On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [59]
“It…Jashemi, the dream could have been sent by the kulis!” she whispered fearfully. “I could be—”
He reached and placed a finger over her mouth, silencing her as he had done before, but very gently. “That you are a woman is no shame. That you have bad dreams is no surprise. Do not fear, Kevla. All will be well.”
As he lay in his bed after his midnight visit to Kevla, Jashemi felt no desire for sleep.
He blushed to think of Kevla speaking so freely of her bleeding. It was a deep mystery, one not discussed between men and women. Nonetheless, he was glad she had trusted him enough to tell him, so that he could assuage her fears of being sent away. Of much more concern to him were Kevla’s dreams. He had dismissed them lightly enough when they were talking; Kevla did not need to worry about such things when her waking life was sufficiently trying. But privately, they troubled him deeply.
Troubled him, because on the night when he first spilled his seed in his sleep, he too had begun having disturbing dreams.
Moonlight slanted in through the window. He stared at it, hoping that its brightness would keep him awake.
The brightness of the sun was not dimmed by the rolling, pulsating darkness that loomed on the horizon.
Not dimmed yet, at least.
Jashemi huddled in the cold, his filthy, ragged clothes offering little protection against the cutting knife-edge of the wind. Part of him questioned why he was wearing such poor clothing; another part felt very much at home in the vermin-ridden scraps.
He drew strength from the woman beside him. She was tall, and dressed as finely as he was poorly. Atop her head she wore a circlet of gold. Her hair was long and flew in the wind. When he had first met her it had been black as night; now, there were streaks of gray.
“It’s only been two weeks,” Jashemi said.
The dream unfurled as it always did. It never varied. The great lady whispered the words that always frightened and puzzled Jashemi when he awoke:
“You alone will remember…It may well fall to you…do not forget.”
And as always, Jashemi whispered as she held him tightly, “I won’t.”
And when he awoke at dawn, the brightness of sunlight replacing the subtler illumination of the moon, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu of the Clan of Four Waters asked himself:
“Do not forget what?”
Chapter Twelve
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.