9: The Iron Temple by Ginn Hale

took better care of himself, I wouldn’t have volunteered to get arrested in the first place,” John replied. “I wouldn’t have taken that ushiri on in a fight.”
    Saimura gave John an annoyed sigh.
    “You know, before this, I was a little cold towards your lover. But now, I think the poor boy might deserve my sympathy,” Saimura said, smiling.
    “Ravishan?” John asked. He found it difficult to think of Ravishan as a poor boy.
    “It’s hell to care for a man with no sense of self-preservation.”
    “Very funny,” John replied. “I have a sense of self-preservation. I’m just more resilient than—”
    “Save it for someone who hasn’t picked bullets out of your back or sewn your throat closed.” Saimura lazily signed, Liar, at John. “You’ve got no sense at all. That’s what makes you so damn brave. It’s what makes you inspire people.”
    John was embarrassed into silence by the compliment, even if Saimura had delivered it as an insult.
     Saimura reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the bone talisman he’d given John months ago. He turned it between his fingers. Tiny lines of script gleamed as Saimura touched them. He tossed the stone to John.
     “Saimura, I can’t—” John caught the stone out of reflex.
    “It’s not for you,” Saimura said. “If you can’t heal any of the men at least you can give them my talisman. You may still be able to save their lives this way.”
    “Thank you.” John carefully tucked the talisman into his own pocket.
    “You’re welcome,” Saimura replied.
    Saimura closed his eyes and John let a comfortable quiet stretch between them. The sweet scent of straw floated up to John along with the deep, earthy musk of the tahldi. The ache of his wound receded. John closed his eyes. He smiled to himself, imagining Ravishan’s expression at being referred to as a ‘poor boy.’
    He missed him so much…
    From below he heard Fenn calling for Saimura. Saimura didn’t sit up. He shouted that he was up in the hayloft. Fenn came charging up the ladder. Snow still clung to his coat and boots. He had some kind of bird in his arms. John saw a white wing flutter against Fenn’s dark coat.
    “Jath’ibaye.” Fenn stopped at the sight of him. “Are you feeling better?”
    “Yes, much better. Thanks.” Earlier, Fenn had offered to teach John to fish from the ice-covered river. Fenn had proffered the invitation with a look of such hungry enthusiasm that John had immediately declined, using the wound in his chest as an excuse.
    Fenn glanced between the two big bales of hay where John and Saimura reclined. John knew his own clothes looked messy and quickly thrown together. Saimura’s coat hung open. He lay back in a languid, sleepy manner. Pieces of yellow straw were tangled in his auburn hair. More straw clung to John’s clothes.
    John caught Fenn’s brief frown and wondered what conclusion Fenn had drawn from the sight of the two of them.
     The bird in his hands almost shook one wing free. Fenn gripped it harder.
    “A message?” Saimura straightened and held out his hands for the bird. Fenn passed it to him.
    The moment Saimura’s hands closed around the bird’s body it went entirely still. John frowned at its strange, limp form. It didn’t appear to have a head or legs. Its long white wings sprawled out from a tiny cage of carved bones. A dark red stone hung between the bones like a heart.  
    Saimura whispered a word over the delicate bones and they spread open. He caught the stone in one hand and held it in silence.
    John and Fenn waited quietly, but as the time began to stretch on, John started to feel strange just gaping at Saimura while he worked at something that obviously required his full concentration.
    “How was the fishing?” John asked Fenn quietly.
    “Decent for winter,” Fenn replied in a whisper. “Two big sweetclaw. Sheb’yu gave them to her cook. I guess we’ll have them for dinner.”
    “It’ll be a nice change from all the