On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [73]
Finally, the head covering, light as a falcon’s feather. He wound its length around his head, tucking it in here, letting it trail there.
“I am a man. If the Dragon wills, my thoughts will be always with the Clan of Four Waters.”
The ritual calmed him and redirected his mind. This was more than a ruse to discover the identity of Yeshi’s lover. This was the day he became a man, with all the joys, burdens, privileges and sorrows it entailed.
He had come down the stairs as a youth. He eyed them now as they stretched upward toward the surface. Jashemi straightened. He recalled all the times he had come here as a boy, most poignantly when he had wept in Kevla’s arms for both of the sisters whom he could never acknowledge. He looked down at his body, clad in gleaming white fabric. He beheld muscular thighs, a flat belly, powerful chest and arms. He touched a face that needed shaving to be smooth with hands that had dealt lethal blows.
Not the body of a boy, not anymore.
Again, Jashemi looked at the steps. Deliberately, he strode toward them, feeling the muscles work as he moved, taking each step with the full inner knowledge that at the top of the stairs, where a boy had descended, a man would emerge.
The blast of the shakaal startled Kevla so much that she nicked her hand. She jumped and brought the injured finger to her mouth.
“It is time to assemble,” Sahlik said to her servants. “Kevla, are you all right? Let me see the cut.”
“It is nothing,” Kevla said, extending her finger so that Sahlik could examine the thin slice. It was already closing. “Sahlik, I will stay and watch the stews and keep preparing for the feast.”
Sahlik searched her brown eyes. “You are a member of the Clan of Four Waters just as much as any of us, child. You will need to honor the future khashim.”
Kevla wished she could tell Sahlik the truth, but both she and Jashemi had felt it was risky. Even Sahlik might quail at the thought of a serving girl who could scry in the fire.
“I am Bai-sha,” she said bluntly. “I will be among the last to honor the young master.”
Sahlik’s face softened. “You will be among the last, that is true.” She glanced over at the bubbling pot and pursed her lips. “It will be many hours before I can return,” she said thoughtfully. “If you would stay for a while and then come out, that would be a great help.”
“I am happy to serve,” Kevla murmured. Sahlik eyed her curiously for a moment, then left to join the others.
When she was certain she was alone, Kevla went to one of the fireplaces. Quickly laying a few sandcattle cakes in it, she said, “Burn.” The fire appeared at once, blazing brightly.
Kevla swallowed. She had never tried this before. Her voice quavering slightly, she said, “Burn a little brighter.”
The fire did so, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She had half feared she would burn the kitchen down, but while this size was far too large to cook on, it served Kevla’s purpose well.
She seated herself in front of the fire, and watched it intently.
The raised dais had been built only a few days ago, but was as sturdy as if it were a permanent structure. Jashemi sat alone at the top; his father stood at the bottom of the wooden stairs. Tomorrow, they would resume their traditional roles, but today, Jashemi was the center of attention and honor, and even Tahmu deferred to him as the “future” khashim.
Jashemi looked out at the sea of faces, all turned expectantly toward him, and gripped the arms of his chair tightly to calm himself. He knew his father was a good leader. He had seen Tahmu hold his own in both battle and debate, but now his throat was dry and he wondered how Tahmu projected calm and confidence when faced with a crowd of this size. Thank the Great Dragon, Jashemi would not have to say anything, but simply sitting in the chair was intimidating enough.
He waited for the signal, one long blast from the shakaal followed by three shorter blasts. He swallowed hard, and then lifted his hand. The rite had begun.
Tahmu, as the highest-ranking member of the Clan, was the first