Markswoman (Asiana #1)
Rati Mehrotra
Part I
From The Orders of Peace—Our Place in Asiana, by Navroz Lan of the Order of Kali
None may take a life but those who carry a kalishium blade and are sworn to the Orders of Peace. This is the law—the Kanun of Ture-asa—which binds all the clans in the valley, the mountains, and the desert beyond.
There are five Orders in Asiana, and the Order of Kali is the oldest, commanding tithe from all the clans in the Ferghana Valley. Our symbol is an inverted katari encircled by a ring of fire.
The Order of Valavan rules the Deccan: tall, dusky women who excel in dueling and the Mental Arts. The mere sight of the banner of Valavan with its striking cobra has been known to end battles and strike terror into the hearts of the most hardened outlaws.
In the farthest north, at the edge of the habitable zone in Siber, lives the Order of Zorya. Fierce fighters they are, and the most skilled in the art of survival. They strap varnished animal bones to their feet, and skim across the ice faster than the wind. The Hub of Komi connects them with the rest of Asiana, but the soaring white falcon with the star on its breast—the symbol of Zorya—is seldom seen south of the town of Irkutsk on Lake Baikal.
The Order of Mat-su dwells far to the east on the islands beyond the Yellow Sea, and rules the eastern borders of Asiana with severity and grace. The Mat-su symbol is the eight-spoked wheel of life, and the Order aspires to enlightenment through the eightfold path of right thought and right action.
Last and youngest of all is the Order of Khur, but we do not talk or think overmuch of it.
It is whispered that the power of the Orders is beginning to fade. This heresy, first uttered in one of the clan councils of Tushkan, is no truer now than it was then. While we hold a katari in our hands and the Kanun in our hearts, a word from us can still raise armies and crumble mountains.
Chapter 1
First Mark
Kyra stood in the shadows and watched the guard as he paced the camp, shifting the weight of the kalashik on his shoulder. Her nerves thrummed in anticipation. It was Maidul; she was sure of it. She was lucky he was on guard duty tonight, his thoughts louder than the whistling wind. If he had been asleep in his tent, she might not have been able to identify him.
She gripped her katari—the dagger she was bonded to—and swallowed hard. This was it: the ultimate test. Did she have what it took to be a Markswoman? Could she kill a man? She crept forward, footfalls soft on the sand, taking care to stay in the pools of darkness cast by the flapping tents.
But Maidul must have sensed something. He spun around, his eyes darting from the tents to the thorny ditch that surrounded the camp. Kyra froze, katari in hand. Surely he could not see her? There was no moon tonight, though the stars cast their silvery light on the dunes.
Oh no. She remembered, too late, the telltale glow of the blade of her katari. How could she have been such a fool as to forget it? Maidul stared right at her and whipped the gun down from his shoulder. Heart racing, Kyra summoned the Inner Speech, binding him before he could fire.
“Drop your weapon.”
He let go the kalashik; it landed with a soft thud that made her wince. But nothing stirred in the camp except the wind.
“You will not move or make a sound,” said Kyra in her most compelling voice. She approached him, trying to slow her pulse. Control yourself before trying to control others, the Mahimata always said.
Maidul’s face contorted. His forehead beaded with sweat, his jaw clenched in a snarl. She could tell that he was struggling to move, to shout. But he wouldn’t be able to, not as long as she held the mental bonds of the Inner Speech over him.
Kyra took a deep breath and said in a normal voice, “By the power vested in me by the Mahimata of Kali and the Kanun of Ture-asa, I, Kyra Veer of the Order of Kali, have come to grant you, Maidul Tau, the mercy of my blade. May you find forgiveness for your crimes.”
She raised her blade for an overhead strike. But as she saw the plea in Maidul’s eyes, she paused, the blade hovering.
Kill him, you idiot. What are you waiting for?
But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He looked helpless, terrified, his eyes darting from her blade to her face, his breath coming in short gasps. And he was young—no older than her. It didn’t feel right or just. How did the other Markswomen do it so easily? Why hadn’t Shirin Mam warned her she might react to his unspoken entreaty for life?
Maidul broke loose from her bonds. It was her fault; she hadn’t been paying attention, had underestimated his strength.
He threw himself on her, knocking her to the ground and pinning her beneath his weight. He gripped her blade hand, twisting it back until something tore inside her wrist. She gasped with pain and let go her weapon. As the katari slipped from her trembling fingers, a bubble of panic rose inside her.
Maidul clamped her mouth shut with his other hand. Did the moron think she needed to speak aloud to use the Inner Speech? She fought down her panic; his face was so close to hers, she could see his pores, smell his rancid breath. He didn’t look frightened now. He was grinning.
“Not so sure of yourself now, are you?” he snarled. “Wait till my father sees what I’ve caught. He hates Markswomen. You know what we’re going to do to you?” He pushed her body harder into the ground. “We like to start by cutting bits off. Fingers, toes, ears. But don’t worry, we won’t let you bleed to death. You’ll be alive and awake the whole time to enjoy it.”
Kyra relaxed in his hold, shutting out his voice. “Thank you,” she subvocalized.
Maidul stopped talking and looked at her, confused. “What?”
“You have shown me what I must do.” Kyra smiled into the hand pressed against her mouth.
His eyes widened as realization dawned on his face. He let go her hand and half-rose, wrapping his fingers around her throat. His knees gripped her hips, holding her down. Struggling to breathe, Kyra extended her arm and bent her mind to the katari. Come to me. The blade glided into her outstretched palm like a homing pigeon.
Maidul did not notice. He was too busy squeezing the life out of her body. For you, Mother, thought Kyra, gasping for breath, and she thrust the blade up between his ribs.
Maidul’s grip loosened; he stared in shock at the katari protruding from his chest before slowly toppling over backward with a gurgling sound.
Kyra dragged herself out from under him and got to her feet, cradling her aching wrist. Her throat was on fire. Maidul twitched and bled into the ground, and her stomach twisted. The bile rose in her throat and she thought she would vomit.