She would no longer be a Bird.
What did that make her?
Aiyla pressed her eyes shut. To weep would only hurt more, eyes and tattered throat. It would help no one. And yet the salt seared its way down her cheeks, dropping like rain on the covers.
Dawn became day and still she lay.
The physicians came, though they asked her nothing. She could not speak and even if she could, what could she say? They spoke over her as if she wasn’t there, removing bandages and examining her hands. A slave was called in to dress her wounds. Rana, a one-time Bird hopeful. She was young, striking and dark, but had proved too frail to fly.
Rana gently smoothed salve on her cheeks. “Your sisters pray for your health,” Rana whispered. Aiyla’s eyes burned, but neither physician noticed Rana deftly dabbing tears. She took Aiyla’s hands again, gently, and a folded parchment slid between bandages and flesh.
Aiyla’s heart gave a strange leap.
“Enough,” one physician snapped. Rana scurried out, and the physicians followed with stern words to rest and drink the poppy-juice. As soon as the door closed, Aiyla fumbled with the hidden parchment.
Her breath stabbed in her lungs to see Zerren’s elegant hand. Unsteadily, she limped to the window, turning the page to the light.
My Eagle. They say you were wounded. Trust me and do not fear. You will not be cast out. I will make sure of it. I have the valide’s ear.
Aiyla’s face drew painfully tight as she fought the sob of relief. Zerren did not have much, but she had her influence and if she spoke truly....
With effort, she returned to her bed, clutching the parchment scrap to her breast. If. If she spoke truly. No, there was no place for doubt. Zerren would use her clever tongue and, like the impossible uniforms, she would see something done. Something that was not exile, cast out alone and stripped of position.
Anything was better than that.
* * *
Days crept by, one after another.
Aiyla’s vision cleared and the pain in her throat eased, but her speech did not return. The physicians—speaking as if she was deaf as well as mute—decided it was unlikely. She would be fortunate if she was of use to anyone, they said. She tried not to listen.
Beyond their care, the medical room was deserted. They kept her sisters from her, not one of them permitted near her now she was no longer a Bird.
Only Rana could whisper news as she dressed Aiyla’s wounds. Her final assault had detonated the enemy’s powder-store and shattered several battalions. The Polish army had scattered and the sultan’s troops had swept in, dealing with those who remained.
It was cold comfort when her hands shook and her breath tasted of iron.
When she woke in a cold sweat, fear still wrapped around her spine, she crept down to the courtyard and sat, watching the grooms with the horses. Their hands moved like dancers in silent communication, all of them forcibly muted for security’s sake. Deciphering the gestures was a distraction, keeping away darker thoughts and nightmares that haunted her sleep.
She watched and she learned, but only Tamraz would exchange words with her. To the servants, she was an anomaly. To the grooms, she was no longer relevant.
To Zerren....
If Zerren were here, in this medical room, she’d smile and brighten the narrow places with her nonsense tales and jokes.
When the master finally came, Aiyla only looked at him when he rapped his staff upon the floor, fear knitted about her heart. “You are to be retired from the Birds.” For once, his voice was gentle. Retired. Not dismissed. “Your deeds and sacrifices in the sultan’s name have pleased him greatly. In honor of your service, you are to be freed and rewarded with an estate worthy of your actions.”
Aiyla’s world swirled.
Freed.
Once, she had been a small child with a family. A long time ago. Many hundreds of miles away. They were gone now, and she was... she was a woman again. A free woman. What could a free woman do without a family? Without a friend? Without her sisters?
Unexpectedly, her eyes brimmed over, hot tears spilling down her face.
The master chose not to notice. “When you are recovered,” he continued, as if she wasn’t shaking with grief and confusion, “we will arrange for you to be transported to your new residence.”
Freed and granted a new home and funds, honored by the sultan! Yet the barracks were all she had known for half her life; beyond those walls, there was only one face she wanted to—and would never—see again.
This was all Zerren’s doing. She had vowed to protect Aiyla and had spoken softly and whispered a home and a new life into existence for her.
Aiyla tugged the master’s sleeve to get his departing attention, then made a sign of writing.
His bushy brows furrowed. “You wish to write? To whom?”
Helplessly, she waved in the direction of the palace.
The master’s broad face widened in a smile. “Ah. To thank the padishah for his generosity?”
She inclined her head, clutching both hands to her heart. He could have named anyone in the palace. She would not have cared as long as she was given paper and ink.
The next time a kira was called to the barracks, she left burdened with a tight curl of parchment. Aiyla’s letter for Zerren was brief. Gentlest of ducks. You have done much for me. Would that I could repay you. Would that I could fly to you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope one day you will swim again.
It was not enough, not by far. If only she could have offered Zerren a way out of her cage, too, somewhere safe and free and provided for. If only... if only Zerren could come with her. But the sultan’s generosity only stretched so far. To be granted a home and freedom were rare enough. To demand one of his women? He would never allow it.
Three days passed before the kira returned. “I have the salve you asked for to soothe your burns.” She offered a small jar, and—as their hands met—parchment brushed Aiyla’s fingertips.
Aiyla bowed in gratitude. Courtesy dictated she offer the woman refreshment, and the kira feigned fascination with a plate of honey cakes while Aiyla turned her back and unknotted her precious message, heart drumming.
Would that this duck could fly from these heights and seek a new nest.
Aiyla’s throat ached. With a fingertip, she traced each letter. Would that this duck could fly. Ah, if they could both fly, far, far away, where none could follow them. But she would be free soon and Zerren closed behind the high walls of the palace, far above....
Far above the city. High enough for someone with wings to fly. To escape.
To fly if one had wings.
Aiyla smiled and scrambled to write her reply. Dangerous and reckless and full of possibilities.
“For the valide?” the kira asked mildly, a gentle reminder that a message required a cause.
It was an hour before she departed, carrying a grateful letter for the valide and something else entirely for Zerren. If that scrap of parchment fell into the wrong hands, the bostancıs would tighten silk cords around their throats and consign them to the bottom of the Bosphorus.
And yet, better to risk flying through the flames to come out the other side.
The choice lay with Zerren now.
* * *
No word came from the palace.
Until she knew Zerren’s decision, Aiyla could not allow the masters to send her away. So she coughed and wheezed and took to her bed and waited.
The burns to her hands were almost healed, but Rana still came to apply salve and change linens. She worked slowly to outlast the physicians each day.
“The masters had an unexpected visitor today,” she whispered, smoothing salve onto swollen fingers. “The valide intends to decorate the palace to celebrate the sultan’s victory.”
Aiyla’s heart fluttered.
The sultan’s victory. Aiyla’s victory.
“They requested the...” Rana flapped a hand. “The... drawings of a pair of wings. They wish t
o make a pretty model to display in the gardens so the padishah’s guests will remember how he defeated his enemies.”
Aiyla had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. Someone had planted the seed of an idea for a pair of wings inside the palace walls. A duck, she thought with a rush of joy, who longed to fly.
The plan was in motion.
If the palace built wings, they would be simple—decorative, above all else—but if they were based on the standard design, they should still be functional.
“They will remember your victory well,” Rana whispered. “Even if the sultan will not give it your name.” She tied fresh linens in place and very gently squeezed Aiyla’s hands. “The Birds will never be forgotten.”
Aiyla bowed over their clasped hands gratefully, then rose and hurried down the corridors to the sand-strewn yard. Mercifully, the grooms had long since stopped questioning her presence.
Wings were built for a small, light passenger, she thought. All Birds were of a similar height and build. Zerren was both taller and had a... a fuller shape. Not as tall as a man, though, and Hezârfen Ahmed Çelebi had built and flown the first wings across the Bosphorus. If he could do it....
Aiyla frowned, sketching in the sand with a stick. The original wings were larger. She etched her own wings and then Çelebi’s above them. Yes, larger, but not by much.
With only an estimate of Zerren’s weight, she tried to work out the distribution ratio to a fully armed Bird. The trouble was that while the palace nested high, the city spread beneath it. Zerren had to get as far across the waters of the Golden Horn as possible, close enough to reach the other side where Aiyla waited without being spotted. Guards could not be aware of what had happened until it was too late. That was key.
The sun was sinking by the time she hurried back into her room. She hastily sketched her calculations with ink and hidden parchment ribbons, then sent another note to the master, pleading for the kira’s medicinal balms.
* * *
Like finding and riding a current, the lift and dip, not certain when the next turn would come, parchment flew back and forth between the palace and the barracks. Little by little, an impossible plan took shape.
Finally, when Aiyla’s eyes no longer burned and the pain in her lungs was almost faded, a single line was delivered in a small box of throat-soothing sweets.
I will look on the moon’s face two days hence.
Two days. Aiyla’s chest tightened sharply. The full moon. Dangerous, for its bright silver, but generous that Zerren could see.
Two days.
She made farewells as best she could as each squad passed through, exchanging a last embrace with Nuray, who—she was proud to see—had been elevated as the new commander. They would still be a flock though her own wings had been clipped.
No. She would be a different kind of bird; that was all. New walls, her own walls. It was a wondrous and terrifying thought, to be beholden to no master.
The masters agreed at once that she could depart on the night of the full moon. A good choice, they said. The Birds always traveled at night to limit curious stares.
“We can spare a groom,” her master said. “He will see you safely delivered.”
She tapped on the master’s table, then traced a name on the wood with her fingertip.
“Tamraz?” The master arched an eyebrow.
She nodded firmly. He had been a steady hand when she took the wing and a good friend to her through her recovery. Now, it was only fair he was the one to see her on her way. And, if everything went to plan, she needed someone she could trust.
The following day and night were unbearable, like the moment before the rope pulled taut and she was flung aloft. A thousand and one fears assailed her, just as they did before she took to the air. Was everything prepared? Were the wings stable? Would they have enough lift? Would Zerren be able to balance them?
Sleep was a forgotten friend as she paced and fretted, spending hours gazing out over the sprawl of the city towards the palace.
More than once, she penned a note to Zerren, insisting it was too dangerous. And as many times, she watched the words burn to cinders.
Zerren wanted to escape her cage and would risk the unknown to do so. It would dishonor her to shy back out of fear.
When the second night came, Aiyla was sick with dread as she gathered her meager belongings and descended the stairs for the last time. The few Birds present flocked to embrace her and press small tokens into her hands. Some wept, but Aiyla’s eyes were as dry as her mouth.
Tamraz waited in the courtyard beside the wagon. Its lamps glowed purple in the growing darkness, the only sign it would contain someone remarkable. He grinned, crooked-toothed, as he opened the shuttered door for her, then closed it on the world she knew.
Aiyla curled up on the seat amidst blankets and cushions. The carriage rattled out of the yard, and she tugged her dagger from her belt and wedged it into the shutters, cracking one open enough to see the city as it whisked by.
She had implored the masters to allow her to see the palace one more time, even from across the water. It would be a final farewell to the padishah. So instead of turning north, the carriage went south, winding its way behind Galata tower and down to the bristling docks that clung to the Golden Horn.
The city made a shadowy shape of silver-tipped minarets, domes, and towers. Lights flickered and glowed against the darkness, speckled like starlight. Vessels bobbed in the waterway, a rolling labyrinth she hadn’t even considered.
When they drew parallel to the palace, Aiyla pounded her shaking hand against the wagon’s ceiling. The carriage rocked, and Tamraz clambered down to open the door for her. He made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the palace, feigning awe. Behind her veil, Aiyla almost smiled.
The breeze off the water whipped at her skirts. If nothing else, they had a good wind.
She walked forward, gazing up, watching, waiting, a prayer catching in her throat. The lanterns spread mottled pools of purple light across the cobbles, and she heard the laughter and chatter of men smoking down by the water’s edge.
The moon hung high and pale, brilliantly white in an otherwise empty sky. Had she read Zerren’s message incorrectly? Was it the right night?
A startled yell from the men on the dockside made her jump. Their voices rose in a cacophony and she caught a word, turned, and there, hanging in the heavens, broad and dark, were wings. Aiyla ran forward.
Not enough speed, she could see at once. Not enough lift. The front tipped down sharply and—like a gull trying to ride out a gale—the wings tilted wildly from side to side. Her heart jumped to her throat.
Aiyla raised her hands to shield her eyes from the moonlight, trying to pick out Zerren in the shadows stretching beneath the wings. Yes, yes, there was someone beneath it, struggling, clearly fighting against the tossing wind. A long body dangled below the broad span of the wings, clinging to the hand grips, the harness flapping uselessly—broken.
Her legs weren’t up, Aiyla thought wildly. She hadn’t swung her legs up. Her weight was pulling the front down and she was dropping far too fast. There were boats below, too many for her to avoid, and someone screamed when the wings gave way. The figure fell, plummeting towards the moon-lapped water.
A strangled cry caught in Aiyla’s throat as Zerren hit the waves, sending up a surge of spray. The wings spiraled down above her, crashing and catching on the current, whirling away. Zerren’s arms flailed out of the water in the moonlight, then she went under, lost between the boats.
The men on the docks launched small skiffs, but the wings were already out of sight. If the current was powerful enough to sweep such a structure away, then a body would be— was— could have been—
Grief welled, sharp and sudden, almost enough to knock her to her knees. The men’s shouts, the splash of their oars faded to nothing. She searched the water for any sign of movement, of a golden head, bobbing up, but only saw a trail of cloth—a veil? Something else?—
swirling away.
Her fault, her doing. She had suggested this, she had designed it, and now, Zerren had ended —as so many who betrayed the sultan did—lost to the Bosphorus.
A touch on her shoulder made her turn, dagger drawn. Tamraz held up a hand defensively and she blinked at him. Of course. They had stopped. They had seen the palace. Now, they should be on their way to a strange place with no familiar faces.
Then she saw what he held in his other hand. A blanket from the carriage.
She stared at it, then at him, confused. She didn’t need one, not on such a balmy night.
He grinned and tapped the corner of his eye, then tilted his finger just a little. Upstream.
Aiyla turned to follow his direction, away from the men rushing down the bank. The docks’ far end had been abandoned in the haste to see what had happened, and there, peeping out between the hulls of two boats, still neck-deep in the water, was a pale, round face.
Tamraz offered the blanket again, and she grabbed it before running along the bank. Zerren clung to a dock post, trembling and grey, but she was there, alive, and Aiyla’s world rolled, finding a new current, a new course.
Dropping to her knees, she reached down, but the other woman was shaking so hard that her hand slipped through Aiyla’s and she almost went under again.
No! Aiyla lunged, grabbing a single wrist. They had come so far; they would not fail now. A Bird had many skills, including strength in their steering arms. She braced her heels against the dock and pulled with all she had.
Her muscles burned and ached, but she lifted Zerren high enough to get her chest onto the planks. Working together in the shadow of the boats, they dragged Zerren out of the water to collapse against Aiyla. She took ragged, gulping breaths, then rolled away and vomited over the side.
Aiyla quickly bundled the blanket over Zerren’s shaking body, hiding her waterlogged hair and clothes, hoping no one had noticed them. With effort, Zerren got to her feet. Tamraz beckoned urgently; he pointed to the palace, to torches along the walls.
Silk & Steel Page 11
