On Fire’s Wings (9 page)

“She is small and thin because she has been raised in poverty as the daughter of a
halaan,
” said Tahmu, bitterness creeping into the words. “I did not even know of her existence until recently. It was Sahlik who spotted her, dancing on a street corner and crying her mother's—”

He broke off and looked away, his throat working. “Let me tell you a story. It is the story of a man who was in love with a woman. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her. But he was a
khashim,
the leader of a great and powerful clan, and she was low-caste. His clan was quarrelsome, and on the verge of tearing itself apart. He needed to marry a high-caste woman, to pacify a powerful section of the clan that was threatening to break away. There was a choice between duty and love, and the man chose duty.”

Jashemi listened intently, barely breathing.

“The man's heart was broken. He married the woman he was supposed to, and promised himself that she would want for nothing. And she does not. The woman he could not marry disappeared, until one day, the man's servant spotted a girl-child dancing in the marketplace, a girl-child who looked so much like the
khashim
that the servant could hardly believe it.

“The
khashim
realized that his love for the low-caste woman had brought forth a child, an innocent who had done no wrong who should not suffer for what her parents had done. So the
khashim
convinced the girl's mother that her daughter would be safe and well cared for all of her days, as a servant in the great House.

“And so it is that Kevla is safe. She has food, a place to sleep, and pleasant, easy duties. I can offer her a good life, and I choose to do so.”

Jashemi was silent, staring at the mountain. He wondered if the Great Dragon could hear this “story.” At last, he said slowly, considering every word, “It would have been wrong of you to have left Kevla to her fate, knowing what you did. But she is your daughter. My sister. Does she—does anyone know this?”

“Sahlik knows. And now, so do you.”

“Kevla should know,” Jashemi said.

“No. It would be too dangerous. She would be used by those who would try to hurt me through her. The fewer who know, the better.”

Jashemi looked up at his father and took a deep breath. “Then you are compounding your sin by lying, Father. She has a right to be acknowledged.”

“To what end, my son? To hurt your mother, whose only real crime is that she is not the woman I loved? To mark Kevla as a target for schemers and plotters? To plant false hope in her little heart? She is and always will be Bai-sha. Even if I acknowledged her, she will have no legal rights. She has a better life now than any she could have expected.”

This was wisdom, and Jashemi knew it. And yet….

“You will understand when you are older, my son. For now, I will ask you to swear that you will reveal what you have discovered to no one.”

“Of course. But others will notice. The resemblance is strong, Father. Especially when you or I are close to her.” He took a sip from his waterskin.

“Then we must take care not to be seen close to her,” Tahmu replied. “People do not notice servants, Jashemi. Yeshi has not, and she has picked Kevla as her new favorite girl.”

Jashemi choked on the liquid. “You placed Kevla with Mother? You rub her nose in this?”

Again, Tahmu sighed. “I cannot love your mother, Jashemi. The Great Dragon knows that I have tried. What I can do is honor her and—”

“Honor her? By giving her your Bai-sha child?”

“Jashemi!” Tahmu's voice was sharp and hard, and the boy started. “I have been patient with you, but do not presume to judge me. Yeshi is kind to her women, and also, they are not as often seen wandering in the household. It is best for Kevla to be with Yeshi. And she is good at what she does—Yeshi is happy. How then is this wrong?”

Tears stung Jashemi's eyes and he blinked hard, not wishing to cry in front of his father. He felt a dreadful helplessness wash over him. He loved his mother, and he had assumed Tahmu loved her, too. To learn in the space of one day that he had a Bai-sha half sister and that his father had never loved his mother was almost overwhelming. He wanted to hate Tahmu, but he understood his father's reasoning. He wanted to hate Kevla, but she was unstained by this. She seemed bright and spirited, the sort of girl he would have been delighted to call “sister.”

Of course, he could not call her anything.

Or could he?

His father had asked him not to reveal his secret. Jashemi would keep that promise. But Tahmu had not forbidden his son to seek out Kevla.

Had circumstances been different, they might have been true brother and sister. Kevla would have been raised with respect and honor. In the past, Tahmu had even spoken in favor of women learning to read, so Jashemi assumed that if Kevla had been legitimate, she would have been educated.

They could have been playmates.

They could still be playmates.

Hope stirred inside him, replacing that awful sense of anguish and helplessness. He could not force his father to love his mother. He could not undo what Tahmu had done years ago. But Jashemi could see to it that Kevla knew more than comfort as Yeshi's handmaiden.

“Jashemi?” Tahmu regarded his son intently. Jashemi averted his eyes, fearful that his father would be able to read his plan somehow. “What are you—?”

“Father!” Jashemi cried, pointing at a roiling cloud of dust. “They are coming!”

Father and son sprang into action. Jashemi kicked his mount, clinging to the creature as if molded to its furry, pale body. The
sa'abah
began to run, its hind legs devouring the sand in great long strides, its body stretching out to cut down resistance from the wind. It was trained as a hunting beast, and knew what to do.

Jashemi reached for the bow fastened to the saddle. In one gesture, he raised the bow and fitted an arrow to the string, holding it taut, straining with the pressure, until he had a clear shot. Then he opened his fingers and the bolt flew.

A cry of pain went up, and Jashemi, as always, shrank from the sound momentarily.
Liahs
sounded like a woman screaming when they were in pain, and although Jashemi had brought down his share of the creatures, he never got used to that cry.

His father, too, had taken aim and shot. A second scream went up. Jashemi shot again, but the arrow missed its target, landing in the sand. Halid was bringing up the rear, also shooting.

Jashemi lost track of how often he aimed and let an arrow fly. His
sa'abah
easily kept pace with the herd, maneuvering closely enough so that Jashemi could see the golden coats with the pale horizontal stripes, the rolling eyes, the long, black horns. He smelled dust and the musky stench of fear.

Finally, Tahmu cried, “Hold, hold!”

Six
liahs
, four males and two females, lay dead on the sand. Two more struggled to rise, blood streaming from their flanks. Tahmu quickly turned his mount around. He held out his bow to Halid, who rode alongside him, and exchanged the bow for a long spear. Tahmu kicked the
sa'abah
and it lunged forward.

As he came up alongside the dying creatures, Tahmu lifted the spear and plunged it deeply into the flailing
liahs
. It was a mercy killing, and Jashemi knew it. He hated to see the lovely things suffer and was glad his father always made sure they were slain as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Naram liked to leave the wounded ones to die on their own, killing them only when it was time for the hunting party to depart. Such cruelty ruined the meat, but Naram thought it fit to give to the servants. Jashemi had watched the wounded
liahs
linger for hours, bloody froth at their mouths, their eyes rolling….

My father is not like Naram,
Jashemi thought fiercely.
No matter what he has done, what mistakes he has made, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn is a good man and a wise leader.

Even so, Jashemi would not tell Tahmu what he planned when they returned to the House of Four Waters.

W
hen Sahlik summoned her one afternoon while Yeshi napped, shortly after the
khashimu
had returned, Kevla was curious but not concerned. She stood in the kitchens, waiting for Sahlik to acknowledge her.

Sahlik turned and took her in from head to toe. “I have a new task for you. Since Jashemi has returned, Yeshi has taken much more of an interest in the functioning of the House. She will have less need of her women.”

Kevla gnawed her lower lip. If Yeshi had less need of her women, would not Ranna and Tiah quickly step in to command what time their mistress deigned to give them? And if Kevla was set another task, would not Yeshi forget about her?

But Sahlik had continued speaking and Kevla quickly returned her attention to the older woman.

“…healer,” Sahlik was saying. “You will study with him several times a week. Such skills will be useful.”

A lump welled up in Kevla's throat. She was going to be sent away. They had decided she was not worthy to serve Yeshi, and had come up with a way to get her out of the great House.

“As Sahlik wishes,” she said thickly, bowing. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and looked up.

“You're not being punished, Kevla,” Sahlik said. “I promise. I'll keep an eye on Ranna and Tiah for you.” And she winked.

Relieved, Kevla grinned, and ran to the healer's small house. When she reached the brightly painted red door of Maluuk's hut, she yanked it open and said breathlessly, “Maluuk, I'm here to—”

The words died in her throat as the occupants of the hut looked up at her. Asha and Maluuk she expected, but not the third person. Seated on a small stool was Jashemi-kha-Tahmu.

She dropped to her knees. “Forgive me, I did not know—”

“Kevla, rise.” Jashemi's voice was patient. Kevla scrambled to her feet, looking at the healer with a mute inquiry.

“Jashemi is also to be taught knowledge of healing,” Maluuk said mildly. “For this time together, you are equal as my students. There is no master here.” He stood up straighter and his eyes twinkled. “Except for me.”

Kevla wondered if this was a trick of some sort and her gaze darted to that of the young master for confirmation. His kind smile widened into a grin at her expression.

“It is true what Maluuk says. During this time, you and I are equals.” He rose, took her hand, and squeezed it reassuringly. Kevla's hand remained limp with shock in Jashemi's strong but gentle grip as he led her to a stool.

“Now,” said Maluuk, clearing his throat, “we will begin with the treatment of minor injuries.”

 

As the classes went on, Kevla learned to enjoy them. Maluuk was a good teacher and encouraged both students to ask questions. Her quick mind followed everything that Maluuk taught them, and Jashemi proved to be an intelligent young man. She accepted the situation, but what did strike her as odd was the fact that Maluuk would leave them to themselves for the second half of each “lesson,” which lasted three hours in the afternoons. They were told to talk about what they had learned that day, and at first, in formal tones, that was all they discussed.

Then one afternoon, Jashemi said, “Can you play
Shamizan?
”

“What is
Shamizan?
” Jashemi's eyes lit up. For the first time since she had known him, Kevla thought that he looked like a boy her own age, not a small adult.

“Oh, it's so much fun! Let me go get my set—” He rose and ran out of the hut, returning only a few moments later, flushed and out of breath. Kevla suspected he had run the entire way. Hardly proper behavior for a future
khashim,
but it was good to see Jashemi so happy.

“It's easy to learn.” He placed a carved wooden board with black and white interlocking circles painted on it on one of the small tables. The overlapping sections of the circles were gray. He motioned that Kevla should draw up a stool. She hesitated. It was one thing to sit beside the young master during class, or even when they were discussing the lesson. But he had dropped the formality and was treating her as if they were of the same caste. Uneasy, she obeyed.

From a small pouch tucked under his arm, Jashemi withdrew a handful of clear, shiny stones, cupping them in his brown palm.

Forgetting herself, Kevla exclaimed, “They are beautiful!” and added quickly, “my lord. What kind of stone are they?”

“They are only glass,” Jashemi said. “There are five families of colors: reds, blues, greens, yellows, and purples. So up to five people can play. Within each family, there are three shades. You place them like so, on the areas of black, white and gray.”

They might be only glass, but Kevla thought the “stones” exquisite. They caught and held the light, and the colors were so intense. She was drawn to the reds and picked one up. It was the color of flame, and for a brief moment she thought it might feel hot in her hand. But it was cool and smooth. She rubbed it on her cheek, blushing when she caught Jashemi looking at her.

The rules were easy: dark hues were placed on the black areas of the board, light hues on the white, and medium tones on the gray. There was a roll of marked ivory sticks to determine play, and the object was to eliminate the opponent's pieces.

Easy to learn, hard to stop,
Kevla thought. At one point, she looked up from the board and saw Jashemi regarding her with an intent gaze. His face dissolved into delight as she ducked her head and smiled.

“You like the game, then?”

“Oh, yes, very much.”

“I am so glad. I hoped you would.”

Shamizan
quickly became a regular feature of their “study sessions.” So, too, did another unexpected development. Jashemi began to teach Kevla how to write and read. He was a patient teacher, and Kevla a quick student, so the task was a pleasant one for both. Still, Kevla felt awkward when he would touch her hand as she held a pen, correcting the placement of her fingers, or casually put a hand on her shoulder as he leaned in to observe her work. He seemed to find it very easy to forget that he was
khashimu
and she was Bai-sha.

Despite her unease, Kevla looked forward to these sessions, and missed them on the days when they did not occur. Sahlik had told her to stay quiet about the healer's teaching. It was not truly a secret, Sahlik said, but Kevla would be wise not to draw attention to herself. Kevla agreed. She had no desire for Tiah and Ranna to have something else to resent. And of course, not even Sahlik knew about the furtive sessions of reading and writing instruction and the endless rounds of
Shamizan
.

One day, after she had sent Tiah and Ranna away for her nap, Yeshi called for Kevla. “You sent for me, great lady?”

Yeshi looked wonderful. She had been much happier since Jashemi had come home, and Kevla had observed that mother and son spent much time together and enjoyed one another's company. Yeshi, as Sahlik had said, had become more involved in the running of the household, and seemed to have less need of her usual self-indulgent pleasures.

Yeshi smiled as she reclined on the bed—a true, genuine smile that made her look radiant. “Yes, Kevla. Sahlik tells me that you have been studying under Maluuk. Is this so?”

For a moment, Kevla panicked. But Yeshi didn't look upset, and she knew it would be unwise to lie.

“Yes, great lady.”

“That is good news to me.” She patted the bed beside her, and Kevla, growing more and more confused, obediently climbed up to sit beside her mistress.

Gently, Yeshi took Kevla's hand and placed it on her belly, below her navel. “I am pleased, because I would like you to assist Maluuk in delivering my baby.”

Kevla's jaw dropped. “Your baby?”

Yeshi grinned and nodded her head excitedly. “You are my good luck charm, little Kevla. My personal blessing from the Great Dragon. After ten years I have been able to conceive!”

Kevla's eyes filled with tears. Gently, she spread her fingers on Yeshi's belly and said, “Blessings on this baby. And blessings on the House of Four Waters!”

 

It was two days after the festival of Kur, and Kevla and Jashemi were engaged in a particularly delightful game of
Shamizan.
As they were younger than most of the household, they had not celebrated Kur with as much vigor as the adults had.

Kevla was familiar with the wild nature of the celebratory festival. It was the one time a year when the people believed the Great Dragon turned a blind eye to indulgent pleasures. Keishla had always had more business than she could handle during the three-day celebration. The people of Arukan drank to excess, ate to excess, and did many other things to excess during Kur. There was a great feast and much flowing wine at the House of Four Waters, but compared to what Kevla was used to encountering with Keishla and her customers, it seemed rather staid to her. The next few days were astoundingly quiet, as most of the household seemed averse to noise, light or rich foods.

“Ha!” cried Jashemi triumphantly as he picked up no fewer than eight of Kevla's red pieces. “You only have six markers left, and I have over a dozen!”

They both started when they heard the unmistakable sound of the
shakaal
. Their gazes locked.

“What—” Kevla began.

The transformation in Jashemi was startling to her. In a heartbeat, he had gone from a playful, mischievous youth gloating over a board game victory to the stone-faced
khashimu
of the Clan of Four Waters.

“I'll find out. Stay here. Say nothing of our being together.”

His robes rustling softly, he rose and hastened out the door. When Jashemi did not return immediately, Kevla occupied herself by finishing the ointment Maluuk had requested she make. Her ears strained for any sound.

The door banged open. Maluuk and his apprentice rushed in. Clinging to them, an arm slung around each of their shoulders, was a rider close to collapse. His face was pale with sand, and there were dark red patches on his white
rhia
.

“Kevla, water,” snapped Maluuk. He made straight for the long table. With a swift motion he sent the board and the pieces clattering to the floor and lay the stranger down on the table's cool surface.

Kevla poured a cup of water and brought it to the healer. Maluuk lifted the man's head up and dribbled some of the precious liquid onto lips so dry they cracked and bled. A swollen tongue crept out and caught a few drops, then the man began to drink eagerly.

“Gently,” said Maluuk, “a sip at a time. Kevla, keep giving him water, slowly. Asha, help me.”

Kevla cradled the man's head in her arms and did as she was told, watching anxiously as Maluuk and Asha cut away the rider's torn, bloody
rhia
. Her eyes widened as she saw the injuries that had been inflicted upon the stranger: cuts as long as her arm, and one festering wound in the shoulder where a small length of broken arrow shaft still protruded.

“Tahmu,” gasped the man. His voice sounded as dry as the desert sands he had crossed. “Messages…we were attacked….”

“Kevla, go find Tahmu.” She nodded, placed the rider's head down gently on the stone table, and sped out the door.

She raced down the little hill, searching frantically for her lord. If the
shakaal
had been blown, then it was likely that the household was already alerted. Jashemi, too, would have learned what had transpired. Even as she stumbled and nearly twisted her ankle, she saw two white shapes running out of the house toward her: Jashemi and his father.

She ran toward them, her legs pumping. “Rider!” she screamed as they caught sight of her. “He's hurt! He says he was attacked! He's at the healing hut, come quickly!”

In midstride she turned and raced back the way she had come. The men overtook her and by the time she had returned to the small hut, Tahmu was at the rider's side. He clutched the stranger's hand and bent his head close to the man's mouth, straining to catch the faint words. Jashemi stood on the other side, his gaze darting from the injured man to his father.

Kevla was gasping for breath, her heart hammering so loudly that it was hard for her to hear anything over it.

“In the middle…night,” the rider said, “after the…celebration of Kur…no one attacks during Kur…” He coughed, and Kevla saw to her horror that there was bloody foam on his lips. “There were many dead when Father…me to you…message in my pack….”

He hissed as Maluuk bathed his injuries. Kevla could not take her eyes off the sight. She was no expert, but she could tell he was grievously wounded.

“Keep speaking,” Tahmu said.

“Father, he is badly hurt. Surely he needs rest and—”

Even though Tahmu's look was not directed at her, Kevla shrank from it. Jashemi fell silent at once.

Maluuk and Asha were now slathering on a thick, pungent ointment. Tahmu gripped the man's hand harder, pressed it to his chest.