On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [5]
“Great khashim,” breathed Kevla, truly meaning the word now, “might a humble girl inquire as to your name?”
“I am Khashim Tahmu-kha-Rakyn, of the Clan of Four Waters.”
Kevla’s heart skipped a beat. The Four Waters Clan was the most powerful clan in Arukan. Their monopoly on the land in which two of the largest rivers of the country intersected granted them that status, and from all she had heard, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn was a worthy leader. What exactly Tahmu wanted from Keishla was still uncertain, but Kevla permitted herself to hope that it might bode well.
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