Markswoman (Asiana #1)(11)
“My, my, what turbulent thoughts you have, little deer,” said Tamsyn. “You really need to work on controlling those wayward emotions of yours.”
It was as if Kyra had been turned inside out, with every thought she had ever had on display for all to see; such was the force of Tamsyn’s gaze.
The dark, hypnotic eyes turned away from her and Kyra sagged with relief. Sweat beaded her forehead and her heart thumped.
“Make no mistake—Inner Speech is not a ‘gift,’” Tamsyn told the class. “It is an art to be learned and practiced every day of your life, if you aspire to any degree of skill. The bond you have with your kalishium blade allows you to hear the thoughts of those around you, but to delve into individual minds and exert control requires years of dedication. There are four rules. First, that we use Inner Speech sparingly and in great need. Second, that we never use it against another Markswoman—”
“Or Marksman,” murmured Nineth unthinkingly. She clamped her hand on her mouth with a stricken look on her face, but it was too late.
Tamsyn’s face went red, her lips pressed in a thin line. She glared at Nineth. “Is not one prize for stupidity every year enough for you? Must I inform the Mahimata how utterly undeserving you are to be an apprentice of the Order of Kali? The very word ‘Marksman’ is a blasphemy. The Kanun of Ture-asa says nothing about men being able to bond with kalishium. There are four Orders in Asiana: Kali, Zorya, Valavan, and Mat-su. The fifth is nothing more than a bunch of outlaws. Understand?”
“Yes, Elder,” said Nineth meekly.
“Obviously, it is something you find hard to remember. You will carve it for me on a stone tablet as a penance.”
On stone? Kyra winced. That would take ages. Poor Nineth.
“Where was I before being rudely interrupted?” said Tamsyn. “Yes, the rules of Inner Speech. The third rule is that we must not use it for personal gain. Fourth, that we do not use it to take a life. That is what the kataris are for. When we break the rules, it is called ‘Compulsion’ and—as our cleverest young Markswoman pointed out—punishable by law. One more thing: Inner Speech does not usually work on animals, but it does have some effect on wyr-wolves. This is to our advantage when we hunt the beasts. Questions?”
Predictably, there were none. To ask a question in Tamsyn’s class was an act of optimism bordering on lunacy.
The class came to an end. But before Kyra could escape with Nineth and Elena, Tamsyn called her back and told her to do a hundred sun salutations as “a small penance for being late.”
Kyra glared at the elder’s graceful, retreating figure, not bothering to try to hide how she felt. It was noon; the penance would cause her to miss the start of the midday meal, which was no doubt as Tamsyn had intended. Kyra considered simply ignoring the elder’s command, but the penalty for that was a meeting with the Mahimata and her entire council of elders.
No, it wasn’t worth defying Tamsyn. Kyra fell into the sequence of twelve poses that comprised the sun salutation. If she hurried, she could still reach the kitchen in time to eat something.
Somewhere between her sixtieth and sixty-third asana, a prickly sensation crept up her spine. As if someone was watching her, contemplating stabbing her between the shoulder blades.
She froze, fighting the urge to spin around. She was being foolish—hungry, exhausted, and now imagining things.
After the hundredth asana she stopped, swayed, and toppled to the ground. The grass was spiky and unpleasant to lie upon, but she was beyond caring. It was good to rest. She drew in deep breaths, trying to muster the energy to move. And then it came again, the lingering sensation of being watched, strong enough that she dragged herself to her feet. She brushed the hair from her face and started walking downhill, glancing cautiously around her.
A bone-chilling howl split the air, nearly stopping her heart. Kyra leaped and stared at the dense cover of spruce trees on either side of the hill, blade in hand. Nothing moved. Still she waited, every sense alert. The wind blew soft through the trees and insects chittered in the grass, but beyond that the world was silent. At last she slid her blade back into its scabbard, calming herself.
It could have been an ordinary wolf. Wyr-wolves rarely came down to the valley in the warmer season. But sometimes a goat or a calf or—rarely—a human would go missing, and the telltale tracks of the beasts would be seen, elongated and clawed. Nothing was ever recovered of the victims—not a scrap of clothing or a shard of bone. The Markswomen followed the trail when they could and relied on their instincts when they could not. It was dangerous work; wyr-wolves were twice as big and fast as ordinary wolves and far more deadly, at least during the full moon. No one had ever seen them during the new moon, not even Tamsyn herself. The kiss of a wyr-wolf meant certain death, for in their saliva was enough venom to paralyze a horse.
Kyra had ridden in three hunts last year, a necessary prerequisite to becoming a full Markswoman. The first and second times, the wyr-wolves outran their horses and the Markswomen returned with nothing to show for the night’s work. But the third time, the pack of seven wyr-wolves they were tracking wheeled around to attack their pursuers. Kyra had been shocked at the size, speed, and slathering fury of the fearsome beasts. Ria Farad’s blade had flashed through the darkness, lopping off the head of the snarling pack leader.
Kyra herself had killed one. She had waited, terrified, until the beast was almost upon her and she could smell its fetid breath before thrusting her katari up into its massive chest. The encounter lasted less than three minutes. At the end of it, five wyr-wolves lay dead on the forest floor. Two escaped, much to Ria’s chagrin.