Free 2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows by Ginn Hale Page A

even better than the Beer Barn radio jingle had.
    He said, “Do you really have to ask that?”
    Pivan gave a slight laugh, then said, “There is one other thing. It is a sacred word. It must be said when you reach Heaven’s Door.”
    “All right.”
    “It should be Fikiri’s to say but I don’t know how much of a bad influence his mother may have been on him.”
    “He may not say it?”
    “His voice might betray him or his tongue might be cursed.” Pivan turned his attention down the road. “It’s true what they say about her. She has Eastern blood and witch’s bones.”
    Two days ago John would’ve had no idea what Pivan was talking about, but since then he had overheard numerous conversations about Lady Bousim. As he traveled from the Bousim pilgrimage house to the prayer shrine, he had listened to the stories and gossip as they had spread and transformed. The lady had grown from a willful wife who shamed her husband and al lowed her silver wedding chains to tarnish into an Eastern witch. Stories of how she enchanted her husband, seduced priests, and even cast spells over her son abounded.
    Pivan never started any of the rumors but he did nothing to stop them either.
    “I don’t think Lady Bousim would harm her own child,” John said.
    “No, but she would go to great lengths not to lose him. She loves the boy as much as her husband despises him.”
    John disliked hearing this. He hadn’t met Fikiri but he knew that the boy was only thirteen, too young to be despised by anyone, but especially by his own father. John knew all too well how badly that mere idea could hurt a young man.
    “You think I’ll have to say the word for him then?” John asked.
    Pivan gave a silent nod. John waited, but Pivan kept his lips pressed tightly closed.
    “I can’t say the word if I don’t know what it is,” John reminded him.
    “It is sacred and divine. You must respect it, for it is Parfir’s own tongue. You must only speak it when you are worthy of him   in your body and soul.”
    “I understand,” John replied too quickly.
    “No!” Pivan rounded on him and for a moment John thought Pivan might strike him. “No, you can’t understand. This is a bargain for you but for other men it is their calling. Parfir’s will smolders within them; his word lights their souls and burns through them. This word was given to me by such a man. It was his last word.”
    John bowed his head. He knew better than to let Pivan see his face. Countless conversations with Laurie had made him wary of any person wearing that expression of fixed intensity and speaking with a strained, aching tone of conviction.
    John didn’t doubt that Pivan felt a deep reverence, but the best John could do was respect a spirituality he didn’t share.
    “I will give you this word for Fikiri’s sake, because his mother should not be able to bar him from heaven.” Pivan drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes, almost as if he were in pain.
    “I-am-here-my-lord.” Pivan slurred the English words together but John still recognized them. He was so surprised to hear them coming out of Pivan’s mouth that out of reflex his head jerked up to make sure that it had been Pivan speaking.
    An expression of relief swept over Pivan’s features and he smiled at John.
    “So, his word does touch you.” Pivan closed his eyes. “Then this is his will.”
    John didn’t trust himself to respond. Luckily a movement on the road caught his eye.
    “Someone’s coming.”
    Six rashan’im, including Mou’pin, rode their tahldi hard up the road. Dust and frost flew up beneath the animals’ hooves and their fast breath rolled out in white clouds like smoke from a steam engine.
    A terrified boy with short dark blonde hair clung to the neck of Mou’pin’s tahldi. His heavy black coat and hood made his skin look sickly pale. Tears streaked his face.
    “Gaunan Fikiri’in’Bousim?” John asked. He was smaller than John had expected and seemed younger than