Markswoman (Asiana #1)(20)
“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.
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.”