Rustan began to shake. They are telepathic, he thought, and then—I have found the Sahirus.
One of the monks waved a bony hand at him. Rest now. Talk later.
A thick drowsiness overcame Rustan, and he did not resist as they gently pushed him down and covered him with a rug. Perhaps it was the fatigue, or perhaps the Sahirus had something to do with it, but no voices or dreams came to haunt him that night.
Chapter 10
Amaderan
Rustan woke to sunlight streaming through the open doors of the monastery. He could hear birdsong nearby and the sound of bells chiming. Birds and bells. No mad voices splitting his skull in two. No beast, sniffing him with its carrion breath, debating whether to end his guilt-ridden life.
He stretched out on the rug. His body ached, and numerous small wounds competed for his attention. But as he turned his head, he saw the monks were already up and about, sweeping the floor and hanging up robes to dry before the fire. He watched them for a minute before hauling himself up and asking them how he could help.
In response, the monks fixed a rope ladder for him by the doorway of the monastery, so he could get down to the path without their help. He fetched water from a stream and put the kettle on to boil while the monks milked two goats they kept in a shed just behind the building.
They broke their fast with tea, yoghurt, and caraway-seed-sprinkled naan that the monks roasted in a brick oven. The food was simple, yet nothing had ever tasted as good to Rustan as that first meal with the Sahirus. They accepted his presence as natural, and he wondered at that. Why had they brought him, an outsider, into their sacred home? He paused in the act of dipping a piece of bread in the honey-sweetened yoghurt and blurted out, “Why did you save my life?”
We dreamed of you. We have been watching you for weeks now.
“What of the others?” he asked. “The other seekers.”
You are the first we have seen in many years. Few undertake the journey; fewer still make it here alive.
Rustan remembered what Nursat had said about bodies being found, sometimes mutilated or missing limbs. “I met something in the forest,” he said. “Some kind of animal, perhaps. I thought it would kill me. What was it?”
You met nothing that was not yours.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Everyone who seeks us must first confront the worst in themselves. Most do not survive.
A test, then. But . . . he hadn’t imagined that carrion smell, those talons caressing his throat. And all those other seekers who had been killed—that was no illusion.
“How . . . ?” he began, but the monks waved at him reprovingly.
Food is best enjoyed in peace and quiet.
This abashed him enough that he ate the rest of the meal in silence. But it was a comfortable silence, with the monks wordlessly pressing more food on him and eating with evident enjoyment themselves, despite their lack of teeth.
Afterward, he washed up while the monks disappeared into the cave opening, armed with a torch. They soon returned, dragging an old wooden chest behind them. Rustan sprang up to help them bring it to the center of the room, then watched as they fiddled with the rusty lock. It was hard to distinguish between the two of them, they were so much alike. They were even dressed the same, in identical saffron robes wrapped around frayed maroon shirts. However, one of them deferred to the other, and he guessed that one was the older of the two. Ever after, he thought of them as the Elder and Younger Sahirus, although the word young had not applied to either of them for several decades.
The lock creaked open, and the trunk lid groaned as the Elder Sahiru pried it open. Rustan leaned forward, and his eyes widened at the contents; inside was a veritable treasure trove of old books, scrolls, and maps, neatly stacked together.
Our legacy.
The Younger Sahiru withdrew a green, cloth-covered book from the trunk and handed it to Rustan. He took it gingerly, afraid that it would come apart in his hands.
But the book felt sturdy enough. He opened it, and his sense of wonder grew. The ivory pages were silken yet tough, and the writing was a clear, uniform print. It wasn’t a script he had ever seen before, but what amazed him was the texture of the book and the quality of the printing. He turned another page and came to a map, beautifully colored. It appeared to be a map of Asiana—at least the outline was familiar—but it was all wrong. There was a dense network of towns and fortifications where none existed, rivers and forests in the heart of the Empty Place, and thick lines curving everywhere, like roads.
A historical account of Asiana. Printed before the Great War.
Rustan’s jaw dropped. “But—nothing survived the war.”
We did.
Rustan laughed. “You are not eight hundred and fifty years old.”
The monks merely smiled at him, displaying their toothless gums.
Rustan fingered the pages, marveling at the wealth of knowledge the book contained. “Can you read the script? Will you tell me what it says?”
We will do better than that. We will teach you how to read it.
Rustan stared at them. What they offered was a gift beyond measure, but learning to read this would take ages. How long did they expect him to stay?
The monks ignored his consternation. The Younger Sahiru withdrew a single parchment from the trunk and gave it to the elder one before carefully packing the rest away.
The Elder Sahiru beckoned Rustan to sit next to him. Come. We will start.
“What, right away?” asked Rustan, surprised.
Why not? countered the monk, and to that he had no response. So he sat cross-legged next to the Elder Sahiru and tried his best to listen and understand. It had to be important if it was the first thing they wanted to teach him. If what they said was true, the book they had shown him was written at a time when the Ones were perhaps still present in Asiana. Which meant there was much he could learn from it.
The monk had an odd way of teaching. He would point out a fat, swirly word and explain what it meant, then point to a different set of squiggles elsewhere in the text and say why it was almost the same.
It finally dawned on Rustan that the script was not fixed. The shape of the letters varied depending on what the writer had to say, how it was said, and why. A tremendous amount of information could be conveyed by a single word. But there was no way of starting a sentence without also knowing how to end it. You couldn’t change your mind halfway through.
He was so absorbed in the intricacies of a language that felt ancient and modern all at once that he had no sense of the passage of time. At last, the Elder Sahiru took the parchment away from him. Enough. You will dream in this language tonight, and by dreaming you will understand it better.
Rustan rubbed his eyes in exhaustion and thanked the Elder Sahiru for the lesson.
He stretched his cramped back. It dawned on him that hours had passed, as, judging from the aroma wafting from the iron pot on the fire, the Younger Sahiru had cooked the evening meal. Rustan rose to help him serve it. It was a soup of some sort, thick with vegetables and beans. They ate it with bread, the monks dipping pieces into the soup to soften it for their gums to chew.
After the meal, instead of resting, the Sahirus donned their boots and gestured to him that they wished to go outside. Rustan followed them obediently, hugging himself and rubbing his arms briskly to ward off the cold. The Younger Sahiru held what looked like a wooden staff or stand. The Elder Sahiru cradled a dark metallic tube, which he offered to Rustan.
This is a scope to make distant things appear closer. Would you like to see the stars from the top of Snow Pyramid?
What Rustan wanted was to rest his tired body and sleep as he had the previous night, without demonic voices jostling for space in his head. But he stifled his yawns and accepted the tube, which was surprisingly heavy.
Follow us. A clear night such as this is rare at this time of the year.
Despite their advanced age, the Sahirus hopped ahead of him
on the path up the mountain with an alacrity that put his fatigue to shame. Rustan had to run to keep up with them. In thirty minutes he was sweating, despite the cold air and the snow that crackled underfoot. His heart thudded and he gasped for air, and still the monks climbed, sure-footed as mountain goats.
At last, when he thought he would have to stop—or pass out from exhaustion—the path leveled out to a broad plateau. The monks halted and pointed skyward. Rustan dragged himself up the final bit of the slope, thrust the scope at them, and fell to the ground. Let them think what they wanted. He could see just as well lying on his back. One of them chuckled, a gentle humor that he chose to ignore.
Rustan gazed up at the bright, star-speckled sky, his breath slowing. So easy to lose yourself in that wondrous sight. He felt the earth move beneath him in the timeless cycle of the heavens.
The monks mounted the scope on the wooden stand so that it was trained to the sky. When they had set it up, they beckoned to him. He got up and knelt before it.
Close one eye. Look through the end with the other.
At first, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. He blinked and put a hand over one eye and tried again. An orangey red sphere crystallized in his line of sight.
The Red Planet. Fourth from our sun.
He gazed at it, entranced by the dark patterns on the fourth planet’s surface. He could have observed it for hours, but the Sahirus took the scope from him and trained it on a different part of the sky. He watched them closely, trying to memorize and understand what they were doing. But it was tricky; he had no words for their thoughts, which came to him as a jumble of emotions and images.
Finally, it seemed they were ready, and they beckoned him to look through the eyehole again.
Rustan leaned forward and beheld a tiny, bright disc surrounded by faint bluish dust.
Amaderan. Home star of the Araini. You know of them as the Ones.
Rustan jerked away from the scope and stared at them, his mind reeling.
No. It was not possible.
Yet—why not? If anyone could know the true name of the Ones and their home star, it was the Sahirus. They sat on their haunches, patient and unmoving, waiting for him. He grabbed the scope and looked through it again.
How long did light from Amaderan take to reach his eye? Into what distant past was he looking now? Would there ever be a chance for humans to cross that void? Rustan studied the bright disc, hope and longing filling his heart. At last, the Sahirus took his arm and folded away the scope.
Time to go.
“But I want . . . I want . . .”
No more. Later.
Rustan let them lead him away, back down the path. All the time, the image of Amaderan glimmered before his eyes, beautiful and unreal and impossibly far.
Part II
A lesson on words of power, taught by Navroz Lan of the Order of Kali
Following the events of the last clan assembly and the disappearance of Tamsyn Turani, the elders and I feel it is time we held a class on words of power, so you may understand what happened. There are wild stories circulating in the valley about Kyra’s duel with Tamsyn. I’ve heard rumors of black magic, alien witchcraft, even the reincarnation of the Ones.
This is all complete nonsense. Kyra used a word of power to defeat Tamsyn. The knowledge was passed on to her by Shirin Mam and—Yes, child?
No, I do not know the word of power Kyra used. She tried to tell me, but I forestalled her. Words of power can be extremely dangerous, and the fewer who know the truly advanced ones, the better. If I have need of it, the Goddess Kali will see fit to pass the knowledge on to me. For it is the Goddess herself who empowered her disciples with these reality-bending words.
The story goes that when Lin Maya, the first Markswoman of Asiana, discovered these caves, the words were written or drawn on the walls of the central cavern, interwoven with the paintings of Kali we see today. Once Lin Maya had learned the words by heart and understood what each could do, they vanished. Or perhaps she found a stone tablet with the words engraved on it. Whatever the exact circumstance of their discovery, words of power are a gift from Kali to her children and—Yes, Sandi?
Yes, I know other Orders use them too. The Order of Kali was generous in sharing this sacred knowledge with the newer Orders of Asiana. But it was so long ago that the others have forgotten, or refuse to acknowledge, that we were the ones who taught them these words in the first place.
It is likely that not all the words Lin Maya found were passed on to her successor. With every generation, some words have been lost, until now barely a few dozen remain. Some are relatively harmless—the ones you all know, for instance. Even an apprentice can light her blade with a whisper. Others are far too risky to even think about—Yes, Tonar?
No, I am not going to teach you any new words today. You must have patience. You will learn new words as you progress through your craft, and not a moment before.
Coming back to the duel, Kyra used a word of power to banish Tamsyn into her past, where she fell from a bridge and drowned, obliterating herself from the present.
While I cannot pretend to understand how this happened, let alone explain it to you, I am sure you will agree with me that the duel proves words of power are not to be used lightly. Not even the most straightforward ones. You must have dire need of them. For instance, do not attempt to light your katari if you can light a candle instead. The simplest solution is always the best in any situation. Words of power are a last recourse, when none other is left. Remember this, and you will be spared the tragic and unnecessary fate suffered by a Valavian Markswoman who tried to get mangoes to fall off a tree and ended up buried alive beneath the roots.
No, Elena, she did not survive. The tree never bore fruit again, but the Valavians preserve it as a reminder to their young ones that the price of foolishness is often death.
Chapter 11
The Council of Ferghana
The ice outside the caves of Kali had melted by the time Kyra’s wound healed enough to remove the bandages. The sutures had dissolved; what was left was an ugly red scar, itchy and tender. At least it didn’t hurt so much anymore, and she was able to take up some of the duties of a Mahimata: meeting petitioners, answering letters, reading reports from the other Orders, and most importantly, planning for a concerted attack on the outlaw Taus. The Order of Valavan had written, asking her to select warriors from the Ferghana clans to aid in the coming battle. Barkav had sent his wishes for her speedy recovery and told her the Marksmen were ready to fight when she was.
The Ferghana Valley was too far west of the Thar Desert to be directly impacted by Kai Tau’s growing reign of cruelty, but Kyra examined the accounts of refugees, many of whom had been witnesses to the most brutal crimes imaginable. Sickened, she read of mothers separated from children, men whose hands had been hacked off for daring to resist the Taus, and elders who had been slaughtered because they were too old to be “useful.”
Her resolve to do everything in her power to end Kai Tau and bring peace to Asiana hardened. She asked Navroz and Chintil to send missives to the clans of the valley to be ready to deploy warriors and weapons in aid.
She sent Ria and Sandi with Mumuksu on a scouting mission to the villages nearby to see if they could find any trace of Nineth. The elders had already covered this territory when Nineth first vanished, but Kyra hoped they might find some clue they had missed earlier, when they were in Tamsyn’s thrall. But they returned no wiser than before.
Kyra refused to give up hope. Nineth was still alive, and somehow, she would find her.
With the elders’ approval, she started giving a meditation class to the four novices. They regarded her with equal parts awe and fear, mirroring the way she had felt about Shirin Mam when she herself was a novice. Their dependence on her, their complete trust in her ability to protect and teach them, strengthened her like nothing else could. Meditating with them anchored her to the present moment; she could forget for a while the storm cloud
s that hung over her world, both past and future. It was a brief reprieve, nothing more, and she treasured every moment of it.
Under Chintil’s guidance, she also began to learn how to fight in the first-level meditative trance. It was the highest level of Hatha-kala, reserved for the most accomplished Markswomen, and Chintil warned her it was dangerous. It took every ounce of Kyra’s energy and skill and left her feeling drained afterward. But she persisted in her lessons. A Markswoman who could fight in the trance could slow down time and see the true face of her opponent.
Twice she had to deal with the irate clan leaders of the Ferghana Valley, who couldn’t believe that the Order of Kali was no longer going to protect them from wyr-wolves—that the Mahimata had actually issued an edict banning the killing of the beasts. The first time, it was a small delegation of three, and she managed to mollify them with a blend of logic and thought-shaping, assisted by Navroz Lan.
But the second time, the inter-clan council of Ferghana arrived in full force: twelve elders representing twelve of the biggest clans that dwelled in the valley.
Kyra met them in the central cavern, flanked by the Kali elders, trying to hide her dismay. Six men and six women, their faces hard, their thoughts rebellious. The most powerful clan elders in the valley, and not a trace of respect for her in their minds. Upstart, they thought. Witch. And, worst of all, tainted. She had to delve deeper to understand that, and then wished she hadn’t. Apparently, she was tainted by fate itself, by the killing of her own family, and the untimely death of two accomplished Mahimatas. She would destroy the Order of Kali with her ill luck, destroy the clans too if they let her.
Ignorant fools. Kyra fought down her anger and practiced Sheetali, the Cooling Breath. She needed their cooperation. Felda gave her arm a quick squeeze from behind, and Mumuksu sent her a wave of reassurance. We are with you. Do what you must.
Kyra took a deep breath and began: “Councillors, welcome to the caves of Kali. To what do we owe this honor?” She used just a slight inflection on the last word, so anyone paying attention would know what she really meant.
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