Markswoman (Asiana #1)(39)

Kyra laughed—a small, unhappy sound. “Are you so cut off from the rest of Asiana that you do not know? Shirin Mam is dead. I think Tamsyn had something to do with it. I have been entrusted with Shirin Mam’s katari. While I have it, Tamsyn cannot touch me.”

She withdrew a second katari from a back scabbard hidden behind her hair, and held it aloft.

The transparent blade caught the white light of the sun and broke it into a many-colored rainbow.

So beautiful, thought Rustan, and he closed his eyes. Just like I remember it.





Chapter 14

The Winged Horse




The landscape was vast and empty; it hurt the eyes to look at it too long. Kyra observed her companion instead, a lean, brown young man with coal-black hair and slate-blue eyes. He was handsome, in a hard, serious sort of way, with features that looked as if they had been chiseled from granite. She tried asking him questions about the Order of Khur but he ignored her. Perhaps he was not supposed to give her any information. They walked in silence between the enormous dunes, their feet sinking into the sand.

She should not have attacked the Marksman without provocation, but his unlooked-for presence outside the door, after everything that had happened inside the Hub, had robbed her of the last vestige of self-control.

That he had defeated her was deeply irritating. Of course, she had not been at her best. She was mentally and physically drained after what she had been through. Not that this was any excuse. What would Chintil have said? Don’t get into a fight, but if you do, make sure that you win or you’re no pupil of mine. Inwardly, Kyra chastised herself for failing her teacher.

The camp of Khur was a cluster of tents on the lee side of a vast dune that curved to the north and east. Kyra felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement as they neared it. She knew little about Khur, apart from the fact that it was the only Order composed of men. Founded by Zibalik a mere four hundred years ago, it was also the youngest Order in Asiana. Not a single Markswoman in the Ferghana could claim to have visited it.

Kyra recalled the stories she had heard about the men of Khur, the depth of their bonds, their matchless fighting skills. Fewer men than women had the ability to bond with kalishium, but those men who did have the ability were rumored to be as powerful as a highly skilled Markswoman. No wonder Tamsyn hates them.

At the edge of the camp, a giant of a man with flowing gray hair and beard waited for them. He had such a commanding presence that Kyra guessed at once he must be the Maji-khan of Khur. Behind him stood seven grim-faced men clad in gray robes—the elders of Khur. They must have sensed the arrival of alien blades into the heart of their territory. To the Maji-khan’s right was a tiny, bent old woman with wispy white hair.

The Marksman halted in front of the gathering and bowed. Kyra followed suit, heart skipping a beat. She had not expected such a formidable reception committee. Not that she had really expected anything after emerging from that door. The fact that she was alive and unhurt was miracle enough. That she had arrived in this time and place, and was now in the presence of the elders of Khur, was beyond belief. She felt awkward and tongue-tied, unprepared for what was surely a historic moment.

The Marksman said, “Father, I bring before you Kyra of the Order of Kali and the clan of Veer. She came through the Akal-shin door.”

The elders of Khur stared at Kyra with varying degrees of amazement and disapproval on their faces. Perhaps they were irked that a stranger had used their door. Or maybe they disliked Markswomen on principle. She hoped the Marksman would not tell them how she had attacked him.

But the young man had already retreated. Perhaps he would give the elders a more detailed account later on.

“Welcome to Khur,” said the Maji-khan. “I am Barkav, the head of the Order. This is Astinsai, our seer and katari mistress.”

A katari mistress? Kyra could scarcely believe her ears. Men and women who could forge kataris from kalishium had become increasingly rare over the years. She had never met such a one before, but they were said to have strange powers. She swallowed nervously and bowed again. The old woman’s eyes stabbed her with a piercing gaze, and Kyra felt exposed, as if the seer had seen through her to all the events that had led to this present moment.

The Maji-khan continued, “These are the elders of the Khur council: Ghasil, Saninda, Afraim, Ishtul, Falad, Samant, and Talbish.”

There was a pause while they inspected her. Seven elders, like seven hawks. Kyra tried to keep her face neutral and relaxed under their scrutiny, but it was hard. At least they weren’t trying to delve into her thoughts. Hopefully, they followed the same rules of Inner Speech that the Markswomen did.

The elder called Ishtul—a tall, thin man with a hook nose—leaned forward. “It is the first time in over three hundred years that the Akal-shin door has opened. What brings you here, Markswoman?”

Kyra hesitated. How much should she tell them? How much would it be safe to tell them? “It’s a long story, Elder,” she said at last. “And I have not eaten for a while.”

Ishtul scowled, but the Maji-khan looked at her thoughtfully and then beckoned to a youth hovering behind the group.

“Shurik will get you food and water, and show you to a tent where you can rest. While you are at Khur, you are our guest. Ask Shurik for anything you need. We can speak later tonight in the council tent.”

With that the Maji-khan walked away, followed by the elders. Kyra was relieved she had been dismissed; she had gained a little time. The youth Barkav had assigned to be her guide trotted up to her. A stocky young man with a cheerful face and curly brown hair, he was grinning from ear to ear.