Their faces grew grave. He did not survive the beast in the forest. There was much in him that was good and noble, but he had not the strength to face what he had done. He was a warrior of some repute, until he decimated an entire tribe in revenge for an attack on his own.
Rustan remembered the face of the innocent man he had killed and felt a pang of sympathy for the unfortunate Rubathar. “Do I remind you of him too?” he asked.
To us, you are only yourself.
And with that he had to be content.
Thrice Rustan went down to Bankot—the little settlement at the base of the mountain—for ink, parchment, grain, oil, and other supplies. The villagers regarded him with awe, silently giving him whatever he needed and refusing payment of any kind. He realized that they knew about the Sahirus and must have kept the secret for generations. Now they viewed him with the same respect as they did the monks. It made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t know what to say to convince them that he did not deserve their reverence. That he was nothing more than a trained killer who still carried a weapon.
He brought this up with the monks one stormy night, speaking over the hail that battered the wooden pagoda of the monastery.
“I am a killer,” he said.
We know. We too are killers.
He looked at them, dumbfounded.
They smiled. Killers of ignorance.
Rustan sighed. “Not that kind of killer. I mean, I have killed men. Real, living men. I am a Marksman and I carry a weapon, even here in your sanctuary.” He brought out his mother’s katari and unsheathed its gleaming blade, waiting for their disapprobation.
It never came.
We know this. How else do you think we are able to communicate with you?
Rustan blinked. The monks laughed, thin shoulders shaking beneath their saffron robes. At last he understood. The Sahirus were able to commune with him because of the telepathic metal of his mother’s blade.
He persisted. “Why do you teach me when you know what I am?”
We teach you because we know what you are.
“I am a Marksman of the Order of Khur,” said Rustan. “I will return to Khur when my penance is complete.”
This did not seem to disturb the monks. They simply nodded and smiled.
Rustan raked a hand though his hair, trying to think clearly. “I came to you because I killed an innocent man and was burdened by guilt. I needed to atone. I do not want to kill anyone ever again, but I will, if I must. War is coming to Asiana, and I cannot let my Order down. So you see, I am not the one you have been waiting for.”
The monks gazed at him with compassion and did not respond.
Rustan found himself floundering for words, trailing off into silence in the face of their peaceful acceptance.
The next morning, he was woken by a pain so sharp that he vomited the remains of his dinner over the side of his bed.
He tried to wave the Sahirus away, but they ignored him and mopped up the mess. When he tried to help, they pushed him back onto his bed.
Rest.
But he could not. Something gnawed at Rustan, something he needed to do. It would wait no longer. The puzzle had to be solved before it finished him off. When he got shakily to his feet, the monks did not try to stop him. They exchanged a quick, wordless glance and led him to the back of the room, where the mouth of the caves opened into blackness. The Younger Sahiru plucked a lantern from the wall and thrust it at him.
Go. Here you will find your answers.
What did they mean? Their withered faces gave no clue as to what they were thinking. A continuation of the test, perhaps. Like the pain. He accepted the lantern and stooped to enter the caves.
The lantern cast a small pool of light around him. It wasn’t enough to see the ceiling or the other side of the chamber. Rustan followed the wall, feeling his way forward with his hand. From the light of his lantern he could make out paintings beneath the hand he trailed along the wall. He stopped to study them, but they were too faded and intricate for him to figure out. Something to explore later.
A bit farther down he stopped. A faint blue-green light shone in the distance. He made his way toward it and discovered a tunnel just tall enough for him to walk through. The light grew brighter as he walked, and he quickened his pace.
The tunnel opened onto a vast, glowing cavern. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes after the relative darkness. Then he saw what was emitting the light and inhaled sharply.
Kalishium.
The cavern was lined with shelves. Row upon row of kalishium sculptures stood upon them. More kalishium than he had dreamed existed in Asiana. What Barkav would give to know the existence of this treasure trove.
A large, shining white globe stood by itself in the center, balanced on a stone pedestal. Rustan walked along the walls of the cavern, circling the globe, gazing at the statues in wonder. Kings and queens, gods and animals glowed green and blue, some familiar and some alien. Many wore masks, both hideous and beautiful. Each image told a different story, beckoning him closer, until he was falling into them, becoming a part of their history.
Shirin Mam’s katari sparked a warning, and the spell broke. He stepped back, wary.
The sculptures belonged to the monks who lived here, who had guarded them for generations. This hoard must be the source of their telepathic powers.
His gaze went to the globe in the center of the cavern, and his pulse quickened. This was the heart of it, he was sure. This was where his answers waited. What were his questions, though?
The most obvious thing he needed to know was the source of the phantom pain that kept seizing him and how to stop it.
Rustan set down the lantern, walked to the globe, and after hesitating only for a moment—what could happen, after all?—laid his palm upon its shining white surface.
Chapter 15
The Seeing Stone
The pain was so intense, he couldn’t breathe. His skull felt as if it were splitting in two. Rustan shouted and tried to wrench his hand away from the globe, but it wouldn’t budge. He called for help, but the Sahirus did not appear.
The globe grew until it filled his vision. There was nothing else, no monastery, no cavern filled with silent statues—just the globe growing bigger and darker, and then a single yellow glow off in one corner, like the inside of a hut. Shadows danced and solidified into the shapes of men, bent over a figure crumpled on the floor. One of them kicked the figure and it doubled over. Rustan gasped, feeling the blow in his ribs.
The figure on the floor moaned and turned his way. The face was swollen, smeared with dirt and blood, but Rustan would have known the Khur elder anywhere. Barkav had sent Ishtul to spy on the Taus, but the blademaster had been caught. Rustan’s stomach clenched at the sight of his combat teacher lying broken and bloody on the floor. One of the men brought down the hilt of a sword on Ishtul’s mouth, smashing it open. “Stop!” cried Rustan, but they did not hear him.
The scene shifted. The sun shone on a barren field. In the middle of the field, on the branches of an old khajri tree, six bodies hung lifeless, broken-necked and fly-covered. Their clothes were in tatters, and their flesh had been eaten away. What had happened here?
A noose tightened around Rustan’s neck, and he choked. A strong curved beak hooked into his forearm and ripped out a piece of his flesh. He screamed in agony. “No more, please,” he begged.
The scene shifted. A dim, hot room filled with fire and smoke and the clamor of hammers on anvils. Five sweating, bare-chested men worked the bellows and hammered sheets of metal, surrounded by tables and shelves cluttered with tools. A smithy, but what were they forging?
One of the men picked up a long, black metal tube and caressed it as one might a lover.
Kalashiks. They were trying to duplicate the ancient guns. Rustan barely had time to wrap his mind around this horrifying thought before the scene shifted yet again. A dozen people squatted in a village square, hands tied behind their heads. Two guards armed with swo
rds and spears stood on either side of the wretched little group. The captives ranged in age from young boys to elderly grandfathers. Rustan could taste their terror, feel their hopelessness.
A tall man with stringy gray hair hanging over his face stepped out of a white building, and the terror sharpened. Kai Tau.
He moved slowly, almost shambling, as if he was drunk. He was covered in a cloak from the neck down, and there was something wrong with his face, but Rustan couldn’t see it clearly.
Then the cloak parted, and the long barrel of a gun emerged. A flood of panic swept over the captives and they got clumsily to their feet, bumping into each other. Thinking, perhaps, to make a run for it.
But they never had a chance. The gun began to fire, cutting the prisoners down like chaff. A gloating delight emanated from the death-stick. Yes, this is what I am meant for: to shed blood and drink souls. Thank you, Master.
When the gun finally stopped, the earth was stained red with blood and littered with corpses.
No. Rustan dropped to his knees, shaking. Enough. His hand slid from the globe and he returned to the cavern, surrounded by the glowing kalishium sculptures. He rested his head between his knees, trying to anchor himself to the present moment. Shirin Mam’s blade smouldered by his side, a comforting presence.
He sensed the Sahirus approach and raised his head. “What was that?” he asked, his voice husky, as if with disuse.
Answers.
Answers. The truth of what was happening in the Thar Desert and, perhaps quite soon, the rest of Asiana. Rustan tasted blood in his mouth and remembered Ishtul’s swollen face.
The Sahirus helped him up and led him back to the main room of the monastery. He could barely walk straight. The ghost of all the pain he had witnessed sat on his shoulder, taunting him. He slept, woke, slept again. The next morning, he rose from a thick, dreamless sleep to a monster of a headache ravaging his skull. The Sahirus sat next to him, watching. When he tried to get up, the Younger Sahiru pushed him back. The Elder Sahiru waved a stick of incense under his nose; the fumes were so strong his stomach churned.
“What is that thing—that white globe in the cavern?” he asked, struggling up onto one elbow.
But they made him wash and eat breakfast before answering. Later, after he had eaten and felt a bit stronger, they told him.
The Seeing Stone is made of kalishium, forged by the Araini themselves. We believe they carved intent into it. Did it answer your question?
Rustan licked his lips, haunted by the blood he had tasted in his vision. In Igiziyar he had dreamed of a human skull. Now, finally, he knew to whom it belonged. Somewhere in the Thar Desert, his teacher was being beaten and tortured by Kai Tau’s men. And here he was, whiling away his time trying to learn a dead language and revive the dead hopes of a pair of ancient monks.
He got to his feet. The Sahirus did not try to stop him this time. They gazed at him with concern and something of sadness in their faces. Had they sensed his thoughts? Did they know he was about to leave?
Rustan was overwhelmed with guilt and shame. The Sahirus had saved his life, his sanity. They had shown him the wonders of the sky and taught him about the Ones from the stars. He began to tell them what he had seen and how he had to help the people of the Thar Desert, the words tumbling unsteadily from his lips. But the Sahirus interrupted him:
We know. The Seeing Stone does not lie. Go with our blessing.
“You don’t understand,” said Rustan. He swallowed. “I may die. Even if I live, I may not be able to return.”
Every day brings us closer to death. You still have much to learn, young one.
“Perhaps you will find another novice if you dream of one?” said Rustan, without much hope.
They laughed then, their wheezing chuckles following him as he turned to pack his little bag. His cheeks flamed. Fine, let them believe what they wanted. The visions from the Seeing Stone were a wake-up call. He was still a Marksman; he still had his mother’s blade, a weapon of ancient power. It would suffice.
His only problem was time. It would take nearly a week to ride to Yartan, the nearest Hub. Unless the Sahirus knew of a secret door close by? He turned to them, but even before he had asked the question, they shook their heads.
There is a door in the foothills of Kunlun Shan, but it has shifted. It might take you out of time; it is far too dangerous.
Rustan gritted his teeth. “Then by the time I reach the Thar, they will have forged many more weapons. Hundreds more will die. It will be too late.”
You cannot know that. The Seeing Stone looks into the past, the present, and the future. Consider this journey the last part of your penance. Do not be afraid.
“I’m not afraid to die,” said Rustan.
But you are afraid to live. There is something in you that pushes life away. When you finally embrace life, you will also conquer death.
“I know that if I do nothing, many innocent people will suffer,” said Rustan. He slung his bag on his back. “Thank you for everything you have taught me. If there is any way I can repay even a small part of what you have given me, please tell me. I will do whatever is in my power.”
Return to bury us. That is all we ask.
Those words stopped Rustan in his tracks. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded. “But . . .”
On the roof of the world, in Ice Mother’s arms, you will see and understand everything. Go now.
Rustan paused, torn between wanting to begin his journey and wanting to make sense of what they’d said.
The monks did not give him the option. They thrust a package of food at him and hustled him out, chattering like silent birds with each other, their thoughts too fast for him to catch.
And then he was outside in the bright sunshine, on the path below the monastery, while the two ancient monks stood at the massive wooden door, waving goodbye, their robes flapping in the breeze. They looked so frail, so alone. The last of the Sahirus, and he was abandoning them. A lump came into his throat.
“Suppose I cannot return?” he asked, his eyes stinging. “What will you do?”
What we have always done. Go, Rustan. May you be fearless as the eagle, nimble as the mouse, and slippery as the fish.
The words followed him as he climbed down the mountain, filling him with hope and strength.
Chapter 16
Message from Kai Tau
As long as she lived, Kyra would never forget the moment she threw Nineth’s blade into the lake in the funerary chamber. It was the moment she realized how deeply Tamsyn’s katari was influencing her. It was something Tamsyn would have done in a fit of rage. Not her. All Kyra wanted was for Nineth to be back safe and sound. And yet, maddened by what the images from Nineth’s blade had shown her, she had reacted just like Tamsyn.
We are more alike than you think, little deer, Tamsyn had said once. Kyra had repudiated those words then and forgotten them until now. Tamsyn’s blade was altering her thoughts, feelings, and actions to make her more like the former Mistress of Mental Arts.
But Kyra could not let it go. Night after night, she unsheathed Tamsyn’s blade and turned it over in her hands, studying it. There was something the blade was still trying to tell her, if only she could understand it. All that came through was a jumble of emotions: sadness, pain, anger, and a deep sense of having been wronged. Whether they were her own emotions or Tamsyn’s—or Nineth’s, for that matter—Kyra could not fathom.
The elders had been quite cold to Kyra since the day she threw Nineth’s blade. She didn’t blame them. She had no explanation, no excuse to offer for her behavior that wouldn’t result in them demanding, quite reasonably, that she give up Tamsyn’s blade.
And wasn’t there a part of her that truly was angry with Nineth? She knew she was being unfair; Nineth did not know Tamsyn was dead, after all. Still, Kyra couldn’t help wondering how Nineth could stay away from the Order for so long. Why did she not at least try to send word that she was alive or find out what was happening in the vall
ey? Surely she’d heard rumors of Kai Tau’s army and knew the Orders stood on the brink of war.
But the worst, the very worst, was the flare of jealousy she had felt when she saw Nineth and Hattur kissing. It horrified and shamed her, and yet she could not stop thinking of it. And of Rustan.
Kyra had not acted as the Mahimata should. She had allowed Tamsyn’s blade to bring out her worst instincts. She would have to fix what she had broken, although she did not see how, not yet.
She apologized to the elders but refused to talk it over with them. She couldn’t tell them what she had seen; she dared not. Quite apart from revealing the influence of Tamsyn’s blade on her, it would also reveal to them how she truly felt, and they’d pounce on Kyra if they suspected her of harboring romantic feelings for anyone. Even Rustan. Especially Rustan. No matter that Shirin Mam herself had broken the law and borne a son; the elders of Kali had been as aghast at that as anyone else. Besides, Shirin Mam was safely dead when they found out about it; they couldn’t very well confront her about her past.
Kyra couldn’t even bring herself to confide in Elena, whom she loved and trusted above all others. Elena seemed to spend most of her time with Akassa these days, the apprentices growing close in a way Kyra wouldn’t have believed possible a few months ago. She felt envious each time she saw them, heads bent together over a healing recipe or a mathematics challenge posed by Felda. Which was silly, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She thought with longing of the simpler days when Shirin Mam was still alive, when she would go riding or swimming with Nineth and Elena, laugh with them over private jokes, and whisper secrets.
In short, she felt very much alone.
* * *
Some days after the visit to the funerary chamber, Kyra was woken at dawn by a hesitant voice saying, “Eldest requests your presence in the cavern, Mother.”
She groaned and rolled over to face the opening of her cell. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and focused on the small, white-robed novice hovering in front of her.
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