3: Black Blades by Ginn Hale Page B

and light all around him. Boats, perhaps. A wave of numb cold pulsed through him.
    He should get out of the city. Go somewhere better. Somewhere warm and light. Somewhere like the apple orchards that grew around the convent of Umbhra’ibaye. They’d been beautiful. It would be so nice to go there and see them again. The trees would be blooming.
    But he wasn’t going anywhere, he realized.
    He wasn’t even going to be able to stay conscious much longer. Panicked energy burst through him. He had to leave the Gray Space before he was too weak to escape it at all.
    He lifted his hand. He’d get out.
    And what then?
    Again his gaze fell to the black wound in his belly. It gleamed and dripped with a constant flow of black blood. Despite the muting numbness of the Gray Space, Kahlil felt the ache of it tearing through him. Outside the Gray Space it would be agony.
    This wasn’t a wound that a man recovered from.
    Only the Gray Space had allowed him to bear it this long. Now the best of his strength had gone. He could hardly see, hardly move. He was dying.
    He squeezed his fingers around the hilt of the yasi’halaun. It had grown heavier, fed by his blood. It almost felt warm against his icy skin. At least he had it again. He had accomplished that much. Neither Fikiri nor his lady would use it to open the Great Gate.
    He closed his eyes. There was no point in keeping them open. Only a dull dark haze came to him now.
    If he left the Gray Space, it wouldn’t save his life. It would only mean that his last moments would be ones filled with the brilliant red of his own blood and shattering pain. He would leave a corpse for someone to stumble across. And the yasi’halaun would be lying there in his hand.
    It was better to die here, hiding the yasi’halaun forever.
    A tremor of fear still moved through Kahlil. He didn’t want to die, but the choice wasn’t his. The pain and cold melted into a consuming darkness that engulfed him, surrounding him in soothing emptiness.

Chapter Twenty-Six
     
    A wrenching scream tore through Kahlil’s insentience—the sound of Gray Space being torn open. Then blinding, burning light exploded over him. He wanted to flinch back from it, but he couldn’t move. A weak rasping cry escaped him as the heat of living hands seared his frigid skin.
    He tried to pull himself away. His body remained limp. He couldn’t even make his eyes focus. All he saw were faint blurs of color—dirty red, pale yellow—then they were burned away by the sharp, blinding white light that poured down over him.
    Reflexively, Kahlil dragged in a desperate breath of the hot air. It tasted of sweat, blood, salt, and animals. It was too much. Kahlil didn’t want to take another breath, but his lungs demanded it. Agony flooded over him. It burst up from his abdomen and tore like lightning into his chest. Kahlil’s throat tightened around a reflex scream. It came out as a dry hiss.
    “He’s still breathing.” The man’s voice was rough and low. Jath’ibaye’s voice.
    “It’s too late.” The woman sounded older. She spoke with a careful softness. “I’m sorry, Jahn, but he—”
    “No! He won’t die. I don’t care what sorcery you have to use, Ji. Save him!”
    Why would Jath’ibaye want to save him? What did he want? Kahlil tried to clench his hand, to feel for the yasi’halaun. His fingers barely twitched.
    “I can’t bear his wound. It was made by the yasi’halaun. It would burn me to ash before I could heal him,” the woman quietly insisted. “I’m sorry.”
    “Then let me bear it.”
    “When the blood transfers, the yasi’halaun will feed—”
    “I don’t care,” Jath’ibaye cut her off. “Just bring him back to me.”
    “Jahn, he’s not—”
    “Do it!” Jath’ibaye flatly commanded.
    A shadow moved over Kahlil, blotting out the blazing light. A hand touched his cheek lightly. It was still too hot, and yet Kahlil didn’t care. Even the terrible pain in his belly seemed somehow