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

by Azalea Dabill

  With an almost audible sigh, the onlookers dispersed toward the town and nearby booths in muttering knots. With a last shrill yell at Kyrin, the young Arabs likewise moved from the man’s challenging stare toward the black tents, leaving their companion on the sand in a disheveled, moaning heap. The tale of the female Nasrany with the power of the evil eye would be told many times before night fell.

  The man lifted his hand, almost a benediction, his dark eyes bright. Alaina’s heart lurched. Not a monk. His silk-trimmed robe, dense-woven trousers, and long sword proclaimed him one of the Persian warriors Abul had told her of in poetic verse. Persian. Two men in red robes with white sashes and spears in their hands flanked him silently. He nodded and they turned away, joining more of their fellows on the road to the town.

  Alaina let out her breath.

  Ali was striding down the hill with the Nubian. Umar stalked to meet them, and Abul limped toward her. Half hanging on her arm, Kyrin breathed fast and shallow. She gently tugged Kyrin forward.

  The Nubian was imposing as oak, straight as an ash. His arms crossed over his chest, he dropped one eyelid in a slow, ponderous wink. Alaina tightened her lips. She did not have time to wonder at him, for Ali must open his ears to the truth.

  Their master listened to her rushing tale with a crooked smile. Tilting his head back, he mused over the black tents a long moment. She waited. He must see the right.

  Ali grunted. “The worthless one learns to defend my goods. My displeasure does not rest on her.” Without looking at Kyrin, he kicked a scornful scuff of sand over the Arab, who shielded his head with one awkward arm.

  Tae touched Alaina’s arm, and moved to grip Kyrin’s shoulders.

  Ali grinned at him, an unpleasant baring of teeth, pointed at the Arab, and turned on his heel. Umar’s mouth turned up at the edges. His eyes on Tae, he flipped the Arab over with his foot. The boy cried out. Umar cocked his head, and when Tae remained motionless, shrugged and walked toward the drink seller.

  Alaina rubbed her neck. At least Ali had believed her.

  The Nubian’s gaze moved over them to Kyrin. He solemnly dipped his head to her, then to Alaina and last to Tae. He turned and followed Ali up the hill. Alaina frowned. What did the Nubian mean by that solemn nod?

  Tae eyed her. “Are you all right, daughter?”

  “Yes.” Her sore head was nothing to Kyrin’s.

  Tae turned to Kyrin and began pressing her side gingerly. She bent over and was briefly sick, and sank to the sand on a breath of pain. Tae crouched on his heels beside her, a comforting hand on her back. Abul hovered close at her other shoulder.

  “He kicked her.” Alaina pointed, and the Arab gave a grimace of a smile and struggled to his hands and knees, the unwound, ragged end of his blue turban trailing down his cheek, dragging on the sand.

  In one leap, Abul planted his feet on either side of his head. The Arab stilled, his glare daring Abul to strike. Abul stared down and did not move. Dried rivulets of blood from his nose raked his chin.

  Tae sighed and leaned over Kyrin. “I must feel your bones.”

  “His arm cracked, but . . .” The bewilderment and breathless anger in Kyrin’s voice was not from her hurts. Alaina wanted her staff. She would show that—beast, how to crack bones properly—with wood.

  “I know. Lie back, now.” Tae guided Kyrin to the ground. She gritted her teeth on huffing breaths of pain as Tae flexed her limbs one by one. When he felt along her ribs Kyrin tried to keep back her sobs.

  “I am sorry.” Tae released her. “You have bruised ribs. They are painful, but not as dangerous as badly broken ribs are. We will get you some tea and wrap you up. You will be well.”

  Alaina patted Kyrin’s heaving back and wiped at her own eyes, glaring at the Arab. She muttered, “His other arm will break. Jackal.” He wanted battle, he had it. Long and lengthy for the scops to sing.

  Tae turned. “What?”

  “It is nothing.”

  “Rest here. I’m going to take a look at this one.” He moved toward the Arab, who curled on the sand, ignoring Abul above him.

  “But—he hurt Kyrin!”

  Tae looked over his shoulder, wordless, his lips pressed together. Alaina closed her mouth.

  Tae said something in a low voice to Abul, who left at a trot, then he bent over the Arab. Murmuring, Tae touched his arm, and the Arab’s back arched. His teeth clicked on a choked cry.

  Alaina blew out her cheeks and her lips thinned. The Arab convulsed around his pain.

  10

  Offense

  Be to me a rock of strength. ~Psalm 31:2

  Abul arrived with a bundle of cloth and a few sticks. Tae spoke low and insistently to the Arab boy. He stiffened, staring at Tae. At last he nodded. Tae straightened his arm in one swift pull.

  The Arab’s face went bone white. Below his high brow his eyes glittered, dark coals. Tae and Abul splinted and bound his arm until it looked a sausage, tucking it into a cloth Tae hung about his neck. The Arab sagged, his lips puffing out without sound. Sweat beaded on his face and there was blood on his mouth.

  Kyrin tried not to think how she would scream with her arm like that. She breathed slower to lessen the pain stabbing through her middle.

  Alaina made her way up the hill and slogged back to Kyrin, clutching Tae’s herb bag. Tae laid his hand on Alaina’s shoulder. She shot a sharp glance at the Arab, but gave Tae a tremulous smile.

  Kyrin hugged her ribs. Tae made everyone he spoke with feel the sun’s warmth. Except for Ali, who ignored his goodwill, and Umar, who smothered it with coldness.

  Tae sent Abul to heat water over the fire near the slaves’ tent. He left the Arab to rest and turned to Kyrin, wrapping her ribs tight with a long, wide cloth from her armpits to her waist. Kyrin set her teeth.

  The Arab’s dusty curls waved against the sand, his lashes long against his olive skin, his body curled about itself, the haft of his dagger protruding above one hip. A jackal, as Alaina said—but alone, his pack departed.

  Kyrin licked her lips. When he rushed her, the fear did not pierce her with icy claws. But there had been no blades. Would she break the icy grip when she faced a deadly edge again?

  Alaina helped her up the hill to a place under the palms near the cook fire. Abul and Tae settled the Arab on a palm log across the fire pit from Kyrin. His back stiff, he kneaded the sand with his toes. A bit of his dirty blue turban, which Tae had rescued from the sand, dangled over one ear.

  A fierce smile tugged at Kyrin’s mouth.

  Tae said behind her, “His name is Faisal.”

  Faisal. It sounded like a fire sizzle in her mouth, but his wiry frame rippled with hints of skill in violence, and the darkness in his eyes . . . his true name ought to be Abdullah, servant of Allah.

  Abul called that the water was ready, and Tae made tea. Kyrin rolled the bitter-sweet hot comfort around her mouth. Faisal sniffed at the unfamiliar herbs.

  Tae noticed, and sipped at his own cup. “Drink,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Hakeem,” Faisal said clearly. He drank. Tae nodded, sipped again, and handed the rest of his cup to Kyrin.

  Faisal soon slid down beside the log and slept in the palm shade, while Tae left at Ali’s summons. Winfrey and the other slaves finished loading the camels, and Umar led them toward town, where he would bargain for caravan supplies.

  Over the slaves’ noon meal of meat, dates, flat bread, and milk, everyone talked over the fight and eyed Faisal’s sleeping form with interest.

  The older pirate cocked his eye at Kyrin’s black earring. “Hmm. He didn’t spit you like a dog. The spirits have blessed you—this time.”

  Faisal sat up on the far side of the fire, his eyes wide, chest heaving. His first glance was wild, and then he scowled. After a moment, expressionless, Abul went and offered him a cold leg of rabbit and some dates.

 
Kyrin’s mouth twisted. So everyone felt it, as she did. There was a wintry lost air about Faisal even as he stuffed the meat in his mouth, fiercely tearing it from the bone. He caught her gaze and his head came up, his nostrils flaring. If his arm were whole, his blade would be at her throat. She bit her lip and rubbed her cold hands over her tunic.

  The sky darkened and the stars came out. She hurt, breath by breath. If she could only sleep. Faisal fell asleep again as easy as shutting his eyes. Kyrin glowered. Alaina’s shoulder was comforting under her cheek, and she was glad her sister was beside her.

  She woke at nightfall. The other slaves sprawled around the warm flames. Tae came and sank on his heels beside her.

  “You did well,” he said, “to move and fight. Some do not learn tha, not against a great fear. Though you will make your guard stronger and never lose an arm lock again. I thank the Master he didn’t use his dagger.”

  “He is like the one who killed my mother.” A bit of hair tapped her cheek. Kyrin twisted it into a thin cord. The Arab lay on his back, his eyes open to the stars. She folded her lips. He could not hear.

  “I am glad you know it. His people honor vengeance.” Tae’s face was grim. “Do not expect peace, though we forgive him. I’m glad he took the guest-peace of the food Abul offered. We have three days.”

  Kyrin snorted. “Faisal called you Hakeem.”

  “Yes. I told him what I am. If he owes me a debt, he will respect you as mine.” Tae looked at her sidelong, a smile lurking about his mouth. “If we do not goad him over-much.” He pulled her to him and kissed her cheek. “You did well.”

  Leaning on his elbow, the old pirate hooted, and Winfrey smiled. Kyrin ducked her head, heat dissolving her uneasy thought of Faisal standing over her in the dark with his dagger.

  §

  Some days later, Kyrin spied Faisal peering at her over a sand hill, one of several that guarded Tae and Alaina’s Subak practice from curious eyes. Sitting beside the fighting ring drawn in the sand around Tae and Alaina, who sparred with sticks, she touched the bandage around her sore ribs.

  Faisal invoked Allah often to annoy her. She understood the Arab word and heard Faisal muttering about “the Nasrany” with Umar as he led the camels to pasture. Faisal seemed to hold no ill will against Umar for kicking him, or did he simply join with Umar against her?

  Faisal also followed Tae about camp, working at anything that he could do with one hand. Did his arm keep him from her, or his debt to Tae, or did he think her warrior enough that he would come for her some night with a blade?

  Kyrin shifted the falcon dagger in her sash, cupping the haft. Faisal’s shoulders were broad, with force to drive a dagger deep. She would keep the falcon close, though Faisal knew Tae would hunt him down if he hurt her.

  §

  Faisal raised his head and thrust his shoulders back. He dared follow the hakeem out of camp. Abul had told Winfrey that Tae rose every dawn to teach a fighting skill to the golden one, Alaina, and the dark Nasrany, Kyrin. The hakeem treated them as his daughters, not his women. Faisal shrugged. He would not tell their Persian master, who wondered about them. The dark one was his to humble.

  The young women stayed close to camp while the hakeem attended Ali about his business, often trailing behind the Nubian, who did not object to him as Umar did. Faisal snorted.

  The black giant’s voice was not deep, despite his frame. And Umar was likely the Persian merchant’s bastard. He could use that knowledge.

  But the hakeem . . . he did not fear, though there was no love between him and Ali, and the merchant could snuff his life like a lamp-flame. Faisal studied the three below, moving his arm as little as he could, keeping a wary eye on the Nasrany.

  When he first saw her small form step in front of the one called Abul, he had laughed in his heart. Her slight body had been tight as a thread on a loom. As if she could dare to spoil their game, though she carried the dark ring of the evil eye. Why was the ring dark, not blue? Then she hit him. Him—a man.

  Faisal tapped his leg with his camel stick. She hit him with her twisted power. That darkness in her ring swallowed power; it did not reflect the evil as did the blue.

  She would suffer much for it. No unbeliever could beat Allah’s warrior—such could not be. Unless he had done something to anger Allah that he could not remember.

  No, it was a test. And he would not prove faithless.But she was the hakeem’s, and he owed him his arm. Faisal frowned, fingering his sling. He had told Tae he was an orphan, and that was true. But I fight for my father, and Allah. His frown smoothed. The way would be shown him.

  §

  That night, hidden by the shadows, Faisal drew close to Tae and the others around the night fire. Ali had given the hakeem permission to keep his Holy Book, for every night the hakeem read the place where it said slaves ought to obey their masters. Faisal sneered soundlessly.

  Ali Ben Aidon never listened long enough to hear Tae talk of the royal law, of treating your neighbor as yourself, of the freedom of Jesu. Faisal tightened his fingers into a fist. He was free in Allah—not chained by a false reading of a prophet’s words—and he would follow the Nasrany to the end of the world.

  The Nur-ed-Dam demanded payment. As did every oath of blood. His father watched him from Allah’s palace. As for the Persian, Ali Ben Aidon was of mingled blood, and his spirit was as tangled.

  Faisal cocked his head. Tae’s deep voice caressed the words of the Book. “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.”

  Power perfected in weakness. Hunh. Words as clouded as the Nasrany’s impure tongue. Such a thing cannot be. Such a thought a mad dervish would not follow. Power perfected in weakness. It is a book with a split tongue. Whatever thing of ill it is, this god’s “grace” will touch me not.

  Tae rolled up the book. Faisal shrugged, and walked to the fire. The hakeem looked up, his eyes dark as a peaceful lake, as if he expected him.

  “Will you tell us your tale this night? I will speak it”—Tae indicated Alaina and the rest of the slaves about the flames—“so they will understand.”

  The Nasrany kept her eyes on the stewpot. They glowed amber in the firelight. Faisal sank down cross-legged and stared into the flames. There he would see no curiosity or pity. He opened his mouth.

  “The destiny of my birth was by the will of Allah. Distracted by his joy at my first cry, my father opened his tent flap at an urgent call outside. My father saw who stood in the firelight and stepped back to spit, but swallowed it, as is the law. Any traveler is welcome to three night-fires: to our bread, our salt, and our tents.

  A strange warrior ducked in, his smile stiff from long riding, ignoring the curtain and the bustle and noise of new life behind it. My father watched him with a frown, but the stranger was a guest under the bond of salt. The warrior said he rode for his tents in the far sands, but was driven to our refuge by faithless raiders.

  The next sun-fall a passing Bedouin found me, a day old, rolled like a rat in a rug beside my father’s body. The camp had fallen as sheep before the raiders’ faithless swords. My father’s tent was looted and broken. My mother and brother were gone, with the strange warrior. They did not find his body.”

  Faisal paused. “Such a man is a hyena, who does not possess the heart to face Allah for his broken oath.” He snapped a stick between his fingers and threw it into the flames.

  §

  His mother, his father, and his brother, all in one night? But how can he know this tale if he was a babe? He made part of it up, if not all. Kyrin frowned. She said slowly, “I have heard of this law. How can hospitality for three days and death the fourth be a law held with honor?”

  Faisal spat into the fire. It hissed. “Anyone who does not rest under the compassionate guest law has the mind of a lizard.”

  Kyrin splashed her spoon into the stew. The third nightfall of Faisal’
s guesting had passed.

  Faisal lifted his chin and said in clear common, “Such is the way of the people.”

  Kyrin glared. It is as I thought. He knows common, but will not often sully his tongue. He has no honor who will not keep it in a pinch. A twister of words—he is worthy of Ali. And he’s a mite thinner than the stone statue of the Eagle at York. His hair has the browns of a mouse in the wheat. What would he look like on the Eagle’s stone horse? He is proud. She cocked her head, assessing his frame. He would fit well there, a strong tyrant.

  “How do you live in the desert in the dry time?” Tae pulled Faisal’s gaze from her.

  Kyrin stirred until a whirlpool grew in the pot. When would Tae teach her the sword? Faisal shot her a glance without worry, without anger. His smile was satisfied. In the pot, the stew bubbled. Kyrin gripped the spoon. She would need a sword soon.

  Faisal continued, “Until I came to the city by the sea, I lived with the Bedu who found me. We followed the rains across the sands. Our camels store water in their stomachs from one to two hands of days if it is not too hot. If the thorn and salt bushes grow tall, a beast like my good Waleed can live without water until the summer sun. We of the desert live on our herds and their milk. If not”—he shrugged—“thirst visions come. Down in the sand mountains, life is hard to find. Unless you seek death, you must have a guide to the seeps and the wells. Your Persian merchant may have need of me.”

  Indeed. Thirst visions or not, I will grind my teeth flat before I need him. He fits Esther’s list well. Last. Kyrin dropped a spoonful of stew into a wood bowl with a plop, and scrubbed at the hot splashes on her tunic. She hated it being so ragged, and now it had more stains. That meddling Arab.

  Tae nodded to Faisal. “I will speak with the Nubian.” He tucked the Book inside his tunic, rose, and walked toward Ali’s tent.

  Winfrey yawned, and everyone crowded around the pot. The talk died down to steady eating. Kyrin served herself last and sat cross-legged, blessing her trousers. And the food. Everything in this land was exotic fare after the ship’s fish and unending stale bread, but the goat for the pot had been young and tender. Tae had showed her how to drop raisins in with the rice and saffron.