Jashemi colored slightly and did not meet his father’s eyes. “It is nothing, Father. Merely the toll of the ride.”
Tahmu shook his head. “Do not lie to me, my son. It is not that.”
Jashemi was silent for a time. Finally, hesitantly, he said, “I have…been having troubling dreams.”
Tahmu nodded. Of course. The child was having nightmares. He was young yet, and this was only his second raid.
“That is nothing to be ashamed of,” he reassured his son. “You have not yet seen enough battle so that it does not intrude upon your dreams.”
To his surprise, Jashemi shook his kerchiefed head. “It is not dreams of battle that trouble me, Father.”
For no reason, fear began to creep through the khashim’s veins. Keeping his voice steady, he inquired, “Then what is the nature of these dreams?”
Again, Jashemi hesitated before replying. Then he spoke quickly, as if now that the decision to speak of the dreams had been made the words must be uttered all at once.
“I dreamed that I was a young beggar boy, standing beside a khashima whose finery outstrips even my mother’s. We stood watching a darkness hovering on the horizon, a darkness that was about to completely swallow us. She told me that it might all fall to me, that I must not forget. But I don’t know what it was I was to remember! And there is sometimes a man as pale as milk with hair the color of sand, and a blue striped simmar crouches at his feet. Sometimes there is a sad-looking young woman, and a man who loves to laugh, and a horse that is not a horse, and someone all in shadows—”
“Enough!” Tahmu spoke in a whisper, but the fierceness of his voice silenced Jashemi at once. The fear that had been threatening now descended full force. He felt cold, although the day was hot. “You will not speak of this again. These are no ordinary dreams.”
“That much I know. But—”
“They are sent by the kulis. The demons want to confuse you, to tempt you to stray from the ways of our people. Why else would you have visions of people so unlike us? And if you are having dreams sent by the kulis, and you speak of them as you have to me, you have marked yourself. You know what the punishment is for the kuli-cursed.”
He looked at his son, searching the boy’s eyes. “If this comes out, I can only do so much to protect you. I am bound to the ways of the Arukani.”
Jashemi’s face was unreadable. “You would be bound to condemn me,” he said levelly, “just as you were bound to abandon my sister on the mountain.”
Tahmu sighed. “Yes. Just like that.”
“But what if the dreams aren’t being sent by kulis?” Jashemi demanded. “What if they are good, are somehow warnings?”
“I will not listen to this,” said Tahmu. He felt his entire being shutting down, closing up, withdrawing from even considering his son’s words. “Our family has suffered enough as it is. I will bring no more torment upon it.”
He kicked Swift, who snorted and bolted forward. Tahmu’s heart was pounding and his eyes filled with tears as he left his son in the dust.
The sun had not yet cleared the horizon when Kevla went to the corrals, a basket hanging on her arm. This was the least pleasant task of the day, and it was growing more unpleasant as time passed. With so many horses and sa’abahs gone from the House of Four Waters, there was not a great deal of dried droppings to be had for the fires. Kevla scowled as she gathered up what she could find. A sandcattle calf nuzzled her and she petted its soft nose absently.
“Who would have thought I would ever wish for more dung,” she told it, laughing a little.
Sahlik jokingly called the dried dung used for fuel “cakes.” Right now, there were more piles of steaming droppings than cakes, and what cakes there were weren’t terribly dry. Kevla wrinkled her nose as she brought them into the kitchens and began to set the fire.
It was early yet, and few people were in the kitchens. Most would not arrive until the fire was going well, their particular tasks requiring a steadily burning flame. Kevla began to strike sparks.
Nothing.
It was never an easy task, getting the cakes to burn at all, but today it seemed impossible. Again and again Kevla tried, striking spark after spark and blowing on it gently. But the cakes were simply too fresh and would not catch.
She heard the sounds of more people coming in behind her, talking in soft morning voices. Soon, they would need to begin baking and cooking.
She kept trying. Each time the spark would land on the cakes, flare for an instant, and then fizzle.
Suddenly, anger rushed through Kevla. Sahlik would chastise her for being tardy in getting the fires lit, and it wasn’t really her fault at all.
“Burn, curse you!” she whispered, glowering at the pile of dried droppings.
With a sharp crack, a flame licked upward. A heartbeat later, the fire burned as if it had been lit an hour ago.
Kevla gasped, staring at the fire. How could this be? One moment it was stubborn, moist cattle cakes and now—
She felt sick as the realization broke over her, and sat down hard on the stone. There was only one answer. She was kuli-cursed, despite Jashemi’s calm words. First the dreams, now this. No ordinary person could light a fire with a word.
The hand on her shoulder startled her. She looked up to see Sahlik smiling down at her.
“The cakes are not usually dry when the men go on raids,” Sahlik said approvingly. “You must have a way with fire.”
Swallowing, Kevla managed, “Yes. I must.”
She went through the chores of her day in a state of near-panic, glancing repeatedly at the merrily burning fire. When her day was done, she lay awake in her room all night, dreading sleep, fearing that the Great Dragon would come for her and bear her away to his lake of fire in the heart of Mount Bari. She was surely an abomination, and the Dragon dealt swiftly with such monstrosities.
And yet she did sleep, and the dream was exactly the same: the leaping flames, the bellowed question, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?” It was terrifying—it was always terrifying—but there was no new frightening twist. Nor did the Dragon give any sign of leaving its home in Mount Bari to snatch up her waking self.
The next day, Kevla gathered the cakes with hands that trembled. She laid the fire and struck the spark. Again, the stubborn cakes refused to catch.
Kevla licked dry lips. Softly, she stared at the cakes and whispered, “Burn.”
As before, where there had only been a sullen smoldering, now there was a steadily burning fire.
Despite her fear, Kevla smiled.
As the days passed, Kevla gradually began to believe that the Dragon wasn’t going to punish her. Her skills seemed to be useful, not harmful. Each morning, she now lit the fire with ease, no matter how moist the cattle cakes were. Her room, which had previously grown chilly with the desert night, now became comfortably warm with a single word. She certainly didn’t feel like she was kuli-cursed.
One morning, Kevla lingered a little bit longer than usual gazing at the fire she had lit by merely saying, “Burn.” Its flickering flames always called to her, but this time, she seemed to see figures in the fire.
She blinked and rubbed her eyes. No, she was not imagining it. There was Jashemi! She smiled, happy just to see him. He seemed unaware of her presence, his expression troubled. He leaned forward, and the flames trembled. As he moved back, she saw that he held a stick. He had stirred his own fire with the stick, and Kevla had seen it at her fire.
From that moment on, Kevla seized every opportunity that came her way to gaze into the fire. Sometimes, she saw only flames. Other times she saw Sahlik, or Tahmu, or Yeshi. Sometimes she saw the faces of people she did not know at all; strangers somewhere, gazing into a fire, not knowing that the fire was gazing back at them.
The dreams intensified with each passing moon. The colors of the fire seemed brighter to her, the Dragon larger, more frightening. Senses other than sight and sound came into play; she could feel the heat of the flames, could smell the smok
e, taste its acridness on her tongue. During the day, when she could think rationally about it, she wondered why the dreams never lost their terror. Surely, familiarity with what would unfold ought to lessen its impact.
But such was not the case. The dreams remained as alarming as ever, and each morning she awoke with her heart pounding as if she had been running all night.
The question the Dragon asked was always the same. Kevla never knew how to reply, but somehow she knew that, could she but manage the correct response, all the mysteries would have answers, and everything would fall into place.
She anxiously awaited Jashemi’s safe return. The Clan came home three moons later, victorious as usual, and the House was once again thrown into a flurry of activity. As a kitchen worker, Kevla was now on her feet almost all day long, sweating profusely in the heat, collapsing late at night only to rise and do the same thing the next day.
Kevla was forbidden to attend the family or guests; her low status demanded that she remain in the kitchens. Now and then, though, unable to resist, she peeked out hoping to catch Jashemi’s eye. They were halfway through the eight courses, having consumed dates and nuts, greens in oil and vinegar, fruit and cheese, and fowl in a glaze of fruit juice and garlic, when Sahlik bustled into the kitchen.
“The young master has taken ill,” she told Kevla. “The servers are all busy. Bring him up a platter in case he awakens hungry in the night.”
Kevla nodded as if this request was nothing special, but felt joy swell inside her. Moving casually, she arranged some light tidbits on a tray—fruit, nuts, cheese—and tried to disguise her eagerness as she ascended the stairs. A perfect plan—Yeshi would not leave the banquet hall for several more hours. They would have time to talk.
Trembling with anticipation, she knocked on the door. “Come,” said Jashemi in a weak voice. Suddenly fearful that he might really be ill and not feigning in order to see her, Kevla burst through the door.
“Jashemi, are you—”
He lounged on the made bed, fully clothed, grinning wickedly at her. Slightly annoyed, she stamped on the floor, and he laughed aloud. Kevla couldn’t stay angry with him. She set the tray on a small table, fighting a grin herself.
“You enjoyed scaring me like that,” she accused.
“I had to sound convincing, in case Sahlik wasn’t able to send you,” he replied. “But I confess, the look on your face was most entertaining.”
They smiled at one another for a moment, then Jashemi’s grin faded.
“Was it bad?” Kevla whispered.
He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “Not as bad as the first time,” he said. “Father says you get used to it.”
Kevla winced at the hollow tone of his voice. She didn’t want Jashemi to grow into a man who had “become used” to taking lives. She didn’t think Jashemi did, either. But he had no choice.
“It’s not the—the killing that troubles me, not this time,” he continued, still looking at his fingers. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes. They seemed to bore into Kevla’s soul.
“Before I left, you spoke of dreams. Are you still having them?”
She nodded. “Yes. The same dream. Every night.”
“You have told no one?” At her look, he smiled a little. “That was a foolish question. Of course not.” The smile faded. “I was not so wise.”
She cocked her head. “You have been having dreams, too?”
He nodded. “Dreams in which I am a beggar boy, standing beside a great khashima. There is something I am supposed to remember, to prevent something dreadful from happening, but I don’t know what it is. And other dreams. I see strange people, Kevla, people who look nothing like you and I. Their hair is yellow, and their faces are pale as milk. They have mighty creatures at their command—blue striped simmars, strange horses, dogs with wings. I can make sense of none of it. I confided in Father, who fears that I am kuli-cursed. As you feared you were.”
Kevla felt cold. He did not know, yet, about her newly discovered ability with fire. She licked her lips and waited for him to continue.
“I don’t know what they mean, but somehow I know they’re not from the kulis. Nor, I think, are your dreams. Father told me to never mention them again. He fears he would have to denounce me.”
Kevla gasped. “He wouldn’t!”
“He would. He would have to, if it became general knowledge.”
“Then you must never speak of it,” she said promptly.
“Except to you. I can tell you anything.”
Her heart swelled at the words, and she realized that it was time for her to confide her own secret.
“I have something to tell you, too,” she said. “Or rather show you.” She rose and went to the small brazier. A small bundle of dried grasses lay inside, more for decoration than for any real light or heat. She stood in front of it, her heart racing. She desperately hoped she was right, that the power of their bond would stretch to accommodate even this.
“I’ve been having more than dreams,” she said, meeting his eyes evenly. “I have been able to…to do things.” She pointed at the bundle.
“Burn,” she said.
At once, the grasses burst into flame, burning quickly, writhing and turning to black soot within seconds. Jashemi stared, open-mouthed, and did not speak. Kevla’s heart sank. She had misjudged him. He would scream and they would come for her and—
“When did this start?” His voice was astoundingly calm, although his still-wide eyes betrayed his shock.
“A few days after you left,” she whispered. “I was having trouble getting a fire started, and I said, ‘Burn, curse you,’ and this happened.” She gestured at the dying fire. “I can make the room warmer, too. Jashemi, I’m scared! I don’t know what’s happening to me!”
He looked at her searchingly and then held out his arms. For a moment, she could not move. They had crossed one barrier when she had embraced him in the caverns. Now, if she permitted him to hold and comfort her, they would cross another. Slowly, she went to him, and his arms closed gently around her. She could smell the sweet oils mixed with sweat on his skin, feel the warmth emanating from his slim boy’s body as she rested her head on his chest. Kevla closed her eyes and accepted.
“I don’t know what’s happening to either of us, Kevla. But at least, we have each other.” He folded her even closer. “We will always have each other.”
Chapter Thirteen
Strange, Sahlik thought as she bent to stir the pot that hung over the fire, how fast the years fly when one is old.
It did not seem so long ago that Kevla had arrived at the House of Four Waters as a skinny, big-eyed girl of ten. Now, Sahlik rose and regarded the woman that girl had become.
Kevla had blossomed like a desert flower when given proper food and shelter. The long, lustrous black hair was still kept in a braid, but that was the only resemblance between girl and woman.
The once-scrawny child was now almost as tall as her father and brother. Despite the best efforts of the seamstress to create clothing that disguised Kevla’s figure, it was apparent to anyone with eyes that beneath the shapeless rhia was a body that was slender yet ripe with womanly curves at hip and breast. Her face was exquisite, almost as perfect in its proportions as a carved statue’s. But no statue could match the beauty of Kevla’s face when it lit up in a smile.
Had Kevla been the khashim’s legitimate daughter, she would have had suitors clamoring for her hand from sunrise to sunrise. Had she even been permitted to continue in Yeshi’s service as a handmaiden, it was likely she would have been well-matched despite the stigma of Bai-sha. As it was, the men looked, the men lusted, but there was no talk of marriage.
Nor did Kevla express interest in such things. She appeared content in her role as low-caste servant, moving with grace from chore to chore. It seemed enough for her to have Sahlik and her work.
And, of course, Jashemi.
The youth had matured into a younger version of his father, with Tahmu
’s wise, dark eyes. He was, if such a thing was possible, even handsomer than his father had been at that age, his features softened by Yeshi’s blood in him. Sahlik thought it odd that he had not yet been betrothed, but soon enough he would come of age, and then such matters would have to be addressed. Sahlik wondered how Kevla would react when she had to share Jashemi’s attention.
There were moments when Sahlik wondered if conspiring with the two siblings was the right thing to do. They thrived on one another’s company as if the moments together were meat and drink to them both. They were intelligent enough to be discreet in their clandestine meetings, but the keenness of their desire for one another was almost overwhelming to behold. Sahlik was confident that nothing improper was happening between the two young people; although Kevla did not know her parentage, Jashemi did, and Sahlik trusted him to respect such a profound taboo.
Still, sometimes it troubled her. But then she thought of how miserable the two would be if she did not assist them, and all thoughts of abandoning them evaporated like water under the sun. Things were hard enough on the poor creatures. Let them enjoy what they had while they could.
Holding that thought, Sahlik said, “Kevla, we are out of fresh mint and parsley for the stew. Go and gather some from Maluu—from Asha’s garden.” Maluuk had died in his sleep a few months ago, and it was still hard for Sahlik to think of young Asha as the Clan’s healer.
Kevla kept her face neutral, but could not hide a brief flash of delight in her beautiful brown eyes.
“Yes, Sahlik.” With a rustle of cloth, she was gone.
Sahlik watched her go, and as she did every time she sent Kevla off to meet Jashemi, said a brief prayer for both children’s safety.
Asha had left several hours ago, when a falcon had come with a note requesting his aid. The Clan of Four Waters was spread over much territory, and Asha served all the Clanspeople. Jashemi didn’t know and didn’t care who Asha was assisting. He only cared that he and Kevla now had a time and place to meet.
On Fire’s Wings Page 15