Markswoman Page 25

  It was like trying to fell a gigantic pile of rock.

  Barkav grabbed hold of her right leg and twisted it so she fell on her face. She steadied herself with both hands before she hit the ground, losing her katari in the process, and jabbed her left foot up in the direction of his face. The foot connected, and she was rewarded by a surprised grunt. But then Barkav grabbed hold of her other leg as well and hauled her up so she hung upside down, the blood rushing to her face as she tried in vain to scrabble for her katari.

  “Not bad,” said Barkav, chuckling. “Can’t remember the last time someone managed to hit my nose. But let us see if you can handle a surprise attack better than that.”

  He released her gently and allowed her to get to her feet. As she bent to retrieve her katari, she caught Rustan’s gaze. He gave her the same encouraging smile as before, as if determined not to betray any other emotion. The elders looked grim, as if they were witnessing a funeral. But Shurik turned and strode away before she could see his expression. Probably can’t stomach seeing me beaten, she thought wryly.

  After another mock fight—which, predictably, she lost—the Maji-khan began to teach her in earnest. He took her through eight lesser-known styles of katari duel. One by one, the elders left for various meetings after wishing her well. Rustan too was summoned by Ishtul and had to leave, and finally it was just Kyra and Barkav who remained.

  The Maji-khan taught with patience and lucidity, even though she knew he had returned from a daylong meeting with the Kushan clan elders and had many more petitions to hear before he could sleep that night. When she finally managed to disarm him—after several tries—he applauded her with delight. She left the stall aglow with a sense of achievement, feeling more confident about facing Tamsyn than she had before, and full of gratitude for the Maji-khan.

  They gathered together for the evening meal a little later—all except Shurik. Kyra wondered where he was and what had made him miss dinner. That wasn’t like him at all.

  When the meal was over, she lingered at the table, hoping to speak to Rustan alone again. She wanted to know what he thought of her duel with Barkav. But the elders wouldn’t budge from his side. They plied him with questions about what had happened in Herat and how Samant had fared with the Ersanis. Finally she gave up and decided to go up to her room.

  Shisqa was as cozy and welcoming as ever. Firelight flickered on the walls, reflecting the glow inside Kyra. She threw herself on the bed and sighed. Today had been wonderful. She wished every day could be like this. If only she could stop time so that nothing moved and nothing lived except her and Rustan. She would wear that green silk for him and they would walk hand in hand through the empty streets of Kashgar, with no one to look at them, no one to point and whisper.

  She drifted off to sleep thinking about this, smiling.

  * * *

  It was a sound that woke her up—a rustling, as of someone in the room. Her eyes flew open and she was instantly awake. Had she forgotten to bolt the door? The fire had gone out but she sensed movement near the end of her bed. Her hand slipped under the pillow for her blade, but before she could withdraw it from the scabbard, a voice spoke in the dark:

  “Leave your katari and come. Do not make a sound.”

  The mental bonds fell on her like a heavy net. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound emerged. She tried to will her hands toward her katari, but they refused to obey.

  Tamsyn, she thought, her insides congealing in fear. Tamsyn had found her. Kyra would never have a chance to challenge her to a duel now. She would be dead long before then.

  “Follow me.”

  Kyra’s legs made her stand and move with the dark figure out of the room. She tried to claw her way out of the panic fogging her mind. She had to warn the Marksmen that the Hand of Kali was here. She tried desperately to remember what she knew about Compulsion. Misuse of the Inner Speech. Breaking of the rules. Breaking of the mind.

  Tamsyn was the Mistress of Mental Arts, the most powerful Markswoman the Order of Kali had seen in decades. How would Kyra break free from her long enough to call for help, let alone make a run for her katari?

  But in the light of the lamps hanging in the gallery outside, Kyra received her second shock. The figure striding in front of her wasn’t Tamsyn.

  It was Shurik.

  What are you doing, you fool! she wanted to scream. Let me go.

  But no words emerged from her mouth. Barkav had mentioned that Shurik was exceptionally gifted in the Mental Arts, but Kyra hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

  Heart pounding, Kyra followed Shurik down the wooden staircase to the courtyard below. It had to be the middle of the night, for no one was awake. The courtyard was dotted with groups of people huddled under blankets. Somewhere a horse stamped and neighed.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Shurik veered left, heading for the gate. Kyra tried to stop, and once she stumbled and fell, but he hauled her up again. His face was a stranger’s face. Why was he doing this to her?

  He led her into a stable near the gate. The light of an oil lamp fell on a young boy holding the reins of a saddled horse. Shurik tossed the boy a coin; he caught it deftly and scampered off into the night. The hope that had flared in Kyra at the sight of another person flickered out.

  Shurik pointed at the horse.

  “Get on the horse,” he said. “We’re leaving Kashgar.”

  Kyra’s mouth worked with the effort of trying to speak against a direct order. “Why?” she whispered, leaning against the wall for support, her body trembling as she fought the command to mount the horse.

  Shurik gazed at her out of calm brown eyes. “Because I love you,” he said. “I’ll not stand by and let you go to your death. Did you not tell me yourself to choose the most difficult path of all? This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Leave with me.”

  Kyra shuddered as his voice rolled into her skull, obliterating everything else. Oh, how it hurt. She reached for the reins with shaking hands. Her eyes stung as she thought of her katari, buried under the pillow in her room. Would she ever see it again? She would rather die than be parted from it forever.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Shurik whirled around and swore.

  A tall, lean figure was silhouetted against the entrance to the stall. Rustan? Kyra tried to turn toward him, but Shurik had gripped her upper arm. His blade was out.

  “We’re leaving,” said Shurik. “Don’t try to stop us. Kyra has changed her mind about the duel and I’m helping her escape.”

  “Is that so?”

  Rustan closed the gap between them. Shurik’s grip on her arm tightened. The horse whinnied nervously.

  “I thought I heard you use the Inner Speech,” said Rustan.

  “Oh?” Shurik paused before answering. “I had to make sure that groom didn’t go about telling tales of us come daybreak.”

  “Strange,” said Rustan. “The boy who came running out of here was so eager to describe your long and tender embrace that I could almost believe the opposite.”

  Some of the fog lifted from Kyra’s brain. Shurik must be losing his concentration. She struggled to free herself, holding on to the image of her blade.

  “You’re jealous,” said Shurik, his voice scornful. “I know how you feel about her, even if no one else does. I’m honest enough to admit my feelings, but you—you’re a coward and a hypocrite. Now get out of our way.”

  It was too much to be borne. Kyra’s anger finally broke the last of the bonds Shurik had laid on her, and she twisted her arm free of his grip. “How dare you!” She was barely able to get the words out. Her throat felt parched, like it had after the sandstorm. “How dare you compel me like this!”

  Shurik stepped away from her and raised his hands. “Compel? My sweet, you came to me of your own free will, remember? Begging for a way out of here. Don’t lose your courage now because of Rustan. He cannot stop you. He will not even tell the elders if we ask him not to.”

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nbsp; Kyra’s head swam. Shurik’s voice was subtly laced with the Inner Speech. Could Rustan not sense it? She looked across the stable to where Rustan stood, his eyes troubled as they rested on her.

  “Help me,” she begged.

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” said Shurik. “Get on the horse. We must leave before daybreak.”

  “Wait,” said Rustan. “Where is your katari, Kyra?”

  “In my room,” she said, and it was hard to admit, even though it should have been a relief to have someone else know she had been forcibly separated from her katari.

  Rustan looked at Shurik, anger darkening his face. “As if she would leave without her blade. What the sands were you thinking, you idiot? You’ve broken one of our most fundamental rules. You must have known you wouldn’t be able to keep her under Compulsion for long.”

  “Long enough,” said Shurik, his voice brittle. “A couple of days was all I needed. A couple of days and she would have been mine—if not for your interference.”

  Without warning he raised his hand and a silver blue streak flew straight at Rustan. Kyra cried out in horror and threw herself toward him. But Rustan moved faster than she did, almost out of reach of the blade. Almost. It grazed his shoulder and he slid down the wall, breathing hard.

  Kyra was in front of him in a second, a cold pit opening up in her stomach. Reaching out, she gently touched his arm. “You’re bleeding. Let me fetch the Maji-khan.”

  She straightened up but Rustan said, “No. It’s only a minor wound. Please don’t call Barkav. You can bind it up for me.”

  With what? Kyra looked around for some cloth. Her eyes fell on Shurik, who was staring at Rustan with an expression of shock, his hand still raised.

  “Give me your headcloth,” she snapped at him. She had to repeat herself before Shurik seemed to hear her. He unwrapped the red and brown square of cotton from his head with hands that shook slightly, and gave it to her without a word. She deftly tore it into strips and knelt before Rustan.

  Rustan looked up at Shurik. “You would have killed me?” He swallowed hard.

  Shurik hung his head. He looked young and scared and lost—no longer the stranger who had compelled Kyra. As if, in that one terrible act of throwing his blade, he had remembered who he was—or at least who he was supposed to be.

  “Talk to me,” said Rustan, a note of command entering his voice. “Tell me you understand what you just tried to do.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” said Shurik, raising his head, anguished. “I . . . I do understand and it’s unforgivable. I don’t know what came over me. But she’s going to die now. I thought I could save her.”

  “We all die,” said Rustan. “The most we can hope for is that the time and manner of our death are of our choosing. Kyra has chosen to challenge the mightiest Markswoman in Asiana, and it might be that she will die for it. How long could you have kept her safe? How long before you broke her mind, or she escaped, full of hatred for you?”

  They were talking about her as if she wasn’t even there. Kyra glared at Rustan, but he had eyes only for Shurik. “I know you’re thinking of running away right now,” he said. “But don’t do that. Please. Go to the Maji-khan and plead for clemency.”

  Kyra finished binding the gash in Rustan’s shoulder, jerking his arm a bit harder than necessary as she tied it off. Thankfully, it was not too deep. Then she stood up, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to still the cold fury racing through her.

  “How will the elders punish me?” asked Shurik. “Will they exile me? Take away my katari?”

  “I don’t know,” said Rustan. “The katari belongs to you. But you need to make sure that your emotions don’t rule your blade. You must take it to the Maji-khan and let him decide.” He picked up the katari from the floor and held it out to Shurik, who eyed it as he might a spitting cobra.

  “We all got lucky today,” Rustan went on. “I arrived before you could take Kyra away, and the blade missed my vital organs—but you can’t rely on luck in the Order. I think, at the very least, Barkav will make you retrain with the apprentices. You’ll have to earn your blade back.”

  A spasm of pain rippled across Shurik’s face. “As long as they don’t send me away,” he said. “As long as you can still bear to have me around.”

  “Of course I can,” said Rustan. “I wouldn’t be able to bear not having you around. You’re my friend; you always will be.” He held his arms out. Shurik reached down and hugged him, carefully avoiding his injury.

  Kyra was stunned. Shurik had almost killed Rustan a few moments ago, and now they were embracing like long-lost brothers. She would never understand them. At that moment, she didn’t even want to. She had a splitting headache and she was thoroughly shaken from the ordeal Shurik had put her through. “If you will excuse me, I want my katari,” she said. “I’m going to my room now.” Her voice was hard and flat, alien to her own ears.

  Shurik drew away from Rustan and said, in a pleading voice, “Kyra, I’m so sorry, I . . .”

  Something in her snapped. “Don’t you ever say my name again!” she shouted. “If you’re not gone by morning, I’ll speak to the Maji-khan myself. I thought you were my friend. But you betrayed my trust. You broke the law. You entered my mind, Shurik.” She shuddered anew at the violation she had suffered.

  Shurik looked down, his face crimson. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice a husky whisper. “I will confess to the Maji-khan, and be gone by morning.”

  “Kyra,” began Rustan, but she didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. She couldn’t bear to be in Shurik’s presence one second longer. Or Rustan’s, for that matter. Not right now.

  She marched out and made her way across the courtyard, giving a wide margin to the groups of people still sleeping out in the open. Her face burned as she thought of the story Shurik had paid the little groom to circulate about her. Why, oh why hadn’t she warned the Maji-khan not to let Shurik travel with them? She had known the kind of feelings he had for her, after all. But she’d never dreamed he would be capable of . . . of this!

  She burst into her room and snatched her katari from under the pillow. She withdrew the blade from its sheath and touched it to her forehead, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  She huddled in the quilt, clutching the katari to her chest. Her headache dissipated as the warmth and power of the blade flowed into her. Never again would she be parted from it. She would wear it in a scabbard around her neck while sleeping. It was shameful, the way she had been caught. Shirin Mam would have been most cutting. She could hear her now, in her most caustic voice:

  A Markswoman without her weapon is like a horse without legs.

  Kyra sat up, startled. It was a long time since she had heard her teacher’s voice. She bent down to retrieve Shirin Mam’s blade from the bundle of clothes underneath her bed, but at that moment there was a rap on the door.

  Kyra tensed. She knew it was Rustan. She didn’t want to see him or talk to him. It wasn’t his fault, what had happened, but he had witnessed her awful humiliation, her almost-abduction by his so-called best friend and fellow Marksman.

  He probably saved you from a great deal of pain, my child.

  Kyra winced. Shirin Mam again. Get out of my head, please, she thought.

  She put on her blandest face and opened the door.

  Rustan stood outside, looking as edgy as she felt. He had donned a fresh shirt and there was no evidence of the wound beneath. Beyond him Kyra could hear the clatter of a wagon across the courtyard and the stamping of hooves. Dawn, and people were already on the move.

  “Who were you talking to?” said Rustan, walking in and shutting the door without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Kyra coolly. “As you can see, there is no one here besides us.”

  Rustan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, studying her. It made her uncomfortable, as if there was not enough space in the room for both of them.
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  When she could no longer bear his silent scrutiny, she burst out, “Have you come seeking my gratitude?”

  Rustan’s eyes widened. “Three things,” he said, holding up his fingers. “One: the worst thing that can happen to a Marksman or Markswoman is the loss of his or her blade. You have been careless.”

  Kyra closed her eyes. First Shirin Mam and now Rustan. She was ashamed. Did he have to rub it in?

  “Two: even though you have been careless, you cannot blame yourself for what happened.”

  Kyra’s eyes flew open, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “I knew how he felt about me,” she whispered. “I should have told the elders, made sure he didn’t come to Kashgar with us.”

  “Shurik is a Marksman,” said Rustan harshly. “We all choose how we act. He chose to break the law, and he will be punished for it.” He paused and said in a different tone, “I knew something was wrong with him last night, but I couldn’t figure out what. I woke at some point and sensed you both out in the corridor. I followed as quickly as I could. I . . . I don’t want you to think I was testing you in any way, Kyra, when I asked you where your katari was. There were a number of ways the scene could have played out, and I wanted to do it with the least possible damage.”

  Despite herself, Kyra gave a tentative smile. “Least damage?” She pointed to his shoulder. “He almost killed you.”

  Rustan’s face relaxed and he almost smiled himself. “I was never in danger. Shurik has terrible aim. Besides, he didn’t really want to kill me.” He shook his head. “No, the real danger once I arrived was to Shurik. I needed to free you without harming either of you. Ultimately, you freed yourself, and I did not have to use my blade. I have learned, the hard way, to stay my hand.”

  “Well, I have not,” said Kyra fiercely. “If I’d had my katari, I would have stabbed him.”