Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times

by Azalea Dabill

  But the strange girl who stared rudely as the ship rocked beneath them was not a first-daughter. Kyrin balled her hands in her cloak and looked aside, waiting for the girl’s halting laugh, or the mat to rustle as she shrank away. A rough palm lighted on her arm, a butterfly. Kyrin lifted her head. The girl meant to speak her scorn.

  “Your eyes are fair as a red deer’s. I’m Alaina.” Her smile crinkled at the edges. “How is your head?” She scooted closer, reaching a hand to gently brush Kyrin’s hair from her forehead.

  Kyrin swallowed past her dry throat. “I—it is well.”

  Later, Tae interrupted their whispering with fish and bread he brought, and sat down to eat with them. The bread disappeared quickly, though its hardness made Kyrin’s teeth ache, and the ache spread to her head.

  “How long has it been . . . Tae?” She was not sure from the sun slant.

  “It is midday, a day and a night after you fell asleep.” He mopped fish bits from his fingers with the last of his bread. “I am glad to see you are over your fever.” He grinned at her and ate his last bite without losing a crumb.

  Fever. The dream of the tiger. “My thanks. Where are we?”

  “Sailing the great sea to Ali Ben Aidon’s home in Araby.”

  “Ali Ben—Ben . . .” She frowned.

  “Ben Aidon,” said Alaina. “Our master. A Saracen of Persian blood, not of Araby. He pays Allah with his tongue and his taxes, but not much else. And nothing pleases him.”

  “Yes,” Tae said. “Umar, who brought you, hates us for Allah’s sake, and because—I am who I am. And Ali—I took his men.”

  So Ali Ben Aidon was lord to the raiders. Umar, who sought a fly, was one of his. And Araby—she had heard of the hot land of hellish warriors. How she wanted the sturdy wood walls of Cierheld instead of the ship’s wall at her back. If, when she got back, she would not complain of cleaning the pig’s pen. Father would look for her, but so far, over so much water . . . Did he know she lived? If her godfather’s stronghold burned, he might mourn her bones. Kyrin wiped her eyes hard.

  Her father had stood in a circle of his armsmen in Cierheld’s woods. “Think,” he said. His cinnamon eyes stared past his attentive men at her. “Be ready to give your life; know He holds the battle.” He spread his hands. “I named our stronghold Cierheld because we of Cieri are held by Him.” He nodded, grave at Kyrin’s frown. “It is easier to reach forward to attack, and attacking is its own form of warding. Think, and use every strength you have.” His armsmen nodded quietly, and Kyrin smiled.

  Father defended Cierheld’s walls once in his youth, and several times after he led his men to help neighbor strongholds. He was always interested in new weapons and tactics. He grinned then, at her. “Someday you will ward Cierheld, my daughter, and our people.”

  Attacking worked for father. Now she must deal with Ali, an enemy it was not safe to beard. She needed a weapon, and she did not feel the falcon dagger in her tunic.

  Tae caught her anxious hand, his own a blur. “Don’t touch your throat! It must heal.” Startled, Kyrin didn’t move. His fingers were steel; she could not have moved if she wanted to. In the doorway, Umar eyed them. After a moment his lip curled, and he turned away.

  Tae slid his bag from the head of his mat. Among the dry herb bunches nestled a hare’s pelt. He held the brown bundle between his knees and untied the furry legs. One had been sewn into a sheath. The head of the falcon dagger peeped from it. It looked ruffled, its eyes wary in the streaming sun. Kyrin swallowed a laugh.

  “Hide it well.” Tae set the blade in her hand. Its balanced haft fit her grip. The handspan bronze blade fell to a double-edged point.

  “No one down here will harm you or Alaina, for I mend their hurts. But they might take this.” Tae touched the falcon’s head with one finger. “The haft is crafted with skill. Up there”—he nodded toward the sound of pattering feet over their heads—“they take what they want. Carry it after we get to Araby, then they will have other things on their minds. Did you see the great man with the night-black skin?”

  Kyrin nodded.

  “Good. The Nubian will not hurt you. He will give you food and water and let you keep your robes. But stay out of Umar’s sight and keep busy with our master’s tasks. Wash yourself every sunrise with seawater; Ali cannot abide slave-stink. The Master of the stars protect you up there. I cannot.”

  Alaina blurted, “You protected me!” She turned to Kyrin, her words flowing fast, eyes shining. “He is a warrior, and with his hands and feet he is terrible. He and my brother, Owin . . . Well, when Owin and the baker’s son fell, it took more than three of Ali’s men to hold him. He killed one of them after they knocked his sword away.”

  Kyrin flinched. Oh, Alaina. Tae could not save her brother. But killing without a weapon? That was curious. She had grown up with warriors and their tales, and she had never heard of anyone but wrestlers or tumblers fighting without a blade, be it but a spear or a two-handed sword.

  “Feet and hands do not have all power,” Tae said. “A sword gives much advantage, and a spear or a bow, more. The mind gives most.”

  That was something Father might have said. Kyrin stared at Tae. He was shorter and slighter than any warrior she knew, muscled as a hart. He had walked up with their bread and fish quiet as a fox; she had looked around when she smelled the fish. His brown feet were short and broad, callused, and not unmarked. The white scars on his hands said they knew many things. She shivered at his slow, sure smile, but not for herself.

  Any who opposed him would not find what they wished. There was more to him than a simple warrior—and he knew the sword. Would he teach her? But she could not ask yet. Kyrin held out the falcon for him to put in his sack. Who did he speak of, this “Master of the stars”?

  Tae sheathed the dagger and slid it inside the bag. His herbs were different than her mother’s, both sharp and heavy, wormwood and something sweet she did not know.

  “Ali summons you to get your earring, his mark.” Tae pulled her cloak around her, careful of her throat. “Come, this way.”

  “Do what Ali says, and you will be well.” Alaina tilted her head, showing Kyrin a bronze ring the size of a penny in her left ear, and scrambled to her feet. “I’m coming too!”

  “Come, then. Patience is not one of our master’s virtues.”

  Tae led them out of the hold, up to the deck. Kyrin thought the passage shorter than when Umar carried her down. Ali’s low weathered hall loomed against the silver face of the rippling sea. The air was salt and fresh. Kyrin stepped after Tae through the low doorway, down below the level of the deck.

  The door closed with a creak. Three Arab raiders lounged about a low table on a rug, their swords lying against the wall. Each man wore a headcloth, bound about his brows by a twisted dark cord. Frankincense rose through the dim closeness of the room in curls of sweet smoke from an iron brazier. Silk hangings gleamed on the walls.

  At the end of the room, beyond the brazier, Ali sat between Umar and the Nubian. The black giant reminded Kyrin of a lion, light on his feet with the grace of power, his head covered with minute curls. His dark eyes saw all, considered all. His sword reached his hip, wide as his leg. Kyrin swallowed. One of his hands would cover her face. On Ali’s other side, Umar watched her with a slight smile. All eyes were on her.

  Ali leaned forward on his throne of bronze and red cushions. Tae nudged Kyrin. She stepped toward Ali against the will of her legs. His long pale fingers tapped his blue-robed knee. He had the wanting in his face that she saw in the storage room; she did not know the name of his yearning, but feared the hunter, the gloating coldness. Mother would stare him down.

  In a tapestry behind her master a great tiger paced in a small room with carved white arches and rich hangings. The tiger’s green and bronze-flecked eyes followed Kyrin. Black and orange striped his sides; fangs glistened in his quivering mouth.

>   On his heavy shoulders sat a hooded falcon, her wing feathers steel grey-and-blue against a creamy breast speckled with black. A gold chain linked her saffron-hued foot to a silver torque about the tiger’s neck. A wide torque, etched with wings and set with round amber stones, in places dark as jet.

  “Hmmm. You admire my tiger?” Ali said in a smooth, accented polyglot of her tongue.

  Kyrin blinked, breathing fast. It was a likeness, a good one, but only a likeness. She tore her gaze from it.

  Ali beckoned. “Come, slave, my belly does not seek meat.”

  He was hungry, but for something she could not name. She obeyed, and his eyes wandered over her, noting every smudge, wrinkle, and lacking curve. Kyrin flushed. Myrna giggled often enough at her boy-like straightness.

  Ali frowned. “Why the cloth on her neck, my hakeem?”

  Kyrin forced herself not to touch her bandage. She licked her lips and glanced over her shoulder. Tae knelt, his forehead on the floor, his voice muffled. “One of your men’s blades, my master.”

  “Will the scar fade, O my Hakeem?” Ali stood.

  Kyrin stayed very still. Ali loosed the cloth bandage, dropped it, and touched the hollow of her throat. It hurt. A shiver tore through her, and her blood beat against the light pressure of his fingers. She had to move away; she must not.

  “No, my master. The mark is small and can be hidden—”

  Ali seemed not to hear. “My buyers come for perfect slaves. They choose the sign to be branded in their flesh and worn for the glory of Allah. This one is . . . worthless.”

  Kyrin stiffened. If only she had not left the falcon behind.

  “Worthless, but for one thing.”

  Hope beat at the coiled iciness in her stomach.

  Ali dropped his hand and walked to the brazier, his blue robe rippling. He lifted a pair of tongs. Thin white ash fell to the glowing coals.

  “Stand there, worthless one.” He pointed at a red circle on the floor near the brazier. Kyrin stepped into it. Ali brought the tongs to her ear, and she bit her tongue against the cold then searing heat. I am not thrown over the side, I am not thrown over the side.

  The pain eased, and Ali tugged at her earlobe—the earring. Kyrin opened her eyes.

  Ali raised his hand, his pursed lips thin, his face flushed. “Will this cover my warriors lost to the Nasrany dog who whelped you?” Across his fingers dangled the carved fish, bands of sea-green, wild rose, and pearl gleaming between beads of dark river bubbles.

  He shoved the necklace at Kyrin. “Its worth is but shell and wood, worthless one.”

  She made her uncertain fingers grasp it. Mother—he has no right to take my key, touch my necklace, to speak of you. Something of her thoughts must have showed in her face.

  Ali snorted. Umar swept a thong whip from behind his back and handed it to Ali.

  5

  Defiance

  He knoweth what is in the darkness,

  and the light dwelleth with him. ~Daniel 2:22

  “My master, please, I will teach her,” Tae said low. “Dancing, singing, scribing, or—”

  Iron bits were embedded in the leather strips of the whip. Clutching her necklace, Kyrin backed away. Kyrin tripped over Tae, the whip swept forward, and Alaina cried out.

  Kyrin curled on the floor, in darkness, bound in ropes of fire. Then hands were on her, Tae’s hands, rolling and spinning her, his knees digging into her side. Kyrin took a shuddering breath, tears hot on her cheeks. Mother laughed at the tiger.

  “Master, her voice is like a bird’s. She will silence the lark.” Tae’s voice rumbled in his chest above her ear.

  “You were master to hundreds, fighting those from the North who overran your land, and you deem your hand worthy to teach this scarred one? Was it not to be thousands to command, O warrior of flowers, fighter for spirits, except for your treachery?” Ali’s voice was full of honey and spit.

  “She will learn martial skill and weapons. Wonders of my land that your guests and brother merchants will whisper of in the caliph’s ears. You have seen a hundredth of my skills, O my master.”

  “Why pity, for a whelp not your own?” Beyond the curve of Tae’s stomach, Ali’s slippered foot tapped the floor.

  “She will be a treasure.” Tae’s middle was armor against Kyrin’s side. He drew his knees closer and hooked her legs beneath him with a shift of one arm.

  “Ahhh. The Light of your Eyes that you left behind; maybe this scarred one is the dark pearl to her moon, eh, O my hakeem?” He laughed, and Kyrin’s skin prickled. Tae tensed.

  There was hissing swish and a “swap,” and Tae jerked, a catch in his breath. Kyrin flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. Five blows, Tae huddling closer over her after each. Would Ali kill him?

  No, no. Nothing but a whimper came from her. The tiger in her mind lifted his head, his ears twitching forward, lips pulling swiftly back from his teeth. The falcon’s feathers were in disarray, her eyes dull, head sunk to her shoulders.

  Ali snapped an order. The Nubian pried Tae from Kyrin and he slumped at the Nubian’s feet near the brazier, then struggled to his knees. Alaina darted to Tae’s side. The black giant wedged Tae’s arms behind him.

  Kyrin wiped tears from her chin. She would go into the cold sea and follow her mother. But the tongs in the brazier would take Ali’s eyes, before his guards’ swords reached her.

  Ali stalked around her, thoughtful. He stopped beside Tae and nudged him with his toe. “You are foolish, but useful, Hakeem. And you, Nasrany whelp—are fit to teach him his place, and his unbelieving manhood.” He grinned, his mouth wide as an eel’s with prey in sight. “My hakeem will yield to a tender blossom. You would not refuse your protector, scarred one? No, you would not deny him when he comes for his nectar.”

  Umar stood beside the hot coals, his mouth a stiff line, arms crossed. Kyrin sniffed and wiped her nose. Good, he could not reach his blade so easy.

  Ali’s whip hand trembled.

  One leap to the tongs in the brazier beside Tae. Two more to reach her master.

  Ali raised his arm.

  Kyrin gathered her legs. The whip swung back. Help me! She

  leaped.

  Tae cried, “No, my master! I will—”

  Umar stepped clear of the swinging thongs, and his foot caught a brazier leg. He reached for the tottering burner and snatched his hand back with an oath. The brazier slid down his thigh. Coals rolled bright and whispering.

  The Nubian yanked Tae out of reach of the bright cascade. Ali held his whip wide, wordless, his mouth sagging open. Kyrin scuttled over the wood floor on her hands and knees—she must find the tongs. They were nowhere.

  The coals spat and popped at Ali’s feet. He yelled for water, and the whip thongs whistled. Kyrin flung up her arm.

  Flames crackled and roared hungrily.

  Ali yelled louder than Umar and beat at whirling sparks, glowing and black on his blue robe. The door slammed open.

  Slaves and warriors rushed inside in a thunder of feet and excited voices. Buckets of thrown seawater crashed on the floor and splashed around Kyrin, hissing over the flames.

  She blinked. Her eyes stung, and the blackened floor ran with water and charcoal. Smoke choked the incense.

  Tae drew his hand across his forehead, staring at Kyrin. Alaina crouched beside him, her hands on his shoulder, hazel eyes round.

  Ali made a harsh sound in his throat, his eyes black as a winter bog. He picked the tongs from the floor. “You will show my Shema her worth. But I must bind your eye of evil . . .” His voice was soft.

  He kicked Kyrin down. She glimpsed another ring in his hand, a shining black oval, and ground her teeth, closing her eyes. The biting tongs yanked at her other ear, the right.

  Falcon … she was … a falcon. She must climb this wind to get ready for her stoop. Someday her ma
ster would be alone, a rabbit.

  “Not fit to serve any but my Shema, with those marks.” Ali moved back, pursing his mouth, and gave the tongs to the Nubian to put in the empty brazier. He chuckled without mirth. “Yes, yes, such a scarred one will gladden my Shema’s heart. She pines as a gazelle, but claims a night with me lasts a moon. You, worthless one, will show her the counter-balance of the scales she has chosen.”

  Kyrin’s heart pounded. Arms rigid, thrusting his scrawny neck forward, Ali grated softly, “Hakeem, see you teach the whelp to follow her dying god. If she curses me with the eye of evil again—you will beg. The jet will swallow and bind dark power. Do not remove it.”

  Kyrin’s mouth dried. What dying god—oh, the leaping fish meant Jesu. But what “curse”? She could not use such power, even if Esther thought different. The eye of evil? Did her gaze frighten him as it did Esther?

  “She is yours, Hakeem, and the other dog’s daughter.” Ali’s voice rose. “We will see how long you follow your weak god with two virgins beside you. Wife, concubine, I care not. The evil that might dry your seed is bound. Your sons are mine. When these two come into the way of women—but that small thing will not hold you back, O flower of all warriors.” He snorted. “You know the signs that call the bee. Now see to your wounds.”

  “I am a hakeem, my master, as you say.” Tae dropped his eyes, stifling a groan.

  Kyrin wanted to hide, but was trapped by a thicket of legs. Not drowning in the sea, but married, given, to Tae. Three together—it could not be—it was abomination. She swallowed hard, but the sourness came up anyway, and spattered the floor and her hands.

  Ali turned his back and motioned to a red-haired slave with a bowl of rosewater. He raised his arms, his blue sleeves slid back, and he dipped his hands. He shook away the drops.

  “Go,” The Nubian ordered Kyrin, his nostrils flaring, his eyes on Ali. The Nubian raised Tae to his feet and shoved him toward the door. A gentle shove.

  Beside the brazier Umar held his sword in his unburned hand, his strong face pinched. He met Kyrin’s eyes and his mouth flattened, his knuckles white on his sword hilt.