Alaina stepped back, pulling her blanket closer, biting her lip. Red-gold hair peeped from her rumpled kaffiyeh, slipping to one side.
“As you will it.” Faisal shrugged. Alaina might fear Truthseeker, but one did need a strong arm, and the falcon’s talons were sharp. A peregrine could tear a man’s eyes from him as he ran. Truthseeker would rest on Zahir’s saddle while they ate and broke camp.
He sighed. There was enough fear in the world. He would not add to it. For he knew fear—beyond the Hand that trailed them.
Truthseeker spread her wings again and settled. Her soft cream breast was dotted with black, her feathers gleamed steel blue and grey, barred with black. The teardrop markings about her eyes made her a wise queen, one who knew the hearts of men. He stroked her and his lips crept back from his teeth. The falcon had no conspiracy of tongues or hidden blades about her. She did not hunt any creature’s blood except to eat.
Would that she could instruct his grandfather’s first warrior, Hafiz. Could reveal to him that his prince thirsted for the freedom of sand and rock and wind, the peace of mountain shade at midday, the laughter of children about their games, the voices of women gathered about the night fires with jars of water from the spring of the Oasis of Oaths. That Faisal Ben Salin, prince of the Twilkets, thirsted for nothing greater than the pounding blood of the hunt, the race after black-horned reem beside his Twilket brothers, and the edge of watchfulness needed to guard caravans on their perilous way across the sands.
Faisal let out his breath and his mouth tightened. Far better to face swords and lances than tongues drawn behind tent curtains and words cast at his back. Weapons could be turned aside. The Araby sands did not taunt him as his heart and Hafiz’s tongue so often did.
Which of them would be sheyk when his grandfather passed? He would that he could give his place to Hafiz—that was the sorrow of it.
The oath of the Light of Blood, the Nur-ed-Dam between Aneza and Twilket, had been ended, paid for by the Oasis of Oaths, the end of that war brought about by Tae. So Youbib of the Aneza rode with them.
And Hafiz’s oath of blood against Tae and Alaina and her sister Kyrin was twice unlawful. Hafiz yearned for many things besides a sheyk’s tent. Faisal smiled crookedly. He yearned for peace, for time in which to build up his people. He blinked.
Alaina looked away, her blanket under her arm. She must think his wits thick as honey. He handed her mare’s rein to her, and she led the beast aside and fastened her blanket behind its saddle, murmuring in its twitching ear in a low, clear voice.
Faisal let Truthseeker walk off his arm onto Zahir’s pommel. Zahir sighed and stamped a dark hoof, and Faisal slid his lance into its carrying thongs and stroked the horse’s warm neck. He raised his face to the sky and the heat creeping over the rim of the world. In the desert of his birth one had water or one did not. The sands held sun and shadow, gaunt death and stark beauty.
He met Tae’s brown gaze.
“It will be good for my Twilket brothers to see you, another warrior, at my back—for my brothers to know that sheyk Gershem Ben Salin of the Twilkets may yet live under your care. If you cure the weariness sucking the life from my grandfather—our people might outlast Hafiz, the wazir, and the caliph’s taxes together.”
Tae nodded, and that was all.
Faisal touched the haft of his dagger. More was needed than lance and wit against their enemies. His brothers needed him to lead them through the path of blood ahead.
The open spaces called to him—the quiet and the far hunt, but blood could not be avoided—and his own rose in answer. If the desert was to have peace and not be overrun by the caliph’s officials demanding coin, camels, and more precious things, they must fight. If it took blood to keep men such as Tae and his brothers from the caliph and the wazir’s Hand, so be it.
Truthseeker preened. Faisal reached inside his saddlebag for a small hood and bell. He deftly covered her head and sharp beak and looped the bell about her foot. It tinkled. Cicero would come soon, or follow Alaina’s scent as they rode. His nose was uncommonly keen. As keen on the hunt as the wazir’s Hand. Faisal frowned.
Alaina glanced at him, and he stared back, grim.
They would need their strength. It was time to eat and ride. He nodded to Kentar, who dug into the packs on Tae’s beast. Kentar stirred something into the pot Tae had rigged over the crackling fire, and Tae dropped in a dusting of dark powder.
Faisal hoped it was not more of the fiery red pepper and soured vegetables. Boiled meat or dried dates would be a feast, but what Tae called “kimchi” would burn a hole in any man’s belly. He grimaced. Though he supposed what it did not burn, it strengthened.
Tae studied his creation in the pot as impassively as he did his enemies, the satisfied lines around his mouth belying his strong, round face. His hair held a peppering of white over the black of two seasons ago when he held sheyk Gershem of the Twilkets under his blade and lived to speak of it. But there was more to his wise, implacable will than kimchi.
Faisal dug his fingers into the warm bowl of food Tae handed him and sniffed. Rice and dates, with a hint of cinnamon.
“Is it good, desert prince?” Tae was laughing at him.
Faisal shrugged and took a pointed taste. And smiled. He ate swiftly.
Alaina bit her lip and avoided his gaze. Did she laugh? Clad in the manner of the desert in his brothers’ robe-like thawb and flowing kaffiyeh to hide her bright hair and other signs she was a woman, she joined Tae and the others on the far side of the fire, dipping into her bowl hastily with slender fingers. Her garb was as stiff as his with the sweat of five sunrises of riding without pause. She rubbed her dirty face, as weary as them all.
Tae never seemed to rest. He watched the hills and the mountains that rose in a vague chain behind them on their left, and turned often toward the great sands, spreading eastward in dunes higher than any wind-tower. The way ahead was long and rocky. Tae trusted Kentar to watch their trail behind, a long range of granite peaks disappearing toward the south.
The warm bowl threatened to break in Faisal’s tightening fingers. Umar had picked up their trail on the far side of the mountains. The cinnamon soured in his nose. Now he, a wolf of the desert, fled before a hyena.
Tae cleaned his cooking things and put them on his horse. Alaina crouched beside his empty place, her face heart-shaped. She lifted her head, and her green gaze on Faisal’s was as startled as a rabbit gone down to drink, frozen beside a wadi pool. Her lashes fluttered down and her cheeks colored. Her mouth flattened.
Faisal swallowed his last date, dipped his bowl full of sand, scoured it, and dumped it into the fire. It snuffed out. He was fallen in Alaina’s esteem for her sister’s sake.
Apprenticed in the way of the warrior and the healer, Alaina doubtless knew poisons as well as scribing. She was not one he wished to give more reason to fear or dislike him—more reason than a scorned sister. He kicked sand into the fire pit with sudden force.
Caliphs, wazirs, and Umar’s Hand—they were full of vaporous dreams of power from breathing incense and eating too much rich meat. They made trouble for all who saw the majesty of the desert, who wished to trade and live in it by their wits, as men.
He sighed, eyeing Alaina sidelong. If Kyrin were here he would see the blaze kindling in her dark eyes, see her mouth firm into a line, her small-boned, strong form rise up across the fire pit—but she was not.
Did Alaina regret leaving Ali’s gardens, the bathing pool of the women’s courts, the flowers and fruit, the comforts of rosewater? She had gained sand and heat in their place—riding sores—the talk and sweat and food of men. She fled from swift danger into an uncertain future. Sandy spots dashed across her nose, slightly burned and peeling, for all it was near winter.
Faisal smiled faintly. The sun was ever fierce. As fierce as she. He’d seen her wield the staff now tied to her horse, the heavy wo
od as light as a grass stem in her hands, sissing through the air.
Alaina blinked. A tear ran down and trembled on the end of her nose, ready to fall.
He suddenly wished he could take her for a fast gallop on Zahir. He would show her the beauty of the reem running over the sands, the dunes flowering in glory after a rain, and wipe away that tear. He would make her smile. Might the skin around her green eyes crinkle, might her mouth resemble the gentle curve of a moon across water? She had lost many things. She would not lose her life to Umar’s Hand of salukis.
Faisal stood and held out his bowl. He would do what he could. She might come to name him something other than jackal. When one could not escape an unpleasant thought, the best thing was a task to lose oneself in.
Alaina dragged her arm across her eyes, shot him a glare that would burn to cinder, grabbed the bowl out of his hand, and stalked toward the pack camel. He stared after her with a frown. Prickly she was, but they must ride. He did not know if they would see the sun to its rest, but they would show Umar and his Hand how the hunted could run.
38
Bio
Azalea Dabill grew up in the California hills, building forts in the oaks. She remembers the fuzzy sweet smell of acorns and moss, the perfume of lupines and golden poppies, the night-song of crickets. Homeschooled, she read fantasy and adventure to her siblings. Now she enjoys growing things, old bookstores, and hiking the wild.
Never finding enough tales of adventure, romance, and mystery in the world, she writes Young Adult fantasy, mythic fantasy that spans worlds near and far. Tales of medieval stronghold lords, a desert prince, and a stronghold daughter torn between them. And soon to come, a runaway princess must find a sword of power and a prince’s love to save her heart and her kingdom; an outcast caught in a dragons’ war begun at the dawn of time must fight to save his world from worse than death; and a tale of sleeping Briar Rose and her sister, who battle enemies within and without for their hearts, their people, and their land. Enter a multiverse of daring deeds with touches of romance and mystery. In a word, crossover into adventure.
Words hold so much power.
Don’t forget to check out her website if you want more details, resources, or a couple of short stories. www.azaleadabill.com
39
Acknowledgements
There are too many wonderful people who assisted me on my writing journey to name them all. My memory is also faulty, LOL.
So, if your name is not here and you dropped a word of encouragement or helped me, know that I appreciate you.
My thanks to my dad, mom, and family for their support in so many ways, and to Sandy Cathcart, Lynn Leissler, Jeanette Windle, Susan May Warren, and Kathi Macias for their teaching and encouragement at pivotal points in my writing.
And I could never get far without my crit group, Fantasy for Christ. My deepest thanks to you.
And I also thank you, my readers, from the bottom of my heart.
You rock! You have told me in no uncertain terms how you enjoyed Falcon Heart and the Chronicle. Thank you for your reviews and advice.
*Some Chronicle books and Entries are forthcoming. Sign up for my blog letter to keep up to date on coming books, news, and Azalea’s Scop Talk. Click here: www.azaleadabill.com if you are reading the ebook or Google the same if you have the print book.
40
Dear Reader
Crossover: Find the Eternal, the Adventure.
Thank you for reading!
I hope you enjoyed the Chronicle!
Please remember to share your experience.
Click on your sharing icon of choice at the bottom of my home page, under the Castle Gate Press logo.
Please give me and others the gift of your opinion in a short review on Amazon or Goodreads.
This helps me spread the word and improve my next stories with your advice.
Thank you so much!
Azalea
Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times Page 39