Markswoman Read online

  Kyra moved a few inches away from him. His nearness made her feel a bit awkward. Not that she was the least bit attracted to him, she told herself, but she didn’t want him getting any ideas.

  “What makes you think I’m troubled?” she said. “I mean, apart from the fact that I’m probably going to get sliced in half by Tamsyn’s blade.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  Shurik frowned, the change in his face from sunny to dark so abrupt that she involuntarily moved another inch away from him.

  “I won’t let you do this,” he said. “Throwing your life away will do no good to your Order. And you will be throwing your life away, if what I hear from Rustan is correct.”

  “What have you heard from Rustan?” demanded Kyra, ignoring his peremptory tone.

  Shurik waved a hand. “Oh, that you are not ready. Perhaps if you trained for ten years, you would be a match for such a one as Tamsyn Turani. But now, he says, you are like a child playing with fire, who won’t know until it’s much too late that fire can burn.”

  Kyra sat up, the cold forgotten in her anger. Rustan thought she was like a child?

  “I know about fire,” she said. “I know about death. Far more than you and your precious friend can possibly imagine. Dying doesn’t frighten me.”

  “Hey, don’t talk like that,” protested Shurik, looking wounded. “If you die, what will happen to me? I’ll have to run away and become a hermit or something.”

  Kyra smiled unwillingly. “You’re already a hermit,” she reminded him. “You live in the middle of a desert. There’s nowhere to run.”

  Shurik gave a deep sigh. “And to think I was content with my lot until I laid eyes on you.”

  “You do talk nonsense.” Kyra gathered her rug more closely around herself.

  “It’s the truth,” insisted Shurik. “All I ever wanted was to be a good Marksman. Now all I want to do is scoop you up in my arms and take you far, far away from here, to a place where no one can follow us.”

  “Shurik,” warned Kyra, “behave yourself. What would Barkav say if he could hear you talking like that?”

  “He’d have him doing penances from sunup to sundown, and push-ups in between,” said a dry voice, and for the second time that night Kyra nearly jumped out of her skin.

  It was Rustan. He had come in so quietly that neither of them had heard him. Now that Kyra thought about it, the wind’s roar had slowly muted to a distant moan. Their voices must have carried beyond the tent. The realization heated her cheeks. How much had Rustan heard?

  “And what are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Rustan held out a small glass bottle filled with golden-green liquid. “I was walking and heard voices, and thought I’d give you this. Astinsai’s spineleaf oil works well for muscular aches and bruises.” He glanced at Shurik and his tone became cooler. “I trust I was not interrupting anything.”

  Shurik, who had sat up when Rustan entered, lay down again with his arms crossed behind his head. “Maybe you were and maybe you weren’t,” he said. “But I hope you’re leaving soon.”

  “He most certainly is,” snapped Kyra, “and so are you. I need to sleep and this is my tent, not a guesthouse. In future you will ask permission before you enter—both of you.”

  She stood up and pointed a finger at the entrance of the tent, ignoring Shurik’s injured expression. They left, Rustan not even glancing at her as he flicked the tent flap away and stepped out.

  Kyra bent down and tied the flap with a double binding knot. Let’s see them untie that one. She shook her head in exasperation. Men. Thought they could walk in on her whenever they wanted, say whatever came into their arrogant heads, and stroll out without even an apology. Give her spineleaf oil for her bruises, would he? She picked up the little bottle Rustan had left behind and glared at it before tossing it into a corner. Serve them right if they were caught leaving her tent by one of the elders, preferably by Ghasil. He didn’t like her at all, and he would pounce on any Marksman he thought was getting too familiar with her.

  Kyra damped down the stove—the tent seemed warmer somehow—and lay back, still seething. She closed her eyes, trying to empty her mind. What had Shirin Mam said? A well-trained Markswoman should not need more than four hours of sleep a day. Well, she didn’t have more than four hours before dawnlight anyway, so she didn’t have much of a choice. A few hours and Rustan would once again be standing in front of her, flaunting his infinitely advanced dueling skills.

  This thought was so irritating that her eyes flew open. She stared at the roof, at the round patch of night sky visible through the smoke hole, and wished with all her heart that she could for once knock Rustan down and wipe that superior smile off his face. Not that he smiled much, she had to admit. Most of the time he seemed to be gritting his teeth in an effort not to yell at her. Which was just as bad. Thought she was like a child playing with fire, did he? She’d show him. She’d win that duel and make him eat his words, and drink that bottle of spineleaf oil too.

  * * *

  Rustan walked out into the cold night, trying to calm his mind. The wind had died down and the tents were dark. There was no light except the light of the stars. Marksmen conserved their fuel for when it was really needed: the heart of winter, when the cold could freeze the breath in your lungs, the words on your lips.

  It was quiet and still and everyone was asleep except for that idiot scrambling after him, making enough noise to wake the dead.

  “I don’t know why you had to come in and ruin everything,” Shurik muttered. “Another minute and she might have let me kiss her.”

  Rustan snorted. “Another minute and she might have punched you, more likely. Have you taken leave of all good sense, or just most of it?”

  “Maybe I have. But she’s so pretty. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

  “Not half as pretty as you will be after a switching,” said Rustan. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you and the apprentices, mooning after her like a bunch of camel-boys. Don’t think the elders don’t see what’s happening. You’re digging a pit to bury yourself.”

  “Don’t lump me with the apprentices!” snapped Shurik. As the youngest Marksman in the Order, who had achieved his first mark more by accident than design, he did sometimes get lumped with the apprentices, and this was a sore point with him.

  “Then don’t act like them,” Rustan retorted. “Don’t forget who you are.”

  “I know who I am,” said Shurik. “But who are you? My friend went to Tezbasti to take down a mark, and a stranger came back in his skin.”

  Rustan wheeled around to face him, anger and sadness building up until they wanted to burst out of him in a corrosive flood. But he managed to tamp them down. Not Shurik’s fault, he reminded himself. Shurik was hurt and puzzled by the loss of his best friend. And didn’t Rustan too miss those easy days of companionship and laughter? Wasn’t his anger directed more at himself than at his friend, who had only pointed out the facts, and given voice to his pain?

  Rustan forced himself to relax. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you’re right. I am different from who I was when I left that morning. Everything we do changes us, for good or ill. But I still remember the vows I made to my Order. Do you?”

  He turned before Shurik could respond, and walked away without a backward glance. He could feel Shurik’s eyes following him, and he almost paused. But what could he have said? The truth would only hurt, him to speak of it, and Shurik to hear it. And so he continued walking—past the tents and the grove, out into the dune field beyond.

  When Rustan had walked far enough away that the grove of shrubs had melded with the dark shadows behind him, he sat down on a boulder and looked up at the star-studded sky.

  He raked a hand through his hair and pressed it against the tense muscles of his neck. He had known fatigue before, but nothing like this soul-deadening sense of hopelessness, this surety that no matter what he did, he could change nothing. His very existen
ce was meaningless. Everything he had worked and trained for, all the hours spent meditating in the grove or dueling in the sun—none of it mattered. The dead stayed dead, no matter how much he regretted the past.

  The face of the innocent man he had killed floated in front of him once more—but now it was superimposed by another face, older than he remembered, but with the same serenity, the same smile.

  He jerked to his feet, startled, but the vision changed and now it was Kyra’s face in front of him, empty-eyed and bloodstained.

  “No!” he choked out, holding his hand up to ward it away. The apparition vanished, leaving him alone in the dark.

  Rustan collapsed on the boulder. The end was already written, with or without him. Kyra would die, Shurik would be heartbroken, and the Order of Khur would be even more isolated than before. And he—he would get no answers from the woman who had once promised him that she would acknowledge him to the world.

  Chapter 19

  Words of Power

  She sensed the brilliance before her eyes were fully open. Even so, Kyra was almost blinded by the white light. She didn’t know where she was—no longer in her tent at the camp of Khur, for sure.

  Gradually the light resolved itself into the shape of a narrow bridge curving over a dark canyon. At the other end of the bridge stood the tall towers and white domes that she had seen once—it seemed so long ago—with Shirin Mam. A huge silver disc hung unsupported in the blue sky. The sun shone fierce and bright.

  Anant-kal. How did she get here? Fear rose within her chest and she backed away from the bridge. How to get back to her own world? Perhaps she was only dreaming.

  “Only dreaming?” A beloved voice echoed across the canyon. “Never ignore dreams, child. They may be what save your life.”

  At the other end of the gossamer-thin bridge was a gray-haired figure clad in black. Shirin Mam.

  Kyra picked up her robes and ran. She forgot her fear of the unsupported bridge and the bottomless chasm below. She forgot her unease at the strangeness of this world. She had eyes only for her teacher, clad in those familiar black robes, looking exactly as she had the day she’d died. Kyra’s feet flew over the delicate metal tracery of the bridge. “Mother, wait for me,” she called.

  But Shirin Mam turned and walked away from the bridge. By the time Kyra reached the other side, she had vanished around the corner of a broad, smooth road lined with purple bougainvillea. Kyra raced down the road, determined not to let her get away.

  Now that she was in the city, she couldn’t help noticing that the towers seemed even taller than they had from across the bridge. Some of the structures were linked halfway up with transparent tubes. A wide metal rail curved across the sky like a giant question mark. Interspersed with the towers were massive, dome-shaped buildings resting on fluted columns and decorated with ornate marble sculptures.

  But the city wasn’t all glass and metal and stone. Woven through the buildings were lush gardens and fountains, as if the builders had known the importance of greenery to the human soul. Even some of the towers were draped with verdant foliage.

  Around the bend, Kyra saw the Mahimata disappear into one of the huge towers, and quickened her pace. She caught a flash of gray on her left, and her skin prickled the way it had when wyr-wolves had appeared as she fled the caves of Kali. She and Shirin Mam were not alone here.

  But Kyra did not pause to investigate. She sprinted to the metal door at the base of the tower. It slid open and she stepped into a small, blue-walled room, illuminated by a harsh light. The door closed and the floor beneath her vibrated. It was like being inside a Transport Chamber, only smaller and more claustrophobic. But before her fears had time to coalesce, the wall in front of her melted away and a ray of light pierced her eyes.

  Kyra stepped into the light and drew a sharp breath. She was in a white, marble-floored hall, so vast that she could barely see the other end. Carved stone pillars reached up to a distant ceiling. Diamond-shaped windows glittered in the sunlight.

  And there, in the middle of that vast space, stood Shirin Mam. The symbol of Kali gleamed on her breast. Her hair was gathered behind in a neat bun. She looked for all the world as if she was about to give a class in Mental Arts.

  Kyra moved forward eagerly, almost tripping over her robes in her hurry to reach Shirin Mam before she could disappear again.

  Shirin Mam held up a warning hand. “Not too close. You will see me better from a distance.”

  Kyra came to a halt a few feet away from the Mahimata. Sure enough, Shirin Mam seemed less solid somehow, almost translucent, her edges wavering.

  “Are you a ghost?” she whispered.

  Shirin Mam gave a short laugh. “Look at yourself.”

  Kyra looked down and swallowed. She could see through her body to the floor below.

  “So I’m not really here?” she said.

  “Of course you are. But your physical self is elsewhere, and your katari knows it.”

  “What is this place?” Kyra looked around the hall. “Is it always daylight here?”

  Shirin Mam shrugged. “This is simply a place I have been drawn to, an aspect of Anant-kal that I think is safer than most. I imagine that this hall we are standing in existed a long time ago, and its form is embedded in the memory of my blade. As the mistress of my blade, I have some degree of control here. That is why I have brought you here, for one last lesson.”

  “But . . .” began Kyra.

  “But I am dead?” said Shirin Mam. “What of it?”

  Kyra looked at her in mute appeal.

  Finally Shirin Mam relented. “We are in the mind and memory of my blade, which you have so tenderly placed under your pillow. It does not matter whether I am alive or dead in the physical world. My soul is imprinted on my katari, and it has drawn you here.”

  “Then I can see you again, whenever I need to?” said Kyra, a bubble of happiness rising within her.

  “It is not that simple,” said Shirin Mam. “This is something I planned on doing when I was still alive.” Seeing Kyra’s defeated expression, she said robustly, “Come, there is no time for idle chatter. Walk with me.”

  Kyra fell into step beside her and they walked down the hall. Was Shirin Mam going to take her through some advanced form of katari duel that would help her defeat Tamsyn? But to practice they would need their kataris. Kyra’s hands were empty and so were Shirin Mam’s.

  “Observe the pillars,” commanded Shirin Mam. “There are thirty-six, eighteen on each side. Look closely; there are carvings on each of them.”

  Kyra obediently looked at the pillars. The carvings were strange; one showed a woman—vaguely familiar—wrestling an enormous fanged serpent. Another showed the same woman holding a long, slim blade over the bent heads of a row of kneeling men and women. Kyra frowned. It was clearly a Markswoman, but who did she remind her of, with her rippling dark hair, triumphant smile, and that elongated katari that could almost be a sword?

  The answer came to her in a burst of understanding. “These are carvings of the Goddess Kali.”

  “Perhaps,” said Shirin Mam. “Do you admire my artistry?”

  Kyra stopped short. “You made these? But how? Our physical selves are elsewhere, you said.”

  “Nothing is here in the physical sense,” said Shirin Mam. “That does not make it any less real. I told you that I have some degree of control in this place. I have been here many times and shaped it to the best of my abilities. Remember every aspect of this hall, for you may wish to return here one day without my aid.”

  Kyra tried to do as she was told, but she was quite sure she wouldn’t want to return to this eerie world without Shirin Mam. They had reached the other end of the hall and she dragged her eyes away from the last carving, a particularly horrible one of a three-headed monster with drooling fangs. The heads resembled those of wyr-wolves—hungry wyr-wolves, contemplating a meal.

  “Each of these thirty-six carvings represents a word of power in the ancient tongue,” said
Shirin Mam. “It is your task to remember each word, the pronunciation as well as the tone. The price of error is high. The wrong word can bring death.”

  “Thirty-six words?” Kyra swallowed. The most that any young Markswoman usually knew was three or four, and even then, only the safest ones. Navroz Lan herself would not know more than ten or eleven. Words of power were a secret, passed on from one Mahimata to the next. Shirin Mam was showing great trust in her. “I am honored, Mother.”

  “Look, child.” Shirin Mam stood next to the image of the three-headed monster. “The carvings will help you remember. Fix all the little details of the images in your mind. The word you need will spring forth when you summon the right image.”

  Kyra stared hard at the image of the three-headed monster, wishing that Shirin Mam could have picked something a little less terrifying. Kali sat astride the monster, her bare legs gripping its scaly hide. The Goddess looked into the distance with remote eyes.

  Shirin Mam leaned toward her. “Now listen well to what I say, but concentrate on staying where we are. Trishindaar.”

  The word reverberated inside Kyra’s skull. The hall swam out of focus and she had the strangest sensation that she was surrounded by water. She opened her mouth to speak, but only bubbles escaped her lips. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She tried to move, but her limbs were too heavy and an oppressive weight pressed down on her chest, trapping her. Kyra flailed and fought her rising panic. Where was her teacher?

  Shirin Mam had said to concentrate on staying where they were. And they were in a hall, weren’t they? A hall with thirty-six pillars and a smooth marble floor.

  Kyra shut her eyes and remembered the hall, forcing her mind to think of it and nothing else, forcing down her panic. The floor slowly solidified beneath her feet. She opened her eyes and exhaled, shaky with relief. She was back in the hall. Shirin Mam stood next to her, watching her.

  “What—what does that word mean?” asked Kyra, hoping that Shirin Mam would not repeat it aloud.

  “Look at the carving,” said the Mahimata, instead of answering her. “What do you think the creature represents?”