There might be time. . . . It must be after matins—how long till the sun rose? She bit her lip.
The clouds fled too swift across the moon as she rummaged in her sash. She bit her lip against a noise of triumph. The fresh scrap of lion skin for Ali’s pouch dangled from her hand.
She rolled it up quickly and crouched, listening. All seemed quiet beyond. She pattered several hundred feet and stopped. The wall crumbled here, blocked by brush. Reaching to push a branch aside, she yanked back her hand and sucked it. Thorn bushes filled the broken place and the channel beyond.
The moon shone out again. Kyrin picked her way through the dim tangle with her eyes. The clouds hid her. And she crept along the path she had laid in her mind, gathering generous scratches. Her hands and feet ached on the cold stone.
After the thorns the crater wall rose, steep and hungry for skin. She was careful not to knock her bow or quiver against the wall. One “thunk” could give her away. She must find a place to see.
Opposite the raiders’ camp she found a crack in the crater wall. Her lashes fluttered against the rough surface as she peered through. There must be a guard, there was always a guard. Had not Tae said so?
Across a stretch of grass and shrubs she found him. Like a rock among the others, he sat near a split in the crater wall behind the raiders’ camp. Wide enough for a camel, the opening lay roughly between the raiders’ fire and the plug of thorns. They would use that.
The guard turned his head. His eyes grabbed at her, stripping the concealing rock, and she willed herself not to move. His gaze passed on.
Cold kissed her with goose bumps. She edged back from the crack, laying her hand on Cicero’s head. She took a deep breath; she must go on.
Drawing Tae’s carved lion-call from her sash, she set it on a nearby stone. Ali’s piece of lion skin was stiff. She spit on both sides and rubbed.
Strong, wild muskiness rose. She knelt, and with her hands asked Cicero to sit. He obeyed, willing but puzzled. She tied the skin to his back with her pouch thong. He twisted and licked her fingers, stinging with the cold. She nudged his muzzle away with a gentle elbow and raised a numbing finger to the wind. It blew southeast.
Picking up the lion-call, she lifted her hand above Cicero in silent signal. Lie down, and crept away. Her breath came fast. She looked over her shoulder—nothing but rocks and shadows. He was staying.
The clouds thickened. Step, and step faster, back around the crater. Please, let no rock rattle, and clouds stay fast.
When she judged she was closer to the guard than to Cicero, she climbed the second wall at the edge of the thorns. She must be closer to Faisal, now, further down and out of sight.
She was not far from the jutting rock on the side of the channel beyond him that she must keep near, to find the camels again. It would have to do.
Behind her, the guard was concealed, but she had a good sight of the grazing in the crater and the farthest wall. She lifted her hand, and blew. A coughing roar vibrated around her.
Kyrin whistled low for Cicero and covered it with another deep rumble under the clouded moon.
Cicero scrambled over the wall. And down. A flash of moon-shadow, he came across the grazing on a straight course, the lion hide flipping across his back. He cleaved the raiders’ herd.
Horses screamed and camels bellowed. Pandemonium of hooves and camel pads thudded over grass and stone. Cicero disappeared into the darkness below. Clinging with her head just above the edge of the wall, Kyrin stood on her toes. Where was he?
The guard near the cleft shouted and pointed under the moon, it seemed at her.
She shrank back down. They would catch her, and Faisal’s Nur-ed-Dam would be paid. A pity he would not know. She called another lion’s shaky challenge.
The herd hit the side of the crater—a thundering, broken wave. More shouts rose from the channel on her left. The raiders. She could not wait for Cicero.
Kyrin half-fell to the bottom of the wall, grabbed up her bow, and ran for her path through the thorns. They tore at her, then she was out.
Below the jutting rock of the first wall she stopped, gasping. Voices echoed within the channel that circled as a maze, leading the hunters, eager for their prize, into the crater.
She thought of their blades in her flesh. Her hand rose to the slight ridge of skin under her necklace. So—the tiger hunted the falcon. But he was a bad dream. Her hand dropped.
She set her bow across her back and climbed, pushing through the spots that swirled before her eyes, threatening to drown her. Under the high rock she dropped flat on top of the wall and wiggled her bow over her head to lay it beside her.
A long shadow erupted from the dark. Throwing her arm across her neck, Kyrin yanked up her legs, biting back a scream. It was far too late for the falcon blade.
Whining snorts against her face and a cold nose seeking her arm stopped her violent backward roll off the wall. Trembling, Kyrin pressed closer to the stone with Cicero. His body quivered.
Sharp rock and high walls did not slow him when she called—even when lions hunted. She drew a breath and looked down. The last raider trotted toward the cleft into the crater, his head up, lance poised, searching the walls.
He tripped in the edge of the fire, and his ripe curse rose.
14
Prey
God is my stronghold, the God who shows me lovingkindness. ~Psalm 59:17
Faisal woke, his spine tingling, body rigid. A coughing roar died on the air. Men scrambled around him with bare swords and ready lances. The coals glowed in their bed beside him. The beast’s hoarse cry rose again and ended on a high note. The slowest raider stumbled in the fire-edge and cursed.
Faisal grinned and went limp. He should rest, save his strength. A rock skittered in the channel behind him.
Faisal squirmed over, pushing against the ground with his bound hands. A long body flowed down the wall, mingling with fire-shadows. It paused, turned—moved from rock to bush to rock—short ears swiveling.
The moon hid. Faisal struggled against his bonds, but they tightened. The beast growled.
He stilled, praying the lion would ignore the dried blood on his head. The fire! Like a worm, Faisal lunged for the silvered pile with winking eyes of coals.
A lithe shape struck the ground between him and the coals, a silhouette of pyramid ears and a fluid, humped back. Rank cat-smell smote his nose.
The beast stretched toward him on six legs. A human torso arose. Hands let down a four-legged thing.
A djinn-demon, cursed creature from Shetan’s pit. Faisal shut his eyes. He could bear any end but this.
A hard muzzle nudged his foot and he gasped. Unwilling sight burst in.
The black human part of the djinn drew a blade. A wink of light slid along the edge. It neared his throat.
He was going to Allah. This messenger was to take him for his transgression. He had only teased the Nasrany. He cleansed his father’s name of cowardice, but not of his defeat. He merited a damp corner of Allah’s palace, eating scraps to give him strength to tend Ali and his father’s virgins.
Faisal gritted his teeth. A dark braid swung over the djinn’s black arm. Hair—braided. As the Nasrany’s was when she hunted quarry that took climbing. Hot breath blasted in Faisal’s ear. He flinched. A saluki crooned in his ear and nosed his chin, tongue rasping, rasping, enough to take his skin. It did not smell of the pit. He blinked. He tasted blood.
“Faisal?”
He knew that low, clear voice. And he wanted the djinn. He could fight djinn—without questions. The unbelieving hakeem had never plagued him as this one. Why the noble one ran with her was more than he knew. Her—with her heart more blackened than her skin—she had him alone.
She gloated, by Allah! No brothers of his nearby. She would give him back his gifts with a blade, the blade she feared, and so would be all
the more cruel.
He braced for the edge, the quick pain. He would not prove his brothers’ taunts true. His father would see him and know his name.
Faisal thought his smile might shake; he thrust his chin out instead. She eased the blade under the leather thong about his throat.
Cat. He didn’t breathe, fastened his gaze on the frown between her dark eyes. May Allah burn your skin from you while you live, take each nail, light each hair to melt and curl, and repay you a thousandfold. His throat-bond parted with a snap. Her dagger sliced down toward his ankles. He swallowed reflexively, and the Nasrany scowled.
When he did not move she grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. Legs tingling, Faisal wavered but held out his wrists, forcing his shaking knees to still. She cut his last bond.
Wincing, he swung blood into his hands. In the moonlight her faithless eyes were dark. The moon sparked off the black ring in her ear. He stepped toward the wall, and she twitched violently.
He grinned. She feared him, unarmed as he was. Whatever came to him in Allah’s palace, her fear held the savor of his father’s arm around his shoulders. But he did not mean to see that palace yet. “Come!” he demanded.
She followed. She did understand simple words of the holy tongue. His strength returned with every step. Faisal threw back his head. Allah! I will be worthy!
They climbed the wall, leaving a growing, questioning hubbub within the crater. The Nasrany shoved at his leg from below, urging him up. He could kick her down after she reached the top, but it would be better if he did not have to drag her with him. At the right time he would make her see her dog soul and wallow in the knowing before her just death. No God but one. In-shah-Allah!
He glanced back. Clustering around a blazing torch in the crater, his captors searched every shadow for the lion. A lion hide marked a courageous man.
The hakeem’s Nasrany was neither courageous nor strong. Her arms quivered when she turned to slide down the stone wall. A true dog, cursed—weak. She reached aside and picked up her bow from the top of the wall.
A raider in the crater cleft shouted, turning his head, gaze searching. He’d heard them. Faisal dropped down after the Nasrany. She recovered from her awkward landing and stumbled toward the desert, muttering under her breath. He heard a hiss and a thunk, and reached out and yanked her flat. Another arrow skittered and shattered on rock, spattering him with fragments. He jerked her up by her arm, ignoring her gasp. Her arm for his. Blood for blood. Faisal broke into a stumbling run.
Behind him, the light dwindled; the archer seemed to have lost them. Was he waiting for a better shot? Had he seen the shadow of a lion or his escaping prey?
The Nasrany faltered, reached out and gripped his hand. She only began to pay the Nur-ed-Dam. He snorted.
Why had she followed him and his captors? By the look in her eyes when he savored his triumph among Ali’s amused caravan drivers, she could have shot him and been pleased. She chanced her life, following the raiders. If an unspoiled woman were taken she would be sold. But with the evil eye the Nasrany bore—it might raise the raiders’ cry for every drop of her blood.
He pulled free with a curse, his fingers sticky with wet warmth. Her blood. He flexed his hand. A djinn he could kill. He rubbed his hand over his robe.
She had shamed him, his father, and Allah; the unbeliever must die. But the hakeem—he could not bear to look in his face after. To see the light in those sometimes stern eyes go out, the near infinite sight of a strong spirit, a spirit that expected something of him. Tae waited, he was not sure for what.
Despite his swift pace the Nasrany got her feet under her and followed him at a staggering run. Darker blots against the sand, camels crouched ahead, and he ran on, disregarding the rocks that clattered about his feet. Ali’s second-best camel rose to meet them.
“O swift one with wings,” Faisal whispered, “carry us quickly!”
The Nasrany raised her hand to the saddle. Her legs gave and she slumped. Faisal grabbed her and heaved her up, still clinging to her bow. He threw her saluki with its outland name on the third camel, and yanked loose the beasts’ tethers.
How light she was in his hands, her soft body turning to hard muscle under his fingers as she scrambled astride with a low breath of pain. Foolish Nasrany—she had not thought to change the saddle to a fresh camel.
He struck Ali’s beast with his hand, “Hai! Hai!” It lowered its neck for his springing foot. He leaped up and swung behind the Nasrany. Laughing low and ragged, Faisal tightened his hands on the rein and his arms about her. Three camels paced away in the starlight.
They reached the open sand without seeing their pursuers. The hakeem’s Nasrany crumpled against him, and Faisal snorted.
§
Kyrin heard his disgust. Weary beyond caring, she let him remove her quiver and bow. After a moment, she wrapped the kaffiyeh he offered around her shoulders and hugged it against the night.
She had paid his Nur-ed-Dam, blood for blood. Yet she was enemy to his Allah. Her sticky tongue was hard to move. Her voice came out a crow’s. “I do not know the way back. You will have to find the caravan, the wind took them . . .” He grunted, and her eyes closed. She thought, Lack-wit, the wind took the tracks, not the caravan.
The rest of the night they swayed through the still land under the glittering sky, pursued by the whispering wind.
Faisal’s thoughts bit him. The Nasrany, warm in his arms, stole Ali’s camel, risking the hand that stole and her head—for him. It was not possible.
And if she had not come for him, what did she seek? Her mind was strange and twisting. As twisting as “strength made perfect in weakness.” It did not change her judgment. But did not the prophet say, ‘Allah is the most generous, who has taught by the pen, taught man what he did not know?’
Faisal grunted. What would she be if she began to believe? And the hakeem would reward him for her return. It was a debt he must pay, for his arm’s healing. He could wait for justice. What will be, will be. She was a book of mind-numbing equations, this fighter and coward. She made his stomach uneasy. He could not close his eyes while hers were open, lest she bring dire change.
The Nasrany shifted, and Faisal tightened his grip. She sank against him. The stars faded, the east lightened.
§
Kyrin woke, curled as much as she could curl in a saddle. Her neck was stiff and her ear bounced against a dusty, muscular shoulder. Arms fenced her in. She stiffened.
Faisal. Where were they?
Faisal held her falcon dagger to the sunrise, and it was a creature of blazing bronze, the blade a line of molten fire. He flipped it, his brown fingers quick. The dagger rose, spun, and thumped into his palm.
She knew the comfortable feel of its perfect weight. The falcon readied itself to fly into the dawn, crying loud and clear—victory. She and Faisal were alive. Kyrin smiled. And frowned.
Near the tip of the dagger a scratch marred the bronze. Smoky ripples of forged, folded metal showed beneath. She reached out, unthinking. And Faisal laid the falcon in her hand. She flushed and almost dropped it.
She grasped it stiffly. It must have happened when he yanked her away from the raiders’ arrow and the rocks scraped her side, marring the dagger in her sash. That was steel under the brazen coating.
The falcon haft was too good for a bronze blade. Why had someone tried to hide the falcon dagger’s worth? She had heard a tale or two of Damascus steel; blades woven with dire struggles and help from above.
She handed the dagger to Faisal. “Keep it this day.” He did not seem to mind Allah’s law against animal images—since he held the dagger in his hands. His lean arms caged her in on either side. It would be better if she rode behind him. Maybe she should not have offered him the falcon.
But he had no other weapon, and she still had her bow. Yes, there, he had put it on Lilith sometime in the nig
ht. She frowned. He could yet return to the caravan with ten believable stories of how he lost her in the sands. But if he planned to harm her, last night was a gifted moment.
He pulled back from her, his lip curled a little. She looked away, stiff against the camel’s sway. He halted Ali’s beast and slid off. Kyrin dropped down the other side by unspoken agreement.
Faisal walked ahead and scanned the grey-black gravel plain. What did he look for? The undulating expanse was still and empty, a few sparse shrubs clinging to life.
Kyrin loosened her thawb from her scratched, scabbed legs with a moistened corner of her cloak while he attended to business, and she to hers. There were no bushes. She was glad of the camel, though its shielding legs were thin. Faisal probably didn’t care.
In a moment she walked after him, one hand on Cicero’s head. Cicero nudged her wrist, his nose damp. “Prince of the wind, you are. Lion hunter.” He wagged his tail a little, solemn, his brown eyes molten with devotion.
When she came up beside him, Faisal stared at her as if she were an unknown animal and he was unsure whether she was worth hunting. She missed the falcon dagger—and a blade in her other hand. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “The Nur-ed-Dam is paid.” Best to know if he thought so. “What do we do now?”
He reached out and touched her bronze earring. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to stay steady, to keep her gaze on his. He owned her not.
“The Light of Blood is paid, Nasrany,” he said, grudging. His eyes narrowed. “For now, it is peace.”
After the scorpion, the spider, the djinn—the terror when he stood over her in the dawn? Not a word of thanks for his life? Kyrin snorted. She should not have untied him. But he knew the way back. She forced the words between them. “Let it be peace.”
The stony ground welcomed her more than his disdainful lift of lip and short nod. He switched the saddle from Lilith to the spare camel, leaving Lilith barebacked for her. She glared at his blue turban, robin’s egg blue, the end swaying across his shoulder. Untidy as usual. It would be good if the saddle galled him.
Falcon Heart: Chronicle I an epic young adult fantasy series set in medieval times Page 15
