The Great War was fought many ages ago. The kings and queens who battled for supremacy are long since dust. Not even their graves exist; so many died that they were burned or buried in vast, shallow pits. Some drowned, throwing themselves in the water to escape the burning metal poison that flowed over the earth and hung in the air, dark and suffocating to those who breathed its noxious fumes.
No structures remain of the golden time before the war, save the Fort of Sikandra—and no written tablets survive to tell us what the world looked like then. Everything burned, and what didn’t burn was looted by survivors, and what wasn’t looted succumbed to the wind and rain of the centuries that followed. We have no monument to these men and women of long ago.
Except their guns. Kalashiks do not erode with time. They glow darkly, as if new. Dust will not settle on their smooth flanks. They sit in our underground chamber in a gleaming row, waiting to be picked up and used again.
But we will never commit that sin. This is the injunction that our forefathers laid upon us: guard them well, but do not touch them. Do not even look upon them, or you will be in their thrall.
This is what we know: a kalashik can fire fifty rounds per second. It does not need to be reloaded. There is a replicating mechanism within the chambers of the weapon that constantly replenishes the ammunition, drawing energy for this task from its surroundings, or perhaps from its handler. A drawing made a hundred and twenty years ago by one of the more gifted elders of our clan partially reveals its inner structure.
This is what we guess: the metal of the kalashik is telepathic, like kalishium, but in a deformed way. The metal was made with evil intent and that evil lives on in the machines, twisting the minds of all but the strongest who attempt to wield their power. It is said that the machines are haunted, that they carry the memory of all the men and women they have killed.
Perhaps the truth is even stranger than that. Perhaps the machines are living beings, immortals that will outlast the human race. Or maybe they are just artifacts, and their power exists only in our imagination.
The fact of their perpetual existence remains, a bane to our peaceful way of life, a threat to the balance we have established in the long years after the war. It is said that a time will come when these weapons will leave the world forever, at the hands of one who commands the destiny of the human race. But even the wisest cannot see how or when that will happen.
Chapter 18
Night in Khur
The wind screamed and battered the tent. Kyra’s teeth chattered as she tried to dig herself deeper into the layers of rugs that made up her bed. The stove was burning and she wore every scrap of clothing that she had, but she was still cold.
How did the Marksmen sleep every night with the wind wailing in their ears and the cold seeping into their bones? For that matter, how did they live in what must surely be the most desolate place in Asiana? There was nothing but sand and rock, sun and wind, for miles around. The little grove and the shrubs planted on the dune only emphasized the barrenness of the desert, and the absurdity of trying to grow anything in it. The vast emptiness hurt the eyes and you wanted to look anywhere but there, at that distant horizon, the towering dunes and pale sky. You wanted to consider anything but this, that you were stuck in a freezing desert and your only hope of returning home was to defeat the most feared Markswoman of Asiana in single combat.
Kyra closed her eyes and moaned. Ten days of lessons with Rustan and all she had to show for it was a scattering of bruises in all sorts of interesting hues. She had yet to last more than a few minutes on her feet sparring with her reluctant teacher. Toward the end of the first week, Rustan had thrown up his hands in exasperation and said that he hoped she was better at wielding a katari than her hands as a weapon, otherwise he didn’t see her surviving long enough against Tamsyn for it to even be called a duel.
It was galling. Kyra was not among the best at Hatha-kala in the Order of Kali, not by a long shot, but she had thought she knew how to fight. That was before she saw how Rustan moved, the way his limbs seemed to blur with speed as he attacked, evaded, or parried her blows. Of course, she knew that he was Ishtul’s assistant and was exceptionally talented in combat, but she still didn’t understand how it was possible for him to be so young and yet so skilled. It normally took several years of dedication to reach a level of proficiency in dueling. But not even the elders of Khur—save Ishtul and Barkav—could have stood against Rustan.
Ten days in this hellish place, and Kyra longed for the wooded slopes and tumbling streams of Ferghana with an ache that was almost physical. She missed Elena’s gentle voice and Nineth’s cheerful grin. She missed the vast, womb-like silence of the caves at night. She missed the ancient mulberry tree outside the caves of Kali, and the small pool surrounded by cherry trees not far off, where she used to bathe. Washing in half a bucket of freezing well water was not the same thing.
Most of all, Kyra missed riding Rinna, letting the mare gallop across the valley, fast as the wind, light as a leaf.
Was Rinna being looked after? Did she miss Kyra? What about Akhtar, had he made it back to the caves safely? Of course, thinking of Akhtar reminded her of Shirin Mam, and what she had seen in the secret Hub—how she had lost time. A familiar nausea welled up in her. She longed to confide in someone, to tell them what she had experienced.
Still more did she long to unburden herself of what Astinsai had revealed about her mother and Kai Tau. Now that some days had passed since that first, terrible night, she had begun to disbelieve the story, even though she knew the katari mistress would not tell an outright lie. Perhaps Astinsai was mistaken in some crucial way that would change the whole story. She wished Shirin Mam were still alive so she could demand the details from her.
There were times when she had almost confided in Rustan. Exacting and stern he might be, but there was something about him that made her feel she could trust him with her innermost fears and secrets. Perhaps because it appeared that he was troubled by secrets of his own. He rarely joined the others during mealtimes, and she’d noticed the way his mouth hardened and his dark gaze turned inward, in those quiet moments when he had given her a set of moves to practice, and settled down to meditate. These were the moments when she found herself on the verge of opening up to him. And might he not have knowledge of his own to share, especially about Kai Tau?
That Kai had once been a Marksman of Khur was almost as unbelievable as the claim that he had been her mother’s lover, but it would explain what Astinsai had said about something being “owed” to her. Was this why the elders had allowed her to stay with them, and assigned one of their best to help her train for the duel with Tamsyn? Did they think they had some sort of debt to her, and it would be so easily repaid?
The tent flap seemed to untie itself. Kyra leaped up, heart pounding, as a cold rush of wind gusted through the small space, sending the stove flame dancing.