Markswoman (Asiana #1)(10)
The victim’s face had become swollen, purple. He opened his frothing mouth and echoed Astinsai’s words, “How will you atone?”
“I will kill them!” shouted Rustan, and he reached for his katari. But the scene shifted, back to Astinsai’s tent. The old woman had not moved; she sat in the same position, watching him like a hawk.
“Is that what you will do, Marksman?” said Astinsai, a note of pity in her voice.
Rustan wiped the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. His head was pounding as if someone had hammered nails into it. How could the Maji-khan have sent him to Tezbasti to kill an innocent man? Rustan had always trusted his elders, had never questioned them. That trust had been betrayed, his world turned upside down. And no matter the reason, it was Rustan himself whose katari had done the deed. How could he ever rely on his blade again?
“Why tell me now,” said Rustan, trembling with anger, “when there is nothing I can do about it? Why not tell me earlier?”
“I am sorry,” said Astinsai, not sounding sorry at all, “but I did not know. Not until your blade took his life.”
“I must tell the Maji-khan,” he said, wondering at his ability to speak so calmly, so normally, after what he had witnessed. “The Kushan elders will be punished.”
“But that will not bring back the dead man,” said Astinsai. “It will not undo what you have done.”
No, it won’t. He wanted to smash something, wipe that knowing look off the Old One’s face. It was as if she saw the torment he suffered, had, in fact, planned it.
Instead, he left Astinsai’s tent without another word, almost at a run, to find the Maji-khan.
Chapter 4
Mental Arts
Kyra raced up the flower-strewn slopes behind the caves of Kali, where Tamsyn liked to hold Mental Arts. Once again, she’d slept through the gong for morning assembly. She couldn’t afford to be late for class, especially not Tamsyn’s, but it was happening with depressing regularity since her initiation. She now had to take advanced classes with older, more experienced Markswomen, in addition to the classes she usually took, and it was hard to keep up. Most days, she was covered with bruises by the time she lay down to sleep.
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.