And then she was through the gateway and Sikandra Fort rose before her in all its splendor. The floor beneath was paved with cool gray stone. A massive, rectangular edifice lay directly ahead, surrounded by a covered portico. Smaller buildings and intricate sculptures dotted the paved courtyard in which Kyra found herself. And to each side of the main building were the tall towers she had seen from the hill.
Kyra longed to linger and read the inscriptions on the sculptures, and explore the small buildings, which looked like temples or memorials. But there was no time. She made her way to the main building, like everyone else. Serving girls and boys were stationed at the top of the steps leading to the entrance hall. Kyra accepted a welcome drink of strained yogurt and stood aside, wincing at its sour taste.
There were so many people, of every hue and garb imaginable. Kyra knew that there were hundreds of clans and tribes in Asiana under the Kanun of Ture-asa. But knowing was one thing, and seeing quite another. The representatives flowed up the stairs, chattering to one another in myriad tongues. This was Asiana, and Sikandra Fort was the heart of it all—at least for one day in the year. How Nineth would envy her this particular adventure.
As she thought of Nineth, her excitement drained away, replaced by numbness. No, Nineth would not envy her. Nineth would tell her that she was mad for challenging Tamsyn, and attempt to drag her to safety, much the way Shurik had.
Thinking of Shurik turned out to be better. Some of her anger returned and Kyra squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and strode in behind the last of the stragglers with such a firm step that she almost bumped into three elderly women in front of her. Embarrassed, she apologized and slunk into a corner, keeping her face hidden beneath her hood. She scanned the people around her, trying to spot the elders of Kali.
But the crowd was too thick, and the hall itself simply enormous, a vast, circular space lined with arched doorways and elongated windows of brilliant colored glass that let in a muted light. A domed ceiling soared overhead, painted in rich detail with animals, people, and what looked to be strange hybrids—half-human, half-machine. The floor was smooth marble, patterned with concentric rings of an intricate geometric design that made you dizzy if you looked at them too long. Yes, it was easy to imagine that kings had once held court in this graceful space.
The Hall of Sikandra reminded Kyra of the place Shirin Mam had taken her to in Anant-kal, the night she gave her a “last lesson” in words of power. There were differences in the shape and size of the halls, and in the quality of light that streamed into them. But the feel was the same. They both belonged to a different world, a world that was now gone. They were all gone—the kings and queens, the men and women of learning and talent, and, above all, the mythic Ones who had graced Asiana with their presence all those hundreds of years ago.
But Kyra could almost believe that their ghosts still lingered in the hall. Almost see, with her inner eye, the red velvet robe of a queen dragging on the marble floor as she walked, arm in arm, with her consort.
“Hear me. Hear me now.” The stern voice echoed across the hall, and all laughter and talking died away. Kyra craned her neck to see who had spoken.
In the center of the hall stood a bent old woman with a wrinkled face and silver hair, leaning on a staff that appeared to be almost twice her height. When she was satisfied that she had everyone’s attention, she spoke again:
“I, Unduni Arallin, headwoman of the clan of Arallin, keeper of the Black River Forest, do welcome you to Sikandra for the two hundred fifty-third clan assembly of Asiana. May the light of the Kanun shine on you.”
“May the light of the Kanun shine on you,” they murmured in response.
“As the mediator,” continued Unduni, “I stand between Order and clan. Heads, sit down, please. We had best not waste time, for I see that we have many items to discuss, or shall I say, argue about, today.”
There were a few dutiful titters and a great rustling as people began to sort themselves out. Everyone obviously knew where to go and how to arrange themselves. Clan elders and heads sat down on chairs, surrounded by the younger members of their families. The Orders walked past Unduni and settled down behind her in five tight little groups.
Kyra stood petrified in the middle of the purposeful rush, not knowing where to stand or with whom.
And then she spotted Tamsyn strolling to one of the chairs behind Unduni, looking as elegant and lethal as ever. Kyra held her breath and released it slowly, trying to still the panic that rose within her at the sight of her deadly enemy. All the time she had spent with the Order of Khur, learning new ways to fight, seemed to blow away like dust. Kyra felt like a novice again, weak and unprepared for the challenge she had set herself.
Navroz, Mumuksu, Chintil, and Felda sat down behind Tamsyn. Kyra’s heart gave a little swoop of fear and longing as she regarded the elders of Kali. Navroz looked old and tired in a way she never had before. Mumuksu wore an expression caught between fear and anticipation. Chintil’s face was masklike and she held herself rigid, as if she wished to hide every emotion she had ever felt. Only Felda looked her usual gruff self. Kyra longed to reach out to them, get their news, and share her own. She wished she could somehow communicate with them without alerting Tamsyn.
Or did she? How far could she trust even them? Perhaps Tamsyn had subverted them to her way of thinking by now. Perhaps Shirin Mam and her teachings were but a distant memory, and Kyra a mere irritant to be removed.
Kyra stopped herself. She had to focus on the duel; the elders could be dealt with later. She was lucky that the use of Mental Arts was forbidden in the hall, or Tamsyn would certainly have sensed her presence by now.
She edged near a group of men and women standing close to the center of the hall. It would appear as if she belonged to their clan, and she would be able to see everything that was happening. Her eyes went past the mediator to the lone group of men, and her heart did another somersault. There was Rustan, looking as if he had swallowed a stone that was slowly poisoning him. There was the Maji-khan, grave and impassive, his hand resting on Rustan’s shoulder.
Kyra could hear the thoughts of the Markswomen surrounding the Order of Khur:
Mere men, sitting here as if they are our equals.
Men wielding kataris, it’s a disgrace.
Why don’t they stay away in that godforsaken desert of theirs so we aren’t reminded of their existence every year?
And, oddly:
That young dark-haired one is rather good-looking. I wonder who he reminds me of?
Kyra gave a start. Who had been thinking that perilous thought? Her gaze swept over the Markswomen, but their impassive faces gave no clue to what was going on in their individual minds. No way to find out without using the Mental Arts.