Ali drew, reversed the dagger in his hand, and struck. The slave cried out and retreated, rubbing her thigh. She should be grateful—it was but the haft. Instruction remained in a slave’s soul if given while the gold was hot, malleable. Ali chuckled, stabbed a date off his worthless one’s dish, and dipped it in the milk. It was sweet. He mouthed it in delight.
The red-haired slave licked her lips, crouching against the wall, tears on her face. A small seed of wisdom was hers. Ali’s lips quirked. She might be of use in his house, or if the price was right, he might regain some of his loss from the worthless one. He laid his dagger beside his bowl and reached for the apricots.
The worthless one’s mouth quivered. She seemed a reed that would break at a tap, but grasped at the wrong angle, she would cut the hand that wielded her. Ali frowned.
If he heeded the North-men’s tales, they coveted the gold and silver that flowed through the veins of his worthless one’s barbarous frozen land. The Britons’ silver was bright as the moon, their furs thick as choking summer, but nowhere had he caught a whisper of one who might change silver to gold. Even among the North-men, who gathered so much of both.
Did Sirius send him after a moonbeam that vanished under the sun? Why had the caliph’s guardsman sent him to the North Sea, discontented with the gold of Africa? At all times the guardsman’s designs held more than one strand of a desert spider’s sand-web. Sirius Abdasir desired information. News, he said. News was power. He wished to know if any man of the caliph’s traveled this part of the world.
Ali snorted. Proud servant of the most blessed caliph, Sirius Abdasir had the caliph’s ear. He sought more. With a twist of his mouth, Ali waved the red-haired slave out.
Gold shone the brighter, the fewer the touching hands. The older slave would not make up this wasted voyage, to him or to the caliph’s guardsman. He sighed. Umar needed the rod of patience to cool his blood. He could not afford buyers who frowned in displeasure.
None of these slaves was fit to present when Sirius guested at his table. There were edges to cut and polish if these barbarians were to be jewels with ears, set in high places at court. At court, on the board of power, where pieces moved under the caliph’s watchful gaze.
Ali turned his smile on Kef until Kef shifted on his heels, then to Shema’s worthless slave. She twitched her face straight, empty and dark.
Hah! Ali spat a date pit. He would cow her before his hakeem could.
§
Kyrin found Tae on deck. He stared over the rippling water at the last edge of the sun. Some of the crew crouched on their heels in the prow around marked sticks that one or another of them cast to the wood. Their murmurs were indistinguishable. Markers and coins changed hands. A game similar to the one their masters played below.
Kyrin hesitated and touched her neck. It was a small pain. The sword cut was healing.
What had her mother felt when the sword struck her? Ali would meet the falcon dagger and feel its edge for her mother. On Tae’s back the lash marks were already ropey looking scabs.
“What is it?” He did not turn.
She laced her fingers tightly together. In a short, hard rush she said, “Ali murdered my mother and everyone in my godfather’s stronghold. I will kill him—but I do not know how to find my way home—after.”
Tae turned then, a dark shape against the last of the sun. A long moment, then his voice came low. “God avenges. He tells me to defend the helpless. When I would take Ali down for the kidnapper and murderer he is”—his smile slid to one side—“I do not have the seal to do so. You do not. We can defend our lives, but Ali has said he will keep you for Shema. Though he breaks the royal law, that does not give us warrant to do so.”
Kyrin ached to hit Tae. If Father were here, he would fight Ali, execute him, and take her away. It would be just. But she could not touch Ali with a blade in the dark? And Tae would not, unless it was kill or be killed?
A wind whispered through the rigging, rustled over the tight sail. Her mother’s warm hands, her kiss, were gone, never to come again. And Ali was well and fat, sailing home.
She wiped her eyes. Mother, oh Mother. Her throaty voice came as clear as the night she bent over the Vulgate in her lap, the tome golden under candlelight. “He that hates is in darkness. . . .”
Tae’s hand was warm and heavy on Kyrin’s shoulder. “Do what he commands, daughter. Then you will understand. Some obediences come to us so. Each time Ali closes his heart to the one who fashioned him, to the Master of the star’s law, he bargains more of himself to darkness.”
Kyrin stifled her snort. I hope the tiger finds him quickly.
“Hate seeks you. Do not let it eat you.”
The sea heaved under the clouds, as swift as Kyrin’s eyes rose to his. He could not see her thoughts. He could not see the tiger. She lifted her chin. “You killed to save Owin, and the other boy you hid—and Ali hung you in the ropes. You are afraid, afraid!”
“Yes. I am.” It was calm, dangerous.
She swallowed.
“I am afraid for me and for Alaina and for you. Ali’s country will not judge him for killing what is his, for instructing a slave.” In the prow the crew’s laughter erupted.
Tae regarded them, and then her. “I serve Ali in my body, but I serve first the Master of the stars.” The planes of his face were sharp against the orange and black sky, cut by pale blue.
“Yes, I was angry at Ali’s men. I did not know I could not save Owin—until I tried. You never know, before.” His hands closed on the rail convulsively. “Wanting to defend them, to stop the raiders’ evil, stormed in me. As it should. Now—they are gone, and a blade in Ali’s back will not return Owin. The Master of the stars works here. I must love my earthly master as he says. I choose it. I will not murder Ali.” His mouth twisted against the black shapes of rope and rail.
Kyrin wrapped her arms around her sore ribs. Cooling deck pitch sucked at her toes. Tae could not save Owin, but he took her whipping.
Father would weigh Tae’s words and think on them, and he might agree with him. Uncle Ulf would throw out his arms, his voice strident, “You commit sacrilege!” A warrior who refused in God’s name to fight for her. A warrior who was not a monk, but spoke of the Master of the stars most familiar, as if God were a sword-brother.
Kyrin sighed. The Master of all would not forgive her if she did not forgive. Besides, his vengeance would be better. His bill of debt was longer. And her mother had said not to stare behind at past evil, for it would taint the path ahead. Kyrin bit back a sob.
She would watch her path and grow strong, strong enough not to fear Ali. “I will try—to serve him.” Her voice broke. He had better never threaten Tae or Alaina; she would kill him then.
Tae pulled her into his arms. “You will do well, daughter. You serve the Master of the stars—who waits to help you.”
She clung to him. Tears slipped down her face.
He wiped one away with his thumb. “I know, little one. Do not fear your fear. Do the right you know to do.”
She pulled back. The strength in him was honest, and comforting, and grasshoppers scuttled up her back. “I—please Tae.”
“What, daughter?” His arms tightened.
Lead weighed her bones. “Mother said touching—any man—is not safe. I know what you said, but—” He would hate her. And there was no one else to be strong for her and Alaina. Kyrin held her breath against more tears.
Tae was still. “You do have troubles tonight. But be easy.” He lowered his arms. She shivered and stepped away.
“You are tired. Come, I want to show you something.” Ali’s men wandered to their sleeping places. The slaves’ hatch thundered shut.
With a hiccup, Kyrin rubbed her face on her arm. Tae wanted her to go with him. He did not hate her. She pattered after him, feeling strangely light.
After a few scr
apes and sparks, a flame grew in the lamp Tae lit in the slaves’ quarters. The slaves crowded close, shielding its light from the door. Alaina sat up, rubbing her eyes.
Tae rummaged in his herb bag and drew out his hand. On his palm rested a slender woman as tall as his forearm, with coiffed, thick black hair. She smiled if she looked on joyful things. Her lips curved with a hint of mischief. She extended one foot in a swan’s delicate step, toes touching first. A pale dove rested on her fingers, in its beak a scarlet-dipped thorn. Her wrap-around brown robes were sticky with glue when Kyrin reached out a cautious hand.
Tae caressed the figurine’s face with a gentle finger. “This is my Huen. My wife will stand between our mats every night until I see her again.” He stared from Kyrin to Alaina, and around the watching circle of slaves, and every man straightened.
Kyrin let out her breath. Someday she hoped to find a man such as Tae. The lords on Esther’s list did not reach his mark by a bowshot. She rubbed her tear-damp face. The doll was so real. She wanted to meet her. Huen. She sounded gentle and kind.
Tae set Huen near the head of his mat and turned. “Ali has decreed that I teach you my way of the warrior. I will teach you more than he knows. You will never be without a weapon again, even if you have no blade in your hand.”
Outside in the hold, Umar shouted, “Quiet!”
In the slaves’ sudden silence, Tae snapped straight and clapped his fist to his breast. His eyes goggled in mock fear. Then he slumped against the wall and nodded to his brethren in great relief. His smile was fleeting. “Knowledge is your greatest weapon.”
Kyrin smiled. Tae did not fear Umar, despite the pain he could inflict. Alaina’s shoulders shook. The others muffled their glee.
Kyrin looped a bit of hair around her finger and tugged, her heart rising. Tae would teach her. She would not fear a sword. She would use it—and she would destroy those of Ali’s ilk.
7
Learning
Like wolves tearing the prey. ~Ezekiel 22:27
Two seven-days later water was rationed, salt encrusted every surface, and the clouds hung over an ocean of iron plate. The westering sun poured through the lowering clouds. Kyrin sat in the ship’s prow. A breath of air teased her hair around to tickle her sore cheek. Ali had cuffed her for his meat, over-salted by Winfrey. Sometimes the air alone seemed kind.
If only the wind did not bear her farther from Cierheld with every puff. Point her home and she would be a white dandelion, ready to part her seed cradle at the least pull. If only what Esther said about her power to change shape and fly with the birds was true. Under each new sun, the water in her deck-washing bucket made a wavering cameo of her pointed chin, elfin face, and the slave rings in her ears—bronze and jet. Kyrin sighed. So she was Ali’s slave. At least she lived.
Tae called his fighting art Subak, the warrior’s way of hand and foot fighting. It took years to ingrain the killing art to instinct. She would learn weapons after the unarmed skills. No one would die by her side again, and a man who touched her would rue it.
Above her the sail snapped, the deck rolled under her feet, and the prow dug into the grey waves. The calm was breaking. Father would set his own sword in my hand, if he could. He would hire Tae in the blink of an eye.
Frowning, Kyrin traced the grain of the shivering wood with her toe, lifted her chin, and walked down the deck against the roll. Her father’s light voice was strong in her inner ear, his deep brown eyes as clear in her mind as when he had smiled down at her, his great yew bow slack in his hand. “Kyrin, take aim.”
She raised her bow and held and shot.
“Good!” His arm had warmed her shoulders, and he pulled her close, and she had laid her cheek against him. The side of her face that hurt now. If only he could be here, with her. Her memory of his warm cinnamon smell dissolved in her tears.
Kyrin rubbed her cheek gingerly. Tae had the salve for it, and her new trousers and tunic for Subak practice, which began with the next sun.
Next morning, she ran across the deck, dodging sail ropes, out of breath and sore from stretching near in half. A crowd of Ali’s men and the crew gathered to watch.
“Move!” Tae yelled, and Kyrin sprinted after Alaina, her legs cramping. Alaina seemed to flit from one side of the ship to the other, glancing over her shoulder at Kyrin with a teasing smile.
“Peasant,” Kyrin muttered, tripped, and almost sprawled over a coiled rope.
About to duck through Ali’s door, Umar glanced at her and paused.
Tae called something, and Umar frowned, jerking his head as at a pesky fly. He crossed his arms, and his hand dropped to play with his sword hilt.
The bandage was gone, but a wide red scab peeped between his thumb and forefinger. His hand tightened convulsively. He stared past Kyrin as if she were invisible, his mouth thin.
Tae went down the ladder into the hold, and one of the crew helped him lift up a bale of wool. Kyrin wrinkled her nose. The washed wool smelled of lanolin. What did Tae want it for?
They settled the dense bale on the hatch, grunting. Tae asked the man to brace it. Then he spun.
His foot flashed out behind him, faster than a horse’s, driving deep. The bale skidded, shoving the man back while he scrambled to keep his feet. Tae bowed his thanks, ignoring the man’s wide-eyed startlement and the other men’s laughter. Umar looked at the deck, unsmiling.
Kyrin closed her open mouth.
Tae waved Alaina over. She eyed the bale, spun and kicked, and her foot sank inches into the “enemy.” Tae showed her how to snap her knee up to thrust her foot higher behind her. The bale shuddered under Alaina’s ruthless attack. Her back kick would take a man in the face.
When Alaina tired and her heel struck wide, Tae turned to Kyrin. Kef and the others turned with him.
Kyrin’s blood pounded in her head. Did they wonder what the slave with the eye of evil would do? She lifted her chin.
Raising her hands, she took her place before the bale, turned slowly, pulled her knee up, leaned forward, and kicked back. She hit low, where the wool was packed hard. Pain exploded through her foot, and she almost fell. With a small gasp, she hopped about, teeth gritted.
Umar’s lips pulled back from his teeth. Beside him, Kef’s belly shook with his chuckle.
Kyrin rubbed her foot hard. How dare they? Murderers. She turned to the sea to hide her face.
“Hit with your heel, not your toes,” Alaina offered.
Tae nodded. “A back kick is your strongest kick. You will learn.”
Five kicks later Kyrin’s foot struck the depression Alaina’s heel had left. The bale caved slightly around her blow. Panting, wet with sweat, she smiled. When she could kick like Tae—what would that much force do to a man’s knee? That man might never walk again. And if he could not walk, he could not swing a sword. He could not kill. She smiled.
§
That night in the slaves’ quarters, Tae bristled with badger intensity under the closed hatch. “Here in this place you are rangdo, students. Watch, and listen.” He pointed to the deck above. “Show what you learn to no one. Winfrey, keep the door.” His tone was forceful, yet courteous.
Winfrey walked to her post with a smile. Her red hair was bound back with a thong. One of the older men shifted against the wall, among the others.
Tae’s gaze moved from face to face and rested at last on Kyrin. “You will never be stronger than your enemy. You must strike fast. Abul!”
Dark and lithe, Abul moved forward. His left arm bore a scabbed-over wound. It stretched from his elbow, down, and across the back of his hand. Kyrin hated to think of the blow that gave that weal. It was a wonder he could use his arm. Tae had healed him well.
“Victory can spring from as small a thing as redirecting your enemy’s strike.” Tae drew a wooden dagger from his tunic and handed it to Abul with a bow.
Abul studi
ed the blade. Kyrin bit her lip. Was it safe to teach a pirate the way of the warrior?
As if he heard, Abul lunged for Tae’s stomach without warning.
In one smooth, flowing movement Tae struck Abul’s throat with his hand, took the blade and was behind him, the wood point nudging the soft spot behind his ear.
Kyrin forgot to breathe. Dark and smoke. Blood in a small room, her mother heavy across her chest, torches and fear.
Alaina elbowed her. “Look, Kyrin, the dagger is blunt. Abul won’t hurt Tae.”
Kyrin shoved back the dark tide. Don’t look at the blade. Watch Tae—he moves, he breathes, he is not hurt.
Tae inclined his head. “Again, slow.” Abul extended his arm in a slow lunge. “If you want the blade—do so.” In slow motion Tae deflected Abul’s hand, trapping his wrist in a steel grip. He tugged the dagger sharply toward himself. Abul instinctively resisted, pulling back to keep his weapon, and Tae reversed with Abul’s motion, twisting in toward his shoulder. The dagger levered free in Tae’s hand.
“If you want to knock him out”—Tae pretended to hit Abul behind the ear with the haft—“or kill”—he drew the spine of the blade across Abul’s throat—“all are easier if you are behind your enemy.”
Kyrin swallowed hard. The raider’s blade fell, the burn bloomed at her throat again.
Tae twisted Abul’s wrist and he fell, pulling Tae down after him. “If you are driven down or lose your blade”—Tae dropped the dagger and slithered over Abul’s chest like a crab, bringing all his weight to bear—arms, head, and legs locking down—controlling Abul’s wild blows. Shifting, he slid astride Abul’s stomach, staying on despite his desperate bucking. Abul subsided, panting, then struck at Tae’s arms and face with his fists.
Tae drove his elbows down at Abul, striking at the bones above his eyes. “You can blind your attacker with blood, if you hit him, so.”
Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times Page 7