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

by Azalea Dabill

  His mouth flattened and he looked aside. Then he took the falcon, tugging it free of her fingers with a wry smile. “Will you wait to see if we might enjoy the journey together, and fly to the same eyrie in the end?”

  That Faisal. “You do not hear. Our path divides.” You smiled for the first time yesterday. Oh, I hope you see the Master of the stars. See his care in the crater, and his love when you stood under Shahin’s lance. Oh, why must my heart wake? I feel less a woman, and more a child. How Esther would laugh.

  “It is not that you wish to be the hakeem’s.” Faisal looked from her to Tae in doubt, and Tae shook his head.

  Faisal continued hopefully, “You are his only in name. I will speak with Gershem.”

  Tae stood wearily, as if he felt old. “It will change nothing. Your heart is not whole, my son, though you may yet be mended. She cannot join you now.”

  “Or ever?” Faisal’s lip curled, and he got to his feet, the falcon tight in his hand. “Is it that I have few camels, no tent, and no weapons, hakeem? And my blood is Twilket? What of her, a slave who shrinks from blood, and shivers before a blade. She knows more of a warrior’s art than of painting henna flowers and rearing children. And what of the blood between us?”

  Kyrin rose, her chest hurt. She lifted her chin. “Yes, I know the art of war; I will never fall again to someone such as Ali. And I do not love the needle and the loom. I left the cooking fire to shoot beside my father and walk with my mother in the hills. My horse and my hawk made my heart beat fast. I dreaded my alliance with another stronghold.”

  There did not seem enough air. Her words came fast and her breath hard. “You stirred me, with the anger and blood between us, and then our peace that bound our paths together. But blood also separates us. My creator gave his life for me, his very blood, and I cannot deny it. I think you will understand this—he paid the Nur-ed-Dam I owed him.”

  Tae said evenly, gently, “My son, she tells you her heart.”

  “You—refuse me?” Faisal leaned forward, a pleading, lost look in his face. “Together we will ride the desert; we will hunt. I will take you to Gaza, a treasured woman of the Twilkets, and you will sail across the sea to find your father.”

  He did not wish the truth. Kyrin held herself tight, every muscle. He knew pearls and gold and perfume would not sway her; he knew what would. Tears rushed up with the hope of seeing her father. When she set the hope down, they spilled. “It cannot be, Faisal. It cannot be.” Her throat closed.

  He dropped the falcon blade at her feet. It bounced on the rug. Kyrin flinched.

  “You are not worthy,” he said. “A falcon makes its own way.”

  Her head ached, and her voice went high. “Makes its own way on what—a shriveled, sun-eaten heart—without his wind?” She turned her face away; she could not bear to keep looking on his stubbornness. She nodded to Tae and hurried out of the silent tent.

  §

  Before the feast Faisal walked past her tent on his way up from the Twilket camp. His grandfather’s tents spread from the spring down along the wadi, a black flood into the desert. He saw her, lying on her back, open-eyed beside Alaina. His eyes were hot coals, then he averted his stony face and went inside the tent—his no longer but Tae’s—and yanked the flap closed.

  Kyrin rolled over, burying her face in her cushion. So Gershem Salin agreed with her and Tae. It was not a fit handfasting.

  What might it have been like to walk with Faisal in the majesty of the desert, unbound, on her way home. To go before her father as a bride; to hunt rabbits and Wudhaihi, to laugh at each other’s shots, to eat hot gazelle, drink sweet tea, and paint her hands with bright henna flowers? What would she give to see Faisal’s smile light his face, to feel his kiss like the desert wind over her skin? Faisal would come to see their Father, he had goodness in him—and when his anger forged him to a brittle blade, they would destroy each other.

  He must let love in, before he can love me. I wish I had never seen him. No, no I don’t.

  Truth hurt. She tossed and turned, and at last rose. Her bloom of womanhood had passed till the next moon. Best to find Ali and get the question of the Aneza’s gift of the falcon settled. Maybe then she could sleep. Her falcon would take feeding and training, then Ali would have a worthy prize. She might even raise other birds for him if he thought well of how she handled this one. Her heart lightened.

  Umar admitted her to Ali’s tent, unsmiling and watchful. Ali turned with a grimace from examining a fur laid on the table. Moths had chewed the edges over the long voyage. Kyrin did not smile.

  She knelt, touched her forehead to the rug, and told him of the Aneza and the capture of the falcon. She gathered her tired will. “The falcon will hunt much game for you.”

  Ali avoided her gaze. “And you will not. You moon-gaze enough without a falcon to draw your feet after it. No. A gift of gold would have better fit your worth to the Aneza and to me.”

  Kyrin could not help her puzzlement. The gift of a falcon honored him, and he disdained it. Was it because Shahin honored and consulted Tae openly? Or did her master know of her womanhood? But Alaina would say nothing and she was the only one who knew. Maybe his stomach was sour. “My master—”

  “No falcon will be yours, worthless one,” Ali said. “Is it not enough for a slave to be as her master?”

  Did he dislike falcons? Kyrin’s mouth trembled; at least Cicero was hers. And to reflect in any measure her Master of the stars—that was an honor.

  “Out.”

  “Yes, my master.” She bowed to the rug, a hot ball in her middle.

  Umar held the door flap aside, his palm on his sword, his mouth satisfied. He stretched out his leg.

  Kyrin stopped short. “Do not think you cannot be touched.” His whisper turned the heat in her stomach to a shard of ice.

  Umar reached for her and slid the falcon dagger from her sash. She grabbed for it—too late. Fool! She lived beside the Aneza and forgot to hide her blade.

  Umar tossed the sheathed dagger to Ali, who raised his eyebrow as Kyrin wet her lips. He turned the haft in his hand, rubbing one of the falcon’s eyes with distaste, grunting at a glimpse of bronze. “It is an uncommon creature, even for an askar.”

  So he’d heard Kentar and the drivers call her askar, a little serious. Now he mocked her, his voice smooth as chilled wine. Kyrin saw him in a falcon’s blink.

  He writhed on the ground, the falcon dagger sheathed in his middle. She walked unafraid in his blood, stooping to trail her fingers in it, and left the print of her hand on his forehead like a benediction.

  Kyrin dropped her stare to Ali’s sandals. He must not see her face.

  Umar tapped his foot, meditating on the tent poles. “The haft is much like the Eagles’ standard, the creature the Eagles worshipped. Allah forbids it.”

  He will take my mother’s falcon. No, he must not!

  Ali rubbed his chin and leaned back, stretching. He shrugged. “It is of poor worth, and it fits your unbelieving blood, Nasrany.” He tossed the sheathed weapon at Kyrin’s feet, and she fumbled for it, her heart rising. She could wear the falcon at her side. He did not know it was her mother’s.

  Umar dropped his brown gaze to hers. Impossible to tell his thoughts. If he wanted to put her in a slave’s place, he had. Or to fill her with fear, he did that, too.

  Walking away from the tent, Kyrin considered darkly. Umar would have watched her mother fall with a smile. Someday, not from her seeking, she might watch him over a blade. She crossed her arms. The coldness inside would swallow her. She had thought Umar’s anger might lessen with his fading scars. But it had not.

  She shook herself. Ali would get an extra rabbit tomorrow. She must keep his favor as she could, brief though it might be. As she rubbed her face wearily she could still see Faisal’s glare across the falcon dagger he threw at her feet. She would hunt alone, with Cicero.
Maybe the Nubian would be at Ali’s door to take her catch, and she would not have to watch Umar caress his sword hilt.

  §

  At dusk, every Aneza and Twilket sat or lolled around the many fires. Shahin and Gershem had five camels and many more goats roasting over great beds of juniper coals. No delicacy was spared.

  Kyrin nibbled nuts and rice, and late, frost-kissed persimmons. Tea with cardamom, honeyed milk with cinnamon, and rich, spiced dates were wonderfully sweet. She ate until she could eat no more.

  In her lap, Rashid gurgled over his cup of cinnamon, milk, and date syrup. He wriggled to be free, and Kyrin let him go. His warmth had been welcome.

  Had she lost the chance for such a warm bundle of her own, a little form breathing against her, her heart thumping counterpoint to his? But with a father who followed Allah, would he know the one who made him? She wiped her cheek and sniffed wetly. Faisal would always be divided from her, no matter what hid the chasm for a time.

  The evening air up and down the wadi rippled with laughing voices, old and young. Endless stories and jokes passed from one shadowed kaffiyeh to the gleaming face under another. The goodwill grated at Kyrin’s sore heart. Her master sickened her, smiling at all who passed Shahin’s fire, where he ate.

  The Aneza and Twilkets had had much to trade Ali Ben Aidon. His goods had increased five-fold, with hope of more. He added Bedouin rugs and rich blue, purple, and red dyes to his packs of spices, ivory, and silver. He bartered for ten loads of crushed date pits for his camels’ journey. Kyrin sighed.

  On the morrow, they would leave.

  Then the last pleading child was firmly ordered to his rug, the fires were banked, and Kyrin walked to her tent with Alaina, who chattered happily about their falcon.

  “What will we call her, Kyrin? We must find a name. . . .”

  “I do not know. I’m tired. Can we speak of it in the morn?” It would be soon enough to tell Alaina of the falcon and of Faisal when the sun rose.

  Kyrin lay quiet after Alaina slept. Ali took what was hers by right, and the falcon remained captive. Tears leaked into her pillow.

  22

  Division

  Faithful is He who calls you . . . ~1Thessalonians 5:24

  Arrangements had been made. Only bitter parting was left. Stars hung in a cobalt sky above a grey horizon; at home the bells of lauds gave way to prime.

  The cold stung Kyrin’s nose despite her thin veil. Ali’s litter waited near her, and Tae held Munira’s rein for their master, and Alaina rubbed her arms, shivering. The Aneza and Twilket tribes were mounted, their tents packed on their baggage beasts, the tribes arrayed in two long lines behind their sheyks.

  Shahin stood before Ali, a sword lying across his hands. He raised the sword. It had silver inlay about the pommel. “I give you this gift in parting, Ali Ben Aidon. You have served us well.” Shahin smiled. “If your dalil ceases to bring us thrice-yearly news of our Shaheen with your trade, we will seek you out, and the desert will know your end. May prosperity be yours and increase.”

  Ali grinned, took the weapon, and kissed Shahin on both cheeks in the manner of the desert. “And to you and your people be peace and prosperous trade.” He handed the gift sword to Umar, who sheathed it and slid it into Ali’s pack. “Such a two-edged seal is fitting to our bargain. Your blade will guard me well, second to my father’s.” He patted the sword in his sash. “Allah yisullmak, God protect you.”

  “Wa alaykum as-salaam, and on you be peace.”

  Kyrin’s jaw knotted. Ali thickened her chains with his refusal of Shahin’s offer to buy her and Alaina and Tae.

  Ali climbed to his litter. Shahin strode forward to grip Tae’s shoulder briefly, then faced his tribe. “Tae Chisun was brought to us by the Master of the stars.”

  Tae grinned, dropped Munira’s rein, and clasped the sheyk’s arms in farewell, his voice low. “He who seeks finds what his heart treasures.” There was laughter about his solemn mouth and eyes.

  Shahin leaned close to Tae and whispered, “Is that warning or encouragement to a brother?”

  “Both, my friend.”

  Shahin raised an eyebrow. “He is not a strengthless king.”

  “No.”

  “He enjoys hiding burrs under your saddle.” With a chuckle, Shahin ritually kissed Tae’s nose and cheeks. “For riding that beast, I give you this.” He took a sword from a man behind him and laid it in Tae’s hands. “And”—he extended his arm to the Twilkets—“my brothers give you these.”

  Tae accepted a lance tufted with bright parrot feathers and the curved bow of a horse nomad. He slid Shahin’s sword through his sash slowly, with reverence, then raised the other weapons in his fist with a broad smile. A great shout rose from every Aneza and Twilket throat.

  Shahin moved to Kyrin. A blush crept up her neck as he kissed her in the three places of honor, not touching her skin, as was the ritual. He smelled of myrrh.

  Shahin laid a bundle with a black bisht folded around it in her arms, and Kyrin shook the bisth over her arm. A falcon embroidered on an equally black thawb’s sleeve flew toward the wearer’s heart. Kyrin stroked the widespread wings. Underneath the thawb were Persian trousers, tight at the ankle and roomy in the leg. Mey had woven them of her most expensive cotton from Egypt, dyed black. The bisht of dark wool had a thick hood.

  The trousers and thawb were perfect for Subak practice, and the scarlet sash wound within all would hold the falcon’s sheath in elegant grace. The soft gifts warmed Kyrin’s cold, clutching fingers. Except for the sash, they would be most useful for blending with shadows.

  Her mouth tipped up on one side. Ali could not refuse to let her wear this, his ancestors’ garb, gifted by a sheyk before all. She bowed. “I thank you, O most honorable Sheyk, I will walk the sand and think of your generosity and your might—that you brought justice and peace from war.” She bowed again to Shahin, and turned to Mey, who sat on her loaded camel, first in the Aneza line, with Rashid before her. “I thank you,” she said in a soft voice, and Mey smiled warmly.

  While Shahin moved toward Alaina, Kyrin gathered herself. The hardest parting came close. She needed strength to give the gift she must.

  Alaina stretched her arms wide to reach around a fat bolt of wool, enough to furnish every slave in Ali’s house with a fine winter bisht. Shahin reached back to take something from Mey, and laid on top of the material a hank of indigo thread the blue of Rashid’s tattoo.

  Alaina’s eyes sparkled like the spring, and she bowed. “I give you all my thanks.” She disappeared among the camel lines to pack her gifts. Kyrin’s breath came faster.

  The last of the tents to come down was the hawks’ tent. She smoothed her damp palms against her thawb and breathed deep to steady her heart’s race. Alaina, be quick.

  Shahin stopped before Faisal. Kyrin clenched her hands. If Faisal could but see her face behind the veil, he might accept her gift—which bore her heart for him. She would never forget him—the flash in his eyes when he flung his head back, ready to fight all who came. Faisal would marry another, his blood would go on. But what of his spirit? Would he love killing and find despair, or seek justice and discover the wideness of mercy? Would he accept peace with her?

  Shahin beckoned, and Youbib led a good racing camel up, with a tent and weapons tied in their places. Shahin laid the neck rope in Faisal’s hand. And Faisal glanced at Kyrin, and kissed Shahin with full honor, his face grave.

  “Sheen! Sheen!” Rashid crowed, jumping in Mey’s arms, pointing with a gurgling laugh. Faisal spun, and Kyrin swallowed and turned slowly, knowing what she would see.

  Like a queen, Alaina carried their falcon on her arm between the lines of wondering Twilkets and Aneza. Head up, without a glance aside, she stepped between Ali and Umar and strode to Kyrin.

  Kyrin handed her thawb and trousers to Alaina, and wound the tail of her new bisht around her
left arm. The falcon shuffled onto it, full of promise of swift strength—if nothing hindered her growth. Ali opened his mouth, thought better of it, and gave Umar a withering stare.

  “Sheen!” Rashid crowed.

  Umar glided to Ali’s side, his narrowed eyes on Kyrin. Kyrin licked her lips. Ali told her to leave the falcon behind. She was—in her own way.

  Somehow she forced her legs the few feet to Faisal, keeping her arm steady under the falcon. The veil whiffled against Kyrin’s mouth. At least that can go.

  She pulled down the veil slowly and heard gasps. Though the Aneza women did not wear it, they knew the meaning for those who did. Kyrin dared not look at Ali; Faisal must see her face.

  “Let there be peace between you and me, let us part brother and sister, as we rode in the desert,” she said clearly. Caught in Faisal’s stony gaze, for a moment she thought he would spit. The falcon peeped. Faisal glanced at the ground and up, expressionless.

  Don’t make me touch you. Please. He did not move. Mouth dry, Kyrin lifted his wide, unresisting wrist and pulled his arm up beside hers. He held stiffly still. Every man and woman was utterly silent, craning to see.

  She had not thought so far; he had no guard against the bird’s talons. Hoping he did not take it amiss—it is all I have—she wound her veil around his arm. His wrist was warm and strong under her flinching fingers, and she did not want to let go. His glance went from her to the falcon, stepping onto the tight-wound cloth. The bird shook her head and clacked her beak, ruffled her wings, and settled.

  “You will teach my sky hunter well?” Kyrin’s voice cracked. “Her name is Truthseeker.” She could not look at him, staring at the falcon’s jesses she had carved from leather, embossed with the leaves of her beloved beeches, now hanging over the corded muscles of his wrist.

  Faisal said nothing. He was not going to speak. She closed her eyes, turning away.