On Fire’s Wings (3 page)

She told him which streets to take, and then indulged herself for a moment, enjoying the feel of the horse between her thighs. Her back was pressed against the firm torso of the greatest
khashim
in the land. She felt his steady breathing move her slightly forward and then back. From time to time as they rode, Tahmu would raise an arm as if to help the girl make sure of her unfamiliar seat.

There was nothing unchaste about the gesture, only an absent concern for her safety. The horse's beads and bells clattered and jingled, and his mane under Kevla's brown fingers was silkier than any she had ever touched.

For a brief, daydreaming instant, Kevla fancied herself the daughter of the great
khashim.
The servants who attended him would hark to her offhanded commands as well, should she utter them; a horse as fine as this one awaited her in a stable that was more elegant than her home. This was a pleasant outing among the lower castes, nothing more, and soon she would return to the opulence of a great House, to the delights of a bath—a
bath
—of precious water and richly scented soap….

But all too soon, they had left behind the sounds and smells of the crowded marketplace, and were making their way along a hard-packed earth road. Those who could afford to do so lived near the few natural springs and rivers that prevented Arukan from being a total wasteland. Their clansfolk lived near the house of their
khashim,
some in brick and stone buildings, many more in elaborate tents that served as a home that could be broken down to travel with their leader on the not-uncommon raids.

The poorest of the poor, those of the lowest castes, lived on the fringes of their clan leader's lands or near the marketplaces that provided their living. They, too, had tents, but theirs were miserable things. Many times when a sandstorm rose out of the heart of the desert, it would leave behind the wreckage of the inadequate shelters—and of the people who had dwelt in the flimsy tents.

Toward such a grouping of tents rode Kevla and her unusual companions. Her dreamy smile faded, to be replaced by the carefully guarded expression she wore almost constantly. Without waiting for assistance, she slipped off the still-walking horse and approached a small tent. It would hold only two or three people, in contrast to the clanspeople's tents, which provided room for a family of ten or twelve. Its sides and roof were made of goatskin, and a faded blanket hung over the entrance. Kevla lifted the blanket and scurried into the tent.

“Mama!” she whispered excitedly. “Mama, wake up!” Careless of Keishla's possible anger, Kevla plopped herself down on the pillows beside the sleeping
halaan.

Keishla rolled over, rubbing at her eyes. “Kevla, you had best have someone out there for me,” she warned, yawning.

“Oh, I do. And such a someone!” Kevla rocked back on her heels, hugging herself happily. “I was calling in the market, and I heard a horse, and everyone bowed down, and it was a
khashim,
and he seemed pleased when I talked about you and he's here, with his horse and his servants, except he sent them away, and he gave me a ride, and—”

“A
khashim?
Are you sure?”

Kevla stared, insulted. Could her mother really believe that Kevla wouldn't know a
khashim
when one rode right up to her? “Of course I'm—”

Kevla's mother startled her by reaching out suddenly to embrace her. The girl tensed at first—blows were more frequent within the walls of this tent than embraces—then relaxed into Keishla's arms. Keishla smelled of sweat, hers and that of her customers, but the perfume she wore managed to cover the worst of it. And her thin body was soft. Hesitantly, Kevla reached her arms up and hugged back, closing her eyes happily.

“We will eat well tonight and for many nights, my daughter,” said Keishla, stroking Kevla's braid. She pulled back and began fiddling with her own raven locks, plaited with beads. “Where is my clean
rhia?
Water, girl, quick!”

A grin on her face, Kevla hastened to obey, helping her mother into the flimsy white
rhia
reserved for special customers and pouring water into a brass bowl. Keishla laved her face quickly, slapping and pinching her cheeks and biting her lips to redden them. She could not afford the small ceramic jars of paint that more expensive
halaans
used, but Kevla thought her mother prettier than any artificially decorated woman.

Now Keishla turned to her daughter, spreading her arms. “Well? How do I look?”

Tears pricked Kevla's eyes. There was a happy warmth in Keishla's voice, an animation in her movements, that Kevla hadn't seen in a long time.

“Like a goddess of desire, worthy of the highest
uhlal
in the land,” she replied, using one of the phrases that was part of her repertoire.

Mockingly, Keishla slapped her with a teasing hand. There was no sting, only a brush of palm on face.

“Silly child. Here, wait…” She hastened to the pillows on the carpeted earth and positioned herself. “Now…now you can show him in.”

Kevla composed her face. When she emerged, she again bowed low.

“Most honored
khashim,
the beautiful and many-talented Keishla awaits you.”

When she glanced up, veiling her gaze with her lashes, she could not decipher the expression on his face. Kevla had led dozens, perhaps hundreds, of men here. None of them had looked the way Tahmu did at this moment. He did not look shy, or frightened, as the young ones did. But neither did he appear to be excited and full of anticipation. He looked wary, strained, yet hopeful.

Very strange were the
khashim
indeed.

He slipped off his horse, shaking his head when Kevla reached for the reins. “He will not leave, and no one would dare steal him.”

He reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt and produced a coin.

“Most honored
khashim,
it is Keishla who should receive your payment.”

“I—I will pay her at the appropriate time. This is for you.”

She stared at the silver coin on his brown palm. Fear of the great man, put aside during the pleasant ride here, now resurfaced. Keishla had told her daughter that some men had certain curious desires. Kevla had always before given her mother privacy with her customers, and truth be told Kevla had no desire to see Keishla at work, but she did not know how to refuse Tahmu.

“Great
khashim
—it is my mother who—”

Comprehension dawned on the handsome face and his dark brows drew together. Kevla shrank from the expression.

“By the Great Dragon!” Tahmu cried. “Don't tell me your mother has put you to—child, no, this is to thank you for bringing me here and to ask that you leave us for a time. That is all.”

She smiled in relief, taking the coin and bowing. “Then I thank you, and I shall leave you to your pleasure.”

She turned and strode off to amuse herself elsewhere. She did not look back, but her sharp ears caught the rustle of the blanket as it was lifted and fell back into place. As she walked the circumference of the tent village, Kevla's mouth began to water as she imagined the delightful food she and Keishla would enjoy together.

 

Keishla reclined on the cushions with her back to the
khashim.
Languidly, she stretched, revealing slim curves. Tahmu's eyes roamed over her body, relishing this moment—this moment when he saw her but she did not see him.

She rolled over, and the lascivious smile of welcome on her face vanished. She bolted upright, her eyes grew enormous, and one thin hand went to her throat. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Tahmu waited. He would let her speak first. She deserved that much. At last, Keishla found her voice.

“After ten years of whoring,” she said slowly, her voice cold as stone and bitter as poison, “Kevla brings me a
khashim.
And it is you. The Great Dragon does love a jest.”

Tahmu's throat worked, but he did not answer. He walked slowly toward the
halaan
and knelt on the cushions beside her. His face was only a few inches from Keishla's. With a growl like that of a hurt beast, Keishla raised her hand and cracked it across Tahmu's face.

Tahmu only smiled. “I deserved that,” he said.

Keishla began to cry, softly, and that sound pained him more than the sting of her blow.

“I used to dream of this. That one day, you would come to me. I used to know what I would say, what I would do. But now here you are and I have no words…Why did you do it? I would have crawled across the desert on my hands and knees for you, Tahmu, you know that! And now, look, look at what you have done to me, look how far I have fallen….”

Gently, Tahmu folded her into his strong arms. She clung to him, the soft sobs increasing in force, racking her bony frame. For a long time, they sat thus, then Keishla drew back, wiping at her wet face.

“You should have come to me when you knew,” Tahmu said. His brown hands gripped her upper arms tightly. “I would have taken care of you. I would never have let…” He gestured, at the poor tent, at her indecent clothes. “I would never have let you fall into this.”

Keishla laughed at that, bitterly. “Life as your concubine, living in the shadows, sharing you with
…her….
” She shook her head. Her beaded locks clattered with the movement. “And you could not have given me what I needed the most—a name for the girl.”

“I had a responsibility to the Clan,” said Tahmu, restating what they both already knew, had argued about so long ago. “Had I been third son, or even second, I might have defied my father, but I couldn't—not as the only heir. The Clan of Four Waters would have been ripped apart had I left my position for you. But I swear to you, Keishla, I did not know about the girl.”

He hesitated, then claimed his responsibility. “I did not know I had a daughter.”

T
he word hung between them. Tahmu coughed, trying to regain his composure.

“There is much we need to discuss. Perhaps something to wet our throats…?”

Keishla looked down, quickly, then nodded. She rose from the pile of pillows with all the grace he remembered.

Silently, he cursed himself for yielding to impulse. He should not have come. Better to have sent Sahlik, who had put this plan into motion. But he'd wanted to see the girl, to make certain. And that first glimpse of little Kevla, with her features a heartbreaking blend of his own strong visage and the more gentle countenance of Keishla, whom he had once loved with all his heart—who could have resisted that?

You could have,
Tahmu reprimanded himself.
Which female was it, Tahmu—your daughter or your lover that drew you here?

His eyes had now had time to adjust to the dimness after the dazzling light outside, and he realized his first impression of Keishla as dwelling in squalor had been misleading. The tent was roomy enough, and surprisingly well-furnished. The rugs that covered the earth were old, but finely crafted. He reclined on soft, comfortable cushions. He noticed that there was no equipment for such womanly tasks as making butter or bread. Keishla had only herself and the girl to feed, not a large, extended family. But in the corner, there were expensive-looking ewers, bowls, cups, and all the various pieces of equipment for making the bitter, hot drink
eusho.
Tahmu raised an eyebrow at that. At one point, Keishla must have been doing quite well.

Anger cut through him like a dagger. How many men had she lain with since him? What unspeakable acts had she performed? Did she look upon them with admiration, call them
uhlal,
cry out with pleasure as they took her for a handful—nay, perhaps only one or two!—copper coins?

As abruptly as it had crested, the anger ebbed, leaving only the ache of regret in its place. Tahmu had loved—still did love, there was no point in denying it—the woman who now set about preparing a beverage for the two of them, moving with the grace of a liquid-eyed
liah.
He had loved her as he had never loved his wife Yeshi. The marriage had been arranged by Tahmu's mother, as was her right, and the union had solidified a clan on the verge of splintering. But oh, to awaken next to Keishla each morning, and to have that pretty little girl-child chirping affectionately at him, playing with Jashemi in a happy, carefree way as two siblings should….

“It will take time to prepare
eusho,
” said Keishla. “We will have tea instead.”

Tahmu did not need to be a
kuli,
a demon, to be able to read Keishla's mind. She did not want him to stay.

“Tea would be welcome,” he replied. She nodded curtly and continued her preparation.

An awkward silence descended. Abruptly, Tahmu had had enough of the forced courtesy, the tense pauses, the sharp words.

“I will say what I have come to say, and then let this be an end to it.”

Keishla paused in her busy movements and turned to face him. He pointed to the cushions. For a moment, Tahmu thought she would say something, then instead, she settled herself quietly on the pillows, her face composed. A dark nipple appeared, then disappeared, brushing against the thin white fabric like something floating to the surface of the river only to submerge again. Tahmu's breath caught in his throat. Keishla could still make him ache with desire as Yeshi never had.

If only it had been different. He felt a flicker of angry mirth. If only horses could fly.

“There was a great passion between the two of us once, Keishla. But our love was forbidden because of the gulf between our castes. We must pay the price for daring to flaunt the ways of our people. You have already paid. You brought forth a child, unasked for, unwanted. And over the last eleven years you have sold your body to keep food in your daughter's mouth. Surely, even the Great Dragon must have forgiven you by this time.

“But the child has also suffered, for a sin that she did not commit. Keishla, you ever had a temper, and there is little doubt in my heart that you have raised your hand to her more often than was needed.”

He held up a commanding hand, forestalling Keishla's denial. “I would not hear you lie, so be silent. I know, once-darling of my heart, that your anger was born of pain and frustration at me, and at what the girl represented. And that is a sin for which I must atone.”

Keishla's color was high, but she was not contradicting him. That was good. If she knew how tenuous his control was at the moment, how his emotions threatened to boil over and destroy his calm demeanor, he would never be able to say what he needed to.

“One of my servants noticed Kevla in the marketplace two days ago. I wished to come then, but I feared what I might do. Only today have I calmed myself so that I might speak as befits a
khashim,
and not a lovesick boy.”

He permitted himself a sad smile. Tears sprang to Keishla's eyes. Her own lips tentatively curved in response. Tahmu's heart jumped, but he forced himself to remain composed.

“I knew at once that Kevla was ours, conceived in love and born in disgrace, to serve as punishment for our transgression. You have atoned, Keishla. Now, it is my turn. I would take the child back with me, to—”

“No!”
Keishla cried. “
Kulis
take you, son of a
skuura!
You took my love, you took my life, and now you want the only piece of you I have left to cling to? You did not lie with a docile
liah,
Tahmu, when you lay with me—you lay with a
simmar!
” Indeed, Keishla seemed as wild now as one of the dangerous desert cats that were the bane of the goat- and sandcattle-herders.

Tahmu replied calmly. “Think of the child,” he said softly, “not of yourself.”

“A child belongs with her mother!”

“A mother who does not want her? Who beats her? Who would raise her to be a
halaan?
” Had he struck her, Keishla could not have flinched more.

Tahmu's stomach twisted, but he continued mercilessly. “Keishla, you are too proud to accept help for yourself. Accept it for her. This I swear to you—she will never want for food or a safe place to sleep. No man will dare lay a hand on her without my permission. Her work will be light, and if she desires, perhaps I will even have her educated.”

For a long moment Keishla was silent. Her breasts heaved with anger, but when she spoke, her voice was frighteningly calm.

“You spoke of a servant. Was it Sahlik?”

Tahmu nodded.

Keishla swore. “She hated me, Tahmu. She did everything she could to keep us apart, and she was the one who convinced you to discard me as if I were a soiled
rhia.
”

“Sahlik only voiced what we all knew to be the truth—that we could never marry.”

“Was it really the truth? Caste lines have been crossed before. It was Sahlik, right from the start, who decided that I was not good enough for you—she, a lowly five-score!”

“Blame Sahlik if you must, or blame me, who deserves it more. But give me the child.”

Again Keishla was silent, staring at the carpet. Tahmu let her take her time. He would, he knew, get what he had come for. He always did.

“She—you will not make her a five-score, will you, Tahmu?” she said, referring to the traditional five slashes—“scores”—made on a servant's arm.

He shook his head. Though the law entitled him to make any servant a five-score, Tahmu preferred to keep to the initial purpose of the ritual scarring. The custom originated as a way of establishing dominance over captured prisoners of war. Any man, woman or child captured in battle would be honor-bound to serve the victorious clan leader for five years. The penance could be light or it could be grueling, depending entirely on the whims of the
khashim.
Each year, the prisoner/servant would receive a slash on the arm. At the end of five years, the final slash would be made and the prisoner returned to his people. He or she would be free, but the scars would remain, telling all who saw of the shame suffered by the bearer.

Finally, Keishla raised her eyes. They were cool, calm, free of tears. Tahmu couldn't read her expression. She rose and lifted the blanket, calling for Kevla. After a moment, Tahmu heard the girl's footfalls.

“Kevla, come inside.”

“Of course, Mother.” There was puzzlement in the girl's voice, a puzzlement that Tahmu shared. What was Keishla doing?

When Kevla had entered the tent and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, casting furtive glances at Tahmu, Keishla spoke.

“You are a smart girl, Kevla. You have no doubt guessed that the
khashim
knew me before you led him here.”

Uncertainly, Kevla nodded. Tahmu frowned slightly. Where was this leading? Was Keishla going to tell Kevla her parentage? Tahmu desperately hoped not. The fewer who knew, the better, including Kevla herself.

“Because of the pleasure I have given him in years past, Tahmu has asked to take you with him to be a servant at the House of Four Waters.” Kevla gasped, but before she could say anything Keishla had turned to Tahmu and said in that unnaturally calm voice, “We must discuss payment. Kevla performs a valuable duty when she cries my services in the marketplace. I shall have to hire a new girl.”

Tahmu was taken aback. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kevla cringe.
Must you make her suffer even more?
Tahmu had thought better of Keishla and did not attempt to keep his displeasure from his voice.

“If you love gold better than the child, you will be amply compensated.” He reached in his pouch and tossed a handful of coins at her, contemptuously watching as she hastened to pick them up.

“That will cover the cost of a new girl,” said Keishla, “but what of my silence?”

“You have kept silent thus far,
halaan!
” he exclaimed, taken aback by her insult. “Why should I fear your words now?”

Her lips curled in a smile that had no warmth in it. “There is the matter of your
khashima.
I do not think she would react well to having her husband's
halaan
show up at her door.”

Tahmu got to his feet. His face nearly purple with rage, he emptied his pouch. Keishla laughed as the coins showered her upturned face. The
khashim
felt physically ill, and his memories of the woman turned sour as he watched her.

Enough of the mother. Time to think of the child. “Gather your things, girl, and let us be on our way.”

Unsteadily, Kevla got to her feet. Her face was drained of color and her eyes were enormous. Then, as Tahmu watched, it seemed to him that a mask suddenly covered her face, rendering it impassive.

She shrugged slightly. “I have nothing of my own,” she said simply. She was now composed, revealing none of the hurt she must be feeling. Such would have to be the shield of a Bai-sha, Tahmu reflected. He would say nothing more to Keishla. She had forfeited her right to kind words and gentle looks with her greed. But when she called his name as he was about to leave, he paused.

Kevla was already outside. “Wait for me by my horse,” he told her. She nodded and padded up to the patient beast.

Tahmu let the blanket fall and turned around. A hard word was on his lips, but it faded like a drop of water before the heat of the sun at the look on Keishla's face.

Gone was the sly calculation. In its place was the expression of one who had lost everything. The coins lay where they had fallen, and tears coursed down her cheeks.

“We play parts, you know, for our customers,” she whispered. “That…that was my best performance yet.” She swallowed hard. “It will be easier on her, to think I wanted her gone. She loves me, Dragon knows why, and would not have gone with you, no matter how hard I would have beaten her or chided her…though she never needed a beating, not really…oh, Tahmu….”

All the love he thought quelled now rushed to flood Tahmu. Silent, shaking, he went to her, tangled strong fingers in her long, beaded hair, pulled her head back and kissed her. For an instant she was stiff in his arms, and then she yielded. Her arms snaked around his neck, and she opened the sweetness of her mouth to him. Her breasts crushed against his chest, and he could feel her heart racing as fast as his own. For a long, dizzying moment, he was not a
khashim
, but merely Tahmu, a youth hotly in love with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, who took his passion and returned it a thousandfold.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, ending the kiss. They were both breathing heavily, and trembling, and for the first time since he had arrived he saw the young woman he had loved in Keishla's face and not the angry countenance of a bitter
halaan
.

He allowed himself one last caress, running his fingers over the sharp cheekbones and stubborn jaw, brushing them softly over her lips.