Free 6: Broken Fortress by Ginn Hale Page A

unsettling surroundings. Kahlil allowed himself to take in Jath’ibaye’s private suite. It appeared to be laid out much like Kahlil’s own, with high ceilings and wide, deep window casings. But where the red marble inlay of Kahlil’s walls stood bare, Jath’ibaye’s were lined with tall wooden pharmacy shelves.
    Dozens of glass terrariums filled shelf after shelf as if displaying an inventory of summer’s verdancy. Beyond the gawking group of men and women gathered around Jath’ibaye’s table, Kahlil noted several large Wardian cases reaching nearly to the ceiling. Dwarf apple trees, scarlet-mouthed blossoms, and huge delicate ferns filled them. Kahlil thought he caught the flash of a butterfly’s wings.
    He didn’t know why, but he half expected to see Jath’ibaye standing there beside all that contained wilderness. But Jath’ibaye didn’t appear to be in his rooms at all.
    Kahlil’s attention snapped back to the representatives who had summoned him. Aside from Ji, they were the only people actually seated. The rest—their secretaries, pages and runners stood in clusters beside and behind their chairs.   
    Kahlil was glad for Besh’anya’s descriptions of them as it allowed him to identify each of them in an instant.  
    The aged but still surprisingly powerfully built woman seated on the far right was Gin’yu, representative of the Silverlake District. The bland, brown-haired thirty-something with his mouth hanging half open was obviously her son, Litivi, whose filial obedience apparently granted Gin’yu power over the humble shepherds of the Westcliff District as well as her own island populations.
    Looking past Litivi, Kahlil’s gaze fell upon an older man with graying red hair, dark eyes and a nose as hooked as an eagle’s beak. This had to be Tai’yu, the Fai’daum war hero who represented the vast taye-producing northlands, called the Greenhills. Besh’anya had claimed that he possessed a charming sense of humor, but the expression he wore as he regarded Kahlil seemed far from amused.  
    In sharp contrast to Tai’yu was his daughter, Hirran. She was young and startlingly beautiful. Kahlil could only assume that she’d inherited her graceful figure, long black hair and pixie nose from her mother. She represented the Iron Heights where the vast seams of iron that so many gaun’im craved were located. Hirran was also Besh’anya’s favorite cousin, apparently.  
    Last among them was Wah’roa, the commander of the kahlirash’im as well as the representative of the entire city of Vundomu. His slim build and slight stature could have been a boy’s, but the deep wrinkles lining his gaunt face bore testament to the tumultuous seventy-three years he’d lived through. Thin war braids held his fine white hair back against his skull. The red Prayerscar that Kahlil remembered blazing like a brand upon his brow had now faded to a dull garnet. He alone of the representatives gazed at Kahlil with an expression of open welcome.
    And Kahlil realized that Jath’ibaye and Ji weren’t the only ones who wanted Ravishan to have been brought back to them. He had to look away from the old man’s warm regard.    
    Two toned young women dressed in uniforms of the kahlirash’im stood behind Wah’roa’s chair. Both sported black tattoos of wedding bands across their fingers. Neither wore marriage chains. Kahlil had yet to see a woman in the Fai’daum northlands who did.  
      Beside Wah’roa, Ji crouched on a red, overstuffed chair. Against the full velvety curves of the chair, she looked faded and scruffy, like a hunting trophy that had been badly stuffed. Besh’anya’s brother Chyemon stood behind her.
      “Members of the council,” Ji addressed the room in a low soft voice, “this is Kyle’insira.”
    Wah’roa stood, with surprising grace for a man of his age. He held up his red, knotted fingers in the Payshmura sign of blessing. Instinctively, Kahlil returned the gesture. Their exchange