Umar cut the man’s hands free, his laugh biting as vinegar. The man worked his arms under Kyrin without using his hands and pushed himself to his feet, panting. When he swayed, the floor dipped under Kyrin with a sickening lurch. He turned from Umar’s satisfied smile, and a door gaped before them.
Their tormentor’s steps retreated, then Kyrin was inside a stinking black place. The man let her down. And the dark took her away.
§
She woke on her face on a mat that smelled like it had not seen water since its woven birth. Grey light came from somewhere above. Cold water dribbled over her neck, tickling.
Someone hummed, deep and soft. Hands gripped her shoulders and turned her over. Kyrin stiffened and scrambled away from the man with the almond eyes. The dawn-cold wall nudged her back.
A slant eyed Steppes’ horse-lord, here? They did unspeakable things to their enemies: skinned them alive, drank their blood . . . yet they kept falcons.
He had kept her from the hard floor, but for Umar, for Umar’s snapping-eyed lord, or for himself? He might be a hand or two of years older than she. His legs were not bowed from riding from birth, as the horse-lords’ were said to be. He had no bow in this room, only a leather bag behind him on his pallet.
The room smelled of sharp herbs, old sweat, blood, and the faintest scent of sickness. The man’s eyes were intent despite their half-lidded appearance, in a face as smooth as her father’s. Yet he looked weathered. Maybe it was the finest of wrinkles about the corners of his eyes, or his mouth that smiled even in pain. The white in his hair above one ear did not match the strength in him. Mother said white hair sometimes came early, but men did not lose their desire—Kyrin’s throat tightened. If she were a falcon she could fly—out—far over the ocean.
He was staring, then looked away, and his sigh did not comfort her. At last he cupped her cold hands in his, leaving her room to escape. His grasp was warm. He had washed away the blood from the biting ropes, and one of his wrists was thick as both of hers. She might die in those hands, or find room for her wings. Kyrin bit her lip till the blood came. Jesu!
§
Pity shook Tae. He reached for her and she cringed. “I will not hurt you.” His Master above had sent this one. Not quite a child nor yet a woman. A bruise marred her forehead above amber eyes wide and dark with desolation. Thick, honey-dark hair frustrated its woven band, cupping her pale cheeks and sharp chin. By her wool cloak of heavy green cloth she was well-born.
He leaned forward, keeping his hands down, and kissed her forehead, hoping her father did so. Her face crumpled, and she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck hard enough to strangle.
He had been right, then. He rocked her, his hand on her back, cradling her head on his shoulder. “Shh, shhh.” After a while she hiccupped between softer sobs and pulled free. He let her go.
“This—must come off.” He prayed his pain-roughened voice was kind, as his commanding fingers tugged at her soaking cloak. He had feared earlier, by Umar’s word and the blood smell about her in the dark, that she was mortally hurt. But her skin had been unbroken under the wide red stain on her tunic. He was glad she had been asleep for that, or she might fear him yet more. He pulled the filthy cloak away.
She rubbed her nose with a sniff, and her fingers wandered down to a thin red wound gaping across her neck. He reached out instinctively, and she flinched. Her cloak had hidden that cut—made by a blade. He rummaged for his jar of salve in his herb bag and opened it, dabbed some on her fingers and motioned to her neck. “Put it on.”
She spread the thick salve to his satisfaction, biting her lip white, and then let him wind a loose bandage around her neck without protest. No more tears.
He eyed her. One of the people of the Book, Umar said. It might mean much, or nothing. He thought it meant much, but she did not need his questions after Umar’s heavy hands.
Weary in every bone, Tae dragged a wooden bucket close and lifted out a dripping rag. His hands were swollen, and it dropped back with a splash into the seawater, so he fished again.
The girl sat with her arms around her legs. He hoped no ill humors of water swelled her head as often happened after a severe blow. Under the early light from the crack of the open hatch, her gaze followed his hands while he bound his ankles and wrists, and hissed between his teeth from the seawater sting. He should be used to stares, but he wished she would turn away. As if she heard his thought, the others, visible in the growing dawn, pulled her attention from him.
His seven companions occupied the other rush mats. Two of them were from the girl’s land, and five had been Moor pirates who attacked off the coast of Andulus. Tae shook his head. His master was foolish. Pirates do not make good slaves, and soon they would recover.
Two of the men watched Tae, always. The woman from the village some way up the coast that Ali had raided muttered in her corner. Listening to Winfrey’s labored breath, Tae squeezed his rag hard. The other girl taken with her had been unmarked. Alaina would stay whole, at least while he lived.
He sighed. Sick or whole, all were in his charge. Unfit slaves were thrown into the sea. He had not seen any thrown yet, and the Master of the stars willing, he never would.
Ali might order him to make the youngest Moor a eunuch. He hoped not, for the operation often killed. And Abul’s arm was healing fast.
And this little one. She shivered, fingering her throat. Tae set a dry bandage around his ankle. “That strike was a near kill. It is a bad place for a scar, for you.”
She swallowed when she caught his eyes. From his herb bag he offered her part of his barley bread and a salted fish.
“I thank you.” Her voice was raw and soft. What would she sound like when she healed? Would she train for a singer? But that blade wound—he shook his head. The other one, Alaina, had red-gold hair and eyes not often seen: hazel-green, full of mischief. This one’s eyes were amber in the light. They darkened to jet when she looked past him into shadow, at Winfrey. He peered closer. It must be the head blow. She shifted and turned her head.
Tae tied up the rest of his food; he would wait till his stomach quieted. The girl needed good voices now. Huen would do better, but she was not here.
“You are well come.” His voice sounded loud even to him. She started then put a hand to the side of her head, and Tae winced. It was harder for him to speak without command than it was to understand her tongue.
“I am Kyrin Cieri,” she whispered. “Who are you?” She stared at the food in her hands, and gnawed at the fish, watching him.
“I am Tae Chisun.” She stopped chewing. Did she catch his formal tone? He must not forget himself again. He bowed his head. “I am a healer—a slave.” He leaned forward. She no longer had a child’s soul, and he would speak to her so. “How did you come here, daughter of Cieri?”
She told him of the raiders in the storm and her mother. “I should have hit his arm—then she would have her sword, and we—we would be riding home.” Her whisper trailed away.
“You have no training in the sword.”
“I should have tried . . .”
“You would have fallen. Let your heart rest. There were too many.” He stared at his hands. Ali Ben Aidon, master and man stealer: let him die with no one to give him honor. Tae rubbed his chin. That was not a forgiving thought. Creator of all, cover me. Kyrin’s father was a lord and a warrior by her word, but with no knowledge of the sea. He would not come in time.
Ali raided Kyrin’s shores to make up his loss of food and furs that the first storm had taken. He would burn her stronghold, it was his way. Tae snorted.
His master went nowhere without his hakeem, his esteemed healer, and then there were the pirates. And now three women.
To his master’s eyes, Winfrey was spoiled goods, with nothing but the strength of her arms to bring him gold at her sale, but the other two were virgin. It did not mea
n a peaceful voyage. Ali would be almost pleased to find them spoiled, to bring him pain, to throw his lack of honor and the weakness of the Master of the stars in his face.
“Why do they hurt you?” Kyrin pointed at one of the posts visible outside the door.
Tae’s smile felt crooked. But he need tell only enough for her need, and the tale might comfort her.
“I am a hwarang of the Silla Kingdom in the East, far beyond the seas. I left my land, for I offended my Huen’s father, my kuksun, my general.” Her way of tilting her head like a listening bird was very like Huen. What he would trade to touch Huen’s loving face. He cleared his throat. “I journeyed to the Holy City seeking Hebrew poetry, herb culture, and a higher knowledge of medicine, for I am a healer, a hakeem. I stayed with a merchant and his family for the summer, winter, and spring until a trader, jealous of the gold I brought my friend, seized him. He dragged him before the court on false charges. The Master of the stars decided; the judge listened, and my friend and his family were spared. I went with the desert caravans to Baghdad to draw my enemy’s jealousy away.”
There was pain in her intent eyes, in her finger that scratched agitatedly at her bandage; pain for him. Tae said in a lighter voice, “You may see the round city, when our master Ali Ben Aidon trades there. The caliph’s city is rich with merchants and goods and learning—and poetry.
“In the caravanserai outside Baghdad, I guested with a merchant who wanted a draught for his wife. After a cup of farewell tea, I woke on Ali’s ship, far from the round city; I still do not know the drug the merchant used. Ali traded so far north as the North-men, then we turned back. A storm seven sunrises ago swept everything on deck into the sea. We were hungry. Ali found a village on your shore, and his men killed—many.
Two boys ran by me. I hid them under a slaughtered cow left to bleed out in a cart of straw. Some of Ali’s men saw them climbing out. Eager for sport, they were too quick for the boys. In the dusk the men did not see me. Not quick enough for two of them. I had a sword.”
Kyrin eyed him up and down. Tae held his quirking mouth still with effort. At most, he guessed the top of his head might reach her warrior father’s shoulder.
“On his last raid, Ali ordered Umar to use the ropes. I make a good warning before the door.” He made himself smile. It hurt less than hitting the floor with his fist. The boys had been—barely—men. “I am a healer who can also scribe, and Ali tells me his wife needs my herbs. So I live, Ali Ben Aidon’s hakeem.”
Her eyes slid to his bandages.
“I will heal. It is my skill. You sleep here.” He patted her mat. “The others are not safe.”
She nodded, her eyes dark again.
Turning on her side, she put her rolled cloak under her head, drawing up her feet in their small skin shoes. Tae laid another mat over her and settled, easing himself down cross-legged. He would do what he could about her fear. This was the last raid, if Ali listened to the shipmaster about the damage to his vessel and the coming storms.
Tae stared out the door, humming a martial tune Huen composed and played for him the night they bound themselves to each other. How her small hands had danced over the strings! Her voice, soft as a dove, lilting as a lark’s, held poetry of rhythm to the full.
4
Falcon
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted . . . ~Psalms 34:18
Mist surrounded Kyrin in an abandoned room. Cold stone gritted in her hands. The raider lifted his sword—she threw. The blade fell—she ran and gained no ground—and her mother tumbled.
Light bloomed red in the mist around Kyrin. She was alone. The light grew into a blaze of cliffs under the sun, swallowing her sight. She covered her face, stumbled, and steadied herself against a mossy tree trunk.
She stood in a spread of alders and young oaks bordering a sunny glade. In the grass under the king oak her mother leaned down, picking wild flowers. She cradled bluebells and delicate stars of white and pink in a living heap in her left arm. Her crooked hand was straight and whole. She raised her head with a laugh, her smile glad.
Kyrin’s heart leaped—she opened her mouth.
Under a clump of sapling oaks behind her mother, tall ferns stirred in the shade. Green-gold eyes stared from the fronds. The tiger crept forward, his viper head low, black and orange striped body tight to the earth, tail flicking, flicking. His eyes locked on Kyrin with desire for more than her flesh. In him was an endless hunger: to bring her nightmares and swallow her dreams.
Kyrin’s mother straightened. With a buzzing snarl, the tiger whipped by her. She smiled at his back and sat in the bluebells under the oak. She laid her flowers in her lap, her fingers stained with green. “The Master of all stands with you, Kyrin!”
Ears flat, the tiger reared, his massive forepaws flashing fingerbreadths from Kyrin’s face. He roared, “Coward!”
The stench of the meat-eater made her sick. She could not move; she was made of ice. Kyrin screamed against the numbness holding her. In the king oak a falcon lifted her wings. She dove toward Kyrin with a shriek.
Leaning back, Kyrin raised her arm in helpless defense. The falcon screamed again, brushing the tiger’s ears with her passage; then her wingbeats whipped Kyrin’s hair, and her fierce talons gripped her arm to alight.
With a spitting yowl, the tiger turned from Kyrin and sprang toward her mother, his snarling mouth wide. She laughed in his teeth, a joyous strong peal.
Kyrin reached out. “Mother!”
Fog twisted her mother, the tiger, and the falcon in dark wool, pulling them into nothingness. She was falling.
She opened her eyes, her heart thumping. A shaft of sun heated her cheek. The mats across from her were deserted. The wood floor dipped, loosing her stomach. The ship.
Her head pounded with an echo of “coward, coward, coward.” Her eyes pricked with grit and thorns. Her mother was gone, like the dream. But oh! She had been so full of joy and not afraid of the tiger. She had laughed—laughed in the face of death.
Kyrin sat up, and froze.
On her other side a girl studied her, her hazel eyes deep as a summer river. Studying her as if she were a dog making out whether Kyrin was a friend or an enemy. Kyrin smoothed her tunic over her knees.
Gold curls blew above the girl’s freckled nose, tumbled around her heart-shaped face by a breeze wandering from the hatch. Her slim legs peeped from a too-short linen tunic. Impossible to tell what color it had faded from, if it had ever been dyed. Gooseflesh bumped her brown calves, scarred with harvest and berrying scratches. Kyrin’s clean cloak lay folded in her lap.
“You are awake. I’m glad. It has been . . .” Her eager voice fell on Kyrin’s raw heart with the cleansing sting of honey, until she stopped short and peered at her.
Kyrin dropped her gaze, sitting again in her mother’s airy chamber beside Celine, each bent over a yard-wide embroidery hoop. Rain pounded outside. Esther and Myrna sat with Lady Willa under the light of the thin window.
“Kyrin, let me see your work.” Her mother smiled, and Kyrin hesitated then held up her robin’s-egg-blue pillow cover, destined for her dower chest. Her mother pushed a dark strand of hair out of her face. “Good. Your stitches are smaller than your wont. Aunt Medaen will be pleased.”
Esther’s absent nod of approval was sweet as mead to Kyrin until she bent her head to Myrna’s loud whisper, “Falcons, again? Does she want to be one?” And Esther smiled with a corner of her mouth, stifling her laugh without disturbing her summer-straw rope of thick hair. Celine giggled.
Kyrin pressed her lips together and laid her embroidery in her lap as if it were a robin’s egg in truth, staring at her birds.
Why was it so horrible to love falcons? They were beautiful and strong and true. True to themselves and the one who created them. She raised her hoop between her and the others and turned her head; she would not get wet spots on her birds. With hot,
sticky fingers she tied off her black thread and knotted it. One clumsily stitched talon, done. She rethreaded with silver, and slid her needle among steely feathers.
Parchment rustled. Esther, unrolling her precious list of lords, most of them beardless, who might allow Kyrin to brush the dust from their boots, since Cierheld lay in the power of her hand in the shape of her stronghold key. But Mother insisted she did not have to look at those names. Kyrin glared, wishing the parchment would go up in flame.
Her bow and the fields and forests of Cierheld meant more to her than any alliance. And much more than proud lords who did not wish to hear her speak, but for her to admire their breadth of shoulder or their lands or their taste in cloaks. And beneath their wishes lay darker things: the desire of the hunt, and of power. Kyrin fingered the key on her girdle.
Celine left her and rose on her toes to peer over Myrna’s shoulder. Kyrin blinked, staring fiercely at her hoop. Riding among the trees she might find deer or hares, or spot a boar for her father’s men. At least the leaves rustled with peace or outright danger of storm, not with honeyed words she must search for snares.
Esther pounced on her whenever she caught Kyrin staring with amber-black eyes when she was angry or sad or thinking. Esther said her blood was tainted. And Myrna looked aside, wondering softly if Kyrin was “sprite-get.” Blood, blood, blood! Kyrin almost wished she had none. But it was her mother’s blood too, the blood of the denizens of the hills and the old forests.
Celine once asked her if she spoke to Samson in the bird-speech of the old ones, if that was why he followed Kyrin without her having to call him. Kyrin’s eyes burned. She would give much to speak with a falcon or dance like the thistledown sprites in the wood in the tapestry in Myrna’s room. But she was not like them: the girls or the sprites. It did not matter. Falcons fly alone, not in a flock, like crows. If only they did not laugh. A blade would hurt less. If Esther would bear one against me . . . but she would never dare.
Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times Page 4