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

by Azalea Dabill

  The day brightened from a streaked sheet of orange to full, blue fire. It roasted the first scent of green salt-bushes and the dewy earth into oblivion. They rode slowly to spare the camels, heading toward Ali’s trade stop south of Makkah. They were not going back. Faisal thought Ali would flee to find the nearest caravanserai. She could only agree.

  Her strung bow slid across her thighs, her quiver close to hand. Kyrin picked a thread from the hem of her char-blackened bisht and sewed up the holes the rocks had torn in her thawb. She would drape the bisht whole over her head until she got another kaffiyeh; she was not going to tear more from her thawb. Every few moments she glanced up at Faisal and around them at the hot emptiness. There was no sign of the raiders.

  Lilith’s shoulders hitched and slid, hitched and slid. Kyrin finished mending her bisht and said little over the afternoon. Faisal said nothing, nodding or grunting to her inquiries. The sun rose, burned them, and set.

  In early light the next morn they crossed a caravan trail, the prints nearly filled with sand. Faisal turned to follow it. Kyrin’s eyes watered from sun glare, and her skin chafed with dirt and heat. The old tracks were useless.

  Faisal got off Ali’s camel and stooped over a pile of rock on one side, staring at it. “Do you know this?”

  “Should I?” Her voice cracked. She coughed against her dry throat. Could they not have a drink from the waterskin? But Faisal hoarded it.

  “Will you look?” He asked stiffly.

  She slid her foot across Lilith’s shoulder and thumped to the ground, limping over.

  “This is not of my brothers.” His lashes were dusty, his thin face almost human with weariness.

  “No.” She had never seen anything like the precise pyramid of black rock as high as her knees. Clearly a sign of some sort. Hope rose. Might it be . . . it must be. . . Tae—and water. “Our caravan was here!”

  A smile tugged at Faisal’s mouth, chased by a frown. “Why do you say so?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know. I think Tae made it. Could it be any other?”

  “Yes.” He tapped his new-carved camel stick against his leg. This time a sword graced its pale length, waiting for henna or charcoal to color it at their next camp. She thought it would be blood-red henna.

  He said, “Many merchants cross the desert edge here toward the Asir, the highlands.”

  Her heart dropped to her toes. “Then why did you ask me!” Dust gritted between her teeth, her legs ached, and her cracked lips hurt.

  “I wanted to know if you knew the shape of it. Why do you frown like a djinn? Your sister smiles as one of the bright ones.”

  He set her up beside Alaina? Kyrin stamped the sand, her eyes stinging. “Because you are stone! You care for nothing and no one!” A few breaths. She had reason to frown as a djinn, did she not? She was hot and thirsty and hurting. But so was he, and he only asked a question. She stared at his feet. She had not thought to quarrel; if only he would tell her his mind. “I am sorry.” She licked her lips.

  “I have forgotten your words.” He bent over the way-sign, giving her his quiet back, and began to take the cairn apart to the sand. After a moment she moved around him to the other side. Stones thumped to the ground.

  “Hai!” He held up a twist of cloth. Two grey-blue embroidered falcons winged across the undyed material. Kyrin knew those tiny, beautiful stitches as well as she did her awkward ones.

  “Alaina!” She could not keep back her smile. Her grin faded as she peered closer. Two birds—two days? Ali was flying for an eyrie, indeed. The empty, water-sucking desert under her feet mocked her, for the waterskin was almost empty.

  Faisal stared at the red beads on Lilith’s lead rope in his hand, rolling them, frowning. He looked small against the desert.

  She touched the edge of his sleeve. “The Master of all knows we need water.”

  He pulled away, head up, his nostrils flaring. “If Allah wills it, we will find water.” He loosed the waterskin from his mount with quick jerks at the thongs and shoved it in her arms. She clutched the hot leather bag to her chest. He mounted and kicked his beast to a trot. A little later she trailed up behind him on Lilith.

  He turned, the end of his dirty blue kaffiyeh rippling like a live thing over his shoulder. “You are a fool, Nasrany.”

  “The Master of all—”

  “Be still!” He laid his hand on the falcon blade in his sash. “You blaspheme, and my brothers let you live, Nasrany of the Book! Allah will judge if we are worthy! What will be, will be.” His eyes were slits.

  She sat back, pulling on Lilith’s rein, and savagely tugged at a bit of hair twisted in her bisht at the back of her neck. It came free with burst of pain, and she grimaced.

  Not if one lived a thousand years could they be worthy, or purify themselves. The true Nur-ed-Dam worked only if the blood was pure—and given with freewill. The falcon by rights should turn in Faisal’s hand and drink his blood—but the Master of mercy said not. Only one was pure since the creation of the world—after the forbidden was taken. She sighed, and left the tired silence undisturbed.

  The fourth day they found no water. Faisal seemed used to the throbbing quiet. Kyrin counted passing thornbush skeletons and camel strides. Foam dotted Lilith’s swaying neck as she walked after Faisal’s beast toward another tall stone outcrop. There was a little shade at the base. Kyrin gave Lilith a pat and dismounted. She leaned against her, too tired to move for the moment, scratching around her small ears, joining her dreams of water-pools in her long-lashed eyes.

  They stayed in the rock shadow through the afternoon, the camels chewing cud. In the westering sun the wind shivered through a clump of bleached grass. The blade tips made thread patterns in the sand. Lying full length, chin on her hands, Kyrin watched the swaying blades and shadows play.

  Faisal had spoken often with Umar of the swift gazelle, the reem, and said he longed to hunt oryx. That would be a shot to boast of, with the bow beside her. The oryx, a lordly Wudhaihi, would take a stronger bow and a heavier arrow.

  She lifted her head. “Faisal, why do you love these empty lands?”

  His laugh was a scornful bark, and he rolled over to face the other way, as if she would not understand.

  She huffed out a breath and scowled. Heat in the heart was better than despair. Or was it? Her stomach growled.

  She stood to catch Faisal’s eye. He glanced under his arm he had laid across his face, and she motioned at the pack camel in question. He grunted. She took it as agreement and unhooked the waterskin’s strap and her sash sack. Laying the slack bottle on the ground, she divided the last dates.

  Kyrin chewed her rock-hard date a long time until it would go past her dry throat. After one gulp from the waterskin she forced her hands away. The wet leather taste relieved her swollen tongue but a moment.

  How she dreamed of water, of cold trickling streams, of rain dripping from roofs, the ship’s barrel, even of shallow caravan pools murky with slimy plants and other things she did not want to think of. She handed the skin to Faisal and watched his throat bob. He picked up his date. His mouth was set. Did despair eat at him?

  He had a distant master. “Allah the merciful,” was but words on his tongue.

  She guessed the sun drew close to nones, ninth hour after dawn at home. The purple evening slipped closer.

  Faisal took her saddle off his camel and gave it to her. She watched his back, tight-lipped. He did not want his beast to bear the burden of the saddle longer. The third camel they would use last. She saddled Lilith, and they mounted again.

  With dusk they arrived at a wide place of gravel and sand. Faisal approached a bare, trampled place in the midst of the plain, his head turning, as if a thousand enemies hid in plain sight. There was not a spear of green anywhere for a camel to stop for, only a long crack in the earth.

  The camels burst into a swaying trot, a
nd Faisal made a wild grab for his beast’s neck, almost losing his seat. Dust puffed from his bisht in swirls, making him a dust wraith on a fog-shrouded beast of legend.

  Kyrin stifled her hacking laugh. If they were in a tale, they would find some deadly or some beautiful thing at the crack.

  The camels pawed and snuffled at the ground, moaning. Faisal untied the water bag and Kyrin dropped off Lilith. She almost tumbled to her knees. When she could, she lowered the ancient haul bag into the well, and it came up bulging with cloudy liquid. Not wanting to offend Faisal, she handed it to him.

  Then she took the bag, and ignoring his protest, gulped till her throat and belly protested. Her thirst soothed, her stomach began to complain of its emptiness as they watered the camels with bag after bag.

  In the dark Kyrin huddled between him and Lilith’s broad side, wrapped tight in her bisht. She reached after a wayward edge blown free by the wind. Faisal caught it, stuffed it under her shoulder, and turned over. His back was warm. Cicero curled inside her arm. So they slept under the starlight.

  Waking early, they forced all the brackish water they could into their straining stomachs. And left the well. Some time later Kyrin looked over her shoulder.

  “Faisal—” it was a croak of dismay. The waterskin behind her saddle flapped against Lilith with every stride. The last gleaming drop leaked to the sand as she watched, leaving a dark trail down Lilith’s side.

  “By Allah, cursed one, do you not care if we die?” Faisal reined his camel around, drew her falcon blade and fiercely slashed the skin free from Lilith, his camel shifting under him with a moan. He fingered the hole in the end.

  Kyrin tightened her hand on her bow and pulled Lilith away, head bowed. Her eyes burned, without water for relief. How could she not notice their life dripping away?

  15

  Saviors

  Nor is it in a man who walks to direct his steps. ~Jeremiah 10:23

  The sixth sunrise since they fled the crater, Kyrin swayed atop Lilith, dreaming of a spring, and of water dribbling down her chin. Cicero lay limp across her thighs.

  A low whine escaped him. Kyrin raised her head, blinking swollen, dry eyes, drawing the air of a furnace into her lungs. Among mountain slopes of sand to their left, a camel walked. The far image shivered in the heat. Faisal rode ahead among barren dunes taller than storm waves.

  Kyrin gripped Lilith’s rope with white knuckled hands and ran a parchment tongue over her crusted lips. The camel’s snake head sank below the edge of a dune crest; another camel rose in its place. Their backs were bare, and they walked without rope or watcher.

  “Faisal!”

  Hunched on his beast, Faisal lifted his head as if it were lead. He turned toward the camel and paused, then nodded.

  It was night when they struggled up the thousandth steep dune beside the camel tracks. Four hands of twinkling fires before dark tents spread across a valley below, curving around the base of another hill of sand.

  Kyrin floundered down the slope after Faisal, leaning against Lilith’s shoulder, not sure if Lilith supported her or she Lilith. Her hand cramped about her bow, and she sniffed at the homely smell of smoke, mouth watering.

  Faisal could see better than she in the faint light that showed uneven ground. At least he did not stumble or fall. They reached the bottom of the dune, mounted, and breasted a wall of protesting camels that milled between them and the tents resting in the starlight.

  Kyrin kept her eyes on the fires before the closest tents, waiting for welcoming voices, ready to laugh in relief. She could drink an entire waterskin herself. Faisal coughed, a dry rasp, and called out to warn of their approach. His voice was thin and cracked.

  Kyrin tensed. There was something in the deserted shadows, in the hum of voices within the dwellings, that chilled her like rising mist. She touched his sleeve.

  Faisal turned, opening his mouth with a frown. She never heard him. A man screamed with rage. There was a loud “poomp,” mingled with the sound of shattering pottery, and the black felt walls of the largest tent at the edge of the camp shook with a struggle of many bodies. The tent sides flared into hungry flame.

  Kyrin stared; Lilith raised her drooping head with a snort. Faisal was a lurid shape against the light, his eyes dark pits. He yelled, “Down!”

  Kyrin was halfway when Lilith bolted. She dug her fingers into Lilith’s curly hide and kicked against the ground, lunging back for the saddle. Not far enough.

  The sand fled beneath her. Kyrin strained to keep her grip on the cantle, and wedged her ankle under the saddle-pad. Her bow swung from her arm.

  Lilith raced between the tents and the bitter night whipped Kyrin’s sunburned cheeks. Screams and wild yells rose from running figures. Someone snatched at Kyrin and missed.

  Lilith swerved, and Kyrin struggled astride. The camel circled toward the burning tent. Kyrin urged her away, fumbling for an arrow.

  Men with lances ran toward her in a line, yelling—Lilith skidded to a stop. Kyrin pitched over her shoulder. And landed with a stunning shock and a cry of her own, sand spraying wide. She scrambled up, her arms and legs heavy, her bow and arrow somehow still whole. Then limped toward the concealing dark, paces away.

  Behind her a child screamed in stark terror. Kyrin whirled. A small boy ran from the fiery tent, his brown legs churning, fleeing a Bedouin. The man lunged, his dagger low, seeking the little back.

  Her heart thumped once. No— The clamor dimmed into frozen stillness. Nock the arrow—must move—pull through shaking stars and angular tents in her vision, settle on a dark form behind the bright, swooping blade. With another shriek, the child dodged. The man slowed, turning.

  Kyrin loosed.

  The arrow struck under his raised arm with a wet thud. He toppled, and a robed figure sprang over him to scoop up the stumbling child. Kyrin reached for another arrow, stopped: Lilith had her quiver. The figure swept up the wailing boy and faced Kyrin, long hair flying against the starry sky.

  Kyrin lowered her bow. He had his mother, and she had him. A heavy blow from behind spun her. She staggered, looked down. A glistening arrowhead poked through her left arm. Panting, she lifted her head, the air fire in her throat.

  Bedouin converged on her, firelight on bow and blade and lance. Voices buzzed, arms rose, pointing at her. She shrank back, catching her breath at the fiery pull of the arrow in her arm.

  The men stopped, a circle of faces. Father said to get it out—Kyrin reached for the shaft, could not grip it, and cried tears she thought the sun had sucked dry. Then Faisal was beside her, his lips tight, bringing her warmth with the determined brown heat in his eyes.

  His fingers closed around the shaft behind the arrowhead, and his other hand slid behind her shoulder. His knuckles whitened—the shaft snapped. The head dropped to the sand, and her knees went.

  She swam out of grey pain, and he held her up with one arm around her middle.

  Why? The cool sand would feel good after the burning sun. Then she shivered, bitter cold, a cold as harsh as the pain spreading through her arm. The tent flames beckoned her with the promise of warmth, dying down behind the still figure of the sprawled Bedouin, the black felt almost devoured. Her lips twitched, cracking painfully.

  The raider would not harm anyone again—the ice inside did not stop her arrow. If I only had my bow, mother, for you—but I had my hands. I did not use them. The falcon—I did not know. She was crying.

  Faisal’s arm tightened, crushing her ribs. Kyrin raised her head, but her protest died. A lance point nudged Faisal’s throat.

  “Nur-ed-Dam, Sheyk,” Faisal said, rock still. A shiver rolled through him. She wanted to laugh. Death, death, all was death and cold.

  But the lance—it waited. She could help, should—she swayed, and blinked past the edge of the lance, following the painted shaft to a poised arm and a hawk-nose under a white kaffiyeh. The man
’s face was tight with wrath.

  Faisal said something and pulled off her kaffiyeh, shaking her hair free. Tangled, rough strands fell around her face. She must push him away, scream at him to run. Knowing what she was never stopped raiders. Only the falcon could—if it fought. But the falcon was chained, chained by ice to the tiger waiting outside the circle of firelight. A tiger that killed with a blow.

  Death, and cold—the tip of the lance promised loss—it should be her, not him. Kyrin willed her hands to the lance head, to guide it from his neck, past her body. At her side her fingers did no more than twitch. Her teeth chattered violently.

  The man lifted his lance and grounded the butt. In the abrupt silence a breeze fanned the flames behind to crackling. Faisal let her down to the ground and propped her back against his knees. His hand pressed her shoulder. Holding her up or steadying himself.

  The Bedouin surged forward, weapons forgotten, their voices urgent. Kyrin clamped her lips on a scream when they lifted her, jostling. Someone pulled the rest of the arrow out.

  Then she was inside a tent, lying on something soft. A skin bottle wormed between her teeth and camel milk squirted over her tongue, strong with desert herbs, sweet as Aunt Medaen’s mead.

  She swallowed once, twice. “Faisal . . .” Someone moved her arm, and the tent and the faces shattered and fell away.

  The raider chased the child. Kyrin ran with her bow between never-ending black tents under the stars, her legs weak, losing, losing ground. She must shoot now. She willed her arrow forward, it arced down, and the raider fell. His body dissolved before three tent poles trailing smoking cloth.

  A tiger sprang from the haze of smoke. On its back the falcon braced against a loop of heavy chain dragging under the tiger’s chest as it bounded past the poles, body rippling. The beast checked. Ears up, its head turned, the torque reflecting her. Kyrin struggled to raise her bow.