Markswoman Read online

  “You can go to Kashgar ahead of us and Transport to Herat,” said Barkav. “We will meet you in Kashgar, on our way to or back from Sikandra Fort, depending on how long it takes you to find Samant. In Kashgar, you can make your choice: come back to Khur or go to the Thar Desert. By then the Markswoman will have met her fate, and perhaps you will be able to think more clearly.”

  Rustan’s heart constricted. The Maji-khan made it sound as if Kyra was sure to die. If he cared at all about the outcome of the duel, why didn’t he teach her himself?

  “Is there anything else, Marksman? I have much to do this afternoon.” Barkav waved a hand at the letters scattered around him.

  “Who will teach her when I am gone?” asked Rustan.

  “She may join our classes, if she wants to. It is not your concern anymore. Go to Herat and find Samant. I will see you in Kashgar, God willing.”

  Rustan bowed and left the Maji-khan’s tent, unable to put words to his thoughts. He knew that Barkav was disappointed in him. He had been liberated from the task of teaching the Markswoman, but instead of the sense of relief he had expected, all he felt was doubt and the gnawing guilt that he was somehow betraying her.

  At least he was getting away from Khur. He would be gone by nightfall. He would not have to see Shurik’s face for weeks. Or Kyra’s. But the thought that he might never see Kyra again created a painful twist inside him, and he walked faster, trying to ignore it. He would go to Herat, he would find Samant, and he would bring him to Kashgar. In Kashgar he would decide what to do next.

  One step at a time was all he could take.

  Chapter 24

  Bend like a Reed

  Behind the hill that housed the caves of Kali rose another, steeper hill. No caves punctured its slopes, but a rocky overhang halfway up provided some shelter from wind and rain. Here Nineth sat in the lotus position, numb with pain. Tamsyn had instructed her to spend four days and four nights meditating, alone and without food. This was her penance for trying to run away.

  Water was not a problem; a little stream tumbled down the rocks not far from where she sat, and she had a clay pot that she kept filled at her side. But Nineth was sick of eating the sour red berries and dry walnuts that were all the sustenance she could find this late in the season.

  She was not supposed to eat anything at all, and she had fought her hunger pangs the first and second day. But by the third day her self-control was gone. She crammed berries into her mouth, letting the juice dribble down her chin. She hunted for walnuts under the silvery gray tree that stood like a sentinel below the rocky overhang. She smashed the nuts open against the rocks and pried them out with her fingernails.

  Now she had cramps, but whether from the food she had foraged on the hillside or from sitting in the lotus position, she did not know.

  Concentrate, she told herself. But it was no good. She couldn’t. Her thoughts kept wandering in the most wayward fashion. What had Tarshana cooked for the midday meal? Was Kyra alive and well? How far could she herself have gotten if that sly Baliya hadn’t followed her to the paddocks? Did any of the elders know and approve of her penance?

  Tamsyn had commanded her not to talk to anyone about the penance, saying that it would be “prideful” on her part. Nineth had agreed, of course. Anything to make Tamsyn stop speaking to her in that voice that drilled into the back of her skull like so many nails. She still had a headache from that, even four days later.

  Would today be the day that Tamsyn sent for her, to welcome her back to the Order? And if she did not, couldn’t Nineth simply walk back home herself, penance over, all forgiven, to be reunited with her katari?

  No. Of course she couldn’t. Nineth almost cried when she thought of this. The caves of Kali were but a half-hour walk from here. But they might as well have been at the other end of Asiana. Tamsyn had been most explicit in her commands. Here she was to stay until sent for.

  But Tamsyn had also said four days. Surely she had said four days. Another night here would kill Nineth. She had her cloak, but it did little to keep out the cold and damp. Sleep, when it came, was filled with terrifying dreams of being chased by an unseen evil through a dark and dripping forest. She was always relieved to wake up in the morning and find that there was no monster.

  But even the bright sunlight was no longer a comfort. It mocked her with its cheery disregard. Look, it said, the world turns without you. The birds sing, the squirrels store nuts for winter, the Markswomen of Kali carry on with their daily work. You are not needed. You are not missed.

  A tear trickled down Nineth’s cheek and she wiped it away. Don’t weep, you ninny. What would Shirin Mam think?

  But the thought of Shirin Mam brought a fresh wave of sadness. She would have broken down and wept right then, but was startled by the sound of twigs crackling in the undergrowth. Were those footsteps? Hope flared in her chest; she wiped her face with a sleeve and stood up, swaying. The roof of the shelter was not high enough for her to stand erect, and she had to bend down as she hobbled out.

  Tamsyn stood before her, arms crossed, a little smile on her lips. Her black robe flapped in the wind, but she looked as elegant as ever. “My dear Nineth,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You have begun to smell.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” said Nineth, and she hung her head.

  Tamsyn waved her hand. “No matter. After all, there is no one here to smell you. Have you done as I instructed?”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Nineth. “I have been meditating, like you told me to.”

  Tamsyn uncrossed her arms and examined her long fingernails. “I despair of these young ones,” she said to herself. “One of them has run away like a thief, and another lies to me, her Mahimata.”

  “I did not lie,” Nineth protested, although a small voice warned her to stay quiet. “I have been meditating.”

  Tamsyn did not stop smiling. If anything, her smile became wider. Her arm shot out in a backfist punch that caught Nineth on the chin, throwing her against the rock wall.

  Nineth got back to her feet slowly, her head spinning, tasting blood. The hope that had flared in her chest flickered out. Had she thought it would be so easy to return to the safety of the Order?

  “I did not like to do that, Nineth,” said Tamsyn. “And I do not like to leave you here for another four days. But you give me no choice. This was supposed to be a penance, not a picnic. You have been gorging on nuts and berries, haven’t you? You should not even have moved from your place inside the shelter. And I did tell you quite specifically not to eat.”

  Nineth knew there was no point in arguing.

  “You will stay here,” Tamsyn commanded, and Nineth shook as the Inner Speech rolled into her head. “You will not move from the lotus position. You will not eat.” She paused and said in a normal voice, “You can drink, if you wish, so keep some water with you. You see, I am not unreasonable. I will come again in four days. I hope that this time you will take your penance seriously and I can return this to you.”

  She made a flourish, like a magician, and Nineth stared at the katari that lay revealed in her hand. If only she could get hold of it again.

  But a vast and growing gulf separated Nineth from her beloved katari. She could no more have reached for it than she could have touched the sky and the stars.

  Tamsyn flicked the katari back inside her robe and said, with a hint of the Inner Speech, “Take your position now. Do not let anyone know that you are here.” She paused and cocked her head. “Not that anyone has asked after you, of course.”

  She left, but Nineth did not see her go. A darkness came before her eyes. No one had asked after her. No one missed her.

  She crawled inside the shelter and settled slowly, painfully, into the lotus position once more. It was said of the Boddhisattva Vajrakanta that he had stayed in the lotus position for more than a year before attaining salvation, but Nineth doubted that she could emulate his feat.

  Shirin Mam had said that strength lies not in the body but in t
he mind. If the enemy is stronger than you, bend like a reed. Yield your blood but not your heart. If you are overpowered and hurt, understand that all states are temporary and this too will pass. The only true weakness is to accept defeat and succumb to despair.

  Nineth strove against the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. She pushed away the thought of the slow, lingering death that awaited her in this little hole, and thought instead of the life she had lived.

  The scenes flashed one after the other, gathering momentum like a story-play. A pleasant and uneventful childhood among the herders who dwelled in the eastern end of the valley. The surprise and fear at being chosen as a novice by the Mahimata of Kali. Her success at the coming-of-age trial, and the joyful reverence with which she beheld her new blade. Katari-mu-dai, the moment of bonding. Meditating on a grassy, moonlit patch under the guidance of Navroz or Shirin Mam. Collecting blackberries with Kyra for one of Tarshana’s pies, their hands scratched from the thorny bushes, their mouths stained with berry juice. Rubbing down the horses in the enclosure, the smell of sweet grass and sweat commingling in the spring air.

  It had not been a particularly noteworthy existence, but it had been a happy one. Certainly it could not have continued so forever. Sooner or later, she would have had to take down her first mark. She had been filled with doubts about this. Could she bring herself to kill another human being, no matter how evil? Too late now to find out.

  * * *

  “Are you all right? Here, drink this.”

  A worried whisper of a voice, faintly familiar, intruded on Nineth’s drifting thoughts. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy.

  The owner of the voice touched her arm, and the pain she had succeeded in banishing from her consciousness flooded through her. She would have screamed if she could, but all that escaped her throat was a small moan.

  Something sweet and fiery trickled into her mouth. She gulped it down. It burned as it slid down her throat, but it lessened her pain.

  “Easy does it,” said the voice. “You don’t want to take too much. Let’s get out of here first. We’re too close to that witch for comfort.”

  Nineth felt herself being lifted up from the ground and swung around by a pair of broad, muscular shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open.

  Darkness. She had a moment of panic. Had she gone blind?

  No, it was simply the dark of a cloudy night. She could see a small patch of starry sky. Somewhere, a horse whickered.

  Who are you? Where are you taking me? she wanted to say. But all that came out was a hoarse groan.

  “Don’t worry,” said the voice. “You’re safe.”

  The moon sailed out from behind a cloud and its light fell on the face of the man carrying her. Hattur Nisalki.

  Nineth stared at him in shock. She was dreaming. She had to be.

  He grinned at her. “Aren’t you glad I followed you to your caves that night?” he said. “Kept an eye on you. The caravan’s going south to the Tajik Plains for the winter, and you’re coming with us. Neri’s the fastest horse we have. I’m rescuing you.”

  Rescuing? Let me go, idiot. Nineth tried to shout, tried to move, but she was too weak.

  “Hush, don’t try to talk,” he said. “You can thank me later.” He lifted her onto the saddle and leaped up behind.

  After a while Nineth gave up trying to speak and drifted off into a state of semiconsciousness that was strangely like the first-level meditative trance. Dimly, she wondered if she would ever see Elena or Kyra again.

  Chapter 25

  The Spirit of Varka

  At first sight, Samant looked dead. His body was thin beneath the ragged blanket, shrunken like a starving child’s. His cheeks were hollow with a dark, unhealthy flush. A smell of decay emanated from the bed. But his chest rose and fell; life clung on, despite the odds.

  Rustan knelt next to the wooden bed and felt a wave of fury at the superstitious fools who had left the elder to waste away in their “death hut” instead of giving him medicine or sending for a healer when he fell ill. There were herbs to treat fever and deliruim, but the Ersanis professed not to know of them. A mere mile away from the walled town of Herat with its libraries and schools, they might as well have been in the middle of a jungle with their thatched huts, ragged children, and the twitchy shaman who had tried to prevent Rustan from entering the village in the first place.

  Rustan laid Samant’s blade on his chest and reached for the elder’s hand. It was dry and burning hot. Samant shuddered and opened his eyes.

  “It’s all right, Elder,” said Rustan softly, “I’m here now, and so is your katari. As soon as you’re well enough to ride, I’m taking you to Herat to be treated by a medicine woman.”

  Samant looked through him, unseeing. Rustan forced a few spoonfuls of sugar water into his mouth and, after a few minutes, the elder slipped back into sleep. Rustan leaned back on the mud-daubed wall, numb with weariness. He had ridden hard and fast across the Empty Place to reach the Hub of Kashgar, stopping only for a few hours every afternoon to rest his camel.

  But no matter how hard he’d ridden, he hadn’t been able to get away from Kyra. Her face, words, and gestures were seared into his mind. Every step that he took farther away from her only sharpened his pain.

  His anger toward her and Shurik had begun to cool as soon as he mounted his camel and left the camp of Khur. He regretted leaving abruptly without a word of explanation or farewell. But what could he have said that didn’t sound forced or melodramatic?

  On the way to Kashgar, with only his camel for company under the silent stars, Rustan had allowed himself the luxury of emotion—grief for the one who had gone, fear for the one who stood poised on the edge.

  He would find Samant and return to Kashgar, he’d decided. If he hurried, he could make it back before they all left for Sikandra Fort. He could at least say goodbye to Kyra, and wish her well.

  Then he’d arrived in the village of the Ersanis, and Samant’s plight had taken precedence over everything else.

  Now he longed to sleep, but he didn’t dare let down his guard, not with Samant in this perilous state and the Ersanis gathered outside the death hut, muttering darkly to each other. No telling what they might do if they thought a stranger was interfering with the directives of their ancestral spirits. Burn the hut down with the two Marksmen inside it, maybe.

  But the death hut was too precious for the Ersanis to burn. It was where they laid their dying kin to feed the spirits of their ancestors. That was the only reason Rustan hadn’t moved Samant yet. It was currently the safest place for them in the entire village.

  Samant’s breathing came shallow and uneven. Rustan closed his eyes and prayed that his breath would not stop. Samant was the Master of Meditation; at one time, many years ago, he had even taught Barkav. It was his skill, perhaps, that had kept him alive in the last ten days of utter isolation, without food or water, fever devouring his flesh and his katari buried in the soil beneath the entrance of the hut. An offering to the spirits, the Ersanis had told Rustan. Had been forced to tell him. He’d been surprised at their resistance, at the intensity of the Inner Speech he’d been compelled to use to get their compliance.

  He could hear their thoughts: it wasn’t fair, depriving the spirits of what was rightfully theirs. The old Marksman was sick, he was meant to die. Another day or two and he would have died. Not their fault. Not anybody’s fault. And then that young one had to come along, digging up the blade offering, entering the death hut. No one was supposed to enter the death hut and live.

  Right when Rustan captured that thought, and sensed the approach of the six terrified men who had been ordered to attack him, an alien smell hit his nostrils—a strong, musky odor, like that of a wolf. Rustan’s eyes flew open and he leaped to his feet, heart thudding.

  It was a wolf. No, not an ordinary wolf. A wyr-wolf. It sat on its haunches just inside the door of the hut, a massive, gray-furred beast exuding an aura of power, regarding him out o
f pale yellow eyes. Though he should have been frightened, it was awe and wonder that swept through Rustan. It was the first time he had ever seen a wyr-wolf, although, like every Marksman, he had heard many stories about them.

  And then the men burst inside the hut, moving through the wyr-wolf as if it did not exist.

  Stunned as he was, Rustan had ample time to withdraw his katari. He could have killed the first with a quick thrust, spun around to stab the second, used the Inner Speech to immobilize the rest, and dispatched them one by one. It would have taken a lot out of him, but he could have done it.

  Yet he didn’t. He had read the men’s intentions as soon as they entered. Stay your hand, a quiet voice told him, even though it went against his training, against his own instinct for self-preservation.

  He was never sure, later on, whose voice it was. The wyr-wolf, who had by now vanished from the hut, if indeed it had ever been there? Or the blade that smoldered against his side? Or was it a voice from within, born of his own guilt?

  It took every ounce of self-control he possessed, but Rustan stayed his hand. He let the men grapple him to the ground and tie his hands and feet. The katari they could not touch—it burned the hands of those who tried to take it, right through the scabbard.

  The men dragged Rustan out of the hut into the afternoon sun and rolled him to the feet of the waiting shaman. Men and women cheered and gathered more closely around them. Rustan spat dirt and squashed his misgivings. He had done right, and if he was going to be lynched by a mob gone out of control, then so be it.

  “We have no quarrel with you, Marksman,” said the shaman, a thin, bony man in a sheepskin robe. “But if you interfere with our rites, it will bring ruin on us all. The elder must die peacefully and be absorbed into our spirit world. If you object, then you must join him.”