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

by Azalea Dabill

  Alaina stretched with a snort. “What . . . oh, Kyrin!” She uncurled from a cushion and rolled out of her blanket in a rush. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m thirsty.” I could drink the pool. She ached all over.

  While Kyrin drained a cup of water in small sips, trying not to lose it out of the swollen side of her mouth, Alaina said, “Seliam is hiding, burn him. We searched outside, in the house, and then asked at the doors of the men’s quarters. Sirius’s askars said they had seen and heard nothing. Seliam had been sick and retching since the feast. They did not know where he was, and would not let us in. They would not disturb their master—but we will get that miserable beast. Jachin is going to speak to Ali.”

  “I never said it was Seliam—”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “It could have been Umar.” Kyrin snorted a laugh at Alaina’s amazed disdain and stopped with a gasp. There was a molten stick in her middle.

  “Yes, but it was not Umar,” Alaina growled, trying to smother her smile.

  “No.” Kyrin sobered. “But Alaina, I do not think—justice is wanted, this time.”

  “You want to spare him, again? Where is your tinkling fool’s cap? He tried to kill you!”

  “No. There were no daggers.” It was strange there had not been. And what work of his had she fed to the wind?

  From the door Tae said, “How are you feeling?” He went to Kyrin’s side and meditatively laid his fingers on her wrist.

  “I hurt, but I could eat.” Kyrin tried to peer past the edge of the door. Jachin did not seem to be lurking. She blinked. Her eyes seemed fuzzy.

  “Um hum.”

  “I can carry a platter for her,” Alaina offered. “She kept the water down.”

  Tae smiled. “Come, then. You”—he pointed a stern finger at Kyrin—“will not get up alone.”

  Kyrin nodded. She doubted she could. She hoped Alaina hurried back so she could help her to the privy.

  “We will bring fruit and more tea. Nara has some grapes from the village . . .”

  §

  Kyrin was leaning against her pillows, spooning mashed dates and milk past the bandaged side of her face, when Umar came in. She saw the reassuring shadow of Jachin behind him and swallowed, setting her bowl in her lap. Umar stopped at her feet; he was not wearing his sword. He glanced at Tae’s rug, his sword and stick beside the wall, and into her face. “Young Zoltan says your saluki found this.” He leaned over and dropped a broken hair-pin in her palm.

  “I—thank you.” None of the pearls. But then there would not be any. Seliam’s friends would see to that. She was rather glad. Her pouch would hold the oak beads of her fish necklace in honor, alone.

  Umar shifted. Kyrin’s face heated. One of the others could have brought her the pin, what did he want?

  Umar waved his hand. “There is a small matter.” His gaze pinned her. “Who did this foul thing? I must know.”

  Kyrin’s mouth opened. Umar called her ambush foul? “I am not sure—I mean, I do not know—” If she told him she would never see Seliam’s face again or have to watch shadows.

  Tae entered behind Umar, silent, and cleared his throat. Umar spun, and Tae said evenly, “How may I serve?”

  “Ali wishes knowledge of the one who marred her.”

  “Yes.” Tae glanced at her, and Kyrin made her face empty.

  “Did you see him?” Umar asked her again. He had never used her name, but he did not seem to want to call her “worthless one” this morning.

  If she did not lie, it would lead to murder. Kyrin stared at him helplessly and her headache roared back. She winced.

  “I will speak with her. Her head was hit, and some of her memories may have fled.” Tae rubbed his chin, rocking on his heels.

  Umar leaned toward him. “Ali is not pleased, she is valuable to Sirius Abdasir and the caliph.”

  “I am not pleased, either,” Tae said very dryly indeed.

  Umar stiffened in startlement then he grinned. “Seek and punish as you will,” he murmured, “but leave his death to Ali.” He turned, lithe and sure.

  “I will, son of my master.” Tae’s voice held no mockery.

  Umar paused, his back to Tae, then went out and down the passage. His steps died away.

  “Now,” Tae said.

  Kyrin poured out everything she remembered, ending with a worried frown. “I know Seliam was there, and I can guess at the others. Ali will kill them all, and that is not just.”

  “Are you sure they would not have killed you if Jachin had not come?”

  “I think not.” The younger voice had asked, and the savage voice answered in scornful denial.

  Tae bent his head, his lips tight. “You are right. There were no blades. But he should be punished. About your lying to Umar—remember the woman long ago who hid the spies at her inn?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you have done.” He smiled. “I will bring the story for you to read, for you will be sore for some days. Alaina scribed it. She is almost through David’s songs.”

  §

  Two days later Ali called Kyrin to the Blue Flower room. Birds twittered outside the high windows. She limped in on Tae’s arm and nibbled the soaked, dried figs in a dish Ali set before her after Tae left. Her jaw and stomach were still sore, and she ate slowly, but the bowl comforted her hands.

  Ali’s slippers slapped the stone floor as he paced. She had never sat in his presence while he stood, and she could not escape the feeling she should take the platter to the table and kneel.

  He paced before his chair, his wide mouth flat, and she wished the fruit in her mouth would melt so he could tell her what he wanted and she could put on her veil again. Tae had taken off her bandage this morning for the air to do its work, and she had unveiled at Ali’s command. She felt as ugly as Shema’s mirror had revealed.

  Her shaved spot made her almost bald, what hair was left to her was mussed, and her thawb was wrinkled from days in bed. Ali had inspected her wound, tilting her chin with an impersonal hand, then grunted and let her go. She was relieved but puzzled. No one was present, not even Nimah.

  Ali stopped at the far end of the table from her rug and glanced toward the door. Did she offend his nose? She did not wear perfume as it made her sneeze, but she liked cinnamon and mint, yet she had not bathed since . . . A whisper rose outside the closed curtains and Ali clapped his hands. “Come!”

  Six young Arabs sidled in under Kyrin’s stare. Ali directed them into one line. Two of the young men she did not know must be from the village, one was Qadira’s runner, and the last three wore Sirius’s askar red and black.

  “Nimah!” Ali barked, and Nimah and Zoltan bolted through the curtains to stand at the end of the line.

  Nimah blinked at tears, rubbing her bruised chin, and Zoltan strained to still the quiver of his lip. All of them bore a bruise of some sort, yellow-purple and fading or virulent and new.

  Nearest Kyrin, the shaggy-haired boy who had sat beside Seliam at the feast had a black eye. He peered at her under his coarse fringe like a trickster fool, still standing close by Seliam; his head looked too big for his body. Seliam’s head was back, but his shoulders slumped, and he stared lifelessly before him.

  Kyrin flinched, remembering his vicious curse and his twisting foot in her belly. A scabbed scrape blazed across his throat. She did not remember giving it. One cheek was dark. She might have broken the bone. Was it from the sword fight or after?

  He deserved more. He ought to see one of his friends die, to feel that pain. But the Master of the stars carried the sword of justice, and he had not set it in her hand. Jachin said one of Seliam’s friends had asked after her. She rather thought it might be the shaggy one.

  Ali would give unjust punishment. So. She was left with hot coals of mercy for one whose fire was going out. They rather burne
d her. In Thy light we see light.

  Kyrin nodded to Zoltan. He straightened. Nimah’s hand crept into his, and she looked up at her brother with eyes that said, See? She knows it wasn’t us.

  Ali frowned impatiently. “Is he here?”

  “My master?”

  “Did any of these worthless ones harm you?”

  The relentless discipline of Subak schooled her face. Kyrin clamped her hands on her bowl. Seliam’s fate turned on such a word—yes, or no. Father—a clean sword.

  “No. No, my master. He was bigger.”

  “Did he appear like anyone you have seen in my house?”

  “I could not see him well. I think—he was as tall as Jachin, but—thinner than me.” She tilted her head. All eyes were on the floor except Nimah and Zoltan, who stared at her wounded head as if fascinated.

  The rest looked up cautiously. Kyrin touched her ragged hair, and Seliam and the shaggy boy fidgeted. Well they should. Let Seliam call insult if he dared.

  Ali frowned. “I will find him before the moon turns,” he grated. He flapped his hand toward the door. “You may go.”

  Nimah beamed and raced out, while Zoltan bowed and followed at a dignified walk. The others shuffled after him.

  §

  In the door of the merchant’s judgment room, under cover of rubbing his mane of hair from his face, Shafiq nudged Seliam. Seliam looked back through the arch, his gaze pulled against his will. The stealer of his life inclined her head, watching him with her amber stare.

  The stubbled patch of hair and her purple, green, and yellow-marbled cheek made him want to laugh. The black earring in her ear killed the amusement in his throat.

  There was judgment in her face. She said nothing, waiting for the moment to destroy him, fingering the necklace at her throat, tracing the only bright piece in it, a fish of opalescent seashell. A saluki in his host’s courtyard barked, and Seliam looked to the window. Sweat pricked down his back. He was out, and her gaze was broken.

  Sirius had avowed his innocence to their host, though later he gave Seliam a sharp glance. He did not seem pleased, as he should have been. She had shamed the caliph’s guardsman, his askars, and the most excellent caliph.

  Seliam frowned. Sirius Abdasir shielded his name, and he knew now that Baghdad would not shelter him if his master found him out. But he was less than dung if he could not be an askar, a seeker for Sirius Abdasir and the caliph. If they threw him out, the streets would receive him back, and he would die there. Seliam almost broke into a run for his host’s door.

  The thought of Umar’s Hand turned him down the breezeway and outside to the askars’ guest quarters. Condemned, a sword would take his head—much better than being torn to pieces, the death of the worthless.

  He went to his rug and drew his knees up, facing the wall, hugging his flat pillow. He gritted his teeth. Why had the unnatural askar not told the merchant? Her piercing glance held knowledge of him. He had beaten her down—the one who shamed him and the caliph’s askars—beaten her to the ground. His heart still rose at the thought. Why did she wait, did she enjoy his torture? It must be so.

  Evening fell, and Seliam lay awake. Sirius’s guards and his call to the blue judgment room did not come.

  §

  Kyrin woke to a soft touch. A hand lay light across her mouth. When she stiffened it withdrew. She said softly, “What?” and felt a tug on her sleeve.

  Tae and Alaina breathed gently on their rugs. Kyrin sighed. She was not Alaina, but she would walk out to the privy, the usual meeting place, since she had to use it anyway, and find out who needed her sister’s help. Alaina had been up tending her the last three nights, and she needed the rest.

  The bisht-shadowed figure slipped to the door, and Kyrin followed, careful and slow, curled slightly around her stiff stomach, wishing a pox on Seliam’s head. She envied the other’s easy walk. They went down the passage, through the breezeway, and over moonlit flags past the women’s court. The silvery figure flitted by the salukis that whined in their kennels. By the turban around the figure’s head it was a man, who gained black solidity in the shadow of the privy. He was blessed Jachin had not caught him at her door. He sat on his heels in the shadow, bowed his head, and seemed content with silence.

  “What do you seek Alaina for?” Her blanket was not getting warmer, and Nimah had not put enough ashes in the stinking privy.

  “I seek an answer.” Seliam’s voice was calm.

  Kyrin leaped back against the saluki kennel and edged along it, groping for anything she could swing, searching for other figures in the moonless corners. The gate guard was used to voices here. He would not take easy alarm.

  Seliam did not move. After a moment he extended his hands into the moonlight. A sash lay across his palms. “You may bind me.” The sash trembled a little.

  She was seven lengths from him and any hidden blade, and he was sitting.

  “Stay where you are. I hear you.” She shivered in the chill and resisted crossing her arms.

  “Why do you keep silence?”

  “My master would not give you justice.” Had there not been a stick somewhere about Cicero’s kennel? Which side of the door?

  “Ha! What should be my reward: gold, silver?” Seliam leaned forward. “No.” He sat back in the shadow. “It would have been better if my master never saw you that unpropitious day.”

  “Unpropitious day? I first saw your master on a feast night.”

  “Ah, but you caught his gaze in Gaza.”

  Gaza—her fight with Faisal started Sirius’s interest? Kyrin shifted, her fingers searching, fumbling. No stick, but Seliam was motionless, eyeing her. Best keep him so. “What does your master desire?”

  “Does the great one speak his thoughts to a slave? And I was not there. All are weapons in Sirius Abdasir’s hand. I would have been a keen blade among his askars, swift to obey and gift him with glory. He is worthy.”

  “That is what I took from you.” Though he approved your death. Kyrin paused. “We could be matched again. When I come to Baghdad and you have time to study my skill. A bout for honor between an askar and—an askar of another land. My way of the warrior is far from any fighting skill you have seen. You might drop such a word in your master’s ear.” A sliver dug into her finger.

  “Did I hit your head so hard?”

  Stubborn and blind, and he thought her weak. “My master should not have you for Umar’s Hand—or his own sword. You did not kill me, you know.” She heard laughter in her voice and wondered at it. But why shouldn’t she—her mother laughed, and in the face of death.

  “How can you give gifts when another would take the debt of the Light of Blood?”

  “It is not so strange when you know the one who made us. He is like that.” A crack in the withes pinched her palm. Kyrin grimaced.

  “Is your tongue true?” His voice was spun glass.

  “Yes.”

  “I will leave, Nasrany.” His voice was so brittle as to break at a touch.

  She snorted, her hands still. “I do not lie. He had mercy on me and tells me to give it, though you do not seem to want the coals.”

  “You would give me mercy with fire? Your words hide from me—fire burns.”

  She leaned against the wood kennel, stretching further, reaching. “Vengeance is his own. He says to feed my enemy if you are hungry, to give you coals if your fire goes out. He desires me to forgive you.” Her fingers found a long, hard shape. Kyrin drew a deep breath. The stick nestled solid in her hand. “He also tells me to defend my life. If you seek to attack me again, I will stop you until the day of eternity.”

  Seliam stared at her a long while. Kyrin did not look away, but she would not bring the stick into the light. She did not want to fight him.

  Enough, enough pain. She wanted to go home. A horse in the stable snorted, and Cicero whined behind her,
his paws whispering.

  In shadow, Seliam rose slowly and ran his hand over the side of his face. Kyrin’s heart thundered. He walked past her toward the men’s quarters, and she let him go.

  The court was quiet. Her back was cold against the kennel door. Kyrin laid the stick against the woven wall and breathed deep of the quiet and the moonlight. Her heartbeat slowed. My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness. Mother, I remember you—and all is not ash.

  Cicero stuck his nose between the withe gaps and licked her hands. She whispered to him. After a few moments she rubbed her arms and went to her rug. And slept without dreams.

  Sirius Abdasir, the caliph’s guardsman, left with the dawn for Baghdad, his loaded camels clattering over the flags and through the stable gate. On horses, his askars formed up on the road outside the wall.

  Sirius kissed Ali on both cheeks and called down Allah’s blessings on him and his house. Ali’s household had turned out to bid the caliph’s guardsman peace. Kyrin hung back, Nimah and Nara on either side, and Kyrin was grateful Qadira hovered at her shoulder. Sirius Abdasir did not seem to see her. He stalked away down the road, a lord of men.

  Kyrin grinned, and covered her mouth with her veil. The guardsman’s men did not escort Alaina among their ranks. In the tail of the caravan, eating the first dust of his disgrace, Seliam turned his gaze from Alaina’s crossed arms and forbidding frown to Kyrin. Alaina snorted, her lips pressed tight, but Kyrin nudged her with an elbow, motioned Seliam nearer, and laid a roll of paper in his hand.

  “You give me a gift?” His eyes were wide.

  “The book of John—some of my creator’s words in your tongue—and others.”

  “You would give me so much?” His amazement made her laugh.

  “Yes. My sister is a scribe. And within the book I ask a boon.”

  He shook his head, looked at her from the corner of his eye and muttered, “The sun has taken you.” He put the roll in his sash and nodded to her and to Alaina. Alaina inclined her head, unsmiling.