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

thirteen.
    Pivan nodded. “He has not yet entirely committed his heart to the priesthood.”
    “I can see that.” John considered the Thousand Steps again. That would be quite a distance to drag an unwilling boy.
    The distant pounding of the tahldi’s hooves became a thunder. The riders surged up to the top of the road and Mou’pin reined in his tahldi beside Pivan. Grinning, he tossed Fikiri down to his commander.
    Pivan caught the boy and set him on his feet directly in front of the steps.
    “Today you are called to serve Parfir. Honor him and honor his house.” Pivan shoved the boy forward but Fikiri resisted.
    “She’ll hate me if I go!” Fikiri cried out.
    Pivan leaned down close to the boy and whispered, “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
    Fikiri bolted forward, scrambling upward in a panic. Pivan straightened and then clapped John on the shoulder.
    “He’s all yours. Parfir help you.”
    John just started climbing.
    The moment Fikiri caught sight of John behind him, he threw himself ahead with greater speed. He slipped and caught himself, and then gave out pathetic groans and sobs. He sprinted up the steps with reckless energy. John didn’t try to catch him. He paced himself.
    Twice he called out to reassure Fikiri that he meant him no harm, but his booming voice only seemed to further frighten the boy. After that, John concentrated on not falling down the frost-slick steps. As he went higher, the frost solidified into thin sheets of ice.
    Steadily the air grew thinner and colder. Wind cut through John’s coat. The first dull ache began to play through the muscles of his thighs and calves.
    Behind him, Pivan and his rashan’im had receded to tiny shadows against the Holy Road.
    Ahead Fikiri dragged his feet up one step, swayed, and then slowly negotiated the next. He glanced back at John and, seeing how much distance John had gained, again bolted forward. He stumbled up a few steps and then slipped down to his hands and knees, sobbing. He curled his arms around his legs and sat there in a miserable, trembling heap.
    When John reached him, he knelt down and said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
    Fikiri’s face was red and wet from exertion and tears. His breath came in gasps and unappealing snuffles.
    “I want to go home,” Fikiri mumbled. He didn’t lift his eyes to John.
    “I know,” John told him. They had that in common at least.
    “Please, can we go home?”
    “I’m sorry, but no.” John slipped the sheepskin of daru’sira from his shoulder and handed it to Fikiri. “Drink some of this.”
    “What is it?”
    “Daru’sira.”
    Fikiri met John’s face for the first time. He seemed startled. He said, “You aren’t Alidas.”
    “No, I’m called Jahn.” John smiled, exploiting the innocuous nature of his Basawar name as best he could.
    “I had a hunting dog called Jahn.” Fikiri gave him a weak smile and glanced to the edges of John’s hood, where strands of his blonde hair hung against the black wool. “Are you a friend of my mother’s?”
    “I’ve met her. I’m the man who stopped your convoy on the Holy Road the night before you reached Amura’taye.”
    Fikiri looked at him blankly.
    “You were in a carriage on your way here,” John reminded him.
    “I remember the train station at Nurjima but after that all I remember is the priest’s voice, chanting prayers over and over…” Fikiri trailed off. Tears began to dribble down his cheeks.
    “Drink a little daru’sira. It’ll warm you up,” he told the boy.
    Fikiri sniffed and sipped the drink and then handed the skin back to John.
    “Do you think you can walk?” John asked.
    Fikiri’s mouth trembled. “Do I have to?”
    “Yes, you have to.” John felt like an utter asshole making the boy stand and keep going, but he needed Fikiri to get into Rathal’pesha. And anyway, Pivan wouldn’t offer Fikiri much of a welcome if he caught him dragging himself down the mountain.
    John helped Fikiri to his feet and