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  “I saw a wyr-wolf,” Rustan blurted out. “In your death hut. Your men walked right through it.”

  It had only been a hunch, but the effect on the shaman was remarkable. His face went pale and the staff dropped from his hand. He turned to talk with some of the older men and women behind him—elders of the village council, Rustan guessed. One ancient woman stepped up to him.

  “Tell us exactly what you saw, Marksman,” she rasped.

  Rustan described the huge beast, its thick gray fur, the intelligent eyes, the steady gaze. He told them how his six attackers had walked through it, and how it had then vanished from sight.

  When he had finished, the woman exhaled. “He has seen the spirit of Varka, the wyr-wolf,” she announced.

  There were murmurs and cries from the listening crowd. The shaman spoke a word of command, and one of the young men who had dragged Rustan out bent to untie him.

  Rustan got to his feet and rubbed his wrists with relief. He wasn’t about to be lynched after all. “Who is Varka?” he asked the shaman.

  “Our oldest ancestor,” said the shaman. “Varka the wyr-wolf fled the poisonous aftermath of the Great War and found refuge in Herat. He married Ersani, the youngest daughter of the Herati headwoman, and founded our clan.”

  “How do you know of him?” asked Rustan. “The war ended over eight centuries ago.”

  “We have dozens of ancient manuscripts, locked in trunks and buried in cellars, that tell this story,” said the shaman. “Most are in a script we do not understand, but some of them have been translated by our predecessors. Very few of us now have the gift of learning.”

  “If your manuscripts are that old, you possess a treasure trove indeed,” said Rustan. “I could request the Maji-khan to send an elder to help you copy and catalog them.”

  An expression of horror crossed the old man’s face. “Never! Strangers are forbidden to touch those sacred pages. They will crumble to dust and our heritage will be destroyed.”

  Rustan sighed. Another superstition. “You can send some of your children to schools in Herat,” he said. “Perhaps, as they grow in years and learning, this task could be entrusted to them.”

  “Perhaps,” said the shaman, noncommittal.

  Rustan knew it was unlikely that the Ersanis would ever send their children to the town of Herat, but at least he had planted the idea in the shaman’s head.

  “What happened to Varka and Ersani?” he asked. “Why did they leave Herat?”

  “Jealousy,” replied the shaman. “Varka was too powerful, too strong. Ersani’s siblings grew afraid of him, and poisoned their mother’s ears against him. She banished Varka and Ersani from Herat. They made their way here, to till the land and start a family. To start a new clan.” A glow of pride lit his wrinkled face. “We have wyr-wolf blood in our veins.”

  A likely story, Rustan thought. But he remembered the wyr-wolf he had seen in the death hut, and kept quiet.

  The Ersanis gave him little trouble after that. Apparently, the spirit of Varka had not been glimpsed in almost a century, and he was very fortunate to have seen it. Everyone wanted to touch him and speak to him. In all the excitement, Samant was almost forgotten. But Rustan asked for, and received, permission to bring Samant out of the death hut and into the shaded porch of the village council hut.

  He showed a woman how to boil water to make it safe for drinking, and gave an impromptu class on herbs and healing as he made a tincture for Samant. Not that he knew much about it, and he was hampered by a lack of all but the most basic materials he had carried with him: dried peppermint and garlic, a bunch of sacred basil, a bottle of spineleaf oil. But he hoped that some of what he told them would filter into their own practices, and prevent needless deaths in the future.

  That night, Samant recovered sufficiently to ask for a glass of water. He held his katari gripped in one skeletal hand, as if afraid someone might snatch it away again. After he had drunk the peppermint-infused tea Rustan brewed for him, he drifted back to sleep, his breathing quiet and regular.

  The rest of the village also slept, quiescent under the moonlit sky. From somewhere a bulbul called, piercing the night with its sweet cry. The wind wafted through the porch of the council house, filled with the scent of jasmine. Rustan blew out the lamp and stretched out on a woven grass mat next to Samant, allowing himself to relax for the first time in days.

  He watched Samant’s sleeping form for several minutes, then turned his face to the darkness above, his thoughts drifting, as always, to Kyra. Her fierce expression when she fought, the way she pushed the hair away from her eyes when she was angry, the depth of her gaze, and how it seemed to plumb the very depths of his soul.

  “Do you know, Elder, why I came here?” he whispered. “It was not to save you. It was to escape myself.”

  Samant gave a tiny snore. Emboldened, Rustan talked on in a low voice, unburdening himself to the sleeping elder. He told him about the tragic mistake in Tezbasti, the arrival of the Markswoman through the Akal-shin door, and the news she had brought. “Barkav made me teach her dueling,” he said. “I was so busy doing that, I mostly forgot everything else. And then I discovered I cared for her. Cared too much. And so I left Khur. Is it so wrong, Elder, to love a woman?”

  Samant cleared his throat and said, “No.”

  Rustan sat up, horrified. Samant was awake.

  The elder regarded him out of calm, lucid eyes. “You should return to Kashgar,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Return before it is too late.”

  Part IV

  From the copy of The Kanun of Ture-asa possessed by the Order of Kali

  There are those who believe, and those who do not. There are those who remember, and those who forget. There are those who worship, and in their worship is the stink of fear.

  To them all I say, the Ones who wait and watch in the sky know everything that has happened, and everything that can happen. You have broken covenant with them, and still they do not abandon you. See, they leave you their most precious metal kalishium, which can look into your inmost heart. They leave you their doors. Why else, if not to return?

  There is darkness now all around us. There are none left to listen to me. My son is dead, and soon I will die too.

  But a time will come when my words will be known to all that live in Asiana. Twenty, fifty, a hundred years from now, the smallest child will gaze into the dark bowl of the sky and know that we are not alone.

  The fractured clans will unite to form the Orders of Peace and return harmony to Asiana. The Markswomen, as they will come to be called, will use blades fashioned from kalishium to mete out justice. Thus will they keep faith with the Ones, for only kalishium can look inside the soul and be true to its keeper. All must obey the Orders, for in them lies the hope of Asiana and the future of our race.

  It is I, Ture-asa, the last king of Asiana, who says this to you.

  To all who would repudiate me, I say that you are deaf and dumb and blind. You turn your face away from the light, and so you cannot see. You clap your hands on your ears, and so you cannot hear. But look up at the star-filled sky one night. Look for the blue disc of Amaderan, the home star of the Araini. See if you dare deny the Ones.

  Chapter 26

  Across the Empty Place

  It was the hour before dawn in the Empty Place—almost time to move. Time to leave this frozen, desolate landscape that had begun to feel, despite everything, like an unforgiving kind of home.

  Kyra rested her hands on the two kataris, sensing their power. One blade so much a part of her, the other ancient and alien. It was beginning to weigh on her now. Well, she wouldn’t have to bear it much longer. Shirin Mam had made that clear. Kyra would give it into the Maji-khan’s safekeeping before the duel, to pass on to Rustan when he rejoined the Order. She wished with all her heart she could have given it to him herself, but that was no longer possible. Rustan was gone. Barkav had summoned her one morning and told her that he had left Khur.

  “
Left for where? Left why?” she had asked in dismay, but he was vague about that. Business of the Order, he said, and waved his hand in dismissal. She walked back to her tent, oddly bereft. Had he gone because he’d seen Shurik kissing her? No, that was too ridiculous. More likely he was simply fed up with teaching her, day in and day out. She had swallowed the painful lump in her throat and focused on her training.

  Kyra went to all the classes that she could in her last week at Khur, joining the Marksmen in Mental Arts, katari-play, and unarmed combat. She even volunteered to cook the midday meal once, and was quite pleased when it was not an unmitigated disaster. She asked the fabled Gajin for help, and he gave it willingly enough, telling her how much salt and water to add to the millet and how long to cook the potatoes. The elders thanked her for the meal and Barkav joked that she was good enough to be an honorary Marksman of Khur. She had to smile at that, even though the elders’ expressions ranged from mildly disapproving (Saninda) to terribly shocked (Ghasil).

  Still, she had been lonelier than ever before in her time at Khur. She missed Rustan’s lessons, his patient voice as he told her the fine difference between churi-katka and katari-kaat, or why she was holding the katari the wrong way. It is not a weapon apart from you, but an extension of your being, he had said, pushing the dark hair away from his forehead and gazing at her with burning eyes. Feel it.

  She couldn’t understand why it hurt that he was gone. He had only been teaching her on the Maji-khan’s command. All their time together had been spent in katari-play; they’d never talked of anything else, except on that last day. Yet somehow being with him had kept the darkness within her at bay. She hadn’t thought about it earlier, but she’d had fewer nightmares; the ghosts had been less insistent. When he left they returned in full force, knocking on her dreams once again, demanding to be let in.

  Well, it was time to lay down her ghosts, one way or another. Kyra sheathed the blades, her own in the wooden scabbard by her waist, and Shirin Mam’s in the black metal scabbard on her back.

  “We move at dawnlight,” Barkav had said. “Pack your things.”

  Kyra donned her camel-wool cloak and knee-length boots. As if she had any “things” to pack. One brown robe with the symbol of Kali, two kataris, and three prayers were all she had. First, that she could somehow win the duel with Tamsyn. Second, that her friends were all safe in Ferghana. And third, that she could once again find her path to avenging the slaughter of her clan.

  Kyra stepped out of the tent, clutching the tiny bundle of her belongings. The cold took her breath away, even though there was no wind yet. A hint of orange lit the eastern sky, but elsewhere the dark of night still held; the stars still shone. She was halfway to the camel enclosure when a figure materialized out of the darkness.

  Kyra’s heart sank when she saw who it was. Was Shurik going to make a scene now, when she was about to leave?

  Shurik had grown more and more withdrawn as the time for them to part drew near, until he barely acknowledged her at all. It was better this way. But she still missed his easy companionship and cheery grins, especially after Rustan left. She had been paired with Shurik for a mock duel in one of Ishtul’s classes and he had done a poor job of it, wildly thrusting his sparking katari into the air until the elder told him to go join the apprentice class. He went off red-faced and scowling, and ignored Kyra after that.

  Now here he was, looming in front of her with a determined expression on his face, dressed in thick robes and boots, a bulky bundle tied on his back.

  “I’m going with you to Kashgar,” he said without preamble. “Don’t bother saying no, because I already asked the Maji-khan’s permission.”

  Kyra bit down her impulse to whoop for joy and said, “Whatever for?”

  “It will be boring here with practically half the Order away,” said Shurik. “Barkav can use me to stock up on provisions in Kashgar while you all go to Sikandra.”

  Kyra breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t attempting to dissuade her from going to Sikandra, or talking of his supposed love for her. Perhaps he had finally seen reason.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “I wasn’t looking forward to having just the elders for company.”

  The way Shurik’s eyes lit up when she said that made her think she shouldn’t have spoken.

  * * *

  There were six of them besides Kyra: Barkav, Saninda, Ghasil, and Ishtul, all bound for Sikandra, and Shurik and Aram, who would remain in Kashgar to take care of the camels and buy provisions for winter. The remaining elders, along with Astinsai, were to stay behind at Khur. Kyra learned that this was the way the elders had done it for years, rotating duties among themselves so that they each got a turn to represent Khur at the clan assembly.

  They set off at dawnlight, as Barkav had promised. Everyone showed up to bid them goodbye. Astinsai sprinkled a few drops of a strong-smelling potion on each of their heads, muttering a blessing for their safe return, her ancient face darkly planed in the half-light.

  Kyra mounted her camel and settled as best as she could on the saddle between its humps. The men who remained stared at them half in envy, half in gloom. It would be several weeks before everyone returned and the Order dug in for winter. Kyra waved to them, smiling. It was strange, how she’d longed to get away from this place when she first arrived, and how, in a little over a month, she’d come to regard it as a refuge. She’d sparred with the Marksmen, been taught by their elders, and grown to love the stark beauty of the desert sky. She wished she could say or do something memorable to thank the Marksmen for taking her in.

  Then the camel she was sitting on lurched to its feet and she almost toppled over, saving herself by grabbing a hump. She scrambled back upright, flushing as she sensed the grins behind her back. So much for a graceful exit. Well, at least she had given those glum faces something to smile about.

  They rode in single file, the camels casting long shadows across the golden sand. Barkav led the way, picking out the route they would travel, skirting the edges of the vast dunes and jagged cliffs. Saninda brought up the rear, behind Kyra. In the middle were two camels loaded with their provisions.

  The sun slipped higher in the sky, its white light bleaching the sands and hurting the eyes. Kyra lowered the hood of her robe. The swaying motion of the camel together with the fierce light of the sun made her dizzy, but she hung on, determined not to show any weakness in front of the Marksmen. The men sat with the ease of long years of practice traveling in the desert, squares of white cloth tied around their heads.

  By the time Barkav called for a halt in the shelter of a cliff, Kyra was so sore from riding the camel that she almost wept with relief at being able to get off. Why couldn’t they have made that wooden saddle more comfortable to sit on? A bit of padding wouldn’t have hurt. She winced as she got off and stretched her body. Aram was already unloading waterskins and bundles of food from one of the camels, and she hobbled toward him.

  Aram was a few years older than Shurik, a taciturn youth whom Kyra did not know well. He had been given the task of loading the camels and making sure that they had enough food and water to last the week’s journey to Kashgar.

  Aram looked up as she approached and handed her a waterskin. Kyra drank little, despite her thirst. A few mouthfuls now and then, Barkav had said, would take you further than long, greedy gulps.

  The camels sat down and rested in the shade while Aram and Shurik served the food. It was a simple meal of millet bread, dried dates, and camel cheese; there would be no actual cooking except at dinner. After they had eaten, the men stretched themselves out on the sand to rest.

  Kyra walked to the edge of the cliff’s shadow and gazed at the vast dune field that surrounded them. One full week of this might well kill her before she ever reached Sikandra.

  The softest of footfalls behind alerted her to Shurik’s presence. He hadn’t spoken to her since morning, had behaved in the most exemplary fashion, in fact. Without turning around, she said, �
�Are you not tired, Shurik?”

  Shurik sat down beside her. “No more than you,” he said. “And I can hardly rest with Ghasil wheezing on one side of me and Ishtul snoring on the other. Those two have given me more grief than all the rest of the council combined.”

  Kyra chuckled. She had observed the elders glare at Shurik for no particular reason, had seen him duck his head and shuffle away from their beady eyes. “Why you have volunteered for this trip, I cannot fathom,” she said. “It is like a fish jumping into the pan, begging to be fried.”

  Shurik sighed. “I can remember the taste of freshly caught Peral River fish,” he said, his expression turned to some distant memory. “Juicy, succulent, and flaky, cooked on a slow fire with lemon juice, pepper, and turmeric. We used to eat it with steamed rice and fried onions.”

  “Could be the last taste you remember,” teased Kyra. “I can feel the elders’ eyes on us right now.”

  Shurik scrambled up and hurried back to the camp without a word. Kyra suppressed a grin. He would find it difficult to misbehave on this journey.

  Three hours later they were on their way again, Kyra wincing as she eased herself into the saddle once more.

  Dusk lengthened the shadows of the camels on the sand. The sky burned a fiery orange as the sun sank and the wind rose. There was nothing all around but a sea of sand. Kyra prayed that the wind would not keep up all night. It had been cold enough inside a tent with a stove; what would it be like to sleep out in the open, exposed to the bitter night? They had not brought any real shelter with them; Aram had been surprised when she asked. They had a couple of stoves, but the fuel was too precious to waste on anything but cooking and brewing tea.

  Hours later, when a yellow sliver of moon hung low in the sky and Kyra was just about ready to topple off her camel, dignity be damned, Barkav called for a halt behind a vast, curving dune.

  “Dinnertime,” he said, dismounting and smiling as if they were at a feast. The men gave a cheer. Kyra slid off her camel, numb with fatigue.