Black Wings Beating

by Alex London

  In her mind, she saw her father towering over Brysen, his thin back a loose nest of bright red lines cut by the whip. She saw herself cowering with her mother, no one coming to save Brysen, no one offering to protect him. She’d felt that burning breath then, too, but had fought it back, had been afraid to let it out. Had sworn she would never let it out. Even now, she was still afraid of it. But she could not hold it in.

  “Shyehnaah,” she exhaled, and the strange word burned her mouth as she spoke it.

  Shara shrieked.

  The goshawk broke from the battle above and dove, furious, at the Orphan Maker’s face. She hit him with enough force to break his nose. Kylee felt the impact in her own bones. He yelled and lost his grip on Brysen, who wasted no time spinning away and diving for his knife. Shara dug a talon into the long-hauler’s cheek and the other into his scalp.

  “Argh!” the man screamed as the blood from his forehead blinded him. Brysen used the moment to lunge forward, blade up. Shara took off from the man’s face as Brysen sliced the big man’s leather leash clean through.

  Above, the Orphan Master’s kestrel flew free, flapping away toward the horizon.

  “Match!” the battle boys around the pit called out. “That’s the match! Brysen wins!”

  Brysen looked up at the cheering throng, breathless and grinning. Shara swooped down to land on his extended fist and he gave her a morsel from his vest pocket, praising her, although it was the meat she liked, not the praise.

  He met Kylee’s eyes and winked, as if she’d had nothing to worry about, as if he’d been in control during the whole match, when, of course, it’d been her who’d saved him. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he chose not to know. It had been such a long time, maybe he’d forgotten.

  Next to Kylee, Vyvian stood, not watching Brysen celebrate but watching her.

  “What?” Kylee asked, her cheeks feeling hot. “What are you looking at?”

  Vyvian cocked her head. “Nothing,” she said, curiosity tugging the corners of her mouth. “Wild fight. Surprising end.”

  “Yeah,” Kylee told her. “Good thing Shara’s so loyal to my brother.”

  “Good thing,” Vyvian replied, the weight of what neither of them was saying perched between them. Kylee looked back at her brother.

  He’d turned to find Dymian, and his face had sunk. She followed her brother’s gaze to the trainer. He wasn’t cheering like the rest of the battle boys, and he wasn’t running into the pit to embrace Brysen—which was what Brysen really wanted. Instead, Dymian had sidled up to Nyck, counting out bronze to pay for his … loss?

  Of all the grub-sucking finch-faced mud-eaters! He’d bet against her brother. He’d bet Brysen would lose.

  And Brysen saw. Brysen knew. All the joy of the victory drained away from her brother’s body, and his shoulders slumped. Even the gray of his hair seemed to grow more ashen. Leave it to Brysen to win a miraculous match and break his own heart at the same time.

  Her brother was so fixated on Dymian in the crowd, and Kylee was so fixated on him, and Vyvian so fixated on her that none of them saw the bloodied Orphan Maker step behind Brysen until it was too late.

  In the long-hauler’s shadow, Brysen turned just in time to get a fist in the face that knocked him straight back into the dirt. Shara launched herself as he fell, but the long-hauler slapped the bird down midflap, knocking her back into Brysen. Then he grabbed up his knife and cut the slack battle line attaching Brysen to Shara. He squinted through his blood-streaked eyes.

  “I’m gonna slice the skin off your skull, boy!” he roared as he came at Brysen, knife up. Shara, startled, used Brysen’s chest to launch herself away, untethered.

  “Shara!” Brysen groaned.

  “Stop!” Nyck shouted, his voice breaking. “The match is called!”

  But the long-hauler didn’t heed that rule. Wounded and enraged, he kicked Brysen in the side and slashed at him.

  Then the battle boys rushed the pit.

  4

  There were eight battle boys in all with Nyck in the lead, each of them dressed in colorful vests and brightly striped pants, trying to outdo each other with the lavishness of their outfits. Last ice-wind, when Nyck got a tattoo of a peacock’s regalia around his neck, the others rushed to get their own ink—scenes from the Epic of the Forty Birds, pictures of lithe men and women in various stages of undress, snippets of poetry in the most vibrant colored inks the village tattoo artists could create. They had feathers in their ears and bracelets made of hollow bones. Even the handles of their knives were decorated in garish colors. Rushing for the pit with blades drawn, they looked like a flock of bloodthirsty parrots.

  The other long-haulers jumped in to take the Orphan Maker’s side, but they were outnumbered. The battle boys flanked them.

  “Back off, or we’ll slice you from crotch to crest,” Nyck warned, revealing a bone-handled hunter’s blade. Nyck was smaller than the other battle boys but spoke big enough for all of them. “This isn’t one of your route houses on the plains. We’ve got rules.”

  It dawned on the long-haulers that they were indeed strangers here, and to break a rule at the Broken Jess was to incur the wrath of the Tamir family. The Tamir family did not abide cheating at their establishment—unless they were the ones doing it—and they encouraged the battle boys to be their enforcers in exchange for unlimited milk stout and hunter’s leaf. If the haulers hoped to get out of the Six Villages with their goods and all of their limbs, they’d do well to back down. The Tamir family was as close to nobility as the Six Villages had, and the taxes they paid to the Sky Castle ensured that they could do whatever they wanted in their small domain. A dead long-hauler or three would be politely ignored by the kyrgs. The same, however, was true for Brysen. If his throat was slit today, business at the Broken Jess wouldn’t even slow.

  “It’s not worth the blood,” Nyall warned the long-haulers.

  Nyall was a tall, broad-shouldered battle boy with skin nearly as black as raven feathers and grass-green eyes that matched the bright feather in his ear. Of all the battle boys, Nyall was the only one Kylee would call a friend. He’d once stood down the rocky slope from her house and whistled birdsong toward her door. Her father had chased him off, thinking he’d been whistling for Brysen, and then he gave her brother a black eye for “dabbling in romance like some seed-eating dove.” Nyall had felt terrible about the misunderstanding and made himself their friend from that day on.

  He didn’t make his bronze betting, thieving, or working for the Tamirs like the other battle boys but instead had a decent job at Dupuy’s Equipery selling hawk furniture. He’d make a respectable Six Villager one day, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fight. That meant that when he chose to fight, he meant to win.

  The bloodied Orphan Maker looked like he might charge again, but the hardness in Nyall’s eyes and the eagerness in Nyck’s blade made him hesitate.

  The long-hauler lowered his weapon and let his friends mop the blood from his brow. Almost as one, the crowd exhaled—half-relieved, half-disappointed—and the business of the battle pits resumed. Bronze chips and rounds passed between dirty fingers with clinks and clanks.

  “Good choice!” Nyck grinned as the long-haulers left the pit. “Now, who had ‘win by line’?” he called out, scrambling back up the pit’s side and reaching for the money pouches he wore on his belt. He ran the small pits for the Tamir family, and collecting the winnings was as important as enforcing the rules—probably more important. The rules existed to bring in bronze, not the other way around. “That’s two rounds and a half to you, and one round to you, and one quarter—pfft, some bet—to you. You had Shara dead, Rolly, don’t go skulking away. That’s three rounds and a chip to me … you can’t kill that bird.”

  “Is your brother okay?” Vyvian rested her hand on Kylee’s shoulder.

  In all the action, Brysen hadn’t moved. He just lay there in the dirt looking at the giant mural behind him and the pale afternoon sky overhead. Shara circle
d high, calling “Ki! Ki!” shrill and sharp. The severed battle line trailed behind her like a sad banner in a lonely parade. Brysen stared at her and the blue-gray void beyond her.

  The hawk flapped three times, then settled herself down on the top of the painted cliff, and fluffed and preened her gray feathers. She tucked her talons beneath her and turned her head to rest it in the feathers on her back.

  Kylee left Vyvian and slid down to Brysen in the pit. She picked up his black-talon knife from the dirt and gave it back to him.

  “Did you prove what you needed to?” she asked.

  “I won,” Brysen grunted, pushing himself up and dusting off as he took the blade back. He had a small dot of blood on his neck and a trickle from his nose. His eyes searched the crowd above, and his sneer faltered. He bit his lip.

  “He’s not worth it,” she told her brother without having to say Dymian’s name. He was always perched on the invisible edge of Brysen’s mind. “Anyone who’d bet against you isn’t worth a spit.”

  He fixed his eyes back on her. “You’ve never shown him any respect.”

  “The scuzzard’s never earned any.”

  “Don’t call him that.”

  Dymian was a real hawk master, trained and sealed at the Sky Castle, the second child of some Uztari noble, but he was a gambler and a liar, and his family had cast him out at the end of his apprenticeship and forced him to make his own way in the world. He’d made his own way to the Six Villages, and Brysen followed him around like he was tethered to his glove.

  His disgrace and his youth meant he was cheap and available as a trainer, and Brysen had to become a decent falconer because Kylee had no desire to be. She’d care for the birds of prey because that was the business they were in—at least until they paid off what their father died owing the Tamirs—but she didn’t want anything to do with actually flying the birds. So she found money they didn’t have so they could pay for the cut-rate hawk master she didn’t like who was supposed to teach Brysen all the things he didn’t know.

  He’d managed to learn a lot about birds, far less about people. His was a soaring soul, longing to fly higher than his wings could carry him, higher than the winds of his world allowed, but he never let a little thing like real life get in the way of his longing.

  “Well done!” Dymian appeared at Brysen’s side and wrapped him in his arms, pressing the slighter boy into his chest before handing him his jacket back. “I’m proud of you.”

  Brysen looked away as he put the jacket back on and pulled a few green hunter’s leaves from its pocket. He shoved them into his mouth. “I almost lost.”

  “But you didn’t!” Dymian smiled. He planted a kiss on the top of Brysen’s head. “You showed heart; you showed patience. That is what great falconry’s all about.”

  “In that case,” Kylee interrupted. “You’ve taught him all you can? No need for more lessons?”

  Dymian laughed and ran a hand through his chestnut hair, smiled at her. “He’s got a few skills left to master.” Never one to talk himself out of a payday. “You should train with us.”

  “I’m sure you’d love to get paid double,” Kylee replied. This was an old conversation, one Dymian wouldn’t drop.

  “Ah, you’d get the family discount. We’d love to have you join the great and noble tradition of falconry. A falconer never goes hungry, after all.”

  “That’s not true,” Kylee replied. “The hawks eat better than we do.”

  “Train with me. I know talent when I see it.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” she snapped at him, wishing words could pierce flesh as deeply as a talon.

  Dymian’s sharp jaw clenched and his eyes darted to Brysen, who kept his face blank. “I win some; I lose some,” he said quietly.

  Brysen looked down at the ground. “Why’d you—?” he began, but was cut off when Nyck appeared between them, grinning wide and clapping Brysen on the back so hard, Kylee winced.

  “Well won, Bry! You showed that dirt hauler how we fight here in the Six!” He dropped some bronze into Brysen’s pocket. Brysen shrugged but tapped the bronze to feel their weight. He wanted to pay off their debts just as much as Kylee did, but he’d rather earn the bronze at the pits than at the market. There were no cheering crowds at market tents. Glory was the coin he truly craved, and actual coins were just the most ready measure for it.

  “And, Dymian!” Nyck guffawed. “Another loss on the books, huh? You can’t even win when your boy here does it for you!” His teeth were stained leaf-green, and his eyes darted, prey-like. If he’d been clearheaded, he’d have kept his mouth shut.

  The money pouches strung around his belt jangled. He was probably the only person at the Broken Jess who could show off the coins he carried without getting robbed, because none of them were his. Just to remind any would-be cutpurses whose bronze he carried, each pouch was held on his belt with a counterweight carved in the Tamir emblem: a rosewood eagle clutching bone-white doves in its talons, a single watchful ruby for an eye. Each purse’s counterweight was worth more than what the pouches contained, and Nyck wore five of them.

  “What kind of fool bets against his boyfriend?” Nyck laughed, not bothering to read the frowns on all their faces. “Gonna lose his shirt one day.”

  Dymian looked like he was about to punch Nyck, and Kylee wanted to punch both of them. The trainer tried to break the tension with an insouciant smile aimed straight for Brysen. “Would losing my shirt be such a bad thing?”

  Brysen’s smooth cheeks colored, even though he stayed focused on his feet. He spat a green glob into the dirt.

  Among hawks, males—called tiercels—are about a third the size of females. The injustice of humanity was that most of the battle boys at the Broken Jess were bigger than Kylee. If she punched one of them in the teeth, the rest of their flock would be on her faster than a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Battle-boy loyalty was charming … until it was painful.

  She jabbed Dymian in the chest. “You bet against my brother again, your shirt will be the only part of you they find.”

  Nyck, who Kylee had known since before he was a battle boy and before he was called Nyck, knew when to run into a fight and when to back away from one. He chose, wisely, to back away now. “Uh … I’ll see you later. I gotta get some … uh … cheese … for my … uh … mice … and some … er … mice for the … birds … uh … yeah…” He left so fast, his shadow had to stretch to catch up.

  Dymian stepped back from Kylee’s finger and held open his palms in surrender. “Some mood you’re in. All I said was that you should train with us.”

  “She doesn’t even like birds,” Brysen interrupted. “And we don’t need her around clipping our wings.”

  “Fair enough.” Dymian nodded, knowing better than to push it.

  “Why don’t you help us get Shara down?” Kylee suggested, pointing up to the bird on the boulder. “Show us how it’s done?”

  “I don’t need any help getting her down,” Brysen grunted.

  He put the fingers of his right hand to his lips and whistled three times—three shrill bursts. Then he held his gloved fist out to show Shara where to land.

  She didn’t come down.

  Dymian glanced to the hawk on the top of the cliff, then to Brysen. “If you take a piece of—” he began.

  “I know what to do—don’t worry about it.” Brysen stopped him.

  Subtle as Brysen thought he was, he was obviously embarrassed and clearly wanted Dymian to go. He also very clearly wanted Dymian to stay. The hawk master looked to Kylee for guidance.

  Her stare was as impassive as a hawk’s. No one toyed with her brother’s emotions and then got an assist from her.

  “I’d love to help you, Bry,” Dymian said at last. “But I’ve got a meeting with some … clients. Can’t be late.” He locked his thumbs together and crossed his hands, holding his fingers out like the wings of a bird, then pressed them against his chest.

  “Sure, Dymian,” Brysen said. He returned the g
esture.

  Dymian gave the same salute to Kylee, but she did not return it. He shook his head and left them, disappearing through the kitchen and into the dim interior of the Broken Jess.

  “Thanks a lot,” Brysen grumbled at his sister. “I won today. Why’d you have to ruin it with one of your moods?”

  “I’m not in a mood.” Kylee hated the assumption that boys always made when she got mad, like her emotions weren’t a part of her thinking mind like theirs but were rather tied to the moons and the winds like an animal’s. Surely her own brother knew better.

  Brysen whistled for Shara again. Three more staccato bursts, which caused the goshawk to look down at him but not to move. Hawks didn’t respond to calls unless they decided it was in their interest to do so. They weren’t dancing rats or juggling bears. They were even less like dogs, who wanted nothing more than to please their masters. Hawks stayed with people because it was convenient for them to do so. They flew to the fist because it meant food and shelter and comfort, but they had the run of the skies. They could fly anywhere they chose.

  A falconer’s thrill came, in part, by being chosen. A falconer’s heartache could come just as easily.

  In these foothills, the first Uztari who crossed the mountains were also the first to train birds of prey to hunt and to fight. They fought off and exiled the Altari, whose bird worship forbid falconry, and built a new civilization in their place. From the ancient sky cults of the nomads to today’s kyrgs at the Sky Castle, the nation of Uztar was held together by the lore of the falcon, by the love of beak and talon, and by faith in the ancient flocks who had led them to the valley—a faith that was not always rewarded.

  Shara wouldn’t come down until she was good and ready, and all the whistles and pleas from Brysen wouldn’t change her mind.

  “Can I help?” Kylee offered as gently as she could.