Kayle had no particular love for his Emperor, but did know that the young ruler was the one who had provided the best weapons, horses, and men for his army, and permission to kill when Kayle felt like it.
Kayle liked to kill. When he was younger, killing had excited him. Now, after familiarity with the act, his pleasure had abated somewhat, but he always enjoyed it. Although he knew his task was to get more warriors for his Emperor’s army, Kayle was secretly pleased when some of the captured Arukani men resisted and he was therefore able to make an example of one of them. The women and children were not as much fun to slaughter.
He had listened attentively as the Emperor spoke, inspiring the troops with assurances of victory. He had not seen his ruler since then, but did not much care. He supervised his own unit, rode where and when the general ordered him, and moved steadily forward. Now, after a hard day of riding, Kayle sat by the crackling fire. He extended his powerful hands to the warmth, and looked up at the mountains they had yet to cross. It was night, so he couldn’t actually see them; but he knew they were there by the way they blotted out the starfield. It would be difficult, moving so many men, beasts and pieces of equipment over those looming barriers, but it could be done.
He smiled, and the gesture twisted his scarred mouth into a grimace that made most men quail.
On the other side of the mountains, he was certain, good slaughtering would be had. Good slaughtering indeed. Kayle was looking forward to killing in the name of the Emperor.
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time Tahmu reached the encampment, men were shouting and reaching for weapons. When he appeared out of the darkness, a cry of relief went up. Some of his men even rushed to touch him, to convince themselves that their khashim was truly unharmed.
“My lord!” cried Dumah. “When we found poor Halid slain, we thought there were bandits about! Did you see anything?”
“Put away your weapons,” Tahmu ordered. He gazed at the body of his former friend. “You need not fear a bandit attack. I myself killed Halid.”
The men fell silent as they stared first at their leader, then at his slain Second.
“He attacked me when I sat by the fire, unarmed,” Tahmu continued. “He has been sleeping with the khashima and plotting my downfall.” He lifted his eyes from the body and searched the faces of his men. “Just as Kevla said.”
They gasped. “My lord,” ventured Dumah, “surely this attack has distressed you…perhaps you….”
“I know what I know,” Tahmu said, raising his voice slightly. “Whatever…abilities…Kevla has, she has only ever used them to protect me. She saved me when my own wife tried to poison me, and she saved me again when she appeared here last night in time to warn me.”
The men looked at each other uneasily. Tahmu understood their conflict. They honored and trusted him, but he was asking a great deal.
“I don’t ask you to believe it,” he said. “But you will obey my orders, as is your duty. We return home. I will not hunt Kevla, and Jashemi….” He suddenly could not speak. They waited for him, and finally he managed to say, “Jashemi is dead. Dumah, prepare a message for the hawk. I want to make sure that no one tries to harm Kevla if she encounters anyone.”
The men did not protest, but he saw their grief for their young master and their unhappiness with his pronouncement. He hoped that he had earned enough admiration and respect so that he could keep his clan together when he refused to kill a kuli in his own household.
They would need something from him in order to do that, some sign that he was still their leader, still unafraid to do the unpleasant things that a khashim must do.
He felt certain he could oblige them.
Yeshi was waiting for him as he and his men entered the courtyard a few days later. She was clad in her best finery. Her long hair was braided and bound atop her head, woven with jewelry throughout. Her lips, eyes, and cheeks were decorated. Her rhia was of blue and gold material, heavily embroidered. She stood atop the steps to the House, beautiful and furious, her eyes snapping with anger.
Tahmu had been wary about the encounter, but now he smiled to himself. She was going to make this easy. He looked her full in the eye as he marched toward her and climbed the steps.
Breaking protocol, certain in her power, Yeshi spoke first.
“My husband, you disappoint me,” she announced. There were many assembled in the courtyard, and all heard the words.
He kept the small smile on his lips, tacitly encouraging her to continue her rant.
“You left to slay kulis. Then you send me a message saying that you have chosen to shirk your duty. How could you leave your people so defenseless? How could you betray them so?” As she spoke, her eyes flickered over the men and he saw her face tighten slightly when she did not see Halid.
She had given him his opening. “It is interesting, wife, that you should speak of slaying and betrayal,” Tahmu said, his voice carrying. “I think you did not expect me to come home with the slain bodies of my child and the Bai-sha. I think you did not expect me to come home at all.”
Yeshi stiffened. It would be imperceptible to anyone who did not know her well, but Tahmu didn’t miss it.
Rallying, she cried, “Yes! I would think that if you failed to catch the demons, you would be ashamed to come home to me, to your Clan, empty-handed!”
“Ah,” he said conversationally, “but I have not returned empty-handed. I have flushed my quarry, but it is not a kuli. Here is what I bring home to my khashima!”
Knowing all eyes were riveted on him, he gestured to Dumah. Pale and large-eyed, Dumah handed his lord a small sack. Tahmu opened it, reached in, grasped his prize, and brandished it in his wife’s face.
It was the rotting head of Halid.
Yeshi screamed and shrank back, her hand to her mouth. Her shock was echoed around the courtyard as everyone else stared at the grisly trophy. Tahmu turned, holding the head by the hair so that all gathered could see it.
“Behold the head of a traitor!” he cried. “This man attacked me at my own fire, by stealth, when I was alone and unarmed. He has conspired with my khashima to take over the Clan. Many of you were here in this courtyard several days ago. Forfeiting everything, Jashemi prevented what he perceived to be a murder. Do you recall how Yeshi urged me to kill our own son for that one act of compassion? She knew what I now know, that Jashemi was not kuli-cursed. With the rightful heir discredited and hunted, and her husband apparently murdered by bandits in the night, she and my Second would be free to take over the Clan of Four Waters! You, my people, would have been lead by a traitor and a murderer!”
Disgusted, Tahmu hurled the head down. It bounced down the steps with a hollow sound, coming to rest on the hard-backed earth of the courtyard. Sightless eyes stared up at the crowd, who drew back.
“That is how I deal with treacherous Seconds,” Tahmu said. He turned, slowly, to look at Yeshi. “The question before me now is, how do I deal with treacherous khashimas?”
He knew what he intended to do. What he did not know was how Yeshi would react. He hoped that she would compose herself, hold her head high, and accept whatever fate he decreed. In her face, he could still see the features that she had bestowed on her son; and for the powerful love he bore his child, he wanted her to behave with dignity.
Her nostrils flared. “I condemn Halid for his treachery, but I had no part in it. Jashemi will defend me. He will know that I have acted only for the Clan’s best interest.”
He laughed harshly, pain and fury battling inside him. “Then you will be distressed to learn that your son is dead, my lady. You have no defenders now.”
Show me that this hurts you, he thought fiercely. Show our son, that wise and beautiful boy, that you loved him.
Yeshi went pale. She fell to her knees, and Tahmu dared to hope that perhaps true grief was at last penetrating the wall of bitterness and hate she had built around herself for so long.
She prostrated herself in front of him. But
instead of the hoped-for words of pain and mourning for her dead child, Yeshi cried, “My lord, forgive a weak and foolish woman! It was Halid’s idea. He frightened me, he threatened me—”
Any shred of fondness he had left for his wife evaporated like water in the sun. She clutched at his rhia, and to his disgust was actually kissing his sandals and feet.
He stepped backward and gestured to his guards. Their faces showing no emotion, they stepped in, seized Yeshi, and hauled her to her feet. Her pretty face was twisted with her sobs, the kohl running down her artificially reddened cheeks. As he stared at her, Tahmu wondered how in the world he had ever been persuaded to give up his beloved Keishla for this cunning, vengeful woman. One had turned to prostitution to keep herself and her daughter alive. The other had bartered her body for vengeance and power. Who was the real halaan?
She had not ceased babbling. Tahmu twined his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back sharply. She yelped, then fell silent, her eyes staring. He could see the vein beating in her neck.
“How is it possible that someone like Jashemi could spring from your body?” he hissed, tears standing in his eyes. “I won’t ask why you did what you did. I know part of it had to do with our blood-marked child, and I cannot blame you for hating me for that. But Jashemi—your own son—”
Repulsed, he let her go. “It is within my rights and the laws of this land to have you burned, as you would have had Kevla burned, or cut off your head, as I have done to your lover. But that’s not enough. I want you to taste suffering, Yeshi. The sort of suffering you’ve brought on so many others during your wasted life.”
He stepped back and spoke more loudly, so that all could hear. “I decree this woman to no longer be Yeshi-sha-Rusan. She is no longer khashima of the Clan of Four Waters. I strip her of her name, her title, of all that she was born into or married into. Henceforth, this woman shall be known as Yeshi Bai-sha. Get from my sight before I change my mind.”
She stared at him, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he had just said. His eyes narrowed.
“Go!” he cried. When she did not move, the two guards again stepped in and grasped her arms. Tahmu watched, unmoved, as the mother of his son was dragged, screaming, from the courtyard. Without power, she was as toothless as an old simmar. Tahmu felt certain her malice had no more ability to harm anyone he loved.
When at last her cries had faded, Tahmu regarded the upturned faces in the courtyard. They displayed a variety of emotions, but most were turning to him eagerly, wanting a sign as to how best to proceed after this upheaval.
He nodded. Yeshi had brought everything on herself, and was indirectly responsible for Jashemi’s death. As am I. There was much for him to think about. But for now, he dismissed his household and stepped into the comforting coolness of the House of Four Waters.
As Second of the Sa’abah Clan, Melaan had earned the right to a tent of his own. It was comfortable and well-appointed, but he tossed restlessly. Sleep eluded him, and he was not sure that was a bad thing as the dreams had been particularly intense as of late. Also, he was worried about Jashemi.
Terku, of course, had received the hawk with the dreadful message from Tahmu-kha-Rakyn. The khashim had read it aloud at council: If Jashemi-kha-Tahmu or a woman who answers to the name of Kevla Bai-sha should approach your Clan, capture them and notify me immediately. They are under kuli influence. The woman is particularly dangerous and should be gagged, bound, and watched at all times.
Melaan had said nothing unusual, only muttered the appropriate surprised and regretful words that all spoke. But he felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and was more careful than usual that he said nothing of his strange dreams to anyone.
Jashemi was not under kuli influence, nor, Melaan suspected, was the Bai-sha woman he was traveling with. Jashemi was wanted, and feared, for his dreams. Poor Shali had wept uncontrollably after the news was broken to her. She had begun to fall in love with her gentle husband. To learn that she was, perhaps, carrying the child of a kuli was devastating.
Melaan hoped that Jashemi and this Kevla had the sense to avoid the clans. On a personal level, he was sorry for the boy, but on another level, he feared for his Clan’s existence. Men like he and Jashemi were needed now, desperately.
He heard a sound outside his tent. He kept his breathing steady, and slowly his fingers crept toward the knife he always kept under his pillow.
The sound came closer, a soft step, a tentative rustling as the tent was opened. He sensed a presence. He waited, feigning sleep, as it approached. Then in silence Melaan sprang, clutching the knife, and leaped upon the intruder. She, for it was a woman, fell beneath him and did not resist. He pressed the knife to her throat.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
She didn’t answer, but suddenly the knife grew unbearably hot and he dropped it with a cry.
The woman sat up and extended a hand. Before Melaan could think to do anything else, a small flicker of flame appeared in her palm.
Frightened, he scuttled backward. She lifted her other hand in a pleading gesture and said, “Please don’t call for anyone. I’m here to speak with you. I am Kevla Bai-Sha, a friend of Jashemi’s.”
He regarded her cautiously, his eyes flickering from her shadowed features to the fire dancing in her hand. She brought the flame closer to her face, so he could see her better. He found her beautiful, but her face was drawn in sorrow.
“I know about your dreams,” she continued, speaking quickly in a low voice. “I know they’re not sent by demons. You’re a Lorekeeper, Melaan. So was Jashemi, and so are the others. What you are dreaming are memories of the past and visions of the future.”
“How do you know about this?” he rasped. The name she had called him resonated. Lorekeeper. Somehow it was familiar.
She extended a hand to him. “Because I am one of the Dancers,” she said. “I am the Flame Dancer.” She looked at him intently. “It means nothing to you, I see. Here. Take my hand, Melaan.”
Slowly, he reached to do so, then hesitated. “You mentioned Jashemi,” he said. “You said, ‘Jashemi was a Lorekeeper.’”
By the firelight dancing in her palm, he saw her eyes glisten with tears. “Jashemi is dead,” she said, “But I misspoke. He remains a Lorekeeper. I know this is all confusing, but—Please, Melaan. If you want to save your people, you must trust me—trust yourself.”
He had recognized her name. This, then, was the woman Tahmu-kha-Rakyn had warned them about. Reason screamed to Melaan to spring on her, tie her up and bring her to his lord, as the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters had requested. But the words she said resonated beyond reason. Tentatively, he reached and took her hand.
As if in a waking dream, he relived the memories of the people he had been; watched the Shadow come and destroy; saw it defeated and dissolve into nothingness. He saw this woman dressed in different flesh as she might dress in different clothing. And he knew her.
The remembering took but a moment, then she squeezed his hand and let it go. Drifting back to the present, he stared at her, then bowed in homage.
“Flame Dancer,” he whispered. “I live to serve you. What do you ask of me?”
She gave him the names of three other Lorekeepers in his clan. “Find these people. I will go to them tonight also. Do what you can to persuade your khashim to meet me in three weeks’ time at the foot of Mount Bari. Your task is to convince him to come. Once you have brought him—” and she smiled a little “—I will convince him of other things. Arukan must have an army to fight the Emperor from over the mountain, or all of Arukan will fall.”
He nodded, and watched her in awe as she rose and gracefully walked out of the tent.
Lorekeeper. At last, he had a name to put to that part of himself. Knowing this gave him a comfort, a sense of peace, he had never tasted in his adult life. He returned to his sleeping mat, fell asleep quickly, and had no dreams.
Tiah made no haste to return to her sleeping quarters. It was late,
she knew the guard who stood watch at the entrance to the House, and she and her lover had been meeting unchallenged for some time. What had worried Tiah the most was the thought of Yeshi discovering her illicit encounters, and Yeshi was now gone. Tiah’s nose wrinkled in contempt. Yeshi had been so intent that all of her handmaidens be “pure,” and yet she was the one who had been taking a lover and plotting to kill her husband.
Tiah didn’t miss her much at all.
Her feet padded along the road up to the House, and she breathed the still night air deeply. She swung the lit lantern she carried to light her way in the dark night, and hummed as she walked.
“Tiah,” came a voice.
Tiah stopped dead in her tracks and whirled, trying to see who had called her.
“Who’s there?”
“An old friend, or perhaps an old enemy.” The voice belonged to a woman. Her thoughts scattered and clouded with guilt, Tiah took several heartbeats before she recognized the voice. When she did, she dropped the lantern with a soft cry. The little flame inside it ought to have been snuffed out, but instead blazed to a greater height.
Impossibly, a woman stepped out of the flames. She smiled gently.
“Hello, Tiah,” said Kevla Bai-sha.
A few days after his arrival, Tahmu was approached by one of Yeshi’s former handmaidens. Tiah, he thought she was called. Like all the other servants, she had said nothing when he had banished her mistress. He had put her and the other girl, the smaller, shyer one, to work keeping the house clean. They would also attend to any visiting khashimas, although he had entertained no one since his return. The House was in mourning for the fallen khashimu, and it would be some time before the Great Hall would ring again with music and laughter.
On Fire’s Wings Page 29
