On Fire’s Wings (12 page)

“Tahmu!” she screamed, heedless of proper etiquette, pushing past large,
rhia
-clad torsos and the long legs of the
sa'abahs
. “Tahmu, where are you?”

“Great
khashim,
” cried one of the men, “your little servant wants you!” Several men turned to regard Kevla and joined in their friend's laughter. She ignored them.

“I must find Tahmu! The baby is—”

“Here I am, Kevla,” said a calm, familiar voice. “Take me to her.”

Kevla turned to start fighting her way back through the crowd, but the warriors parted for their
khashim
as they had not done for her.

“Is she—all right?”

“Well enough,” Kevla responded, “but the baby is almost here, and she wants you—”

“She wants me to catch the baby, for luck,” Tahmu said. He pushed past her and raced up the stairs to Yeshi's chamber.

Kevla followed, only a few steps behind. Tahmu entered, grasped and kissed his wife's hand, and then took up a position beside Asha. The baby's head was already showing.

“Tahmu, you are here!” gasped Yeshi.

“I am here, my wife, and ready to catch our child,” he said, his voice deep with emotion. He held the basin of herbs and flowers. Kevla stood by with clean cloths, ready to hand them to Tahmu once the baby had come. As Yeshi screamed and strained, more and more of the baby's head appeared.

She frowned at it, her heart speeding up.
No, please let this not be so….

“The baby's face is red,” she said, her voice trembling.

“All babies are red when they are born,” snapped Asha. Sweat dappled his forehead. “Push again, Yeshi!”

With a cry that hurt Kevla's ears, Yeshi panted and did as she was told. More of the baby slipped out into the waiting world.

The redness was still there. On the baby's face, smeared with fluid but obviously there.

“Its face is
red!
” Kevla cried again, filled with horror.

“That is just the after birth,” Asha said. “Once more, Yeshi, push and bring forth the baby!”

Yeshi tensed, then growled low in her throat and bore down. The baby surged forward to splash into the bowl that Tahmu held. At that moment, Maluuk rushed in and took over from Asha, who seemed relieved to relinquish his position. The baby took a deep breath and squalled.

“A girl-child,” Maluuk said. “Whole and sound.”

“A daughter,” cried Yeshi as Tiah and Sahlik helped her to the bed and began to clean her. “I have a little girl…”

Kevla stared as if transfixed. The baby kicked and squirmed as Tahmu began to clean her. His smile started to fade as he washed her face, and the red marks that Asha had claimed were afterbirth did not come off on the towel.

“Maluuk—” he said, looking imploringly at the healer. Kevla's arms folded about herself. She was suddenly very cold.

“The blood mark,” Maluuk whispered. Yeshi was still crying softly, but both Tiah and Sahlik had heard. Their eyes widened and they exchanged glances. Exhausted as she was, Yeshi caught the change of mood in the room. She propped herself up on her elbows.

“Tahmu? Give me our daughter!”

The baby was still shrieking. The blood mark covered fully half its face, an angry red blotch that spoke louder than any words of the displeasure of the Great Dragon.

“Tahmu…” Yeshi's voice was pleading. She was begging for her husband to give her their child, for him to say that it was all right, that their baby was beautiful, perfect….

Tahmu did not answer. He snatched a cloth from Kevla's stiff fingers and wrapped the baby in it, his eyes glued to the red blotch on his daughter's face, and said in a cold voice, “Leave us.”

 

They hurried out, not wanting to see what had to happen next. Tahmu himself wished with every fiber of his being that he did not have to do this, but the traditions were clear. The baby was imperfect.

He rose unsteadily, clutching the crying, wriggling bundle to his heart. Tahmu met Yeshi's eyes, and he saw her dawning comprehension.

“The blood mark,” he said heavily. He did not need to explain further. It was rare, but not unfamiliar to the people of Arukan, this bitter stain that sometimes singled out the unfortunate children of wretched parents.

He knew why this child was so marked. It was a sign that the Great Dragon was still angry with him. It had given him back a daughter he did not know he had, but it had cruelly taken away this precious little girl now clasped in his arms.

For a moment, Yeshi did not react. Then she said, “No.”

“I am sorry, my wife. Perhaps this is the Dragon's price for bringing so many of our brave warriors safely home.” The lie burned him, but he could not let Yeshi know the truth. There was no need to inflict more pain on her. She would know suffering aplenty in the next few moments, and for years to come.

“No,” said Yeshi, again. She held out her arms imperiously.
“Give me my daughter.”

“It is best if I take her—it—now,” Tahmu said, aware that he was pleading. “If you hold her, it will only hurt you more when I—”

“Give her to me!”
With a strength that startled him she leaped up from the birthbed and lunged at him. He barely managed to turn in time to keep her from seizing the infant. Even so, he was not quick enough to prevent Yeshi from scoring his face with her long, sharp nails. One came perilously close to his eye and he jerked his head away.

Her small fists rained down upon his back, her hands scrabbled for the baby, her screams echoed in his ears. She ducked underneath him and seized the infant, clasping it close to breasts that were swollen and full of milk.

“She's mine! I won't let you take her!”

But she was a delicate woman, and weak from her ordeal, and Tahmu was a war-hardened man. Implacably, hating himself, hating her for making this so much more painful than it had to be for both of them, he wrested the baby from her and pushed her backward.

She fell onto the bed. He stood, clutching the bundled, crying baby, waiting for her to come at him again, but all the strength seemed to bleed out of her. She lay where she had fallen, sprawled on the lavish bed where this tragic child had been conceived, and mewled pitifully.

“My baby,” she moaned, “my little girl…give her to me, Tahmu, please, I beg you, give her to me….”

His heart ached as he watched her, filled with his own grief at what he must do. “I'm sorry,” he said uselessly, and left her, racing down the stairs into the courtyard and grabbing the reins of the nearest
sa'abah
from a startled Clansman.

For much of his trip, the baby continued to scream. It wanted sustenance, love, its parents, soft bedding. All the things a baby has a right to expect when it is brought into the world, all the things Tahmu had not given Kevla and could not give this little girl. Eventually, its cries subsided. It whimpered now and then, enough for Tahmu to know that his daughter was still alive.

By the time he reached the Clan's altar at the foot of the mountains, the girl made barely any sounds at all. He drew the
sa'abah
to a halt and slipped to the ground. Tahmu felt ill when he saw the remnants of all the offerings Yeshi had made to the Dragon in his absence. Dried leaves from fruit long since devoured, wilted flowers, empty water jugs—all pleas from the House of Four Waters to bring the warriors home safely.

Most of those pleas had been answered; they had lost few men. But the Great Dragon had a terrible price for his protection, and Tahmu's feet felt as heavy as if they were carved of stone as he approached the offering area.

He looked down at the baby. Her eyes were closed, but she was breathing.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, illogically trying to explain what he was doing to her. “But this is the way of our people. The Great Dragon marks those it would have us give to him. He robs them of their sight, or the use of their legs, or their minds. He cleaves their mouths, or gives them only nine fingers, or,” he paused, the lump in his throat preventing speech, “or stains their faces with the blood mark, as he has done with you.”

Gently, he reached to touch the blotch on his child's otherwise perfect face. She opened her eyes and regarded him. Tahmu held the doomed infant close.

“Dragon!” he cried at last, his voice raw, “Dragon, you have tormented me for so long. I beg you, let this be your last judgment upon me and my House. You marked this child. She is yours. I have torn her from the arms of her mother to bring her to you, as our traditions demand. Now leave me and mine be!”

Gently, he placed her on the offering stone. She roused at the movement, and somehow summoned the strength to cry. He turned, willing himself not to hear the heart-breaking noise, although it seemed to echo in his head long after his mount had placed many miles of desert sand between them.

K
evla thought it would have been better if the household had been permitted to show its grief. Had the child been born clean, not so clearly marked by the Great Dragon's disfavor, and died during birth, it would have been deeply mourned. As it was, no one spoke of it. Things moved on as if all was normal, but there was a sickly, frightened, sorrowful pall that hung over the House as if storm clouds sat atop it.

Yeshi locked herself in her room and would see no one. Several times a day, Tahmu knocked on her door and asked permission to enter. All he received was silence. On the third day, he muttered something under his breath and burst open the door with his shoulder.

Kevla did not know in what condition he found Yeshi, but an hour later she, Tiah and Ranna were summoned to the room. Yeshi lay on the bed, still in the filthy, blood- and afterbirth-stained clothing she had worn on the day she had borne her ill-fated child. She stared, unseeing, at the ceiling, but as the day wore on the three women managed to coax her into eating a few bites of food, shedding her soiled clothing, and permitting herself to be bathed from a basin.

While Yeshi slowly and unwillingly returned to her women, the rest of the House was kept busy with the flood of new five-scores. Kevla did not interact with them, but she passed them in the kitchens now and then and pitied them. Most were not much older than she, and female. They seemed terrified and spoke with a thick accent. Some of them bore old scars. She wanted to let them know that it was all right, that Tahmu was a good master, but when she did try to speak to them, they shrank from her like frightened
liahs.
Kevla hoped that Sahlik's mixture of practicality and kindness would reach them.

She saw little of Jashemi, and there was no talk from Maluuk about resuming their lessons. She feared that going to war had changed the young lord. Was that strange connection she had felt real? Or was she fooling herself into thinking she meant anything to him other than as a servant? He passed her in the halls with no acknowledgment, and at such times she was buffeted with both relief and regret. She told herself it was for the best; any closeness between a Bai-sha and a
khashimu
, even a friendship, courted trouble.

But she did not believe it.

Several days after Tahmu had given the child to the Great Dragon, Kevla was filling up Yeshi's tray with tidbits to tempt her to eat when Sahlik came up behind her.

“No, no!” she scolded, pointing to a small cup of boiled
balan.
“Yeshi hates this cooked. Give her the fresh root, child. Like this.”

She plopped a long yellow tuber onto the tray. Kevla was startled at the rebuke, and then she noticed a small corner of parchment peeking out from underneath the root. She sucked in her breath. Sahlik turned away.

“You! Come here, child. You seem to like cooking. Do you know how to make bread?”

Kevla's heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst through her chest. There was only one person who would send her a written message.

She shook so badly that she feared she would drop the tray, but managed to make it into a small room off the great hall which saw little activity. She unfolded the letter and read:

 

Sahlik has arranged for me to have time alone in the cavern. Go to the kitchen first, then come find me there when it is time for someone's afternoon nap.

 

Kevla felt weak as joy and apprehension flooded her. Was this not what she had hoped for? To see him again, alone? She wished he had said more, but the letter could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. She read it again, trying to decipher his intentions. He had seemed so aloof when she saw him in the halls, and the letter was brusque. Perhaps she should not go, but did she dare refuse? Then, as if he were present, she seemed to feel again his hands on her face, see his eyes glinting with starlit tears.

She would go, as he had asked.

Kevla returned to the kitchen, and put another piece of fruit on Yeshi's tray. It was far too much for the
khashima
to eat; she barely tasted anything Kevla brought her, but Kevla needed an excuse. While she was there, she looked around. Everyone was busy doing something. She picked up a few crumbs from the floor and tossed them and the small piece of parchment into the fire. She watched it twist and curl up on itself, and then it was ash.

It was only midmorning. She had many hours to wait. Finally, Yeshi decided it was time to take a nap. The girls scattered, each anxious to seize time alone, and Kevla headed straight for the kitchen.

Sahlik was there, overseeing dinner preparations. Several loaves of bread were stacked high on platters. Roast meats turned on spits, supervised by dull-eyed five-scores. Other five-scores chopped vegetables for the huge pots of stew that bubbled on the fires.

Sahlik saw her and gave her a wineskin. “Take this,” she said quietly. “If anyone notices you coming or going, say you are bringing wine to the young master.”

Kevla couldn't help herself. The head servant of the House of Four Waters was actually encouraging the
khashimu
to meet secretly with a lowly servant.

“Sahlik,” she whispered, “why are you—”

“I have my reasons,” the old woman said curtly. “Go.”

Kevla hurried toward the small building, opened the door, took the torch and descended the cool stone steps, both aching for and dreading this illicit encounter.

He was there. He was dressed in the men's
rhia,
which clung to his still-damp body. He sat on the pool's edge, his legs in the water. Droplets on his dark skin and hair glistened in the torchlight. He turned to see who had arrived and their eyes met.

“Did anyone see you?” She shook her head. “Good. Come, Kevla. Sit beside me.”

Nervously, she did as she was told, dangling her own legs into the cool water. She waited for him to speak.

“I have seen…so much,” he said at last. He didn't look at her. He stared down into the water, as if speaking to his own wavering reflection. “Kevla…I have killed a man. It was only a few moments into the raid. He charged at me, a dagger in each hand, screaming something—I can't remember what—and before I realized what I was doing the deed was done. I had drawn my sword and cut deeply into his neck.”

Her heart ached for him, even as her mind filled with images of gore and death.
He was born to this,
she told herself. And yet, she wished he had not had to experience it.

“It didn't cut his head off, not quite. But the blood—by the Great Dragon, it was everywhere, on me, on my
sa'abah
, on the sand—so much blood. And he was just the first. I cannot tell you how many ran at me, how often I swung my sword, how many I struck. My hand ached, my arm grew tired, and still I swung. It was so fast to be so…so thorough. It took much longer to round up the scattered women and children, tie them up like sandcattle—”

He paused, swallowed hard. “Then when it was over, some of them men dipped their fingers in the blood and marked their faces. They laughed. They danced. I went behind a stone and was sick.”

He looked at her then, his eyes haunted, expecting ridicule. Kevla bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears.

Suddenly, violently, he tugged off his
rhia,
exposing his thin boy's chest. An ugly scar snaked from his left nipple to his navel. Kevla gasped.

“My lord—are you—”

He smiled bitterly. “I'll be all right. It was a shallow, clean wound and Maluuk is a skilled healer. He said I should be proud of it.
Proud.
” He almost spat the word. “Father made me sit through the celebrations. But when I went to sleep that night all I could see was the face of the man I had killed…his head spoke to me, called me murderer….”

He buried his face in his hands. “And then to come back and discover I was about to have a brother or sister…I thought it was a blessing, a sign that life went on even after what we did. But Kevla, we—I—I lost a
sister!
My father left her to die on the mountain, and I can't even talk about her to anyone. My father walks as if his steps are dogged by ghosts. My mother will not see me, it's as if I'm dead to her now, too….”

He shuddered as a deep sob racked his thin frame. “My little sister….”

Kevla could keep the barrier between them no longer. Jashemi's torment called more loudly to her than her fear or her sense of propriety. He was in pain, and she had to do what she could to ease it. Deliberately, knowing full well she might regret it later, she put her arms around him.

Jashemi clung to her, burying his face in her neck. She felt the cool wetness of the water and the warm wetness of his tears. She ran her fingers through the thick softness of his hair, closing her eyes and opening to him, taking all the hurt and shock and angry grief into her own soft, compassionate body. She murmured nonsense words as if he were a baby, and rocked him until the violence of his grief was spent.

“My sister,” he whispered, over and over, “My sister….”

 

The time passed. Each day that unfurled was a step away from the terrible tragedy that no one was permitted to mention. The servants stopped speaking in whispers. Tahmu started to laugh and carry himself with confidence again. Even Yeshi seemed to revive, though there was a hardness about her that Kevla had not seen before. Her tongue was sharp, her words cold, and her laughter, when she did laugh, had an edge to it that made Kevla's skin prickle. Yeshi had recovered, but she had not healed.

Nor did she ever call for her son.

Kevla suspected that she was the only one who knew how deeply Yeshi's avoidance of Jashemi cut the youth. He did not show it in word, expression, or deed, but she knew how badly the rejection pained him. They stole time where they could, with Sahlik acting as their touchstone, but it was difficult. He never referred to their embrace in the caverns, nor did she; but there was a new ease in their mannerisms with one another, as if some barrier had been lifted.

One day, as Kevla was gathering up Tahmu and Yeshi's bedclothes, she noticed certain stains on them. She stared, disbelieving. She knew exactly what sort of stains they were, having cleaned her mother's linens, and if Tahmu had not been gone for several days visiting the Star Clan's
khashim,
she would have thought nothing of it.

But Tahmu was gone. Had been gone since before these linens were put on the bed….

This could not be. Yeshi would not jeopardize her position. Infidelity to the
khashim
was treason. Tahmu could have her put to death for it. And why would Yeshi do such a thing? From all that Kevla could tell, Tahmu was a kind husband and probably a gentle lover.

Kevla felt a rush of anger at the betrayal which abated a moment later. It was not her place to either defend her lord or condemn her lady. She was a servant here, nothing more.

And perhaps these stains were something else. Perhaps she was making assumptions that weren't true. Quickly, she bundled them up and was about to take them downstairs when she paused. A half-filled glass of wine sat on a small table. She took the wine, opened the sheets to expose the telltale stain, and poured the wine over it. Better the women who washed Yeshi's sheets think her clumsy than adulterous.

Yeshi took to retiring early and dismissing her women. Tiah and Ranna were only too happy to be relieved of their duties, and immediately rushed to meet with their stableboy lovers. But Kevla worried that Yeshi and her unknown lover—or lovers—would grow careless. She made it a point to be the first to attend Yeshi in the mornings, and sometimes she noticed something that would have given Yeshi away, such as finding two glasses of wine where there should be one.

To Kevla's great relief, the liaisons ceased when Tahmu was in residence. Yeshi might be indiscreet, but she was no fool. Sometimes she wondered who Yeshi was taking into her bed, but she had no real interest in learning the man's identity.

 

Yeshi moved as if she were a dead person trapped inside a living body.

The last thing she had felt, really felt, was overwhelming grief as Tahmu snatched their child from her arms. She had raged, sobbed, railed against the Dragon, screamed curses at her husband, beaten her still-swollen and sensitive belly with her fists for not housing a clean child.

Then the darkness descended. Later, she would find it difficult to believe that she had even been able to continue to draw breath, that her heart had not simply stopped beating. Despite her desperate wish to die, Yeshi lived.

She had vague recollections of soft skin, of concerned eyes, and gentle hands that pressed tidbits into her unwilling mouth, that bathed a soiled physical shell. Her body ate, used the food, excreted what it did not need, and demanded more. How strange, that it continued when her soul felt so dead.

The emotions that came afterward were pale in comparison to her grief, but she clung to them anyway. She hated Tahmu for what he had done. And she could not bear to lay eyes on her beautiful, healthy son. Why should he live, if his sister was born only to die of exposure on a mountainside? Why should Tahmu laugh and move forward with his duties, when he had been the one to execute the dreadful deed?