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

by Azalea Dabill

  When she slipped back through the curtains with the fresh tea it was not wanted. Ali and Sirius faced each other before the listening marble hunter.

  “It is a match, O my friend.” Ali’s voice was deep with satisfaction. Kyrin gritted her teeth. Another of her master’s wagers.

  “As you will,” Sirius said with a shrug. And eyed her.

  Ali held up his hand. “Let us prove our methods, O my guest, with something gained.” Head bent in thought, he rocked on his heels. His hungry smile spread over his face. He said to Kyrin with amusement, “Leave me. Bring Nimah.”

  Sirius’s face gave nothing.

  §

  In the long entry room Kyrin met Alaina with a basket of clothes on her hip. After one glance at her face, Alaina pulled her down the passage. In their room she brushed pieces of pottery from Kyrin’s hair in the light of a lamp. She gripped Kyrin’s arms. “What happened?”

  Kyrin poured it all out, her tears coming with her words. Alaina dropped her hands, shaking her head. “Burn the treacherous fool! What was the wager?” She searched Kyrin’s face.

  Kyrin sobbed. It was as if her sister did not remember her hurtful words in the stable court. “I am sorry. Alaina, forgive me, I should not have shouted at you and Zoltan . . .”

  “It is nothing.” Alaina pushed the insults aside with her hand.

  Kyrin sniffed. “I don’t know who will be in the match, or what Ali wagered. He might use Umar’s salukis or an ox. They spoke of oxen.” She wiped her face. “Sirius goaded him—and the way Ali looked at him . . .”

  Alaina’s eyes narrowed. “I might have to stitch Thunderbolt again, and he almost took one of my fingers last time.”

  “He clawed you, and Tae had to sew you twice.” Kyrin picked out Mey’s short thawb from her bag at the head of her rug and began to struggle into it. “I forgot my supper,” she muttered, “if Nara will give me any. She yelled at me—and Nimah burned the rice. Why did he do it, the Arab pig!” She gritted her teeth and hopped, trying to get into her trousers. And stopped in alarm. “Oh! I was to send Nimah to Ali!”

  “I’ll get your dinner, and Nimah. If you go you will be plagued with questions. You need to bathe before you dress.”

  Kyrin sighed. She was a sticky mess. “My thanks, Alaina.”

  Alaina pattered out, and tears welled in Kyrin’s eyes again. She dashed them away. Her sister was a jewel indeed.

  §

  Kyrin sank toward sleep after a comforting dinner, into a dream of grey shadows. The deep “chuff, chuff” of an approaching animal’s breath in the dimness was broken by the soft whispers of women. The whispers grew, threading around the sound of heavy paws padding about her rug. Kyrin could not move.

  The dark shape of fear swung above her: the heavy head, the pricked ears, the short ruff. There was a rustle. The shape whisked away, and air swept across Kyrin’s face. The voices hushed.

  Her door slammed open. Kyrin broke her icy cocoon and rolled over—and stared at a furious Nara with a lamp in her hand.

  The room was empty but for her and Alaina and Nara. Kyrin sat up and Nara stalked to Alaina, who watched wide-eyed. The cook whispered in her ear. Alaina slipped out the door.

  Kyrin got to her feet, swallowing to wet her dry throat. Surely it could not be her threat to Zoltan, if Nara knew of it.

  The cook managed the five paces to her side without exploding. “You are in the stew-pot, girl.” She snorted in gusty anger, but not at Kyrin.

  Kyrin blinked. “Did Ali blame you for the vase?”

  “You did not bring shame,” Nara said gently, “but—I heard of it from Umar.” Her arms quivered with distress.

  “I ruined the rug, and—the vase?”

  “The guardsman rebuked Ali for his lack of mastery over his household.” Nara paused. “You and Sirius’ slave Seliam will fight in the morn, two marks before the sun’s height.”

  Kyrin stared—and gulped. If only Sirius Abdasir was not the judge of who won. None would say the caliph’s guardsman nay.

  “What is our master’s wager?” It did not matter. It would give her pleasure to instruct Seliam in Tae’s way of the warrior. The Arab would learn courtesy.

  There was shuffling about the door, and some of the women peered in, eyes big and wondering, some of them in tears. Jachin growled outside. Qadira’s shrill voice answered.

  Nara snorted. “I know not the wager. Our master says his rod makes better slaves than Sirius’s gifts. And Sirius demands proof. Blade against blade. Fools.”

  A shiver swept through Kyrin. So it was to be a blade. Daggers. “Where is Tae?” And why had Ali not made the stakes known to her?

  “Alaina will find him.” Nara hugged her. “You . . .”

  Kyrin did not hear the rest. Did Umar hide something of Ali’s wager from Nara? Tae would protest to Ali. She must prepare, she must show Tae by her skill with the dagger that she was ready to learn the sword. Prepare to be beaten, Arab.

  A light touch on Kyrin’s back made her stiffen and turn. Nimah’s mother squeezed her shoulder, tears in her eyes. Another woman reached toward Kyrin with a sad smile and a touch like a farewell. Kyrin gaped.

  Nara slapped their hands away. “What do you do? I know this one, she is no fragile flower. She is not chopped yet, this one does not belong in the stew. She eats it.” Nara smiled at Kyrin with a slow wink. “She has tricks you have never seen. Be fearful for that idiot slave.”

  Nimah rushed to hug Kyrin’s waist, looking up, “Is this true, your tricks?”

  “Yes.” Kyrin made her stiff mouth smile. When she broke his arm Faisal had not known she was trained to fight. Surely Sirius would tell Seliam, since the guardsman was so interested in seeing her martial skill? Or would he dismiss her training? What skill did Seliam have? He looked strong enough.

  The women gathered around her, their kohl painted eyes wide, full of questions and encouragement. Flushed, Kyrin gave them short, soft answers, uncertain how to answer. They had been her enemies. Qadira hushed them when Tae came to the door.

  Kyrin made herself smile at him. Nara waved the others out, and Qadira led the way. Tae nodded at Nara as she passed and said to Alaina, “Bring my herb bag. We have need of tea.”

  29

  Entrapped

  They have set an ambush for my life. ~Psalm 59:3

  In the kitchen Tae set Nara to pounding and crushing and steeping. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the still warm ovens, while the cook twisted tough leaves in her strong hands.

  “Are there dates and milk?”

  Nara nodded. “Nimah,” she raised her voice, “we need a clear place and the platter prepared for Kentar.” She cocked an eyebrow at Tae, and he inclined his head.

  “My thanks.”

  Nimah scrambled to put a rug on the floor. Her mother brought Kentar’s fare and set it before Tae. Alaina settled beside Kyrin.

  Qadira sorted spices on a nearby shelf, Nimah’s mother swept the floor with the barest rasp of the broom, and the other slaves found something to busy their hands. Kyrin bit back her grin. Nara never had so much help making up a second platter for Kentar.

  Tae offered up thanks, and they ate. Over the food, he leaned forward. “Umar says Seliam has been told to mark you till first blood.”

  Kyrin nibbled on her bread and set it down.

  Tae sat back. “He is not self controlled. Do not trust him. You will disarm him. If you must, take a cut and clear the way for your strike. Make any killing blow with the spine of your blade so it does not harm, but see that you draw blood.”

  “Yes.” That would show her skill. Kyrin chewed a date and washed it down with milk. The sweetness almost made her sick. He will try to cut me, maybe more. He deserves to bleed.

  “Use what you know. Stay back from his blade until you can get inside or outside his blade arm.” He reached
across the platter. “I know you. You will do well, daughter.”

  He made Kyrin a cup of bitter tea, and she drank while he entertained all in the kitchen with tales. They returned to their quarters. Tae sat outside the door under the lamplight, his back to the wall, busily shaping four handspan-long sticks with her falcon dagger.

  Kyrin went to her rug, dreading the tiger. Alaina put her arms around her.

  Kyrin dreamed, though she did not remember the flaming beast, for sweat dampened her rug when she rose. Alaina busied herself about the room. Kyrin was glad.

  Her sister bound her hair into a braid that swung to her waist, and Kyrin flicked it over her shoulder, wishing she could toss thoughts of Seliam’s dagger away so easily. One slip . . .

  She would have no veil in the fight, and no necklace her enemy might use to choke her. The sign of evil in her ear and her scar would be bared to all.

  §

  Outside the door, Tae rose, thrusting his whetstone and the sticks under his sash at his back. The night had been long while he spoke silently into the darkness, beseeching, pleading, listening. He handed the falcon dagger to Kyrin when she opened the door, and led the way to the kitchen.

  The falcon dagger’s balance and edge was perfect.Kyrin stared straight ahead while they crossed the breezeway. Tae could not fault her. In spite of cheerful birds and leafing shrubs, the court flags glowed as blood under the new sun. They would hide well any that was spilled.

  Prowling outside at first light, he had inspected the courtyard for offset stones that might catch a foot. He had found Ali among his roses at the end of the colonnade, his arms crossed. He had not liked their master’s stare. His wide, unpleasant mouth had turned up as if he laughed to himself.

  Tae took Kyrin early from the kitchen and the palpable excitement there to the garden. He ran her through dagger drills beside Alaina, giving them quiet words of praise.

  When Seliam’s blade whistles in, she will fight. Her training will return fifty-fold. Yet within the space of the first blow, all is uncertain. Faisal would give her the fire she needs besides my trust.

  Stepping aside, Kyrin retched up her rice and milk beside the wall and wiped her mouth. Tae dipped a cloth in the water flowing from the pipe for his herbs and offered it, catching her miserable eyes with his gaze.

  “A little fear sharpens you.” He held her hands, so much stronger than they had been the first time he cupped them in his. “Your way is through this fight. The Master of all has given you the warrior’s way. He is growing what you need within.” He touched her over the heart. There was so much more to to give her, to warn her of, to teach.

  §

  Alaina thought of Seliam’s blade marking Kyrin’s chest where Tae’s fingers had rested, and her hand tightened on her dagger as she tried to still her quivering anger. What right did Seliam have to terrify her sister with his blade, what right did the Arab raider have to take her mother from the world? None.

  Tae’s words seemed to comfort her sister, for she rinsed her mouth and nodded. She seemed to feel Alaina’s anger, for she knocked the breath from her in the practice ring under the fig, turning the wood point and striking with the haft at the last instant. Tae rapped, “Enough!”

  Alaina groaned over her stomach and gulped for air. Save such blows for your enemy—the fear will not slow you. It won’t. Her frown balled tight between her brows.

  There were rapid steps at the gate. Zoltan cried, “Our master calls you to the Blue Flower room.” He did not meet their eyes, and spun to leave. Alaina chewed her lip.

  He goes to summon the others to the pavement. Burn him, he could offer her a smile. This match should give him enough revenge. She will surely take a thump or two. Alaina rubbed her sore stomach and followed Tae and Kyrin to the house.

  Umar ushered them between the Blue Flower room curtains, his eyes bright. Incense lingered in the air, and sun-shafts slanting through the windows bathed the hunter in white gold. The light touched the armrests of Ali’s chair, lit his neat-trimmed nails to pink as he drummed his fingers on Shahin’s sword across his lap.

  Alaina tensed. She must choose her words well. My staff will have to do—it can defeat any dagger ever forged.

  Ali’s face was in shadow. The tiger leaped over his head above. Alaina firmed her mouth. Don’t let your fancy run with you.

  Ali settled his shoulders against his chair. His hands fell still. Alaina did not like his smile. Cultured, with something else lurking within.

  “Well, well, the master of thousands brings his rangdo before me. Two askars—and no child to honor me. Umar speaks in my ear of a carving, a beautiful woman.” He waved his hand sharply. “Remove your veils. Let there be truth. The truth you claim to seek.” He tapped the hilt of his sword, his eyes on Tae.

  Head up, Kyrin tugged her veil free, and Alaina pulled her veil down, her skin cold. He knows of Huen.

  “This one”—Ali pointed at Kyrin—“will struggle for my house. She brought shame, and she will cleanse the stain.” He mused softly, gently, “She would not fight if she bore more children than the doll wife in your room, Hakeem.” He raised his hands and his shrug was eloquent. “The Sheyk of the Aneza understands I am but a merchant, I cannot deny the most exalted guardsman of the caliph, who wishes to prove his slave. Though all wisdom does not reside in him.”

  Ali abruptly stretched out his blade toward Kyrin. “My Hakeem is a fox, and daughter with an evil eye that you are, you know his secrets.” His face was dark with anger.

  Kyrin’s jaw tightened, and Alaina drew in a breath. They did not know the death touches—their master was mistaken—though they were close to that learning.

  “You know well it is a delicate matter to shed blood,” Ali continued. He arched a brow at Tae. “Your askar, O my Hakeem, will prove against my guest’s slave our differing minds on the teaching of a slave. If your training is sufficient.”

  Why did he call Kyrin askar and not rangdo? Soldier—not student? Does he mean to take her from us in some way? Alaina laid her hand over Kyrin’s cold fingers on her arm. He planned this—because we chose not to have sons—for the Master we obey.

  Rage shook her. Kyrin was right—she had been blind, wanting her companions’ admiring glances, desiring Ali to change—blind with yearning for a place of peace and friends.

  Ali fingered the tip of his sword.

  Alaina wanted to rip it away, to show him he was not secure in his power. Her master shrugged. “It is not to death—but to proof of blood, or a limb. Arm, leg, ankle, it matters not.”

  Crippling, Seliam might cripple her. Alaina folded her arms over her stomach.

  Ali turned his anger on Tae again. “If you or anyone steps between them, Hakeem, she dies. An askar is less than a grain of sand in my slipper. Your knowledge of the warrior—and the rings in her ears—lend her what small worth she holds. My Shema will have any other in the house that she desires to serve her, if the worst befalls.” Ali let his sword-tip drop. “It is not a fight to the death but the first disabling blow. Your askar can use her falcon dagger?” He raised his eyebrows. “That is more than her empty hands against Seliam’s sword.”

  Sword? Alaina flinched with Kyrin and gripped her hand. No. Dagger against sword? He was mad.

  “If she falls, she falls, O Hakeem, because her evil eye taints what she touches, and your Master of the stars is no master at all. She will die a virgin, as you have said. Or did my binding word fail?” His smile dared them to speak.

  Tae’s jaw flexed. Alaina’s harsh breath stung her nose.

  Crippled. Death was a moment of pain and then life. Begging as a cripple in this land of poets meant dying by fingerbreadths of heat and hunger in a dusty corner, faltering under shame heaped on by women and children, cowering under the blows of men.

  But Kyrin did not cower. Head up, her cheeks burned, her eyes fever-bright. The passive slave
had gone with her veil, as if she had never been. Ali stretched out his sword and lifted the limp cloth from Kyrin’s neck with the tip. It slid down his blade to his hand.

  He rose, laid the thin blue across the arm of his chair, and trailed a finger along Kyrin’s bared scar, his smile spreading. Alaina thought of ways he could die. A blade in his eye, his heart, throat, his liver. Her staff-blow would crush his throat, his temple, the back of his head.

  Ali spanned Kyrin’s throat with his palm and stared into her face, his forehead almost touching hers, his voice sweet, soft poison. “If you do not cleanse my name, your sister, whom the hakeem does not desire for a wife, will divorce him and marry Seliam. At court she will hear the voice of the most Illustrious, and her hands will record. Seliam Abdeel swears by Allah that he will keep her as the light of his eyes.”

  Kyrin trembled under Alaina’s hand. Alaina’s knees went weak. Her throat closed, dry as dust, and she coughed, a strangled sound. I said he would have to go through me to get to her. He has.

  Ali glanced at Alaina and amusement tilted his lips. “O most fortunate, you will live and die in the exalted court. Your excellent scribing will shield the caliph, blessed be he of Allah.” There was licorice and mint on his breath. His revenge comes above gold . . . How had she ever thought he might care for anyone?

  Her master slowly dropped his hand from Kyrin’s neck. “If victory finds you worthy, worthless one, and you cleanse my name, you and your sister may not darken my door again.”

  Kyrin was white about the mouth; Ali rested his sword against his chair.

  He is keeping Tae—and banishing us. Kyrin! Even if you beat Seliam, Umar’s Hand can find a dropped lily a hundred miles inside the desert, and we do not have the coin to make hands willing to aid us, to seal spying eyes and mouths.

  If Ali keeps his word and if we reach the coast, many of the ships will be gone on the spring trade winds. If you fall, I lose you and Tae and my body. I will be lost from land, hearth, and salt—all that I am. You will be lost from life. Alaina opened her mouth. She must speak.