The knife was inches away from Jashemi’s face. He clutched the arm of his attacker, his muscles trembling from the effort. Slowly, the blade came closer to his cheek.
With a grunt, Jashemi closed his legs around the other man’s thigh and yanked. The knife disappeared from his vision as the man lost his balance. Smaller and lighter than his attacker, Jashemi twisted until he was atop the man. He still had the knife. Jashemi shoved his knee into the man’s stomach and was rewarded with a grunt. The thick fingers relaxed on the dagger’s hilt ever so slightly.
Jashemi clutched the hand that held the weapon. He squeezed, applying pressure exactly where Halid had taught him. The man beneath him yelped and his fingers flew open. The knife dropped to the earth.
Jashemi dove for it, rolling off his adversary as he felt the man move to seize him. He leaped lightly to his feet, knife at the ready, panting with exertion.
“Excellent!” cried Halid, pleasure on his sweaty face. “That’s the first time you’ve gotten the knife away from me. You’ve been paying attention.”
“You’re…a good teacher,” Jashemi gasped, grinning in return. He reached for his waterskin and took a long drink. Since he was eight years old, Jashemi had been training with Halid. Tahmu’s Second had taught the khashimu how to fight with dagger, scimitar, club, rock, and bare hands. Jashemi was a natural with the scimitar; it had been that weapon with which he had taken a life on his first raid. Dagger work was trickier, and he had been having difficulty with it for some time now. He was pleased that he had wrested the knife from Halid, for he knew the man did not coddle him. If he had gotten the knife, it was because, at least this time, he had bested Halid.
“The khashimu is gracious to say so,” said Halid. Then, with no warning, he kicked out and the knife went flying from Jashemi’s grasp. Jashemi made a face and rubbed his stinging hand.
“But the khashimu also needs to be more alert,” teased Halid, his eyes twinkling. He picked up the blade and in mock surprise said, “Why look! It seems I have the dagger again.”
Jashemi grinned, readying himself for the next round. “And I’ll take it from you again.”
They had been practicing for sometime, though, and Jashemi was growing tired. He did not get the knife, and instead wound up facedown in the sand, one arm yanked behind his back.
“I yield,” he said, and immediately the pressure relaxed. Halid extended a hand to help his young master to his feet.
Tahmu had been gone for a few days now. He was visiting another clan and had taken with him servants and higher-ranking caste men. He was on a diplomatic mission, not on a raid, and Halid had remained behind as he always did at such times. As Second, he went with his master into battle, but in peacetime, he made sure Tahmu did not slip behind in his duties at the House. He disliked this intensely and Jashemi did not blame him. Most of what Tahmu had to do seemed very boring to him, and those aspects of being khashim held little appeal.
Halid sniffed at his rhia and whistled. “I’m for the caverns. Cold water, sweet soap, and clean clothes are what I need.”
Jashemi wrinkled his nose as his own odor assaulted him. He, too, could use a bath. He wondered how the poorer clans, with no access to water, managed not to suffocate from the stench. As they walked back to the House, Halid briefly rested his hand on the boy’s slim shoulder.
“You did well today,” he said. “When you are a man full grown, you will be a warrior to be reckoned with.”
Jashemi’s smile faded a little. He hoped that by the time he was a man full grown, there would be less need for warriors and more need for good leaders.
He fought back a yawn. He had not been sleeping well; the dreams came every night. Most often it was the dream of the sad, beautiful woman looking out onto the roiling darkness and telling him not to forget. But there were other dreams, too. Other people, unlike any he had ever seen.
His thoughts were interrupted by a nudge from Halid. He looked where the Second pointed, and saw a hawk approaching the aerie.
The caverns would have to wait.
Tahmu returned home two days later, and his face was grim. He called for his son and Second even before he went in to bathe and refresh himself. Despite hours of hard riding, Tahmu insisted they all mount their sa’abahs. When they were well away from the House, Tahmu spoke.
“This morning, I received a falcon. The Star Clan and the Cattle Clan were supposed to ride together to raid the Horserider Clan. But the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan had made their own agreement. When the men of the Cattle Clan rode to battle alongside the Star Clan, they were shocked when their ally turned on them. They were downed by the joined forces of the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan. While they fought, another group of raiders from the Star Clan attacked their defenseless House.”
He looked first at Halid, then Jashemi. It was the first time Jashemi had been brought in on so important a decision, and he sat straight in his saddle.
“We will ride against the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan. I have sent falcons to the Sheep Clan and the Sa’abah Clan, who—”
“But we just raided the Sa’abah Clan!” blurted Jashemi before he could censor himself. Halid and Tahmu exchanged amused glances.
“My son does not yet appreciate the pervasive power of gray, even though he is a master of Shamizan,” Tahmu said, chuckling. “It is precisely because we so decimated the Sa’abah Clan that they will want to ally with us in this raid. They will at least be able to take many fine horses, and I have offered to return a few Sa’abahs to sweeten the drink.”
“Do not look chagrined, young lord,” Halid rumbled in his deep voice. “Politics is a delicate game, and there is never an absolute. Your father took many years to master it himself. I am lucky, I need only to follow his orders.”
“Dragon willing,” continued Tahmu, “you will have plenty of time to learn the subtler details. On this raid, stay close to me and Halid. We will include you in all the planning from this point onward.”
As before, the clans assembled. The Clan of Four Waters was so formidable that Jashemi knew it was likely safe from any raid. There had never been one in his lifetime, and unless the House suddenly and unexpectedly weakened, he knew there never would be. The Clan of Four Waters was the one every other clan wanted on their side, not the one anyone wanted to attack.
He felt his mother’s eyes upon him during this time, although she still barely spoke to him. When his blood-marked sister had left the House in her father’s arms, to be abandoned to the Great Dragon, she had taken with her Yeshi’s affection for her son. It still pained him, but at least he had Kevla.
His affection for his half sister deepened with each encounter. Jashemi wished desperately their father could acknowledge her, but that was impossible. A public revelation such as that would shake the Clan to its foundations, perhaps rendering it weak enough so that others would feel sufficiently emboldened to prey upon it.
He felt linked to her in a way he could not articulate. They would have been inseparable had they been true brother and sister. As it was, he craved her company like he craved water after a ride in the desert. Jashemi had known other families with many siblings. Some of them were close, but he had never seen anyone need a sister or brother the way he needed Kevla. Despite her sometimes stiff formality, she made him feel that she wanted his company for who he was, not what he was born to; she wanted to be with Jashemi, not “the young lord.” Had they shared a womb together, been born at the same moment, he could not possibly care for her more.
That he was unable to say goodbye to her because of Yeshi’s scrutiny was agony. But he dared not jeopardize her further. Kevla had already suffered because of his carelessness; better not to see her than to arouse Yeshi’s wrath a second time.
This time, the ride across the desert to the Horserider Clan’s House was much less exciting to Jashemi. He was only going to greet death again; to deal it out, to watch it claim friends and perhaps family. Without anticipation, the long procession seemed endless.
The first night out, weary with the long ride, Jashemi fell asleep quickly.
The man was tall. His face was the color of goat’s milk and his eyes the color of the sky. His hair was as yellow as the sands. Jashemi had never seen a man that looked like him. He was obviously of high rank, as he was clean-shaven. Strange clothing adorned him, heavy and furred, as if he were somehow cold. When he breathed out, a white smoke encircled his head. He looked terribly sad, as if all the tragedies of the world had fallen on those broad shoulders. But there were laugh lines around his strange-hued eyes, and Jashemi liked him at once.
Jashemi heard a soft, low growl. His heart almost jumpedinto his throat as he beheld a simmar curled like a tame beast at the man’s feet. But such a strange simmar…its coat was not brown, but blue, and there were black and white stripes that ran along its body. The man leaned on a staff, and reached to pet the magnificent cat, then turned and looked straight at Jashemi.
“You should remember,” the man said, in a rich, pleasant voice. “You are a—”
Jashemi came awake with a spasm. He wiped his sweat-sheened face with a hand that trembled.
Even here, out in the desert, the dreams would not leave him be.
Tahmu wondered what was wrong with his son.
He was not sleeping well, that much was apparent, but Tahmu wanted to know why. Jashemi had not displayed sleeplessness on the previous raid, a time when he well might have been expected to. What, then, was troubling his heir?
On the third day of the journey, Tahmu took the opportunity to ride close to his son. As they talked about ordinary things, he glanced around to make sure they were far enough away so as not to be overheard. Halid was riding behind them, talking to some of the men, but he was out of earshot.
Satisfied that their conversation would be private, Tahmu gently inquired, “I notice that you have not been sleeping well, Jashemi. Can you tell me what keeps you awake?”
Jashemi colored slightly and did not meet his father’s eyes. “It is nothing, Father. Merely the toll of the ride.”
Tahmu shook his head. “Do not lie to me, my son. It is not that.”
Jashemi was silent for a time. Finally, hesitantly, he said, “I have…been having troubling dreams.”
Tahmu nodded. Of course. The child was having nightmares. He was young yet, and this was only his second raid.
“That is nothing to be ashamed of,” he reassured his son. “You have not yet seen enough battle so that it does not intrude upon your dreams.”
To his surprise, Jashemi shook his kerchiefed head. “It is not dreams of battle that trouble me, Father.”
For no reason, fear began to creep through the khashim’s veins. Keeping his voice steady, he inquired, “Then what is the nature of these dreams?”
Again, Jashemi hesitated before replying. Then he spoke quickly, as if now that the decision to speak of the dreams had been made the words must be uttered all at once.
“I dreamed that I was a young beggar boy, standing beside a khashima whose finery outstrips even my mother’s. We stood watching a darkness hovering on the horizon, a darkness that was about to completely swallow us. She told me that it might all fall to me, that I must not forget. But I don’t know what it was I was to remember! And there is sometimes a man as pale as milk with hair the color of sand, and a blue striped simmar crouches at his feet. Sometimes there is a sad-looking young woman, and a man who loves to laugh, and a horse that is not a horse, and someone all in shadows—”
“Enough!” Tahmu spoke in a whisper, but the fierceness of his voice silenced Jashemi at once. The fear that had been threatening now descended full force. He felt cold, although the day was hot. “You will not speak of this again. These are no ordinary dreams.”
“That much I know. But—”
“They are sent by the kulis. The demons want to confuse you, to tempt you to stray from the ways of our people. Why else would you have visions of people so unlike us? And if you are having dreams sent by the kulis, and you speak of them as you have to me, you have marked yourself. You know what the punishment is for the kuli-cursed.”
He looked at his son, searching the boy’s eyes. “If this comes out, I can only do so much to protect you. I am bound to the ways of the Arukani.”
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.”