Markswoman (Asiana #1)(9)
In truth, all his marks thus far had been, if not exciting, then at least gratifying. Rustan earned his first mark while protecting a caravan bound for Kashgar from bandits, and his second while breaking up a fierce fight between warriors of the Kushan and Turguz clans. He’d killed the leaders from each side, ensuring that the rest laid down their arms and turned to Barkav to mediate peace. It was an achievement to be proud of.
Whereas this . . . this was an execution.
Rustan urged Basil on, but the sounds of lamentation followed him still, until he wanted to close his ears and shout: I did my duty. That is all.
*
A pale and bloodless moon had risen in the sky by the time Rustan returned to the Khur camp. A vast dune shimmered in the moonlight ahead of him like an immense silver shield. Rustan made out the cluster of tents at its base, and his heart lifted. He was home. He would make his report to the Maji-khan, and everything would be all right. He would sleep, and wake rested to a normal day. He would tell Shurik everything; Shurik would listen to him and grin and punch his arm, say he was too sensitive, that he was lucky to be selected by the Maji-khan.
An apprentice was waiting at the camel enclosure, rubbing his hands and shivering in the cold wind. Rustan handed over Basil to him, inhaling the familiar, pungent aroma of the enclosure with pleasure.
He stopped short outside his tent. A tiny, hooded figure was standing at the entrance: Astinsai, the seer and katari mistress of Khur. What was the Old One doing here at this hour? She barely deigned to speak even to the elders; her presence here could mean nothing good.
Rustan bowed. “Mistress,” he said warily, “you could have summoned me to your tent. I would have come anyway, after making my report to the Maji-khan.”
“Barkav can wait,” said Astinsai, her voice hoarse with age and smoke-weed. “This cannot. Follow me.”
Why? he wanted to ask. But he kept quiet and followed her as she slowly made her way toward her tent, despite his growing bewilderment. Astinsai was one of the few people alive who could make kataris from the kalishium that the Ones had left behind when they went back to the stars. It was a long and arduous process, and it was now many years since she had accepted a new assignment. But she had made many of the kataris that the Marksmen of Khur now carried, including Rustan’s. He could not have disobeyed her, even had he wanted to.
They reached Astinsai’s tent at the southern edge of the Khur camp, Rustan bending almost double to squeeze inside. He could not remember the last time he had been in the Old One’s smoky little home. She did not often invite anyone inside, preferring to keep to herself or, if needed, summon people to the council tent.
Astinsai lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the felt carpet, and the hood fell away from her seamed face and sparse white hair.
“So, you become stronger and braver, Marksman?” she said, dark eyes flashing in the lamplight with an emotion he could not identify. “Let me see your katari.”
Feeling light-headed from exhaustion and from the close air of the tent, Rustan withdrew his katari and proffered it. The kalishium blade pulsed with a soft blue light and, as always, he was struck by its beauty. It seemed more alive than either him or the bent old woman who had forged it.
Astinsai’s expression clouded. “Put it away,” she said. “I have something for you. Something that will set you on a path you cannot yet imagine.” She rose and hobbled to the back of her tent, where she removed the stopper from a decanter and poured a clear liquid into an earthen cup. She held the cup up to him.
“Drink,” she commanded.
“Is that Rasaynam?” said Rustan, dumbfounded. “There are easier ways to kill me.”
Rasaynam was a spirit Astinsai brewed for herself that was rumored to drive men mad. Even she partook of it but sparingly.
Astinsai’s face softened. “There are, but this is the one we must choose. Rasaynam will show you the truth of what happened today.”
The terrible doubt that had seized Rustan in Tezbasti rushed back. He swallowed. “The truth is that I took down a mark. I obeyed orders. I should go to the Maji-khan now and report. He will be waiting for me.”
Astinsai put down the cup. “I cannot force you,” she said. “You must want to know, for it to work for you. You must need it. But ask yourself this: How will you atone?”
Again Rustan heard the wailing sounds that had followed him out of the village and into the open desert. Again he heard the man’s pleas of innocence.
Rustan reached for the cup with a hand that was not quite steady. The liquid was bitter tasting, as if flavored by grief itself. Although he wanted to stop and spit it out, he swallowed each drop. And he knew, in the depths of his soul, this was the start of his punishment. For when he had drunk to the bottom of the cup, he saw, instead of Astinsai, the face of his mark, clutching his ruined throat as if trying to prevent blood from spilling out of it. But it spilled out anyway, running between his fingers, leaving red tracks on his arms. And the specter said, full of reproach, “I told you I was innocent.”
Rustan rose, the cup tumbling out of his hand. He tried to speak, but the scene shifted. Two elders of the Kushan council sat down to a meal with the murdered man, the father of his luckless mark. There was much talking and laughter. And then the flick of a wrist over a cup of tea—the slow-acting poison that would claim the victim’s life later that night. One of the elders stabbed a finger at Rustan. “Do you see?” he said, jovial. “See how we fooled the council and the Maji-khan. See how we fooled you.”