Markswoman Page 12

  But the fourth door was only a door. When Kyra laid her palm upon it, nothing happened. She could not sense what lay beyond. Trembling, she inserted the tip of her blade into the slot. A screen slid out, numbers glowing. She swallowed, and tried to respool her thoughts. This was the fourth door in the Hub, so she should use the fourth palindromic prime from the pyramid she had drawn on Shirin Mam’s parchment: 1713302033171. She tapped it in, wondering if it would work, almost hoping that it would not.

  But it did work. The screen withdrew and the door swung open. As she walked into the chamber, lights came on. A voice like rustling silk whispered through the room:

  “Code override. Code override.”

  She tried to back out, but the door had closed. The chamber began to spin.

  From somewhere, there came a faint metallic laugh.

  Chapter 13

  The Mark of Kali

  Dawnlight transformed the Empty Place; the sands rippled red and gold, as if they were alive. Even the drab tents of Khur were regal in that transitory light, as if kings or queens might live there.

  Rustan inhaled deeply, trying not to shiver as he practiced breath control outside his tent. The temperature would not go up to zero until the sun rose. Most of the Marksmen were still asleep, wrapped in their felt rugs. But he had an assignment that week, set by Astinsai herself. Or perhaps it was a punishment. It was hard to know, with Astinsai, what she truly intended.

  Shurik, unfortunately, had also woken up. The youth was lying inside Rustan’s tent, his tousle-headed face poking out. “What happened in Tezbasti?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep. “Did you have trouble with the mark?”

  Rustan breathed in and out, ignoring his friend.

  “Come on, you can tell me,” he wheedled. “You’ve been back for over two weeks now and you still haven’t talked. You’ve become more closemouthed than a Peral River oyster.”

  Rustan gritted his teeth. “You talk enough for the two of us, so I guess it evens out. There was no trouble in Tezbasti, okay?”

  It was the first time he’d ever lied to Shurik, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell his friend what had really happened. He could picture it all too well. I killed an innocent man, he would say, and Shurik’s face would collapse in shock and pity. Then the questions would start: How could the Maji-khan not know? Why did your blade not tell you something was amiss? What will you do now? Questions that tormented Rustan in every waking hour; questions to which he had no answers.

  He caught Shurik’s skeptical expression and added, “If you don’t believe me, ask Barkav,” knowing full well that the Maji-khan would reveal nothing of what had transpired.

  “And have my head bitten off?” said Shurik with a shudder. “No thanks. But if there was no trouble, why did Barkav send Ghasil to talk with the Kushan clan elders?”

  Rustan got to his feet, trying to control his irritation. What had happened in Tezbasti wasn’t Shurik’s fault, but why couldn’t he leave it alone? His friend was too curious for his own good.

  Shurik blinked, then scrambled out of the tent and stood beside him. He put his hand on Rustan’s shoulder. “You’re thinking of going away, aren’t you?”

  As always, Shurik’s perceptiveness surprised Rustan. It shouldn’t anymore. He’d have to be careful what he said and thought in front of his friend, or Shurik would make his own deductions about the events in Tezbasti. “Honing your talent in the Mental Arts, are you?” he said lightly. “Ghasil must be happy.”

  Shurik snorted. “The day that Ghasil is happy with me is the day this desert turns into a wetland.” He paused and added, “The Master of Mental Arts returned from Tezbasti last night. I suppose you know that?”

  “I know.” Rustan walked away. “Time for me to go.” Time to end this conversation.

  Shurik followed him. “Breakfast?” he said. “Or am I getting your share of Luthan’s poisonous mash this morning?”

  Rustan forced a laugh. “Better you than me,” he said. “And I have to be at the Akal-shin door by sunup, or the Old One won’t let me hear the end of it.”

  “Why did she give you such a useless task? Is it a penance?” Shurik yawned.

  “I don’t know,” said Rustan. “Perhaps, if she confides in you, you will enlighten me?”

  “Haha, very funny,” said Shurik. “Honestly, can we trade places? I’d like a day off from Ishtul.”

  “And I’d like a day off from you,” said Rustan. He veiled the lower part of his face, and before Shurik could ask him any more questions, he strode away.

  Shurik called out, his voice fading into the cold, gritty wind, “You won’t escape that easily.”

  The novices were already up, all seven of them hard at work. One of them waved to Rustan as he passed by the camel enclosure. Rustan waved back, envious. What he wouldn’t give to be a novice again. To fill the water troughs for the camels, tend the grove that would bear fruit in spring, plant the windbreaks around the camp. What he wouldn’t give to have not killed. Odd, how he had longed for exactly the opposite as a novice.

  The sun rose over the dunes, a great orange orb that promised warmth later in the day. Rustan neared Akal-shin, the long, steep ridge of red rock that had once sheltered the Marksmen from a terrible sandstorm. His fifth day guarding this place and still he could not get used to it, from the lonely grandeur of the jagged peaks to the absurdity of the narrow door at its base. What purpose had it served before the Great War? He could not imagine who would have wanted to dwell in this barren waste of shifting sands and freezing nights.

  He took a long swallow from his waterskin and settled down to his usual station beneath the shade of a rocky overhang opposite the door. Watch and wait, Astinsai had said, nothing more. Well, it suited him fine. At least here he was spared his fellow Marksmen’s questions and puzzled looks. Maybe that was why she had sent him here—a kind of enforced isolation that would bring some self-knowledge, some way for him to heal.

  Rustan’s head ached. He leaned his head against the cool rock and closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw once again the face of his mark, tears running down his cheeks. He heard once again the man’s pleas for a retrial, his protests of innocence.

  He pressed his katari to his forehead and groaned. Shurik was right; he wanted to leave Khur, at least for a while. Would Barkav agree to it?

  Movement caught his eye and he scrambled up in time to see the Akal-shin door swing open. A girl staggered out, her dusky face half-hidden by the wild disarray of her dark hair. In her right hand, she clutched a silvery green kalishium blade. Rustan sprang forward, heart pumping adrenaline, his own katari flashing blue fire. As the door swung closed, he caught a glimpse of a corridor curving ghostlike into the darkness.

  The surprise visitor knelt on the hard ground and sobbed, her shoulders shaking.

  The girl—the Markswoman, Rustan corrected himself—smelled of terror. She had not noticed him yet. Rustan found his voice. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The reaction was remarkable. She stopped sobbing and leaped up with a snarl, all trace of helplessness gone. Before Rustan had time to blink, she had pinned him to the rock wall, her blade at his throat, his knife hand paralyzed by an advanced zenshao-lock behind his back. His katari clattered to the ground, and he felt a sharp pang of separation.

  The Markswoman spoke, her voice ragged. “When is this?”

  When. Not where. Was she mad? At least she hadn’t tried to actually stab him. Yet.

  “You could have asked nicely,” said Rustan. He brought up his left arm fast, knocking away her weapon and gripping her wrist, twisting back the elbow. It must have hurt but she did not utter a sound, and she did not lose the zenshao grip on his other arm. At least, not until he flipped his wrist and she tumbled to the ground.

  Rustan bent to retrieve his katari, but quick as a snake she lashed out with her right leg. The kick would have broken his neck if he hadn’t ducked in time. He grabbed her leg, hooking and twisting it until she was on her stomach, fac
e on the ground. With his other hand, he reached for his katari and pressed it against her neck.

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning?” said Rustan, breathing hard. “Who are you? No, don’t move. My blade sits right above your throat.”

  “My name is Kyra.” The Markswoman’s voice was muffled. “Let me up.”

  “Your clan and Order, and the reason for your presence here.” Rustan pressed the hilt of his blade a little harder against her neck.

  “Let me go! Is this how you treat visitors?”

  Rustan snorted. “Visitors don’t attack their hosts.”

  There was a pause. She spoke as if the words were being dragged out from her. “I . . . I’m sorry. I was surprised.”

  Rustan bent over her, considering. “Fine. But you will not touch your weapon without my permission.” He released her and stood, backing away.

  The Markswoman sat up, massaging her leg. Her face was expressionless but her dark eyes blazed with fury. He offered her his hand but she ignored it, rising to her feet with dignity, for all her dirty robes and smudged cheeks. She looked young, and she came barely to his shoulder, but she had a fighter’s stance and a determined chin.

  She pushed the hair out of her face, revealing a diamond-shaped scar on her forehead. The mark of Kali. Rustan felt the winds of fate blow around him, and he understood why Astinsai had chosen him to watch the Akal-shin door.

  He tapped the rock wall with the hilt of his blade. “Your clan and Order, and the reason for your presence here,” he repeated.

  “I am Kyra,” said the Markswoman, “of the clan of Veer, may its name endure, and the Order of Kali, the Goddess be praised. As to why I am here, I don’t know, save that this was the only door that behaved like a door. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  She wasn’t making any sense. Rustan could see that she was itching to pick up her katari. He hesitated, but it was unlikely she was going to attack him again. “Go ahead, take it,” he said at last.

  The Markswoman snatched her katari and sheathed it, her relief palpable. Her gaze went to the jagged peaks of Akal-shin. “What is this place?” she asked. “When is this?”

  There was that when again. “This is the third day of the dark half of the seventh lunar month in the year 853 of the Kanun, and you are in the Empty Place,” said Rustan.

  Her eyes widened. “Two months,” she muttered to herself. “I lost two months.”

  Rustan glanced at the door. “What do you mean, you lost two months?”

  Her face took on a haunted look. “It was the fifth lunar month when I left the Ferghana Valley. And yet, I wasn’t in the Hub for more than an hour.”

  What? How was it possible to lose time in a Hub? Rustan had never heard of such a thing happening before. Doors were meant to be shortcuts through space. He suppressed his unease. “You had better come with me,” he said. “Perhaps our Maji-khan and his council of elders will know what to do with you.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll come with you.”

  As they started to walk away from Akal-shin, she muttered, almost to herself, “I don’t know if I can use this Hub again. And what is there for me to go back to but death by Tamsyn’s blade?”

  “Tamsyn?” said Rustan, curious. “The Hand of Kali? I don’t know much about your Order, but surely you have no reason to fear one of your own elders? And surely Shirin Mam, your Mahimata, can protect you from anyone?”

  Kyra laughed—a small, unhappy sound. “Are you so cut off from the rest of Asiana that you do not know? Shirin Mam is dead. I think Tamsyn had something to do with it. I have been entrusted with Shirin Mam’s katari. While I have it, Tamsyn cannot touch me.”

  She withdrew a second katari from a back scabbard hidden behind her hair, and held it aloft.

  The transparent blade caught the white light of the sun and broke it into a many-colored rainbow.

  So beautiful, thought Rustan, and he closed his eyes. Just like I remember it.

  Chapter 14

  The Winged Horse

  The landscape was vast and empty; it hurt the eyes to look at it too long. Kyra observed her companion instead, a lean, brown young man with coal-black hair and slate-blue eyes. He was handsome, in a hard, serious sort of way, with features that looked as if they had been chiseled from granite. She tried asking him questions about the Order of Khur but he ignored her. Perhaps he was not supposed to give her any information. They walked in silence between the enormous dunes, their feet sinking into the sand.

  She should not have attacked the Marksman without provocation, but his unlooked-for presence outside the door, after everything that had happened inside the Hub, had robbed her of the last vestige of self-control.

  That he had defeated her was deeply irritating. Of course, she had not been at her best. She was mentally and physically drained after what she had been through. Not that this was any excuse. What would Chintil have said? Don’t get into a fight, but if you do, make sure that you win or you’re no pupil of mine. Inwardly, Kyra chastised herself for failing her teacher.

  The camp of Khur was a cluster of tents on the lee side of a vast dune that curved to the north and east. Kyra felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement as they neared it. She knew little about Khur, apart from the fact that it was the only Order composed of men. Founded by Zibalik a mere four hundred years ago, it was also the youngest Order in Asiana. Not a single Markswoman in the Ferghana could claim to have visited it.

  Kyra recalled the stories she had heard about the men of Khur, the depth of their bonds, their matchless fighting skills. Fewer men than women had the ability to bond with kalishium, but those men who did have the ability were rumored to be as powerful as a highly skilled Markswoman. No wonder Tamsyn hates them.

  At the edge of the camp, a giant of a man with flowing gray hair and beard waited for them. He had such a commanding presence that Kyra guessed at once he must be the Maji-khan of Khur. Behind him stood seven grim-faced men clad in gray robes—the elders of Khur. They must have sensed the arrival of alien blades into the heart of their territory. To the Maji-khan’s right was a tiny, bent old woman with wispy white hair.

  The Marksman halted in front of the gathering and bowed. Kyra followed suit, heart skipping a beat. She had not expected such a formidable reception committee. Not that she had really expected anything after emerging from that door. The fact that she was alive and unhurt was miracle enough. That she had arrived in this time and place, and was now in the presence of the elders of Khur, was beyond belief. She felt awkward and tongue-tied, unprepared for what was surely a historic moment.

  The Marksman said, “Father, I bring before you Kyra of the Order of Kali and the clan of Veer. She came through the Akal-shin door.”

  The elders of Khur stared at Kyra with varying degrees of amazement and disapproval on their faces. Perhaps they were irked that a stranger had used their door. Or maybe they disliked Markswomen on principle. She hoped the Marksman would not tell them how she had attacked him.

  But the young man had already retreated. Perhaps he would give the elders a more detailed account later on.

  “Welcome to Khur,” said the Maji-khan. “I am Barkav, the head of the Order. This is Astinsai, our seer and katari mistress.”

  A katari mistress? Kyra could scarcely believe her ears. Men and women who could forge kataris from kalishium had become increasingly rare over the years. She had never met such a one before, but they were said to have strange powers. She swallowed nervously and bowed again. The old woman’s eyes stabbed her with a piercing gaze, and Kyra felt exposed, as if the seer had seen through her to all the events that had led to this present moment.

  The Maji-khan continued, “These are the elders of the Khur council: Ghasil, Saninda, Afraim, Ishtul, Falad, Samant, and Talbish.”

  There was a pause while they inspected her. Seven elders, like seven hawks. Kyra tried to keep her face neutral and relaxed under their scrutiny, but it was hard. At least they weren’t trying to d
elve into her thoughts. Hopefully, they followed the same rules of Inner Speech that the Markswomen did.

  The elder called Ishtul—a tall, thin man with a hook nose—leaned forward. “It is the first time in over three hundred years that the Akal-shin door has opened. What brings you here, Markswoman?”

  Kyra hesitated. How much should she tell them? How much would it be safe to tell them? “It’s a long story, Elder,” she said at last. “And I have not eaten for a while.”

  Ishtul scowled, but the Maji-khan looked at her thoughtfully and then beckoned to a youth hovering behind the group.

  “Shurik will get you food and water, and show you to a tent where you can rest. While you are at Khur, you are our guest. Ask Shurik for anything you need. We can speak later tonight in the council tent.”

  With that the Maji-khan walked away, followed by the elders. Kyra was relieved she had been dismissed; she had gained a little time. The youth Barkav had assigned to be her guide trotted up to her. A stocky young man with a cheerful face and curly brown hair, he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said. “A real, live Markswoman. Here in Khur! You’re going to give Ishtul and Ghasil nightmares.”

  “I’m not that scary,” said Kyra. She looked down at her crumpled robe and ran a hand over it in a futile attempt to smooth out the creases. “At least, I won’t be after I’ve had a wash and something to eat.”

  Shurik bowed with a flourish. “Happy to be of assistance. Let’s go see what food there is. Luthan’s cooking today, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  He led her through the camp to a large rectangular tent made, Shurik said, from camel hair. “Cool in the daytime and warm at night,” he explained.

  As they approached the tent, fragrant smells of cooking wafted into the air. An elderly Marksman with crinkly eyes in a weather-beaten face sat at the entrance, stirring an enormous vat. She bowed in gratitude when he poured a generous portion in a large clay bowl for her. As they went inside the tent where she could sit down and eat, Shurik told her it was millet porridge with camel’s milk.