“I could say that myself,” said a deep male voice from somewhere over her left shoulder.
Kyra jumped and veered to face the speaker, a stocky young man who was leaning against a tent pole. He had full lips, blue eyes, and reddish hair, and was passably handsome, apart from his too-prominent teeth. He bowed and doffed an imaginary hat. “Hattur Nisalki at your service. What are three such lovely ladies doing outside my tent?”
“This is your tent?” Nineth gazed at the garish lettering on the white canvas flap. “What are the marvels and magic inside it?”
Hattur flashed a toothy grin. “In answer to the first question, dear lady, the tent and its wonders belong to my father, but I take care of day-to-day business. As for your second question, why not come in and see for yourself? One silver coin each and I’ll toss in a personal tour for free.”
Nineth’s face fell. “We don’t have that much money to spare.”
Kyra had already turned her attention back to the potato pie when Hattur drawled, “Oh well, seeing as I’m in such a good mood, how about a kiss instead?”
Kyra almost choked. How dare he. No one talked to the Markswomen of Kali like that. She glared at Hattur’s grinning face, wishing she could break a few of his gleaming teeth. But their instructions were quite clear: they must not draw attention to themselves during the festival.
“Let’s go,” she muttered, tugging her companions along with her. Hattur shouted a cheerful apology after them, but she ignored him.
They wandered around the field, jostling shoulders with ordinary folk, light-headed with freedom. There were all sorts of goods on display, from wooden toys to love potions, perfumed soaps, and mulled wine. There was even a tent that offered massages to cure every possible ailment, from infertility to rheumatism.
They caught glimpses of other groups of Markswomen, and once they saw the four novices, hurrying after a scowling Felda, who was striding along as if the entire field belonged to her. Akassa kept her distance from them, which was a blessing.
As evening deepened into night, a full moon sailed into the sky. Lamps winked into existence at every tent and cart, their oily smoke mingling with the aroma of roasted kebabs and pilaf. The crowd became even more densely packed, especially around an impromptu stage where a riddling contest was being held.
The girls bought sweet buns stuffed with walnuts, and Elena delighted them with a silk scarf each—green for Kyra and blue for Nineth, to match the color of their kalishium blades—having failed to find a snakeskin that was to her satisfaction. Akassa sniffed in disdain at the scarves, but Kyra could tell she was irritated that Elena did not buy her one too.
For herself, Elena replenished her stock of black silk ribbons to tie her plaits. She always wore her long black hair parted in the middle and neatly plaited—unlike Nineth, whose brown hair was always falling in front of her eyes. Makes me think you’re trying to sleep during class, Felda had told her once in a waspish tone. Nineth had mumbled an apology, pushed the hair away from her face, and widened her blue eyes at Felda in an attempt to look interested in the laws of motion. It hadn’t worked; Felda had seen through her and set her extra problems.
They made their way to the rivulet, munching the buns, Akassa following slowly with a sour look on her face. Soon it would be time for the unmarried girls of the village to float their flower offerings, and they would have a perfect view of the ritual right on the banks. For now, though, the area was deserted, and the peace and quiet were a relief after the noise and smoke of the crowds at the other end of the field.
They had settled down on a dry patch of grass when a familiar voice spoke up behind them: “I see you lovely ladies did not forgive me after all.”
It was Hattur Nisalki. Kyra suppressed her irritation. A lone lamp hung from the branch of an old chenar tree above Hattur, highlighting his half-earnest, half-jesting expression.
He bowed deeply. “Dear ladies, please accept my humble apologies for my forwardness earlier this evening.”
“What forwardness?” whispered Akassa.
“As recompense,” Hattur continued, “I would like to offer you all free entry to the tent of Marvels and Magick.”
“No thank you,” began Kyra in an indignant voice, but Nineth scrambled up, looking excited.
“Nineth!” said Akassa. “Have you gone mad? Come back here right now.”
Although this was exactly what Kyra herself had been about to say, she said instead, “Go on, Nineth. Just be back in time for the rite of flowers. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”
Nineth threw her a grateful look and beamed at the young man. He offered her his arm and they disappeared into the darkness of the trees.
For a moment the remaining three were speechless, struck by the magnitude of what had happened.
Akassa said, her voice tight with ill-concealed triumph, “You wait until I report you to the elders. You’re supposed to be a Markswoman? You don’t have the sense of an apprentice. They should demote you back to being a novice.”
“Yes, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” said Kyra, although she was already regretting her rashness in letting Nineth go off with a strange man. “But it won’t happen. You just can’t accept that you don’t have what it takes, not now, perhaps not ever.” The words were harsher than she had intended, but a sudden anxiety, a feeling of not-rightness, made her speak without thinking.
Akassa leaped up, her face distorted. “You’re so proud of yourself,” she hissed. “But it’s only because you’re the Mahimata’s favorite that she even let you go for your first mark. I bet she doesn’t let you go after the Taus ever again.”
The words hit home and Kyra also sprang up, snarling. Elena tried to hold her back, but she shook off her friend’s hand and advanced on Akassa.
Akassa laughed, a high, brittle sound. A blue glow in the darkness betrayed the presence of the katari in her hand. “Let’s see whose blade is sharper, Markswoman.” She invested the last word with such venom that it sounded like a curse.
“Kyra, don’t.” Elena’s voice was small and frightened. Kyra ignored it. She focused on Akassa, the blade in her hand, and the stance of her crouching body, outlined against the trees on the other side of the rivulet. Akassa’s back was to the dark, rippling water; this was to Kyra’s advantage.
Never draw your kataris on each other. It was the first thing apprentices were taught. The penalty, for a full Markswoman, was permanent exile from the Order. An apprentice, of course, could still be forgiven.
“I give you one chance to sheathe your blade, apprentice,” said Kyra, “and express your remorse.”
“Why, little deer, are you afraid?” taunted Akassa.