Markswoman Page 2

A familiar figure scrambled up the hill toward her. Nineth? Trust her to know the minute Kyra was back. But of everyone in the Order, it was her face that was most welcome now. Elena would have wanted to come too, but would have allowed Nineth to overrule her, as she usually did.

  “Come on, Rinna.” Kyra caught hold of the reins and made her way through the tamarisk bushes that lined the path downhill.

  “Kyra!” Nineth met them halfway and flung herself into Kyra’s arms, almost knocking her over. Behind them, Rinna whinnied a greeting. “You’ve been gone so long. I was imagining all sorts of horrible things. What happened? No, don’t tell me. It is Shirin Mam you must talk to first. She said to tell you that she’s waiting.”

  “I would’ve been back sooner, but it took a while to find that nest of vipers,” said Kyra. “And on my way back I was stuck in the Transport Chamber. I have no idea how long I was in that spinning room, but it felt like hours.”

  Nineth hesitated. “Did you . . . is he . . . ?”

  “Yes. Maidul is dead,” said Kyra flatly. She should have had a sense of accomplishment as she said it, but she felt nothing—just a deep, aching tiredness.

  Nineth’s eyes widened with awe. With a pang, Kyra realized that a gulf now separated her from her friends. She had killed with the katari and was no longer an apprentice. Would Elena and Nineth distance themselves from her? She hoped not; she had been lonely in the Order until they arrived. At five, she had been the youngest novice the Order had ever seen. And also, despite Shirin Mam’s efforts, the most damaged. It had taken years to come out of the darkness that had threatened to consume her. Even now, the ghosts were never too far away.

  “Where is Shirin Mam?” asked Kyra.

  “In the cavern,” replied Nineth, “pretending to read some old book, and waiting for you with all the patience of a fox outside a rabbit hole.”

  Kyra grinned at the image. “I’d better hurry.”

  “She had me scrubbing the cavern until I thought my skin would come off,” said Nineth, taking the reins from her. “The initiation will be tonight. There hasn’t been one for three years, not since Tonar Kalam. All the elders are excited. Aren’t you?”

  Nervous, more like. “You’ll be next,” said Kyra with a smile she didn’t quite feel as they walked downhill. “You’ll find out how exciting it is.”

  Nineth gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh no, not yet. Shirin Mam says I am not even ready to kill a wyr-wolf, let alone a man. I’m quite happy being an apprentice.”

  Kyra looked at her with affection. Plump, cheerful Nineth with the brown hair hanging over her eyes and the perpetually crumpled robe—there were many in the Order who wondered why Shirin Mam had chosen her as a novice, from all the girls of the Dan tribe that dwelled in the eastern end of the valley. Kyra could have told them the reason, but what would be the use? Most Markswomen measured prowess by one’s ability with the Mental Arts or in Hatha-kala. Something as nebulous as “spirit” wouldn’t make sense to them—but Nineth had it in spades.

  “You can’t be an apprentice forever,” said Kyra. “You’ll be seventeen next month.”

  Nineth snorted. “So what? You’re two years older than me. And don’t forget dear Akassa. She’s champing at the bit. Probably claw me apart if I get my first mark before her.”

  Kyra laughed. Akassa Chan was another apprentice, and a favorite of Tamsyn’s, the Mistress of Mental Arts. Come to think of it, now that she herself was going to be initiated as a Markswoman, Nineth, Elena, and Akassa were the only apprentices left. True, there were four novices who had yet to pass the coming-of-age trial and earn their kataris, but it troubled Shirin Mam that she hadn’t found more girls with the ability to bond with a kalishium blade in recent years.

  They parted at the foot of the hill, Nineth leading Rinna to the horse enclosure and Kyra heading for the cave system where the Order of Kali dwelled. The entrance to the caves was a crawlway on the base of a hill opposite the Hub. After the first few meters, the narrow passage of the crawlway widened into a broad corridor. Keep walking, and you arrived at the immense cavern where all the sacred rites were held.

  “You are back.”

  Kyra jumped. But it was only Ria Farad, a tawny-haired, slender Markswoman who was often on guard duty outside the caves.

  “You startled me,” said Kyra. “I should have known you would be here, imitating the night.”

  Ria laughed. “You don’t imitate the night, young one. You become the night.”

  She melted once more into the darkness. Kyra scanned the surroundings to catch another glimpse of the Markswoman. She could be anywhere: among the rushes that bent and swayed in the wind, behind the trunk of the ancient mulberry tree, or even right in front of her. But it was no use trying to see her, and Kyra gave up.

  She crawled through the narrow passage to the caves, shaking with fatigue. Her wrist throbbed and her throat was still raw and painful from being squeezed by Maidul’s fingers. She would have to be careful what she said to Shirin Mam.

  The main cavern was empty save for the Mahimata. The light from a hundred sconces flickered on the walls, bringing the ocher and charcoal paintings on them to life. Kali the demon-slayer danced across the walls, holding aloft the sword of knowledge to cut the bonds of ignorance and destroy her enemy, falsehood.

  Kali, whose name literally meant “the dark one,” had been worshipped by millions before the Great War, Shirin Mam had told them. She was the oldest in the pantheon of deities that once flourished in Asiana. She was there at the beginning of things, and would be there when everything ended. Protector of devotees and bestower of boons, she was nonetheless a fearsome warrior, called by the gods to the battlefield when all else failed.

  Black-skinned and four-armed, adorned with a garland of human skulls and a girdle of human arms, in the paintings the Goddess carved her way through a multiplicity of mythic monsters: a demon with the body of a water buffalo, another that could kill with his roar, and yet another that could duplicate himself with every drop of his blood that fell to the ground. One of the paintings showed Kali catching the demon’s blood with her tongue before it could fall. From the detailed depictions of her battling demons with sword, spear, and dagger had grown Hatha-kala, the style of fighting unique to the Order of Kali.

  But some of the paintings showed a slightly different version of Kali: a blue-skinned woman wearing a wolf-hide skirt and holding one of her four hands out in benediction. This was Tara, the maternal aspect of the Goddess. The mother loved her children as much as the warrior hated demons.

  But who still worshipped the Goddess beyond the caves? Did anyone else remember what she stood for?

  Perhaps only the Markswomen of the Order of Kali did, they who took her name when they went into battle.

  Shirin Mam—slim, gray-haired, and black-robed—sat on one of the dozen wooden benches that surrounded the raised central slab. Behind her was the silver gong, suspended from a metal frame, its rune-covered disc gleaming in the torchlight. The Mahimata’s head was bent over a book; she appeared completely absorbed by it. Kyra felt a rush of relief at the familiar sight. Her first impulse was to run and hug her teacher, but she controlled it and waited for Shirin Mam to notice her.

  Shirin Mam raised her head and fixed a stern gaze on her. “What kept you?” she demanded.

  Kyra bowed. “I apologize, Mother. The camp was not easy to find.”

  “No, I meant what kept you after you returned here. No doubt you were chattering with Nineth and Ria.”

  That wasn’t fair. Kyra wanted to protest, but then Shirin Mam smiled—a smile that transformed her face so that she looked, for a moment, quite young. Kyra found herself smiling back, warmed from within. The moment passed and Shirin Mam said, “Is it done?”

  “It is done, Mother,” replied Kyra.

  “We will have your ceremony at dawn. Tell me everything.”

  Kyra gave the Mahimata a brief account of the events of the night, leaving out the bit about how she had hesi
tated and almost been strangled as a result. When she came to the part where the kalashik had spoken to her, Shirin Mam frowned.

  “Those guns know they do not belong in our world. You were wise to leave it there, although I think the clan of Arikken would have been grateful if we had returned it to them for safekeeping. The weapons were stolen from them, as you know.”

  As I know. Those guns slaughtered my entire family.

  “Cannot something be done about them, Mother?” asked Kyra. “Can they not be destroyed?”

  “Fire does not burn them,” said Shirin Mam. “Water does not rust them. Even the blade of a katari cannot cut them. Throw them into the sea and they will find their way into a fisherman’s net. Bury them in the deepest pit, and they will be dug up again. Kalashiks were made before the war and if there is a way to destroy them, it is lost to us now. The best we can do is keep what caches remain safe from the hands of the ignorant and the evil. Unfortunately, it is always the ignorant and the evil that the dark weapons seek to align themselves with.”

  Kyra shuddered as she remembered how the kalashik had exhorted her to slaughter the Taus. “It was all I could do to ignore its voice,” she confessed.

  “It is a voice few could resist,” said Shirin Mam gravely. “Thank your kalishium blade for protecting you from it. Tell me, how did it feel when you killed Maidul?”

  Kyra was taken aback. “It felt . . .” She hesitated. Should she tell the truth? Would Shirin Mam think less of her if she did?

  But she needn’t have worried. The Mahimata said, “You found it repugnant, did you not? It will never be otherwise for you.” She nodded, almost to herself. “Still, you will do what needs to be done.”

  “How do you feel when you have to kill someone?” Kyra blurted out.

  Shirin Mam’s expression gave nothing away. “To be evil is to suffer, and there is joy in releasing others from suffering. Now you must change your robes and prepare for the ceremony. But first, a special assignment. A reward for your success.” She withdrew a folded piece of parchment from her book and held it up to Kyra.

  Kyra took it, puzzled. Her mystification increased when she unfolded it and saw that it contained nothing but a meaningless string of numbers. “What is this, Mother?”

  “A secret,” said Shirin Mam, her eyes dancing. “Felda Seshur derived it from a formula in one of her oldest tomes. Decode it, and come to me when you are done.” She reopened her book, adding, “Speak of it to no one. Now go.”

  Kyra stuffed the parchment in a pocket and left, glad to get away from Shirin Mam’s piercing eyes. She was too exhausted to try to hide her thoughts from her teacher, and she didn’t want Shirin Mam to guess that she had almost failed to kill her first mark.

  All around the cavern were openings into passageways. Kyra took the narrow passage that led to her own cell, trying to ignore the empty chambers yawning on both sides. Each Markswoman and apprentice had a cell to herself for sleep and meditation. But most of the chambers of the cave system were empty. The Order numbered just thirty-three these days, not counting the four novices, instead of the hundreds that used to inhabit the caves of Kali.

  Before she had gone more than a few steps down the passage, a figure stepped around the corner holding up a lamp.

  “Kyra,” came a mellifluous voice.

  She blinked in the sudden light, and her heart sank as she saw the beautiful face behind it. Tamsyn.

  “Elder.” Kyra bowed and made as if to move past her.

  But the elegant, ebony-haired woman fell in step beside her. “Is it done?” she asked in a husky whisper, raising the lamp and peering at Kyra’s face.

  No one but Shirin Mam had the right to ask her that. But Tamsyn Turani was the Hand of Kali, Shirin Mam’s executioner of choice. Her left arm was crisscrossed with scars, and the pelts of a dozen wyr-wolves carpeted the floor of her cell.

  “It is done,” said Kyra. She hoped the disinterest in her voice would put Tamsyn off, but the elder laughed in delight.

  “You hated it, did you not? But now you are a real Markswoman and not a mere apprentice. Oh, anyone can take down a wyr-wolf or two. But it takes a Markswoman to kill a man.”

  Kyra didn’t want to think about Maidul as a man, to recall the look of surprise on his face when her katari passed through his chest. It was easier to think of him as a mark for her blade. She averted her face and brushed past Tamsyn. But the elder caught up with her again and grabbed her arm.

  “Wait,” she said. “I want to see you.” She put the lamp down and pulled Kyra around to face her.

  “You see me every day, Elder,” Kyra protested.

  “Not like this,” said Tamsyn. She whipped away Kyra’s cloak and took a deep intake of breath. Her gaze traveled from Kyra’s blood-spattered robe to her tangled hair. Kyra tried not to squirm, but it felt as if she was being dissected, every moment of the last few hours analyzed and judged.

  “As transparent as ever.” Tamsyn shook her head with a pitying look. “You can hide from her, but you cannot hide from me. What went wrong?”

  Kyra suppressed her discomfiture as best she could. “Nothing, Elder. I achieved my first mark, and my initiation will be at dawn.”

  “Indeed.” A smile slid across Tamsyn’s face. “After the ceremony, I shall give you a special private lesson. After your success, you deserve it.”

  A private lesson with the Hand of Kali? As if it wasn’t enough, being punished by her every day in the Mental Arts class. “I have my regular classes to attend after the ceremony, Elder,” said Kyra. “I do not deserve, or indeed desire, special private lessons with you.” She bowed, catching the fleeting look of rage on Tamsyn’s face before it rearranged itself into its customary smoothness.

  She ducked into her cell, but not before hearing Tamsyn’s parting shot. “We are more alike than you think, little deer. And Shirin Mam will not always be around.”

  Kyra shuddered with indignation and something else—a chilling sort of anxiety—as she lit a candle and removed her soiled robe. She was nothing like the scheming elder. And why did she say that Shirin Mam would not always be around? Shirin Mam was barely sixty. She would lead the Order of Kali for a good many decades yet, the Goddess willing. It had been an odd threat, even for Tamsyn. Kyra didn’t like it.

  She wiped herself with a damp cloth. A proper cleansing would have to wait till morning, when she could go to the stream-fed pool nearby.

  After she had dried herself, Kyra slipped on a clean robe, reveling in the softness of the finely woven garment. Then she lay on the woolen rug, letting the fatigue seep from her body into the stone floor. How still it was, how silent. This quality of silence was what she loved best about the caves. No screech of wind or howl of wolf could penetrate their endless depths. Here there were only your own thoughts, your own memories.

  Kyra breathed deep and slow, trying to relax into the first-level meditative trance. But Maidul’s face floated in front of her, dead yet somehow still alive—half-mocking, half-reproachful.

  No. Maidul deserved what he got. She would not see him the way she saw the others. Her mother, sitting at the ancient wooden loom in their hut and weaving a blue rug. Her father, turning the spit to roast mutton at a clan wedding, giving that deep belly laugh she loved. Her younger sisters, trotting after her on chubby little legs, mimicking everything that she did.

  Kyra had been in the privy behind their hut when the guns started firing and people started screaming. Instead of running back to her family, instinct made her seek the refuge of an oak tree, climbing to the highest branch she could reach. There she waited, cold and terrified. An hour passed, or perhaps two, before the sounds of the machines stopped.

  She slithered down the tree, scratched and bleeding, her throat dry. She went past her own dwelling, averting her face from the two bodies that lay awkwardly at its entrance, refusing to see them. Because if she saw, that would make it real.

  She wandered blindly through the village littered with corpses, coldness
blooming in the pit of her stomach. She went from house to house, hoping that someone was still alive—a cousin, an aunt, a grandfather. But no one answered her calls; no one stirred at her footsteps. Finally she returned to her own hut. Perhaps she had imagined it; perhaps her family had fled into the forest when the bad men came.

  But the scene outside her hut was unchanged: two blood-drenched bodies at the entrance, the open door leading only into darkness. Come in, the darkness beckoned. I have a gift for you.

  She stood there a long while, biting her fingers until they bled. The sun rose in the sky, and still the darkness waited behind the door, and at last she could put it off no longer. There was a chance, a small chance, that her sisters might still be alive.

  She stepped over the bodies of her parents and crept inside, praying please oh please Mother Goddess let them be all right, I’ll never be bad again. Her eyes burned with unshed tears of hope and fear.

  But inside the hut was nothing but the stench of blood and death. Her sisters lay in a tangle of broken limbs and torn clothes. The side of Ishira’s head had caved in. Ishira the baby girl, who loved to comb her older sister’s long dark hair. Kyra went out and sat at the entrance next to her parents, hugging her knees, rocking herself.

  How long before Shirin Mam came? Hours? Days? Kyra could remember being lifted by strong arms and tied to a horse, but she had no memory of the actual journey to Ferghana.

  In the caves of Kali she was put under the care of Navroz Lan, the healer. Navroz forced her to drink the bitterest of brews every night to help her sleep, but Kyra wondered later whether the potion had made the nightmares worse. That was the darkest of times, when madness held her in its relentless grip. Often, she could not tell what was real and what was not. Her days were filled with raw grief. She cried constantly, but tears brought no relief—no mother to hold her, no father to lift her on his shoulder. She dreamed of nothing but an endless series of doors and a terrible blank void that lay beyond them. She opened one after another, chasing the ghosts of those she’d loved, and finding only emptiness. It wasn’t until she was older that she learned to separate dream and reality, though the doors haunted her still.