They had reached the edge of the grove. Kyra shaded her eyes and looked in the direction he was pointing, at the dune that towered over the camp of Khur. The slopes were crisscrossed with improbable rows of spiky plants and grasses.
“They may not be much to look at,” said Shurik, “but they don’t need irrigation, and they help stabilize the sand. That dune has not moved more than a few centimeters in the last several years. You can see a crust of soil has already formed on the dune’s surface.”
“Fascinating,” said Kyra, and she meant it. This place was desolate, but it had a beauty all its own.
“Must be different from what you’re used to,” said Shurik, a wistful note in his voice.
“Very,” said Kyra, and left it at that. She allowed him to show her the highlights of the rest of the camp, even though she was dying for a drink and a wash: the stone well, the Maji-khan’s tent, and the open, circular space in the middle where Ishtul was leading a combat class.
Marksmen stopped fighting to stare at her, the younger ones gaping quite openly, the others more discreet in their curiosity, until a snapped command from Ishtul brought them back to attention.
Shurik sniggered and steered Kyra away from the class. “They can’t help looking at you,” he said in a loud whisper. “Sorry.”
“I suppose it’s because I came through the Akal-shin door? That elder said it hasn’t been used in centuries,” Kyra mused.
“Er, no,” said Shurik, looking a little abashed. “It’s because you’re a girl. I mean, a Markswoman. Most of us haven’t seen one before.” He stopped walking to gaze at her himself, as if he wanted to memorize every detail of her appearance before she vanished as mysteriously as she had arrived.
But Kyra had had enough of being scrutinized. “I’d like to wash, please,” she said firmly. “Is there a place I can change and rest?”
“Of course, of course, please follow me. We have a tent reserved for special guests.” Shurik led her to a small tent that stood by itself, not far from the Maji-khan’s tent. Kyra untied the flap and peered inside while he went off to fetch water for her from the well. The tent was quite cozy, with brown camel hair rugs patterned with colorful cotton threads covering most of the floor and walls. At the top was a smoke hole for the stove. She had to stoop to enter, and could barely stand upright inside, but it would do her just fine.
Shurik returned, bearing a pail of water and clean clothes: a thick brown robe, a hooded camel-wool cloak, and a pair of soft leather boots.
“Gifts from Khur,” he said, beaming, and with that he left her alone.
It was a relief to wash away the grime and sand from her skin and put on clean, warm robes, even though they were far too large for her. She transferred the crumpled parchment with the secret codes into a pocket of her new robe, and belted the scabbard to her waist. When she was done, she lay down on the thick rug on the floor of her tent. Perhaps she could sleep for an hour or two before the council meeting. She needed her wits about her to deal with the elders of Khur.
But as soon as she closed her eyes, the vast emptiness of the third door in the hidden Hub came rushing back, threatening to swallow her. She jerked upright, fighting nausea and fear.
No. She would not think of that.
You simply postpone the inevitable.
Shirin Mam’s voice, distant and amused.
Kyra groaned. Was it any easier thinking of what the second door had shown her? Or even the first? A little boy had asked for her help and she had refused. And what about that voice she had heard in the Transport Chamber, that high, crazy laugh?
Perhaps she had imagined it all and the dreams had finally driven her mad. There was always that possibility. But how had she lost two months? She could have sworn she hadn’t been in the Hub more than an hour or so.
There was no point in trying to sleep. Kyra splashed her face with some of the cold water left in the pail, and settled back to practice the 108 moves Chintil had taught her to focus the mind and build internal strength, until it was time to meet the Khur council.
*
The Khur council tent was rectangular, enclosing a long, low space that was warmed by the stove in the middle. The walls were covered with woven hangings that depicted lush flowers, grassy fields, and blue lakes. Kyra, sitting cross-legged on a thick rug near the entrance of the tent, guessed they were the handiwork of homesick young Marksmen who yearned for the milder climes of their birth. She had been startled by the steep drop in temperature after sundown and the sharpness of the wind outside. The walls of the tent thrummed, the wind sang its eerie song, and Kyra gathered her cloak more closely around herself. The elders talked on, heedless of the bitter night.
The cold can freeze the marrow in your bones, Shurik had told her when he came to fetch her for the meeting, and the wind can cut your throat. He had attached himself to her, would have even followed her into the council tent had the elder called Ghasil not grabbed his ear and told him to go round up the camels for the night.
The Maji-khan sat on a cushion in the middle of the tent—the senior-most position, as befit his status. He was speaking, but not everyone appeared to be listening to him. Rustan—this was the name of the Marksman who had bested her—sat outside the circle of seven elders around Barkav, staring into space. Astinsai, whom everyone referred to as the Old One, watched Kyra out of dark, glittering eyes.
“We all know that this is the first time in over three hundred years, perhaps more, that the Akal-shin door has opened,” said Barkav. “But what—”
“Will it open again, do you think?” interrupted one of the elders, a bald, heavyset man.
“Not for us, Talbish,” said Barkav. “I went to Akal-shin an hour ago. The door still does not respond to my blade. Perhaps it opens only from inside.” He looked at Kyra. “Or perhaps it will open for you?”
Kyra shuddered at the thought of entering that Hub again. “I don’t know, Maji-khan. Perhaps it will. But I lost time while traveling and I suspect the doors have shifted.”
“How convenient,” said Ishtul coldly.
Barkav frowned. “How so?”
Ishtul spread his bony hands. “Can you not see this for what it is? A trap. We are a month and a half from the annual clan meeting in Sikandra. Now here is this—this girl—sent to sow disharmony in our Order.”
Kyra flushed, a flash of anger running through her. “I’m sorry, but you are mistaken. I certainly never planned on coming here.”
Ishtul leaned toward her. “Then why are you here?” he demanded.
The question hung in the air, sticky and unanswerable. All eyes were on her. The Maji-khan motioned for her to speak.
Kyra took a deep breath. There was no point in lying to the elders of Khur, even if she wanted to. They would see through it at once. It was time to tell them what had happened. “You all know that I belong to the Order of Kali,” she said. “What you may not know is that Shirin Mam, our Mahimata, died . . .”
There were gasps from those gathered around.