On Fire’s Wings (8 page)

And there were many, many male strangers present.

“I am sorry—Yeshi dismissed us—Sahlik sent me to the kitchen—” She glanced around wildly. None of the serving women had veils. But she now saw what she had been too busy to observe earlier—that all of the high-caste women and their servants, kneeling obediently behind their mistresses, were veiled at this highly formal, highly public occasion.

“Great
khashim,
I meant no dishonor—” she began again. A movement caught her attention, and before she could think to avert her gaze she found herself staring at a high-caste boy who could only be Jashemi-kha-Tahmu.

He was slightly younger than she, about eleven, still slim with a child's build. His face, though, was strong and appealing, as was his father's, and he had his father's sharp eyes and curly dark hair. He was staring at her in shock, no doubt outraged at her disrespectful conduct, his mouth, with lips as full as a girl's, slightly open. Before she could look down, his dark gaze flickered to his father's face, then back to hers.

“Veil yourself and take up your position behind your mistress,” said Tahmu. “Hurry, Kevla. Go now.”

She nodded, biting her lip to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. As she turned and walked as quickly as she dared from the hall, she felt someone staring at her. The feeling was so unnerving that she had to turn around. As she did, she saw Jashemi, her young master, watching her every move.

Shame washed over Kevla, and she was grateful to make her escape before hot tears flowed down her burning cheeks.

J
ashemi-kha-Tahmu was happy to be home. He was not overly fond of his mother's brother, with whom he had spent the last two years. Naram was loud and boisterous, the opposite of Tahmu, and Jashemi had had barely any chance to interact with his cousins and his aunt. Jashemi was uncertain as to what he was supposed to be “learning” during the two years. Apparently, the vast majority of what Naram had to teach was how to yell, how to drink, and how to make rude comments about females.

Naram's fondness for physical activity, though, did translate to his nephew. Jashemi had ridden more in these two years than he ever had in his life. He had also learned how to hunt, though he was always sorry to extinguish the light in the beautiful, soft brown eyes of the
liah,
and he found that he did enjoy male company, other than that of his uncle. He learned to sleep soundly on hard-packed earth beneath a sky crowded with stars, and to travel on almost as little food and water as a
sa'abah
needed.

Jashemi quickly learned to enjoy what he found pleasant, steel himself against what he disliked, and get through the time with patience. But when he saw his father's colors on the horizon, flapping in a rare breeze, Jashemi's heart was so full of happiness that he almost wept.

He had not rushed to greet his father. Such displays were for children. Instead, he prostrated himself as all did before the
khashim
of the Clan of Four Waters, but he did so without the obsequiousness that the others displayed. Tahmu bade his son rise first, in acknowledgment of Jashemi's rank as heir to this vast clan. There was a raucous party to mark Jashemi's last night, and the boy was relieved to see that despite his polite demeanor, Tahmu appeared to dislike the drunken revelry almost as much as his son did.

He rode alongside his father the entire long way home, telling Tahmu what he had learned and trying to minimize the less savory aspects of two years spent with Naram and Pela.

At one point, Tahmu asked him how Naram treated his family and his servants. Jashemi hesitated, loath to speak badly of his mother's brother.

“I am the only one who can hear you,” Tahmu said, “the others are riding too far away. And I have raised you to speak the truth to me, Jashemi.”

After a moment, Jashemi spoke. “There is no one like Sahlik in Naram's household,” he began.

Tahmu smiled. “There is no one like Sahlik anywhere,” he said. “She is unique, one of our household's true treasures.”

“What I mean is, there is no servant who….” Jashemi struggled for the words. Finally, he resolved to simply speak bluntly. “There is no one there who dares question Naram, even when he is clearly wrong.”

“Many believe that is how a great House should operate,” said Tahmu. He was staring straight ahead, mounted atop Swift-Over-Sand. He spoke mildly, and Jashemi could not determine what answer his father wanted to hear.

“But you don't,” Jashemi challenged. “You want Sahlik to tell you if you are going to do something wrong, something that would hurt the Clan. I've heard you speaking to her sometimes.”

Tahmu's face was inscrutable. “Go on.”

Jashemi licked his lips and reached for the waterskin fastened to his saddle. He took a drink, wondering what his father was doing. Was this a test of some sort? And if so, was he giving the right answers?

He continued. “And my mother…you do not force her to veil herself if she steps outside her quarters. Nor do you deny her anything.”

“Do you think I should?”

Jashemi recalled his aunt's behavior—subservient, soft, mild. He never saw his uncle strike her, but by the way she sometimes cringed when he began to yell, he suspected that Naram might reprimand Pela with more than harsh words. The servants all seemed afraid of him. They never spoke against him, of course, but they never seemed to be happy around him, either.

But Jashemi was old enough to realize that sometimes his mother took advantage of his father's indulgences. He wondered how she would seem to him now, after two years' separation.

“No,” he said, at last. “I would not want my wife to be afraid of me. I would want her to love me, and respect me because I am worthy of respect, not because I enforce it. I like it that our servants smile and hasten to obey our requests with joyful steps. I would not want anyone scurrying away from me with downcast eyes. Somehow—somehow I think that is wrong.”

He turned and looked at his father. “I would know your thoughts on this, Father.”

Now, at last, Tahmu smiled down at his son. They rode close enough so that the
khashim
could easily reach over and squeeze Jashemi's shoulder.

“My boy is becoming a man,” he said, “with a man's wisdom and perception. I agree with all that you have said, my son. I do not wish to speak ill of my wife's brother, but I do not approve of how he runs his household. I, too, saw the fear in the servants' eyes. I saw how Pela watches his every move, not out of love but out of anticipation of a blow. He cannot hold his wine and he has not earned the respect of his equals. I permitted you to go only because it is tradition. I am pleased that you learned anything at all. I thought I might have to spend the next year undoing what Naram has done.”

Jashemi smiled, relieved.

“A leader commands respect because it is deserved and earned. I have spent my life striving for that goal, and I believe I have a household that would die for me if need be.”

“And a wife who is happy,” added Jashemi, thinking of his mother's flamboyance in comparison with Pela's mousy reticence. When his father did not answer, Jashemi glanced up at Tahmu sharply. Sorrow sat upon those elegant features.

“I have done what I could to make your mother happy,” Tahmu said softly. “But I do not know that I have succeeded.” He kicked Swift and cantered up to ride alongside his Second, Halid.

After the welcome-home feast, Jashemi went to his old quarters. They smelled fresh and clean, and he idly picked up a bright yellow cloved fruit tucked among the pillows and inhaled its spicy citrus scent. His servants undressed him; they seemed so pleased to do the task that he had not the heart to dismiss them as he was perfectly capable of removing his own clothing.

As he lay in bed, Jashemi's mind kept returning to that conversation. Even though they had had several more days' travel ahead of them, Tahmu had not initiated such a personal conversation again.

He thought of the girl he had glimpsed at the feast.

“I think I know why you cannot make Mother happy, Father,” he said softly. With a sigh, he rolled over in the soft sheets, closed his eyes, and slept.

 

The next morning, the men of the household were to go hunting. Jashemi's servants woke him well before dawn, presenting him with a hot cup of
eusho,
hard-boiled eggs, and fruit to break his fast. He sipped the beverage slowly, nibbled on the sweet
paraah,
and then headed down to visit the caverns. His servants offered to come with him, to wash his hair and scrub his back, but he ordered them to stay behind. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

He descended the stone steps quickly, his mind elsewhere, and before he knew it he was standing in the cavern, gazing at the underground pools.

A girl shot to the surface, expelling air with a gasp. Jashemi felt heat rise to his cheeks and he turned away.

“Oh!” cried the girl. “Oh, my lord, forgive me, I shall depart at once.” He heard her emerge from the pool, heard the splattering, slapping sounds of wet feet padding quickly over to the clothes basket.

“There is no need,” he told her, not turning around. “I will come back later.”

“No, my lord, no, you are the
khashimu.
I beg forgiveness; usually no one comes down here at this time….”

That's right,
Jashemi thought.
There are set times for servants and family.
The wet feet approached him and then went silent. Curious, he turned around to see the girl huddled at his feet. Her long hair was wet and tangled. Water dripped from it to pool on the stone. Odd, it seemed to him almost red in the torchlight. His heart leaped. It was the girl from the banquet….

“Look at me,” he said, his voice adopting the tone of command.

She did so, lifting her eyes to his. But apparently, she did not see in his face what he saw in hers. He smiled at her.

“What is your name?”

“Kevla, my lord.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Kevla. Servants have as much a right to enjoy the bounty of the House of Four Waters as I do. I've been so long away I've forgotten who bathes when.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “You are kind to say these words. May I have my lord's permission to leave?”

“Yes, Kevla. You may go.”

Jashemi turned to watch her as she scurried up the steps, her white rhia turning dark where it clung to her still-wet body, her little feet leaving clear footprints on the stone. He wanted to call her back, to talk to her, but he did not know what to say.

He bathed in silence, his thoughts even heavier now than they had been when he descended.

 

The morning air was cool on Jashemi's face as they rode their
sa'abahs
away from the House and toward the mountains. His heart lifted a little as he saw Mount Bari far in the distance. Naram lived well south of the House of Four Waters, too far away for Jashemi to see the sacred mountain, and he had missed it. He said a quick prayer to the Dragon who lived in its heart, and asked that it would be in a forgiving mood when he spoke to his father.

There were eight of them riding out to hunt today: Jashemi and Tahmu, Tahmu's Second, Halid, and five servants. Two would ride with them and assist in the hunt, dressing the animals that their lord and his son were certain to bring down, while the other three would set up a camp and have shade, cool drinks, and meals ready for the hunters during the heat of the day.

With the exception of Sahlik—who was the exception to so many things—Jashemi had never really paid much attention to his servants. He had never been unkind to them—his father would not permit abuse of servants and besides, it was not in Jashemi's nature to be cruel—but he had never truly thought of them as people, as he and his parents and Halid were people. Now he watched them from under long lashes, trying to remember their names, if they had families.

“You are quiet today, my son,” Tahmu said, bringing his mount alongside Jashemi's.

“I…do not have much to say, Father,” Jashemi replied. His face burned at the lie. He had quite a bit to say, but he wanted to talk privately. “Perhaps we can speak later…just the two of us?”

Tahmu's dark, wise eyes roamed his son's face. He sighed, looking somehow older than he had a moment ago.

“Of course. When the scouts leave to flush the quarry.”

Jashemi looked at Halid, who was riding not far away. Tahmu's Second was a fixture in Jashemi's life. He sat straight in the saddle, a mountain of a man, with a thick black beard and long, wavy hair that was presently covered by a white kerchief. If anything happened to Tahmu before Jashemi came of age to inherit, Halid would assume leadership of the Clan. Halid was as familiar a presence in Jashemi's life as his father, but this was not even for his ears. Jashemi would speak to Tahmu about something much more personal than leadership of the Clan.

Some time later, one of the scouts hurried back. “I have spotted a herd at the base of the mountains.”

“Excellent, Dumah. Send them round.” Tahmu licked a finger and lifted it in the air, testing the wind's direction. “We will fan out in case they bolt. Halid, circle around to the right. Jashemi, you and I will head south. Hua, hua!”

He kicked the
sa'abah
and the great beast lurched into action, lowering its head and flattening its ears. Its tail curled over its back, providing shade for both mount and rider. Jashemi followed his father's lead, kicking his own
sa'abah
and crouching on its long neck. Tahmu rode well out of hearing range of the others, and then brought his mount to a walk.

“Speak,” said Tahmu. “We have several minutes before the
liah
are flushed.”

Jashemi opened his mouth. He had been rehearsing this since last night. He would be reasonable, eloquent, calm. He would behave like an adult.

What tumbled from his lips was, “Kevla is your daughter! How could you betray Mother like this?” He clamped his mouth shut, cursing himself.

Strangely, Tahmu did not grow angry. The
khashim
sighed. “I am sorry you saw her. She ought to have been veiled.”

“That doesn't matter! Why did you—?”

Tahmu's head jerked around and he glared at his son. “Did you not notice that Kevla is older than you? I have never betrayed your mother, Jashemi, never!”

“But…she is so little….”