“Bhairavi the Fierce,” said Mumuksu from behind her. “The fifth of the ten forms of the Mother Goddess. The story goes that she came here to meditate eons ago and left an image of herself behind.”
“It’s a statue, Elder,” said Kyra, recovering her voice. A rather lifelike one.
Mumuksu smiled. “And yet it is only at her altar that a candle will stay lit in this chamber. Will you?” She nodded toward the candles in a black metal holder at the base of the statue.
Kyra knelt over the altar and struck a match with shaking hands. The flame flickered, mirroring her own faith. But it did not die out. She lit one of the candles, straightened, and cleared her throat. “Most interesting, Elder. But we are here to find Nineth’s blade.”
“Of course,” said Mumuksu. “We were only paying our respects. Do you know where to start?”
Kyra’s gaze went across the black water to the far side of the chamber. “In the urns,” she said with conviction. “Tamsyn hid it in one of them.”
“There are hundreds,” Mumuksu pointed out.
“Tamsyn’s blade will guide us,” said Kyra. She could see the elder did not like this. She didn’t particularly like it either. But it was either that or disturb the ashes of hundreds of dead Markswomen, and Kyra knew which she preferred.
They crossed the lake in a small boat, using wooden oars to row themselves. Kyra was glad to put some distance between herself and the larger-than-life statue of the Goddess. Not that she was afraid, she told herself. It was a gift to have seen the statue, to have lit a candle at her altar. Nevertheless, it was a relief to turn away from that all-knowing gaze. She wondered how long the statue had stood there, guarding the entrance to the chamber, and who had made it. Or whether, as Mumuksu seemed to believe, the Goddess had truly walked these halls and left an image of herself for her devotees to find.
As they neared the other side of the lake, the urns shone with golden light, as if the blades inside knew they were coming and were welcoming them. Kyra stepped out of the boat onto the slick stone floor and withdrew Tamsyn’s blade from its scabbard. It glowed crimson; a fierce joy radiated from it, and Kyra had to strive to remain aloof.
“We should leave it in an urn here,” said Mumuksu. “This is where it truly belongs.”
Kyra did not reply. She knew in her heart the elder was right. But she wasn’t going to part with Tamsyn’s blade until it had revealed all its secrets to her.
Show me, she thought. Where is Nineth’s blade?
The crimson light from Tamsyn’s katari stabbed at one of the urns on the topmost shelf.
“There! Do you see it, Elder?” Kyra sheathed Tamsyn’s blade and corded it to her waist, grinning with triumph.
After that, it was a minute’s work to fetch the urn, ask forgiveness of the Markswoman whose ashes they were disturbing, and retrieve Nineth’s katari.
It came out a dull, lifeless gray but mercifully free of ash. Kyra turned it over in her hands, trying to feel Nineth, while Mumuksu restored the urn to its rightful resting place.
“Talk to me,” Kyra whispered. “You know who I am. You know how much I love her.”
Was it her imagination, or did a feeble vein of blue light spark inside Nineth’s blade? Kyra quashed her mounting excitement and closed her eyes. Focus. Remember Nineth: her face, her voice, her smiles, her fears.
Mumuksu made a small sound; Kyra felt the heat of the blade in her hands, but she did not open her eyes. Show me. Show me what happened to her, she willed the blade.
The images started, hesitant at first, then unfolding like a story. Unlike the images from Tamsyn’s blade, these were sharp and clear, full of color and emotion, and Kyra felt herself falling into them. She saw Nineth, bereft and angry at Kyra’s abrupt departure from the caves of Kali, saddling Rinna with the crazy, half-formed plan of following Kyra to wherever she had gone. She felt Nineth’s fear and dismay when she was caught by Baliya and hauled to the Mahimata’s cell. Tamsyn leaning forward, smiling that snake smile, saying: Give me your blade, Nineth. Nineth’s tears as she was forced to obey.
And then the real nightmare began. Kyra watched in helpless horror as Tamsyn used the Inner Speech to force Nineth into the lotus postion on an isolated hill—for four days. Even four hours would have been deeply painful. This was no penance. It was torture. And it had happened barely half an hour from the caves of Kali. How must Nineth have felt, to be so close to home and yet unable to leave or call for help? Kyra’s stomach clenched at the cruelty of it. And when Nineth was driven by hunger to forage for berries and walnuts on the hillside, tears welled in Kyra’s eyes.
“Please,” she whispered. “Stop.” She couldn’t bear it; Nineth’s suffering was her fault.
But, having started, there was no stopping the flood of images from Nineth’s blade. When Tamsyn punched Nineth for daring to eat berries, Kyra staggered back from the blow, feeling the sharp pain of it in her own jaw, tasting blood on her own tongue.
Somewhere far distant, Mumuksu cried out her name.
Night fell on Nineth’s fourth day of exile, and something shifted in the mood and tone of the images. Someone was bending over Nineth, picking her up. Slinging her over his back, like a sack of coals. Moonlight fell on his face and Kyra felt a shock of recognition. Hattur Nisalki, the red-haired young man with too-large teeth who had tried to flirt with them at the festival of Chorzu the night that Shirin Mam had died. What was he doing, heaving Nineth onto his horse? Kyra seethed with anger. How dare he put his hands on her! Just wait till she caught him. She’d rope him to Rinna and drag him across the valley until he begged Nineth’s forgiveness and swore never to touch a girl again without her consent. And then she’d do it some more, just to drive the lesson home. And, oh, if he had harmed Nineth, she wouldn’t let him live at all . . .
The scene switched. Nineth laughed. Sunlight fell on her face and hair, giving her a halo of happiness. She sat on a horse; Hattur Nisalki walked beside her, his face soft and foolish as he gazed up at her. Kyra blinked. What?
The scene shifted again. Now Nineth was in a field of some sort, balancing on a rope a couple of feet above the grass. Her arms were outstretched, her face screwed up in concentration. She was going to fall. Of course she was. Dear, clumsy Nineth. Kyra almost could have smiled. Until Nineth fell into Hattur Nisalki’s arms, and he—the cheek of him!—dared to kiss her forehead, as though she were a common village girl, not an apprentice of the Order of Kali.
No. This was not to be borne. Kyra’s fist clenched around the blade as if she would break it.
But there was more, much more. Kyra’s breath stopped as she beheld the cozy, lamp-lit interior of a tent. Hattur was kissing Nineth, running his hands through her hair. And Nineth—Nineth was tugging off his shirt. Stop, you idiot! Kyra wanted to scream. Except, of course, this had already happened, and there was nothing she could do about it.
This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right.
It should have been me and Rustan.
She whirled around in fury and threw Nineth’s blade into the dark, uncaring waters of the lake.
At the altar of the Goddess, the lone candle flickered out.
Chapter 13
Nineth
Nineth sat bolt upright, her heart thudding wildly. A nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. It was those awful sheepskin rugs in her tent. The hair got into her nose and made her sneeze. It must have gotten into her sleeping brain too. She pushed away the blankets with a spasm of distaste. Nightmare or vision, one thing was clear. She was not spending another night with Hattur’s caravan. No matter what Hattur and his gaggle of aunties said, she had recovered as much as she was going to from the trauma Tamsyn had inflicted upon her. It was time she returned to the caves of Kali and confronted her fate.
She crawled out of the tiny tent that stood at one end of the camp and stretched. A soft wind rustled through the grassy field, bringing the sounds of the night: the song of crickets, the distant bark of a fox, the warble of an unseen night
bird. Nineth closed her eyes, trying to will strength into her limbs. Despite the fact that she had done little but eat and rest over the past several weeks, she was spent, completely drained of energy.
Hadn’t she felt like this ever since Tamsyn had taken her katari?
Nineth’s heart clenched. She had sensed for some time that her katari was no longer with Tamsyn. Now it was no longer . . . anywhere.
She thought back to her nightmare. Kyra, looking quite unlike herself, her face suffused with anger. Nineth’s blade, glowing in her hands, as if calling out to its owner for help. And Kyra, throwing the katari in a wide, heartless arc. The small, sad splash as it sank into the dark waters of a lake. The images made no sense.
If Kyra was alive and well and back with the Order of Kali, it meant that Tamsyn was gone. Or maybe it was Tamsyn who had thrown Nineth’s katari, and it was Nineth’s own wishful thinking that had shown her Kyra’s face. Because Kyra would never throw Nineth’s katari; Kyra would use it to find her and bring her home.
Wouldn’t she?
Nineth sank onto the grass and hugged her knees, wishing she knew the right thing to do. Here in the wilds of the Tajik Plains, news was slow to filter from the heart of Asiana. A million things could have happened, and she wouldn’t know it until the caravan decided to head back to the Ferghana Valley. And if the rumors she’d heard were right, that would be a long time coming.
She ducked back into her tent and tugged on a cloak one of Hattur’s great-aunts had given her. She tied the food she’d been hoarding for this day in a bit of sackcloth: nuts, dates, dried berries, a loaf of stale bread. Pitiful as it was, it would have to do. At least she would not starve the way Tamsyn had starved her.
When she emerged from the tent, ready to leave, she was not particularly surprised to see Hattur standing outside. The man had the stubbornness of an ox and the perceptiveness of an eagle.
“Move,” she said without preamble. “I’m going.”
He raised an eyebrow and grinned, teeth flashing white in the darkness. “On foot?”
“I was going to borrow one of the horses,” said Nineth, annoyed.
“You will take Neri,” he said. “But you don’t know the way. You were half-dead when I brought you here.”
Nineth bristled. “I will find the way.”
“Or you can take me with you,” he said.
“No,” said Nineth firmly. “You stay right here with your family. You’re in enough trouble with them as it is for bringing me to the caravan without asking permission.”
He closed one eye and grimaced. “You have two choices, dear lady. You take me, and we leave quietly, and in the morning they all go, ‘Oh look, the lovebirds are gone, how sweet, maybe we will have babies come next winter . . .’”
She swatted him, and he ducked, laughing like a hyena. Idiot. One or two kisses and he thought she was madly in love with him. Although, she had to admit, it had been fun kissing him. Not at all like kissing a horse, which was what she had compared it to when she first saw him. Not that she had ever kissed a horse.
“Quiet,” she hissed. “You’ll wake the whole camp.”
He sobered up. “Your second choice is to try to go alone. And I will raise the alarm.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He stuck his chin out mulishly. “I don’t understand why you want to return. You’ve only just recovered. That witch could still be looking for you.”
“That is exactly why you must stay here,” she said. “You’ll probably die horribly with a blade sticking out of your chest if you come with me.”
He clutched his chest and pretended to swoon. “Oh, my heart has already bid me goodbye, what is this miserable life without you? Take me, take me even to my death, dear lady.”
Nineth gave a sigh. “Can you be serious for once? I must return, and you would be in danger if you went with me.”
“You might be in danger too,” he pointed out. “I’d rather share your fate than waste away with worry here.”
Nineth snorted. She couldn’t help it. The thought of Hattur “wasting away” was too much. “I doubt you’d skip a meal on my account,” she said. “You eat more than Neri does. You’d devour all my provisions if I let you.”
“I’ll pack extra,” he said earnestly. “Just give me five minutes.”
“No,” she said with finality, and she knew her tone had had the desired effect when his face fell.
She liked Hattur. Perhaps it was the countless number of times he had apologized to her for carrying her off without her permission; never mind that he had saved her from Tamsyn’s torture. Or perhaps it was the way he listened to his aunties, who were forever making him do little jobs for them, fixing their tents or hunting for the hard-to-find plants needed for their herbal remedies. Or maybe it was the way he had taken care of Nineth during the journey to his family’s camp, spooning awful-tasting gruel into her mouth and not even flinching when she spat it back out into his face.
It had taken many days to trust him. She had been at her weakest, saddest, and angriest. And he had responded with humor, kindness, and, when she accused him of kidnapping her, abject shame.
After a while, Nineth had let go of her anger. He’d believed he was saving her life, and in truth he probably had. But he had also taken her far away from her katari. It was this that hurt most. With time and distance, the pain had dulled, but it was always there, a constant ache in some part of her she could not put a name to.
Hattur didn’t know that, though, and she would never tell him. He wouldn’t be able to understand. And he had been so full of remorse that she had forgiven him. Gradually, he had become a friend.
But she wasn’t going to let him follow her back to the Order. Not only because it was dangerous for him, but because she didn’t want him getting ideas about her. Or rather, more ideas than he already had. Whatever he felt for her, there was no future between them, and she had to make him see that.
She looked up to find Hattur’s gaze on her, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You cannot follow where I am going.”
“You don’t love me,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Nineth shook her head decisively. “Hattur, I like you very much, and I have no wish to see harm come to you—but I don’t love you. Stay here with your family, and if all goes well, perhaps we will meet next summer at the festival of Chorzu.”
He gave a wan smile. “You will visit my tent full of Marvels and Magick?”
“I will,” said Nineth. If I’m still alive. If my Order hasn’t come apart. If I can find my blade again.
“I’ll saddle Neri,” said Hattur in a leaden voice. “And pack you some extra food.”
“But Neri’s your horse,” said Nineth in surprise. “Won’t you get into trouble?”
“You were going to borrow her anyway, weren’t you?” he countered, with a shadow of his old grin. “And my father will probably just be happy that you’re gone.” Hattur’s father had been furious with him for running off and capturing one of the Kali “witches,” as he called them, and deathly afraid that the wrath of the Order would burn them all to the ground. If not for Hattur, and all his aunts and great-aunts, he would have made Nineth leave the day he’d realized who she was.
“I’ll take good care of her,” Nineth promised. To her surprise, she had to swallow a lump in her throat. As Hattur melted away into the night, she reflected on the strange nature of friendship.
She thought of Kyra. The nightmare vision came back to her, and she was filled with unease.
Hattur returned with Neri, carrying a small sack on his shoulders, and she put away her disquiet. She gave him a hug and mounted the mare before they could both become maudlin.
“I’ll see you again, the Goddess willing,” she said.
“Mind you return my horse,” he replied, shaking a finger at her. “With interest! I want a baby horse too.”
Which was just Hattur being
Hattur, but his teasing helped somehow, and the knot within her loosened. “Absolutely,” she said. “You can always pass it off as yours.”
She laughed as he sputtered and blew him a kiss. “Stay well!” she cried, and then Neri was off, cantering away from the caravan into the unknown night.
Chapter 14
In the Cavern
It had been happening more and more frequently over the past few days. A sudden pain would pierce Rustan in the head or chest and he would keel over, blind with agony. And then it would be gone, leaving him gasping and disoriented. If the Sahirus knew what was happening, they kept it to themselves. He didn’t want to ask them about it. It was a puzzle he had to solve, maybe a test they were putting him through.
They had fallen into a routine that began at daybreak with meditation. After the daily chores and a simple meal, they sat down to work. The monks showed Rustan how to use different herbs to make medicines and tried to teach him the ancient script in which their books were written. At times Rustan felt close to understanding the heart of the language, but more often it was all so much gibberish that danced across the page. More than once he came close to throwing their precious books down in frustration.
He asked the Sahirus why they had not taken in novices to pass on their knowledge to future generations, but after spending several days with them, he could guess the answer. They could not take just any student. The chosen one would appear to them in their dreams and must come to the monastery on his or her own, surviving the cold, the fatigue, and the beast in the forest. This had happened less and less over the centuries, until only the two of them remained.
He questioned them again about the seekers, and they told him that a very few people had made it to the monastery over the years and been granted an audience. Most never reached them. Who could tell what anyone was really looking for? Some sought answers, but most sought the freedom of death.
“An innkeeper told me that I reminded him of the last seeker, a man called Rubathar,” said Rustan, recalling Nursat’s words. “Did he ever manage to find you?”
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