After a while—it could have been hours or minutes—she uncurled herself and reached for her blade. For it wasn’t over, was it? There was still something that needed to be done: a door to be chosen, a way to be found. It wasn’t the time for this door yet. She dragged herself up. What would the next one do to her?
But the fourth door was only a door. When Kyra laid her palm upon it, nothing happened. She could not sense what lay beyond. Trembling, she inserted the tip of her blade into the slot. A screen slid out, numbers glowing. She swallowed, and tried to respool her thoughts. This was the fourth door in the Hub, so she should use the fourth palindromic prime from the pyramid she had drawn on Shirin Mam’s parchment: 1713302033171. She tapped it in, wondering if it would work, almost hoping that it would not.
But it did work. The screen withdrew and the door swung open. As she walked into the chamber, lights came on. A voice like rustling silk whispered through the room:
“Code override. Code override.”
She tried to back out, but the door had closed. The chamber began to spin.
From somewhere, there came a faint metallic laugh.
Chapter 13
The Mark of Kali
Dawnlight transformed the Empty Place; the sands rippled red and gold, as if they were alive. Even the drab tents of Khur were regal in that transitory light, as if kings or queens might live there.
Rustan inhaled deeply, trying not to shiver as he practiced breath control outside his tent. The temperature would not go up to zero until the sun rose. Most of the Marksmen were still asleep, wrapped in their felt rugs. But he had an assignment that week, set by Astinsai herself. Or perhaps it was a punishment. It was hard to know, with Astinsai, what she truly intended.
Shurik, unfortunately, had also woken up. The youth was lying inside Rustan’s tent, his tousle-headed face poking out. “What happened in Tezbasti?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep. “Did you have trouble with the mark?”
Rustan breathed in and out, ignoring his friend.
“Come on, you can tell me,” he wheedled. “You’ve been back for over two weeks now and you still haven’t talked. You’ve become more closemouthed than a Peral River oyster.”
Rustan gritted his teeth. “You talk enough for the two of us, so I guess it evens out. There was no trouble in Tezbasti, okay?”
It was the first time he’d ever lied to Shurik, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell his friend what had really happened. He could picture it all too well. I killed an innocent man, he would say, and Shurik’s face would collapse in shock and pity. Then the questions would start: How could the Maji-khan not know? Why did your blade not tell you something was amiss? What will you do now? Questions that tormented Rustan in every waking hour; questions to which he had no answers.
He caught Shurik’s skeptical expression and added, “If you don’t believe me, ask Barkav,” knowing full well that the Maji-khan would reveal nothing of what had transpired.
“And have my head bitten off?” said Shurik with a shudder. “No thanks. But if there was no trouble, why did Barkav send Ghasil to talk with the Kushan clan elders?”
Rustan got to his feet, trying to control his irritation. What had happened in Tezbasti wasn’t Shurik’s fault, but why couldn’t he leave it alone? His friend was too curious for his own good.
Shurik blinked, then scrambled out of the tent and stood beside him. He put his hand on Rustan’s shoulder. “You’re thinking of going away, aren’t you?”
As always, Shurik’s perceptiveness surprised Rustan. It shouldn’t anymore. He’d have to be careful what he said and thought in front of his friend, or Shurik would make his own deductions about the events in Tezbasti. “Honing your talent in the Mental Arts, are you?” he said lightly. “Ghasil must be happy.”
Shurik snorted. “The day that Ghasil is happy with me is the day this desert turns into a wetland.” He paused and added, “The Master of Mental Arts returned from Tezbasti last night. I suppose you know that?”
“I know.” Rustan walked away. “Time for me to go.” Time to end this conversation.
Shurik followed him. “Breakfast?” he said. “Or am I getting your share of Luthan’s poisonous mash this morning?”
Rustan forced a laugh. “Better you than me,” he said. “And I have to be at the Akal-shin door by sunup, or the Old One won’t let me hear the end of it.”
“Why did she give you such a useless task? Is it a penance?” Shurik yawned.
“I don’t know,” said Rustan. “Perhaps, if she confides in you, you will enlighten me?”
“Haha, very funny,” said Shurik. “Honestly, can we trade places? I’d like a day off from Ishtul.”
“And I’d like a day off from you,” said Rustan. He veiled the lower part of his face, and before Shurik could ask him any more questions, he strode away.
Shurik called out, his voice fading into the cold, gritty wind, “You won’t escape that easily.”
The novices were already up, all seven of them hard at work. One of them waved to Rustan as he passed by the camel enclosure. Rustan waved back, envious. What he wouldn’t give to be a novice again. To fill the water troughs for the camels, tend the grove that would bear fruit in spring, plant the windbreaks around the camp. What he wouldn’t give to have not killed. Odd, how he had longed for exactly the opposite as a novice.
The sun rose over the dunes, a great orange orb that promised warmth later in the day. Rustan neared Akal-shin, the long, steep ridge of red rock that had once sheltered the Marksmen from a terrible sandstorm. His fifth day guarding this place and still he could not get used to it, from the lonely grandeur of the jagged peaks to the absurdity of the narrow door at its base. What purpose had it served before the Great War? He could not imagine who would have wanted to dwell in this barren waste of shifting sands and freezing nights.
He took a long swallow from his waterskin and settled down to his usual station beneath the shade of a rocky overhang opposite the door. Watch and wait, Astinsai had said, nothing more. Well, it suited him fine. At least here he was spared his fellow Marksmen’s questions and puzzled looks. Maybe that was why she had sent him here—a kind of enforced isolation that would bring some self-knowledge, some way for him to heal.
Rustan’s head ached. He leaned his head against the cool rock and closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw once again the face of his mark, tears running down his cheeks. He heard once again the man’s pleas for a retrial, his protests of innocence.
He pressed his katari to his forehead and groaned. Shurik was right; he wanted to leave Khur, at least for a while. Would Barkav agree to it?
Movement caught his eye and he scrambled up in time to see the Akal-shin door swing open. A girl staggered out, her dusky face half-hidden by the wild disarray of her dark hair. In her right hand, she clutched a silvery green kalishium blade. Rustan sprang forward, heart pumping adrenaline, his own katari flashing blue fire. As the door swung closed, he caught a glimpse of a corridor curving ghostlike into the darkness.