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  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I can still feel your hand on my blade,” she replied. “You shouldn’t have taken it from me like that.”

  A wave of frustration broke against Rustan’s core of inner calm.

  “Take your stance,” he said.

  Kyra looked up, startled. He felt almost sorry for her. He made his move without waiting, using a small outside kick of the Kawamuri style to sweep her off her feet. She lay on the ground, stunned.

  “You should have been able to counter that easily,” he said, shaking his head. “But you weren’t paying attention.”

  Kyra snarled and leaped to her feet. He certainly had her attention now.

  She came at him, as expected, with a classic hip technique of the same Kawamuri style.

  So predictable, he thought, and countered her with a reverse hip throw.

  This time she was slower to leap at him. At least she switched forms, but he was still able to foresee the Kawashi axe kick before it came close to connecting.

  He knocked her down six times before saying in exasperation, “No, no! You are going about it all wrong. You are trying to watch me with your eyes when you should be watching me with your mind. Where is the wisdom of your third eye? Anticipate me, or all the moves of all the schools in Asiana will not keep you on your feet.”

  Kyra got up, spitting dirt, her eyes black slits of fury. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started hissing at him like a banded snake. He didn’t care, as long as she listened to him.

  “Anger will cloud your judgment and blunt your weapon,” he said. “You must be quiet in body and mind to be able to listen to your opponent. Where is her balance? What does she intend? If you know this, the fight is won before it starts.” He paused. “What are you smiling at?”

  Kyra’s smile vanished. “You sounded like Shirin Mam just then,” she said quietly.

  That stopped him cold—as if she had anticipated what could hurt him most. “Back to work,” he snapped. “This time, use your elbows, feet, hands—whatever it takes to counter my moves.”

  They continued sparring until the sun was overhead in the sky. Rivulets of sweat trickled down Rustan’s face and back as he danced and spun with the Markswoman. He was in a place outside time where he didn’t have to think or feel. There were only the forms of the dance, and the opponent he must cut down time and time again. How to explain this to her? The fight was unimportant, the enemy even less so. There was only the self and the need to prevail.

  At last, when Kyra looked ready to drop from exhaustion, he said, “We’ll break for the midday meal. Eat sparingly and be back here within the hour.”

  He strode away before she could speak, breathing hard. Feeling and memory returned. There was a dull ache in his head and chest. He sounded like Shirin Mam, did he? It was going to be even more torturous teaching this Markswoman than he had thought. One more punishment added to everything else—when would the scales balance out?

  The month until the next clan meeting stretched before him, each grueling day worse than the previous one. And for what? So that her blood could stain the floors of Sikandra Hall.

  Get ahold of yourself, he thought as he walked to his tent, ignoring the curious glances of his fellow Marksmen. It’s not as if she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

  But that was the problem. He doubted very much that she did.

  * * *

  Kyra gazed at Rustan’s retreating back with a mixture of frustration and anger. What was the matter with him? If she bothered him so much, he should tell Barkav that he didn’t want to teach her. Then maybe Barkav would pick someone like Shurik, who would have been happy to spend all day with her.

  But reviewing the lesson in her mind, she had to admit that Rustan knew his stuff. For all his chatter and friendliness, she doubted Shurik was as skilled as his brooding fellow Marksman.

  Rustan was also right about the fact that she was afraid, though she’d die before admitting it to him. Even without the use of Mental Arts, Tamsyn was the deadliest bladeswoman in the entire Order. Better than even Chintil, it was rumored. How was Kyra going to defeat her?

  Yet defeat her she must if she wanted to live.

  Irritated, she ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging clumps of dirt. She cursed, knowing it would take ages to comb it all out. She shook the strands as best she could, and tied them into a semblance of neatness. As she walked in the direction of the camp, she caught sight of the small tent that the Old One occupied.

  Though she had tossed and turned all night, she had not spared a thought for Astinsai’s incredible story during the last few hours. Too busy being beaten up. If nothing else, training for the duel with Tamsyn would help keep her mind focused on the present. But she could only train for so many hours a day . . .

  “Hey, Kyra.” A cheerful voice broke into her thoughts. It was Shurik, standing outside the communal tent. “Come quick or the food will be all gone.”

  Glad for another distraction, she hurried to join him. Inside the tent, Marksmen were already seated in two rows opposite each other, being served by the novices. Some inclined their heads in greeting and some stared at her. Most simply went on eating.

  Kyra let Shurik take her arm, covertly scanning the tent for Rustan. But she couldn’t spy his lean, grim face among the others. Perhaps he was eating by himself. Well, she certainly didn’t care where he was. She let Shurik guide her to a place at the end of one row and thanked the novice serving her with a smile of such toothy brilliance that the boy almost fell over in his attempt to get away. She noticed the elder called Ghasil glowering at her, and made a mental note to be more careful.

  The millet and onion stew was simple but tasty and she ate it with relish, dipping in pieces of flatbread to soak up the spiciness.

  “Who does the cooking around here?” she asked Shurik between mouthfuls.

  “It changes every day,” said Shurik. “Today it is Gajin and he’s a fair cook, which is why the stew is tasty. Tomorrow it is David and we will be lucky if he serves us something edible.”

  “Everyone cooks by turn?” asked Kyra, trying and failing to imagine Barkav sweating over a cooking pot.

  “Everyone except the elders,” said Shurik, grinning. “I expect you’ll get a turn too and we’ll see how well the Order of Kali eats.” He noticed her aghast expression and added, “What’s the matter, haven’t you cooked before?”

  “Not for so many people,” mumbled Kyra. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Shurik. “If you can cook for one, you can cook for forty, Gajin always says.” He continued to shovel food into his mouth.

  Kyra stared at her plate, appetite gone. Was it not enough that her combat skills had been found lacking? Would she be judged on her nonexistent cooking skills as well? No one in the Order of Kali knew how to cook. That was what Tarshana was for. A wave of homesickness swamped Kyra; she desperately longed for the world she had left behind.

  The world that no longer exists, she reminded herself.

  Chapter 17

  Visitor from Valavan

  “Watch out, here she comes,” whispered Nineth. Elena leaped up from where she had been slumped on the floor, and both girls began to sweep the cavern as if their lives depended on it.

  “Not slacking, are you?” said Akassa, amused. The glossy-haired girl paused at the passageway that led from her cell to the central cavern. “What shall I tell the Mahimata? Should the apprentices be spared further punishment, or should they be separated from their blades?”

  The girls longed to retort but continued sweeping, heads down and eyes fixed on the floor. Akassa might only be trying to frighten them, but it was better not to anger her in any way. She was, after all, Tamsyn’s pet. And they were in trouble, having performed dismally in the Mental Arts class that morning. In truth, they had been in trouble ever since Kyra left.

  “The Mahimata says I am ready for my first mark,” said Akassa, leaning aga
inst the cavern wall. “I’ve been ready for a long time. Shirin Mam couldn’t see it, but she can.”

  “Wishful seeing,” muttered Nineth.

  “What? Did you say something, apprentice?”

  “Oh, just that I wish I was ready,” said Nineth sweetly. “But I’m not.”

  Akassa laughed. “No one in their right mind would think you were. Maybe you’re a forever-apprentice. Or maybe you’ll run away, like your precious Kyra did.” Her tone turned venomous when she said Kyra’s name. Anger coursed through Nineth, but she controlled it and said nothing. Every word she spoke would be reported to Tamsyn.

  At last Akassa got bored watching them sweep, and drifted out of the cavern.

  “Probably gone to filch potato pies from Tarshana,” muttered Nineth, leaning on her broom and gazing at the single shard of afternoon light that stabbed the cavern through the crawlway.

  “Hungry?” said Elena. “Me too.” They seemed to miss most of the midday meals these days, what with random penances handed out by Tamsyn’s favorite few Markswomen.

  “I miss her so much,” said Nineth. “I wish she had taken us with her.”

  “Hush.” Elena glanced toward the dark holes that marked the passageways out of the cavern. Talk of Kyra was forbidden. Since the day she vanished from the Ferghana Valley, Tamsyn had developed the worrying habit of pouncing on anyone she believed was even thinking of her. As Kyra’s best friends, Nineth and Elena had been summoned to the Mahimata’s cell and subjected to an hour-long interrogation by the Mistress of Mental Arts—a title she retained, even as the Mahimata. It had not been a pleasant experience and neither of them wished to repeat it.

  “No one’s listening,” said Nineth. “I would know it if they were. Where do you suppose she went? She didn’t have more than a fifteen-minute head start, yet Tamsyn and the others couldn’t find her.”

  Elena sighed. They had been over this many times, and it just didn’t make sense. Tamsyn should have been able to find Kyra no matter how fast she’d ridden Akhtar. A Markswoman’s bond with her blade was a beacon in the dark for those who were adept in the Mental Arts. If she was anywhere in the Ferghana Valley, Tamsyn should have been able to track her down. Unless—and Elena tried to push the thought away but she couldn’t quite succeed—unless she was dead.

  Nineth’s voice became lower still as she bent toward Elena. “I think she found a door.”

  Elena looked at her friend in exasperation. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “If there was another door or Hub in the Ferghana, the elders would know about it.”

  Nineth’s face fell. “Yes, I suppose they would, wouldn’t they?”

  Elena’s voice softened. “Give it up, Nineth. We don’t know where she went. We can only hope that she’s fine, wherever she is. Let’s hurry up and finish this floor, okay? We might be able to grab some potato pies ourselves before the next class.”

  Nineth brightened and fell to sweeping with renewed vigor.

  * * *

  “Looking for something, Eldest?” Tamsyn’s voice at the entrance to the Mahimata’s chamber was coldly inquiring.

  Only the decades of training prevented Navroz Lan from squeaking with surprise. As it was, she took her time straightening up from Shirin Mam’s old desk, smoothing her robe, and turning around. Damn the woman, how had she been able to sneak up on her unawares?

  Navroz squelched her betraying thoughts. “My apologies for disturbing you, Tamsyn, but there is a matter of some import. We have a visitor from the Order of Valavan. The Order has received disturbing reports of violence in the Thar Desert, and wishes to discuss them with us. I thought you might like to meet her at once.”

  Tamsyn’s smile was glacial. “Indeed,” she murmured, gliding into the cell and sitting at the desk. “Is she an elder? No? You and Felda should be enough for her. It is not fitting that the Mahimata of Kali receive every Markswoman who takes it into her head to come to our caves.”

  “As you wish.” Navroz backed away, eyes lowered. Near the entrance she straightened, permitting a tiny bubble of relief to escape her lips.

  “A moment, Eldest.”

  Navroz stopped, pulse quickening as she raised her eyes to gaze at the new Mahimata.

  “Is this what you were searching for?” Tamsyn tossed a linen-wrapped package on the desk and leaned back, watching her with a hooded gaze.

  Despite herself, Navroz’s eyes darted toward the package. She had hoped that Shirin Mam had left a message or a clue for her to find, but it seemed Tamsyn had found it first. Well, she wasn’t about to reveal her dismay to the Mahimata. “I don’t know what you mean, Tamsyn,” she said. “I was here to inform you of the visitor from Valavan. What is in this package? Is it something important?”

  “I found it in a hidden drawer in this desk,” said Tamsyn. “Perhaps it is something from Shirin Mam. Would you like to open it? I can see that you would. Here, take it.”

  Navroz stared at her, concealing her surprise. This woman was more devious than a demon. The package must be sealed with a word of power, or Tamsyn would have opened it herself. Obviously, Tamsyn was testing her. Aloud she said, “I thank you for the honor, but it is not my place to open it. If it is from Shirin Mam, it is intended for you, the new Mahimata. You will inform us of the contents if you deem it appropriate. Now if you will excuse me, I must see if the elders can join me in meeting our visitor.”

  She bowed and left before Tamsyn could say anything further. As she walked down the torchlit passage that led to the central cavern, her eyes strayed to the last portrait hanging on the wall. Shirin Mam’s face smiled back at her and she wanted to curse. What had Shirin Mam been up to, those last few days?

  * * *

  It was a cool, crisp afternoon, at least ten degrees lower than the Deccan village from which the petite and dusky Derla Siyal had come, but if she was cold, she did not show it. Navroz studied her composed face with grudging admiration. Derla had never Transported before, but she had used two sets of doors to arrive at the Ferghana Hub. To look at her, sitting serene and regal under the mulberry tree, one would have thought she’d arrived by palanquin. Navroz was not surprised that Faran Lashail, the head of the Order of Valavan, had chosen her as the Order’s new ambassador. She had “elder-in-the-making” written all over her smooth brow.

  Felda’s arrival interrupted her train of thoughts. The squat, scowling elder looked even grimmer than usual, although she made an attempt at a smile for the visitor.

  “Chintil Maya is taking an advanced combat class and Mumuksu Chan is in meditation, but we will have them join us if you stay long enough,” said Felda, dropping down on the grass next to them.

  “I’m sorry that the Mahimata is otherwise engaged,” added Navroz. “She means no disrespect.”

  Derla raised her delicate eyebrows. “Perhaps you did not convey the seriousness of the situation? Faran will be most disappointed. First I will have to tell her that her dear old friend Shirin is no more. Then I will have to tell her that the new Mahimata does not deem a visitor from Valavan significant enough to grant her an audience.”

  Navroz almost snorted. Dear old friend indeed. Shirin Mam and Faran Lashail went back a long way, but they had been as “friendly” as two cats fighting for the same bit of fish. She said, “As the new Mahimata, Tamsyn has her hands full right now. But you have the ears of the elders of Kali. Now, please tell us what brings you here. It is not often that the caves of Kali have such a distinguished visitor.”

  Derla smiled, but the smile did not touch her eyes. “It is not often that we hear of entire villages in the Thar being laid waste by the dark weapons.”

  Her words hung in the air like bits of ice. Navroz swallowed. “Entire villages? Are you certain?”

  “Certain?” said Derla. “No. Although our authority extends into the Thar, we do not often venture there. The only door to the middle of the desert that we know of is here in the Ferghana Hub. We have a door to Jhelmil, northeast of the desert, too far to be of much use
. But we’ve questioned a couple of survivors who made it to Jhelmil. It appears that an army is in slow march to the north, mowing down any that stand in its way.”

  “Kai Tau,” said Felda.

  “Kai Tau,” agreed Derla. “The Taus are the only outlaws equipped with death-sticks. You know that they stole twelve kalashiks from the clan of Arikken several years ago. The remaining weapons in Asiana have been under constant guard since then, in the Temple of Valavan.”

  She paused. Navroz and Felda exchanged a meaningful glance. There had been much secrecy surrounding the location of the remaining weapons cache, with Faran Lashail refusing to admit that such a cache even existed.

  Derla continued, “The point is, why now? We left the Taus alone and they were careful not to draw attention to themselves. We probed a bit further, and heard disturbing rumors of a mark. Apparently, Kai Tau’s son was executed by a Markswoman of Kali some months ago. Now I am sure that you will tell me I am wrong, because the Thar is our territory, and Shirin Mam would not have done such a thing without Faran Lashail’s permission and approval.” She sat back, fixing her calm gaze on them.

  Felda began to speak but Navroz forestalled her, knowing that Derla was baiting them, trying to draw them into a defensive position.

  “You may have nominal territorial jurisdiction over the Thar,” she said. “But as you have confessed, your Markswomen hardly ever go there. The Order of Valavan may number eighty-five compared to our thirty-three, but you are still too thinly spread over the subcontinent to enforce the Kanun in every field and dune. Perhaps Faran needs to step up her recruiting?”

  Derla’s face flushed with anger and she opened her mouth to speak, but Navroz raised a hand, cutting her off. “Wait. I am not finished. You may have territorial jurisdiction over the Thar, but the Order of Kali has moral jurisdiction over the fate of the Taus. It was Kyra Veer who executed Maidul Tau.”

  “The Taus are murderers and must be brought to justice sooner or later,” added Felda. “Just because they are better equipped than the average outlaw doesn’t mean that they are beyond the Kanun.”