Markswoman Page 10

  Not at this price.

  “Poor Kyra,” said Tamsyn. “It must be difficult to lose a mother for the second time in your life. I forgive you your weakness. Tomorrow I will not be so kind.”

  “Shirin Mam was kind to you, was she not?” said Kyra, guilt and rage driving away the last of her caution. “Did she regret it in the end?”

  Tamsyn took one step forward and grabbed Kyra’s hair, forcing her head back. “Be careful, little deer,” she whispered, her voice laced with the Inner Speech. “Apologize, before I make you regret your rudeness.”

  Kyra’s throat tightened with fear. She tried to stop the words, but they tumbled out anyway. “I’m sorry, Elder.”

  Tamsyn’s teeth flashed. She let go Kyra’s hair and Kyra stumbled back, her scalp stinging.

  The gong boomed: once, twice, thrice.

  “Time to build the pyre,” said Tamsyn calmly, as if nothing had happened. “The burning of the old, the anointing of the new.” She inhaled deeply. “I can smell it already.”

  She turned and left, her black robe swirling behind her. Kyra followed, her feet like lead. Keep walking, she told herself. Do what you must.

  Chapter 10

  The Blade of Shirin Mam

  They worked by firelight, building the pyre on a metal grate that faced the wind. The sacred wood of the chenar tree mixed with the sweet wood of cinnamon; strong and bittersweet would be the burn.

  Kyra bent low as she dragged another heavy stake of wood from the pile to the pyre. Her back throbbed and her eyes burned. Drag, heave, shove the stake into place. Do it again. And again. She welcomed the ache in her body, the rawness of her palms, the sweat trickling down her forehead. It helped keep her mind empty, helped deflect the probing tendrils of Tamsyn’s gaze.

  She looked up once and caught Elena’s eye, and wished she hadn’t. Elena’s face was strange in the flickering firelight; they all were. A sense of unreality took hold of her. Who were these hollow-eyed women and what was she doing with them?

  A touch of red lit the eastern sky. “Fifteen minutes,” Navroz announced, her voice cutting through the clearing. “We must light the pyre at dawn to release Shirin Mam to the stars.”

  Kyra stopped in her tracks; she had been on her way to the store for more wood, but the stacks were four feet high now. Shirin Mam was tiny. She would not need so much wood to burn. Then again, a long and dignified ceremony was vital; the last rites were the last chance to say goodbye.

  The Markswomen went back into the cavern, their footsteps slow and heavy. Kyra lingered behind until she was sure Nineth and Elena had gone in; she didn’t want to talk to them yet.

  When she went inside at last, the elders were standing next to the slab, speaking of Shirin Mam. The others clustered in a half-circle, their hands folded, their eyes lowered.

  “Shirin and I were novices together,” said Mumuksu, so soft that Kyra had to strain to hear her words. “We shared a cell and we shared every secret. I helped her reach the third level of the meditative trance, and she helped me learn how to fight. She was my dearest friend. The day she became the Mahimata and we swore our oaths to her, the gong sounded of itself, so loud that it drove us out of the cavern. That had never happened before, and it will never happen again.” She stopped, and looked at Felda.

  Felda cleared her throat. “What can I say? Words cannot describe how I feel,” she said, her gruff voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “Shirin Mam is—was—the most accomplished leader our Order has seen in centuries. With everything else she did, she did not forget the importance of mathematics, and helped me acquire several tomes that were critical in the understanding of doors. She brought the light of knowledge and wisdom wherever she went. I will miss her, as I know you will too.”

  Felda stopped speaking, and everyone turned to Chintil.

  But Chintil shook her head, unable to speak, and at last it was Tamsyn who spoke, her voice like honey. “I have Shirin Mam to thank for everything that I am today,” she said. “I was just a poor orphan begging on the streets of Tashkent when she took me into her protection. She was on a mission, but she made time to test me, and decided I was worth bringing back to the caves of Kali. If I am alive today, it is because of her.”

  And yet, thought Kyra, this is how you chose to repay her. She had to use every ounce of self-control not to scream at the devious woman standing there with big, sad eyes, as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment.

  “It is time,” said Navroz. “We must now carry Shirin Mam to the pyre.”

  Felda, Mumuksu, and Chintil turned toward the slab. But before the elders could do more than lay their hands on the body, Tamsyn’s voice rang out, sharp and clear: “Wait. I claim Shirin Mam’s katari.”

  A collective gasp rose from the Markswomen. Some murmured to each other.

  The fog of unreality surrounding Kyra lifted. It was like waking from a nightmare only to discover that the nightmare was real. She stared at Tamsyn, shocked. How dare she claim the ancient weapon that she knew should go into the fire with Shirin Mam? Not that kataris could be destroyed by fire, of course, but it was an essential last step in the relationship between a Markswoman and her blade. Just as katari-mu-dai was the moment of bonding, placing the katari in the pyre was the moment of release; it unraveled the bond and freed the soul. Afterward, the katari was placed with the ashes in an urn and taken to the funerary chamber, a vast cavern two levels below the main living area.

  Kyra took an involuntary step toward the body, as if she could somehow stop Tamsyn. Suddenly, she remembered Shirin Mam’s note. When in doubt, ask my katari where to go.

  Tamsyn smiled, her dark eyes challenging them all. “Yes, the katari is usually consigned to the flames with a Markswoman’s body and placed with the ashes in the sacred urn. But consider this. Unlike the rest of us, Shirin Mam inherited her katari from the previous Mahimata’s grandaunt. Before that, we do not know what its history might be. It could be as old as the Order itself. It is a powerful weapon and it would be wrong to relinquish it, especially now that Shirin Mam is gone. We need all her guidance and strength.”

  Her words were so reasonable, her voice strong and sincere. Kyra could see the other Markswomen nodding, their faces clear of the frowns that had been there a minute earlier. Would no one see through Tamsyn and challenge her?

  Navroz spoke, her voice dry and cool: “Shirin Mam’s guidance and strength come to us from her teachings, not from her katari.”

  Tamsyn’s eyes flickered. “Eldest, you speak well. I too have the teachings of Shirin Mam to thank for my own learning. Nevertheless, I claim the katari. As the soon-to-be-appointed Mahimata, I have the best interests of the Order at heart.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this in closed council,” said Navroz.

  Tamsyn smiled. “There is no time. The fire and the closing of the doors wait for no one.” She glided forward and reached down to pluck the katari from Shirin Mam’s breast.

  Kyra clenched her fists, wondering how to stop her. But before she could move, Tamsyn sprang back with a shriek of pain. She cradled her right hand in her left, her face a mask of rage. The katari had bitten her. Kyra could have sung for joy. But the reprieve did not last long. Tamsyn swung around and blasted the Markswomen with the Inner Speech:

  “Who laid the word of power on the katari? Who thwarts me in this wicked manner? Confess or you shall pay the price.”

  The command rolled into Kyra’s head. She had an absurd desire to shout, It wasn’t me, Tamsyn. The novices fell to their knees; Elena and Nineth clung to each other. Even the older Markswomen looked shaken. Anger did not seem to dull Tamsyn’s skills, as Shirin Mam had warned, but to sharpen them.

  Navroz answered, her voice as calm as ever, “It is no word of power and there is no call for you to resort to the Inner Speech, Tamsyn. A part of us dwells in our blades, as you are well aware. Perhaps the part of Shirin Mam that still remains in her katari wishes not to be touched.”

  “Is that so,�
� said Tamsyn, her words falling like bits of ice on a cold winter night. “In that case Shirin Mam is not ready to meet the Fire God, for how can we carry her to the pyre without touching her? She must lie here until the katari yields itself to me.”

  “But Shirin Mam must meet Agni at dawn,” said Chintil, alarmed. “Else the door to the stars remains forever closed to her.”

  “It is as you say,” said Tamsyn, “but we must obey Shirin Mam’s wishes. She does not wish to be disturbed.”

  Kyra blurted out, “That is not true.”

  “What?” Tamsyn snared Kyra with her gaze. “Who speaks so boldly among the elders? Is it the little deer?”

  Kyra’s throat was so dry she could barely continue. But there was no help for it. She couldn’t let Tamsyn take Shirin Mam’s blade, not when the Mahimata herself had told her that she would need it. She swallowed and continued, “It is not true that Shirin Mam does not wish to be touched. I will prove it to you. I will take her katari myself.”

  She walked up to the slab before she could lose her momentary courage, before Tamsyn could recover from her surprise, and before any of the elders could command her to stop. She reached over Shirin Mam, heart thudding. Oh, Kali, help me now, or all is lost for your disciple.

  Then the katari was in her hands, so quick and smooth that it seemed to come there of its own accord. Kyra’s palm tingled and confidence rushed through her blood. She held Shirin Mam’s katari aloft so that everyone could see it, the beauty of the transparent blade that reflected the purity and power of Shirin Mam’s soul.

  She did not know how long she stood there gazing at the blade, surrounded by the awestruck silence of her companions. Perhaps she would not have seen Tamsyn gliding toward her if someone—Nineth, perhaps—had not coughed in warning.

  Kyra swung around to face Tamsyn. The elder stopped a few feet away, her eyes slits of hatred, her lips curved in that smile that seemed to say, How delicious, I will eat you now.

  But Kyra was not afraid of her, not while she held Shirin Mam’s katari in her hands. And Tamsyn knew it.

  “See, Elder?” said Kyra. “Shirin Mam does want to go into the fire. But she didn’t want you to have two weapons. Two weapons would divide your power and put your soul in danger. Even in death, Shirin Mam teaches us something.”

  The four other elders murmured their approval.

  “How right you are, little deer,” said Tamsyn sweetly. “Certainly, the wisdom of our respected teacher cannot be doubted. You have taught me a good lesson. Now put the katari back where it belongs and let us proceed immediately with the last rite.”

  Kyra hesitated, caught in the trap of her own cleverness. If she put the katari back, she would be plain Kyra again, with none of the protection and strength that Shirin Mam’s weapon offered. In Shirin Mam’s katari lay centuries of power—she had sensed it at once.

  Perhaps Tamsyn had killed Shirin Mam not only to take her place, but also to take her katari. If Tamsyn could not obtain this ancient weapon herself, she would want it out of Kyra’s reach. And once that happened, she would certainly punish Kyra for daring to challenge her—and Kyra stood no chance against the deadly Hand of Kali.

  “Well, Kyra?” Tamsyn tapped her foot as if she wished to delay the last rite no longer. “What are you waiting for?”

  For inspiration, thought Kyra. She gazed at the blade in her hand. “I think,” she said slowly, hoping that it would not appear as if she was making things up on the spur of the moment, “Shirin Mam must want me to be the guardian of her katari. Why else would she let me pick it up?” Her voice grew stronger. “Perhaps the katari is intended for someone who is not yet known to us? Yes, that must be it. The katari comes to me from Shirin Mam to protect as the inheritance of someone who is yet to be revealed.”

  “Kyra,” said Navroz, her voice sharp. “Enough. Please return the katari so we can proceed.”

  Felda, Chintil, and Mumuksu were staring at Kyra, their faces taut with worry.

  Tamsyn was clapping her hands, laughing. It was not a pleasant sound. “That is a good story, little deer. Except that it is quite untrue. If Shirin Mam wanted to pass on her katari to someone else, she would have told us years ago.” A note of command entered her voice. “Put the katari back, Kyra. It is I, the new Mahimata, who tells you this.”

  Kyra bowed. “I am sorry, Elder, but the old Mahimata tells me something else. It would be disastrous for the Order to ignore the voice that comes from her katari. In fact, the katari tells me that I must leave at once to search for its true successor.”

  Tamsyn tried to stop her, as Kyra had known she would, summoning all her mental forces against her. Without the protection of Shirin Mam’s katari, Kyra would have crumpled senseless to the floor. But the katari acted like a shield, bathing her in its silver light, and Tamsyn could not come near her, mentally or physically. The other Markswomen stood back as Kyra strode from the cavern. She could sense the elation of some of her companions, the dismay of the others. Most of all, she could sense Tamsyn’s fury. It was a monster, straining against the fraying leash of the rules of the Order, hungry for revenge. What would it feed on in her absence?

  Chapter 11

  A New Assignment

  In the middle of the Khur camp was an open, circular space surrounded by tents, and it was here that Ishtul, the blademaster of Khur, liked to hold his class. The sand was hard-packed by decades of use, and ideal for fighting.

  It was midmorning and the sun beat down on the heads of the Marksmen who clustered around the elder, awaiting instructions. Rustan stood to one side, barefooted and loose-robed, as they all were for the combat class. In the last year, Ishtul had begun to treat him more as an assistant than as a pupil, and usually Rustan loved this class more than any other.

  But not today. Maybe not ever again. His katari was tainted, and so was he.

  “Pair up for katari duel,” barked Ishtul. “Shurik, you will duel Rustan. Try to stay upright for more than a minute.”

  Inwardly, Rustan groaned. Shurik was his closest friend in the Order, despite the three-year age gap. He had shared a tent with Shurik when the boy first arrived in the Order, and mentored him as a novice. Now, he was the person Rustan wanted to avoid the most. Shurik could sense, even if the other Marksmen couldn’t, that something was wrong with Rustan.

  Shurik sauntered over as the others fell into pairs and Ishtul circled them, shouting instructions and curses.

  “Why the long face?” He grinned. “Afraid I’ll finally beat you and take your place as Ishtul’s favorite?”

  Despite himself, Rustan laughed. The dour, hook-nosed blademaster of Khur never minced words about Shurik’s abilities—or rather, his lack of them. “Jests will not win you a duel,” he said.

  Shurik flexed his muscles. “Worth trying. Anyway, I think you’re slipping. Standing there so slack and glum, I could have stabbed you three times by now.”

  “Three times?” Rustan shook his head. Shurik was gifted in the Mental Arts—more so than perhaps anyone in the Order. But combat was not his strongest suit. Rustan withdrew his katari and held it in both hands, one on the grip and the other on the glowing blade. “Talk less and concentrate. If you can but touch me with your blade, I will concede.”

  Shurik did not have to be told twice. He gripped his katari in his right hand and lunged, aiming for a downward diagonal stab at Rustan’s shoulder.

  Rustan danced away and blocked Shurik’s blade with his own, striking upward so that sparks flew from both kataris. The force of the clashing blades vibrated through his wrist and down his forearm. Shurik must have felt it too; his face spasmed with pain and he staggered back. Usually, Rustan would have waited for him to recover, but he wanted to end this particular bout. He dove forward and twisted Shurik’s blade arm back until he had forced him to his knees.

  “Yield,” he said, holding Shurik down with his own right knee pressed into his back, and his blade on Shurik’s neck.

  “Never,” gasped Shurik. “That
was less than half a minute. Kill me now, before Ishtul does.”

  Sure enough, the elder stalked up to them, his face like thunder. “Abysmal,” he growled. “Must I send you to train with the apprentices?”

  Rustan released Shurik and stepped back. Shurik rose and hung his head, trying to look ashamed. But since it was something Ishtul threatened him with in every other class, Rustan knew it was all pretense on his friend’s part.

  “Perhaps, Elder, it is not a bad suggestion,” said Rustan. “If Shurik were to actually teach the apprentices, he would learn more.”

  Don’t don’t don’t . . . Shurik thought at him frantically. Rustan suppressed a grin.

  “I will consider it,” said Ishtul. “But I don’t want the apprentices to suffer either. Rustan, I’m afraid you must miss the rest of this class. Astinsai wants to speak with you.”

  Again? Since the day she made him drink Rasaynam, Rustan had warred with two impulses: First, to burst into Astinsai’s tent and demand another taste of it. And second, to steal away from Khur in the dead of night and never show his face again to the Order.

  Both options were untenable. But so was Rustan’s current situation. His face must have betrayed something of what he was feeling, for the elder frowned. “Remember who you are,” he said softly. “And remember who she is.”

  Shurik raised his head and scrutinized Rustan, gauging his depths, seeing the darkness even the elder could not.

  Rustan bowed and turned away from both of them, trying to control his emotions. What new horror did the katari mistress have in store for him? He walked toward her tent, filled with misgiving.

  But, in the end, what she had to say was not horrific at all. It was simply incomprehensible. She had a new assignment for him, one that made no sense.

  “You want me to do what?” he asked, when he was seated opposite her.