Markswoman Page 20

  Jeev looked at her in relief. “Thanks, Kyra. I’d better get back to serving the food.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “Shurik is looking for you too.”

  He grinned and scampered away in the direction of the communal tent.

  Kyra grimaced with annoyance. All the novices and apprentices, and most of the Marksmen as well, knew about Shurik’s silly infatuation with her by now. She had put a stop to his visiting her tent, and she tried to include others in their conversation at mealtimes, but it was too late. The damage had been done. And the truth was, he reminded her of Nineth, with his sunny smile and perpetual cheer. So she did like him—but not in the way he seemed to like her. Why couldn’t he understand that and stop before he got into serious trouble with the elders?

  Shaking her head, she made her way to Astinsai’s tent at the southern edge of the settlement, keeping a wary eye out for Shurik. When she arrived at the Old One’s abode, she paused. Should she ask permission to enter?

  But she had no need to. “Come in,” commanded a voice from within, and Kyra obeyed.

  The interior was dark and smoky. The Old One was brewing something on her stove: something lethal, judging by the smell. Kyra knelt opposite her and schooled herself to stay expressionless.

  “I grow blind,” said Astinsai, not looking up. “But not so blind that I cannot see what is happening. What will happen.”

  Kyra said nothing, having resolved to stay silent unless asked a direct question.

  Astinsai damped down the stove and lifted the large black iron pot with surprising ease. She poured a measure of steaming liquid into a cup, and looked up at Kyra, her eyes speculative.

  “Rasaynam,” she said, and proffered the cup. Kyra gaped at her in astonishment. Did the Old One mean for her to drink that awful-smelling potion? She had heard enough from the Marksmen to know what Rasaynam was, or at least what it was rumored to be: a potion to show you reality, but not a happy version of it, and never the whole of it.

  “Why do you offer this to me?” she asked.

  Astinsai placed the cup between them. “You are a girl with many questions, big and small. Rasaynam can show you the answers to some of them.”

  Kyra regarded the cup with a mixture of longing and revulsion. Yes, she had many questions. How had Tamsyn managed to kill Shirin Mam? What was the meaning of what she had seen in the secret Hub? What would be the outcome of the duel? Would she live to take revenge on the Taus for the slaughter of her clan? And—above all—what had happened between her mother and Kai Tau?

  But was she ready for the answers that she might get?

  Kyra wanted to reach out and quaff the contents of the cup in a single gulp. She wanted to run away from this tent and never set eyes on Astinsai again.

  A long minute passed, with both impulses warring inside her. Finally she drew a deep breath and said, “I thank you for the honor you have shown me. But I am not ready for this potion of yours. Not yet.”

  “I thought as much,” said Astinsai. She took the cup and poured its contents back into the pot. “Come to me when you are ready,” she said. “When you think you have seen everything, when you think you have no more tears left inside. Come to me then. I’ll still be around.”

  Kyra suppressed a shiver. She got up and bowed before leaving the tent, but Astinsai’s attention had already returned to her herbs and potions.

  * * *

  “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why did you miss the midday meal?”

  Kyra gave a start as Shurik materialized by her side. She had been preoccupied after leaving Astinsai’s tent and hadn’t noticed where she was going. Her steps had taken her back toward the shaded grove. Shurik must have followed her in.

  “I’ve been with Astinsai.” Kyra told him what had happened, omitting the part about her being “a girl with many questions.”

  Shurik’s face twisted in comic horror as he listened. “Don’t ever drink that stuff,” he warned. “Look what it did to Rustan.”

  Kyra stopped walking and sat down cross-legged in the shade of a jessora bush. “Rustan has drunk Rasaynam?” she said, surprised. “I thought none of the Marksmen had touched that potion in years.” But even as she said it, she remembered the haunted look on his face. Perhaps if you had done what I did, you would feel differently.

  “None but my good friend Rustan,” said Shurik, sitting down next to her. “Astinsai made an exception for him, like she seems to have made for you. She must dislike you both very much.”

  Kyra laughed. “Don’t be silly, Shurik.” The katari mistress was surely above liking or disliking anyone.

  “Don’t drink it, okay?” said Shurik, suddenly anxious. “I couldn’t bear for you to change, the way he changed.”

  “How did he change?” asked Kyra, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. It wasn’t necessary; no one was around. The Marksmen rested in their tents after the midday meal, resuming classes and chores in the evening.

  “He used to talk more and laugh more,” said Shurik. “We sparred together every day. He would tell me if he had a new trick to disarm me, or if he was fed up with the food, or if he thought an elder was full of gas. Now he barely looks at me. And it’s not just me. He hardly talks with anyone.” He trailed his hand on the ground, clearly struggling not to betray his hurt.

  “To be fair, he spends most of the daylight hours teaching me,” said Kyra. “It doesn’t leave much time for anything else.”

  “This happened before you came here,” said Shurik. “Rustan was sent to take down a mark in Tezbasti. When he came back, Astinsai made him drink Rasaynam. I don’t know what he saw, but it must have been bad, because he’s not been the same ever since.”

  He gazed into the distance, his mouth compressed in a hard line.

  “What do you think happened in Tezbasti?” asked Kyra, but she had begun to put two and two together. Something had gone wrong with the mark and he blamed himself for it. No wonder he was so grim all the time.

  Shurik pulled at a stalk of grass and twined it around his finger. “I don’t know what happened. He won’t tell me. I tried to get him to talk once or twice, and had my head bitten off as a reward. But let’s not talk about him anymore.” He glanced at Kyra. “Let’s talk about us. Do you think we can use the Akal-shin door to get away from this place?”

  Kyra stared at him in disbelief, too stunned by the turn of conversation to respond.

  “We could go anywhere we wanted,” he continued. “No one would be able to follow us. I wouldn’t mind setting myself up on a farm somewhere, with nothing to worry about but the rain.”

  Despite herself, Kyra smiled. Shurik had grown up on a farm in the fertile Peral River delta, and a part of him still yearned for it, especially in this barren land where it was a struggle to grow anything.

  Shurik caught her hand. “You smile. Surely you know by now how I feel for you. I love you.”

  Kyra withdrew her hand quickly, hot and uncomfortable. “Shurik, you do not love me. I happen to be the first girl you’ve met in ages, and so you believe yourself to be in love. What you’re suggesting is crazy.”

  “You are not the first girl I’ve met,” he said. “I’ve seen women in Yartan, Kashgar, and Tezbasti. Some were quite beautiful and I admired them from afar. I forgot their faces as soon as I left town. You are different. I see you when I close my eyes. I think of you even in my dreams.” He caught her chin and drew her face to his. She gazed at him, mesmerized by the play of emotions on his face.

  “Do not say I cannot love you,” he whispered. “Say instead that you can learn to love me.” He bent down to press his lips on hers. Kyra was so startled that a moment passed before she jerked her head away.

  And looked right into Rustan’s cold blue eyes. Kyra stared at him in consternation. He stood opposite them, leaning on the woody stem of an ephedra, looking as if he had swallowed some of Astinsai’s bitter spineroot brew. How long had he been standing there, watching them?

&nbs
p; I wasn’t really kissing him! a part of her wanted to scream. But another part said—What business is it of his? Let him think what he wants. It doesn’t matter.

  But it did matter. It mattered when Rustan said, “I thought you wanted to continue your lessons this afternoon. It appears that I was mistaken.”

  He walked away, silent as he had come, as always. Kyra gazed at his retreating back in dismay, wondering if she should go after him and say that yes, she wanted to continue her lessons. Suppose he refused? She became aware that Shurik was speaking:

  “. . . always interrupts us at the wrong time. It’s almost as if he’s spying on us. Thinks he’s an elder already, I suppose. We’ll be well rid of him when we’re out of here.”

  Kyra glared at Shurik. This foolishness had gone further than she had thought possible. It was time to set the boy straight, before things got out of hand. She stood up and dusted her robe. Shurik rose and tried to embrace her again but this time she deflected his arms and stepped away with a warning look.

  “You will not try to kiss me again,” she said. “If you do, I’ll hit you. Hard.”

  Shurik raised his hands, and a look of innocent protest entered his face. “I’m sorry, Kyra. I didn’t mean to surprise you.” His tone became warmer and he stepped toward her. “Have I told you how beautiful your eyes are? They are the color of—of the desert after rain. I could drown in them.”

  Kyra backed away, fighting a sudden impulse to laugh. “Stay away from me,” she said severely, holding up her hand. “And listen well, because I’ll only say this once. I am not running away with you anywhere. I have my duty, even though you seem to have forgotten yours. No more talk of love or pretty eyes. I do not love you, Shurik.” Seeing his crushed expression, she added in a gentler tone, “I like you, though, and I hope we can continue being friends. But only if you give up this foolish love talk.”

  “If you like me, you can one day love me,” said Shurik. “Don’t frown. I’m not going to kiss you again. But I’m not going to stand aside and watch you die on Tamsyn’s blade either. I want us to have a chance together. As long as you’re safe and alive somewhere, I can bear us being apart, because I know we’ll meet again. Give it up, Kyra. There must be another way for you to get back to your Order.”

  “There is no way other than a duel,” said Kyra, exasperated. She had been over this many times, both with herself and with him. “Tamsyn killed Shirin Mam. She has the elders of Kali in her thrall. The only thing that protected me from her, letting me escape, was Shirin Mam’s katari.”

  “Which you still have,” Shurik pointed out, changing tack. “If you must duel Tamsyn, then use Shirin Mam’s blade instead of your own. You will have a far better chance of winning.”

  Attractive though this idea was, Kyra had discarded it long ago. “It is not lawful to use any weapon but your own in a duel,” she said. “I will leave Shirin Mam’s katari in Rustan’s safekeeping before going to Sikandra.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Shurik. “Why would you give it to him? The one thing that kept you safe from the Hand of Kali!”

  Kyra hesitated. How could she tell him that Shirin Mam herself had asked this of her? “I can’t explain,” she said. “But I know in my heart it’s the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing is to protect yourself by any means possible,” said Shurik. His face had gone red and he spoke with effort, as if trying hard to stay calm.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kyra. “I cannot use Shirin Mam’s blade. I must face Tamsyn armed only with my own katari.”

  “If you will not listen to reason, there’s no point in talking with you,” said Shurik coldly. He walked away before she could say another word.

  Was Shurik going to give up on her so easily? Kyra felt a pang at the prospect of him abandoning her. He was the only real friend she had in Khur and she would hate to lose him, especially when there were just a few days left before the journey to Kashgar. It was not a trip she was looking forward to: a week on camelback through the desolate landscape of the Empty Place, with only the dour and disapproving elders of Khur for company, and only the duel with Tamsyn to look forward to at the end of it.

  With a sigh, Kyra slowly headed out of the grove, back to her tent. Perhaps she could get an hour of rest before the evening classes, when she usually joined the Marksmen in katari-play or Mental Arts practice.

  But as usual, sleep evaded her. She twisted and turned on the rugs in her tent, unable to still the fluttering in her stomach. She touched her lips with her fingers, and recalled how it had felt to be kissed by Shurik. His lips had been soft against hers, his eyes passionate. But her primary emotion had been one of surprise, followed by embarrassment when she noticed Rustan watching them.

  Rustan. What would he think of her now? And why, why did she care so much what he thought of her? And then the most traitorous notion of all: What would it be like to be kissed by him? This thought made her feel hot and cold at once, like shivering in a furnace. She got up and splashed her face with water, but it still felt as if she was on fire.

  Chapter 23

  Escaping the Self

  Rustan strode out of the grove. Someone called out to him—was it an elder?—but he did not respond. Distantly, he sensed the fierce glow of the katari against his side.

  Shurik, that pie-faced fool. He could have strangled him with his bare hands. As for Kyra, he had thought she had more sense than this. Shurik was hardly more than an apprentice. Perhaps she liked to be told that she had pretty eyes. Perhaps she liked boys mooning after her like brainless calves.

  Rustan forced himself to appear expressionless. No one must know what he had seen. But he had to get out of Khur. Now. He was done with the girl and the complications she had brought into his life. If not for her, he would have left weeks ago. But he had stayed; he had obeyed his Maji-khan and taught her what he could. It was out of his hands now.

  When he reached Barkav’s tent, he had to wait his turn to meet the Maji-khan. Saninda and Ghasil were inside; he could discern their voices. A full ten minutes passed before the elders left the tent. They greeted him in surprise. He gave them a quick bow before asking Barkav’s permission to enter.

  The Maji-khan was kneeling on the carpeted floor, a pile of letters in his hand. Barkav often spent the afternoons reading petitions that arrived with the camel caravans on their way to Kashgar. He looked up when Rustan entered and broke into a smile. “Come, Rustan. It has been a while since you sought me out.”

  Rustan bowed and sat down. “Yes, Father. I had a task to do, and there was no point in bothering you with my presence. It would have been impossible for me not to bring up what happened in Tezbasti.”

  “Ghasil has executed the real killers in front of the entire village,” said the Maji-khan, stroking his beard. “It will not happen again. That is all you need to know.”

  “And it is not for me to seek vengeance,” said Rustan. “I understand.” And a part of him did. Vengeance would have assuaged his ego, nothing more. Hard as it was for him to accept it, Barkav had been right not to send him back to Tezbasti.

  But Rustan could do nothing about the anger he still felt, the guilt that dogged his waking hours and haunted the edges of his dreams. At first he had thought the raw pain of it would finish him off, that his own blade would turn against him and reject him.

  Then the Markswoman arrived by the Akal-shin door, and the news of Shirin Mam’s death overshadowed everything else.

  Rustan looked up to see Barkav watching him, his eyes calm as ever, and it hit him that Barkav had chosen him to teach the Markswoman for a reason—a reason that had nothing to do with his dueling skills. Bitterness rose in his mouth and he spoke more harshly than he had intended:

  “I salute you, Father. You have succeeded.”

  Barkav’s brow creased, but he did not say anything.

  “I have begun to care for the Markswoman. That is what you wanted, is it not?”

  “What I wanted was for her
to have a capable teacher,” said Barkav. “What is the matter, Rustan?”

  Rustan stared at him. Everything, he wanted to shout.

  “I have taught Kyra all I can. There is little more I can do in the week that is left, except torture myself with looking at her face, and imagining how she will die.”

  “I see,” said Barkav. “You wish to give up your assignment because it is too hard?”

  Rustan started to argue, but Barkav forestalled him. “When you are given a task, it is your duty to finish it,” he said. “I am aware of how—trying—circumstances have been for you this past month, but that is no excuse for a Marksman.”

  “I have taught her all I can,” Rustan repeated. Unable to sit still any longer with the Maji-khan’s penetrating gaze on him, he stood up and began to pace the tent. “Give me another assignment, Father. There must be something you need doing away from here.”

  “You not only wish to give up your assignment, you also wish to leave Khur. You would flee, rather than stay with your pupil to the end?” There was no judgment in Barkav’s voice, and yet the words cut deeply.

  Rustan spun around to face the Maji-khan, anger heating his face. “What would you have me do?” he demanded, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Surely you would not have me accompany you to Sikandra?”

  “It is not for me to decide whether you should go to Sikandra,” said Barkav. “I can give you another assignment if you like. But don’t delude yourself. You cannot run away, no matter how far you go. There is no escaping the self.”

  Rustan looked up, stricken. Had Barkav guessed the true depth of his feelings for Kyra? But Barkav’s face was expressionless. “Help me, Father,” he pleaded.

  Barkav was silent. “I need a man in the Thar Desert,” he said finally. “But first, I want to find out what happened to Samant.”

  Rustan frowned. Samant was the eldest of the elders of Khur and the Master of Meditation. He had left for the Kashgar Hub almost a month ago, shortly after Kyra’s arrival. His destination was Herat, the home of the Ersanis, a clan of cultivators and carpet weavers. The trip was supposed to be a brief prelude to scoping their young boys as possible novitiates. Samant should have been back a week ago, but had yet to return.