Markswoman (Asiana #1)(46)

It was a long time before she could calm herself. She walked away from the camp until she could no longer see the flickering lights of the lamps and stoves. The moon had slipped below the horizon and the stars and planets shone with undimmed splendor. Kyra sat on the sand, gazing at the vast, silent space that surrounded her, listening to the slowing beat of her own heart.





Chapter 16

Forms of the Dance




Dawn found Rustan in the grove beyond the camp, practicing breath control as he waited for his pupil to arrive. He had told her to meet him in the grove at first light; the tall shrubs would shelter them from the midday sun as well as from the sharp wind.

He breathed in the frigid air, trying to relax his mind and his body. Little as he liked the task that had been given to him, he would fulfill it to the best of his abilities. He had risen two hours earlier to prepare the forms of bare-handed defense that he planned to teach Kyra today.

Except that she wasn’t here yet.

Rustan pushed aside his irritation and focused on his breath. This time alone in the grove was a gift, and he would use it well. He settled down to meditate.

The sun had slipped into the sky when racing footsteps alerted him to Kyra’s arrival.

He opened his eyes and regarded her as she stood before him, panting. She looked even younger than she had yesterday, with her hair tied back and her slight frame lost in the oversized robe that Shurik had given her. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed that she had slept little.

“You’re late,” he said evenly.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“No matter,” he said. “It is only our first lesson. But it should not happen again. To be late is to be disrespectful. And where there is no respect, there can be no learning.”

The Markswoman did not respond; she merely gazed through him, as if her mind was elsewhere, on more important things.

Rustan rose and said, more harshly than he had intended, “I have no more desire to do this than you. But the Maji-khan has assigned me to teach you, and I intend to do the best I can. What about you—what do you intend?”

Once again, she did not respond, only looked at him bewildered, as if he spoke in a strange language. He noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed. Had she been crying?

Rustan relaxed his tone somewhat. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said. “If you’re afraid . . .”

Kyra thrust her chin out and glared at him. “I am not afraid,” she said through gritted teeth. “I will do what I must.”

“It’s your funeral,” said Rustan, relieved that she had started talking to him, even if it was through gritted teeth. “Personally, I think Tamsyn will take less than a minute to disarm you, which is why it is important to learn bare-handed defense.”

“I am not that easily disarmed,” snapped Kyra.

“No?” said Rustan. “Let us see.”

He raised his palm and uttered a word of power that Barkav had taught him a few months earlier.

Kyra gasped as her katari flew from its scabbard, straight into Rustan’s waiting hand.

She reached for it, pausing just short of snatching it back. “How did you do that?” she asked, scowling. When she saw Rustan was smiling, her scowl deepened. “Do you laugh at my incompetence?”

Rustan stopped smiling at once, sensing her humiliation. “No. I was only able to call your katari to me because it knew I meant no harm, that I was demonstrating a lesson that may prove valuable to its mistress.”

“And the lesson is what?” said Kyra as he handed the katari back to her. “How easily you can kill me?”

“The lesson is, expect the unexpected,” said Rustan. “The Hand of Kali is skilled in all the arts of katari-play. Your only hope is to stay calm no matter what move she makes. Anticipate her when you can—after all, you have known her for years—and when you cannot, be ready with counterattacks of your own. Inner Speech is not allowed in the course of the formal katari duel. This is to your advantage; use it. Focus on the bond you both have with your blades, for that bond will be crucial in the outcome of the duel.”

He stopped. Kyra was no longer listening to him; she was studying her katari, turning it this way and that.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I can still feel your hand on my blade,” she replied. “You shouldn’t have taken it from me like that.”

A wave of frustration broke against Rustan’s core of inner calm.

“Take your stance,” he said.

Kyra looked up, startled. He felt almost sorry for her. He made his move without waiting, using a small outside kick of the Kawamuri style to sweep her off her feet. She lay on the ground, stunned.

“You should have been able to counter that easily,” he said, shaking his head. “But you weren’t paying attention.”

Kyra snarled and leaped to her feet. He certainly had her attention now.

She came at him, as expected, with a classic hip technique of the same Kawamuri style.

So predictable, he thought, and countered her with a reverse hip throw.

This time she was slower to leap at him. At least she switched forms, but he was still able to foresee the Kawashi axe kick before it came close to connecting.

He knocked her down six times before saying in exasperation, “No, no! You are going about it all wrong. You are trying to watch me with your eyes when you should be watching me with your mind. Where is the wisdom of your third eye? Anticipate me, or all the moves of all the schools in Asiana will not keep you on your feet.”