On Fire’s Wings (15 page)

Jashemi's face was unreadable. “You would be bound to condemn me,” he said levelly, “just as you were bound to abandon my sister on the mountain.”

Tahmu sighed. “Yes. Just like that.”

“But what if the dreams
aren't
being sent by
kulis?
” Jashemi demanded. “What if they are good, are somehow warnings?”

“I will not listen to this,” said Tahmu. He felt his entire being shutting down, closing up, withdrawing from even considering his son's words. “Our family has suffered enough as it is. I will bring no more torment upon it.”

He kicked Swift, who snorted and bolted forward. Tahmu's heart was pounding and his eyes filled with tears as he left his son in the dust.

 

The sun had not yet cleared the horizon when Kevla went to the corrals, a basket hanging on her arm. This was the least pleasant task of the day, and it was growing more unpleasant as time passed. With so many horses and
sa'abahs
gone from the House of Four Waters, there was not a great deal of dried droppings to be had for the fires. Kevla scowled as she gathered up what she could find. A sandcattle calf nuzzled her and she petted its soft nose absently.

“Who would have thought I would ever wish for more dung,” she told it, laughing a little.

Sahlik jokingly called the dried dung used for fuel “cakes.” Right now, there were more piles of steaming droppings than cakes, and what cakes there were weren't terribly dry. Kevla wrinkled her nose as she brought them into the kitchens and began to set the fire.

It was early yet, and few people were in the kitchens. Most would not arrive until the fire was going well, their particular tasks requiring a steadily burning flame. Kevla began to strike sparks.

Nothing.

It was never an easy task, getting the cakes to burn at all, but today it seemed impossible. Again and again Kevla tried, striking spark after spark and blowing on it gently. But the cakes were simply too fresh and would not catch.

She heard the sounds of more people coming in behind her, talking in soft morning voices. Soon, they would need to begin baking and cooking.

She kept trying. Each time the spark would land on the cakes, flare for an instant, and then fizzle.

Suddenly, anger rushed through Kevla. Sahlik would chastise her for being tardy in getting the fires lit, and it wasn't really her fault at all.

“Burn, curse you!” she whispered, glowering at the pile of dried droppings.

With a sharp crack, a flame licked upward. A heartbeat later, the fire burned as if it had been lit an hour ago.

Kevla gasped, staring at the fire. How could this be? One moment it was stubborn, moist cattle cakes and now—

She felt sick as the realization broke over her, and sat down hard on the stone. There was only one answer. She
was kuli-
cursed, despite Jashemi's calm words. First the dreams, now this. No ordinary person could light a fire with a word.

The hand on her shoulder startled her. She looked up to see Sahlik smiling down at her.

“The cakes are not usually dry when the men go on raids,” Sahlik said approvingly. “You must have a way with fire.”

Swallowing, Kevla managed, “Yes. I must.”

She went through the chores of her day in a state of near-panic, glancing repeatedly at the merrily burning fire. When her day was done, she lay awake in her room all night, dreading sleep, fearing that the Great Dragon would come for her and bear her away to his lake of fire in the heart of Mount Bari. She was surely an abomination, and the Dragon dealt swiftly with such monstrosities.

And yet she did sleep, and the dream was exactly the same: the leaping flames, the bellowed question,
“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”
It was terrifying—it was always terrifying—but there was no new frightening twist. Nor did the Dragon give any sign of leaving its home in Mount Bari to snatch up her waking self.

The next day, Kevla gathered the cakes with hands that trembled. She laid the fire and struck the spark. Again, the stubborn cakes refused to catch.

Kevla licked dry lips. Softly, she stared at the cakes and whispered, “Burn.”

As before, where there had only been a sullen smoldering, now there was a steadily burning fire.

Despite her fear, Kevla smiled.

As the days passed, Kevla gradually began to believe that the Dragon wasn't going to punish her. Her skills seemed to be useful, not harmful. Each morning, she now lit the fire with ease, no matter how moist the cattle cakes were. Her room, which had previously grown chilly with the desert night, now became comfortably warm with a single word. She certainly didn't feel like she was
kuli
-cursed.

One morning, Kevla lingered a little bit longer than usual gazing at the fire she had lit by merely saying, “Burn.” Its flickering flames always called to her, but this time, she seemed to see figures in the fire.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes. No, she was not imagining it. There was Jashemi! She smiled, happy just to see him. He seemed unaware of her presence, his expression troubled. He leaned forward, and the flames trembled. As he moved back, she saw that he held a stick. He had stirred his own fire with the stick, and Kevla had seen it at her fire.

From that moment on, Kevla seized every opportunity that came her way to gaze into the fire. Sometimes, she saw only flames. Other times she saw Sahlik, or Tahmu, or Yeshi. Sometimes she saw the faces of people she did not know at all; strangers somewhere, gazing into a fire, not knowing that the fire was gazing back at them.

The dreams intensified with each passing moon. The colors of the fire seemed brighter to her, the Dragon larger, more frightening. Senses other than sight and sound came into play; she could feel the heat of the flames, could smell the smoke, taste its acridness on her tongue. During the day, when she could think rationally about it, she wondered why the dreams never lost their terror. Surely, familiarity with what would unfold ought to lessen its impact.

But such was not the case. The dreams remained as alarming as ever, and each morning she awoke with her heart pounding as if she had been running all night.

The question the Dragon asked was always the same. Kevla never knew how to reply, but somehow she knew that, could she but manage the correct response, all the mysteries would have answers, and everything would fall into place.

She anxiously awaited Jashemi's safe return. The Clan came home three moons later, victorious as usual, and the House was once again thrown into a flurry of activity. As a kitchen worker, Kevla was now on her feet almost all day long, sweating profusely in the heat, collapsing late at night only to rise and do the same thing the next day.

Kevla was forbidden to attend the family or guests; her low status demanded that she remain in the kitchens. Now and then, though, unable to resist, she peeked out hoping to catch Jashemi's eye. They were halfway through the eight courses, having consumed dates and nuts, greens in oil and vinegar, fruit and cheese, and fowl in a glaze of fruit juice and garlic, when Sahlik bustled into the kitchen.

“The young master has taken ill,” she told Kevla. “The servers are all busy. Bring him up a platter in case he awakens hungry in the night.”

Kevla nodded as if this request was nothing special, but felt joy swell inside her. Moving casually, she arranged some light tidbits on a tray—fruit, nuts, cheese—and tried to disguise her eagerness as she ascended the stairs. A perfect plan—Yeshi would not leave the banquet hall for several more hours. They would have time to talk.

Trembling with anticipation, she knocked on the door. “Come,” said Jashemi in a weak voice. Suddenly fearful that he might really be ill and not feigning in order to see her, Kevla burst through the door.

“Jashemi, are you—”

He lounged on the made bed, fully clothed, grinning wickedly at her. Slightly annoyed, she stamped on the floor, and he laughed aloud. Kevla couldn't stay angry with him. She set the tray on a small table, fighting a grin herself.

“You enjoyed scaring me like that,” she accused.

“I had to sound convincing, in case Sahlik wasn't able to send you,” he replied. “But I confess, the look on your face was most entertaining.”

They smiled at one another for a moment, then Jashemi's grin faded.

“Was it bad?” Kevla whispered.

He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “Not as bad as the first time,” he said. “Father says you get used to it.”

Kevla winced at the hollow tone of his voice. She didn't want Jashemi to grow into a man who had “become used” to taking lives. She didn't think Jashemi did, either. But he had no choice.

“It's not the—the killing that troubles me, not this time,” he continued, still looking at his fingers. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes. They seemed to bore into Kevla's soul.

“Before I left, you spoke of dreams. Are you still having them?”

She nodded. “Yes. The same dream. Every night.”

“You have told no one?” At her look, he smiled a little. “That was a foolish question. Of course not.” The smile faded. “I was not so wise.”

She cocked her head. “You have been having dreams, too?”

He nodded. “Dreams in which I am a beggar boy, standing beside a great
khashima
. There is something I am supposed to remember, to prevent something dreadful from happening, but I don't know what it is. And other dreams. I see strange people, Kevla, people who look nothing like you and I. Their hair is yellow, and their faces are pale as milk. They have mighty creatures at their command—blue striped
simmars,
strange horses, dogs with wings. I can make sense of none of it. I confided in Father, who fears that I am
kuli
-cursed. As you feared you were.”

Kevla felt cold. He did not know, yet, about her newly discovered ability with fire. She licked her lips and waited for him to continue.

“I don't know what they mean, but somehow I know they're not from the
kulis.
Nor, I think, are your dreams. Father told me to never mention them again. He fears he would have to denounce me.”

Kevla gasped. “He wouldn't!”

“He would. He would have to, if it became general knowledge.”

“Then you must never speak of it,” she said promptly.

“Except to you. I can tell you anything.”

Her heart swelled at the words, and she realized that it was time for her to confide her own secret.

“I have something to tell you, too,” she said. “Or rather show you.” She rose and went to the small brazier. A small bundle of dried grasses lay inside, more for decoration than for any real light or heat. She stood in front of it, her heart racing. She desperately hoped she was right, that the power of their bond would stretch to accommodate even this.

“I've been having more than dreams,” she said, meeting his eyes evenly. “I have been able to…to do things.” She pointed at the bundle.

“Burn,” she said.

At once, the grasses burst into flame, burning quickly, writhing and turning to black soot within seconds. Jashemi stared, open-mouthed, and did not speak. Kevla's heart sank. She had misjudged him. He would scream and they would come for her and—

“When did this start?” His voice was astoundingly calm, although his still-wide eyes betrayed his shock.

“A few days after you left,” she whispered. “I was having trouble getting a fire started, and I said, ‘Burn, curse you,' and this happened.” She gestured at the dying fire. “I can make the room warmer, too. Jashemi, I'm scared! I don't know what's happening to me!”

He looked at her searchingly and then held out his arms. For a moment, she could not move. They had crossed one barrier when she had embraced him in the caverns. Now, if she permitted him to hold and comfort her, they would cross another. Slowly, she went to him, and his arms closed gently around her. She could smell the sweet oils mixed with sweat on his skin, feel the warmth emanating from his slim boy's body as she rested her head on his chest. Kevla closed her eyes and accepted.

“I don't know what's happening to either of us, Kevla. But at least, we have each other.” He folded her even closer. “We will always have each other.”

S
trange,
Sahlik thought as she bent to stir the pot that hung over the fire,
how fast the years fly when one is old.

It did not seem so long ago that Kevla had arrived at the House of Four Waters as a skinny, big-eyed girl of ten. Now, Sahlik rose and regarded the woman that girl had become.

Kevla had blossomed like a desert flower when given proper food and shelter. The long, lustrous black hair was still kept in a braid, but that was the only resemblance between girl and woman.

The once-scrawny child was now almost as tall as her father and brother. Despite the best efforts of the seamstress to create clothing that disguised Kevla's figure, it was apparent to anyone with eyes that beneath the shapeless
rhia
was a body that was slender yet ripe with womanly curves at hip and breast. Her face was exquisite, almost as perfect in its proportions as a carved statue's. But no statue could match the beauty of Kevla's face when it lit up in a smile.

Had Kevla been the
khashim's
legitimate daughter, she would have had suitors clamoring for her hand from sunrise to sunrise. Had she even been permitted to continue in Yeshi's service as a handmaiden, it was likely she would have been well-matched despite the stigma of Bai-sha. As it was, the men looked, the men lusted, but there was no talk of marriage.

Nor did Kevla express interest in such things. She appeared content in her role as low-caste servant, moving with grace from chore to chore. It seemed enough for her to have Sahlik and her work.

And, of course, Jashemi.

The youth had matured into a younger version of his father, with Tahmu's wise, dark eyes. He was, if such a thing was possible, even handsomer than his father had been at that age, his features softened by Yeshi's blood in him. Sahlik thought it odd that he had not yet been betrothed, but soon enough he would come of age, and then such matters would have to be addressed. Sahlik wondered how Kevla would react when she had to share Jashemi's attention.

There were moments when Sahlik wondered if conspiring with the two siblings was the right thing to do. They thrived on one another's company as if the moments together were meat and drink to them both. They were intelligent enough to be discreet in their clandestine meetings, but the keenness of their desire for one another was almost overwhelming to behold. Sahlik was confident that nothing improper was happening between the two young people; although Kevla did not know her parentage, Jashemi did, and Sahlik trusted him to respect such a profound taboo.

Still, sometimes it troubled her. But then she thought of how miserable the two would be if she did not assist them, and all thoughts of abandoning them evaporated like water under the sun. Things were hard enough on the poor creatures. Let them enjoy what they had while they could.

Holding that thought, Sahlik said, “Kevla, we are out of fresh mint and parsley for the stew. Go and gather some from Maluu—from Asha's garden.” Maluuk had died in his sleep a few months ago, and it was still hard for Sahlik to think of young Asha as the Clan's healer.

Kevla kept her face neutral, but could not hide a brief flash of delight in her beautiful brown eyes.

“Yes, Sahlik.” With a rustle of cloth, she was gone.

Sahlik watched her go, and as she did every time she sent Kevla off to meet Jashemi, said a brief prayer for both children's safety.

 

Asha had left several hours ago, when a falcon had come with a note requesting his aid. The Clan of Four Waters was spread over much territory, and Asha served all the Clanspeople. Jashemi didn't know and didn't care who Asha was assisting. He only cared that he and Kevla now had a time and place to meet.

He paced inside the little hut. Its familiar scents and decorations sang to him of the time when Kevla had first come through that door and he had taught her how to play
Shamizan.
He had the board and pieces now, just in case they had time for a game. He held it with hands that were sweaty, and he was aware that his heart was racing.

Was this how it was with other brothers and sisters? This sharp, almost painful pleasure? This anticipation that made one nervous and elated, made one's throat dry and one's palms moist? He could only guess. Perhaps the fact that he was forbidden Kevla's company made their time together sweeter, but he could not imagine a moment when he would not be delighted to see her.

For the hundredth time, he peered out the window. This time he saw her, and his heart surged. She was coming up the little hill at a quick pace, not daring to run lest she draw undue attention. She carried a small scythe in one hand and a basket in the other.

Gathering herbs was the excuse today, then. They must make sure she did not forget.

She pushed open the door and then closed it. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I encountered no one,” she said in answer to his unasked question.

“We should still keep away from the windows,” Jashemi said, placing a hand on her back and leading her to the center of the room. He gazed fondly down at her. She was wearing an older
rhia
today, one that did not fit her well, and as he stood close to her, still touching her back, his eyes traveled down her throat to her breasts. He was suddenly, sharply aware of the headiness of her scent, of the curve of her body beneath his hand, of his instinctive masculine response.

His fingers tightened against her back as heat flooded him, a fierce combination of desire and shame. Quickly, he stepped away, hoping she was unaware of what had just happened. Her own face was flushed and her eyes bright. She too seemed uncomfortable suddenly, and looked away quickly. She didn't know what Jashemi knew, of course. She only knew that she was a servant, and he the heir to a mighty Clan.

To end the awkwardness, Jashemi rumpled her hair as he had done when she was younger. She giggled, and when she looked up at him, it was with the old affection.

Good. Very good.

“You are to harvest herbs,” Jashemi said, indicating her tools. “It should not take long. Do you have time for a game of
Shamizan?
”

“I always have time to win against you,” she replied with an engaging smirk.

He grinned back. All was well between them, again.

 

As always, time with Kevla, however brief, buoyed Jashemi. But when he ran lightly up the stairs to his room, he overheard something that bled delight out of him. His parents, their voices raised in argument.

He had known for many years that his parents were bound by law and clan tradition, but not by love. He had accepted that, and the older he grew, the more he saw that such was the norm. But ever since Yeshi's second child had been born so ominously marked, there had been a gulf between the
khashima
and her family. There were few arguments between her and Jashemi for the simple reason that they barely spoke. But
khashim
and
khashima
could not indulge in such an easy solution, and over the years, the strife had escalated.

Unaware that he did so, Jashemi ducked his head, as if trying to pull his ears into his body so that he could not hear. His shoulders hunched and he quickened his pace. He could not understand the words, but he did not need to. The tone, especially his mother's, was sufficient.

The sick discomfort turned to anger. His time with Kevla was so rare and so precious, and all the joy it had brought him had been chased away by those sharp, raised voices. He could think of nothing worse they could have done to him.

 

Kevla, too, was not unaware of the growing tensions between the great lord and the great lady. Although she was no longer one of Yeshi's handmaidens, servants gossiped, and sometimes her duties took her within hearing of Yeshi's once-melodious, now-harsh voice. At such times, she made haste to finish whatever duty she had been charged with; to cross Yeshi's path when she was speaking so would be to invite disaster. She thought back to her suspicions that Yeshi was taking lovers, and wondered if it were still so.

It was a searingly hot morning as Kevla prepared a basket to take to Asha. The young healer preferred to have his meals delivered to him at daybreak and midday, joining the other servants only for the evening meal. She was heading out to his hut when she heard raised voices. Or rather, a raised voice—Yeshi's. She ducked back into a corridor as the mistress of the household stormed past.

“Foolish girl!” Kevla jumped at the sharp crack of palm striking flesh. “This stain will never come out!”

“Yes, it will, great lady, if I have to scrub it until my fingers bleed.” Sharu, the little five-score, fear and pleading in her voice. Kevla felt a stab of pity for the girl.

“As if blood on the cloth will make it better. You are clumsy and lazy. Your five years of service are over, why are you still here troubling me so! Go to Tahmu and get your last score and leave this house by nightfall.”

A sharp intake of breath and a little sob. “Great lady, I beg you, give me a chance to—”

“Another word from that ugly little mouth and I will have you beaten as well.”

Silence. Quick, angry footsteps. A soft cry, a sniffle, and then slow, bare footsteps in the opposite direction.

Although Sharu had been Yeshi's spy and taken Kevla's place, Kevla could not find it in her to resent the girl. She was just trying to survive. Kevla, who had danced on a street corner extolling the sexual skills of her own mother, could understand that. She had no idea what Sharu had done to so offend Yeshi, but expected that it was no great crime.

Deep in thought, she made her way to Asha's hut. She placed the basket of roasted fowl, bread and dates on a small stone, rapped on the door, and walked slowly back to the House. An idea was taking shape.

That night, she sat alone in her small room. She had gathered some sandcattle cakes and even a few sticks, so that the fire would burn longer. She was nervous at what she was about to do, but resolute.

She laid the fire in the small fireplace, and said quietly, “Burn.”

Kevla was no longer startled or amazed by the fire that leaped into being at her verbal command. She stared into the fire, letting her vision soften around the edges. Faces and images started to form in the flame.

“Show me Yeshi,” she whispered.

At first, there was nothing. Then the flames shimmered and twisted, reforming into a familiar face.

She had done it. She had ordered the flames to show her a specific person, and they had obeyed. She grinned a little, flushed with her achievement, then concentrated.

There was another figure. Kevla blinked and rubbed at her eyes, striving to distinguish features. But the flame was not as exact as the eye, and as the two lovers embraced the image became blurred. She wondered if her little fire was too small. Perhaps if she had a larger fire, she could see more detail.

But how would she do so? It was hard enough to have a fire in her room at all. She could try to see in the larger fires in the kitchen, but Yeshi would not be with her lover during those times.

Kevla sighed and poured water on the small fire to extinguish it. She would simply have to keep trying.

And so she did, every night for the next several nights. She was embarrassed at doing so, but she felt certain that it was important. The fire was limiting in that it only showed Kevla images that were directly in front of it. If Yeshi were in her bed, the fire would not show her. Only when Yeshi and her lover passed directly before the fireplace in the bedroom she shared with Tahmu did the flames reveal the two to Kevla, and that did not happen every time Kevla scried. And never did Yeshi's lover obligingly turn to look fully into the fire. Kevla couldn't even tell if she saw one man or many, only that she was certain none of them was Tahmu.

About two weeks after she had begun her nightly observation, as she blushingly watched Yeshi and her lover entwined before their fireplace, Kevla realized she could understand words. That was something new—up until this point she could only see people in the fire, not hear them. She bent forward, her ears straining for anything of import. Her blushing increased as she realized that the two lovers were not speaking of anything Kevla needed to hear, only murmuring endearments and crude words. If only Yeshi would speak her lover's name!

Some nights, Yeshi slept alone. Sometimes, she accepted Tahmu's caresses. On such nights, Kevla quickly ended her spying.

More time passed. Still Kevla learned nothing useful, and she grew to find the activity extremely distasteful. But then, something happened while Tahmu was away that vindicated her gut instinct that Yeshi needed to be watched.

The great lady and her lover were finished by the time Kevla sat down to observe. Kevla was grateful for that, even with the indistinct images the flame showed her. The man sat behind Yeshi and brushed her hair. Again, his face was too indistinct for Kevla to make out his features. He was bearded, of course; all the men wore beards save Tahmu and Jashemi. He was large and muscular, and Yeshi sometimes winced as he attended her. Kevla couldn't help but think that if any of her handmaidens had pulled her hair so often, Yeshi would have had them beaten.