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

by Azalea Dabill

  Ali sat down, and his form wavered through Alaina’s tears, his mouth pursed in pleasure of his first taste of revenge. Words would not sway him.

  Tae said, “The guardsman raises his slaves as those of India nurture their bulls. If a mere staff overcame his slave’s sword it would instruct him.”

  Alaina looked up from her despair.

  Ali laughed. His belly shook until he wheezed. “I admire you, O mine enemy, alert to advantage even under the breath of death.” He sighed and dried his eyes. “My esteemed guest has sealed the wager and the weapons used.” He chuckled still, turning to Kyrin. “Do you hear, O my askar?”

  “Yes, I hear and obey, my master.” Kyrin drew herself straight, her arm sliding from Alaina’s, and bowed in the way of the warrior.

  Alaina stared sightless at the hunter’s feet. The moment for speaking was past. Shahin would never get word in time. And the Aneza had little strength to pit against the caliph’s askars.

  §

  Tae could not look at Kyrin. He said too much, had waited too long. Would it have been so evil to protect them with his body and his name? But it was not right. My Huen! Lift your hands to Heaven for us. Possibilities swirled, battering him against the hands of the Master. Those hands that held every bird and speck of dust. Tae willed his heart to slow, his breath to deepen.

  Ali smiled with all his teeth. “You have taught them well, Hakeem.”

  Tae took a step forward. A shadow behind the near pillar shifted. Jachin.

  Tae bowed, an ill taste in the back of his throat. There would be less chance on the court flags, but he needed time.

  At the door, Umar stood back for them to pass, smiling broadly. “Stand on the pavement, O mighty Hakeem, to see her fall and the other divorced, or the decree that they go from this house, alone.”

  Tae stared at him. Yes, he could almost pray Seliam’s sword went too far . . . Kyrin would not suffer, or be hunted in the desert by such as Umar.

  Kyrin paused beside Tae. Her voice was low. “Umar. I do this for my father”—she laid her hand on Tae’s arm—“and for my sister.” Her eyes burned dark. “Whatever happens, I will see you no more.”

  “Hah!” Umar arched his brows. “You speak true, worthless one, I will see your face no more. A blade turns your bowels to water.” With a thin smile, he drew his sword a fingers breadth.

  Her eyes went to it and to his face, and then she went out, unmoved as stone. It was her oath.

  Tae allowed his inner grin. The scent of Ali’s burning incense no longer smelled of deceit and webs. A crystal drop of celebration slid along an entangling strand, encasing it in sparkling beauty. She named him father.

  §

  The sun washed around Kyrin, replacing the stuffiness of the Blue Flower room as Umar escorted them down the passage to the court. He stepped aside under the colonnade. Kyrin did not feel the air’s warmth, only the falcon in its sheath, eager to taste the blood of justice.

  But to what purpose? Alaina, Alaina—oh, Tae—how do I leave you? She must conquer Seliam’s sword, shatter the ice, then they would see. Tae would not be idle, nor Nara. Alaina would be plotting their way on Umar’s maps that she held so well in her mind.

  “Come.”

  Kyrin stepped onto the flags after Tae, walking toward the shade of the orange tree beside the gushing horse-head fountain. The men and women of the house who waited about the kitchen and the men’s quarters parted for them. Wrapped in the sound of the fountain, Kyrin bowed her head. Tae and Alaina’s warm hands sweated in hers. They were companions again, and she would fight.

  Jesu! Let me follow the falcon to your heart. At the top of the wall light flushed gold-green through new leaves and waving branches. “Give me your fire of justice . . . your will be done . . .” She licked her dry lips.

  Quiet talk crossed the court, back and forth. Kyrin scuffed the pavement, pulling her braid, uneasy under the wondering stares and voices.

  She had hoped for a glimpse of Jachin, but he was nowhere. A red canopy raised a festive cover under the colonnade. Shema sat in one of three chairs, her cushion almost swallowing her small form, clad in white robes. Ali’s chair from the Blue Flower room sat on her right, with another seat beyond. Sirius’s seat.

  Shema stared at her across the court. Did she clench her hands in her lap? She had no word that Ali would hear, and she was going to lose her friend whether Kyrin won or lost.

  Kyrin straightened and gave Shema a full bow.

  Her mistress raised her henna-spiraled hands, miming a restrained slap. Kyrin thought Shema’s lips quirked in a shaky smile, and her own mouth twitched. Shema trusted her strength to control and overcome her enemy.

  Near the front gate, twenty of Sirius’s askars stood about the pool, some sitting on the stone edge. Their thawbs were brilliant red, their deeper scarlet sashes bearing a small gold sigil on the ends. Red fluttered from the hilts of swords and the tips of their spears.

  Sirius strode in through the gate, Seliam behind him. The askars’ yell crashed over the courtyard. Two of Sirius’s men escorted him to the canopy, where he sat in the leftmost chair.

  His set face made him a stern leader and judge of men. His rich brown thawb waved in the lazy breeze.

  Seliam left him with a nod and strode across the flags in white trousers and a red sash, his tanned shoulders gleaming with oil. A sash of scarlet, bearing a wink of gold. Askar.

  Heat welled in Kyrin. So he is trained, as am I. A test indeed, though my master has made it more. Jesu, and the falcon and I—we have the right. For Alaina and Tae, Nimah and Zoltan and Nara. For my mother, for myself. Indominable spirit. One Arab will know it.

  Seliam searched Ali’s household, his head turning slowly. His eyes found hers. He gave her a deep, deep bow. She tipped her head in return, not stooping to his mockery.

  The crowd heaved and muttered. On either side of Kyrin, Tae and Alaina bowed to Seliam, the precise bow of opponents. One side of his mouth turned up. The crowd stilled.

  “Remember,” Tae said in her ear, “move, stay out of his reach, draw him in. Until he is where you want him, be afraid.”

  That would not be hard.

  “Do not hold your blade from him, but your hate.”

  Hate? Seliam would find justice.

  The sun was bright on the flags, on the red canopy, on the silver hilt of Seliam’s sword. It surprised her that it did not cling to the long edge in fire.

  The flags burned her toes while Arabs watched, waiting for her blood to spill and her mouth to mew in defeat. Nasrany, slave, disobedient—to them, her pain was justified. Kyrin touched her jet earring.

  30

  Nemesis

  Fight the good fight . . . . ~1 Timothy 6:12

  Ali appeared in the door of his house. Umar and Jachin flanked him, hands on their blades thrust through black sashes. Umar was bare but for a loin wrapping, his golden limbs shining. Clad the same, Jachin looked over the court, his ebony face taut, beaded with sweat.

  His eyes rested on her, or was his gaze on Tae behind her? Kyrin smiled at him and hoped he saw.

  The sound of the crowd was a growl. Hungry, impatient, a dim swelling cloud of sound and feeling. Tae’s embrace lifted her from the ground, and she felt his quick heartbeat through his blue thawb. He set her down and kissed her forehead. “I am proud. Remember how you stand.”

  Alaina caught her in a painful hug. “Don’t let him touch you.” She pulled free, tears glistening on her face. “Burn his askar ways to dust!”

  In a voice that silenced all else, Ali cried, “Let the askars come forth!”

  Seliam strode with a male’s easy strength to a wide circle marked in white chalk on the flags before the canopy. Sirius’s askars and his retinue roared their approval.

  Kyrin laid her damp hand on the head of her falcon. She would not to stumble on the way to her ene
my though her muscles were wood. She walked forward, and did not stumble, and the askars hooted. Ali’s household roared back, surprising her. Zoltan stood with those in front, shaking his dagger over his head.

  Seliam eyed Kyrin through his hair, and tossed it from his face.

  Kyrin stopped. Close enough to embrace him, she smelled musky myrrh, olive oil, and sweat. It brought back the scent of sea wrack, storm, and cinnamon. Flickering torchlight against dark; a high tower with a cheerful fire. Her mother, dressing for supper. Kyrin cradled the falcon blade under her fingers.

  §

  Ali slid his hand across his smile. They made a spectacle, his worthless one all in black, sharp-faced and pale, her bold dark eyes and jet earring distinct against the opposing bronze circle of his ownership. Sirius’s slave stood proud and strong in askar scarlet. Ali snorted.

  Shema twisted her fingers in her lap. He glared at her. When his desert mouse learned the strength of his house and his will, saw the tempering of his slaves, she could but admire. It was time to prove the substance of his forging, the hardness of his jewels.

  Ali leaned back. Sirius Abdasir waited beside him. He would seek out the guardsman’s purpose. And if he must, with respect, thwart it.

  Ali raised his arm. In this courtyard, he decided fates.

  §

  Seliam bowed to his master and drew his blade.

  Kyrin stepped back and spread her arms wide as Seliam’s sword whispered from his sash. “I do not desire to fight you.” She gestured at her bronze falcon dagger. “This contest is not in honor. Ask a blade for me.” She would use every dragging moment.

  Seliam tossed his head, raising his sword. “They told me you could do more than speak, fearful one.” His two-handed grip whitened his knuckles.

  The thin blade held sun and shadow and burning-cold crystals that crept toward her heart. Kyrin willed her gaze past the edge to his contempt. “I am not afraid, but a trial of skill lies between the strong!”

  He blinked and laughed, and his mouth fell into habitual lines of petulance. “I will gain a beautiful gazelle, and your blood will flood these stones, loosing her to me. You, Nasrany, will beg of Allah.”

  She took a breath and slid the falcon free. “I would sooner plead with a djinn!” The ice shattered. Her chest cramped.

  Seliam swung—short and hard.

  Kyrin sprang in. His blade ripped her sleeve and drew a line of red along her forearm. She slid away, raising her dagger in her rear hand, looking to Ali, who waved her on. Her arm stung, but the blood did not run. Heat spread through her.

  Seliam laughed, harsh with taunt. “That is your first taste, Nasrany!” He worked toward her and lunged, pulling his sword down in a cross-body blow. Metal grated on metal as she diverted his blade with her dagger. Sirius’s men yelled.

  “You know the price, my askar!” Ali called.

  Seliam lunged. Kyrin watched his blade—and smiled.

  Seliam cut at her head with driving strokes. She retreated.

  Ali screamed at her, beating his hands on his knees. She slipped aside—and her back foot slid with a scritch of sand on flags. Her mother—Kyrin lunged back into her fall and rolled over her shoulder to her feet.

  Seliam ran in, swinging. His blade would cut her in half. She evaded the edge by a hair, screaming defiance in his ear, and struck.

  The falcon slid clean from his stomach to his back. She followed the blade and slid her other arm about his neck from behind. Her dagger tip pricked his spine.

  With bated breath, the crowd waited for his belly to spill. His body arched back, Seliam wavered, his blade loose in his hand, his breath wrenching hollow through him.

  Ali leaned back in his chair, and Sirius struck his knee with a curse. Shema put her hand over her eyes.

  Kyrin shouted, “Yield!”

  Seliam fell limp. She staggered, unable to hold him with one arm, but unwilling to slide the falcon in her sash. Her hand quivered at his back.

  She had reversed the blade. If she killed him, she broke Ali’s wager. Her falcon’s blunt haft sped toward his temple.

  Sliding to drop onto his knees, Seliam unfolded with a snap. His oiled skin defeated her wild swipe. He whipped around and his blade tip raked her ankle as she sprang back. Kyrin shook her leg; it burned, but he had not cut the tendon. He crouched, wary, his sword guarding.

  Ali yelled, “Bring him down!”

  It should have been finished; she could have killed Seliam. All knew it.

  The white receded from his face, his burned-corn hair lank with sweat. He feinted, and studied her sideslip with passionless eyes, every sense focused. His eyes were slits, his mouth tight and bloodless. He meant to kill her.

  And their masters meant to let him try.

  “Never take your eyes off your enemy.” I won’t, my father. Kyrin slid into Seliam’s reach, and retreated. He followed with a cross-body slash, a moth to the flame of her body. He missed, then thrust one-handed for her stomach.

  She side stepped and sprang. They thudded together. She aimed a stroke under his arm.

  His elbow slammed into her dagger hand as he desperately pulled back to shield his ribs. The falcon dropped from her fingers, her fumbling hands captured his wrist. She kicked at his front leg; it gave. She spun him about, his sword falling free.

  She took him to the stones with the dull smack of flesh on rock. And landed with her knees in his back. This Arab would learn the cost of treachery.

  Kryin wedged her heels into his sides and levered his arm toward his shoulder blade. Confused noise thundered in her ears as she crouched over him, panting. Seliam’s sword lay loose beside her on the flags. She shifted her weight to keep her hold and reach it, and held up his blade. “It’s done!” Her voice was a gasp.

  Seliam bucked under her. Kyrin dropped to his back. He stiffened and his choked voice cried, “I . . . yield!”

  Sirius rose from his chair with a stamp and thrust his chin forward. “Get up, worm!”

  Jachin and Umar set their hands on their swords. Sirius’s escort took a step forward. Under the guardsman’s glare they sat again. Ali said nothing, his chin in his hand. Jachin looked from him to Umar, and loosened his grip on his sword hilt.

  Kyrin laid Seliam’s blade down. Using the wrong weapon would absolve a man like Sirius of many things. She leaned across Seliam for her dagger, and Seliam bucked again. She dropped the falcon clanging to the flags and flattened, sliding her arm around his throat, wedging his arm yet higher with her body. Again he bucked. Stay with him!

  Her stranglehold pulled harder on his throat when he rolled onto his back—with her under him. Clinging to him like a leech, she worked her other hand behind her head, her choking arm anchored on her shoulder, and arched her back, tightening the choke. He made one frantic effort—and rolled onto his face without a groan.

  Kyrin screamed past his ear at Sirius, “Do—you—yield!” The caliph’s guardsman stared over her head as if she did not lie on his slave’s back, betrayed, her arm choking away his life. The sun beat from the flags into her sweaty face, and Seliam’s thick neck throbbed against her arm.

  Mother, I did it. I beat the Arab and his blade. The ice was melted. There was a price to be paid. . . .

  Kyrin’s fingers found the falcon, warm and heavy. Her mother smiled at her in a small room. Tae groaned, suspended in Ali’s ropes. Ali raised his whip over her cowering body, and Faisal tossed the falcon at her feet, while Ali dragged Alaina by her hair to Seliam.

  Justice was in her lawful reach. And she would protect Alaina and Tae. No one could stop the falcon’s strike—like the Arab’s sword she could not halt.

  Ali glanced from her to Sirius. The caliph’s guardsman gave no sign. Ali dropped his hand in a chopping motion to his knee.

  Kyrin flinched when her master’s hand fell. Seliam’s back rippled with muscle under her
as he stirred feebly. She braced, waiting for Sirius’s angry protest. It did not come. He stroked his chin once, waiting.

  Seliam’s life would spill, and the red would dry to black—black flakes to mingle with the snowy powder of her mother in her fiery death. A tear ran down Kyrin’s face.

  Ashes. Never did her mother want ash.

  As you have been forgiven . . . Kyrin’s arm shook. She did not want ash.

  But she had been commanded. Seliam’s sweaty hair spilled over his neck. His back heaved in a shuddering surge. He had seen the guardsman’s decision and he cried.

  Her dagger hand rested beside his shoulder. Alaina. Kyrin lifted the falcon.

  The indrawn breaths sweeping around the court caught at her like a ragged blade-edge. She reached back to her wounded ankle and swung her arm. Men and women jerked away from the flung drops of blood.

  She knew the right place at the back of the head. She gritted her teeth, raised her blade—and drove it down. Her grip on the haft was numb.

  Kyrin loosened her legs from Seliam’s body and stood shakily. Her blind, searching hand found his sword. In her mind the tiger and the falcon were a whipping blur of beating pinions and limbs, flame fur and slate feathers. You remain captive. Tears blinded her.

  She closed her fingers about the sword and whirled, a blade in each hand, her lungs heaving. Tae would call it practice, striking the precise point. She blinked hard. And hurled the sword across the court, past the colonnade and Ali’s seat.

  Umar twitched. Kyrin almost smiled. The blade winked into Ali’s largest spike-leafed rosebush then rustled and thumped into the depths. Her tears cooled her cheeks. I am sorry, Alaina.

  Slaves and men in red goggled, and their mouths opened, then shut. Shema smiled and clapped once, softly. Nara broke into a ululating cheer. A growing wave of stamps reverberated through the flags under a rising roar of approval.

  Staring at the rosebush, Kyrin sobbed once. Seliam broke the law of the match—and she broke her master’s command. There was a slight smile on Ali’s face. She would give much to wipe it off.