Markswoman (Asiana #1)(25)
“What forwardness?” whispered Akassa.
“As recompense,” Hattur continued, “I would like to offer you all free entry to the tent of Marvels and Magick.”
“No thank you,” began Kyra in an indignant voice, but Nineth scrambled up, looking excited.
“Nineth!” said Akassa. “Have you gone mad? Come back here right now.”
Although this was exactly what Kyra herself had been about to say, she said instead, “Go on, Nineth. Just be back in time for the rite of flowers. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”
Nineth threw her a grateful look and beamed at the young man. He offered her his arm and they disappeared into the darkness of the trees.
For a moment the remaining three were speechless, struck by the magnitude of what had happened.
Akassa said, her voice tight with ill-concealed triumph, “You wait until I report you to the elders. You’re supposed to be a Markswoman? You don’t have the sense of an apprentice. They should demote you back to being a novice.”
“Yes, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” said Kyra, although she was already regretting her rashness in letting Nineth go off with a strange man. “But it won’t happen. You just can’t accept that you don’t have what it takes, not now, perhaps not ever.” The words were harsher than she had intended, but a sudden anxiety, a feeling of not-rightness, made her speak without thinking.
Akassa leaped up, her face distorted. “You’re so proud of yourself,” she hissed. “But it’s only because you’re the Mahimata’s favorite that she even let you go for your first mark. I bet she doesn’t let you go after the Taus ever again.”
The words hit home and Kyra also sprang up, snarling. Elena tried to hold her back, but she shook off her friend’s hand and advanced on Akassa.
Akassa laughed, a high, brittle sound. A blue glow in the darkness betrayed the presence of the katari in her hand. “Let’s see whose blade is sharper, Markswoman.” She invested the last word with such venom that it sounded like a curse.
“Kyra, don’t.” Elena’s voice was small and frightened. Kyra ignored it. She focused on Akassa, the blade in her hand, and the stance of her crouching body, outlined against the trees on the other side of the rivulet. Akassa’s back was to the dark, rippling water; this was to Kyra’s advantage.
Never draw your kataris on each other. It was the first thing apprentices were taught. The penalty, for a full Markswoman, was permanent exile from the Order. An apprentice, of course, could still be forgiven.
“I give you one chance to sheathe your blade, apprentice,” said Kyra, “and express your remorse.”
“Why, little deer, are you afraid?” taunted Akassa.
It was the use of the derisory little deer, which no one but Tamsyn ever called her, that goaded Kyra to action. She did not draw her blade; to do so would have been to fall into the trap that Akassa had sprung, and she wasn’t that foolish.
Your blade is but an extension of yourself, Chintil had told them. Your hands are but an extension of your blade. Armed or unarmed, it is all the same.
Kyra crossed her palms in front of her face and slipped into the dance of Empty Hands—the art of bare-handed defense—without pausing to think.
Akassa blinked in surprise and stepped back, whether from the silence and swiftness of the attack or because her opponent had not drawn her katari, Kyra did not know and did not care. The moment’s advantage was enough; she swung around with a side kick that caught Akassa on the chest, and the girl gasped and stumbled back farther. A little more, thought Kyra.
Akassa’s blade flashed in the darkness, a streak of deadly blue light that took every ounce of Kyra’s skill to deflect. Akassa did not mean to kill her, or she would already be dead. But the blade grazed the side of her face, and she cried out with pain and anger.
Akassa laughed. In the blue light of her blade she looked quite demented. “How did you like that, little deer?” she sneered.
Without bothering to reply, Kyra closed the gap between them and Divided the Wind, a risky maneuver that opened you up to attack, but could break the arms or hands of a foe. She swept up her forearms to knock Akassa’s hands aside, and then brought the sides of her palms down hard on both of the other girl’s wrists. Akassa cried out with pain and dropped her blade. Kyra seized hold of Akassa’s neck, spun her around, and hurled her into the cold black waters of the rivulet. Elena gave a small shriek, then covered her mouth with her hands.
Akassa emerged a few moments later, gasping and sputtering, hair clinging to her face. In the moonlight, it looked as if a rather bedraggled river nymph was rising from the swirling water.
“I hope you haven’t mislaid your katari,” said Kyra, hardening her heart against the girl. “I can’t even imagine the penalty for losing it.”
A look of fear crossed Akassa’s face and she dove back under the black surface. She was gone for two whole minutes. When she came up for air, her hands were still empty, and her expression had gone from merely fearful to wild with panic.
Elena came to stand beside Kyra at the bank. “When are you going to tell her that you have her katari in your hand?” she whispered.
“Oh, maybe an hour or four from now?” Kyra laughed at her expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her when she next comes up for air. I don’t want the entire village watching an apprentice of Kali make a fool of herself.” She examined the slender blue blade in her hand. She was uncomfortable holding it. She did not like Akassa and the weapon was hers; an alien hostility emanated from it.