Markswoman (Asiana #1)(87)

But Kyra could almost believe that their ghosts still lingered in the hall. Almost see, with her inner eye, the red velvet robe of a queen dragging on the marble floor as she walked, arm in arm, with her consort.

“Hear me. Hear me now.” The stern voice echoed across the hall, and all laughter and talking died away. Kyra craned her neck to see who had spoken.

In the center of the hall stood a bent old woman with a wrinkled face and silver hair, leaning on a staff that appeared to be almost twice her height. When she was satisfied that she had everyone’s attention, she spoke again:

“I, Unduni Arallin, headwoman of the clan of Arallin, keeper of the Black River Forest, do welcome you to Sikandra for the two hundred fifty-third clan assembly of Asiana. May the light of the Kanun shine on you.”

“May the light of the Kanun shine on you,” they murmured in response.

“As the mediator,” continued Unduni, “I stand between Order and clan. Heads, sit down, please. We had best not waste time, for I see that we have many items to discuss, or shall I say, argue about, today.”

There were a few dutiful titters and a great rustling as people began to sort themselves out. Everyone obviously knew where to go and how to arrange themselves. Clan elders and heads sat down on chairs, surrounded by the younger members of their families. The Orders walked past Unduni and settled down behind her in five tight little groups.

Kyra stood petrified in the middle of the purposeful rush, not knowing where to stand or with whom.

And then she spotted Tamsyn strolling to one of the chairs behind Unduni, looking as elegant and lethal as ever. Kyra held her breath and released it slowly, trying to still the panic that rose within her at the sight of her deadly enemy. All the time she had spent with the Order of Khur, learning new ways to fight, seemed to blow away like dust. Kyra felt like a novice again, weak and unprepared for the challenge she had set herself.

Navroz, Mumuksu, Chintil, and Felda sat down behind Tamsyn. Kyra’s heart gave a little swoop of fear and longing as she regarded the elders of Kali. Navroz looked old and tired in a way she never had before. Mumuksu wore an expression caught between fear and anticipation. Chintil’s face was masklike and she held herself rigid, as if she wished to hide every emotion she had ever felt. Only Felda looked her usual gruff self. Kyra longed to reach out to them, get their news, and share her own. She wished she could somehow communicate with them without alerting Tamsyn.

Or did she? How far could she trust even them? Perhaps Tamsyn had subverted them to her way of thinking by now. Perhaps Shirin Mam and her teachings were but a distant memory, and Kyra a mere irritant to be removed.

Kyra stopped herself. She had to focus on the duel; the elders could be dealt with later. She was lucky that the use of Mental Arts was forbidden in the hall, or Tamsyn would certainly have sensed her presence by now.

She edged near a group of men and women standing close to the center of the hall. It would appear as if she belonged to their clan, and she would be able to see everything that was happening. Her eyes went past the mediator to the lone group of men, and her heart did another somersault. There was Rustan, looking as if he had swallowed a stone that was slowly poisoning him. There was the Maji-khan, grave and impassive, his hand resting on Rustan’s shoulder.

Kyra could hear the thoughts of the Markswomen surrounding the Order of Khur:

Mere men, sitting here as if they are our equals.

Men wielding kataris, it’s a disgrace.

Why don’t they stay away in that godforsaken desert of theirs so we aren’t reminded of their existence every year?

And, oddly:

That young dark-haired one is rather good-looking. I wonder who he reminds me of?

Kyra gave a start. Who had been thinking that perilous thought? Her gaze swept over the Markswomen, but their impassive faces gave no clue to what was going on in their individual minds. No way to find out without using the Mental Arts.

The Marksmen, for their part, seemed impervious to the cold glances and occasional mutters aimed at them. Perhaps they were used to it, but Kyra felt a stab of indignation on their behalf.

If anyone had the right to bear the Order of Khur a grudge, it was her. But living with the Marksmen, she had never once thought that they were the enemy, or even that different from her. Of course, she didn’t understand the way they processed emotions. And there had been that debacle with Shurik, which still hurt and angered her to think of.

But on the whole, she had got along with the Marksmen just fine. She even liked most of them—okay, no one could like Ishtul, but he was an elder and elders didn’t count. The only person she had disliked at Khur was Astinsai, and Astinsai was a woman.

Why were the other Orders ill at ease with Khur? Could it be that the Markswomen were afraid of the Marksmen, and they hid their fear under a layer of disdain?

Unduni rapped on the floor three times with her staff. A chair had appeared behind her and a girl stood next to it with a tray, presumably for when the mediator got tired or thirsty. But for now Unduni stood, her eyes somber, her face grave.

“First, I must inform you that Shirin Mam, Mahimata of the Order of Kali, is dead.”

Murmurs and sounds of distress broke out among the people gathered in the hall. It appeared that not everyone present had heard of the passing of the old Mahimata of Kali, although they must have marked her absence at the assembly today.

“She will be missed,” continued Unduni. “A great leader, who brought several clans of Asiana under the aegis of the Kanun. May she find peace in the world beyond.”