s probably only a whim of the weather,” Ourath went on lightly. “I’m sure that it will be warm soon enough.”  
    When Jath’ibaye still made no reply, Ourath began toying with the handle of his perfume lamp. Steadily, he swung it from side to side, causing the chains holding the lamp to spin. The shadows surrounding him jumped and twisted into each other.
    “Careful.” Jath’ibaye caught the chains and slowly stilled Ourath’s lamp. “You don’t want to spill burning oil.”
    Those tiny silver chains had to be hot. They had to burn into Jath’ibaye’s palm, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. Ourath’s full lips spread into a deep smile.
    “I’m touched that you are so worried for me.” Then he gave a theatrical pout. “Or are you simply afraid that I might burn down your little forest?”
    “Whichever you like. Just don’t do it again.” Jath’ibaye released the chains. His voice conveyed the cold authority of a trainer disciplining a dog. Hardly the manner of the malleable effeminate Ourath had made him out to be during his secret dinner.
    “I didn’t mean to anger you,” Ourath said softly.
    “You didn’t.”
    “Really? You seem angry.”
    Jath’ibaye looked at Ourath as if he were looking through him. “Would it please you if I were? Would it make this easier?”
    “Of course it wouldn’t.” Ourath began to twist the lamp handle again but then stopped himself. “You know I want you to be happy.”
    Jath’ibaye said nothing. Then again, Kahlil supposed he might become quite taciturn himself had he just been poisoned.
    Ourath sighed and said, “You’re annoyed because I announced that you would be attending the Bell Dance, aren’t you?”
    Again, Jath’ibaye didn’t respond, and now Kahlil began to wonder if his own questions would be met with the same stony silence Ourath currently enjoyed. He hoped not.
    “I’m not asking you to attend because I want you to suffer.” Ourath shook his head and his red hair gleamed like polished copper. “And inviting you certainly hasn’t done my standing any good. But this is more important than a little social discomfort. If you do come, it will be the first real, meaningful, peaceful gesture since the truce. The Bell Dance is the night we celebrate the alliances of the noble houses. If you attend, I think it would demonstrate to the gaunsho’im that you respect their authority. They need to feel that you aren’t just out to destroy them. You say that you want real peace between—”
    “I’ll go.” Jath’ibaye cut him off. “Just don’t expect a miracle to come of it.”
    Ourath gave Jath’ibaye another handsome smile.
    He said, “Thank you.”
    Jath’ibaye simply turned again to stare down at the trees and greenery beneath him. Kahlil squinted up, trying to read his expression. Then he realized that Jath’ibaye returned his gaze. Jath’ibaye stood there, still and silent, looking through the darkness directly at him. A flush of embarrassment flooded Kahlil and he had no idea