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

by Azalea Dabill

  Kyrin’s throat ached with Neddra’s pain and the sorrow of the many hearts besides hers that might cease to beat in the morn. Her hands tightened. The tiger stalked this land. Shahin posted watchers near and far, but they were no use against what hunted this night. She covered Alaina’s feet and rolled up in her rug, her heart torn by a great cry. Why must so many fall?

  §

  Tae woke in the late watch. He rose and circled the camp, restless. His brow furrowed at the faint echo of running water, and he questioned the Aneza watching near the island.

  The warrior shrugged. “There has been no rain, but it may be the wadi changed course, underneath.” He pointed at the rocks near their feet.

  Tae followed his ears southward, casting about. The chattering chuckle whispered to him, not from the island cisterns. It came from a great limestone rock, rounded by countless floods. At the bottom of the south-sweeping curve of the rock, a spring bubbled up in a pool, a rill running from it.

  Tae knelt beside the wayfarer, his knees sinking into brown earth. He tasted the water. It was sweet. He shook the cool drops from his hand, suffused in the spring’s peaceful song of heart-breaking power. Formless morning passed over him unnoticed. He raised his head when birds twittered to greet the grey dawn. He knew what he must do. “I am hwarang; Paekche cannot change that.”

  He took his horse from the two set aside for him, and, laying aside Shahin’s sword, he fastened his ironwood stick to his saddle. He let the horse pick a cautious way past the tents and the waking Aneza, and stopped where Shahin and his men had gathered near the pool with the excited sentry.

  He glanced up at the wadi rim. Ali Ben Aidon had stayed in his tent. Tae clenched his fist. He wanted to kill Ali, for was there not enough pain and greed in the world but one must circle it like a hyena, waiting for the weakest to fall? The Twilket sheyk could be Ali’s brother.

  Neither of them could see generosity nor offer it. Even as Paekche lusted for power, for a name; to the ruin of all, and himself, and Huen. Tae forced his fingers straight. Battles of the past must stay there; anger was his enemy. This day he outwitted a sheyk driven by blood and power. This day, the right man must die.

  §

  Kyrin ate her portion of dates, camel milk, and cold mutton. The sun rose, warming the air. News passed among the Aneza over their dead fires. She waited, shifting uneasily. Tae rode by.

  “Tae!” Did he hesitate?

  Staring straight ahead he said, “Shahin told me to offer the Twilkets the spring.”

  What spring?

  Tae’s laugh was soft but his voice held the sharpness of glass. “Have you been to the limestone rock? No? You might go, and take a waterskin.”

  Kyrin twisted her necklace. This was not the time to ask news.

  He looked at her. “I will bring Shahin to the sheyk before the sun sets. The Twilkets will not attack before the sheyks speak, for Gershem enjoys us thinking about our fingers blackening on the sand.” He stared down the wadi, his face tense. “The Master of water and men’s hearts must mend this—if I and Gershem are willing.” He closed his eyes, his mouth flattened, and he shook his head. “Forgive me.”

  Kyrin ducked her head in a nod. Something ate at him, a sadness and an anger.

  Near sunset she rode with Faisal and Tae to meet the Twilket sheyk. Her plea that she was a part of the blood debt had at last persuaded Tae to let her come. Lilith followed so close that Tae’s horse side-stepped. Kyrin glimpsed his stick on his saddle. His thawb molded to his rigid, muscled shoulders. She glanced at Faisal.

  Straight and easy on his horse, he held a limber lance, and his dagger shone in a rich blue sash, Shahin’s gift for his part in Tae’s errand. Head up, kaffiyeh in perfect place, Faisal leaned forward, a hunting falcon. His dark eyes missed nothing. He had still not said a word to her.

  He was a desert lord, good to the eye. Esther would say he needed land and gold. He would never make it onto her list of lords. Kyrin could see their first meeting, Esther mincing and bold, and Faisal tossing his head in scorn, proud as an Arabian stallion. Esther’s mouth might drop open—she was not used to scorn.

  Kyrin released her curl. Celine would follow Faisal. He had the drawing power and aloofness of a tiger, though he could be warm when he chose. She stared at the rein in her hand, then at his back. Did she follow him?

  Tae shot her a distracted frown when Lilith jigged into Faisal’s horse. Faisal did not look around, as if it were of no moment. Fire rose in Kyrin’s face. She wanted to retreat to her tent—but she needed to hear Gershem’s reply to the offered terms.

  Ahead of Tae, the wadi mouth spread into the gravel plain, where Youbib already waited, flanking Shahin.

  Gershem Ben Salin met them there, eight arrow flights from the giant falcon’s egg of limestone. Lean and strong, his brown hair beneath his kaffiyeh was grizzled, and a scar crossed his high, thin nose. His cinnamon eyes were wily with years.

  21

  Revelations

  Those who sow in tears shall reap . . . ~Psalm 126:5

  Riding behind Gershem, his seven warriors wore winter bishts of earth colors: sandstone, tawny grass, and basalt. Drawn up in a crescent behind their sheyk, they rode horses. Muscled beasts with delicate heads, glistening coats, and intelligent eyes.

  Shahin walked his brown stallion forward to face Gershem. His horse whuffled, tossing its black mane, and stopped. Everyone behind Shahin halted as one, as if he gave them a hand signal. Tae’s horse was stone. Lilith pawed at the earth and Kyrin winced.

  Gershem’s thin, wrinkled face was still, his eyes alert as a bird’s. His horse stamped.

  Tae’s shoulders contracted the least bit.

  Shahin’s voice rose—deep, rich honey with the warning sting of a sword beneath. “Before us there is laid death, and more death. Or water to offer for the blood of your warrior. Life for a death, and peace for our generations.”

  “What water?”

  “Come.” Shahin reined his horse around and led the divided parties up the wadi toward the pale limestone egg visible above the junipers. Tae dropped back with Kyrin and Faisal, his knee even with the Twilket sheyk’s across from him.

  Gershem eyed the likely ambushes along the way.

  “Do not fear. Shahin’s word is his law.” Tae clamped his mouth shut, his jaw iron hard. Gershem glanced at him with distaste.

  Kyrin nudged Lilith up beside Tae, through a last screen of juniper between them and the falcon’s egg. The rock rose over her head.

  Gershem halted his horse midstep, and it danced. Kyrin knew his amazement, for she had felt the same. The quaking earth had opened its mouth to give life.

  Tufts of green tender herbs and a profusion of yellow, purple, and blue flowers waved above fragrant grass in a great swathe around the spring. The sheet of water at the stone’s foot rippled, throwing shafts of light over every warrior who gaped around it. Beneath the silky surface pebbles tumbled over the sandy floor, and the water rushed from the pool in a clean channel in among dusty stones. It laughed, rushing and rambling toward the south wall of the wadi in its gurgling bed, edged with stone, grass, and flowers, to disappear beneath the ground a bowshot further on.

  Gershem looked at the wide pool. It would come to a man’s shoulders, and the channel had room for many camels to drink at once.

  Tae said low, as if he feared to break the water’s peace or the sweetness of flowers hanging in the air, “This is the work of the Master of the stars. You felt him shake the land, I think. If you will accept peace, Sheyk Shahin offers you twenty horses and the use of this water for all your generations. You will be welcome in the tents of the Aneza, to trade and grow and profit. We are close to the caravan road to Taif, and the road to the East. A caravanserai here would bring gold, silver, spices, and every rich thing.”

  Gershem grunted. “We are three to your one. What if I take the horse
s and the spring and give the murderer justice?”

  Kyrin looked at Tae.

  “It will not be just, and you will die, and many of your men.”

  “Not all?” Gershem laughed, his gaze sharpening.

  “As many as we can kill, and you first,” Tae said gently, as a man tells his host his choice of meat at dinner. “I call on the closest brother to your slain warrior to seize the blood debt from me. If he cannot, you will withdraw the Nur-ed-Dam. Kyrin,” he said, without turning his head.

  Kyrin’s throat was too dry to speak. She nudged Lilith and stopped beside him. Tae reached over. He pulled her hair loose beneath her kaffiyeh, his eyes on Gershem. “My wife in name shot your warrior when he tried to kill Shahin’s first-born. As you say, blood is thicker than water, and blood for blood will never end. With a caravanserai here”—Tae swung his arm wide—“you will rule the desert and this oasis, as you please.”

  Gershem rested his hands on his bay’s crest, considering. He straightened. “Only if he comes with us.” He pointed behind Kyrin.

  Tae stiffened. Faisal moved up until his sandaled foot touched Kyrin’s. She glanced at him.

  “Why?” Faisal said, his voice thin and clear, as he grounded his lance beside his horse.

  “What is your name?” Gershem lifted his chin, his thin neck stretching, an old warrior, proud as poison.

  “I am Faisal.” Faisal’s nostrils flared and his eyes were hot. Red darkened his cheeks.

  So that was why he had never told them his tribe. He did not know it, or he would surely give it now. A father’s name was a precious possession. Kyrin shifted, and Faisal’s hand tightened on his lance.

  Gershem said scornfully, “You submit to Allah, yet go with unbelievers?”

  “I am bound. How does it concern you?” Faisal’s voice was brittle. Shahin and his men watched, still, waiting.

  Gershem rode closer, lip curled. Tae did not move, and Kyrin held her breath.

  “I saw you meet this one”—Gershem jerked his head at Tae—“after he left my tent. He held a dagger to my neck and asked much. I let him have his life. Allah is generous.”

  Gershem smiled, wrinkles deep around his mouth. His goodwill did not touch his onyx eyes. “My men followed him to make sure he spoke true.” He stroked his chin. “You remind me of someone. Who is your father?”

  “My father is dead. His name is great, though I know it not.” Faisal’s scowl was black as Kyrin had ever seen.

  Gershem reached for his rein. “Ah yes, a man in a tent, his brow angry like yours, falling over his wife to save her, who would not let me have a common rug—”

  “You—murderer!” Faisal whipped his lance down like a cobra. Kyrin swung an arm around his neck, half unseating him. Tae guided the end of Faisal’s thrusting lance under his horse’s neck into the sand. Faisal dropped the lance and grabbed his dagger.

  “No!” Tae shouted, gripping his arm. In a low voice he said, “There is more.”

  Faisal paused, breathing hard.

  “Stop—peace. Be easy. Let us speak together.” Tae lifted his palms to the Twilket lances hedging them in. Horses shuffled and grunted, snorting under uneasy riders.

  Shahin and Youbib held their blades to Gershem’s ribs. Tae dropped his fingers in command and they let the sheyk go. The Twilkets relaxed.

  Gershem bristled, but Faisal leaned in his face, hands white in his horse’s mane. “What do you know of my family?”

  “Stupid boy!” Gershem glared. “Alud Ben Salin was my son.” His head bobbed. “Yes, and by the decree of Allah, I lost him.”

  Faisal jolted back, a shying colt. “I am no blood of yours!”

  “It is as Allah wills. Would you bring your friends to death?”

  Faisal shut his mouth with a snap. His eyes were hard.

  “Faisal, don’t . . .” Kyrin whispered.

  His jagged consternation smoothed from his face. He turned to Gershem. “I accept your peace. Blood is thicker than water.” He glanced at Kyrin and Tae and extended his dagger, haft first, to Gershem.

  Gershem took the blade and said solemnly to Shahin, “I accept your spring. Though this one”—he motioned at Tae—“could have lost his life among my tents, except that Allah made me wonder what manner of jackal dared beard me.”

  Faisal opened his mouth, then his teeth clicked together. Tae pressed his thumb into Faisal’s near thigh, the movement hidden from Gershem.

  §

  Faisal winced. This sheyk must be blood of my blood, to bait a lion in his den. Did Tae tell him I killed his assassin? But it was war . . . there is no lawful Nur-ed-Dam for him to hold.

  Tae slid from his saddle and walked around Faisal to Gershem, in easy reach of the blade the sheyk held bared across his saddle. “No, honored Sheyk of the Twilkets. I let your men live. The warrior in the brown kaffiyeh behind you holds his breath when he stalks with a long sword in his hands. And the one in white, the feathers of his arrows rustle.” Gershem’s warriors stirred. “I could have killed them all.” The silence was thick.

  “How?” It was a derisive bark.

  Tae shook back his sleeves. A band around his wrist held the butts of the assassin’s darts, their black heads buried deep in a second leather band about his forearm. The blowpipe lay snug against his other side, and his ironwood stick was a dark viper in his hand.

  Faisal let out his breat. Numbness crept into his fingertips as if the darts’ poison worked there. Among the Twilket tents one uncertain move would have been agony and creeping grey for Tae, dragging him down to blackness—death to him, or to any number of Twilkets—men who were Faisal’s tribe now, if the sheyk who claimed him spoke with a straight tongue.

  “A warrior with sticks?” Gershem looked around at them all with a smile—and without looking, stabbed Tae.

  Faisal opened his mouth to shout. Tae’s hands blurred, struck Gershem’s wrist. The dagger flew.

  Faisal ducked, for he had not the skill to catch it. It arced over his head. Thrusting the sheyk’s ankle above his mount’s withers as he pulled down on his arm, Tae whirled Gershem down and out of the saddle. He tapped the sheyk’s temple with his stick, spun behind him, and held the weapon across the limp sheyk’s throat. The ironwood could as easily break his collarbone, or his neck.

  Gershem gagged. The dark wood eased away, to quiver before his face. Eager.

  Faisal looked at Tae. Tae’s mouth was tight, and his dark eyes flashed. It was effort to hold himself back. Yes, he knew much of death—or death knew of him.

  Gershem’s men held their lances raised, ready to thrust, uncertain. Startled, wary, angry—they faced a thicket of Aneza weapons. Their sheyk—his sheyk—swayed and gained his balance. Gershem swallowed hard, eyes bulging. Tae released him. Gershem turned slowly, carefully, his chin high. Tae stepped back and dropped his readiness.

  There was a moment of silence, then the soft noise of swords sliding through sashes and lances grounding.

  Gershem nodded. His blood-beat jumped in his wrinkled throat like a rabbit’s, but his voice held the new-forged iron of respect. “What tribe reared such a warrior? Djinn might call you brother.”

  “I was reared hwarang, beyond the land of spices.” Tae bowed, waited a moment as before an equal, then turned his back to mount his horse. Gershem stared after him and nodded again, mouth puckered as if he thoughtfully sucked a lemon.

  Faisal grinned, and his grandfather glared at him. Faisal wiped his face clear. My name. Alud Ben Salin, I am your son. A son of the Twilkets.

  §

  “Ruthlessness requires ruthlessness, or the appearance of it.” Tae smiled.

  Sweat trickled down Kyrin’s neck. There was not enough boiling air to breathe in the tent. For once in its lifetime, the closed walls refused all breezes. The feast of peace between the Aneza and the Twilkets would begin with the fall of night
. In the heat of the day, all rested but the flies—and those with hard words to say.

  Faisal said quietly, “It was your right to test my sheyk’s blade and his rash words.”

  “Why was it my right?” Tae’s voice was equally quiet.

  Faisal held up his hands with a shrug, “You had the strength, you are a man.”

  Unsatisfied, Tae turned to Kyrin. “Why did I possess the right?”

  She knew. It came now, the difference between her and Faisal. She could taste it, bitter on her tongue. Tae waited, and Faisal frowned.

  Her throat tightened. “Power does not give any man a right. The Father of All says to do justice, to love mercy. He gave Tae the right, the command, to challenge Gershem.”

  Faisal shrugged. “Allah says to convince unbelievers with whatever must be. If they do not come willingly, the sword shepherds them to knowledge.”

  “Yes, Allah says so.” Kyrin forced her thick tongue around the words. “Our Father says not. A sword convinces no one’s heart, but his body alone. Our Father’s power comes from his love—he will have the best for us. Though he lets those who wish choose their own way.”

  Faisal’s brow wrinkled. “Why do you speak of love? Love is for women. Loving is a part of their nature, for children. The joy of the sword is for men. ” He tapped his stick against his knee and smiled, a quick quirk. “Let us rest this hot hour, and in the morning Cicero will chase us rabbits to shoot.”

  Kyrin wished her lips could lock closed over what lay in her, a burning, heavy stone. She whispered, “Faisal, falcons must fly with the same wind to fly together. We do not. My Father opposes Allah. Allah, who feeds you other peoples’ blood and takes you where the wind of mercy is not.”

  Faisal’s brows slammed together.

  Kyrin slid the falcon dagger from her sash and touched the point, forcing her tears back with the prick. She held up the blade and looked at him over the edge. “If this threatened to draw your life away, would you believe my Father?”