Too late. She braced, and his paws thudded against her shoulders. Her hands slipped in the deep fur of his chest and she flailed at him.
Kyrin’s eyes flew open. She gasped in a breath, batting at Cicero’s paws dancing on her chest, his nails pricking her skin. He licked her nose and face in a frenzy, whines bursting from his throat, ignoring her choking grip on his neck. With a soft sob, Kyrin let him go and gathered his shivering body close. She cried into his soft coat. Dimly, she knew her arm was afire.
Which was better, fire or ice? Fire, because she could move her fingers. The bandage about her upper arm was tight. A few spots of blood seeped through.
Over her head swept black tent cloth. Three center poles formed the tent’s spine. The thick black felt swooped to shorter poles on either side and dropped to the ground. Three sides were closed. The sun shone bright beyond the fourth.
By the heat sliding inside, the sun was hours high. A camel groaned, and someone called, voice faint with distance. The gaily patterned rugs spread on the floor were red or green, with blue, purple, or black leaf-and-line motifs.
A goat hair blanket wrapped her. Faisal lay stretched in another blanket on a rug a few feet away. Kyrin lay back, careful of her arm.
She had stopped the Bedouin chasing the child, but she didn’t help Faisal—she paused before the blade. She did not know if it was fear or the haze her head had been in. Tears gathered and slid past her ears. Her heart felt sore, and thin, and wondering.
It had been the man with the lance who let Faisal live. Why did Faisal stand with her? Did he want Tae’s goodwill, or her guard down—that he might deal with her himself? She grasped her blanket and stiffened as her left arm throbbed, sinking tiger’s claws in her shoulders. Weak as a pup. She closed her eyes.
She was not thirsty. Somewhere she smelled roasting meat. Kyrin slid out of her blanket, with pauses to fend off Cicero. Her falcon dagger was not in Faisal’s sash, and she did not see her bow and quiver in the corners or among the rugs.
On his back, Faisal was motionless but for his steady breaths. Sleep had smoothed his savage frown, leaving his face a blank parchment. She touched his hand and backed away. Would he glare at her or startle? She didn’t want to be close if his waking was anything like hers.
His eyes flicked open, and he stared up, and blinked. “Aneza,” he said in a harsh whisper, sitting quickly.
She nodded. “You could have left me to them.”
“It was not to be.” His lips thinned. “I took your defeat for the name of my father, for Allah.”
Took my defeat? She would kick his tail past his ears when she was whole—it felt good to know it. She shifted and winced, and licked her lips. She was not in a good position to glare. “How is killing a murderer defeat?” Though she could not deny there had been too many of them to fight. Her mouth was sore.
Faisal said slowly, “They thought you were with the law-breaker. When I chose generosity, to show them your womanhood, I blotted out the shame you brought to me before. I purified my name and my father’s, and so defeated you. I am a warrior of Allah.” His smile was satisfied. Then his brown gaze shuttered, and he rose to his knees, pulling his bisht about him. “No shame or blood now divides us.”
And you think I owe you? Kyrin rubbed Cicero’s ears. There was more blood between them than Faisal ever dreamed. As for shame—he twisted things. And he knew her deed at the crater paid any Nur-ed-Dam he might claim.
Tae was right. Faisal believed one deed could overwrite another. She imagined him splitting a camel hair and laying the gossamer threads on a pair of scales, carefully balancing them. He thought she owed him.
The words stuck in her throat, but truth was truth. “I do not—see all you say—but for my life I thank you.”
Faisal sank back on his heels with a faint sigh and tucked the end of his kaffiyeh into his turban. Had he been worried? She grimaced.
At least there would be no more spiders. And Faisal might keep his word to her, for Tae’s sake. She coiled a strand of hair about her finger. The corners of Faisal’s mouth turned up, and he reached to stroke Cicero. He might even smile at her some unguarded moment. How Father would laugh. He would say if they were not enemies, they were allies. Captive allies.
“My dagger and bow are gone. Are we guests or—” Kyrin stopped short as a woman ducked inside the tent.
Plump and weathered, her wrinkled face was a sun. It beamed joy in its own right. She was unveiled, and henna designs graced her thin hands. The woman set bowls of camels’ milk and dates before them with a nod, laying a waterskin as big as a camel haunch beside Kyrin.
Faisal said something in the woman’s tongue and her eyes twinkled. She answered with a low laugh. With a piercing stare at Kyrin she set a bowl of milk down for Cicero. He lapped with a good will.
Kyrin gaped. “Faisal—”
“Yes, we are guests. And the noble ones are blessed of Allah and may sleep on our rugs. She honors him as is right. They will not kill us.” Faisal picked up his milk bowl, dipped a date, and ate it whole.
Kyrin snorted. He looked at her gravely, but said nothing.
“Why should we trust them?” She twisted at her bandage. If she could only cut off the pain by tightening it.
“They brought us into their tents. Have you forgotten the bond of salt, slow one?” He pinched his mouth shut, studying her a moment, then turned back to his food.
Kyrin took a long drink of her clotted milk. He did not have to be so superior. How did he know the Aneza would keep their word? Or that all of them gave it? The guest-bond ought to give her three days.
Who had she killed? She sighed. There was nothing to do but believe the Arabs would keep the desert law. Then Faisal could get a weapon and a spare camel, and she would ask for her falcon blade and her bow. Surely the Aneza would return them.
She held up a soft date. Bits of the brown skin stuck to her fingers, and she shivered with delight to lick them off. She had not thought to taste such food again. Closing her eyes, she let the sweetness melt on her tongue, letting it push her throbbing arm to the edge of awareness. When she looked up, Faisal was grinning.
“You have come to taste the food of kings.”
She could not shrug. The clean, sour taste of the curded milk grew on her. With the dates it was very good. She had emptied the bowl when a shadow extending over the rugs alerted her. She pushed herself to her knees with one awkward arm.
A Bedouin man slipped into the tent with a woman behind him, a child cradled on her hip. Cicero growled low, inquiring. Kyrin laid a hand on his back, and he subsided. She struggled to rise and bow, but the Bedouin waved her back with deference.
His hawk nose proclaimed him the man who had held the lance. Faisal had called him a sheyk. She did not understand his spate of Arabic, and turned from his piercing regard to Faisal.
Faisal burst into fluid reply, touching his hand to his forehead in a curious motion of respect. He whipped toward her. “What did you do, who did you shoot?”
“I don’t know—what does he say?” She twisted a bit of blanket around her finger.
Faisal’s lips thinned. “This is Sheyk Shahin, his wife Mey, and his son Rashid. Shahin, sheyk of the Aneza, lays his arm, his tent, and his camels before you for the life of his son of promise. Now tell me, what did you do?”
“The man was going to stab the child”—she motioned toward Rashid, nestled in the woman’s arms—“so I shot him. Then an arrow hit me.” She met Shahin’s gaze. Words clogged on her tongue. She wanted to lie down. “My lord, you honor us too greatly. Though I thank you.”
The sheyk nodded, looking from her to Faisal. He had a short beard. His brown eyes were self-possessed and quiet, without the rage she had seen. His date-colored hair rippled against his cream collar, and his thawb was gathered by an orange sash to his waist. A silver filigreed dagger was thrust under his sash
-knot. Beside her husband, Mey did not blink, but watched Kyrin with doe eyes, rocking Rashid on her hip. He crowed—as babies do—and stretched out his arms.
Then somehow he was in Kyrin’s lap while Mey gently kissed her cheeks, even her nose. Kyrin felt a blush rising. Rashid grabbed her hair.
He smelled of milk and clean dust. She smiled, untangling his strong fingers. Rashid’s delight glowed, sunlight through rain on fragrant flowers. He gurgled a laugh, and she cooed back in delight. He was alive—because she killed a man.
She swallowed hard, while his father smiled on them both with pride. Mey’s husky laugh wove around her son’s.
Shahin asked something, and Faisal leaned to look intently in Kyrin’s eyes. “Shahin wants to know if your eyes always do that.”
Dizziness struck Kyrin. She concentrated on the rug under her knees, green and black. “They—do that when I’m glad or angry or hurt. It’s my arm.”
Faisal nodded. Shahin chuckled and said in common, “Your eyes see with the falcon’s spirit. You come on a favorable wind.”
Mey whispered something in Shahin’s ear. He grunted, his eyes on Kyrin’s face, flicking from her necklace to her earring. His goodwill did not falter. Did the eye of evil hold no meaning for him, or did he disregard it?
Faisal said, “The sheyk believes the falcon sent you to protect his son, despite the mark you bear.” He did not look at her.
Kyrin shook her head, gently, for her arm. “The falcon follows the Master of all. He guided my arrow.”
“Say instead, Allah, who sent the camels to guide us.”
Kyrin had never wanted to hit Faisal so much. She bit her lip and let her words stand. A tattooed blue falcon on Rashid’s chest, wings spread, hovered over tiny tents far below. The wings seemed to beat with his breath. Was the tattoo a token that he was destined to be the tribes’ protector, or a plea for his protection, or in honor of the spirit of the falcon that these Aneza seemed to revere?
After Shahin and his family left, the afternoon dragged at Kyrin like her aching arm. She could not sleep. Faisal knelt for his prayers outside the tent. No wonder his kaffiyeh was dusty. Out in the desert, with no water to spare, he had often dropped on the ground, making sure he was in her sight, to cleanse his arms from wrists to elbows in sand in elaborate ritual.
She cocked her head. His was the only voice she heard without. And Shahin had not greeted her with an invocation to Allah. The sheyk thought the falcon sent her.
Kyrin pursed her lips. So, the Aneza worshipped the spirits of water, earth, and air. She turned restlessly. They were not spirits but created servants.
Her skin felt oddly hot. Where was Ali’s caravan now? Tae would know how to speak to Shahin, and he could ease her arm.
As if sensing her need for distraction, after his prayers Faisal entertained her with what he knew of the Aneza.
They were not as closely associated with towns as Kentar and Ali’s northern tribal drivers were. Nomad warriors, the Aneza used lances and bows afoot and on horseback. Their almost-straight swords were for war. Every man and some of the women wore a dagger for cutting meat and other things. Their dagger blades were either simply or heavily curved.
Kyrin smiled to herself. None of their daggers were close to the falcon’s straight bronze length. She must find a smith to melt the brazing from the Damascus steel. But then Ali might take it—best keep the steel hidden. Her bow and quiver rested by her head against the wall. Shahin had returned her weapons without her asking.
She reached out to touch the horn tips. What did Tae do now? And her father? Did he hunt for the table, and spare a thought for her? Her hand faltered. She would not be drawing a bow for some little while.
Faisal growled, “Are your ears open?”
“Yes. I hear.” She crossed her arms over her chest and turned back to him.
“Shahin’s people use peregrine falcons and salukis to find and catch the reem.”
Kyrin nodded. She had caught glimpses. A hooded falcon on a passing lancer’s arm, the salukis sniffing at another hunter’s heels. The bird made her think of her hawk, Samson, and Cierheld, and of her father. She longed for his protecting arms. And for the live spring of a falcon launching from her glove.
Kyrin stroked Cicero’s side, ignoring hot tears, born of pain and loneliness. The Aneza falcons were Araby birds. Would they know her, or she them? She might find their perches in the coming days, though she could not hunt.
Faisal fell silent. She tried to smile at him, glad he stayed. He nodded.
The sun passed sext bell, by the shadows creeping outside. Faisal dozed, his mouth open. A fly buzzed around him in the stuffy tent and looped toward Cicero, who slept against Kyrin’s legs. Cicero flicked his ears with a huffing groan, and Kyrin waved the fly away. Her thoughts pressed in.
It would be foolish to travel on though Shahin promised them fresh beasts when they wished. The thought of walking made her cringe, let alone riding. Tae and Alaina were getting farther away every moment.
And she could do nothing. She yawned, tears welling, and shifted a bit at a time until she rested her aching arm on another cushion. The pain eased, and she melted into her blanket.
With evening, the old woman returned and packed a fresh boiled leaf poultice around Kyrin’s wound. With hand motions, the woman told her the arrowhead had mostly gone between the muscles. Kyrin nodded. Since her arm had been motionless it had torn little when the arrow hit. It would heal fast.
The poultice stung; it must have the proper antiseptic properties. Alaina would know by the sharp, astringent smell. Faisal would know what the tea the woman gave her was called.
He snored behind her. Kyrin’s smile twisted wryly, and the wrinkles around the woman’s eyes and mouth curved up. Welcome sleepiness pulled at Kyrin, and she laid her cup down.
She slept, woke, and ate with Faisal again, often interrupted by Aneza who stopped to greet them. Faisal eyed her, considering, as yet another man left.
“They say the Twilket you shot was their guest, a trader, a mender of metal. He possessed skill but sold it ill, with hard words. An Aneza reproached him for bitter words to his host, and the Twilket trader attacked him. Shahin went to his tent with the elders to sit in judgment.
“The witnesses favored the Aneza, and Shahin’s face blackened against the Twilket. The trader saw Rashid playing on the rug and seized him, putting a dagger to his neck. When Shahin drew his sword, the trader kicked an oil lamp into the fire. It exploded, and during the confusion Rashid broke away.” Faisal grimaced. “It is good you killed that djinn’s offspring. But be wary, you have a tribe of the best trackers in the sands on your trail.”
“What? But—I cannot run fast, and we cannot stay here forever.” Kyrin’s voice went high. Cicero rumbled, his head against her thigh, singing threat.
“You knew the blood law when you shot him,” Faisal said, one eyebrow rising, “or is your mind like a river, without memory?”
“No, but—” Her stomach told her she had leaped from a high place.
“The Aneza will fight for us, and for themselves.”
An Aneza girl with an aureole of tiny dark braids peeped around the tent door, pulled back, and peeked again.
Kyrin motioned her inside. Shy and small, she came. She skirted Faisal widely, but drifted near enough to brush Cicero’s head with her hand. Kyrin forced back her smile. This was one moment Faisal would blush to be thought fierce. The girl’s breath caught, and she stopped.
Kyrin followed her riveted gaze. And slid the falcon dagger from her sash and offered the blade with a smile. The girl brushed the falcon’s beak with her fingers, and laughed in wondering delight. She darted outside. “Rashid, Shaheen!” her voice drifted back, light as a goat’s bell on the wind. “Rashid, Shaheen!”
Faisal busied himself gathering a cushion. “That is a good blade. Who forged it?”
<
br /> “I do not know; it was my mother’s.” Kyrin stared at a woman in red and green who led a maaing goat past, her udder heavy with milk.
“Your mother’s?”
“Yes. I took it after Ali’s men killed her.” As the Twilkets had tried to kill Rashid. As if he heard her thought, Faisal cursed.
Her mouth quirked. In his daydreams he must have cut her throat often enough. But then the arrow hit her, and he saved her from the Aneza. And at the last, Shahin withdrew his lance. No matter, she would not plague Faisal long.
But would the broken law of bread and salt mean a great Nur-ed-Dam? Kyrin’s jaw tensed and she shook her head sharply. Death followed her—this time to the Aneza. She must not cry—a pox on those who could not leave others in peace.
“I will go,” she whispered, “to my father and my home in the spring.”
His lean face was sober. “The caravan road is hard and far, but I think you will follow it.” His lip did not curl. He got up and went out.
16
Byways
Let us cross over . . . perhaps the Lord will work for us . . . ~1 Samuel 14:6
Night brought all the Aneza. The men sat under the open side of the tent, around a large fire before the door. Women and children settled beside their men, some in gaily patterned thawbs of tan, brown, green, and red. Sparks fanned over the wide fire pit and the waiting faces. The young ones chattered, and the women whispered. The men greeted each other gravely.
Kyrin wished she knew their tongue.
A black slave poured cups of tea. It smelled of honey and flowers. The pot was a ewer of shining comfort in his stocky, capable hands. Kyrin thought of Alaina, and her first taste of bitter-rich cardamom. Shahin walked into the tent.
“Ahhh.” The Anezas’ sigh of welcome drowned Kyrin’s greeting. Shahin acknowledged them with a gracious dip of his head. After him, two men bore a great platter on their shoulders.
Atop it rode a roast sheep, skin crisp and brown over succulent flesh, fat melting into a mound of spiced rice and almonds. Dates and milk followed in silver basins, bright above their bearers’ heads.
Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times Page 17