On Fire’s Wings by Christie Golden Page A

anywhere outside the House or the healer’s hut. And you must wear it to all formal functions that Yeshi asks you to attend. A simple way to remember the rule is, the men of the household may see your face, but male strangers may not.”
    Kevla nodded her understanding. “Veils are pretty,” she said, somewhat wistfully.
    â€œYes, they are. Now, child. You should have something to eat. Then you will show me exactly what skills you know.”
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    They returned to the kitchens and Sahlik sat Kevla down beside one of the large tables. The girl sat as if glued to the bench, her thin body as upright as if she had a rake handle for a spine. Her eyes followed Sahlik’s every move. Sahlik assembled some food on a plate, selected a small cutting knife, and poured watered wine into a chipped ceramic goblet.
    Kevla’s eyes grew almost as large as the beaten metal plate. She hesitated.
    â€œGo on, you must be hungry,” Sahlik said. She was glad that this was a time when the normally bustling kitchens were quiet, although that was always a relative term.
    Delicately, Kevla plucked a few grapes and popped them into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, then looked at Sahlik for approval.
    â€œGood, good. Keep going.”
    She didn’t say anything as Kevla picked up a paraah. Kevla sniffed at it, then bit into it. She made a face, then quickly changed her expression as she tried to chew nonchalantly, as if the fruit were completely to her taste.
    Sahlik chuckled. She took the paraah and cut it up as she spoke. “Spit that out, Kevla. No, no, into your linen. The first things you ate were grapes. This is a paraah . You’ll need to either cut it up, like this, or peel it. Now, eat the inside, not the outside. Like this.”
    Kevla watched her intently, her small, freshly cleaned fingers holding a paraah segment daintily, then imitated Sahlik. A shy smile lit up her face as she chewed.
    Such a pretty thing, Sahlik thought, and wished sadly that Kevla had been born in the right bed.
    She took Kevla through holding and cutting meats, eating olives (she warned the girl ahead of time to be careful of the hard pit), sipping wine, and drinking soup. Each time, Kevla closed her eyes briefly, savoring each morsel. She ate much less than Sahlik had expected, and she told Kevla so.
    The girl ducked her head, grinning sheepishly. “The great khashim bought me a meat pie at the marketplace,” she said, as if she were imparting a secret.
    Sahlik threw back her head and laughed. “And here I thought you had a dainty appetite. You’ve surely had enough. So, now you know how to peel a paraah for Yeshi. Come to my quarters and let me see what else you know.”
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    Sahlik was pleasantly surprised. The child’s hands, though small yet, were skilled in the art of massage. Although her own locks kept escaping the braid, Kevla was able to work Sahlik’s graying, coarse hair into several different and attractive styles. Kevla could grind and mix henna, sing passably well (although all she knew were bawdy songs), and had a natural talent for dancing. Her little body moved with a lithe freedom and grace that Sahlik envied.
    At one point, ready to see what Kevla could do with henna, Sahlik slid back the sleeve of her blue and gold rhia to expose her upper arm. Kevla gasped.
    â€œWhat—oh. You have never seen a five-score before?”
    Kevla shook her head, staring at the four old scars that rose on Sahlik’s lower left arm. Gingerly, she reached to touch them, running a forefinger over their puckered, raised edges.
    â€œThere are only four,” she said.
    â€œYou can count. Good! How high?”
    â€œAs high as need be,” Kevla replied, still distracted by the four scars. “These are old.” She looked up at Sahlik. “Your service should be over. Why are you still here?”
    â€œIt is…a long story,” said Sahlik.
    Kevla readied her tools and