Markswoman Read online

  But her sleep was filled with disturbing dreams, and brought little rest, especially since she had decoded the message Shirin Mam had given her. Kyra had hoped the parchment would be a secret of some kind, some special counsel that Shirin Mam divulged only to those who had been initiated as Markswomen. Instead, the number string had resolved into a perfect pyramid of palindromic primes. She had stared at the solution, coldness creeping up her limbs.

  “Mathematics is the language of the universe,” Felda had once told her, “and primes are the building blocks of that language. The Ones probably used primes to generate codes for all their doors, even in their home world—and palindromes are beautiful in their symmetry and easy to remember. Lucky for us they used base ten in Asiana.”

  Transport codes were always palindromic primes.

  And Shirin Mam never did anything without a reason.

  A reward for your success, the Mahimata had said, without a hint of irony. And now every night Kyra was haunted by the dream of a door that waited for her to open it, waited to engulf her in darkness.

  Kyra reached a terrace midway up the hill and stopped, panting. Tamsyn was already in full flow. Students surrounded her, sitting on the rocks that dotted the terrace, listening with every appearance of raptness to the elder’s deep voice.

  She tried to sneak in behind the others while Tamsyn’s back was turned, but someone said loudly, “Oh, it’s you, Kyra. You startled me.”

  It was Akassa, of course. Arrogant and beautiful with sleek black hair and olive skin, the eighteen-year-old thought that she was ready for her first mark. She had been furious when Kyra was chosen ahead of her.

  Tamsyn broke off her lecture mid-stride and cast her gaze upon Kyra. A little smile of anticipation played on her lips. Kyra stood rooted to the spot, wishing that one, Tamsyn would look away from her, and two, Akassa would drop dead.

  “Look who has decided to grace my class with her presence,” said Tamsyn lightly. “The newest Markswoman, no less.”

  There were a few sycophantic titters. Kyra, who had been wondering whether to apologize, realized it would make no difference what she said. Tamsyn had already decided what she would do.

  “I was explaining to the class the difference between Inner Speech and Compulsion,” said Tamsyn. “Perhaps you would like to offer your expert opinion on this matter?”

  There was a snort of laughter from Akassa. Elena and Nineth gave Kyra sympathetic glances. It was a simple question Tamsyn had asked, but Tamsyn’s simple questions never had easy answers.

  “Inner Speech is the gift of kalishium,” said Kyra. “Properly trained, a Markswoman can read and control other people’s minds and actions. Compulsion is a misuse of this gift and punishable under the Kanun.”

  “So, the difference between the two is that one is allowed and one is not?” said Tamsyn, her lips curling. “You give a whole new dimension to the field of Mental Arts. Thank you for this great insight.”

  There were more titters. Akassa gave a derisive bow to Kyra, her eyes glinting with amusement.

  Kyra kept quiet, but inwardly she fumed. She had answered correctly, even though she hadn’t elaborated. But of course, that was not good enough for Tamsyn, who delighted in mocking her students as a means of “teaching” them.

  “My, my, what turbulent thoughts you have, little deer,” said Tamsyn. “You really need to work on controlling those wayward emotions of yours.”

  It was as if Kyra had been turned inside out, with every thought she had ever had on display for all to see; such was the force of Tamsyn’s gaze.

  The dark, hypnotic eyes turned away from her and Kyra sagged with relief. Sweat beaded her forehead and her heart thumped.

  “Make no mistake—Inner Speech is not a ‘gift,’” Tamsyn told the class. “It is an art to be learned and practiced every day of your life, if you aspire to any degree of skill. The bond you have with your kalishium blade allows you to hear the thoughts of those around you, but to delve into individual minds and exert control requires years of dedication. There are four rules. First, that we use Inner Speech sparingly and in great need. Second, that we never use it against another Markswoman—”

  “Or Marksman,” murmured Nineth unthinkingly. She clamped her hand on her mouth with a stricken look on her face, but it was too late.

  Tamsyn’s face went red, her lips pressed in a thin line. She glared at Nineth. “Is not one prize for stupidity every year enough for you? Must I inform the Mahimata how utterly undeserving you are to be an apprentice of the Order of Kali? The very word ‘Marksman’ is a blasphemy. The Kanun of Ture-asa says nothing about men being able to bond with kalishium. There are four Orders in Asiana: Kali, Zorya, Valavan, and Mat-su. The fifth is nothing more than a bunch of outlaws. Understand?”

  “Yes, Elder,” said Nineth meekly.

  “Obviously, it is something you find hard to remember. You will carve it for me on a stone tablet as a penance.”

  On stone? Kyra winced. That would take ages. Poor Nineth.

  “Where was I before being rudely interrupted?” said Tamsyn. “Yes, the rules of Inner Speech. The third rule is that we must not use it for personal gain. Fourth, that we do not use it to take a life. That is what the kataris are for. When we break the rules, it is called ‘Compulsion’ and—as our cleverest young Markswoman pointed out—punishable by law. One more thing: Inner Speech does not usually work on animals, but it does have some effect on wyr-wolves. This is to our advantage when we hunt the beasts. Questions?”

  Predictably, there were none. To ask a question in Tamsyn’s class was an act of optimism bordering on lunacy.

  The class came to an end. But before Kyra could escape with Nineth and Elena, Tamsyn called her back and told her to do a hundred sun salutations as “a small penance for being late.”

  Kyra glared at the elder’s graceful, retreating figure, not bothering to try to hide how she felt. It was noon; the penance would cause her to miss the start of the midday meal, which was no doubt as Tamsyn had intended. Kyra considered simply ignoring the elder’s command, but the penalty for that was a meeting with the Mahimata and her entire council of elders.

  No, it wasn’t worth defying Tamsyn. Kyra fell into the sequence of twelve poses that comprised the sun salutation. If she hurried, she could still reach the kitchen in time to eat something.

  Somewhere between her sixtieth and sixty-third asana, a prickly sensation crept up her spine. As if someone was watching her, contemplating stabbing her between the shoulder blades.

  She froze, fighting the urge to spin around. She was being foolish—hungry, exhausted, and now imagining things.

  After the hundredth asana she stopped, swayed, and toppled to the ground. The grass was spiky and unpleasant to lie upon, but she was beyond caring. It was good to rest. She drew in deep breaths, trying to muster the energy to move. And then it came again, the lingering sensation of being watched, strong enough that she dragged herself to her feet. She brushed the hair from her face and started walking downhill, glancing cautiously around her.

  A bone-chilling howl split the air, nearly stopping her heart. Kyra leaped and stared at the dense cover of spruce trees on either side of the hill, blade in hand. Nothing moved. Still she waited, every sense alert. The wind blew soft through the trees and insects chittered in the grass, but beyond that the world was silent. At last she slid her blade back into its scabbard, calming herself.

  It could have been an ordinary wolf. Wyr-wolves rarely came down to the valley in the warmer season. But sometimes a goat or a calf or—rarely—a human would go missing, and the telltale tracks of the beasts would be seen, elongated and clawed. Nothing was ever recovered of the victims—not a scrap of clothing or a shard of bone. The Markswomen followed the trail when they could and relied on their instincts when they could not. It was dangerous work; wyr-wolves were twice as big and fast as ordinary wolves and far more deadly, at least during the full moon. No one had ever seen them during the new moon, not even Tams
yn herself. The kiss of a wyr-wolf meant certain death, for in their saliva was enough venom to paralyze a horse.

  Kyra had ridden in three hunts last year, a necessary prerequisite to becoming a full Markswoman. The first and second times, the wyr-wolves outran their horses and the Markswomen returned with nothing to show for the night’s work. But the third time, the pack of seven wyr-wolves they were tracking wheeled around to attack their pursuers. Kyra had been shocked at the size, speed, and slathering fury of the fearsome beasts. Ria Farad’s blade had flashed through the darkness, lopping off the head of the snarling pack leader.

  Kyra herself had killed one. She had waited, terrified, until the beast was almost upon her and she could smell its fetid breath before thrusting her katari up into its massive chest. The encounter lasted less than three minutes. At the end of it, five wyr-wolves lay dead on the forest floor. Two escaped, much to Ria’s chagrin.

  Later, Kyra had wondered what she would do if she had to face a pack, or even just one wyr-wolf, on her own.

  Keeping a wary eye about her, Kyra continued down the hill. It must have been an ordinary wolf. Wyr-wolves knew better than to come anywhere near the caves of Kali. But she didn’t care to hang around, waiting to find out. Such bravado could be left to the likes of Tamsyn and Ria.

  * * *

  The Order’s kitchen was a roomy space hollowed out of the hillside, part of the same cave system that contained the main cavern and the individual cells of the Markswomen. But it had a separate entrance, a wide wooden door that was open during the day and padlocked at night to keep the food safe from animals.

  Kyra entered through the door, inhaling the aromas of Tarshana’s cooking and feeling herself relax. The Order of Kali might rule the Ferghana, but Tarshana ruled the Order’s kitchen. A big-boned, red-cheeked woman with a thick plait of gleaming black hair, she had worked for the Order of Kali for over a decade, and her mother and grandmother had had the job before her. She stood now, perspiring over an enormous pot that hung above the fireplace.

  “What’s for lunch, Tarshana?” called Kyra, making her way to Nineth and Elena, who had saved a place for her between them.

  “Everything you like,” said the cook, grinning. “Pilaf, fried eggplant, and potato samsas.”

  Delicious. Kyra eagerly settled down on the kilim-covered stone floor with a plate in front of her, ready to dig in. Just as she had taken her first bite, Helen Pichto, a plain-faced little novice with serious eyes, scurried over to whisper in her ear. Shirin Mam wanted to see her.

  “Right away,” murmured Helen before bending to collect the empty dishes in front of the other Markswomen.

  With a sigh of longing, Kyra pushed her plate away and stood up, hunger and dismay warring within her.

  “You’re not eating that?” said Nineth, reaching for Kyra’s plate.

  “Are you all right?” said Elena.

  “Sure,” lied Kyra, and gave them a big smile before heading out of the kitchen. She had been expecting this summons for a while—ever since the night she returned from her first mark and Shirin Mam gave her that “special assignment,” in fact. But did it have to be right now? This was the third meal she’d be missing in four days.

  She walked down the corridor to the Mahimata’s cell, thinking of what she could say, what excuse she could make for not having visited as soon as she had solved the puzzle. But there wasn’t any. She’d been delaying the inevitable.

  Shirin Mam sat at her desk: a huge carved affair of solid oak that had been gifted to her predecessor by a grateful petitioner. A bronze candlestick with three candles threw a small pool of yellow light on the books and scrolls scattered on the desk. In one corner of the Mahimata’s cell was a pallet, and in another, a grass mat for meditation.

  As always, Kyra was struck by how little of the Mahimata’s personality this room reflected, how insignificant it seemed. There was nothing to indicate that it was the seat of power for the most formidable woman in Asiana.

  Shirin Mam put down her quill. “When were you going to tell me you had decoded Felda’s string of numbers?” she asked without preamble.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” said Kyra. “It must be all the meals I’m missing.” It was out of her mouth before she realized how insolent it sounded. But what she wanted most right then was to go back to the kitchen and wolf down some eggplant and pilaf before the next class. Her stomach rumbled in agreement.

  Shirin Mam rose from her desk. “You are not a fool, and neither am I. It has been two weeks now and you did not come to me with the answer. Why?”

  Kyra felt the first stirring of anger. Shirin Mam had all but ignored her for the past few weeks. She hadn’t even mentioned the assignment again after giving Kyra the parchment. “I’ve been busy and I forgot,” she said curtly.

  “Is that all?” said Shirin Mam, her expression unreadable as always. “Or is there something else you wish to tell me?”

  Of course there was something else. There was the dream she’d had over and over again. There was her fear the dream was connected to this “special assignment.” But it was nothing she wanted to tell Shirin Mam about. When she was a child, she could run sobbing to the Mahimata, telling her of doors that ate her, that made the world disappear. Shirin Mam would hold her close and soothe the fears away—sometimes even sing her to sleep. For the rest of the world, she may have been the leader of the most ancient Order of Peace in Asiana, but for Kyra, Shirin Mam had taken the place of the mother she had lost.

  But that was years ago. Kyra was a Markswoman now and if such dreams still came to her, she was not a child to be comforted.

  The tension stretched between them like a tightrope. Kyra’s eyes watered but she did not speak, willing her limbs not to tremble from fatigue.

  Finally, it was Shirin Mam who broke the silence. “The solution, Kyra. I know that you carry it with you.”

  Kyra fished out a crumpled piece of parchment from an inner pocket of her robe. “It was simple,” she said. “I rearranged the numbers and got this pyramid.”

  2

  30203

  133020331

  1713302033171

  12171330203317121

  151217133020331712151

  1815121713302033171215181

  16181512171330203317121518161

  331618151217133020331712151816133

  9333161815121713302033171215181613339

  Shirin Mam barely glanced at the parchment before returning it to Kyra. “And what do you think it is?”

  “There are ten primes,” said Kyra. “They must be the codes to a set of doors.” She hesitated before asking the question that had been haunting her. “Why me, Mother?”

  “Felda thinks that special sets of primes might hold the key to every door in any Hub,” said Shirin Mam, ignoring her question. “There is more than one Hub in the Ferghana, you know. Keep these safe.”

  Kyra felt a chill creep up her spine. “You mean me to use these codes, don’t you?” she persisted.

  The Mahimata cocked her head. “Not I, Kyra,” she said gently. “You mean to use them yourself. Why else would you carry them around with you?”

  What was Shirin Mam talking about? Kyra had the codes because she had forgotten the parchment was in her pocket—that was all.

  “Let us try again,” said Shirin Mam. “Why did you not come to me with the solution?”

  “Because of the dream.” The words spilled out before she could stop them.

  A door—there was always a door. It stood in the middle of a featureless landscape, and Kyra would walk up to it and extend her katari to open it.

  No! The real Kyra would shout to the dream Kyra. Don’t. Can’t you sense the emptiness beyond?

  But dream Kyra couldn’t, or wouldn’t listen. She would slide the tip of her katari into the slot, the slot would glow blue, and the door would slide open. Beyond was utter blackness, and the black would open its maw to suck her in, drowning her in nothingness.

  Shirin Mam was watching her.
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  “What will come, will come,” said the Mahimata. “A dream is only a dream, but you make it more so with your fear.”

  “Is it only my fear, Mother, that there is a door I will open that would eat me alive? That would eat this entire world alive?” Kyra’s voice shook slightly at the end.

  Shirin Mam’s tone became cooler. “Regardless of your fear, you will do what you have to do. And I don’t know what lies in your destiny.”

  You lie, thought Kyra.

  “Not to my knowledge,” said Shirin Mam drily. Kyra flushed. “Is there something else you wish to talk to me—or not talk to me—about? You are going to be late for Mathematics. Felda will have something to say about that.”

  Kyra knew when she was being dismissed. But she drew a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Yes, Mother, there is something else. It has been a few weeks since my first mark. Is it not time for my second?”

  “Good,” said the Mahimata. “I like a sense of duty. The elders of Kalam have sent an urgent missive. They need a Markswoman to deliver justice. It is but a few hours’ ride from here. I had meant to send Tonar Kalam; it is her clan, after all, and they have asked for her. But you will do just as well. Go the day after tomorrow, with my blessing.”

  Kyra’s mouth dropped open in dismay. She had asked, so she had no one to blame but herself. But she didn’t want to go around executing random strangers, and she definitely didn’t want Tonar’s mark.

  Shirin Mam frowned at her expression. “What is the matter, child?”

  As if you do not know. “Mother, I have vowed to wipe out the outlaw clan of Tau.”

  “You plan to kill them all?” asked Shirin Mam. “There must be over thirty of them now, not counting the women and children.”

  “I will kill all who deserve it,” said Kyra. “And Kai Tau will be the last. Let him watch his people die one by one.” Her heart contracted. Let him suffer as I have suffered.