On Fire’s Wings

by Christie Golden

  The smile faded. She knew the situation in which she had found herself as a young woman was far from unique.

  She held the girl as the child sobbed. When Kevla at last drew back, dragging her thin arm across her wet nose and face, Sahlik decided it was a good opportunity to begin the instruction of etiquette.

  “Yeshi would have you flogged if you did that in her presence,” Sahlik said gently but firmly.

  Kevla’s eyes widened and she froze. “Cry? I would not cry in front of a khashima,” she said.

  “I did not think you would,” replied Sahlik, “but I was referring to this.” She imitated Kevla’s gesture, exaggerating it. Through the tears still on her face, Kevla giggled. “If perchance something made you sneeze, or your eyes water, you would beg permission to excuse yourself and bathe your face. Like this.”

  Seated next to Kevla beside the pool, she bent, cupped some water in her hands and delicately splashed her face. By the Dragon, it felt good. Kevla followed suit, saying with a faint trace of pride, “I have washed my face before.”

  Sahlik smothered her laugh. “That’s good,” she said. “Now, it is time to wash your whole body.” She removed her own clothes and slipped off the edge into the pool. The water came to her waist. Each time, it became harder for her to climb out. She would ask Tahmu about installing some steps inside the pool.

  Kevla remained seated as if she had turned to stone, staring at the dark water.

  “Are you afraid?” asked Sahlik. Kevla hesitated, then nodded. “Do not be. I know how to swim and I will teach you. I will teach you many things, child. Now, slip into the water. I will be right here.”

  Kevla looked up, her eyes searching Sahlik’s. She took a deep breath, and then, displaying what Sahlik knew to be great trust, slipped into the water. True to her word, Sahlik caught her.

  “It’s not too deep,” she said as the child began to flail. “You can stand. Hold on to the side. That’s it.”

  The water came to midchest on Kevla. She was breathing quickly, but remained admirably calm as she found her footing.

  “Many a boy-child has panicked the first time in the pool,” Sahlik said. “Even Tahmu’s son Jashemi did. Yet you are already standing. Very good. Now, let me wash your hair and body. From now on, you will be able to do this by yourself. When we are done, I will teach you how to use the brush and the oils, so that you may be presentable to the mistress of the House of Four Waters.”

  Kevla’s body and hair were scrubbed and oiled. Skin and hair, clean and perfumed, gleamed in the torchlight. Sahlik tossed Kevla’s old rhia into a woven basket in which other items of clothing were jumbled. From a second basket, the old woman withdrew a garment that, to Kevla, seemed impossibly white and fresh.

  She reached out and touched the fabric, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. “It is so beautiful,” she breathed. “Surely you cannot mean for me to wear this? Is this not more fitting for the khashima?”

  Sahlik chuckled. “Yeshi would be outraged if anyone suggested she wear this. You’ll soon learn the quality of her clothing. This is standard for all of the young women of the household. It’s a working garment. You’ll be getting something better soon, once the seamstress has had a chance to take a fitting.”

  Kevla’s lip trembled and her eyes welled with tears. She gulped and forced them back. “Of course,” she said. “A servant to the khashima must reflect her mistress’s style and wealth.” She slipped the rhia on, but despite her attempt to sound worldly, her small brown hands kept touching the fabric.

  Sahlik plaited her hair, clucking her tongue at its coarseness and shaggy length. “You will need a few days before you are ready to serve the mistress,” she said. “This hair must be cut and oiled repeatedly. And these hands—you will stop biting your nails at once. Yeshi likes long, painted nails and she likes for her women to have them, too.”

  “Certainly,” Kevla replied immediately.

  Sahlik sighed. She turned Kevla around to face her. “Listen to me, Kevla. I will tell you the truth of what life here will be like. Tahmu is a great man, a kind master. We are fortunate to serve in his House. But you will not see him much. Your mistress will be his wife Yeshi. She is beautiful, and quite aware of that beauty. Her world centers on herself, and that is not a bad thing for those who serve her as long as they remember that. It pleases her to have her handmaidens be healthy, pretty, and adorned nearly as lavishly as herself. She likes them smiling and happy and enjoys giving them gifts and treats. Serve her well, put her at the center of your world, and your life here will be a very pleasant one.”

  “And…those who serve the khashima poorly?”

  A tendril of the dark, oiled hair had escaped the braid. Gently, Sahlik tucked it back in place with a gnarled hand.

  “Yeshi once had a servant that was almost as close to her as a sister. When Yeshi found her trying on her cosmetics, she ordered the woman beaten and turned out onto the streets. The last I saw of her was her back, as she walked away from the House. Blood was beginning to seep into her white rhia.”

  Kevla swallowed hard. “I will seek to please my mistress,” she said firmly.

  “I’m sure you’ll succeed. So, this is what you wear when you are serving Yeshi. Tahmu is forward-thinking for a khashim, and does not demand that his women constantly wear the veil, but there are times when tradition demands it. Have you ever worn a veil?”

  “No, nor did my mother.”

  This did not surprise Sahlik; halaans were hardly known for womanly modesty.

  “The veil is to be worn when you venture anywhere outside the House or the healer’s hut. And you must wear it to all formal functions that Yeshi asks you to attend. A simple way to remember the rule is, the men of the household may see your face, but male strangers may not.”

  Kevla nodded her understanding. “Veils are pretty,” she said, somewhat wistfully.

  “Yes, they are. Now, child. You should have something to eat. Then you will show me exactly what skills you know.”

  They returned to the kitchens and Sahlik sat Kevla down beside one of the large tables. The girl sat as if glued to the bench, her thin body as upright as if she had a rake handle for a spine. Her eyes followed Sahlik’s every move. Sahlik assembled some food on a plate, selected a small cutting knife, and poured watered wine into a chipped ceramic goblet.

  Kevla’s eyes grew almost as large as the beaten metal plate. She hesitated.

  “Go on, you must be hungry,” Sahlik said. She was glad that this was a time when the normally bustling kitchens were quiet, although that was always a relative term.

  Delicately, Kevla plucked a few grapes and popped them into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, then looked at Sahlik for approval.

  “Good, good. Keep going.”

  She didn’t say anything as Kevla picked up a paraah. Kevla sniffed at it, then bit into it. She made a face, then quickly changed her expression as she tried to chew nonchalantly, as if the fruit were completely to her taste.

  Sahlik chuckled. She took the paraah and cut it up as she spoke. “Spit that out, Kevla. No, no, into your linen. The first things you ate were grapes. This is a paraah. You’ll need to either cut it up, like this, or peel it. Now, eat the inside, not the outside. Like this.”

  Kevla watched her intently, her small, freshly cleaned fingers holding a paraah segment daintily, then imitated Sahlik. A shy smile lit up her face as she chewed.

  Such a pretty thing, Sahlik thought, and wished sadly that Kevla had been born in the right bed.

  She took Kevla through holding and cutting meats, eating olives (she warned the girl ahead of time to be careful of the hard pit), sipping wine, and drinking soup. Each time, Kevla closed her eyes briefly, savoring each morsel. She ate much less than Sahlik had expected, and she told Kevla so.

  The girl ducked her head, grinning sheepishly. “The great khashim bought me a meat pie at the marketplace,” she said, as if she were imparting a secret.

  Sahlik threw back her
head and laughed. “And here I thought you had a dainty appetite. You’ve surely had enough. So, now you know how to peel a paraah for Yeshi. Come to my quarters and let me see what else you know.”

  Sahlik was pleasantly surprised. The child’s hands, though small yet, were skilled in the art of massage. Although her own locks kept escaping the braid, Kevla was able to work Sahlik’s graying, coarse hair into several different and attractive styles. Kevla could grind and mix henna, sing passably well (although all she knew were bawdy songs), and had a natural talent for dancing. Her little body moved with a lithe freedom and grace that Sahlik envied.

  At one point, ready to see what Kevla could do with henna, Sahlik slid back the sleeve of her blue and gold rhia to expose her upper arm. Kevla gasped.

  “What—oh. You have never seen a five-score before?”

  Kevla shook her head, staring at the four old scars that rose on Sahlik’s lower left arm. Gingerly, she reached to touch them, running a forefinger over their puckered, raised edges.

  “There are only four,” she said.

  “You can count. Good! How high?”

  “As high as need be,” Kevla replied, still distracted by the four scars. “These are old.” She looked up at Sahlik. “Your service should be over. Why are you still here?”

  “It is…a long story,” said Sahlik.

  Kevla readied her tools and squatted beside Sahlik. As she began to scoop the ground plant paste from a bowl and apply it in a pattern to the older woman’s arm, she said logically, “You must stay here for some time while I apply the henna and let it dry. There is time for quite a long story, I would think.”

  Sahlik laughed at that. Kevla couldn’t know how much she reminded Sahlik of Tahmu when he was young.

  “You are certain it won’t distract you? I would not like an ugly spot on my arm to compete with my scars.”

  Kevla grinned and her eyes sparkled as they met Sahlik’s. In a soft, pleasing voice, she said, “I will give you a beautiful pattern, uhlala, so that all eyes may fasten upon its exquisiteness and none will notice anything else.”

  “Yes, I think you will please Yeshi greatly,” said Sahlik dryly. “Very well. Nearly thirty years ago, when I was but a young woman, I was one of many slaves captured in a battle by Tahmu’s father, the great Rakyn.”

  “May his name forever be spoken,” murmured Kevla. The polite phrase was always uttered when speaking of the honored dead.

  “Yes, may it be so,” Sahlik replied, pleased. “I served him well and loyally, and for four years on the anniversary of my capture, as is the custom, he made a score on my arm. On the fifth year, Rakyn stood to make the fifth cut, but I told him to hold.”

  Kevla continued to apply the henna with a steady hand, but Sahlik could almost feel how intently the girl was listening.

  “‘Great khashim,’ I said, ‘You have counted the years wrong.’ He stared at me as if I had been kuli-cursed and was gibbering with madness. ‘With this last score, Sahlik, you go free,’ he said. ‘But great Rakyn, I will be free to do what? Free to return to my husband, who loves his wine better than me? You have scored my arm, but you have never broken my bones. So I say again, with all respect: You have counted the years wrong.’”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said, as he lowered the dagger, ‘The sun has dazzled my eyes. There are not four cuts on your arm, Sahlik. It seems I have counted the years wrong.’ And neither he nor Tahmu has made a fifth score, and I continue to serve the House of Four Waters.”

  “Sahlik is a bold woman,” said Kevla, finishing the design.

  “Sahlik had nothing to lose,” Sahlik replied.

  Kevla met her eyes, and to Sahlik, they seemed much older than her ten years.

  “Neither does Kevla,” she said.

  “My master?”

  Tahmu looked up from the scroll he was perusing. Sahlik stood in the door. From the expression on her face, Tahmu knew exactly why she had come. He motioned her in. She closed the door behind her.

  “How is she doing?” he asked.

  “She is a most impressive youngster. There will be jealousies among the women.”

  Tahmu made an impatient gesture. “Quarrels among Yeshi’s women are the least of my worries,” he said. “Kevla will hold her own among them, then? That is well. Has anyone…?” He could not find the words. Sahlik knew what he asked.

  “The servants think I am growing deaf in my old age, and speak freely when my eyes are not upon them. I have not chosen to enlighten them.” Sahlik smiled fiercely. “Kevla has slept in a corner of the kitchen, seen by many. No one else has noticed the resemblance, although you and I see it strongly.”

  Tahmu let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Perhaps it is because we know the truth that we see the resemblance. Still, I would like to be present.”

  Sahlik shook her head firmly. “No. You are not usually present to introduce a servant. You must do nothing out of the ordinary with this girl. Finding her and bringing her here was strange enough. Draw no more attention to her, and she will take care of herself.”

  While Sahlik’s words were full of wisdom, Tahmu had a father’s heart. It had been difficult to refrain from stopping by to see Kevla. She was a pretty child, and her brave acceptance of her fate combined with her ability to continue to take delight in the world around her had already charmed him.

  “I will be outside, then. If Yeshi sees her and knows…I want to be able to take care of Kevla.”

  Sahlik stepped forward and briefly rested a hand on Tahmu’s broad shoulder. No other servant would dare attempt such familiarity, but Sahlik’s bond with this man went deep.

  “Your kind heart does you credit. You have given the girl a new life, a better life. Be content with that.”

  Tahmu’s strong brown hand closed over the old woman’s and squeezed it. He nodded, but she saw that his eyes were still haunted as he imagined what could have been.

  Sahlik waited for the perfect opportunity. It came the day after she had spoken with Tahmu.

  She had gone to see Maluuk, the healer for the Clan, in his small stone home near the great House. Maluuk was almost as old as Sahlik, and like her, was plagued with stiffness and pain in the joints. The discomfort was incentive for Maluuk to constantly work on perfecting a salve to ease such pain, and he and Sahlik often commiserated on the perils of growing old.

  She sat now on a bench in his cool stone house, which was rich with the fragrance of herbs. They were everywhere—in jars on tables, hanging to dry from the ceiling, growing outside in the garden. Maluuk sorted and labeled jars while his apprentice Asha ground herbs and mixed the ointment.

  “I have started adding this,” he said to Sahlik, extending a jar.

  She took a cautious sniff, and then began coughing. Maluuk wheezed with laughter.

  “I find…nothing amusing,” she managed to say, tears streaming from her burning eyes. She gulped from the waterskin he held out to her.

  “I could not resist,” Maluuk said, chuckling. “I add the ground pepper to the salve, and it warms the joints. Trust me, it will feel good.”

  Sahlik gave him a skeptical look and was about to make a sharp comment when a shrill cry interrupted her.

  “Maluuk!” The voice belonged to Tiah, one of Yeshi’s attendants. “Maluuk, come quickly, Ranna has been bitten!”

  Faster than Sahlik would have given the old man credit for, Maluuk had leaped off his stool and raced out the door. Sahlik followed.

  Tiah, a curvaceous woman about Yeshi’s age, was gently leading Ranna up the steps toward the healer’s house. The younger girl stumbled from time to time, as her eyes were fixed on her right hand, which swelled almost before Sahlik’s eyes.

  Maluuk met them halfway. His touch was always gentle, but Ranna cried out and tried to pull her hand away.

  “What bit her?” he asked Tiah.

  “I’m not sure,” Tiah replied. “A fly, a wasp….”

  “Asha!” Maluu
k called to his apprentice, “Insect bite. What do I use?”

  “Garlic and then a white clay mud poultice,” the boy replied.

  “Good. Come, Ranna, we will take care of you.”

  Sahlik said, “I will pick up my ointment later.” Maluuk nodded, barely hearing her as he led the two distraught women into the hut.

  Despite a particularly sore knee, Sahlik hastened down the steps toward the House with alacrity. The moment would pass soon, and she was determined to seize it.

  Yeshi strolled in the garden alone, her long, well-manicured fingers reaching to touch a fragrant bloom now and then. Because of the House of Four Waters’ claim to that most precious of fluids, she was able to enjoy growing things that would normally never be seen in the desert. There was insufficient water to grow the exotic fruits and vegetables for trade, but enough so that Yeshi’s table always had something intriguing for her to nibble.

  Both her women were gone, after Ranna was stupid enough to touch the flower that had the angry-looking insect hovering about it, and Yeshi was bored with no one to talk to. Ranna hadn’t looked well, and she certainly hoped the girl was all right, but her first thought as Ranna’s hand began to swell like a filling water bladder was that it would be some time before Ranna would give her one of her magnificent massages.

  Yeshi liked the garden, as she liked all pretty things, but she had no real interest in learning much beyond which flower had which scent. Now she lounged on a long, intricately carved and padded bench in the small pavilion. The thin fabric walls billowed with a fragrant breeze, and she idly wondered what her husband planned for the evening. Her hand dropped to the beaten gold bowl beside her and she snared a lush fruit.

  “Great khashima, forgive me for disturbing you,” came Sahlik’s raspy voice.

  Yeshi sighed in exasperation. A frown marred her pretty countenance. “Enter. What is it, Sahlik?”

  “I saw that Ranna and Tiah were with the healer, great lady,” Sahlik said, stepping just inside the pavilion. “I thought you might be lonely.”