Markswoman (Asiana #1)(38)

Rustan’s head ached. He leaned his head against the cool rock and closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw once again the face of his mark, tears running down his cheeks. He heard once again the man’s pleas for a retrial, his protests of innocence.

He pressed his katari to his forehead and groaned. Shurik was right; he wanted to leave Khur, at least for a while. Would Barkav agree to it?

Movement caught his eye and he scrambled up in time to see the Akal-shin door swing open. A girl staggered out, her dusky face half-hidden by the wild disarray of her dark hair. In her right hand, she clutched a silvery green kalishium blade. Rustan sprang forward, heart pumping adrenaline, his own katari flashing blue fire. As the door swung closed, he caught a glimpse of a corridor curving ghostlike into the darkness.

The surprise visitor knelt on the hard ground and sobbed, her shoulders shaking.

The girl—the Markswoman, Rustan corrected himself—smelled of terror. She had not noticed him yet. Rustan found his voice. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The reaction was remarkable. She stopped sobbing and leaped up with a snarl, all trace of helplessness gone. Before Rustan had time to blink, she had pinned him to the rock wall, her blade at his throat, his knife hand paralyzed by an advanced zenshao-lock behind his back. His katari clattered to the ground, and he felt a sharp pang of separation.

The Markswoman spoke, her voice ragged. “When is this?”

When. Not where. Was she mad? At least she hadn’t tried to actually stab him. Yet.

“You could have asked nicely,” said Rustan. He brought up his left arm fast, knocking away her weapon and gripping her wrist, twisting back the elbow. It must have hurt but she did not utter a sound, and she did not lose the zenshao grip on his other arm. At least, not until he flipped his wrist and she tumbled to the ground.

Rustan bent to retrieve his katari, but quick as a snake she lashed out with her right leg. The kick would have broken his neck if he hadn’t ducked in time. He grabbed her leg, hooking and twisting it until she was on her stomach, face on the ground. With his other hand, he reached for his katari and pressed it against her neck.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” said Rustan, breathing hard. “Who are you? No, don’t move. My blade sits right above your throat.”

“My name is Kyra.” The Markswoman’s voice was muffled. “Let me up.”

“Your clan and Order, and the reason for your presence here.” Rustan pressed the hilt of his blade a little harder against her neck.

“Let me go! Is this how you treat visitors?”

Rustan snorted. “Visitors don’t attack their hosts.”

There was a pause. She spoke as if the words were being dragged out from her. “I . . . I’m sorry. I was surprised.”

Rustan bent over her, considering. “Fine. But you will not touch your weapon without my permission.” He released her and stood, backing away.

The Markswoman sat up, massaging her leg. Her face was expressionless but her dark eyes blazed with fury. He offered her his hand but she ignored it, rising to her feet with dignity, for all her dirty robes and smudged cheeks. She looked young, and she came barely to his shoulder, but she had a fighter’s stance and a determined chin.

She pushed the hair out of her face, revealing a diamond-shaped scar on her forehead. The mark of Kali. Rustan felt the winds of fate blow around him, and he understood why Astinsai had chosen him to watch the Akal-shin door.

He tapped the rock wall with the hilt of his blade. “Your clan and Order, and the reason for your presence here,” he repeated.

“I am Kyra,” said the Markswoman, “of the clan of Veer, may its name endure, and the Order of Kali, the Goddess be praised. As to why I am here, I don’t know, save that this was the only door that behaved like a door. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

She wasn’t making any sense. Rustan could see that she was itching to pick up her katari. He hesitated, but it was unlikely she was going to attack him again. “Go ahead, take it,” he said at last.

The Markswoman snatched her katari and sheathed it, her relief palpable. Her gaze went to the jagged peaks of Akal-shin. “What is this place?” she asked. “When is this?”

There was that when again. “This is the third day of the dark half of the seventh lunar month in the year 853 of the Kanun, and you are in the Empty Place,” said Rustan.

Her eyes widened. “Two months,” she muttered to herself. “I lost two months.”

Rustan glanced at the door. “What do you mean, you lost two months?”

Her face took on a haunted look. “It was the fifth lunar month when I left the Ferghana Valley. And yet, I wasn’t in the Hub for more than an hour.”

What? How was it possible to lose time in a Hub? Rustan had never heard of such a thing happening before. Doors were meant to be shortcuts through space. He suppressed his unease. “You had better come with me,” he said. “Perhaps our Maji-khan and his council of elders will know what to do with you.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll come with you.”

As they started to walk away from Akal-shin, she muttered, almost to herself, “I don’t know if I can use this Hub again. And what is there for me to go back to but death by Tamsyn’s blade?”

“Tamsyn?” said Rustan, curious. “The Hand of Kali? I don’t know much about your Order, but surely you have no reason to fear one of your own elders? And surely Shirin Mam, your Mahimata, can protect you from anyone?”