Silk & Steel

by Ellen Kushner

  The eunuch stared at Aiyla’s face. “You were badly injured in battle?”

  Aiyla half-wished she had remained at the barracks. “Only mildly.” Silk stitches marred her cheeks, and an aching furrow carved across her calf. The physicians believed these would heal, but it would take time.

  “Then we are doubly honored!”

  She managed a thin smile, then raised a hand. The flurry of skirts sounded like the wings of pigeons as they fell in.

  They didn’t proceed to the valide’s chambers, instead passing into a garden courtyard deeper in the palace, sun-washed kiosks spread around them. The valide was seated—accompanied by her own flock of ladies—in an open pavilion, her elegant hands resting in her lap.

  Aiyla’s gaze flicked along their faces and, to the far left, standing upright, she found the one she sought. Her heart leapt.

  The valide smiled and Aiyla could not help recalling that a dancing monkey had received that very same smile. Behind her, the Birds fluttered.

  “My son spoke of your bravery in the recent battle.” With her fine clothing, soft voice, and refined manners, she made the Birds look coarse and common. Perhaps, Aiyla thought uncomfortably, there was a reason she considered them equal to dancing monkeys. “We wished to honor your courage and skill.” The valide turned and nodded.

  The woman at the far left bowed and withdrew. She returned a moment later, followed by more of the sultan’s cariyes, each bearing a folded bundle of indigo. They approached the Little Birds, some staring, some flushing.

  The leader came to Aiyla, as tall and slender as a willow, eyes as green as new leaves, hair the color of ripe wheat, skin as pale as milk. Why the sultan overlooked Zerren, Aiyla never understood. She had never seen anyone so beautiful in her life.

  “Your face,” Zerren murmured.

  “It will heal,” Aiyla breathed, lips barely moving to hide the extent of their conversation. She glanced down at the bundle in Zerren’s hands and a smile escaped, straining her stitches. Aiyla reached out and, beneath the bundle, her fingers brushed Zerren’s, the woman’s skin as soft as feathers. “Thank you,” she said. “They look very warm.”

  For each cariye carried a new uniform with quilted, layered fabric instead of thin silk. Only one person had heard her complain of the bitterness of the air when she flew and could have suggested new, warmer uniforms to the valide.

  Zerren’s cheeks flushed rose-pink and her eyes shone. She bobbed and retreated with her fellows.

  Aiyla glanced along her flock, then barked the command. As one, they bowed to the valide, thanking her for her generous gift.

  The valide seemed pleased and called for cushions and sherbet. Musicians emerged and the Little Birds broke ranks at Aiyla’s nod, though most huddled together, careful and self-conscious. They had been here before. They remembered the stares and titters as they ate and drank like soldiers.

  Aiyla sat—her leg ached too much not to—and set her new uniform in her lap, running her fingers along the collar. The texture caught her attention and she turned the fabric. Silver words shone, stitched into the lining. Aiyla’s heart stuttered and she hastily pressed the cloth back down.

  A rustle of skirts made her look up as Zerren descended on her, like a falcon to its master’s glove. “Her Highness bid me bring you refreshments,” she murmured, going to one knee, a golden goblet cradled in her hands. “And the cup, for your valor.”

  Aiyla curved her hands around Zerren’s. “I thank her for her generosity.” Her fingers drifted, tracing fine bones and smooth skin and she drank in those eyes, leaves in sunlight. “It pleases me to receive it.” She held that green gaze as she put the cup—still warm from Zerren’s touch—to her lips.

  Zerren flushed, rising to join the other cariyes, and there were no further chances to exchange words. Too many eyes... and too many young Birds to watch over who knew nothing of palace etiquette. Every so often, a rap of her staff to the flagstones reminded them of their place.

  Once the valide had been sufficiently entertained, they were escorted out by the chief eunuch. Cariyes lined the hallway as they departed, and Aiyla caught a glimpse of green and gold and a smile before they returned to the world outside.

  Only once they reached their barracks did the Birds break out in titters.

  “New uniforms!” Yildiz squealed, delighted. “Warm uniforms!”

  “I wonder who gave them that idea.” Nuray looked knowingly at Aiyla.

  Aiyla only smiled, holding the folded fabric close to her heart.

  * * *

  Despite her healing injuries, Aiyla was dispatched to the Polish border with nine other Birds only ten days after the visit. The army was marching in response to... Aiyla couldn’t be sure. Another insult, battle, or dispute.

  Inside their tent, Aiyla knelt by her bedroll. Each Little Bird respected the others’ personal, pre-battle traditions. Now, they left her alone to pray.

  Instead, she spread out her uniform. By flickering lamplight, silver embroidery shone. She traced the letters with her fingertips, following the shape of the words, each one crafted by a most beloved hand.

  It was a nonsense poem, playing on her name. Foolish and enough to make her blush. Stay, the wheat whispered when the dawn came. Give me the silver of the moon, not the gold of the sun.

  Aiyla curled her fingers into the cloth. She should never have come to this, aching with longing.

  The Birds could take no husband. From the moment they entered their barracks, their lives were the sultan’s. Their names were taken and new ones given, as much an identity as the indigo. They were taught to fly, and when orders came, they took wing.

  She buried her face in the fabric. No, it should never have come to this.

  Without her wings and her stars, she would never have known Zerren existed. She would never have been invited—commanded—to demonstrate her skills for the valide those many months ago. She would never have requested “the tall one” help prepare her wings.

  * * *

  To her surprise, Zerren had not stared or giggled when she approached. She towered head and shoulders over Aiyla and took instruction readily, tilting the wing-frame so Aiyla could make final adjustments.

  “Hm.”

  The doubtful sound caught Aiyla off-guard as she tightened her rods. “What?”

  “It seems so fragile,” the golden-haired woman said. “Are you not afraid?”

  Aiyla almost lied—as she usually did—but the woman looked at her with such grave interest in her green eyes. “Every time,” she admitted. She pulled one wing’s fabric taut. “And every time I return, I weep for hours.”

  “Relief?” this golden angel asked quietly. “Or sorrow?”

  Only another kind of bird in a different cage could understand.

  When Aiyla bit down the treasonous reply, Zerren glanced at the pavilion wall and the ramp for Aiyla’s run. Beyond, the city spread towards the Golden Horn and—across the water—the spike of Galata tower pricked the sky. Decades ago, a man had made the first wings and flown from that tower. Now, no men dared.

  “How far will your wings take you today?” She tilted the other wing down.

  Aiyla ducked beneath her arm, half-hidden by her flaxen hair—it smelled of rosewater and cedar wood—and pulled on the wings. “If the winds are with me, I will land on a flat rooftop. If not...” She had shuddered. “The water.”

  “I miss the water,” Zerren said, strange sadness in her voice. “I used to swim.”

  Aiyla forgot all about the wings. “Swim?”

  When Zerren smiled, it illuminated the world. “Like your flying,” she murmured, “but in the water.” Her brilliant green eyes sparkled with mirth. “I suppose I am a duck to your eagle.”

  Aiyla stared at her then. Oh, how she stared. It was as if she had stepped into sunlight for the first time and her words failed her.

  Zerren’s cheeks pinked. “Your wings.” She cleared her throat. “They are ready?”

  “Yes. Yes!” Ai
yla nodded quickly. “All ready.”

  They stepped apart, both flushed and awkward. Aiyla donned her veil, and the demonstration went as planned, though she had to deal with the indignity of requesting passage from a family’s roof.

  * * *

  That should have been the end, but days later a palace kira visited the barracks. The Birds occasionally did business with the kiras—Jewish women who could visit the city, buying and collecting on behalf of those confined by their positions. She brought paper and ink supposedly at Aiyla’s request and—hidden among the unsolicited sheets—the first letter.

  Zerren’s beautiful writing brimmed with warmth and humor. For months, Aiyla found herself laughing into her hand, finding quiet corners where she could hoard her mirth and scribble responses. Their masters disapproved of any outside ties. Some had been beaten for flouting that particular rule. All too soon, she had to burn the precious pages.

  The uniform, though....

  Aiyla fingered the lettering stitched into the cloth frequently. Each Bird tended her own uniform, which Zerren knew—Aiyla had complained often enough while struggling with repairs. She had given a secret message, a portable token, a gesture of affection.

  Tent canvas slapped and rattled.

  “Aiyla?”

  Aiyla pulled on the quilted jacket. “Come.”

  Nuray poked her head in. “The weather is turning. They want us on the hillside now.”

  Aiyla snatched up her helmet, plain dark leather with a chin-strap, and followed Nuray out to meet the other Birds. It was a heavy, sticky day and the new uniform felt too warm, but that was on the ground. In the air, it would be a different matter.

  The hill’s incline was shallow, but steep enough with help from the horses. Their enemies had grown wiser in the last two decades, seeking battlegrounds not edged by hillsides. No one wanted to be underneath the Turkish creatures who came from the mountains and rained fire from the sky.

  Her groom nodded in greeting, and made a gesture she recognized as salutation. Despite her indigo veil, Tamraz always spotted her among her sisters and greeted her accordingly. He looked calm, which meant the ground was good, which in turn settled the nerves fluttering around her heart.

  The squad master awaited them in a tent, a map spread out before him.

  “Our spies report the enemy has gunpowder here, here, and here.” He tapped three points with his stick. “Your main targets. If you cannot strike them, your job is fear and chaos.”

  Aiyla glanced around the table at her sisters, remembering the last battles. The rip of metal through her flesh, and the sound of her wings tearing. Pain.

  “What of their weapons?” she asked. “Their guns—”

  Five sharp raps on the map, pointing to colored flags. “Cannon. Muskets. Some new, upward-facing cannon. Catapults. Archers.”

  All made to target people in the air. Aiyla swallowed the hot, sick feeling in her throat. The master continued. Placements, munitions, secondary targets to weaken the enemy.

  “Make ready,” he snapped.

  Nuray darted to Aiyla’s side as they hurried towards the wings. “Upward-facing cannon,” she murmured. When Aiyla shivered, Nuray caught her hand, squeezed. “We know where they are. We know how to avoid them.”

  The master’s boys were readying the wings as they neared. They had a part in building the wings, yet not one of them was brave enough to fly, even before they grew too large.

  “Fah,” Nuray muttered under her breath. “The alignment is crooked again. Are they blind? Do they want me to fly in circles?”

  Aiyla’s veil hid her grin. “What do they know? All they see are sticks and cloth.” She brushed Nuray’s hand. “Go. Fix your wings. I’ll sing today.”

  Mercifully, they were easy to divert. The sisters had a pact. If your wings were fine, you were the distraction, fretting loudy so the boys would fuss and speak over you and pay no heed to your sisters hastily fixing their own wings. Singing.

  When she was still young enough to be foolish, Aiyla had raised her concerns directly and been told she didn’t understand the technicalities of constructing wings. So she’d broken off a faulty piece and thrown it at them. She had been sorely beaten for it and learned to hold her tongue.

  For Nuray’s sake, she endured a long lecture about form and frame, as if she hadn’t been flying for longer than the boys had been walking. Her veil was a mercy, hiding her yawns, as they fussed and arranged the ropes that would get her airbound. The leather loop suspended beneath the frame pressed into Aiyla’s belly and she wrapped her hands around the grips above her head.

  When the horn blew, they scattered.

  Are you not afraid?

  Every time.

  Aiyla drew a shivering breath. A prayer should have been on her lips. Instead, she thought of green and gold. She glimpsed Tamraz’s face in the torchlight, the flicker of his hands making the sign, and exhaled.

  Aloft, the world was hers, but this moment, when the world tilted and she was ripped from the ground, never became easier. A torch waved and hooves thundered across the ground. Canvas snapped in the wind and one by one, with each dip of the torch, dark wings were pulled aloft. Smoothly, she hoped. Cleanly. There had been too many accidents.

  The rope wrenched taut. She was torn from the hillside and flung skyward, the world dropping away and her heart left behind.

  Feet up. Hold steady. Find the air current.

  Cool wind whipped her face, her eyes stung, and she fumbled her feet onto the rear crossbar. And there, the current caught her, lifting her. Relief swooped in as she unhooked the rope and let it fall away. Her heart settled into a steadier rhythm. Below, trimmed in silver, she could see the camps.

  Silver.

  The moon was breaking through the clouds. No! Blades of pale light widened across the sky, picking out wings, turning the Birds into shadows against the brightness.

  “Turn back!” she bellowed, but the wind tore her words away.

  Gunfire rattled up from the camp below.

  The Birds spread as much as the buffeting winds would allow. Some weaved between shafts of moonlight, hiding in the dark. Flames blossomed where their bombs fell, but nowhere near the targets. Chaos and survival were the only choice now.

  Aiyla tilted, sweeping a curve out of the spreading moonlight. A shriek caught on the air as a Bird fell, punctured wings tumbling her over and over.

  Low enough to be hit, but too high to survive.

  Aiyla’s hands shook and she swung in. She whistled a sharp, shrilling sound that cut through the air, then tilted and locked her grips in position. Her wings carried her in wide circles. Across the silvering sky, her sisters did the same.

  With wind-chapped hands, she tore a bomb from her belt. The rasping wick sizzled to life and she aimed at the campfires’ glow. Let it rain. They scattered bombs like burning chaff, sowing carnage, even as they ululated to the sky for their loss.

  Tents burst into flames and people ran. Gunfire crackled and snapped. Above her, someone cried out in pain. The Bird broke formation, retreating to the Ottoman camp.

  Good. Aiyla spun back into the swiping shadows. Alive is better.

  Spreading fire illuminated the camp below, its scouring heat granting them a little more lift. Enough. Aiyla whistled sharply, the signal to withdraw.

  A musket ball whistled past, making Aiyla twist and search for the enemy. There. Aiyla’s heart leapt to her throat. Dozens of cannons, all aimed upward. Men scrambling over them, loading, filling, preparing....

  So close, her Birds would be torn as easily as paper.

  Aiyla took a shivering breath. She could not grant them speed, but where there were cannons, there would be gunpowder, and where there was gunpowder....

  She angled her wings for increased velocity and smiled furiously behind her veil. No more sisters would fall tonight, not as long as she lived and breathed.

  The enemy spotted her and she heard the shouts, the shrill of shots shredding the air. At least one
hit her wings, taut fabric bursting open above her. Her every breath burned with the scorching updraft as she clung to the grips, trying to keep herself from spinning, falling, crashing.

  Blinking the haze from her eyes, she snatched bombs from her belt, and as she descended, she dropped them towards powder barrels, delicate as Zerren scattering rose petals. Panic flooded the pale, upturned faces.

  For a moment, there was nothing and then....

  And then, the world was aflame.

  * * *

  Aiyla gazed at the ceiling, flickers of lamplight casting strange, blurred shadows along the beams. After the explosions on the battlefield, things were unclear. Pain, she remembered well, and hands on her. Darkness and shouts.

  In the haze of lost days, she had been borne back to the city, with enough time passed for the burns on her hands and face to start healing. Her veil had been scoured away along with her lashes and eyebrows. The physicians said her eyes might never fully recover. Only the thickness of her uniform had protected her body, Zerren’s gift the very thing that kept her alive.

  Little of it had survived. Secret words burned to ash.

  The muezzin’s call from the mosque broke through the silence. Dawn, Aiyla thought, and struggled to sit.

  Her chest tightened at once, a spasm of pain making her cough. Fresh blood spattered on her bandages. Ah. Yes. The worst of the damage. She’d drawn too many burning breaths, the physicians said. It might heal, it might not.

  With trembling hands, she picked up a cup of cool, poppy-laced water. A sip seared enough to make her hazed eyes sting, but it took the taste of metal from her tongue and eased the pain a little. The cup felt unbearably heavy and all too soon, she had to lie down again.

  What a ruin she was. A final star, no doubt. They could not—would not—let her fly again. No more wind against her face as she rose aloft. No more laughter with her sisters.

  And in the secret, selfish part of her, she knew this meant no more green and gold smiles. No more letters slipped into the kira’s hands. Too damaged and useless, she would be turned out as her sisters had been before her.