Markswoman Page 14

  In this, however, she was sorely disappointed. The Old One lived in a small, nondescript dwelling. Kyra had to duck her head to enter it, and by the wavering light of the stove, she could see that the carpet on the floor was ragged and the felts lining the walls were stained with age and smoke. Incense burned at a tiny altar behind a wooden pallet; its heavy, sweet scent permeated the air. Books and scrolls made an untidy heap on one side of the pallet. It hardly seemed a suitable abode for a renowned katari mistress and seer.

  Astinsai lowered herself on a cushion and studied Kyra out of bright little eyes. Like a wrinkled old spider, waiting in its lair for some tasty treat, Kyra couldn’t help but think, though she quickly brushed the thought away as she knelt opposite the seer. “Is it my face that you want to see or my honesty that you wish to test, mistress?” She had not meant to speak, but the words spilled out anyway.

  Astinsai cackled. “Oh, I have no doubt of your honesty. But I do wish to see your face. After all, this is the first time a pretty young woman has come into our midst. I am sure the younger ones are already half in love.”

  “We are bound by the Kanun of Ture-asa,” said Kyra, striving to maintain her deferential tone. “None of us can forget the vows we have made in the names of our ancestors.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” said Astinsai. “Ture-asa may have been the last king and prophet of Asiana, but he was sick with metal poison when he wrote the Kanun. Sick, blind, and dying. The Great War was almost over and poison had spread into every field and lake.”

  Kyra listened, fascinated. She had never heard Ture-asa referred to except in the most reverent of tones. She knew that the Orders had come into being because of Ture-asa’s writings, not long after his death. He had predicted as much, and laid down the laws that would bring Asiana out of the dark aftermath of the Great War. Copies of the original text were much prized, and preserved by the clans with great care. They were heirlooms, passed from one generation to the next. The Order of Kali had a copy of a copy; it was kept locked in the Mahimata’s trunk, only removed on the most special of occasions.

  “Ture-asa’s son was killed and the line of kings was broken forever,” Astinsai continued. “Ture-asa knew that he had little time left, and he wrote his Kanun in a hurry. All the rules about chastity are there to lend weight to the text, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they were added later by one of his overzealous ministers. In any case, they are wrong. Why do you think the ability to bond with kalishium is becoming rarer? If Markswomen do not breed, how will they pass on their talents to future generations?”

  “You think the ability to bond with kalishium is inherited?” said Kyra, flabbergasted.

  “Of course,” said Astinsai. “What did you think, it is some sort of mystical power you are graced with? No. The Ones must have altered certain humans when they first came here, perhaps to communicate with them. Those who were altered passed the trait down their bloodline.”

  This was too much to take in. Kyra was sure there was nothing in Ture-asa’s texts about any of this. She wondered how the elders of Kali would feel about such an interpretation of their abilities. They’d probably call it heresy and forbid her to talk nonsense. But Astinsai seemed sure of herself, and it wasn’t the most far-fetched theory. The Ones had brought kalishium from the stars; perhaps people had to be changed before they could use it.

  “How do you know all this?” said Kyra. “Are you descended from Ture-asa himself? They say that only those who can call a king ancestor are blessed with the far-sight.”

  Astinsai snorted. “I don’t even know my own parents,” she said. “I make no claims to royal ancestry. And my visions are not always to be trusted. There was a time when I could work kalishium to make kataris. No more. I grow older than I dreamed possible.” She shook her head, as if to rid it of unpleasant thoughts. “Enough. Tell me about yourself, child. Do you truly think your life is best spent seeking vengeance for those who will never return?”

  The change of subject caught Kyra off guard. “How do you know about that?” she asked.

  “Every elder knows the fate of Veer. The eldest grandchild of the headwoman was the sole survivor of the massacre, and you bear her name. There is no one else to speak for the dead. Besides, we heard rumors about the execution of Kai Tau’s eldest son.” She paused. “You did not answer my question.”

  Kyra hesitated, unwilling to admit her need for revenge to the katari mistress. But Astinsai seemed to know everything already. “I’m not going to spend my whole life on this task. At least, I hope not,” she said. “But until I punish the men who killed my family, I will have no peace. I was five years old when my world came to an end. Yet I have lived on for fourteen years; to what end?”

  “To what end indeed,” said Astinsai. “Did you never wonder why the Taus destroyed your clan? And why they spared you?”

  Kyra frowned. “The Taus are outlaws. I survived because I hid in a tree.”

  Astinsai sighed. “I see Shirin Mam told you nothing. Well, perhaps it is better so. Not all things are meant to be known. Not all things are meant to be taken into account. If they were, how would we ever act? How would we take sides?”

  “What do you mean?” said Kyra, her pulse quickening.

  Astinsai leaned forward and whispered, “Are you sure that you want to know?”

  From her breath came the smell of smoke-weed, and something else: the thin, sharp odor of malice.

  “Yes,” said Kyra. If the katari mistress had knowledge that would help her make sense of the brutal killing of her family, then she needed to hear it.

  “Why?” asked Astinsai. It was not a mere question; it was a command to speak. If Kyra did not give the correct answer, she knew she would not get another word from the old woman. She thought hard before replying.

  “Because it is better to confront the truth, no matter how terrible it is,” she said finally. “I am the last of my clan and if I don’t know its history, no one ever will.”

  “Well said.” Astinsai leaned back and smiled with hooded eyes. “Remember these pretty words of yours when I have finished telling you what I know. It is not the whole story, and it is not the whole truth. That last is something you will have to find for yourself.” She reached for a pipe attached to a clay bowl and inhaled deeply before blowing a ring of sickly sweet smoke into the air. Kyra held her breath until it dissipated.

  “One winter twenty years ago, it was so cold that snow covered the desert and the well water froze,” she said. “In Tezbasti, the village nearest to us, people were reduced to eating snow and straw. Maheshva, the old Maji-khan of Khur, sent a team of men with the strongest camels across the desert to Yartan to barter for food and other supplies. The Akal-shin door was of no use to us; even then, it would not open.” The Old One paused, her eyes glinting like rocks in a pool. “But you have come through the door. What was it like, child?”

  Kyra flinched. “It was—not something I care to speak of. Please go on with your story. Did the men reach Yartan safely?”

  “They reached safely and returned with enough provisions to last us through the bitter months that followed. All but one. The best of them all was lost to us in Yartan to a blade sharper than any katari. It was a wound he never recovered from. A wound of the heart.”

  “He fell in love?”

  “Love, lust, deewangee. There are many names we give to this thing, and they are all inadequate.” Astinsai stared at the fire, her eyes turned inward. Was the old woman remembering her own youth?

  Kyra had a sudden vision of a slender woman in a marketplace giving sideways glances to a young man seated on a white horse. The young man gazed down at her as she pretended to select the herbs that her aunt, a medicine woman, had sent her to buy. She picked bunches of mint and lemon balm, complaining to the seller about their quality and freshness, but all the while she was thinking of how fine-looking the young man was, how well he sat on his horse, and how smart his clothes were.

  Astinsai moved and the image flickered
out. Kyra realized with a start that she had looked unbidden into the other’s past.

  She cleared her throat. “What happened to them?”

  The Old One’s mouth twisted, as if knowing the vision Kyra had accidentally seen. “What can such madness lead to but tragedy? He was brave and handsome, but he was now a renegade who had forsaken his Order. She was good and beautiful, but she was also the eldest daughter of a headwoman, and the heir of her clan.

  “They left Yartan, thinking perhaps to make for the small mountain villages farther northwest. For two weeks, they must have known love, sweet and delirious. Despite the hunger, fatigue, and fear, they must have known happiness. For a while, they were free from the anger and envy of those they had left behind.

  “But eventually, they were found. They were caught in a pass in the Spirit Mountains, trying to cross into the Skyol Highlands. It was the girl’s clan that found them. It might have gone better if the Order of Khur had reached them first.”

  “The headwoman was angry with her daughter?” guessed Kyra.

  “There is justifiable anger, and there is blind rage—two entirely different things,” said Astinsai. “The headwoman was fierce and proud. She had sent her sixteen-year-old daughter with a few trusted companions to Yartan to select a mate from the clan of Kushan. She was not merely angry; she was ready to kill the daughter who had caused her to lose face among the clans of Asiana. Faced with this rage, the girl betrayed her lover to save herself. An old story, but we never tire of it, do we? Life is a series of patterns, ugly and scarred. What would you have done in her place, child?”

  Kyra flushed. “I would never have run away from my duty in the first place.”

  “Is that what you think?” said Astinsai. “Or is it what you have been taught to think by your Order? No, you don’t have to answer me. But ask yourself this: Where do your loyalties lie? I will not make a prophecy for you, but I can see that your way is unclear. Doubt and misgiving will follow you no matter which path you take.”

  Kyra felt a chill creep up her spine. “If that is so, all I can do is try my best and pray to Kali to protect my soul.”

  “I too pray for you,” said Astinsai. “I pray that you find what you are looking for, and that you do not meet an untimely end, like your—like the young girl of my story did.”

  Kyra sensed the barb in her too-sincere words. The story was about to end with a painful twist that her inner eye could almost see.

  The Old One gave a deep, theatrical sigh. “There is not much more to add. The girl told her mother that she had been kidnapped by the young Marksman and forced to lie with him. It was easy to believe—especially because her mother wanted to believe it. The headwoman had the Marksman flogged in the main square of Yartan, as was her right by law. The young man protested his innocence with every lash and called in anguish to his paramour to declare the truth of their love.” Her face darkened. “I watched, helpless to intervene. I hoped that pity and shame would move the girl to beg for clemency on his behalf.

  “But the girl was silent, her face hidden by a veil. Perhaps she regretted her lie? I do not know. I only know what happened next. The headwoman and her daughter returned to the Valley of Veer, where they dwelled, and the whole sordid tale was never referred to again.”

  Shock coursed through Kyra’s veins, ice-cold, numbing. The Valley of Veer? “No,” she stuttered. “That can’t be true.”

  “Save your distress,” said Astinsai. “I am not finished yet. The girl—your mother—was married off a few months later to a suitable young man from the clan of Tenaga. Meanwhile, her lover escaped from the Order of Khur the night before he was to be executed. He went on to form a clan of his own, an outlaw clan, vicious and violent, that has grown in strength and cunning until it is now the most powerful one in southern Asiana. You know which one I mean.”

  A roaring filled Kyra’s ears. Astinsai was talking of the Tau clan. Kai Tau and her mother. Her mother and Kai Tau . . . no, it was impossible.

  “The past is past,” said Astinsai softly. “We cannot change it. We can only change our own perception of it. For years, I blamed myself for what happened. Then I realized it would have happened anyway. Kai would have found his path to evil with or without me.”

  Kyra’s mouth was dry, her throat tight. “You helped him to escape, didn’t you?” she said in a ragged whisper.

  Tears glimmered in Astinsai’s eyes. “Kai was always my favorite. I believed in him. I knew he was telling the truth and that he had been terribly wronged. Yet, had I guessed the carnage he would wreak in the name of vengeance, I would have cut my own throat before I freed the bonds that had been laid on him.”

  The firelight flickered, casting shadows on the tent wall. Kyra’s hands were like stones on her lap, her katari cold within its sheath. “You have not told me why I was spared.” Her voice sounded flat, distant to her own ears.

  “I made a prophecy to Kai before he left that he would die by the hand of a daughter of Veer, and no other. This is his penance and his destiny. He waits for you, all these long years, to free him from the evil he has done. Not until you kill him will he know any rest.” The Old One closed her eyes. “That is all I have to say. Go now, for I am tired and can speak no more.”

  * * *

  Kyra stumbled out of the tent and into the cold, quiet night, her mind full of tortured images. Her sweet-faced mother, in the willing embrace of the brute who would destroy the Veer clan. The blood-soaked bodies littering the streets of her village. The broken limbs and the stench of death. The circling vultures and the darkness behind the door. Except that the darkness was inside her now and there was no escaping the horror of it.

  Was Kai Tau her father? Had she killed her own half brother in the name of vengeance? And if so, what kind of monster did that make her?

  It was a long time before she could calm herself. She walked away from the camp until she could no longer see the flickering lights of the lamps and stoves. The moon had slipped below the horizon and the stars and planets shone with undimmed splendor. Kyra sat on the sand, gazing at the vast, silent space that surrounded her, listening to the slowing beat of her own heart.

  Chapter 16

  Forms of the Dance

  Dawn found Rustan in the grove beyond the camp, practicing breath control as he waited for his pupil to arrive. He had told her to meet him in the grove at first light; the tall shrubs would shelter them from the midday sun as well as from the sharp wind.

  He breathed in the frigid air, trying to relax his mind and his body. Little as he liked the task that had been given to him, he would fulfill it to the best of his abilities. He had risen two hours earlier to prepare the forms of bare-handed defense that he planned to teach Kyra today.

  Except that she wasn’t here yet.

  Rustan pushed aside his irritation and focused on his breath. This time alone in the grove was a gift, and he would use it well. He settled down to meditate.

  The sun had slipped into the sky when racing footsteps alerted him to Kyra’s arrival.

  He opened his eyes and regarded her as she stood before him, panting. She looked even younger than she had yesterday, with her hair tied back and her slight frame lost in the oversized robe that Shurik had given her. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed that she had slept little.

  “You’re late,” he said evenly.

  “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “No matter,” he said. “It is only our first lesson. But it should not happen again. To be late is to be disrespectful. And where there is no respect, there can be no learning.”

  The Markswoman did not respond; she merely gazed through him, as if her mind was elsewhere, on more important things.

  Rustan rose and said, more harshly than he had intended, “I have no more desire to do this than you. But the Maji-khan has assigned me to teach you, and I intend to do the best I can. What about you—what do you intend?”

  Once again, she did not respond, only looked at him bewildered, as i
f he spoke in a strange language. He noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed. Had she been crying?

  Rustan relaxed his tone somewhat. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said. “If you’re afraid . . .”

  Kyra thrust her chin out and glared at him. “I am not afraid,” she said through gritted teeth. “I will do what I must.”

  “It’s your funeral,” said Rustan, relieved that she had started talking to him, even if it was through gritted teeth. “Personally, I think Tamsyn will take less than a minute to disarm you, which is why it is important to learn bare-handed defense.”

  “I am not that easily disarmed,” snapped Kyra.

  “No?” said Rustan. “Let us see.”

  He raised his palm and uttered a word of power that Barkav had taught him a few months earlier.

  Kyra gasped as her katari flew from its scabbard, straight into Rustan’s waiting hand.

  She reached for it, pausing just short of snatching it back. “How did you do that?” she asked, scowling. When she saw Rustan was smiling, her scowl deepened. “Do you laugh at my incompetence?”

  Rustan stopped smiling at once, sensing her humiliation. “No. I was only able to call your katari to me because it knew I meant no harm, that I was demonstrating a lesson that may prove valuable to its mistress.”

  “And the lesson is what?” said Kyra as he handed the katari back to her. “How easily you can kill me?”

  “The lesson is, expect the unexpected,” said Rustan. “The Hand of Kali is skilled in all the arts of katari-play. Your only hope is to stay calm no matter what move she makes. Anticipate her when you can—after all, you have known her for years—and when you cannot, be ready with counterattacks of your own. Inner Speech is not allowed in the course of the formal katari duel. This is to your advantage; use it. Focus on the bond you both have with your blades, for that bond will be crucial in the outcome of the duel.”

  He stopped. Kyra was no longer listening to him; she was studying her katari, turning it this way and that.