Their master wanted sons, and a strong wife. Shema wanted strength but no children. Tae ordered Shema to drink what he gave her for the evil humors in her blood, and to pray to the Master of the stars about her children.
Shema gave Kyrin an exasperated, fearful look when Kyrin told her, but she drank the tea—and afterward threw the cup down and ordered Kyrin to pick up the shattered pieces. Was the mistress not used to being commanded by a hakeem?
Kyrin grinned, taking any sting from the last of her tale related to the kitchen women. “The Hakeem’s word is strong, as I well know. When he says run, I run.” She mimed with her hands along the table.
Nara’s lips twitched, and Nimah and the others working in the kitchen laughed.
During her forays, Kyrin found that Nara was the first to rise in the house and the last to bed. Her work began before dawn, in lauds, though here no bell sounded the hour. It was hard for Kyrin to think of Umar as Nara’s blood. He was not of her heart.
And Kyrin found the other women pitied her. They stared at her thawb that she could not keep from garden and stable dirt. And Qadira clucked when she caught Kyrin in the passage one evening after serving Ali, tossing her tangled veil over her shoulder, limp and torn as a slain rabbit. Kyrin had jerked away from Qadira’s insistent, untangling fingers, and the old Jezebel snorted and stalked away.
People, more people, and walls, wherever she turned. Nowhere to escape the whispering voices and cautious tread of her sister slaves, who, except for Nara, Nimah, and her mother, most often looked at Kyrin out of the corners of kohl-slitted eyes or clutched their veils as if afraid of catching her evil eye.
Where she sat on the garden wall, Kyrin grimaced and traced the edges of her dagger in her lap.
The women of Ali’s house did not go out. Shema might have taken some of them with her, but when Kyrin asked, she said it was either too hot or she was tired or the road was too rocky or muddy. The court with its flowers and trees were enough if she wanted a walk.
Kyrin thought Shema did not want to think of what she could not have. The women were guarded from both danger and joy, shut in by Jachin, protected from the night sky. Her mistress might endure it, but she could not bear to live caged.
She often crept out to walk under the stars, with no one the wiser but Tae, who would look when she rose, and nod and roll over. Jachin never noticed her when she left or returned, always on his rug across the women’s door, his breathing even, his sword under his hand, his eyes closed whether the lamp above burned high or low.
Kyrin longed for the desert. There she had hunted under a sometimes serene, sometimes blazing sky, and roved over clean sand without the stink of man; the smell of unkind whispers and hidden meanings. She had not hunted since she entered Ali’s house. Cicero’s brown gaze held reproach and yearning when she left the stables without giving him even a short run. The women’s frankincense and costly rosewater and jasmine made Kyrin sneeze, and she avoided their quarters.
She sought the stables often, bringing a bit of meat or a bone for Cicero, and dates or an apple for Lilith. And ever she looked for a way to roam the hills with her bow. To keep her promise to her mother—she would learn to hit a mark at two hundred paces. It was possible with the nomad’s bow. But it was impossible to get by the guards.
Ali posted men at both the great gate and the side gate to the stables. The west gate, after the women’s court, led to the fields behind the house and many slaves’ eyes. All the gates were locked after the sun fell. And the men under Umar kept a close eye on Kentar and Tae’s late comings and goings.
Zoltan bought food that the slaves did not grow in their master’s gardens from the wadi villages for the household, and Kentar or Tae procured any other goods from towns or the Aneza at Umar or Ali’s orders. Kyrin envied Zoltan.
He ran beside Ali’s salukis in the hills after gazelle and hare and fed and trained the long-haired dogs. Ali favored his fawn beasts, for they were good hunters. Their cast-off litter mates who had shorter hair, or heavier heads, or mottled black, brown, or white coats had become Umar’s pack. He trained his salukis in the manner of the renowned hunting bloodlines of Egypt.
But he taught them to trail men. His Hand of obedience, he called them. They growled at Kyrin whenever she passed by.
Ali’s salukis ate succulent meat and rice with vegetables, cooked on Nara’s fire. To share the noble ones’ dinner was worth Zoltan’s tongue or his head. Worse, Umar’s swift Hand might be loosed, to bring him down like a gazelle.
Kyrin smiled to herself and tested the point of the falcon blade. Still sharp. Zoltan had brought her a rabbit skin for another soft neck pouch. He had plucked the hair from it in the shape of a cross. His talk about stable doings was not the poetic conversation the women of the house savored, but she relished his bald words. There was no double tongue with him.
Even Shema confessed at times that she tired of searching her head for a fitting word in reply to house banter, and Kyrin heartily agreed. Alaina thrived on the back and forth word-building, quick to think of a pleasing line.
Kyrin sighed. With a little guidance, her sister would have made a better lady than she or Shema. She frowned. Alaina seemed not to hear the women’s jabbing tongues. She passed through the kitchen, the Blue Flower room, the women’s court, and even so far as the women’s quarters followed by joyful claps and eager interest in the poetry she learned from Tae and shared with all. It was rare when she did not stand in the middle of a circle of women, a smile on her face.
Did it mean nothing to Alaina that she was bound to her by deeper ties than blood? Kyrin wiped her face. Were the women suspicious of her because she allied with Shema, or because of her scar, or did she look so evil? Ali’s mark was fodder for their weaving tongues.
Kyrin stared at the falcon’s amber eyes. She had one thing Zoltan and the women of the house did not. The garden.
Jachin had told Tae of an old, unused garden close outside the wall and had convinced Ali it was a good place for Tae to raise his herbs and teach his women his martial mysteries. Ali grinned when Tae asked permission to seclude their dojang, or place of learning—doubtless hoping that they learned more from him than their martial art. Kyrin’s mouth flattened in satisfaction despite the taste of salty tears. Huen yet stood faithful every night.
She gripped her hands. She had helped Alaina root out every weed, stick, and stone in their practice ring. They left an old fig at one end of the garden and a gnarled olive in the middle.
Tae said the thirty paces of bare earth near the olive should rightly be a ring of sand, but there was less need since it seldom rained. He extended a water pipe from the women’s court and through the tumbledown garden wall for his herbs, and they planted seeds thickly on both sides of the gateway and about the garden, the patches guarded by rings of sticks stuck in the dusty earth.
She had thrown herself into Subak in the only place where she could be alone, practicing every spare moment. A strong stomach, strong legs, and sure feet gave a warrior speed and power. She needed that power.
Kyrin wiped her face on her arm and sniffed at the smell of oregano and mint. The sweat of her last practice cooled on her. As was her habit, she’d hooked her legs over the wall and curled up and back down till her stomach ached, then jumped from a knee-high stone to the ground and up again until sweat ran down her burning calves and her thawb stuck to her back. Then she ran around and around the garden after Cicero—all for that power.
She shot her bow the short distance the garden allowed, and sparred with Alaina in the pool the rare moments they had it to themselves. Sponge in hand, she would hunch her shoulders and lift her arms to protect her head. She’d shuffled around Alaina, darting the sponge at her sister, covering her face with her other arm. She’d grinned at the rewarding “thush” of the sponge at every hit, and took Alaina’s blows in return.
Kyrin’s shoulders drooped.
<
br /> That power was nothing if she only saw Alaina when they ate, at the pool, and when they lay down to sleep. Her sister was closeted with Tae much of the rest of the time, learning scrolls or practicing the words he set her to copy on a wax tablet, while he left on Ali’s errands, sometimes for days.
While she could only wait on Shema, carry her mistress’ messages and food, chat with Nimah and Zoltan, and practice until she was too tired to think. Never after that first night did Shema let her know that she swayed her decisions. Kyrin understood. She was a friend—and yet a slave.
Her sweat made her shiver. In the sun dying across the west, the falcon’s eyes gleamed almost orange. Kyrin slid the dagger through her sash, got down from the garden wall, and walked toward the west gate. Umar frowned on her using the stable entrance where she might impede a messenger, his salukis, or any man about his business. And she did not want to meet Umar’s Hand if Zoltan was not there.
Behind her, a hedge of olives concealed the garden walls. She was late leaving her refuge for the safety of the house. At Ali’s word, all must be inside by dusk. Kyrin envied the wadi water; it ran where it would. She slipped through the field gate with a sheepish nod to the guard, who grinned.
Kyrin shut the door of the women’s court gently. She was not ready to leave the night where she was not crowded by the echo of many voices. Rooting noises and a snort under the vines against the wall made her pause. She listened. Only a hedgehog after insects.
She shrugged and pulled herself up the vines that matted the north wall until she could see over the top. The hills were blue beneath the purpling sky. The desert lay beyond them, at the feet of the jagged mountains.
Somewhere across two seas far north and west of them, Cierheld and her father waited. The hedgehog rustled the dead leaves. Kyrin’s arms tired. The gate scraped, and feet crunched gravel. Kyrin dropped back to earth.
“There you are. I thought you might come here.” Alaina hugged herself against the cold, a smile in her voice. “My scribing went well today. Tae said my pen is passing Umar’s, and I will not disgrace Ali. Umar says a singing teacher is coming from Baghdad. He says I will need my needle, my pen, and my voice to be worthy of the great city. I will work with some of the greatest translators and scribes for the caliph.” Alaina paused.
“It means more to me that I scribe for our Lord, and my people, who will read the works I translate. Kyrin—words can steal so much—and give so much. Umar says the caliph has more women than can be counted, and I am married, so I am safe. The round city is magnificent—”
“I don’t know, Alaina. Safe from the caliph’s eye, maybe, but from his sword? What of that, and being caught between him and our master if they should part ways?”
Umar wanted Alaina fit to serve in that high, fearful place, the caliph’s court, where fortunes and lives were made and lost, but Ali had said nothing to her. Would he send Alaina and Tae to the caliph and keep her behind with Shema? Could not Tae teach Alaina to sing?
But it was different for Alaina. She had nothing to hide. Nara and Shema made excuse for Kyrin when she had need at each moon, though Nara said, “You will have to wrap your chest soon, it is good you are yet so small.” She had smiled and stroked Kyrin’s hair. “It takes time for a seedling to become a tree, for a mustard seed to ripen, for a falcon to grow into her wings.”
Kyrin snorted. So long as she made Shema congenial to Ali, giving him greater chance of an heir, and she herself grew in the way of the warrior, her master was pleased. But if Alaina went to Baghdad, she would be alone again—and Umar might see his way open. His scar was a pale bar across his palm that reddened at the least touch. But he had not discovered her womanhood, or Ali would know it between one moment and the next.
“Our master serves the caliph.” Alaina fell silent.
The shadows were thick under Kyrin’s feet. She suddenly wanted Alaina and Tae running beside her, the whisper of camel pads over moonlit sand, and Cicero’s lean form ghosting before them into the dunes. Or home—and the sweet-dry-musty smell of the oaks. The vined wall loomed before Kyrin. She shut her eyes. “I was looking at the hills. I am going to the garden when the sun rises.” She forced her voice to evenness. “Will you come, Alaina?”
§
Alaina brightened. “Oh, yes! It has been too long since I practiced.” Maybe if she talked to Kyrin, her sister would come to understand why she pursued Baghdad. “I will bring the part of God’s Book that I am finding Arabic and English words for. He holds the truth of everything. He makes my heart climb swift into the sky—like your falcons, Kyrin. I want his word written for us in our tongue, and I do not think Father Bede’s translation of the Book exists here for me to copy.” The Baghdad school gave official scribe status on their terms, under their tests. Her works translated under Tae would be useless to prove her skill to them, an untried woman. She must go to Baghdad. I cannot go home a beggar, I will not.
Alaina heard Kyrin sigh. “No, I do not think the Arabs love our Bede’s Book and Latin. But why do you want so much to go to the translator’s school? Is Arabic so beautiful?”
Alaina smiled. “They make the facets of words glitter with truth. They paint ugliness, evil, beauty, and kindness. And yes, their script is beautiful.”
Kyrin snorted, and Alaina pulled back her veil impatiently. “There is no harm in serving our master, Kyrin, and praying the Master of the stars to rise over him with healing. If I serve the caliph well enough, either of he or Ali will reward my faithfulness. If we were free to go home, Tae could go back to Huen. He is so sad, sometimes.”
§
Kyrin said nothing. Alaina spoke as Nimah’s mother and the others, hopeful of their master’s generosity. She should know from Ali’s dealings that Arabs used a vessel, and broke it when it was of no more use. Even Faisal said so.
27
Heart Studies
He trains my hands for battle. ~Psalm 18:34
Tae bowed, and Nara inclined her head. She walked through the garden gate after Kyrin, who strode ahead in Mey’s black thawb and trousers. The late sun edged Nara’s brown thawb with red-gold, making caverns of her eyes, highlighting the loss of her earlobe. Tae waved her past him, indicating the east wall with his stick. “Watch there.” Her steps could not hurt the seedling herbs still in their coats beneath the earth.
He smoothed the solid ironwood in his hand. If injustice could only be overcome by such weapons it would make his heart glad. Ali had bought Nara from an Egyptian slaver and took her for his concubine, though he did not acknowledge Umar as his son. And Nara loved Umar fiercely. She had given him her mother’s heart with her milk—and watched him follow Ali. Tae shook his head. Then Ali married Shema, daughter of the wazir, and made Nara his head cook. If Ali fell to poison, all eyes would look to her. To Nara, who shielded Kyrin.
“Make ready!” Tae called after Alaina and Kyrin as they ran around the inside of the garden to warm their limbs. They skirted the sticks marking the plots of his life-giving herbs at full speed, dust spurting from under their feet. It smelled of this sere land and forgotten days of green life, nothing like the leaf mold of the many-fingered maples of Huen’s gardens, blazing in red glory. She used to wait for him there, after his practice with his hwarang brothers, and they would walk among the trees, where his skill and his heart had grown.
Kyrin’s skill in the way of his fathers grew as his had. She took joy in the warrior’s way, exulting in her strength. She determined to overcome the sword and purge her shame over her fear of a blade and her mother’s fall. Tae sighed.
All men feared. And fear did not leave on its own; it was ignored and walled in to fester, or wielded into anger, or cast upon the Master of the stars, who gave courage and mercy in its stead. And her heart had not healed of its wounds.
She was not ready for the touch of death. That carried the power of life giving and life taking; he did not give that power to any
without trusting their heart’s mettle. Her fear and anger and pain might fashion her into a dreadful weapon. Kind firmness was needed to bring any rangdo to a master’s skill. The seeds of obedience and knowing began here. Tae rapped, “Jun be!”
Alaina and Kyrin grinned at Nara and halted before him.
Kyrin straightened, her hands in fists before her as required, chin up, eager. She bowed, and Tae inclined his head and gestured at Alaina. Kyrin bowed to her drill companion.
“Seajok!”
Kyrin drove a round kick to Alaina’s ribs and switched feet rapidly—switching and kicking, faster and faster—until she gasped for breath. Alaina did the same to her, their kicks landing as one, pounding grunts from each other despite their leather body shielding. But they no longer knocked each other’s breath away or hunched in sudden pain. They had toughened, though in a few moments sweat gleamed on their faces. Tae nodded. They were warm and ready. “Poomse!”
Without a pause they slid apart and leaped into the stylized forms he had fashioned, that linked the tried fighting moves of his teachers.
Pursuing an invisible attacker, Kyrin pivoted into a low strike to protect her lead leg and grabbed her opponent’s arm, pulled him into an open tiger-mouth between rigid fingers and thumb, crushing his windpipe. She elbowed, threw him, dropped a knee into his gut, rammed another elbow to his throat. Her thawb snapped with power and speed, the faces of her pale-robed enemies visible only to her.
Tae glanced at Nara, who followed Kyrin’s fierce movements with wonder.
A rider, an old thawb stuffed with palm fronds and rocks, perched astride the wall. Kyrin and Alaina sent him flying from his mount a hundred times by turns. The one not kicking vaulted the wall to catch the falling target and reset him. One kick, vault over, catch the rider and replace him for her partner’s kick, and vault back to kick again. Tae swung his stick against his leg, suppressing his smile. His rangdo had struck a rhythm and made a game of it.
Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times Page 29