On Fire’s Wings

by Christie Golden

  Now she sobbed into the cold stone floor and beat on it with her hands, for she, too, knew why Yeshi had chosen to do what she did. She had continued to watch in the fire, that night when Jashemi had confronted Yeshi and Halid. And she also knew Jashemi would not be able to steal away to meet her before he was forced to leave, for Yeshi would be watching them both.

  The pain inside her was so extreme that she thought she would never sleep again. Yet sleep she did, exhausting herself with weeping. And when as always she stood before the Great Dragon, for the first time she felt more grief than fear.

  When it reared up and demanded, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?” she had an answer ready for it.

  “I am nothing without Jashemi,” she cried, collapsing in front of the mammoth creature and weeping tears that were as hot as the flames.

  And strangely, the Great Dragon seemed placated by her words.

  PART II

  In the Shadow of Mount Bari

  Chapter Sixteen

  The advisor hastened along the stone corridors. He was late, and his lord would not like that. But he hoped that the news he bore, extracted from the latest prisoner by various means of persuasion, would placate the Emperor.

  Though it was daylight, the castle was dark, as it ever was. A thunderstorm outside rendered the skies a dull pewter shade. Portraits glowered from the stone walls. Torches burned a dull orange red in sconces, illuminating little. The cold from the stone floor seemed to seep through the advisor’s thick boots and into his feet.

  The corridor wound deeper into the bowels of the castle. Windows disappeared; even the cheerless light of the stormy sky was now gone. The advisor quickened his pace, almost running.

  At the end of the corridor stood two huge wooden doors. They were mammoth things, carved with a variety of designs and inlaid with precious stones. They seemed as though they would beimpossible to move. Such was their craftsmanship, however, that a single finger’s pressure would open them. But the advisor was not fool enough to apply that pressure uninvited.

  “Your Excellency,” he called in a voice that quavered slightly. “I have come as you asked.”

  “Enter.” He could read nothing in the voice; it was cold, flat. Dead. Settling himself and putting a pleasing expression on his face, the advisor did as he was bid.

  In this room, the Emperor’s private refuge, the only light came from a crackling fire whose friendly glow was disconcertingly cheery in the dark place. The Emperor sat in shadow, in a wine-colored, overstuffed chair. Statuary crowded the room, images from mythology and history, and the paintings that adorned the walls were barely visible in the dim light.

  The fire cast shadows which danced grotesquely, like capering demons, against the walls. But there was enough light to see the Emperor’s creature that cowered against his legs.

  The advisor eyed it briefly. The beast was ancient, and powerful enough to destroy anyone in a heartbeat. Yet it was timid and often frightened. A thin golden chain wrapped around its slender, graceful neck. The end of that chain disappeared into shadow. The advisor knew it was clutched in the Emperor’s left hand, as always. He never inquired as to why the Emperor felt such a shy creature must be constantly chained. One didn’t ask the Emperor such questions.

  The beast, about the size and shape of a small deer, looked up at the advisor with limpid brown eyes. Its single horn and the scales on back and face caught the glow of the firelight, and its brown coat looked chestnut. It lowered its head, the golden chain jingling with the movement, and closed its eyes.

  The advisor was relieved. Despite—or perhaps because of—its docility, the creature always unnerved him.

  “I hope,” said the Emperor in his flat voice, “that you bring good news this time.”

  “News, Your Excellency, but whether it is good or bad remains to be seen.”

  The Emperor waved a slender, beringed hand. “Speak.”

  The advisor did. When he had finished, the Emperor remained silent, and then he, too, spoke at great length, of armies, and conquest, and crushing all who opposed him.

  And at his feet, enduring her master’s petting, the beast sighed heavily, as if it understood every word.

  Jashemi was so wrapped in misery that he later recalled very little of his arrival and wedding ceremony. He spoke, moved, laughed as if someone else were commanding and directing his gestures. No doubt the food was good, but he did not taste it; no doubt the wine was strong, but it did not intoxicate. When the time came to stand before the veiled woman he was to take as his bride he found the words came without much effort. He was too far lost in his wretchedness to even will them away.

  He lifted the veil, seeing Shali’s face for the first time, and had no reaction. She was not pretty, but neither was she plain; not fat, but not slim. She was in every way ordinary, but Jashemi knew that even had his bride possessed the sort of beauty that inspired ballads, he would not have desired her.

  The men of the Clan, and his father as well, followed him to the prepared bedchamber. For the first time, Jashemi felt real emotion penetrate his dulled senses.

  Of course. This was part of the tradition, that the high-ranking men of both clans would demand to see this union consummated. There were many solid reasons for this: proof that the woman was a virgin, proof that the man had claimed his rights and could not later deny it.

  Jashemi had never felt less like lying with a woman than at this moment. He stared at Shali, feeling the mask of pleasantness melt from his face, and her own face fell.

  She put her arms around his neck and whispered, “I have a small wineskin prepared for this, my husband. I am a true virgin, but my handmaidens tell me that sometimes women do not bleed sufficiently to impress the onlookers.”

  Overcome with gratitude, he buried his face in her neck and whispered, “Thank you.”

  They stood while servants stripped them, and Jashemi’s face burned as the men saw his limpness. There was much joking, but the girl’s father, Terku, who had drunk too much wine, was insulted.

  “He does not find my precious jewel of a daughter attractive!” the khashim of the Sa’abah Clan bellowed.

  “You plied him with much wine, my friend,” Tahmu said smoothly. “Give the boy a moment. Touch often rouses what sight does not.”

  As quickly as possible, Jashemi and his naked bride went to the bed and pulled the covers around them. Again, Shali spoke into his ear, “The skin is under the pillows.”

  “Get it ready,” Jashemi whispered back, hoarse from embarrassment. He maneuvered so that he was on top of Shali and pretended to thrust. She cried out in seeming pain and her arms reached under the pillow. Jashemi remained unaroused, even as his kurjah brushed against her sulim and thigh, but continued his movements. Around him, he heard laughter and cries of approval. He felt the rough leather of the wineskin press into his hand, maneuvered its stopper, and was rewarded by dampness. He smeared the fluid on himself and between her thighs, then uttered a long, low groan and collapsed on Shali. He barely had time to hide the evidence before Shali’s father had whipped off the bedclothes to reveal a small amount of blood on the sheets and on the loins of the new husband and wife.

  “Well done!” exclaimed Terku, and Jashemi was unsure if he was referring to his daughter or Jashemi. “Let us leave them alone to recover…and beget a child tonight, Dragon willing!”

  They left in a wave of raucous laughter, and the door slammed shut after them.

  Jashemi rolled away from his new wife. Shame, anger, and regret flooded him. They lay for a while, neither speaking. At last, Jashemi said, “I’m sorry, Shali. You did not deserve this.”

  “Deserve what?” she said, rising and walking to the small basin of water on the table. She wet a cloth and began to wash.

  “A man who could not truly make you a wife on your wedding night.”

  “I would rather have that than be taken by force, as many brides are,” she said, rinsing the bloody cloth, wringing it out, and resuming her task. “There i
s time enough for consummation.” She turned to look at him. “Unless you prefer men to women?”

  He laughed bitterly. “This would be easier to understand if that were so,” he replied. The blood drying on his thighs and kurjah was sticky and uncomfortable. When Shali had finished, he rose and cleaned himself, not enjoying being the object of her scrutiny but seeing no other option. She propped herself up on one elbow on the bed and regarded him.

  “You are a beautiful man, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu,” she said softly. “And they say you are kind. I am happy that you are my husband.”

  He finished his ablutions and went to her, sitting beside her on the bed. “Shali,” he said earnestly, “I must tell you that I did not wish this marriage.”

  Her not-pretty, not-ugly face smiled. “The resting warrior between your thighs tells me that, my husband.”

  Husband. Jashemi forced himself not to cringe from the word. “I will do what I can to make this…bearable for you. Know that I will never raise my hand to you, nor take you against your will. I will treat you with honor and respect.”

  Her muddy brown eyes shone. “Husband,” she whispered, “what you have said moves me greatly. In return, I will never deny you your right to my body, I will never speak against you, and I will tell my handmaidens that you are the most virile man in the world.”

  Coyly, she glanced down at his groin. “Perhaps you did have a bit too much wine,” she said. “And perhaps some loving attention will rouse this warrior.”

  Shyly, gently, with hands that were clearly inexperienced, she reached to touch his flaccid kurjah. He wanted to pull away; every fiber of his being screamed that this was wrong, was a betrayal—

  A betrayal? Of whom?

  And of course, he knew. Kevla’s face flashed into his mind. Desire welled inside him like liquid fire, and for an instant, before he could redirect his thoughts, he imagined that it was her work-callused hand caressing him, her full breasts he now reached to fondle, her lips he tasted. And even as he knew this flood of passion was wrong, he surrendered to it, permitted himself to be carried along like a reed in a swollen river. He moved to lie atop the willing Shali, parted her legs and thrust into her moist warmth, moving as gently as he could as she cried out first with pain and then pleasure. It was the first joining for both of them.

  The tide crested, engulfed him. Fire, he was on fire, his skin prickled from the scalding heat. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mind filled with images of Kevla, and he climaxed with an intensity he had never before experienced.

  Sweating, gasping for breath, he rolled over and wiped his face. Shali muttered something about not having to lie to her women after all, and he almost wept.

  Jashemi had known the truth for years now, but he had denied it. Denied it to protect and honor Kevla, to keep the sacred order of things, to not violate the worst taboo the Dragon had laid upon his people.

  He not only desired Kevla Bai-sha, his half sister.

  He was helplessly, thoroughly, eternally in love with her.

  That night he dreamed. He saw again the yellow-haired, milky-skinned warrior with a clean-shaven face. His strange simmar walked beside him, and the world around him was white. But this time, Kevla, too, walked beside the man. She seemed to know him, and was pleasant to him and smiled. But Jashemi knew her better than anyone in the world, and he saw that a shadow lay across her beautiful features. She looked older, as if she bore a burden she did not bear now.

  The man wore heavy furs, but Kevla wore only a red rhia. She did not seem cold in the slightest. The warrior, the beast and Kevla walked across the strange white stuff—like sand, but cold and wet—their feet sinking deep and leaving footprints. They were just cresting the rise of a hill.

  Then Jashemi’s heart spasmed. Rising behind the three, unseen by any of them, was an enormous red dragon.

  He screamed and bolted awake, wondering for a moment where he was, surprised to see a shape in the bed beside him. He recoiled from Shali’s touch at first, thoroughly disoriented, and then memory crashed upon him like an avalanche.

  “Husband, what is it?” Her hands were calm, soothing. She rose and wet a cloth to wipe his sweaty face.

  “It is nothing,” he said, “merely a dream.”

  She dabbed his face gently with the cloth. “I am troubled that your dreams are so disturbing, my lord.”

  He lay back down, opening his arms so she could lie on his chest. With an intensity so powerful it made him weak, he wished that it were Kevla in his arms.

  “I am troubled, too,” he said.

  He walked alone with his father while Tahmu’s sa’abah was being readied for the journey home. They chatted about small, inconsequential things for a time, and then Jashemi said, “I suspect I will greatly miss my home and you, Father.”

  “Perhaps,” Tahmu acquiesced, “but this is the way of things. And it is only a year. Before you know it, you will be home again, with your bride.”

  Jashemi grit his teeth, looking down to hide his expression until he could get it under control. If only I could warn him, tell him!

  “Father,” he began, feeling his way carefully, “There are some who might think you growing old and feeble, with a son already of age. There might be…plots against you.”

  “There have always been plots against me,” Tahmu laughed. “But I have Halid to watch my back. That’s what a Second is for, after all.”

  “Yes,” said Jashemi, dully, “That is what a Second is for.”

  “I leave two hawks with you,” Tahmu continued. “If you have need of me, send a message.”

  “I will. Father…please take care of Kevla.”

  Tahmu stopped in midstride and regarded his son. “So,” he said, “you have been seeing her, haven’t you?”

  Jashemi smiled slightly. “Come, Father. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

  “Of course I knew,” Tahmu said, smiling himself now. The smile faded as he added, “I only wish there had been no need for secrecy. You are brother and sister. You should have been raised as such.”

  I wish we were not, Jashemi thought, a heady yet painful mixture of desire and guilt sweeping through him. I wish she were anyone in the world but my sister.

  “It is time,” said Tahmu, and Jashemi realized their walk together had brought them to the corral. Tahmu’s sa’abah had been saddled, and as it turned bright eyes to them its tack jingled.

  They stood looking at one another, father and son, yet two men grown. Tahmu held open his arms and they embraced tightly.

  “You have a great opportunity here, my son,” Tahmu whispered. “Relations with the Sa’abah Clan have never been good, but I can think of no better ambassador than you.”

  They parted, hands still on one another’s shoulders. “You share my vision,” Tahmu continued. “You desire peace more than war. Let us see if we can bring this about.”

  With a final clap on Jashemi’s shoulder, Tahmu mounted. His entourage was waiting for this signal, and they mounted as well. Tahmu did not give a last wave or shout a farewell; he had said all he meant to say. Jashemi watched as his father rode into the desert, and his throat closed up.

  Be careful, Father.

  Life among the Sa’abah Clan was very different from what Jashemi was accustomed to. They were nomadic, so there was no Great House. The tents of the khashim and the higher-caste members of the clan were as ornate as could be managed, but even they were nowhere as fine as even the poorest room in the House of Four Waters. Because there was little opportunity to grow crops and store meats, the clan subsisted mostly on the meat they could hunt and the fruits they happened upon. Jashemi found he missed fresh vegetables terribly. The entire atmosphere was much more rough-and-tumble, and Jashemi was reminded more of his uncle’s household than his father’s. The greatest single privation, though, was a lack of water. He was used to bathing every day, sometimes even twice a day if he had been out hunting or in the sun for a long time. Now, he realized that the basin of water he and Shali had used to
cleanse themselves on the night of their wedding was as much of a bath as he would ever have here. The resource was finite; it was whatever the clan stumbled upon in their travels and whatever they could carry.

  But more than the comforts of a proper bed or water to bathe in, Jashemi missed Kevla. All the other things could have been borne had she been present. Their time together had been infrequent and laced with fear of discovery, but now, denied even this, Jashemi realized how much he had grown to count on his sister. She understood him, accepted him…loved him, he was sure of it, though they had not spoken of such things.

  He did not dare even to be close to a fire, and was thankful none had been kindled in his tent during his wedding night. He did not want Kevla to risk giving herself away, nor did he want her to see him with his new wife. On even the coldest of nights, Jashemi made certain to be well away from the crackling flames.

  He was a stranger here, even though he was now kin to the clan leader, and the clansmen never let him forget it. They laughed at him when he asked for a spoon to eat the thick, meaty stew, stared aghast the first time he inquired about water. It was no wonder the clans were always at each others’ throats. They were so different, and made so little effort to try to understand each other.

  To ease the ache of Kevla’s absence, Jashemi strove to fill the void with information. His wife was the one person he felt he could comfortably ask potentially embarrassing questions of, and when they were alone he bent her ear. This served several purposes. First, he learned about his new family and their customs; second, he forged a closer relationship with the stranger who was now his wife, and third, he filled their time together with this new sort of bonding instead of the more common union between man and wife.

  He was racked with guilt over what had transpired on their wedding night; the only reason he had been able to satisfy her as a man should was that he pretended she was Kevla. That was an insult to both her and the beloved woman who was his sister. Since then, he ruthlessly drove all images of Kevla that were not innocent from his mind, and did not touch his wife in a sexual manner. Better to abstain from both than to sully either.