Markswoman Read online

  Chapter 7

  The Maji-khan of Khur

  “No,” said Barkav, his voice implacable. He knelt opposite Rustan, a huge, gray-bearded man with power radiating from every sinew of his massive frame. Clad in white robes with the symbol of Khur—the winged horse—embroidered on his chest, he could not have been anyone other than the Maji-khan, the head of the only Order of Peace in Asiana composed of men.

  “But the Kushan elders . . .” began Rustan.

  “Ghasil will take care of them,” said Barkav. “Do you not agree that the Master of Mental Arts is the most capable among us to delve into their minds? They will fall over themselves in their hurry to tell him everything. Ghasil will make an example of them.” His gray eyes darkened. “No one will dare lie to us again. No one will dare try to frame an innocent man.”

  But what about me, Rustan wanted to shout. What role will I play?

  They were in the Maji-khan’s tent, which was the biggest in Khur, save for the communal and council tents. It was also better appointed, with thick carpets, woven hangings, and brass lamps. Wooden trunks stuffed with books and scrolls lined the walls; on top of the trunks were figurines of every shape and size, made from bone, wood, metal, and clay. Gifts from petitioners and souvenirs from the Marksmen’s travels, Barkav had told him once. Rustan caught sight of an exquisite clay camel, a gift from the Kushan council, and suppressed the desire to smash it.

  “Please, Father,” he said. “Grant me this, that I may be the one to liberate the souls from their bodies. It will lessen the evil I have done.”

  Barkav frowned. “What evil? I am the one who passed judgment. You simply followed my orders. If there is guilt here, it is mine. I should have examined the evidence and questioned the elders more closely. Instead, I trusted these men. I have been punished for my complacence, and it will never happen again.”

  Was that all the Maji-khan would say about his own culpability? How could he bear the burden of this mark so lightly? An innocent life should matter more.

  “Yes, I obeyed you,” said Rustan, “and all I ask is for the opportunity to obey you again. Let me take down the two marks.”

  “For the third and last time,” said Barkav, his voice like flint, “no. It is not your place to seek vengeance. If you would obey me, then do not ask for this again.”

  Rustan gritted his teeth. His katari burned through its sheath, reflecting the turmoil within him. “So I just continue as usual?” he said, forcing calmness into his voice. “Pretend to the others that everything is fine?”

  “You can tell the others what you wish,” said Barkav. “The elders know, and sympathize.”

  Rustan swallowed the retort on the tip of his tongue, the one about where the elders could put their sympathy, but he couldn’t quite hide it from Barkav, who always knew how he felt and could often read his thoughts.

  The Maji-khan’s grim face relaxed into a small smile. “I’m sure you won’t mean that, not when you’ve had a chance to cool down. Rustan, there is a lesson in this, and the learning of it will be the making of you as a Marksman. You are accomplished in both katari-play and the Mental Arts. But sometimes, the real talent lies in knowing when to do nothing. Knowing how to step back, forgive, and let go.”

  “The day I forgive those two men is the day they stop breathing,” said Rustan.

  “I was talking about forgiving yourself,” said Barkav calmly. “A much more difficult task, is it not?”

  Rustan had nothing to say to that. After the Maji-khan had dismissed him, he stepped into the blinding white light of the afternoon sun. Almost everyone else would be resting in their tents. It was why he had chosen this time to confront Barkav. A part of him had known it would be an exercise in futility—but he had to make one final attempt.

  He had killed an innocent man. What would the others say if they knew? And truly, did it matter what they thought? The fact of the man’s death was what was important.

  Rustan remembered again the sounds of lament that had followed him out of Tezbasti, and his stomach clenched. It was a sound that poisoned his waking hours, that haunted his dreams.

  If only there was someone he could turn to now, someone not of the Order, who could listen to him, perhaps even guide him.

  But there was no one. Rustan had never known his father, and had known his mother too briefly to be able to call on her, or even remember her very well. There were the elders of the Pusht clan, who had adopted him and raised him for the first eight years of his life, but would they tell him anything different from what Barkav had said?

  He doubted it.

  He walked beyond the tents to the grove, wanting to meditate. The novices had planted shrubs of jessora, spicebush, spineberry, and ephedra there. Given enough moisture, the shrubs would bear fruit in the spring—provided a sandstorm did not destroy them first.

  Rustan knelt on the sandy earth and closed his eyes. He waited for his whirling thoughts to still, but they did not. He waited for his burning katari to cool, but it did not. He had been uprooted, and there was nothing for him to hold on to, not even the katari he was bonded to, for the katari had failed him. Or he had failed the katari. Was there a difference?

  Astinsai’s words echoed and clanged in his mind: How would he atone?

  Part II

  From History of the Order of Kali, by Navroz Lan of the Order of Kali

  It is said that of all the Mahimatas of Kali, none were as wise as Shirin Mam, and of all her pupils, none were dearer to her than the orphan Kyra Veer. That is why she set her a test of the utmost difficulty at the coming-of-age trial.

  The coming-of-age trial in the Order of Kali has four phases. The first is Veeran—isolation of the spirit and starvation of the body, so that one becomes an empty vessel, translucent and receptive to the visions of Kali. The second is Seeran, when the Goddess gives her disciples the dreams that will tell them who they are and what they might become. The third is Jeeyan, the unique task set by the Mahimata that the novice must complete in order to win her place among the Markswomen of the Order. In the fourth and final phase, Katari-dan, the Mahimata awards the successful novice the katari that will henceforth be her constant companion.

  Kyra was fourteen when Shirin Mam judged her ready for the coming-of-age trial. This is not early; most Markswomen undergo the trial between the ages of twelve and fourteen. If they are not ready for it by then, the saying goes, they never will be.

  The trial commenced at dawn. The Mahimata gave Kyra a flask of water fresh from a mountain stream, and bade her seek a place of solitude and quiet. There she must stay for three days without food or water or companionship. She was to drain herself of feeling and memory, words and desire. On the third day, she was to take just one sip of water from the flask. Then she must gaze into the water and pray to Kali. The rest was between her and the Goddess.

  Kyra was gone for seven days, the longest that any novice had taken with the first and second phases of the trial. Some of the Markswomen of the Order were troubled, but the Mahimata was not.

  When Kyra returned with the flask she was a wraith, weak and emaciated. Her eyes shone fever-bright and her step was lighter than a deer’s. The elders plied her with questions, but all she would say was that she had been in a cave up on the mountain, and that she had dreamed of doors.

  Kyra had gone close to the spirit world, and the morning light seemed to pass through her. Her ties to earth and flesh had never been weaker. It was time for the third phase, Jeeyan.

  The Markswomen gathered around to watch, thinking that the Mahimata would take pity on the novice and set her a simple task. Was not Kyra a favorite?

  But Shirin Mam withdrew her blade and spoke a syllable in the old tongue, and the Markswomen gasped and stepped back.

  The ring of fire: an ancient test that had not been used in the memory of any save myself, eldest of the elders.

  The flames leaped high and the heat seared Kyra’s face. She looked at her teacher, and Shirin Mam nodded once. Kyra clo
sed her eyes and stepped into the ring. The smell of singed hair and flesh wafted over to the Markswomen. Inside the circle, Kyra cried out in fear and surprise. When she entered the ring, she was captured within the walls of the enchantment that had created it. She could no longer see or hear the world outside. Only the fire that was now closing in on her.

  The Markswomen waited, hardly daring to breathe, watching Kyra turn this way and that, searching for an escape. They understood that what Kyra was seeing was not merely an illusion that Shirin Mam’s katari had conjured. It was as real as anything else, and Kyra could burn to death if she did not know how to counter the flames.

  But of course, the test was not as simple as that. Once more Kyra cried out, for she beheld a form lying on the ground before her. It was a girl child, barely three years old, sleeping with her thumb in her mouth and one hand tucked beneath her head. Kyra grabbed the sleeping child. But the child would not move. Kyra tugged and tugged, but she could not so much as shake that child, let alone lift her up. Finally, with the fire just a few meters away, Kyra doused herself with water from the flask and hunched over the child, covering the little form with her own body.

  The tongues of flames reached out, caressed Kyra’s damp body, and vanished. The Markswomen let out a collective breath of relief and gave a ragged cheer. Kyra stood, looking around as if she could hardly believe that she was still alive. The child was gone, back to where it belonged: in Kyra’s deepest childhood dreams.

  Shirin Mam smiled and bowed low to Kyra, welcoming her as an equal into the Order of Kali. She presented her with a new blade, bidding her use it well, for it was made by Urhul Mirranthir, one of the last great katari masters of Asiana. Kyra knelt before the Mahimata and accepted the katari with both hands. She laid her forehead on the kalishium blade for katari-mu-dai, the moment of bonding, and shuddered as awareness exploded within her soul.

  I applied healing salves to the burns on Kyra’s face and arms, and there followed the usual feasting and singing in the central cavern. But Kyra did not rejoice overmuch. She understood the symbolism behind the trial of the ring of fire. The child was gone, safe from the flames, but consigned forever to the deeps of memory. The journey to adulthood had begun, and Kyra had only her wits and the blessings of the Goddess to carry her safely through.

  Chapter 8

  The Festival of Chorzu

  Summer had arrived in the Ferghana Valley, bringing long days of sunshine and pleasant nights. Everyone in the Order of Kali was looking forward to the festival of Chorzu. It meant two days away from the daily drudgery, days to mix with the ordinary folk of the valley and enjoy the show put on by traveling musicians, jugglers, and storytellers.

  The elders were more relaxed than usual and there were fewer classes. Felda decided not to give them any derivations at all, and Mumuksu regaled them with stories of her girlhood spent in a caravan of performers. Even Tamsyn was subdued, as if she was directing her energies to something other than torturing students for a change.

  Shirin Mam did not single Kyra out again, apart from praising her and Tonar’s quick action at Kalam in front of the entire Order. “Exemplary discharge of duties and display of courage,” she pronounced with a warm smile, making both Kyra and Tonar blush. “But don’t get bigheaded about it,” she added, which brought them back down to earth.

  Nor did the Mahimata summon Kyra for any more lessons, but still Kyra sometimes dreamed of Anant-kal. It was almost as bad as the dreams of doors; the idea that she could enter the realms of the past—or at least, the past as perceived by her blade—was both fascinating and repellent. Besides, she was embarrassed whenever she remembered how she had embraced Shirin Mam and wept like a child. One simply did not show such familiarity with the Mahimata.

  Shirin Mam did send her one enigmatic note, a couple of days before the festival started:

  “When in doubt, ask my katari where to go.”

  Kyra puzzled over this for several minutes. Surely Shirin Mam meant that she should ask her own katari where to go? Maybe she made a mistake while writing the note. But even if she did, whatever did she mean? Kyra went to her cell to ask her for an explanation, but the Mahimata was too busy to see her and waved her away. Perhaps it was a test of some kind? Kyra put the note in her pocket and resolved to figure it out after the festival.

  The novices had to be accompanied to Chorzu by an elder, but the apprentices could be accompanied by any one of the Markswomen. This meant that Kyra and her friends could, for the first time ever, be completely on their own. Last year Tonar Kalam had accompanied them with rather bad grace, scolded them when they tried to sneak off to see a puppet show, and made them return early before the fun started.

  Nineth was the most excited of the three. She kept counting the few bronze coins she had, and speculating what she could buy with them.

  “We could pool our money and buy a palm-reading for you,” suggested Kyra. “You never know, there might be a fortune hidden away in your future.”

  None of them had much money, and for most of the year this did not matter. Only during the festival did their penury pinch. There was a lot to buy, and little to buy it with. The elders sometimes paid them in coin for special tasks, or they would have had nothing at all. Elena was by far the richest of the trio, with several silver coins she had earned for her healing work.

  “I’d like to buy a snakeskin if I can,” she told the other two. “They are said to have a lot of healing power, especially for broken bones and torn muscles. I hope I find a good one.”

  Nineth and Kyra exchanged a quick, worried glance. Kyra hoped fervently that Elena would find no such thing; they were counting on her silver coins to purchase several little treats.

  It was difficult to concentrate during the last class on the day of the festival—a combined Meditation class for the apprentices and younger Markswomen. They sat cross-legged on the grass, enjoying the scented evening air and half-listening to Mumuksu talk about the opening of the third eye.

  Mumuksu ended the class by reminding them of the rules for attending the Chorzu festival. “No spirits, no fortune-telling, and no fighting. Wear your traveling cloaks over your robes, and keep your kataris and identities hidden. Of course, many of the Chorzu folk will still recognize us, but the outsiders won’t, and the villagers know to keep their silence. You must be in groups of at least three, and apprentices must be accompanied by a Markswoman. You need to return by midnight. Remember, the penalty for being late is that you spend the whole of tomorrow sweeping the caverns instead of enjoying yourself back at the fair.”

  Kyra grinned at her friends and they grinned back at her. But the happy smiles were wiped off their faces at Mumuksu’s next words: “Kyra, I know you are planning to escort Elena and Nineth to Chorzu. You will include Akassa in your group. The three apprentices should stay together.”

  She lectured them some more on the good behavior that was expected of them, but it was all empty wind as far as Kyra was concerned. She stared at Elena and Nineth in dismay and horror. The only silver lining was that Akassa looked equally horrified.

  Sure enough, she blurted out, “Please, Elder, do I have to go with Kyra? I overheard the Mistress of Mental Arts saying that she needed to buy some things in the village. Perhaps I could help her carry them.”

  Mumuksu frowned at the apprentice. Although they were of the same clan, the elder showed Akassa not the slightest favor. “The Mistress of Mental Arts has more important things to do tonight than go to a village festival,” she said. “You will go with Kyra and the other apprentices. Remember, stable your horses at the Kokand Inn.”

  She swept away, and the students scrambled up off the grass, laughing and talking.

  Kyra went to her cell to retrieve her cloak. How like Mumuksu to saddle her with the loathsome Akassa. Perhaps they could slip away without her?

  But when Kyra emerged from the caves, all three apprentices were waiting outside, cloaked and ready to leave. Akassa tapped her foot and looked at the sky, a
s if she had been waiting a long time.

  “Finally!” she said, rolling her eyes when she saw Kyra. “Let’s go get the horses.”

  “We’re walking,” Kyra retorted. She had meant them to ride to the festival, but something stubborn and unreasonable inside made her want to punish Akassa, just for being there. She felt a small stab of satisfaction at Akassa’s look of dismay.

  “You’re joking, right?” said Akassa. “Everyone else is riding. It’s miles to the village. It’s going to be dark before we get there, and it’s a full moon tonight. Do you want us to be attacked by wyr-wolves?”

  Kyra ignored her and started walking. Nineth and Elena exchanged worried glances before falling in step beside her. Kyra snapped, “The festival doesn’t begin until sunset, and it’s a lovely evening for a walk.”

  “We didn’t say a word,” muttered Nineth. Elena stayed silent.

  But if they held their peace, Akassa did not. She kept up a loud and constant stream of complaints throughout the two-mile walk to Chorzu. The grass was damp, her feet were sore, they would miss the drumming at the start of the festival, they would be late coming back, they would be ripped apart by wyr-wolves, and so on and on until it was all Kyra could do to stop herself from slapping the girl. It quite spoiled the walk, which was a pity, because the valley was beautiful at this time of the year. The pink sky was a perfect backdrop for the distant snow-covered peaks, and the air was full of the scent of the red and white wildflowers that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Akassa need not have fretted about the time; they arrived in Chorzu at sunset, just as the first drumroll echoed across the evening sky. Forgetting their bickering, they picked up their robes and ran toward the field behind the village where the festival was being held. An offshoot of the Siran-dyr River rippled by the edge of the field. Later that night, young girls of the village would float flower offerings to the Moon Goddess on the water.