The Ersanis gave him little trouble after that. Apparently, the spirit of Varka had not been glimpsed in almost a century, and he was very fortunate to have seen it. Everyone wanted to touch him and speak to him. In all the excitement, Samant was almost forgotten. But Rustan asked for, and received, permission to bring Samant out of the death hut and into the shaded porch of the village council hut.
He showed a woman how to boil water to make it safe for drinking, and gave an impromptu class on herbs and healing as he made a tincture for Samant. Not that he knew much about it, and he was hampered by a lack of all but the most basic materials he had carried with him: dried peppermint and garlic, a bunch of sacred basil, a bottle of spineleaf oil. But he hoped that some of what he told them would filter into their own practices, and prevent needless deaths in the future.
That night, Samant recovered sufficiently to ask for a glass of water. He held his katari gripped in one skeletal hand, as if afraid someone might snatch it away again. After he had drunk the peppermint-infused tea Rustan brewed for him, he drifted back to sleep, his breathing quiet and regular.
The rest of the village also slept, quiescent under the moonlit sky. From somewhere a bulbul called, piercing the night with its sweet cry. The wind wafted through the porch of the council house, filled with the scent of jasmine. Rustan blew out the lamp and stretched out on a woven grass mat next to Samant, allowing himself to relax for the first time in days.
He watched Samant’s sleeping form for several minutes, then turned his face to the darkness above, his thoughts drifting, as always, to Kyra. Her fierce expression when she fought, the way she pushed the hair away from her eyes when she was angry, the depth of her gaze, and how it seemed to plumb the very depths of his soul.
“Do you know, Elder, why I came here?” he whispered. “It was not to save you. It was to escape myself.”
Samant gave a tiny snore. Emboldened, Rustan talked on in a low voice, unburdening himself to the sleeping elder. He told him about the tragic mistake in Tezbasti, the arrival of the Markswoman through the Akal-shin door, and the news she had brought. “Barkav made me teach her dueling,” he said. “I was so busy doing that, I mostly forgot everything else. And then I discovered I cared for her. Cared too much. And so I left Khur. Is it so wrong, Elder, to love a woman?”
Samant cleared his throat and said, “No.”
Rustan sat up, horrified. Samant was awake.
The elder regarded him out of calm, lucid eyes. “You should return to Kashgar,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Return before it is too late.”
Part IV
From the copy of The Kanun of Ture-asa possessed by the Order of Kali
There are those who believe, and those who do not. There are those who remember, and those who forget. There are those who worship, and in their worship is the stink of fear.
To them all I say, the Ones who wait and watch in the sky know everything that has happened, and everything that can happen. You have broken covenant with them, and still they do not abandon you. See, they leave you their most precious metal kalishium, which can look into your inmost heart. They leave you their doors. Why else, if not to return?
There is darkness now all around us. There are none left to listen to me. My son is dead, and soon I will die too.
But a time will come when my words will be known to all that live in Asiana. Twenty, fifty, a hundred years from now, the smallest child will gaze into the dark bowl of the sky and know that we are not alone.
The fractured clans will unite to form the Orders of Peace and return harmony to Asiana. The Markswomen, as they will come to be called, will use blades fashioned from kalishium to mete out justice. Thus will they keep faith with the Ones, for only kalishium can look inside the soul and be true to its keeper. All must obey the Orders, for in them lies the hope of Asiana and the future of our race.
It is I, Ture-asa, the last king of Asiana, who says this to you.
To all who would repudiate me, I say that you are deaf and dumb and blind. You turn your face away from the light, and so you cannot see. You clap your hands on your ears, and so you cannot hear. But look up at the star-filled sky one night. Look for the blue disc of Amaderan, the home star of the Araini. See if you dare deny the Ones.
Chapter 26
Across the Empty Place
It was the hour before dawn in the Empty Place—almost time to move. Time to leave this frozen, desolate landscape that had begun to feel, despite everything, like an unforgiving kind of home.
Kyra rested her hands on the two kataris, sensing their power. One blade so much a part of her, the other ancient and alien. It was beginning to weigh on her now. Well, she wouldn’t have to bear it much longer. Shirin Mam had made that clear. Kyra would give it into the Maji-khan’s safekeeping before the duel, to pass on to Rustan when he rejoined the Order. She wished with all her heart she could have given it to him herself, but that was no longer possible. Rustan was gone. Barkav had summoned her one morning and told her that he had left Khur.
“Left for where? Left why?” she had asked in dismay, but he was vague about that. Business of the Order, he said, and waved his hand in dismissal. She walked back to her tent, oddly bereft. Had he gone because he’d seen Shurik kissing her? No, that was too ridiculous. More likely he was simply fed up with teaching her, day in and day out. She had swallowed the painful lump in her throat and focused on her training.
Kyra went to all the classes that she could in her last week at Khur, joining the Marksmen in Mental Arts, katari-play, and unarmed combat. She even volunteered to cook the midday meal once, and was quite pleased when it was not an unmitigated disaster. She asked the fabled Gajin for help, and he gave it willingly enough, telling her how much salt and water to add to the millet and how long to cook the potatoes. The elders thanked her for the meal and Barkav joked that she was good enough to be an honorary Marksman of Khur. She had to smile at that, even though the elders’ expressions ranged from mildly disapproving (Saninda) to terribly shocked (Ghasil).
Still, she had been lonelier than ever before in her time at Khur. She missed Rustan’s lessons, his patient voice as he told her the fine difference between churi-katka and katari-kaat, or why she was holding the katari the wrong way. It is not a weapon apart from you, but an extension of your being, he had said, pushing the dark hair away from his forehead and gazing at her with burning eyes. Feel it.
She couldn’t understand why it hurt that he was gone. He had only been teaching her on the Maji-khan’s command. All their time together had been spent in katari-play; they’d never talked of anything else, except on that last day. Yet somehow being with him had kept the darkness within her at bay. She hadn’t thought about it earlier, but she’d had fewer nightmares; the ghosts had been less insistent. When he left they returned in full force, knocking on her dreams once again, demanding to be let in.