Markswoman Page 29

  Kyra turned her head sideways and locked eyes with Rustan, standing at the front of the circle around them.

  Stay alive, Kyra, he pleaded, and his voice was a hook that snagged her, pulled her back from the door that had begun to open. The pain came back in a red rush and she bit back a scream. No, no, no! Why couldn’t Rustan let her go?

  “It is a pity,” said Tamsyn. “So young and rebellious. I would have spared her life, but a duel demands death.” She gazed with concern into Kyra’s eyes. “Does it hurt, little deer? Do not worry; I will put you out of your misery now.” She reached for the blade that was still buried in Kyra’s flesh.

  Afterward, Kyra would not know what impelled her to it. But as Tamsyn’s fingers closed over the hilt of her katari, the image of a scaly three-headed wolf-monster with an empty-eyed Kali sitting astride it filled Kyra’s mind.

  “Trishindaar,” she whispered, and everything went dark.

  Chapter 32

  Trishindaar

  They stood at the edge of a narrow, bustling street. Kyra blinked and felt a shock of recognition as she took in the grubby shop fronts, sloping roofs, and smoking chimneys. She had been here before. It was the same street she had seen through the first door of the secret Hub. The only difference was that it was late evening now; lamps were lit on the shop fronts, casting their uneven glow on the faces of those hurrying by. Shadows pooled in the corners of the buildings. A dark feline shape slinking along the open drain took one look at them and fled, yowling.

  Tamsyn looked even more stunned than Kyra felt.

  “This is your talent?” she said. “Where have you brought us?”

  Kyra had no idea, but she wasn’t about to tell Tamsyn that. She glanced at the elder. Strange, she had never seen Tamsyn afraid before. She, on the other hand, felt an odd sort of peace, as if she wasn’t bleeding right this minute on the floor of Sikandra Hall.

  Her wound—where was it? Kyra looked down the front of her robe, but it was clean and dry. The place on her belt where her katari usually hung was empty. Tamsyn, she was glad to see, did not seem to have her katari either. Of course she didn’t; it was still buried in Kyra’s flesh—wasn’t it? Yet it must have been Tamsyn’s katari that had brought them here.

  No, it was Kyra who had brought them here, using the word of power Shirin Mam had taught her. Tamsyn’s katari had merely been the conduit for that power.

  Shirin Mam had said that the Markswoman who used this word of power went beyond the reach of time. That meant—what exactly? If only Shirin Mam had been more explicit.

  Kyra stepped away from the wall and began to make her way down the street. Could the people in this place, this time, see her? The cat had certainly seen them, or at least had sensed something amiss. Perhaps people could sense them as well, for they flowed around her, without seeming to notice what they were doing. Kyra was glad of that. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to walk through her.

  Tamsyn followed her. “Where do you think you’re going?” she hissed. “You take us back to Sikandra Fort right now.”

  Kyra did not respond. She kept walking. There was something here, something that held the key to Tamsyn. Why else would her katari have channeled them here?

  A note of panic entered Tamsyn’s voice. “Take us back now, you fool. You don’t know what you’re playing with. Listen to me!”

  “Why, Tamsyn, are you in a hurry to leave?” said Kyra. “I am not. There is much to learn from words of power. Did you not once offer to teach me some yourself? Luckily, I had a far better teacher than you.”

  But Tamsyn was no longer listening to her. She was looking at something beyond Kyra, her breath coming in little gasps, her face stricken in the smoky lamplight.

  Kyra glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing much to see except another street, emptier and darker than the one they had left behind. She sighed. A part of her had thought Shirin Mam would turn up and take care of Tamsyn, but that was probably too much to hope for.

  A man with an ill-kempt beard and long, straggly hair wove drunkenly down the narrow street. It was this man that Tamsyn was watching, Kyra realized. Two children followed close behind him. Kyra felt a jolt of recognition as they came closer. They were the same two children she had met before, the ones she had wanted to help. What had the boy said his name was? Arvil. They were dressed as outlandishly as ever, in overlarge hand-me-downs.

  The man shouted at the children. They shrank from him and clung together, yet they followed his unsteady footsteps.

  Kyra flattened herself against the wall as the pitiful trio passed. Would the children be able to see her this time as well?

  But they had eyes only for the man they followed. As he passed the two Markswomen, Kyra heard Tamsyn take a deep, sobbing breath.

  She scrutinized the elder. Tamsyn’s eyes were closed and she leaned against the wall for support. And all at once Kyra knew. This man, and these children, were the key to Tamsyn.

  Without a word she detached herself from the wall and began to follow the trio down the street. What would she do if Tamsyn did not follow her? Would she be able to find her again in this place?

  But Tamsyn fell into step next to her. Perhaps, having been brought here by Kyra’s word of power, she was tied to her in some way. They walked in silence for a few minutes. Kyra kept her eyes on the two children ahead.

  “This changes nothing, you know,” whispered Tamsyn. “You will still die.”

  The boy tripped over something, the man roared at him, and his sister helped him up.

  “Perhaps,” said Kyra, frowning. She didn’t like this man. She wished there was something she could do for the children.

  Tamsyn glanced at her sideways. “You will die without having fulfilled your vow,” she said. “The last Veer, and none left to avenge your clan. What a pity.”

  A fist of pain closed inside Kyra’s chest. Yes, she was the last Veer. Yes, she was dying in Sikandra Hall without having avenged the brutal killings that had destroyed her world.

  But did it matter? Kai Tau would die one day, if not by her katari, then by another’s.

  Or maybe he would live to a ripe, happy old age and die peacefully in his sleep.

  Still, one day the door of death would open for him, and he would have to face the numberless innocents he had killed. Was that not punishment enough? Against eternity, what were a few years more or less?

  Kyra took a deep breath and the fist of pain dissolved, leaving her lighter. She had wasted so much time in the last fourteen years, hating, remembering, planning her revenge. Now, finally, she could let it go.

  They passed beyond the last few huts, the last flickering lanterns on the street. The ground was unpaved now, the darkness unrelieved but for the sliver of a young moon. From somewhere ahead of them came the gurgle of a river, and the creak of a wooden bridge.

  Tamsyn stopped short, her face working.

  “It can’t be,” she said. “This is not how it was.”

  Kyra heard a short scream and a splash, and she ran ahead, her heart thudding.

  The man knelt at the edge of the dark, swirling water. Moonlight fell on his back and his arms, which seemed to be holding something down under the river’s surface. The two children were nowhere to be seen.

  “You liar, this is not what happened!” Tamsyn’s voice rose in a scream. “He fell in. We tried to save him, but we couldn’t.”

  “That’s you?” said Kyra, stunned. “The little girl he’s drowning is you?”

  Tamsyn did not reply. In the moonlight her face looked half-demented. “We went to an inn,” she said feverishly. “We ate stew and dumplings and rice pudding. We came here to cross the bridge; he’d left the horses tied on the other side. But Arvil bent down to look at something in the river, and fell in. We both jumped in to save him, but only I survived.”

  That was definitely not what was happening. Kyra ran to the bank where the man still crouched, breathing hard.

  “Stop it!” she shouted, but the man
didn’t hear her. In desperation she struck at the man’s neck with a double fist punch.

  It went through him and Kyra almost fell into the river herself. At the last moment she managed to right herself and draw back.

  The man must have felt something, because he grunted and stood up, pressing his hand on his neck and casting his eyes about suspiciously.

  Kyra pushed past him and bent down, scanning the river. It was shallow near the banks. Perhaps she could save the children.

  But there was no sign of them. The river ran dark and fast, utterly uncaring. Behind her, the man muttered under his breath and stumbled away.

  Kyra’s shoulders slumped and she rose. Her eyes caught a movement near the opposite bank, a flash of pale skin. A body perhaps, caught in the tangle of rushes.

  Kyra didn’t stop to think. She ran across the creaky wooden bridge, intent only on reaching the place where she had seen the movement.

  The opposite bank was wild, dense with grass and wet underfoot. Kyra scrambled through it, panting. If she was not physically present here, she should be able to simply float through the undergrowth. Maybe it was a question of mental practice.

  Finally she reached the edge of the water, and caught sight of the body she had seen from the opposite bank. It was the little girl. Kyra crouched down next to her. The girl’s eyes were closed and she lay awkwardly half in and half out of the water.

  But she was alive. Kyra could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in and out.

  She heaved a sigh of relief and straightened up. “Poor girl,” she said, gazing down at the pale, damp face, the sticklike arms, and the thin body.

  Tamsyn’s voice came cold and ragged from behind her. “You pity me? Don’t. Would you like to know how your precious Nineth died?”

  Nineth dead? Kyra felt the breath leave her body.

  Tamsyn smiled, a shadow of her old, cruel self playing on her face. “I thought that would get your attention, little deer. Your beloved friend is no more. I wish I could tell you that she died easily. But she didn’t. Poor Nineth, she looked quite emaciated when last I saw her. She starved to death, you see. It took many days, and gave me much entertainment.”

  Kyra closed her eyes in pain. Her poor, darling Nineth.

  “Who do you think you are, playing with my memories like this?” Tamsyn’s voice took on a note of command. “We will go back to Sikandra Fort now. It is time to die, time to join the rest of your pathetic clan.”

  The river and the night swam out of focus and Kyra had a moment of panic. She was drowning, unable to breathe.

  Stay alive, Kyra.

  She could do this. She could stay where she was, maintain the link with this time, this place. Kyra concentrated hard, shutting out Tamsyn’s taunting voice, seeking once again the stillness at the core of her being.

  The world solidified once more and she breathed, exulting at Tamsyn’s surprised face.

  Tamsyn recovered quickly. “We will have to go back sooner or later. You can’t stay here forever.”

  Kyra gave one last look at the little girl lying on the bank. There was nothing more she could do for her. Time to deal with the adult Tamsyn.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t stay here forever. But I can leave you here.” She began walking back to the bridge.

  Tamsyn thrashed through the undergrowth after her. “Of course you can’t leave me. My katari brought us here, and it will take us both back.”

  “I should leave you here,” said Kyra. “It would be a fitting punishment, to be banished forever into the worst moments of your past. To be forced to see yourself and your brother drown, time and time again.”

  “That is not what happened,” Tamsyn spat. “Our father loved us. He would never have hurt us.”

  They had reached the bridge. Kyra stopped and whirled around. The bridge swayed, groaning in the wind. “Your father tried to kill you both,” she said. “Words of power cannot lie, and you know it.”

  Tamsyn was still as a statue. “You’ve tricked me somehow,” she said finally, her voice wavering. “This is not what happened.”

  Kyra shrugged. She was cold and weary. “You’ve spent your whole life lying to yourself. Stay here and see if you can get the past to reflect your lie.”

  “You can’t go without me,” cried Tamsyn.

  But Kyra, walking on the desolate bridge, suspected that she could. The only question was, should she? Tamsyn was a monster. If Kyra had had any doubts about that, they were quashed when she gloated about starving Nineth to death.

  Nineth. Dead. A sob racked her chest, but she controlled it. Now was not the time to weep. That would come later, if there was a later.

  She heard Tamsyn’s light, running footsteps behind her, swinging the bridge.

  “You’re not going without me.” This time there was a thread of panic in Tamsyn’s voice.

  Kyra smiled. Good. Let her wonder, let her suffer. Had Nineth too been torn between hope and despair, granted a reprieve one minute, and condemned the next?

  “My katari brought us here,” said Tamsyn. “Mine, not yours.”

  “You are in my debt and your katari knows it, even if you don’t,” said Kyra, more sure of herself with every passing minute. “If I wish to return without you, your katari will obey me.”

  Tamsyn’s brow wrinkled. “In your debt?”

  “I saved your life,” said Kyra. “If I hadn’t distracted your father, he would have held you down long enough to kill you. There would have been no Tamsyn Turani, famed Markswoman of Asiana, killer of innocent apprentices.”

  “You saved nothing,” said Tamsyn. “We are in a distorted memory of the past, that is all.”

  “It is no mere memory,” said Kyra. “We are here, Tamsyn. Your father actually sensed me.”

  Tamsyn glared at her, breathing hard, her eyes slits of hatred. Moments passed before she spoke in a flat voice, “Fine, little deer. What do you want in return for taking me back to Sikandra?”

  “Your katari,” said Kyra. “It is mine now. You will leave it buried in my flesh and walk away. You will announce to the hall that you yield the duel, and relinquish your post as the Mahimata of Kali, as well as your right to bear a weapon. You will leave Sikandra Fort and never show your face in Ferghana again.”

  “You’re mad,” hissed Tamsyn.

  “It’s up to you,” said Kyra. “I can leave you here, and you can spend eternity figuring out a way to come back on your own. I will win the duel in any case.”

  “If you live.”

  “There are worse things than dying,” said Kyra. “To be trapped in your past—that is one of them.”

  “To give up your katari—that is another.”

  “Stay if you will,” Kyra told her, calm now. “I don’t care one way or another. If you wish to come back with me, you must do as I have said.”

  “Wait,” said Tamsyn. “If I do as you say, how do I know that you will not kill me?”

  “I’m bleeding to death myself,” Kyra reminded her. “I don’t think I’m in a state to jump up and strike you dead. We’ll have to keep that for later.”

  “Later, yes.” Tamsyn cocked her head, eyes gleaming with malice. “We’re not done yet, little deer.” She bared her teeth and held out one long-fingered hand. “I give you my word. I will yield the duel if you take us back to the Hall of Sikandra.”

  Kyra leaned against the railing of the bridge, feeling exhaustion creep up on her. The wind had died down and the night was still, the stillness before dawn that brings the strangest dreams. It was time to leave. She eyed Tamsyn’s outstretched hand.

  Tamsyn’s face gave away nothing. She could not be trusted, but she had given her word. It was probably the best Kyra could wring from her. In any case, Kyra could not maintain the link to this place indefinitely. She clasped Tamsyn’s hand in her own. It was like trying to hold on to air, but she supposed it was the principle of the thing that counted.

  She bent her mind to the hall they had left behind, t
o that moment when Tamsyn had grasped the hilt of her katari. The river and the night blurred like a damaged painting; superimposed on it now was an image of the Hall of Sikandra. Tamsyn’s hand solidified in her own.

  It was then that Tamsyn chose to strike, in that in-between place where two realities clashed and converged.

  She twisted Kyra around, grabbing her midriff with one arm, and choking her with the other. “Foolish little deer,” she panted. “Did you truly think I would yield to you?”

  Kyra bucked and tried not to panic. No. Not now, not after everything. She could not let Tamsyn defeat her. She gripped the arm around her neck, trying to loosen its deadly hold, and concentrated on recovering her link to Tamsyn’s past. But the night stayed out of focus, and Tamsyn’s hold on her did not weaken. Black spots danced in front of Kyra’s eyes and she gasped for air.

  Do it for Nineth, then, if you can’t do it for yourself. Shirin Mam’s voice, calm, compassionate, and full of love.

  “Nineth,” choked Kyra, and with a last burst of strength pried the arm from her neck. She swung her assailant around and Divided the Wind, breaking both of Tamsyn’s wrists with the sides of her palms. Tamsyn cried out in pain and stumbled back at the precise moment that the bridge solidified around them once more.

  Kyra took an involuntary step toward her, but it was too late. The barrier broke and Tamsyn tumbled into the rushing black water beneath.

  Kyra knelt at the edge of the broken railing and gazed down at the river, panting. But there was no one and nothing to see. Tamsyn was gone. The river had claimed its victim, once and for all.

  She pushed herself away from the edge and collapsed on the wooden slats of the bridge, trying to recover her breath. “Goodbye, Tamsyn,” she whispered. “You will not be mourned.”

  She hurt everywhere. Her throat and palms burned, and from somewhere deep inside, the ghost of a wound inflicted in another world began to pulse.

  Time to go back and face that world, that wound.

  “Trishindaar,” she said, and Tamsyn’s past dissolved. For a moment Kyra fought against the drowning sensation. With an enormous effort of will she closed her eyes and yielded herself to the currents of time.