The Falcon's Heart Read online

  The Falcon’s Heart

  By

  Diana Green

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Falcon’s Heart

  Copyright © 2020 Diana Green

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher.

  BIRCH LEAF PRESS

  ISBN 978-1-7352846-0-6 (Ebook Edition)

  ISBN 978-1-7352846-1-3 (Paperback Edition)

  Cover Design by Diana Green

  Prologue

  Saba scooped up the limp body of Neppo, her gray kitten, cradling him against her chest. A faint heartbeat still pulsed through the small form, though blood seeped from multiple bite wounds, wetting his fur and dripping onto Saba’s silk tunic. Shudders of rage and panic swept through the girl. Never before had she felt such powerful emotions or realized she hated her older brother, Fahir.

  Across the shaded courtyard the prince laughed, leading his hunting hound away. The beast snapped and barked, Neppo’s blood crimson on its muzzle. Neither boy nor dog belonged here, in the women’s quarters. This was all wrong. Terribly wrong!

  An anguished cry escaped Saba’s throat, and she started to run. Tears blurred her vision as she sprinted through the seraglio, oblivious to the startled stares of harem women—a few of whom called for her to stop or slow down. Even at the tender age of seven, a pasha’s daughter should know better. Such wild behavior was unseemly.

  Saba couldn’t hear them over the roar in her ears and the pounding of her heart. She kicked off her cumbersome jeweled sandals, forcing an even greater burst of speed from her thin legs. Neppo barely held onto life. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

  “Mari!” Saba shouted, dashing down a long marble colonnade. “Mari. I need you!”

  Soon she left behind the sparkling fountains, perfumed gardens, and hushed luxury of the women’s quarters. Her bare feet pounded over hard packed dirt as she ran to the palace kitchens, dodging slaves loaded with platters for the pasha’s dinner. Just ahead, she spotted the familiar figure of Mari, standing in the shade of a fig tree talking with another servant of the harem.

  “Mari!” Saba rushed up. “Fahir’s hound attacked Neppo. You’ve got to help!” Arms trembling, she held out the mauled kitten.

  The other servant backed away. “So much blood, Amira! You’ll ruin your pretty clothes.” She used the formal Alteran title, Amira, when speaking to Saba, bowing her head and continuing to retreat. Clearly the woman wanted no part in whatever trouble was brewing.

  Saba ignored her hasty departure, pressing the kitten into Mari’s hands. “Please heal him.” Fresh tears slicked her cheeks. “Please!”

  The older woman nodded, face grim. “Let’s get out of sight, quickly, before we draw more attention.” Her husky voice remained low, just loud enough for Saba to hear. “This must be a secret business, you know.”

  “I know, Mari.”

  All women were forbidden the use of magic, as were most men. Only the elite Conclave of Sorcerers held that privilege, though few of them remained in the current times. The law defined any magic outside the Conclave as degenerate witchcraft—punishable by twenty lashes, imprisonment, or even death by fire, depending on the severity of the offense.

  Mari had emphasized the danger many times. Yet she continued to work small magic, here and there, teaching Saba along the way. It was a precious secret, binding the servant and child together as surely as their shared affection.

  Once they entered Saba’s chamber, Mari closed the door, muttering a hasty charm to dissuade others from coming in. There were no locks allowed in the seraglio. After all, what privacy could the wives, concubines, and children of the pasha expect? Every one of them was his property, like the horses in the royal stable.

  Mari pulled a satchel of magical implements and ingredients from under her sleeping pad in the back corner of the room, hurriedly finding the items needed. Saba watched, panic gradually fading. If anyone could save Neppo, Mari could.

  How many times had her beloved servant worked miracles, healing scraped knees with a word or mending broken pottery with a wave of the hand? Her presence offered great comfort, for no one else cared about Saba’s happiness. Certainly not her mother—the exquisite and unapproachable Alika Inisari—honored as first wife, since bearing the pasha’s oldest son and heir, Fahir.

  Saba remained below her parents’ notice. On occasions when the pasha called his ever-increasing family to gather, Fahir and the other princes received most attention. A passing comment might be made about Saba’s resemblance to her mother and the likelihood she would grow into a beauty. Beyond that, she held minimal importance.

  Daughters were destined for marriage barter, to gain their fathers social or political advantage through strategic alliances. For this a pretty face was certainly desirable, as were talents such as singing and dance. A sweet temperament could also prove valuable, but quiet obedience sufficed. Highborn women were merely pets, lovely amusements acquired for the pleasure and pride of their husbands.

  At seven, Saba already grasped this fact. Her unique nature, thoughts, emotions, and dreams, were of little interest to anyone, except Mari—her one true friend. How alone she would have felt without that singular connection.

  “I’ll need time to prepare the spell,” Mari explained, dark eyes serious. “You must use your empathic powers to connect with Neppo. Keep his spirit from leaving us, until I can repair the wounds.” She tucked a strand of graying hair behind her ear and began forming a circle of fine red powder on the floor. “Do as I taught you, when we practiced calling birds in the garden. Reach out and draw Neppo’s spirit near.”

  Saba dragged her eyes away from Mari, who already glowed with faint magical light. Instead she focused on Neppo, barely breathing in her hands. The kitten’s life force ebbed low, his body no longer warm to touch.

  “Stay with me,” Saba murmured, stroking a hand gently across his gray fur. She closed her eyes, seeking the spark of Neppo’s spirit. It flickered, fragile as a candle flame, every moment drifting farther into the darkness, leaving this world.

  “Little friend,” she crooned, reaching out, extending her own spirit energy around the kitten’s. All her concentration centered on reassuring, protecting, and nourishing his precious light. “I am here with you. Stay close, little one. I will watch over you.”

  Love welled up in Saba, flooding her hands with warmth, surrounding Neppo’s body in healing energy. His spirit responded, brightening, giving her hope. If he could just hold on a few more moments, Mari would be ready.

  A loud crash shattered the silence, followed by men shouting. Saba’s eyes flew open as Salahm Nour—senior priest of the palace temple—burst into the room. Hard on his heels came three armed guards and the pasha’s red-faced steward.

  Mari sprang up from where she knelt on the floor, raising a hand as if to ward off the intruders. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Speak no foul spells,” boomed Salahm Nour, his voice pitched to carry across a temple courtyard rather than a sleeping chamber. His right hand clasped the holy symbol of an arrow, hanging on a gold chain around his neck. “Resistance will worsen your punishment.”

  “What have you done, woman?” Disgust colored the steward’s words as he stepped around the priest, eyeing the scattered remains of Mari’s magic circle. “I trusted you with caring for Amira Saba, and this is how you repay me? I’ll have you whipped within an inch of your life!”

  “No!” Saba finally
found her voice. “Mari only meant to save my kitten. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Foolish child,” barked the priest, turning on her. “You know nothing of these matters. Already your soul may be stained by her unnatural practices. We shall have to see you purified.”

  “But her magic is good!” Saba insisted, frightened by the deep sadness in Mari’s eyes. As the guards bound her arms, she seemed to be saying a silent goodbye, a single tear sliding down her weathered cheek.

  “A witch’s magic is never good.” Salahm Nour loomed over Saba, face grim. “Now put that wretched animal down.”

  She clutched Neppo tighter, but the priest swung his fist, knocking the kitten from her hands. When Saba moved to retrieve it, Salahm Nour grabbed her by the shoulders, his bony fingers digging into her flesh as she struggled.

  “Be wise, dear one,” Mari warned, eyes flashing with concern. “You must go on alone, now. Don’t let them—” Her words broke off as the steward struck her hard across the face.

  Saba cried out, lunging toward her friend, but the priest’s grip couldn’t be broken. He clamped a hand over her mouth, keeping her quiet as the guards hauled Mari from the chamber. For a second, she considered biting him, but all the fight had gone out of her. How could a little girl prevail against the senior priest, steward, and three guards?

  “You would do well to pray for cleansing,” Salahm Nour admonished. “Hopefully the corruption has not spread too deep. But you must never tamper with magic again. That woman is an evil which must be purged from the palace. You will not think or speak of her from this day forward. Understand?”

  When Saba gave no response, he shook her. “You will not speak of the witch again. Is that clear?” She nodded, simply to stop him talking. A terrible emptiness filled her, gray as fog and cold as death. Mari would be beaten. And she would be gone. Forever.

  With a flash of insight beyond her years, Saba understood the mauling of Neppo had been no random accident. The guards’ well-timed arrival was too great a coincidence. Someone in the palace must have suspected Mari and wanted her removed. They set this sequence of events in motion, and Saba had played right into their hands.

  In the end, Mari’s pain and banishment were her fault. That fact burned like acid. She couldn’t do a thing to take it back or change what happened. But from now on, she must always remember this lesson. The palace was a dangerous place. Mari had tried to warn her, and now Saba saw it for herself. She would never again be entirely a child.

  Chapter One

  Twelve years later…

  Jehan touched the unfamiliar beard covering her chin, hoping Mari’s potion of magical disguise held true. The fate of outlaws captured in Tarjene was all too clear. Before her stood the massive palace gates, gilded in gold, with severed heads of renegades and criminals filling carved niches along both sides. Above, more heads adorned spikes, their rotting eyes staring blindly down on all who entered.

  “I’m not keen to join them,” Makeem muttered, rubbing an old scar in the leathery skin of his neck. “I like my head firmly attached.”

  “And so it will stay,” Jehan assured, as they passed through the gates at the back of Lord Gadi’s entourage. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “We’re just here to scout…no needless risk taking, I swear.”

  Makeem snorted. “That’ll be the day. We generally don’t agree on what constitutes needless risk.”

  “And yet you’re still alive to grumble about it. I must be doing something right.” She shot him a cocky grin, partly to hide her own nerves.

  Infiltrating the palace might not be the most cautious strategy, but what alternative did she have? Her cousin Basim had recently been caught and sentenced for execution—his death an outcome she refused to accept. They’d grown up together, scrabbling for survival side by side, watching each other’s backs when no one else cared. History and blood bound them together, far too much to walk away and abandon him.

  Fortunately, a golden opportunity presented itself. The pasha had finally chosen to present his eldest daughter, Amira Saba, for marriage, and eager suitors were arriving from near and far, crowding the palace with their retinues. Who would notice two more guests milling about with the rest?

  Lord Gadi had long owed Jehan a favor, for the help she gave him one summer night, in a seedy district of the city. She’d been only a scrawny adolescent at the time, but her street smarts saved Gadi’s reputation and possibly his life. She had waited years for a perfect moment to collect the debt. Now was certainly that time.

  As members of Lord Gadi’s party, she and Makeem gained access to large sections of the palace. The pasha’s private chambers and women’s quarters remained out of bounds, but that mattered little. What they needed most was information about the prison, its layout and security. A day or two should be adequate to gather details and form a rescue plan. She simply needed her disguise to last until they departed.

  Mari had offered Jehan a choice of potions. One could transform her into an entirely different person, but the effect might wear off overnight. Or she could change in more subtle ways, keeping her basic features but gaining a beard, bushy eyebrows, and blockier hands, with several days before the magic dissipated.

  The latter option seemed best. If prison security proved too tight for a rescue attempt, Jehan planned on taking a hostage to trade for Basim’s life. In that case, she and Makeem might need to stay in the palace longer, to pinpoint a target and orchestrate the abduction.

  Thankfully, Jehan didn’t require much assistance passing for a man. She’d never been traditionally feminine in looks or behavior, and growing up an orphan hardened her. Since taking leadership of a band of outlaws, her confidence had only increased, so that she moved and spoke with authority. No one could mistake her for a properly demure woman.

  Within the outer palace walls lay a succession of courtyards. Some appeared plain and functional, with storerooms, workshops, kitchens, and infirmary. In contrast, the largest courtyard housed a grand temple built of marble, its lofty towers shining in the afternoon sun. On all four sides, extravagant fountains gushed with crystal clear water, sending up sparkling spray, wasting the desert’s precious lifeblood.

  Beyond the temple lay a square edged with cypress trees. This contained a colorful aviary and menagerie of wild animals. Jehan noticed bones resting in the wolves’ and lions’ cages, bloodstains still marking the hard packed ground. She’d heard the pasha sometimes fed law breakers to his assorted beasts. What a brutal bastard! How could such a man be given power of life and death over thousands?

  “I wonder what that poor sod was punished for,” Makeem said, indicating another cage, where a hyena gnawed on the remains of a hand, chopped at the wrist.

  “Who knows?” Jehan scowled, looking away. “Probably stole a loaf of bread or spilled coffee on the pasha’s robe. I doubt they deserved to lose a hand for it.”

  “We’d better tread carefully, while we’re here,” Makeem rolled his bull-like shoulders, obviously tense. “I don’t see us getting much justice, if we put a foot wrong.”

  “I agree.”

  Silence fell between them, as the weight of what they were attempting sank in. Armed guards stood at arched entrances to every courtyard, watching the passing guests with grim attention. More patrolled the outer walls and paced the crenelated rooftops of surrounding buildings. On this mission, there could be no room for error.

  “His Excellency, Pasha Asab Kah Akbah calls you to gather in the great hall.” A voice boomed above the heads of the guests. “The presentation will begin soon.”

  Jehan strained to see who spoke, but her height proved insufficient for a view over the throng of men. Steadily, the crowd moved forward, guests passing beyond filigreed doors to enter an enormous chamber. Within, intricate tile work of blue, ivory, and gold covered the floor, spiraling up pillars, and radiating into spectacular mosaics across the ceiling.

  Tiers rose evenly around the sides of the hall, leaving an oval at the lowe
st level in the center. At the far end stood a dais, set with a splendid throne-like chair, decked out in jewels and azure velvet. Clearly Pasha Asab Kah Akbah liked to fashion himself after the Most Exalted Padishah, ruler of all Altera. Perhaps kingship over a single province wasn’t the extent of Asab’s aspirations.

  The gold and copper mines of Tarjene made it one of the wealthiest and most influential regions of Altera, explaining the swarm of arriving suitors. Gaining this particular pasha as a father in law would seem a worthy goal. In addition, Amira Saba was said to be a dancer of uncommon skill, with face and form lovelier than any flower. What nobleman wouldn’t covet such a prize for his harem?

  Jehan followed Lord Gadi’s retinue as they progressed up the left side of the chamber, finding a prime spot along the second tier. From here, they could enjoy an excellent view of the pasha’s arrival and, more importantly, his daughter’s presentation. A low murmur of conversation rippled through the hall as men shifted impatiently, eager for the event to begin.

  “I wonder why the pasha waited so long to offer her.” A thin nobleman wearing silver brocade robes spoke, leaning closer to his neighbor’s ear. “My sisters were each presented the day they turned fifteen…as is the usual practice.”

  “I’m sure Asab has his reasons.” The second man was shorter and stouter, his hair braided with lapis beads. “Remember his father began as a general, who rose to pasha through force of deeds. He was a clever old bastard, and his son is just as shrewd.”

  Jehan filtered out the surrounding noise, focusing on this conversation between the two men in front of her. Perhaps she could learn something useful from their gossip.

  “But Amira Saba is almost twenty.” The man in silver shook his head. “If the pasha delayed much more, she’d be past her prime.”