“With half the Order of Khur,” said Kyra shortly, but her face burned as she bowed to the old woman. She picked up her armor carefully, marveling at its lightness, and spied a small piece of metal beneath it. Her heart quickened as she examined it. It was a perfect likeness of the wyr-wolf image she had brought with her.
“What will you do with that?” asked Astinsai, watching her.
Kyra’s fist closed around the tiny image, hiding it from the Old One’s acquisitive eyes. “It is for the wyr-wolves,” she said firmly, and bid the katari mistress goodnight.
Outside it was quiet and cold. A chilly wind blew through her hair, making her shiver. There was no moon tonight; the stars shone like bright spears in the dark bowl of the desert sky.
To her surprise, as she passed the Maji-khan’s tent, both Barkav and Rustan came out to meet her. The relief on Rustan’s face was obvious. Even Barkav looked happy to see her intact.
“A success?” asked the Maji-khan as she walked up to them, and Kyra nodded. She described to them what had transpired, leaving out the word of power and her meeting with the wyr-wolf.
“Excellent.” Barkav rubbed his hands together. “This will help us get close to our enemies and disable their minds before they can shoot us.”
“Astinsai said it would only protect me,” said Kyra unhappily.
“Then you must lead our attack,” said Barkav. Rustan’s lips pressed together, but Barkav’s plan made absolute sense. If Kyra was the only one shielded from the bullets, then it fell to her to pave a safe path for the others.
The Maji-khan asked her into his tent, and although Kyra was bone-tired, she went. Inside, the elders sat in a circle around a large map, arguing in low tones about tactics, supplies, and fighters. She joined the circle, Rustan next to her, his warm presence comforting. She tried to pay attention to what was being said, but at last fatigue overpowered her, and she fell asleep, leaning against the tent wall. She barely stirred when Rustan laid her down and covered her with a rug. The elders talked on, deep into the night.
Chapter 38
Reunions
The mulberry tree outside the caves of Kali was in full fruit, its branches laden with purple berries. Lush green grass dotted with pink and white wildflowers carpeted the hollow in front of the caves. Morning assembly had just finished, and everyone had dispersed to prepare for the first class of the day. Navroz Lan stood alone underneath the tree, inhaling the heady scent of late spring, remembering how, as a young apprentice, she had plucked berries with her friends: a springtime ritual that had endured over the years.
Most of those friends—and many younger—had now passed through the door of death. Soon it would be her turn to see what lay beyond that door. Only the mulberry tree would remain, a witness to their passing.
But not yet. The Order still depended on her. There was a war to be fought, a tyrant to be defeated, dark weapons to be dealt with. Once Asiana was a safer place, she would finally let go. She could imagine it now, lying in the central cavern with her blade placed over her chest, surrounded by satisfactorily grief-stricken Markswomen. The eulogies that would follow, the fire that would release her to the stars.
“Eldest?” Elena came and stood beside her.
Navroz came to with a start of annoyance, then chided herself. Dreaming of one’s own funeral was the height of self-indulgence. “Yes, child?” she said.
Elena looked better than she had in months. She had grown taller, more serious than ever before, but at least the dark circles under her eyes had vanished, and she was sleeping soundly again. Akassa hovered behind Elena, a few steps away, her face scrubbed and her hair tied back in a bun. She bowed to Navroz, and Navroz nodded to the apprentice, her face relaxing into a smile. Akassa followed Elena like a shadow, had even tried to learn the basics of healing from her. She certainly didn’t have the gift for it, but it warmed Navroz’s heart that Akassa cared enough about Elena to start paying attention in a class that she had once disdained.
Normally, Navroz would have thought such attachment unhealthy and un-Markswoman-like. But given what had happened—how close Akassa had come to despair before Kyra hauled her out of it—she was willing to overlook it.
Kyra’s return had done them all some good, although her becoming the Mahimata had been completely unexpected. Still, it made sense, in a way. It was time the Order was led by someone young and fresh—although that knowledge didn’t change the fact that there were times Navroz wished Kyra was several decades older and wiser.
Elena held out Nineth’s blade. A faint blue glow enveloped it. “It’s been like this since morning. Eldest, do you think she’s close by?”
Navroz made to take the katari from her, then drew her hand back. Heat emanated from the blade—not hostile, but as a mild warning. Elena could hold it without fear, because she was one of Nineth’s closest friends. That meant . . .
“She’s coming back today,” said Navroz, relief and delight welling up inside her. “Oh, just wait until I get my hands on that girl!”
Elena’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and she did something that caught Navroz completely by surprise: she slipped her arms around the elder and hugged her. Navroz patted her back. “It’s been hard for you, hasn’t it?” she said sympathetically. “Both Kyra and Nineth gone their separate ways while you stay here. But the Order is built on people like us, who stay and strengthen its foundations. They depend on us—do you see that?”
“Yes, Eldest,” said Elena in a muffled voice. Then she stepped back, wiped her eyes, and gave a watery smile. “I’m going to clean Nineth’s cell and air out her rugs. May I?”
“You’ll be missing Mathematics,” said Navroz. “You can request Felda’s permission to do so. I think, when you show her Nineth’s blade, she’ll have a hard time saying no.”
“Thank you, Eldest.”
As she watched Elena and Akassa run back to the caves, Navroz smiled. Today was the day they were all coming back; she could feel it in her bones. Her bones might be ancient, but they were never wrong.
* * *
They arrived within an hour of each other, almost as if they had planned it.
Just before the midday meal, a shout went up outside the caves. Navroz and Elena, who had been preparing healing salves in preparation for the fighting to come, rushed outside.
A line of men streamed down the hill that housed the Ferghana Hub, a familiar figure at their head.
“Kyra!” screamed Elena. She made to run as Akassa and Tonar did, then checked herself, which surprised Navroz. She sensed a complex mix of emotions in her favorite pupil and wondered at it.
“Kyra and half the Order of Khur,” muttered Navroz. Not that anyone heard her. They were all too busy staring at the Marksmen. Bad enough when Rustan had come; the novices had gawked like village girls. But this . . . even Felda was staring. It was hard not to; the last time the Ferghana Valley had seen so many Marksmen had been—never.
“Stand with me, Elders,” murmured Navroz. “Let’s have some dignity here.”
Felda, Mumuksu, and Chintil obediently arrayed themselves behind her. “The Maji-khan looks even larger than he did at the Sikandra Fort assembly,” whispered Felda. “I wonder what he eats.”
“Felda,” warned Navroz. “They approach.”
Kyra hugged Akassa and Tonar, patted the heads of the novices who surrounded her and smiled at everyone, though Navroz could see the lines of tension on her face and how difficult it was for her to stand upright, let alone bear the strange burden she had slung across her shoulders. Overextending herself as always. Navroz felt a surge of protectiveness, and she struggled to keep it in check.
At last Kyra extricated herself and made her way to where the elders stood. The Maji-khan of Khur walked beside her, a huge mountain of a man who nevertheless moved with catlike grace. Rustan stood behind them, along with two elders whom Navroz recognized from past clan assemblies.
“Elders, I have the honor of presenting to you the Maji-khan of Khur
and fifteen of his Marksmen,” Kyra announced.
“Welcome,” said Navroz, returning the Maji-khan’s bow. “I wish that Shirin Mam were alive, so she could see this day.” And deal with you, she did not say aloud. But he heard it anyway, from the way his mouth twitched.
“The rest have gone to mobilize warriors from the clans of the Empty Place,” continued Kyra. “We will launch a coordinated attack with the Order of Valavan. If we leave at dawn in three days, we should arrive near the Tau camp at dusk, around the same time as them. They will approach from the east, and we will attack from the west, as we’ve discussed.”
Three days? Navroz nodded sharply. “The Ferghana clans have dispatched archers, weapons, and horses,” she said. “We expect them tomorrow, or day after, at the very latest.”
“They had better be here by then,” said Barkav in his deep voice. “We can delay no longer. We must join forces with the Order of Valavan if we are to succeed in crushing the outlaws. Jhelmil is but fifty miles from Jethwa. I have asked the Valavians to wait for us, but if the Jhelmil door is being watched, they will have no choice but to engage.”
Besides which, the Valavians would not deign to wait for anyone. The Thar was their territory. It must rankle that they needed the help of the other Orders to deal with the Tau menace. Kyra had made the right decision to stay and fight with them during the attack on Valavan. It had gained her their trust and respect.
“If they are spotted, it will draw Kai Tau’s forces to Jhelmil. It will be advantageous to us, but the Valavians may take heavy losses,” said Navroz, frowning.
“They know the risks,” said Barkav. “They have the Hub to fall back into, if they are attacked.”
“Won’t work if they are ambushed miles from the Hub,” said Chintil.
“They have planned for that,” said Kyra. “They will send scouts ahead, far enough away to get a warning, and close enough to use the Mental Arts. And they won’t be alone. The rest of the Marksmen will be with them, as well as the warriors they have summoned.” She paused. “Elder, a lot of things can go wrong. We won’t be able to anticipate each and every one. Some of us will be injured. Some might even die.”
“But are we afraid of death?” thundered Barkav. He turned to the Marksmen clustered behind him. “Are we afraid?”
“No!” came the resounding response.
“We will avenge Ishtul!”
The expressions on the faces of the Marksmen grew grim, and Navroz winced inwardly as she remembered the fate of the blademaster of Khur. A terrible way to die, and a terrible way to remember someone who had taught you, whom you had once looked up to. No wonder the Marksmen were so eager to go into battle.
Barkav turned back to her, his eyes stormy. “My blade is thirsty,” he said.
“And mine,” said Kyra.
“And mine,” said Chintil, and she gave a fierce grin.
“So be it,” said Navroz. “In three days, we will take the door to the desert. The Goddess protect us all.” And with that, she bade the Marksmen enter the caves of Kali and partake of the midday meal with them.
They followed Navroz through the wide wooden doors into the kitchen, crowding into that roomy space, standing back respectfully to allow both Khur and Kali elders to sit first on the kilim-covered floor. At Navroz’s signal, the novices passed around bowls of water for them all to wash their hands, and Tarshana the cook went into a quiet frenzy of activity to prepare for the guests.
Navroz noticed how Kyra sat next to Rustan, the way she kept glancing at him as if she could not help herself, and sadness tugged at her. She could no longer be angry with Kyra for her very obvious and inappropriate feelings for Shirin Mam’s son. But she also knew there was no way for them to stay together, if they wanted to belong to their Orders.
Classes were cancelled, of course. Introductions were made, and the ice was broken among the older ones at mealtime by the effusive praise the men showered on the food. Tarshana surpassed herself, producing leek soup, potato samsas, and mulberry pies for them all. Navroz, sitting in a far corner and watching her Markswomen thaw toward their visitors, knew it was the dawn of a new era. No matter what happened in the Thar Desert, the isolation of Khur had ended, for good. Shirin Mam would have approved.
Despite the coming battle, Navroz felt a tiny portion of the burden she bore slip from her shoulders. Nineth would return soon, Elena would one day be the healer of the Order, and Kyra would do what Shirin Mam had foretold, all those years ago, when she first brought the little waif home: she would rid Asiana of the dark weapons once and for all.
She was jolted from her thoughts by a crash that startled them all; Kyra had dropped her cup and jumped to her feet. Everyone quieted and stared at her.
“What is it?” cried Mumuksu.
But Navroz knew, and Elena knew too; joy bloomed on her face and she rose as well, followed by Akassa.
“Nineth,” Kyra blurted, and ran out of the kitchen as if she were a novice, Elena and Akassa at her heels.
“Nineth?” echoed Felda, and she too ran after them, looking most undignified. Mumuksu leaned forward to give a few words of explanation to the Maji-khan, who had a bemused expression on his face.
“If you will excuse us,” said Navroz, rising, “we must see about an errant apprentice who has finally decided to return home. The rest of you stay here,” she added sharply, as some of the others began to get up, disbelieving grins on their faces.
Kyra waited outside, Elena and Akassa a little behind her, shading their eyes against the bright sun. Felda stood with her arms on her hips, her lips moving as if in calculation.
“Listen,” said Kyra. “Do you hear her?”
Horse hooves cantered across the valley, growing ever nearer.
Time seemed to stop. Navroz held her breath, her heart quickening in anticipation. And then the horse and its rider came into view, and Elena gave a joyful shriek.
The horse stopped in the glade; the rider dismounted. Nineth stood before them, her robe rather worse for wear, her face grimy and careworn, her hair as untidy as ever. But alive and well, just as her glowing blade had signified.
Elena ran forward, took Nineth in her arms, and hugged her fiercely. Akassa stood back, a little awkward. Of course, she and Nineth had never gotten along. But they would now. Elena would make sure of that. Stranger to Navroz was the fact that Kyra was also hanging back, relief and shame emanating from her in equal parts. Of course, she had thrown Nineth’s blade into the underground lake—why, she had never divulged to the elders.
At last Nineth released Elena. “Well?” she addressed Kyra, her smile changing into a scowl. “Do I get a hug, or are you going to stand there with a hangdog expression for the rest of the day?”
Kyra gave a half sob and stumbled into Nineth’s arms. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “Please forgive me.”
Elena hesitated a moment, watching them, then moved to embrace them both.
Navroz smiled, surprised to find her eyes damp. She was getting sentimental in her dotage. For a while it was impossible to speak. Nineth’s return was a sign, a favorable one. Surely everything would turn out for the best.
Chapter 39
An Hour of Peace
Nineth and Elena met in Kyra’s cell that night before the hour of meditation. It would have been almost like old times, if not for the fact that this was the Mahimata’s cell. And the fact that Kyra could sense Rustan, not thirty feet away from her—they were separated by several walls of rock, but still. The Marksmen had been offered cells to sleep in, but had politely declined, preferring to sleep outdoors, for which, Kyra knew, the Kali elders were thankful.
It had been an eventful day, to say the least. Nineth was not the only one to have returned to the Order. In the afternoon, Helen, who had gone to Chorzu to help Tarshana procure fresh supplies, had run up to Kyra and blurted out, “Mother, Baliya and Selene are back!”
Kyra had not expected this; their return just before the Order went into battle was truly a gift
, as they were both accomplished in combat.
When they arrived, Baliya had seemed hesitant, Selene relieved, but both had been sincere in begging the elders’ forgiveness, and both swore their oaths of loyalty to Kyra at once. The elders had supported giving them a penance, but Kyra had ruled that penance could wait until the fighting was done. And then she had embraced them—even Baliya, who had delivered Nineth to Tamsyn. Nineth had been a bit indignant about that, but she knew they needed all the Markswomen they could muster for this fight.
“Besides,” she’d said, “Baliya is no longer the Mahimata’s favorite. I am.” And Kyra had to chuckle at that. It felt so good to have Nineth back.
She leaned now against the wall of Kyra’s cell, her feet tucked under a blanket. Her blade hung in a scabbard around her neck; she kept stroking it, as if she couldn’t believe it was there. Kyra had just finished telling her—for the third time—about her duel with Tamsyn Turani.
“Tell me again,” she said, nibbling a leftover samsa she had stolen from the kitchen. “Tell me how you threw her into the river. I wish I could have seen it.”
Elena looked from one to the other. “This is fantastic,” she kept saying. “You’re back—both of you.”
Kyra reached over and touched Elena’s hand. She was so grateful to have been more or less forgiven, her heart felt it would burst. “I wish I didn’t have to leave again.”
Elena’s face clouded. “You’d better come back alive,” she said. “I won’t be able to bear it if anything else happens to either of you.”
“I’ll look after her,” said Nineth. “Make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish.”
“What? Certainly not,” said Kyra firmly. “No novices and no apprentices allowed. Only a full Markswoman may go into battle. That is the rule.”
“Only the novices should stay behind in the caves,” Elena protested. “The three of us should go with you.”
“Three?” said Nineth. “Oh, you mean dear Akassa.” She grinned as a flush spread across Elena’s face. “You know, forget everything else. Tamsyn dead, Kyra the new Mahimata—I mean, the elders are crazy to do that, but who understands elders anyway? The biggest shock to me is the new-and-improved Akassa who follows our Elena like a shade.”
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