Markswoman Read online

  Kyra stopped sobbing. Cross that cobweb bridge? There were no railings, nothing to hold it up that she could see—no beams, ropes, or abutments. What if it broke and she fell into the abyss below?

  “No,” she said, her voice shaking. “Please, no.”

  “As you wish.”

  The light faded, leaving them in the dimness of the second-level trance. They were back where they had started. It was unbearably dull after the brief, bright glimpse into that other world, and Kyra had no wish to linger there. She surfaced from the trance and the physical senses rushed back. She raised a hand and touched her cheeks. They were wet with tears.

  Shirin Mam gazed at her with compassion.

  Kyra tried to speak calmly. “What was that place, Mother?”

  “An aspect of Anant-kal. What the kataris chose to show us today.”

  “The world as perceived by our blades?” Kyra tried to understand.

  “The world changes with time,” said Shirin Mam. “But kalishium carries the memory of all that has been.”

  “That was our past? The world before the Great War?”

  “It was a past,” said Shirin Mam. “Does it matter?”

  “Have you . . . have you seen . . . ?” Kyra choked, unable to complete the question.

  But the Mahimata understood what she meant. “The Ones from the stars? No. The past is empty of life, unless you walk within living memory.”

  Kyra yearned to see that city again, even as she struggled to comprehend what the Mahimata was trying to explain. She wanted to walk down its streets, climb those glittering towers, and get a closer look at the odd, disc-shaped thing hanging in the sky. Even more, she longed to see the people who had built it.

  But the past was gone, destroyed by war and its toxic aftermath. The fantastic city had vanished and the people who had once lived in it were long dead, their bones crumbled to dust.

  “What use is it?” said Kyra softly. “Why show this place to me?”

  “There is no one else I could have shared it with,” said Shirin Mam. She looked diminished somehow, older.

  Kyra sensed the deep loneliness of the most powerful woman in Ferghana. To go through life knowing something like this, and not be able to tell anyone. How had she borne it?

  “You understand,” said Shirin Mam.

  “Yes, I do,” whispered Kyra. On an impulse, she reached forward and did something she hadn’t done in years: she embraced Shirin Mam.

  “Hush, child.” Shirin Mam’s hands stroked Kyra’s head. “It will be all right.”

  And Kyra, sobbing into the Mahimata’s shoulder, had a sudden, unreasonable flaring of hope that it would.

  Chapter 6

  The Mark in Kalam

  The Kalams were horse breeders and dwelled in the treeless, grassy highlands to the west of the Ferghana Valley, between the mountains of the Alaf Range and the wasteland known as the Barrens. Kyra and Tonar left before dawn and rode without a break, yet the sun was high in the sky before they arrived at the cluster of circular white yurts that were the homes of the people of Kalam—their temporary homes, of course, for the Kalams could dismantle them and move at an hour’s notice.

  Kyra was glad to arrive, although she wasn’t looking forward to the display of Tonar’s markswomanship skills. The sooner this was over with, the better. Shirin Mam hadn’t been joking when she called it a penance. Kyra had slept little the previous night. The vision the Mahimata had shown her refused to leave her thoughts, and before she knew it, Tonar Kalam was poking her awake, telling her to be ready to leave in five minutes.

  Normally, Kyra liked the short, muscular Markswoman with her square jaw and deceptively mild eyes, her blunt black fringe perpetually falling across her forehead. Tonar was gruff and straightforward, rather like Felda. She was also the Markswoman closest to Kyra in age, being but three years older.

  However, she had been simply insufferable throughout the ride to Kalam. She had taken Shirin Mam’s instruction to “teach by example” to heart, and kept up her badgering until Kyra wanted to scream. It was too bad, because with different company, Kyra would have loved the ride. The Alaf Mountains were topped with snow, the foothills covered with lush pine forest. The sky was a cerulean blue, dotted with fluffy clouds, and the grass beneath their horses’ hooves was fresh and green. The scent of pine and grass filled Kyra with peace. Or it would have, if Tonar wasn’t shouting at her from horseback, explaining the difference between doing one’s duty and mere self-gratification.

  “Whoever my mark today is, I will know them,” said Tonar. “It is my clan, my family. I grew up with these people. It could be a cousin, an aunt, an uncle. By the Goddess, it could be my own brother! But did I flinch when Shirin Mam gave me this mark? Did I plead with her to send someone else? No. I was proud of her trust in me. Just as you should have been proud when she offered it to you.”

  Kyra rolled her eyes, but she knew in her heart that Tonar was right. She hoped, for Tonar’s sake, that the mark today—Tonar’s fourth—was not a close relative of hers. For all Tonar’s lecturing, Kyra could detect an undercurrent of nervousness in the Markswoman’s voice.

  Nervousness was evident also in the people of Kalam as they stood outside their yurts, watching the Markswomen approach.

  The Kalams usually kept to themselves and had their own laws, rigidly enforced by their council of elders. Only in the case of murder, or a dispute with another clan, was the Order of Kali invoked. It had been several years, apparently, since they had appealed to Shirin Mam for help.

  “They’re afraid,” murmured Kyra, noting the rigidity of their stance, the way some of the men and women had covered their mouths with their hands, and the absence of any children.

  Tonar frowned. “Well, of course,” she said. “We’re Markswomen.” She dismounted from her horse and Kyra followed suit.

  A middle-aged woman in a green embroidered dress and black waistcoat stepped forward and bowed, placing her right hand over her heart. “I, Aruna Kalam, headwoman of the clan of Kalam, am honored to welcome you,” she said, her voice trembling. “We had expected only one Markswoman—we are indeed fortunate to receive two.”

  The emphasis on fortunate was not lost on Kyra, although Tonar did not appear to notice it.

  “Greetings, Aruna,” she said. “I bring you Shirin Mam’s blessings, and thanks for the beautiful fillies you sent us last year.”

  Aruna gave a strained smile. “No more than our duty,” she said. And still that break in her voice, as if she was deathly afraid.

  “Talking of duty, I am here to do mine,” said Tonar. “Who has committed a crime so grave that it calls for a Markswoman? You did not give the Mahimata any details, beyond requesting my presence. While I am glad that you asked for me, you must remember that I will show no favor. Bring forth the accused, present the evidence, and read out the sentence.”

  Aruna swallowed hard and unfurled a parchment. Behind her a knot of six elderly women, whom Kyra took to be the council of Kalam, twitched and trembled. A wave of tension swept over the entire crowd, as if they were holding their breaths, waiting for something terrible to happen.

  Please, Kyra prayed, let it not be Tonar’s mother or father or brother . . .

  “For the crime of killing my son, Asindu Matya,” read out Aruna in a shaking voice, “I, Darbin Matya, do sentence you, Tonar Kalam, to death.”

  Tonar stared at Aruna slack-jawed, but Kyra had already begun to move with the headwoman’s first few words. With an almost audible click she sensed the trap close, and lunged at Tonar, throwing the Markswoman hard on the ground. A hail of arrows ripped through the space that Tonar had occupied, and vanished harmlessly across the grassland. A couple buried themselves in a yurt opposite. Kyra rolled off Tonar, heart pounding, her blade flashing green fire in her hand.

  People screamed and dropped to the ground, trying to crawl to safety away from the Kalam camp as more arrows flew through the air. From somewhere came a wordless, frustrated shout and the sound
of running footsteps.

  Tonar rolled fluidly up from the ground, spitting grass and mud. “Behind the horses,” she barked, and Kyra obeyed, although her heart clenched at using the horses as shields. They scooted across the ground on their elbows and crouched behind the horses. Rinna and Dvoos, Tonar’s black gelding, stood calm and motionless amid the chaos. From underneath Rinna, Kyra spied a large, powerfully built man throw a lighted torch at one of the yurts. Oh no. There could be people inside.

  Kyra focused her anger to a pinpoint of pure rage and unleashed it at the assailant in a burst of Inner Speech.

  “Put out the fire,” she commanded. “Rescue anyone who is inside.”

  The man hesitated, his mind blocking her, and Kyra realized he was out of her range. She streaked from her hiding place, pulse racing. An arrow grazed her shoulder and she stumbled, caught herself, and pushed forward again, this time staying low to the ground.

  The blood thundered in her ears. She summoned the Inner Speech once more, putting all her force into it, her muscles straining and aching with the effort.

  The man tried to resist, but this time, she broke through his defenses. He lurched forward and beat the flames out with his coat, thrusting aside the burning wood of the doorway to crawl inside. A Kalam man and woman followed, ripping aside the smoking canvas of the yurt to reveal the precious ones trapped inside: over a dozen little children, huddled together, their faces terrified. A man stood over them, holding aloft a wickedly curving sword, looking angry and bewildered as his compatriot—acting under the bonds of Inner Speech—tried to wrest it away from him. The hostage keeper.

  Kyra’s breath caught. She didn’t stop to think. Her blade flew from her hand and buried itself in the sword-wielder’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound and spurted over the children in a hot river as they screamed in panic. Kyra ran toward the body to retrieve her blade, hoping the children were uninjured.

  She and Tonar had to put an end to this now. Kyra kept the bonds of Inner Speech tight over the man who had tried to burn the yurt, although her head felt like it was splitting in two.

  Tonar, meanwhile, had not been idle. She had thrown her blade at the lead archer, stopping him dead in his tracks. The blade embedded itself in the middle of his forehead, and his bow fell uselessly to the ground. She darted forward to retrieve it while simultaneously using the Inner Speech to fell another attacker.

  Kyra reached the remains of the smoking yurt as the Kalam adults began carrying the weeping children away. She bent and closed her fingers over the hilt of her blade, yanking it out from the mess that was the corpse’s throat.

  Later, she would wonder who he was, and why he had chosen an outlaw’s path.

  But not now. Now there was only the fight.

  She ducked behind another yurt, ignoring the cries of pain and fear around her. Four down, she thought. How many left?

  She sensed, too late, a malevolent presence behind her. A noose slipped around her neck—which was still sore from having been squeezed by Maidul Tau. Kyra’s katari dropped to the ground. She gasped and brought her hands up to her throat, trying to tug the thin, silken rope off. But all she did was tighten it even more. Panic fogged her thoughts as the noose cut off the supply of blood to her brain.

  “Die, scum of Kali,” hissed a woman’s voice behind her.

  It was the name of the Goddess that galvanized Kyra’s fading strength. She drove her elbow hard, behind and up, and connected with the woman’s groin. There was a gasp of pain, and the hands that held the noose momentarily lost a bit of their desperate power.

  That moment was enough. Kyra gripped the hands and twisted up the fingers, breaking several with an audible crack.

  The groan turned to a scream and her assailant stumbled back. Kyra sprang up and delivered a hard back kick to her chest, then spun around and followed it up with a front kick to the throat. The woman tumbled to the ground, blood frothing from her mouth.

  Tonar appeared behind the yurt in a half-crouch, her face nearly unrecognizable in a twisted snarl.

  “Any more?” she hissed.

  Kyra grabbed her katari and massaged her neck, trying to breathe normally and still the fierce roaring in her head. “Not that I know of. Let’s check the camp.”

  They circled the camp twice, throwing aside the canvas of the yurts, kicking open the wooden-frame doors. All were empty; the Kalams had fled to safety farther up the grassland where their horses were grazing.

  Four dead bodies were sprawled on the ground; the man whom Kyra had bound with the Inner Speech sat in front of a yurt, a vacant look in his eyes. It would be a long time before he remembered who he was.

  Three Kalam men and one woman had been injured by arrows; Kyra stopped where they lay whimpering and tried to soothe them with the Inner Speech as best she could, although she hadn’t much of herself left to spare. Fatigue stole up her limbs and spine, and she longed to lie down on the grass and close her eyes.

  A hand grasped her shoulder. “Enough,” said Tonar, her voice hoarse. “Don’t empty yourself, or you’ll be the one in need of healing.”

  Kyra got to her feet, but it was hard; her legs felt like rubber. She took in the scene of destruction around her—the bodies, the burned and broken yurts—and shuddered. It was beginning to sink in, what had happened. She had taken down her second and third marks, and not one of them had been a Tau. “Goddess,” she muttered.

  “It could have been worse,” said Tonar. “The Goddess watched over us all right.” She wiped her damp brow with a sleeve. “Let’s get those fools back here so they can clear up the mess and explain themselves.”

  Kyra glanced at Tonar’s exhausted face. “Who was Asindu Matya?” she asked quietly.

  “My first mark,” said Tonar. She pointed with a boot to the body of a man who lay crumpled on the grass a few feet away, his head caved in. “His father was my fourth.”

  Kyra swallowed as she gazed at the corpse. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, whoever he was. Then she remembered the children kept hostage in the yurt—the children these people had been ready to kill—and her pity vanished.

  “Don’t be sorry for them,” said Tonar, as if she had read Kyra’s mind. “His son killed a woman after abducting and violating her. A violent criminal, who deserved to be put down.”

  Kyra nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  Tonar walked to the edge of the camp and summoned the Kalams, using the Inner Speech.

  One by one, they straggled back. Some were wounded and limping, leaning on their kinsmen for support. Some wept openly. A few hurried to help the injured, headed by the black-robed medicine woman of Kalam. Parents had their arms protectively around their children. The sight smote Kyra. She hoped Tonar wasn’t going to punish them.

  Aruna Kalam was one of the first to return. She knelt in front of Tonar, her face gray. The elders of Kalam clustered behind her, looking equally abject. “I have betrayed you, Markswomen of Kali,” Aruna quavered. “I beg the mercy of your blade.”

  “Oh, do get up, Auntie,” said Tonar irritably. “Tell me what happened, although I think I can guess.”

  The headwoman stood and wiped her eyes. “They arrived a week ago,” she said. “Four men and two women, four armed with swords, two with bows . . .”

  “That means one escaped,” interjected Kyra in dismay.

  Tonar’s face hardened. “She won’t get far. The Order of Kali will find her, sooner or later. Go on, Auntie.”

  “They had two of our children at sword-point,” said Aruna, wringing her hands. “They must have found the children on the steppe, grazing the horses. They threatened to kill them unless we did as they asked. They rounded up all the other children, and made us write a letter to the Mahimata, asking for your presence.”

  Tonar pursed her lips. “Fools,” she said loftily, “thinking they could fight a Markswoman of Kali.”

  Kyra didn’t say anything, but she knew Tonar would have been dead in the first hail of arrows if she
hadn’t pushed her aside.

  “We apologize deeply,” said one of the Kalam elders. “We will accept whatever punishment the Mahimata deems fit.”

  “One of our elders will be here tomorrow,” said Tonar. “I am quite sure the Mahimata will send Eldest, our healer. As for punishment, I cannot speak for Shirin Mam, but I doubt she will be angry. You have been foolish, but not malicious. You were trying to protect your children, after all.” She glanced at the scene of carnage around them. “Bury the dead. Bind the one who still lives; his mind is gone, but it may decide to return. Eldest will deal with him.”

  Aruna Kalam bowed. “Thank you, Markswomen, for your mercy. May we . . . may we offer you our hospitality?”

  Tonar gave a short laugh. “No, thank you. We’ll be on our way. You have much to do before nightfall. Take care of your injured and your young. Till we meet again, the Goddess be with you.”

  “The Goddess be with you,” they echoed.

  Tonar and Kyra mounted their horses and cantered away, leaving the damaged camp behind. It was late afternoon now, and the golden, slanting rays of the sun made it seem as if the foothills were on fire. The wind had picked up—a sign that the night would be cool. Kyra inhaled deeply, grateful to be on her way back home. Grateful to be alive.

  “Lucky I was with you today,” she said, glancing at Tonar sideways. “Shirin Mam’s penance turned out to be good for something.”

  Tonar snorted. “Shirin Mam sent you with me today for a reason—a reason that had nothing to do with penance or luck.”

  “Surely you don’t think she knew what would happen?” said Kyra, skeptical. If Shirin Mam could have predicted this, she would have sent the Hand of Kali. Tamsyn could have taken on all six outlaws single-handed without so much as flinching.

  Tonar shrugged. “The Mahimata must have sensed something amiss. Perhaps in the way the letter was phrased.” She paused and said in a different tone, “I’m glad you were with me.” She smiled at Kyra—an event so rare that it struck Kyra speechless. They were quiet for the rest of the ride home, and did not arrive at the caves of Kali until dusk had deepened the sky to violet.