On Fire’s Wings (14 page)

“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

 

Kevla was brought awake by the sound of her own scream. She bolted upright, gasping for breath. Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. Her
rhia
clung to her, and she realized that she was soaked with sweat.

The light of the full moon spilled in through the small window, silvering and softening the harsh angles of the stacked-up tools. Kevla wiped at her wet face, shivering with fear and mortification.

Even her dreams, it seemed, mirrored her fall from favor and the shame inherent in her very existence. The dragon in her dream had to be the Great Dragon, who lived in the heart of Mount Bari. According to legend, the Dragon sent his flames in the form of molten stone coursing down the steep sides of Mount Bari when the people of Arukan forgot their traditions and laws.

Forget who they were.

DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?

Kevla could hear the bellowing voice in her head even now and she put her hands to her ears, as if the voice were real and could be shut out by something as paltry as human flesh and bone.

Perhaps the dream meant that the Great Dragon was as displeased with Kevla as Yeshi. Perhaps the Dragon felt that Kevla had no right to presume to a friendship with a
khashimu,
heir to the most powerful Clan in Arukan. She was born of a
halaan.
She was Bai-sha, her father unknown to her, one of her mother's clients. She recalled the Dragon's ferocity in the dream and shuddered.

And then, as she moved to sit up, she saw more evidence of the Dragon's displeasure.

Blood was all over her thighs.

 

Kevla went through the motions of her day, but she almost felt as though she was standing outside her body. The only thing that brought her back to living in her own skin was the sensation of torn rags stuffed inside her, to absorb the telltale bleeding. Twice, she had to change them, and fought back tears of misery as she looked at the sodden, scarlet fabric.

Until the moment that the blood had begun flowing from her
sulim,
she had been cloaked in the safety of childhood. Kevla had dreaded being sent away from the House of Four Waters for disobedience, but now that fate was almost certain. She was now a viable female, able to conceive and bear children, and would no doubt be part of some negotiation with another clan; of the same value as a cart of vegetables or a brace of sandcattle. Or, she mused darkly, perhaps less, as she was Bai-sha.

Kevla shrank from the image. Her mother had never painted the joining of male and female as anything pleasant, and until this moment, Kevla had never given much thought to the subject. Now, it loomed over her like a grim shadow.

She thought she could bear even that, even lying in the darkness while a stranger roughly violated her body, if she could stay in the House of Four Waters. If she could play
Shamizan
with Jashemi now and then, who never made her feel worthless, and whose delight in her company was genuine.

She felt Sahlik's eyes on her and once even heard the head servant whisper, “Child, are you unwell?”

Telling Sahlik would only hasten the inevitable. The onset of womanhood varied from girl to girl, she knew. Perhaps, if she kept her bleeding secret, she could stay longer. So she looked up into the concerned face of the maternal woman with eyes that she knew looked dazed and haunted and murmured that nothing was wrong.

The seemingly interminable day finally crawled to a close. For the first time since Yeshi's commandment, Kevla hastened to return to the privacy of her room. Once there, she removed the soiled rag, replaced it with a clean one, and stared at the mute condemnation of the bloody cloth. What should she do with it? While she was working in the kitchens, Kevla had managed to excuse herself and change the cloths in private. When she returned, she bided her time until she could toss the rags into the fire. But here, there was no such option.

She would
not
start crying again. She bit her lip hard and willed her eyes to stop stinging, willed the lump in her throat to dissolve. She would have to hide the rags until such time as she could dispose of them.

She would also have to hide the water with which she scrubbed her thighs and
sulim
in a futile effort to clean herself. As she stretched out to try to get some sleep, Kevla thought that if Yeshi ever wanted to see her wretched and miserable, all she needed to do was poke her head in at this moment, and the great lady would be mightily pleased.

She slept, and again the Great Dragon appeared in her dreams, with its accusatory cry,
“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

 

The next day, the flow was still strong, but Kevla felt less pain. But she could not forget what was going on, nor the dreadful dreams that seemed so real. She had dreamed before; everyone dreamed. But never anything like this.

This time, when she retreated to her room, she staved off sleep as long as she could, frightened of the Dragon and his censure, but eventually her eyes closed of their own accord.

 

Again, Kevla stood in the center of a wall of fire. She was as terrified as she had been previously, familiarity with the scene making it no less horrific. Again, the Dragon reared up and spouted flame; again, it pressed its face close to hers. But this time, it reached out with a huge, scaly foreleg. Claws clamped on her shoulder and it shook her.

“Kevla!” it cried. “Kevla, wake up, you're dreaming—”

 

She bolted awake with a vengeance, squirming and clawing against the foreleg that grabbed her shoulder, that clamped down on her mouth to stifle her screams—

“Kevla, hush, it's me, Jashemi!”

She sagged in relief, and his hand left her mouth and he moved away slightly. It was then she remembered the Dragon's accusation. Remembered the blood still flowing from her body.

With a soft cry, she buried her face in her hands.

“Kevla, what is it? I can't bear to see you so unhappy. What can I do?”

Her heart swelled with affection and gratitude. Whatever had happened to her, she knew she had been blessed in having his friendship for as long as she had.

“I have to go,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

She heard a swift intake of breath. “You…you are going to leave?”

“She will send me away. The blood and the Dragon have ordained it so.” She risked a look at him.

His face was lit by moonlight, and he looked utterly confused. “I don't understand.”

“It cannot be coincidence,” she said thickly. “The Dragon has come to me in dreams and—”

“Dreams?” The word exploded from him. “Tell me.”

So she did. He listened silently, attentively. The image of the beggar who had burned in the market came back to her. He had had dreams of the Dragon, too; he had been cursed by the
kulis.
And he had died horribly because of it.

Finally, when she was done, Jashemi said gently, “Your so-called fall from grace was not due to anything you did. It was because my mother is an angry, unhappy, and jealous woman. When you fully believe that, I think the dreams will stop.”

She gazed deeply into his eyes, black pools of compassion in the dim light.
I love him
, she thought.
I could not love him more if he were my brother, my own blood.

Blood.

She stared down at their clasped hands. “There is more. I am bleeding,” she whispered. “I am an adult woman now, and Yeshi will send me away to be married. The Dragon wants us all to remember our place, and I have forgotten. Even now, with you here, I am forgetting my place. He wants me to leave.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Jashemi said, his voice low and intense. “I refuse to believe that the Dragon would be so cruel. You have always performed your duties well, Kevla. And I know that Father will not permit you to be sent away. If you were going to be forced to leave, it would have happened before now. It was just a dream.”

“It…Jashemi, the dream could have been sent by the
kulis!
” she whispered fearfully. “I could be—”

He reached and placed a finger over her mouth, silencing her as he had done before, but very gently. “That you are a woman is no shame. That you have bad dreams is no surprise. Do not fear, Kevla. All will be well.”

 

As he lay in his bed after his midnight visit to Kevla, Jashemi felt no desire for sleep.

He blushed to think of Kevla speaking so freely of her bleeding. It was a deep mystery, one not discussed between men and women. Nonetheless, he was glad she had trusted him enough to tell him, so that he could assuage her fears of being sent away. Of much more concern to him were Kevla's dreams. He had dismissed them lightly enough when they were talking; Kevla did not need to worry about such things when her waking life was sufficiently trying. But privately, they troubled him deeply.

Troubled him, because on the night when he first spilled his seed in his sleep, he too had begun having disturbing dreams.

Moonlight slanted in through the window. He stared at it, hoping that its brightness would keep him awake.

 

The brightness of the sun was not dimmed by the rolling, pulsating darkness that loomed on the horizon.

Not dimmed yet, at least.

Jashemi huddled in the cold, his filthy, ragged clothes offering little protection against the cutting knife-edge of the wind. Part of him questioned why he was wearing such poor clothing; another part felt very much at home in the vermin-ridden scraps.

He drew strength from the woman beside him. She was tall, and dressed as finely as he was poorly. Atop her head she wore a circlet of gold. Her hair was long and flew in the wind. When he had first met her it had been black as night; now, there were streaks of gray.

“It's only been two weeks,” Jashemi said.

The dream unfurled as it always did. It never varied. The great lady whispered the words that always frightened and puzzled Jashemi when he awoke:

“You alone will remember…It may well fall to you…do not forget.”

And as always, Jashemi whispered as she held him tightly, “I won't.”

 

And when he awoke at dawn, the brightness of sunlight replacing the subtler illumination of the moon, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu of the Clan of Four Waters asked himself:

“Do not forget what?”

T
he knife was inches away from Jashemi's face. He clutched the arm of his attacker, his muscles trembling from the effort. Slowly, the blade came closer to his cheek.

With a grunt, Jashemi closed his legs around the other man's thigh and yanked. The knife disappeared from his vision as the man lost his balance. Smaller and lighter than his attacker, Jashemi twisted until he was atop the man. He still had the knife. Jashemi shoved his knee into the man's stomach and was rewarded with a grunt. The thick fingers relaxed on the dagger's hilt ever so slightly.

Jashemi clutched the hand that held the weapon. He squeezed, applying pressure exactly where Halid had taught him. The man beneath him yelped and his fingers flew open. The knife dropped to the earth.

Jashemi dove for it, rolling off his adversary as he felt the man move to seize him. He leaped lightly to his feet, knife at the ready, panting with exertion.

“Excellent!” cried Halid, pleasure on his sweaty face. “That's the first time you've gotten the knife away from me. You've been paying attention.”

“You're…a good teacher,” Jashemi gasped, grinning in return. He reached for his waterskin and took a long drink. Since he was eight years old, Jashemi had been training with Halid. Tahmu's Second had taught the
khashimu
how to fight with dagger, scimitar, club, rock, and bare hands. Jashemi was a natural with the scimitar; it had been that weapon with which he had taken a life on his first raid. Dagger work was trickier, and he had been having difficulty with it for some time now. He was pleased that he had wrested the knife from Halid, for he knew the man did not coddle him. If he had gotten the knife, it was because, at least this time, he had bested Halid.

“The
khashimu
is gracious to say so,” said Halid. Then, with no warning, he kicked out and the knife went flying from Jashemi's grasp. Jashemi made a face and rubbed his stinging hand.

“But the
khashimu
also needs to be more alert,” teased Halid, his eyes twinkling. He picked up the blade and in mock surprise said, “Why look! It seems I have the dagger again.”

Jashemi grinned, readying himself for the next round. “And I'll take it from you again.”

They had been practicing for sometime, though, and Jashemi was growing tired. He did not get the knife, and instead wound up facedown in the sand, one arm yanked behind his back.

“I yield,” he said, and immediately the pressure relaxed. Halid extended a hand to help his young master to his feet.

Tahmu had been gone for a few days now. He was visiting another clan and had taken with him servants and higher-ranking caste men. He was on a diplomatic mission, not on a raid, and Halid had remained behind as he always did at such times. As Second, he went with his master into battle, but in peacetime, he made sure Tahmu did not slip behind in his duties at the House. He disliked this intensely and Jashemi did not blame him. Most of what Tahmu had to do seemed very boring to him, and those aspects of being
khashim
held little appeal.

Halid sniffed at his
rhia
and whistled. “I'm for the caverns. Cold water, sweet soap, and clean clothes are what I need.”

Jashemi wrinkled his nose as his own odor assaulted him. He, too, could use a bath. He wondered how the poorer clans, with no access to water, managed not to suffocate from the stench. As they walked back to the House, Halid briefly rested his hand on the boy's slim shoulder.

“You did well today,” he said. “When you are a man full grown, you will be a warrior to be reckoned with.”

Jashemi's smile faded a little. He hoped that by the time he was a man full grown, there would be less need for warriors and more need for good leaders.

He fought back a yawn. He had not been sleeping well; the dreams came every night. Most often it was the dream of the sad, beautiful woman looking out onto the roiling darkness and telling him not to forget. But there were other dreams, too. Other people, unlike any he had ever seen.

His thoughts were interrupted by a nudge from Halid. He looked where the Second pointed, and saw a hawk approaching the aerie.

The caverns would have to wait.

 

Tahmu returned home two days later, and his face was grim. He called for his son and Second even before he went in to bathe and refresh himself. Despite hours of hard riding, Tahmu insisted they all mount their
sa'abahs.
When they were well away from the House, Tahmu spoke.

“This morning, I received a falcon. The Star Clan and the Cattle Clan were supposed to ride together to raid the Horserider Clan. But the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan had made their own agreement. When the men of the Cattle Clan rode to battle alongside the Star Clan, they were shocked when their ally turned on them. They were downed by the joined forces of the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan. While they fought, another group of raiders from the Star Clan attacked their defenseless House.”

He looked first at Halid, then Jashemi. It was the first time Jashemi had been brought in on so important a decision, and he sat straight in his saddle.

“We will ride against the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan. I have sent falcons to the Sheep Clan and the
Sa'abah
Clan, who—”

“But we just raided the
Sa'abah
Clan!” blurted Jashemi before he could censor himself. Halid and Tahmu exchanged amused glances.

“My son does not yet appreciate the pervasive power of gray, even though he is a master of
Shamizan,
” Tahmu said, chuckling. “It is precisely because we so decimated the
Sa'abah
Clan that they will want to ally with us in this raid. They will at least be able to take many fine horses, and I have offered to return a few
Sa'abahs
to sweeten the drink.”

“Do not look chagrined, young lord,” Halid rumbled in his deep voice. “Politics is a delicate game, and there is never an absolute. Your father took many years to master it himself. I am lucky, I need only to follow his orders.”

“Dragon willing,” continued Tahmu, “you will have plenty of time to learn the subtler details. On this raid, stay close to me and Halid. We will include you in all the planning from this point onward.”

As before, the clans assembled. The Clan of Four Waters was so formidable that Jashemi knew it was likely safe from any raid. There had never been one in his lifetime, and unless the House suddenly and unexpectedly weakened, he knew there never would be. The Clan of Four Waters was the one every other clan wanted on their side, not the one anyone wanted to attack.

He felt his mother's eyes upon him during this time, although she still barely spoke to him. When his blood-marked sister had left the House in her father's arms, to be abandoned to the Great Dragon, she had taken with her Yeshi's affection for her son. It still pained him, but at least he had Kevla.

His affection for his half sister deepened with each encounter. Jashemi wished desperately their father could acknowledge her, but that was impossible. A public revelation such as that would shake the Clan to its foundations, perhaps rendering it weak enough so that others would feel sufficiently emboldened to prey upon it.

He felt linked to her in a way he could not articulate. They would have been inseparable had they been true brother and sister. As it was, he craved her company like he craved water after a ride in the desert. Jashemi had known other families with many siblings. Some of them were close, but he had never seen anyone need a sister or brother the way he needed Kevla. Despite her sometimes stiff formality, she made him feel that she wanted his company for who he was, not what he was born to; she wanted to be with Jashemi, not “the young lord.” Had they shared a womb together, been born at the same moment, he could not possibly care for her more.

That he was unable to say goodbye to her because of Yeshi's scrutiny was agony. But he dared not jeopardize her further. Kevla had already suffered because of his carelessness; better not to see her than to arouse Yeshi's wrath a second time.

This time, the ride across the desert to the Horserider Clan's House was much less exciting to Jashemi. He was only going to greet death again; to deal it out, to watch it claim friends and perhaps family. Without anticipation, the long procession seemed endless.

The first night out, weary with the long ride, Jashemi fell asleep quickly.

 

The man was tall. His face was the color of goat's milk and his eyes the color of the sky. His hair was as yellow as the sands. Jashemi had never seen a man that looked like him. He was obviously of high rank, as he was clean-shaven. Strange clothing adorned him, heavy and furred, as if he were somehow cold. When he breathed out, a white smoke encircled his head. He looked terribly sad, as if all the tragedies of the world had fallen on those broad shoulders. But there were laugh lines around his strange-hued eyes, and Jashemi liked him at once.

Jashemi heard a soft, low growl. His heart almost jumped
into his throat as he beheld a
simmar
curled like a tame beast at the man's feet. But such a strange
simmar
…its coat was not brown, but blue, and there were black and white stripes that ran along its body. The man leaned on a staff, and reached to pet the magnificent cat, then turned and looked straight at Jashemi.

“You should remember,” the man said, in a rich, pleasant voice. “You are a—”

Jashemi came awake with a spasm. He wiped his sweat-sheened face with a hand that trembled.

Even here, out in the desert, the dreams would not leave him be.

 

Tahmu wondered what was wrong with his son.

He was not sleeping well, that much was apparent, but Tahmu wanted to know why. Jashemi had not displayed sleeplessness on the previous raid, a time when he well might have been expected to. What, then, was troubling his heir?

On the third day of the journey, Tahmu took the opportunity to ride close to his son. As they talked about ordinary things, he glanced around to make sure they were far enough away so as not to be overheard. Halid was riding behind them, talking to some of the men, but he was out of earshot.

Satisfied that their conversation would be private, Tahmu gently inquired, “I notice that you have not been sleeping well, Jashemi. Can you tell me what keeps you awake?”

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.”