Tortall Read Online Free Page A

up at him. “What?” I asked. My lips felt stiff.
    “What do you wear under your dress?” he asked slowly, as if he knew I could only truly understand slow speech just then.
    “How dare you!” cried Mama.
    He put a hand on her shoulder. “Your daughter cannot fight in a dress,” he said kindly. “The women warriors of the Chelogu tribes fight entirely naked, in tribute to the Great Mother Goddess. I think your daughter may wear a
little
more than that, but a skirt will hobble her like a donkey.”
    “She
is
a donkey,” my mother whispered, her lips trembling. “A stupid donkey who does not understand what she has done here.”
    “She wears a breast band and a loincloth,” Iyaka said.
    “If they are snug, that is enough,” said the Falcon. He told me, “Can you remove the dress on your own?”
    I plucked at my sash until it came apart. Someone pulled it away, then Iyaka took the dress. I do not knowwhy Mama was so upset. I raced in no more than this at every festival.
    The Falcon crouched behind me and began to work the muscles around my collarbone with those iron fingers. They spread warmth and relaxation down into my arms. “What is your name, girl?” he asked me, his voice coming from behind me like a ghost’s.
    Ogin answered for me. “Kylaia,” he said, his eyes as over-bright as Mama’s. “She is Kylaia al Jmaa.”
    The Falcon picked up one of my hands and began to work on it. Across the arena, servants rubbed oil into Awochu’s shoulders. “Kylaia,” the Falcon said for my ears only, “who taught you to fight?”
    I blinked at him like a simpleton. “The ostriches,” I said. “The killers of the plain.”
    “She is mad,” Papa said abruptly. “I will make them stop it. I will fight him.”
    The Falcon said, “It is in the gods’ hands now, sir. I do not think they have chosen badly.”
    By the time the sun left us no shadow, the Falcon had loosened the muscles in my arms, back, legs, and feet. I was as relaxed as if I had just finished a quick sprint to get my blood warm.
    Someone struck a gong to signal it was time. I walked out to the center of the arena, ignoring the comments of the crowd. If they were properly bred, like the people in our village, they would no more laugh at a maiden dressed to show her body’s skills than they would laugh at a woman giving birth.
    Awochu met me at the center. Rusom’s shaman droned a prayer. I ignored him. My eyes watched Awochu. He would want to hit me hard and fast, to get it over with, so he could enjoy my sister’s shame. I had said my prayers. Now it was time for me to take down this hunter who had come into my territory in search of meat. He was stronger on his right side, the muscles of that arm clearer than the muscles of his left. He would try to grapple with me, as the young men did in unarmed combat. If he actually took hold of me, I would be in trouble. He was taller, stronger, heavier. He had fought in battle to earn his scars. He had fought with his hands.
    Now Rusom had something to say. He spoke, then stopped.
    Awochu shifted his feet for his balance.
    Someone struck a gong. Awochu lunged for me, his hands reaching. I pivoted to one side and ostrich-kicked him. The ball of my foot slammed just under his ribs with all the speed and strength I had built up. He gasped and turned to grab my kicking leg, but I was already behind him. He was so
slow
, or so I thought then. I did not understand that all those years of repetition had not just made me a fast runner. All that practice on wood and trees and stone, pretending they were living lions and leopards and wild dogs, had made me a fast kicker, a fast mover, a fast hitter. With my speed I also gained power behind each blow and kick.
    I drove the ball of my other foot into his right kidney. He staggered away from me and fell to his knees. I lunged forward and hammered my linked fists giraffe-style into theplace where his neck met his collarbone. He grabbed my hands as he wheezed from