Kyra recalled the stories she had heard about the men of Khur, the depth of their bonds, their matchless fighting skills. Fewer men than women had the ability to bond with kalishium, but those men who did have the ability were rumored to be as powerful as a highly skilled Markswoman. No wonder Tamsyn hates them.
At the edge of the camp, a giant of a man with flowing gray hair and beard waited for them. He had such a commanding presence that Kyra guessed at once he must be the Maji-khan of Khur. Behind him stood seven grim-faced men clad in gray robes—the elders of Khur. They must have sensed the arrival of alien blades into the heart of their territory. To the Maji-khan’s right was a tiny, bent old woman with wispy white hair.
The Marksman halted in front of the gathering and bowed. Kyra followed suit, heart skipping a beat. She had not expected such a formidable reception committee. Not that she had really expected anything after emerging from that door. The fact that she was alive and unhurt was miracle enough. That she had arrived in this time and place, and was now in the presence of the elders of Khur, was beyond belief. She felt awkward and tongue-tied, unprepared for what was surely a historic moment.
The Marksman said, “Father, I bring before you Kyra of the Order of Kali and the clan of Veer. She came through the Akal-shin door.”
The elders of Khur stared at Kyra with varying degrees of amazement and disapproval on their faces. Perhaps they were irked that a stranger had used their door. Or maybe they disliked Markswomen on principle. She hoped the Marksman would not tell them how she had attacked him.
But the young man had already retreated. Perhaps he would give the elders a more detailed account later on.
“Welcome to Khur,” said the Maji-khan. “I am Barkav, the head of the Order. This is Astinsai, our seer and katari mistress.”
A katari mistress? Kyra could scarcely believe her ears. Men and women who could forge kataris from kalishium had become increasingly rare over the years. She had never met such a one before, but they were said to have strange powers. She swallowed nervously and bowed again. The old woman’s eyes stabbed her with a piercing gaze, and Kyra felt exposed, as if the seer had seen through her to all the events that had led to this present moment.
The Maji-khan continued, “These are the elders of the Khur council: Ghasil, Saninda, Afraim, Ishtul, Falad, Samant, and Talbish.”
There was a pause while they inspected her. Seven elders, like seven hawks. Kyra tried to keep her face neutral and relaxed under their scrutiny, but it was hard. At least they weren’t trying to delve into her thoughts. Hopefully, they followed the same rules of Inner Speech that the Markswomen did.
The elder called Ishtul—a tall, thin man with a hook nose—leaned forward. “It is the first time in over three hundred years that the Akal-shin door has opened. What brings you here, Markswoman?”
Kyra hesitated. How much should she tell them? How much would it be safe to tell them? “It’s a long story, Elder,” she said at last. “And I have not eaten for a while.”
Ishtul scowled, but the Maji-khan looked at her thoughtfully and then beckoned to a youth hovering behind the group.
“Shurik will get you food and water, and show you to a tent where you can rest. While you are at Khur, you are our guest. Ask Shurik for anything you need. We can speak later tonight in the council tent.”
With that the Maji-khan walked away, followed by the elders. Kyra was relieved she had been dismissed; she had gained a little time. The youth Barkav had assigned to be her guide trotted up to her. A stocky young man with a cheerful face and curly brown hair, he was grinning from ear to ear.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “A real, live Markswoman. Here in Khur! You’re going to give Ishtul and Ghasil nightmares.”
“I’m not that scary,” said Kyra. She looked down at her crumpled robe and ran a hand over it in a futile attempt to smooth out the creases. “At least, I won’t be after I’ve had a wash and something to eat.”
Shurik bowed with a flourish. “Happy to be of assistance. Let’s go see what food there is. Luthan’s cooking today, so don’t get your hopes up.”
He led her through the camp to a large rectangular tent made, Shurik said, from camel hair. “Cool in the daytime and warm at night,” he explained.
As they approached the tent, fragrant smells of cooking wafted into the air. An elderly Marksman with crinkly eyes in a weather-beaten face sat at the entrance, stirring an enormous vat. She bowed in gratitude when he poured a generous portion in a large clay bowl for her. As they went inside the tent where she could sit down and eat, Shurik told her it was millet porridge with camel’s milk.
Camel’s milk? Kyra inspected the steaming bowl doubtfully. Well, whatever it was, she would have to eat it. She took a tentative spoonful, and another. Why, it wasn’t bad at all. It was actually quite good. It tasted a bit like Tarshana’s wheat porridge, except thicker and chewier. She ate ravenously after that, stopping only to ask for another bowl, much to Shurik’s amusement.
When she had eaten her fill, he took her around the Khur camp. He began with the camel enclosure, a large roped-in area where around two dozen camels sat, chewing the cud and gazing at their visitors with supreme indifference. A couple of young boys were at work in the enclosure, filling the water trough and cutting squares of feed from compressed bales of grass.
Kyra wrinkled her nose as the pungent odor of the camels hit her. Shurik chuckled at her expression. “The smell of Khur,” he said. “You’ll soon get used to it. Hey, Jeev, Darius, come and greet our visitor.”
The two boys scampered up to the fence and bowed low, their dark eyes alight with curiosity. Kyra bowed back, amused and a little uncomfortable. She was clearly a figure of interest here.
“Jeev and Darius are novices who have yet to earn their kataris,” Shurik told her. “Barkav has great hopes of them. Personally, I think they are destined to be camel-boys forever.”
By the tone of his voice and the grins on the boys’ faces, Kyra realized this was an oft-repeated joke, and if she were not around, they would have made a suitable retort. As it was, the novices did not say anything, but stared at her until Shurik shooed them away.
Next, he took her beyond the camp to a grove of tall shrubs. The small patch of greenery looked absurd and out of place in the vast, yellow-brown landscape. “This is where we sometimes meditate,” he said as they walked down a path between thick clusters of stunted trees and dense shrubs. “Or at least, the others meditate and I try my best not to fall asleep.”
Kyra laughed. “But how does anything grow here?”
“Sheer willpower,” said Shurik. “We do have a well, of course. Zibalik, the founder of Khur, would not have chosen this spot without knowing there was water underground. The dune gives some shelter against the wind, and we’ve planted windbreaks everywhere. Do you see those plants on the slopes of the dune?”