Markswoman Read online

  But for now, all attention was focused on the drummers: a group of bare-chested young men standing on a mound in the center of the vast field, drums slung around their necks and red scarves tied to their wrists.

  “There must be thousands of people here,” said Nineth in awe.

  Men and women dressed in the loose white shirts, sleeveless black coats, and wide trousers typical of the valley thronged the field. But there were also clowns on stilts, black-robed medicine women, and veiled merchants from Tushkan. Children ran underfoot, laughing and shouting.

  Nineth’s words were drowned by the next drumroll. The drummers began to beat out an age-old invocation to the stars for friendship, light, healing, and unity. Elena slipped her hand into Kyra’s and Kyra held it hard, her heart accelerating to the beating of the drums. How far back did this ritual go? Did anyone even remember what it meant? She thought back to the vision of the past she had glimpsed in Anant-kal, and her throat tightened. Perhaps the Ones were still out there somewhere, watching and listening.

  When the last drumroll died away there was a roar of approval from the crowd. The drummers bowed, their faces shiny with sweat.

  “Wasn’t that beautiful?” said Elena.

  “Not bad,” said Akassa disdainfully. “But it was better last year.”

  Kyra shot Akassa a disgusted glance. “Where shall we go first?” she asked Nineth and Elena.

  It was a good question. The field was dotted with dozens of little tents that were already doing a brisk business, to judge by the lines snaking out of them. Off to one corner, a tent larger than the others proclaimed “Marvels and Magick: Come and Be Amazed!” in golden lettering. The fragrance of freshly baked potato pies drifted up from a row of open carts tended by a group of Chorzu women.

  “I’m hungry,” said Nineth, sniffing the air.

  “After that enormous lunch you ate?” sneered Akassa. “Be careful or you’ll get too fat for Hatha-kala. As it is, you can barely spar as well as a novice.”

  Nineth’s face went bright red and her eyes widened in hurt.

  “Shut up, Akassa.” Kyra glared at the apprentice. “Or I’ll send you back to the caves right now.”

  “Let’s go buy some pies,” said Elena hurriedly, before Akassa could snap back at Kyra.

  Akassa didn’t want any, as expected. So the three of them joined the queue in front of one of the carts. The woman who was tending it gave them one quick glance and averted her eyes, obviously recognizing them. She handed them three potato pies and waited with discomfort as Elena counted out six bronze coins.

  Kyra wished she could pat the woman on the arm and tell her there was nothing to be afraid of. They were just a group of friends out to have fun at the festival.

  But that would not have gone over well. The Order of Kali had ruled the Ferghana for centuries, acting as peace brokers, protectors, and executioners. The Mahimata ensured that her Markswomen followed the law scrupulously, but as far as the villagers were concerned, they held the power of life and death over everyone else in the valley.

  Kyra and her friends took their pies and stood beside the Marvels and Magick tent to eat. Akassa wandered away scowling, pausing to inspect a peddler cart stacked with colorful wares with such scorn that she scared away several potential customers.

  “Mmmm, this is good,” said Kyra, biting through the crispy shell of the pie to the buttery center.

  “I could say that myself,” said a deep male voice from somewhere over her left shoulder.

  Kyra jumped and veered to face the speaker, a stocky young man who was leaning against a tent pole. He had full lips, blue eyes, and reddish hair, and was passably handsome, apart from his too-prominent teeth. He bowed and doffed an imaginary hat. “Hattur Nisalki at your service. What are three such lovely ladies doing outside my tent?”

  “This is your tent?” Nineth gazed at the garish lettering on the white canvas flap. “What are the marvels and magic inside it?”

  Hattur flashed a toothy grin. “In answer to the first question, dear lady, the tent and its wonders belong to my father, but I take care of day-to-day business. As for your second question, why not come in and see for yourself? One silver coin each and I’ll toss in a personal tour for free.”

  Nineth’s face fell. “We don’t have that much money to spare.”

  Kyra had already turned her attention back to the potato pie when Hattur drawled, “Oh well, seeing as I’m in such a good mood, how about a kiss instead?”

  Kyra almost choked. How dare he. No one talked to the Markswomen of Kali like that. She glared at Hattur’s grinning face, wishing she could break a few of his gleaming teeth. But their instructions were quite clear: they must not draw attention to themselves during the festival.

  “Let’s go,” she muttered, tugging her companions along with her. Hattur shouted a cheerful apology after them, but she ignored him.

  They wandered around the field, jostling shoulders with ordinary folk, light-headed with freedom. There were all sorts of goods on display, from wooden toys to love potions, perfumed soaps, and mulled wine. There was even a tent that offered massages to cure every possible ailment, from infertility to rheumatism.

  They caught glimpses of other groups of Markswomen, and once they saw the four novices, hurrying after a scowling Felda, who was striding along as if the entire field belonged to her. Akassa kept her distance from them, which was a blessing.

  As evening deepened into night, a full moon sailed into the sky. Lamps winked into existence at every tent and cart, their oily smoke mingling with the aroma of roasted kebabs and pilaf. The crowd became even more densely packed, especially around an impromptu stage where a riddling contest was being held.

  The girls bought sweet buns stuffed with walnuts, and Elena delighted them with a silk scarf each—green for Kyra and blue for Nineth, to match the color of their kalishium blades—having failed to find a snakeskin that was to her satisfaction. Akassa sniffed in disdain at the scarves, but Kyra could tell she was irritated that Elena did not buy her one too.

  For herself, Elena replenished her stock of black silk ribbons to tie her plaits. She always wore her long black hair parted in the middle and neatly plaited—unlike Nineth, whose brown hair was always falling in front of her eyes. Makes me think you’re trying to sleep during class, Felda had told her once in a waspish tone. Nineth had mumbled an apology, pushed the hair away from her face, and widened her blue eyes at Felda in an attempt to look interested in the laws of motion. It hadn’t worked; Felda had seen through her and set her extra problems.

  They made their way to the rivulet, munching the buns, Akassa following slowly with a sour look on her face. Soon it would be time for the unmarried girls of the village to float their flower offerings, and they would have a perfect view of the ritual right on the banks. For now, though, the area was deserted, and the peace and quiet were a relief after the noise and smoke of the crowds at the other end of the field.

  They had settled down on a dry patch of grass when a familiar voice spoke up behind them: “I see you lovely ladies did not forgive me after all.”

  It was Hattur Nisalki. Kyra suppressed her irritation. A lone lamp hung from the branch of an old chenar tree above Hattur, highlighting his half-earnest, half-jesting expression.

  He bowed deeply. “Dear ladies, please accept my humble apologies for my forwardness earlier this evening.”

  “What forwardness?” whispered Akassa.

  “As recompense,” Hattur continued, “I would like to offer you all free entry to the tent of Marvels and Magick.”

  “No thank you,” began Kyra in an indignant voice, but Nineth scrambled up, looking excited.

  “Nineth!” said Akassa. “Have you gone mad? Come back here right now.”

  Although this was exactly what Kyra herself had been about to say, she said instead, “Go on, Nineth. Just be back in time for the rite of flowers. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  Nineth threw her a grateful look and be
amed at the young man. He offered her his arm and they disappeared into the darkness of the trees.

  For a moment the remaining three were speechless, struck by the magnitude of what had happened.

  Akassa said, her voice tight with ill-concealed triumph, “You wait until I report you to the elders. You’re supposed to be a Markswoman? You don’t have the sense of an apprentice. They should demote you back to being a novice.”

  “Yes, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” said Kyra, although she was already regretting her rashness in letting Nineth go off with a strange man. “But it won’t happen. You just can’t accept that you don’t have what it takes, not now, perhaps not ever.” The words were harsher than she had intended, but a sudden anxiety, a feeling of not-rightness, made her speak without thinking.

  Akassa leaped up, her face distorted. “You’re so proud of yourself,” she hissed. “But it’s only because you’re the Mahimata’s favorite that she even let you go for your first mark. I bet she doesn’t let you go after the Taus ever again.”

  The words hit home and Kyra also sprang up, snarling. Elena tried to hold her back, but she shook off her friend’s hand and advanced on Akassa.

  Akassa laughed, a high, brittle sound. A blue glow in the darkness betrayed the presence of the katari in her hand. “Let’s see whose blade is sharper, Markswoman.” She invested the last word with such venom that it sounded like a curse.

  “Kyra, don’t.” Elena’s voice was small and frightened. Kyra ignored it. She focused on Akassa, the blade in her hand, and the stance of her crouching body, outlined against the trees on the other side of the rivulet. Akassa’s back was to the dark, rippling water; this was to Kyra’s advantage.

  Never draw your kataris on each other. It was the first thing apprentices were taught. The penalty, for a full Markswoman, was permanent exile from the Order. An apprentice, of course, could still be forgiven.

  “I give you one chance to sheathe your blade, apprentice,” said Kyra, “and express your remorse.”

  “Why, little deer, are you afraid?” taunted Akassa.

  It was the use of the derisory little deer, which no one but Tamsyn ever called her, that goaded Kyra to action. She did not draw her blade; to do so would have been to fall into the trap that Akassa had sprung, and she wasn’t that foolish.

  Your blade is but an extension of yourself, Chintil had told them. Your hands are but an extension of your blade. Armed or unarmed, it is all the same.

  Kyra crossed her palms in front of her face and slipped into the dance of Empty Hands—the art of bare-handed defense—without pausing to think.

  Akassa blinked in surprise and stepped back, whether from the silence and swiftness of the attack or because her opponent had not drawn her katari, Kyra did not know and did not care. The moment’s advantage was enough; she swung around with a side kick that caught Akassa on the chest, and the girl gasped and stumbled back farther. A little more, thought Kyra.

  Akassa’s blade flashed in the darkness, a streak of deadly blue light that took every ounce of Kyra’s skill to deflect. Akassa did not mean to kill her, or she would already be dead. But the blade grazed the side of her face, and she cried out with pain and anger.

  Akassa laughed. In the blue light of her blade she looked quite demented. “How did you like that, little deer?” she sneered.

  Without bothering to reply, Kyra closed the gap between them and Divided the Wind, a risky maneuver that opened you up to attack, but could break the arms or hands of a foe. She swept up her forearms to knock Akassa’s hands aside, and then brought the sides of her palms down hard on both of the other girl’s wrists. Akassa cried out with pain and dropped her blade. Kyra seized hold of Akassa’s neck, spun her around, and hurled her into the cold black waters of the rivulet. Elena gave a small shriek, then covered her mouth with her hands.

  Akassa emerged a few moments later, gasping and sputtering, hair clinging to her face. In the moonlight, it looked as if a rather bedraggled river nymph was rising from the swirling water.

  “I hope you haven’t mislaid your katari,” said Kyra, hardening her heart against the girl. “I can’t even imagine the penalty for losing it.”

  A look of fear crossed Akassa’s face and she dove back under the black surface. She was gone for two whole minutes. When she came up for air, her hands were still empty, and her expression had gone from merely fearful to wild with panic.

  Elena came to stand beside Kyra at the bank. “When are you going to tell her that you have her katari in your hand?” she whispered.

  “Oh, maybe an hour or four from now?” Kyra laughed at her expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her when she next comes up for air. I don’t want the entire village watching an apprentice of Kali make a fool of herself.” She examined the slender blue blade in her hand. She was uncomfortable holding it. She did not like Akassa and the weapon was hers; an alien hostility emanated from it.

  “Kyra, your face—you’re bleeding!” Elena cried.

  Kyra reached up to touch the side of her face; it was slick with blood and throbbing with pain. The katari pulsed in her hand, and she fought down fear.

  No. I will not be afraid. I bested your mistress fair and square. She glared at the weapon as Elena swabbed away the blood from her face and tied the green scarf around her neck to hide the wound.

  Akassa emerged from the water again, panting and shuddering. “Help me,” she called out in a thin voice. “I can’t find my katari.”

  “I have your katari,” said Kyra. “You can come out now.”

  Akassa dragged herself out of the water, ignoring Elena’s outstretched hand. She stumbled toward Kyra, snatched the katari from her hand, and kissed the blade, weeping soundlessly.

  “Let’s get you dry,” said Elena. But Akassa brushed past them and ran toward the sheltering darkness of the trees.

  “Let her go.” Kyra caught hold of Elena’s arm as she made to follow the weeping girl. “She’ll be all right.”

  In truth, Kyra was ashamed of herself. Yes, Akassa had attacked her, but hadn’t she goaded her into it? She should have ignored the girl’s insults and walked away. Shirin Mam would be most disappointed in her.

  At the thought of Shirin Mam, the feeling of not-rightness returned with such force that Kyra had difficulty controlling her breath.

  “What’s the matter?” Elena’s eyes were large with concern as she took in the expression on Kyra’s face.

  “I don’t know,” Kyra whispered. “Don’t you feel it?”

  Before Elena could answer, sounds of laughter and excited voices broke the silence. Little flames of light came bobbing through the wood. Behind them glowed the faces of young girls holding their offerings—lotus-shaped containers filled with flowers, incense sticks, a candle, perhaps a bronze coin or two. In a minute the place would be packed with people and Kyra and Elena would not be able to move, even if they wanted to.

  “Should we go look for Nineth?” said Elena, anxious now.

  “Yes. Something is wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it,” said Kyra. She had lost all interest in watching the rite of flowers.

  They slipped out between the trees, past the line of girls and the groups of young men who were cheering them on.

  Elena grabbed her sleeve. “Look, there she is!”

  They hurried out of the wood into the open field. The crowd had thinned and some of the peddlers were already packing up for the night, although there were still enough lamps to see by.

  Nineth sauntered toward them, her brown hair even more ruffled than usual, a little frown marring her normally cheerful face. Kyra felt a rush of relief. It was not Nineth who was in trouble after all. And it couldn’t be Akassa, because the feeling of something not-right had come upon her before the apprentice ran away.

  “What took you so long?” Elena demanded as soon as they were in earshot.

  “We had visions of Hattur Nisalki carrying you off,” added Kyra teasingly, although her heart was not in it.
<
br />   “Oh, that almost did happen,” said Nineth. “But I gave him a black eye and he changed his mind.”

  “Nineth,” exclaimed Elena. “You hit him?”

  “Once,” said Nineth. “I didn’t show him my katari or anything stupid like that, but he grabbed me and I didn’t know what else to do. Besides, he’d already shown me the tent and it wasn’t much—a bearded lady, a dwarf, a poor little wildcat in a cage, and a magic show with funny instruments called scopes. I’m glad we didn’t waste any money to see it.”

  Despite her mounting worry, Kyra snorted with laughter. She couldn’t help it. “Poor Hattur didn’t get his kiss after all?”

  Nineth flushed. “I’d rather kiss a horse.” She looked around. “Where’s dear Akassa? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to lose her.”

  “She and Kyra had a fight,” said Elena. “Kyra threw her into the river.”

  “What?” Nineth looked dumbfounded. “Kyra, how could you?”

  “I know, I shouldn’t have.” Kyra hung her head, chastened.

  “I mean, how could you have not waited for me?” said Nineth. “I always miss the fun! Wait, she’s not still in the river, is she? We might have some explaining to do to Shirin Mam if she is.”

  As soon as Nineth said Shirin Mam’s name, the feeling of not-rightness grew until it enveloped the entire world. “We should go back to the caves,” said Kyra.

  “But it’s still two hours to midnight,” Nineth protested.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kyra. “But something’s wrong; I can feel it. I think we should get back.” Her urgency bled into her voice, and she knew Nineth and Elena could hear it, because they joined her without further protest.

  She walked away fast, but it wasn’t enough. She could not outrun the knowledge that something was horribly wrong back at the caves. If she didn’t hurry, it would be too late to stop something terrible from happening. The katari at Kyra’s side burned with urgency. She began to run, run as she never had before, away from the dying festivities of Chorzu and into the moonlit night.