Free 3: Black Blades by Ginn Hale Page A

face nestled into a fetid weasel nest.
    He had lapsed into strange fantasies of floor buffers and dishwashers. Memories of spray-on oven cleaner and laundromats had flooded him with deep homesickness.
    Steadily, he had adjusted. He had grown used to handling the animals and learned shortcuts through the twisting, maze-like halls of the monastery. He had developed the ability to know which duties were important and which had been assigned to him simply because he was standing there. Most importantly, he had mastered the critical skill of appearing occupied with a duty when the prior was nearby.
    Now, the mere sound of the prior’s footsteps could wake John from a lazy doze and send him striding down a hall with an intensely focused expression. The prior seemed to judge most of the ushvun by the speed of their movements and the intensity of their expression. An open frown or scowl would result in a reprimand for a surly attitude, while grins, smiles or any wide-eyed expression of wonder were indicators of too much free time.
    John had found that wearing a slight frown, narrowing his eyes, and striding with a fast, deliberate pace down a hall was exactly what the prior liked to see him doing.
    Right now, the prior stood at the edge of the practice grounds, scowling. He was a small, plump man and his three honor braids always gleamed with far too much sweet oil. They seemed to slither down his back and often left a slight stain at the nape of his robes. Two silver flail-shaped pins on the shoulders of his robe indicated both his rank and primary pastime.
    The prior swung his left hand into the air, calling a new opponent down onto the muddy training ground.
    The new priest was a younger man John didn’t know well. He scowled as his feet sank into the cold mud. John, in contrast, slid one leg forward slightly, feeling the soil roll across his ankle. He could already sense where the best footing would be found.
    His opponent flipped his single black braid back from where it had hung over his shoulder. John’s own wild blonde hair was pulled back and tied with a strip of leather. Wisps of hair escaped and fell in his face. He tucked them back behind his ears.
    He wasn’t allowed to wear even a single braid yet. That would come after his initiation this summer. Until then, he was still just an initiate, a man of little importance and the butt of most practical jokes.
    Even old, bald priests like Samsango technically wore honor braids. Samsango’s were woven from goat hair and sewn to the shoulders of his robes. He had two, which placed him just below the prior in honor. But even without any, John’s position was better than that of a priest whose hair had been cut.
    For a year after his braids were shorn, a dishonored priest was treated with animosity and utter contempt. He received the most demeaning and dangerous work, often cleaning the latrines or replacing the cracked tiles of the steepest roofs. He ate the coarsest food, wore the roughest clothes, and slept beneath the thinnest blankets. He could be punished for any misfortune and had no right to speak in his own defense.
    John knew now that when they had first met, Ravishan’s short bristle of black hair had been a symbol of disgrace. Ravishan had been punished for some transgression against the Payshmura creed. John had no idea which one. The ushvun rarely spoke of the ushman’im or the ushiri’im. When they did, it was with awe and reverence.
    There had only been a few nights, while John had been serving guard duties high on the walls, when Ravishan had managed to visit him. Their time together had been brief and precious. John hadn’t wanted to ruin those pleasant few hours by asking questions that could embarrass Ravishan. Instead, they had talked about Nayeshi and shared gossip about their fellow priests.
    John wondered if Ravishan was watching from one of the raised walkways. He thought he could see other dark forms on the farthest walkways, but he couldn’t