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  “You are right to be angry,” said Rustan. “I don’t expect you to forgive him.”

  “What will happen to him?” asked Kyra.

  “He has gone to Barkav to confess,” said Rustan. “I imagine he will be sent back to Khur, and the elders will pass his sentence after the meeting in Sikandra.”

  Kyra shivered as she thought of how the Maji-khan could crush a person with a single dark look. She wouldn’t want to be in Shurik’s boots for anything. On the other hand, she would never be stupid or cruel enough to try to do what he had done.

  “I should go now,” said Rustan. “The elders will want my version of what happened.”

  But he lingered in the room, his eyes resting on her face, as if reluctant to leave.

  Then don’t leave.

  “What’s the third thing?” said Kyra hastily, wanting to hide that thought.

  “What?” said Rustan, as if his mind was elsewhere. The way he was looking at her made her feel hot and cold all at once.

  “You said ‘three things’ when you entered my room,” said Kyra. “You’ve only told me two of them.”

  “Ah yes, the third thing,” said Rustan. “When Shurik called me a hypocrite and a coward, he was right.”

  They stared at each other across the room and something ignited between them. He took a step toward her, and the blaze of desire in his eyes almost made her stumble back over the bed. He caught her with one hand and pulled her to him, tracing her face with his fingertips, down to the hollow of her neck and up to her lips. Kyra stood still, heart thudding inside her chest, his fingers leaving trails of goose bumps on her skin.

  Slowly, never taking his eyes from hers, Rustan leaned down and pressed his lips against hers.

  Kyra closed her eyes and swayed. The world turned, the moment stretched. Rustan smelled of the desert, the hot sun, the cold wind. She could not breathe, she could not think. Unable to stop herself, she parted her lips and reached for him, twining her fingers in his hair. She heard him gasp, and his arms encircled her.

  But the next moment he released her and stepped away, breathing hard.

  She felt bereft. Don’t stop, she wanted to shout. Don’t leave. He must have known what she was thinking, what she wanted, and yet he made no move toward her. She could have wept with disappointment.

  “Kyra . . .” he said, a plea entering his voice.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything.” She couldn’t have borne it if he had apologized.

  Rustan looked at her, his face tight with suppressed emotion. He turned and left, as abruptly as he had come.

  Kyra sat down on the bed and exhaled the breath that had been trapped in her chest while Rustan was in the room. She had never been so utterly in someone’s power before, not even when Shurik laid the bonds of Inner Speech on her.

  A tight band of pain encircled her heart. Was this what it was like to love someone? She was glad, glad that the meeting in Sikandra was only two days away.

  The dam broke and she cried, sobbing into the pillow to muffle the sounds.

  Chapter 29

  Live Long and Die Well

  Kyra splashed cold water on her face and got dressed. It was time to leave the Jewel of Kashi. She dragged out the little bundle of clothes from underneath the bed and withdrew Shirin Mam’s katari from its scabbard. She touched it to her lips. Time to say goodbye.

  She had given up hope of meeting Shirin Mam in Anant-kal again, but at least while she carried the blade, she could imagine that her teacher was somehow still with her. It was a wrench to give it up, but Shirin Mam had been quite clear in her instructions. Rustan was to have the katari before Kyra left for Sikandra, and now she had the chance to give it directly to him. She had known from the beginning that she would not be able to keep it for long.

  She donned her brown Markswoman robe with the symbol of Kali. She didn’t want to hide who she was anymore, but Barkav had insisted she wear a hooded cloak over the robe until she declared herself in the Hall of Sikandra. Kyra had agreed, knowing that the longer she could keep her identity a secret, the stronger the element of surprise for her enemy.

  She glanced at the window and was startled to see how light it had become. She would have to hurry if she wanted to catch Rustan before he went down for the morning meal.

  She slipped out the door and went down the corridor to the last room but one, hoping none of the elders would notice her, and trying to quell the nervous flutter of anticipation that rose in her chest. She hadn’t seen Rustan alone even once after that kiss. This would be the first time—and probably the last, she reminded herself.

  Again and again she had been drawn into a wretched argument with herself. What had happened in the room between them that day? Why had he kissed her? Why had it hurt so much when he stepped away from her and left the room?

  She hardly knew him. He should mean less to her than Nineth or Elena did, less than the memory of those she had loved and lost. Why did thoughts of him consume her waking moments? She longed to be alone with him again; at the same time the force of her feelings frightened her. Such feelings were surely a sign of weakness in a Markswoman. Would they be what broke her during the duel with Tamsyn?

  A Markswoman belonged to no one but her Order. She could not allow personal desires to get in her way. This was what Shirin Mam had said, and certainly what the Maji-khan believed too.

  Kyra quaked inwardly at the thought of what Barkav would say if he knew of the kiss. First Shurik and now Rustan. He would forbid the Order of Khur from having anything to do with her, ever again. As it was, Kyra had gleaned from talk among the elders that Barkav had been furious with Shurik. He had questioned both Shurik and Rustan closely, and sent Shurik back to the camp of Khur. Shurik had gone at once. Apparently, he would have to relinquish his blade to Astinsai until the Maji-khan returned and decided what to do with him. Kyra had waited on tenterhooks to be summoned to the Maji-khan herself, but he had not asked for her. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or anxious about that.

  Kyra reached the door of the last room but one and drew a deep breath. Watch yourself now, she thought. She raised a hand, but the door flew open before she could knock on it.

  Rustan looked disheveled, as if he had woken up a short while ago. Behind him, she could see robes and underclothes strewn about his chamber. A knapsack lay open on his bed. She had caught him in the middle of packing. It was too intimate somehow, and she could feel her face flush as she began to say that she would come back later, but Rustan gently pulled her inside and told her to sit down.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning visit?” He spoke lightly, but she could tell that he was not quite at ease.

  She smiled, trying to appear as cool and polite as him. “It’s not that early, you know,” she said. “It will soon be time for the morning meal. In an hour we leave for Sikandra.”

  “Oh, really? I’d better hurry up.” He began to throw his things higgledy-piggledy into the knapsack.

  That puzzled her. “Are you leaving too?” she said. “I thought you were going to stay here until the elders returned from Sikandra.”

  “I’m going with you.” Rustan closed the straps of his knapsack and straightened up.

  “But . . . but why?”

  “Surely you can guess?” said Rustan. “I taught you what I know of dueling. I don’t know if it was enough, but it is my duty to see you through this. The Maji-khan agreed.”

  “Oh.” Kyra wasn’t sure what she had wanted him to say, but his answer was a bit deflating in its practicality. He was accompanying her out of a sense of duty. What had she hoped for, declarations of undying love? Neither of them had any use for those. Just as the silence between them turned awkward, she remembered why she was there and held Shirin Mam’s scabbard out to him. “I give this to you for safekeeping.”

  Rustan accepted it without a word, tying it to the belt around his waist.

  Kyra felt a sense of anticlimax. “Aren’t you go
ing to ask me why I gave that to you?” she said, a touch acerbically.

  Rustan looked surprised. “Who else is there? I suppose you could have given it to the Maji-khan, but he would probably have passed it along to me anyway. I’ll take excellent care of it, don’t worry.”

  Kyra frowned. “I gave that to you because Shirin Mam told me to,” she said, and was gratified to see the look of shock on Rustan’s face.

  “What do you mean? When did she tell you?” he demanded.

  “Some weeks ago. In a—I guess it was a dream.” To Kyra’s dismay, tears sprang to her eyes. She got up and turned away before he could see them. “I’d better go finish my packing,” she choked out.

  She slipped out, relieved that he did not stop her. She went back to the room that wasn’t hers anymore, and gave in to a fit of silent weeping. Giving up the katari was like losing Shirin Mam all over again. But when she had cried herself out, it was as if an unseen weight had lifted from her shoulders. She took out her own silvery green blade and kissed it.

  “It’s just you and me now,” she said.

  Her katari sparkled in response.

  * * *

  Rustan held himself rigid until he was sure that Kyra was out of earshot. Then he pounded his fist against the wall, growling in frustration, until his knuckles were bruised and the pain brought him back to his senses. He pushed away from the wall and swore under his breath. By all the gods of Asiana, that had been close. Standing so near Kyra, in this confined space—it had taken iron self-control to not reach for her, to not kiss her the way he had in her room, to talk to her as a friend . . . as more than a friend. He knew she was upset. But if she had known how close he had come to touching her . . .

  He slumped on the bed and held his head in his hands, focusing on his breath. It was all right. The danger was past. He had restrained himself.

  When his breath had evened out, he withdrew Shirin Mam’s katari from its sheath. He gently touched the translucent blade, wondering if anything would happen.

  As he had expected, nothing did.

  Rustan frowned, twirling the blade in his hands. Why had Shirin Mam wanted him to have her katari?

  You will have need of me before you are done.

  Rustan dropped the blade in shock. Shirin Mam’s quiet voice, heard after so many years, sounded exactly the same. Except that it wasn’t a voice, not exactly. More like hearing someone’s thought, clear and low.

  Rustan picked up the blade again, but although he concentrated for several minutes, he heard nothing more.

  Saninda’s voice, sharp and demanding outside his door, snapped him back to the present. Rustan sheathed Shirin Mam’s katari, slung the knapsack on his shoulders, and hurried to join the others downstairs.

  * * *

  The Hub of Kashgar was below a ruined temple in the heart of the old town. It was hard to say whether the temple had been built because of the gleaming corridors of Transport underneath, or in spite of them. Those who had laid the foundations of the temple were long dead, their skeletal remains hidden in stone chests in the burial chamber beneath the main hall. People stayed away from the temple now; it was rumored to be haunted.

  Kyra, following Barkav and Saninda down the uneven, rock-hewn steps to the burial chamber, could believe that it was so. The air was dank and musty; there was no light, save the glow of their kataris.

  “Why didn’t we bring a torch?” she muttered to herself.

  “A local superstition,” said Rustan from behind her. “They do not wish to wake the dead.”

  Kyra almost stumbled, but Rustan steadied her with his arm, his touch warm against her skin. Her breath caught. She hadn’t realized how close behind he was.

  “Watch your feet now,” said Barkav. “The last step is broken.”

  Kyra shook off Rustan’s arm and felt her way to the bottom. They reached the end of the stairs and stood, as far as she could make out, in an unadorned chamber lined with stone chests that were covered with inscriptions. Knowing what they contained, she avoided looking at them. Her gaze went instead to the door on the far side of the room.

  “The Hub of Kashgar,” said Saninda. “Shall I?” The elder strode to the door and inserted his katari in the slot. A moment later the slot glowed blue and the door swung open.

  Kyra’s heart accelerated. She wouldn’t survive another Transport experience like the last one. It would break her mind if she saw things and lost time again. She began to hyperventilate, her breath coming in short gasps, the dark abyss yawning before her.

  “It’s all right, Kyra,” said Rustan softly in her ear. “This is the Hub of Kashgar. We use it all the time. No reports of anyone getting lost. And we’re all with you.”

  Kyra forced her breathing to slow, but it didn’t help that Rustan was standing so close to her they were practically touching. “I’m perfectly all right,” she said, her voice uneven, and marched toward the open door. Behind her, Rustan followed.

  Barkav and Saninda had disappeared into the darkness of the corridor ahead. Ghasil and Ishtul must already be at Sikandra Fort, having Transported an hour ago with the Kushan and Turguz clan elders.

  The door swung shut behind them, and Kyra was once more in the strange yet familiar landscape of Transport: a dark, winding corridor, lit only by the slots on the doors and the glowing kataris of the Marksmen.

  “It’s the fifth door on the right,” came the Maji-khan’s voice. “Go on, Saninda, you know the code.”

  This corridor had doors on both sides. It was a vast, complex Hub that possibly connected Kashgar with every corner of Asiana. Except, of course, that many of the doors were unusable, having shifted over time.

  But Felda had discovered that special sets of primes could unlock any door in any Hub. Kyra’s stomach clenched as she thought of the vast possibilities of this, as if she teetered at the edge of some great insight. It was too much to grasp, too much power for anyone to have. Was this why the old war had been fought? She fingered the fraying parchment with the secret codes in her pocket. She would have to keep it safely hidden.

  The Transport Chamber opened and its light—brilliant after the dimness of the corridor—beckoned them in.

  Kyra followed the others into the circular room, taking one of the seats melded to the floor. It moved beneath her, as she had known it would, adjusting to her weight and shape. She shuddered.

  Barkav and Saninda talked about the meeting, but Rustan was quiet, watching her. The room began to spin and Kyra schooled herself to stay calm.

  Barkav stopped talking and glanced at her. “Once we arrive at Sikandra, you’re on your own.”

  “Yes, Father.” It made sense. The Order of Khur could not afford to take sides until the duel had been fought and the outcome decided.

  “The use of Mental Arts is not permitted in the Hall of Sikandra, where clans and Orders meet as equals,” said Barkav. “This is to your advantage. Stay hidden until you declare yourself to the assembly. We will pray for your success.”

  The chamber stopped spinning, the door swung open, and the Marksmen stood up. To Kyra’s surprise, Barkav leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. “May you live long and die well,” he murmured. He left the chamber without a backward glance.

  Saninda put his bony hand on her head, his touch featherlight. “Live long and die well,” he repeated gruffly, before following Barkav out of the chamber.

  And then she was alone with Rustan and he was holding her so close she could hear the beating of his heart and feel his breath on her cheeks, and she wanted the moment to go on forever, because it felt so right, so safe, so good.

  Rustan released her, his eyes burning into hers. “You can defeat her. I know you can.”

  Kyra smiled reassuringly, not trusting herself to speak.

  Then Rustan was gone too and for the first time in months, Kyra was quite, quite alone.

  Chapter 30

  The Hall of Sikandra

  Kyra stepped out of the Sikandra Hub, which stood half
way up a rocky hill, surrounded by the arid brown of the Uzbek Plains. But it was what brooded on top of the hill that held her gaze and caught her breath: a massive fortress surrounded by an unbroken stone wall.

  She had heard about the fabled Sikandra Fort from the elders of Kali but had never paid much attention, or imagined that anything man-made could be so huge. The gray stone of the crenelated walls glinted in the sun, doing little to hide the two magnificent towers rising within the complex, one on each side. Two huge bronze statues—one of a man, and the other of a woman—crowned the flat roof of each tower. Notches and rectangular gaps punctured the walls that surrounded the fort—to allow for the discharge of weapons, Kyra guessed. Were those battlements older than the war itself? She could remember a history lesson in which Navroz had mentioned that Sikandra Fort was one of the few monuments remaining of the Age of Kings.

  The Age of Kings . . . that was before the war, perhaps even before the Ones arrived in Asiana.

  There it stood in the middle of nowhere, defying time and space. The nearest village was by Lake Azkal, almost a hundred miles away. Yet the fort must have been of great importance in the olden days. The Sikandra Hub, after all, had been built at its feet.

  A stream of people filed out of the Hub ahead of Kyra, men and women talking and laughing as they recognized one another and exchanged news. No one gave her a second glance, cloaked and hooded as she was.

  She climbed up the hill behind the crowd heading for the fort, on a steep and twisty road that snaked between boulders and sheer drops. It was much warmer here than it was in Kashgar, and Kyra was soon sweating under her cloak, wishing she could discard it. Almost everyone else was dressed as if for summer in the Ferghana Valley, in pastel cotton shirts and loose trousers. There was even one group of wild-haired folk who wore nothing but strings of beads and animal skins around their waists.

  The entrance to the fort was through an arched stone gateway, guarded by a watchtower on each side and topped by notched parapets. The air was cool here; the walls were several meters thick. Kyra followed the crowd through the gateway, craning her neck to see the carvings on the distant roof above—warriors on horseback, sword-wielding women, a row of archers. She tried to imagine a time when sentries manned the gate and archers prowled the parapets above, while kings and queens plotted conquests within the secure heart of the fort.