Markswoman (Asiana #1)(61)
“You must have been very hungry, Nineth,” said Tamsyn, “and planning a very large picnic, to need six pies and a whole loaf of walnut bread. You look surprised. Did you think anything would escape my notice? I have eyes and ears everywhere.”
Of course you do, thought Nineth. Baliya and Akassa and Selene, your spying toadies. But she did not reply; it was better not to say anything. Tamsyn was going to punish her—the only question was how.
Tamsyn leaned back and laced her hands behind her head. She said, with a hint of the Inner Speech, “Give me your blade, Nineth.”
It was the one thing Nineth had not expected. She struggled to resist the command, her mind crying in protest. But the katari slid out of her sheath and dropped onto the Mahimata’s desk. She stared at it, bereft, a sob welling up in her throat.
Tamsyn smiled and picked up the blade. Nineth began to shake. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks. In that moment she hated herself. She wished she were strong, strong enough to snatch the blade and stab Tamsyn with it.
“My dear Nineth, do not be distressed,” said Tamsyn. “I have only your best interests at heart. Your katari will be restored to you in due course. First, there is the small matter of penance. Running away, you see, is simply not allowed. The penalty is death. Perhaps you did not know that, having been here only five or six years? No matter. You are fortunate that Baliya prevented you from actually riding away.”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Nineth, her eyes on the deep blue blade in Tamsyn’s hand. So close, and yet so immeasurably far from her.
“Of course you are,” said Tamsyn gently. “You have been disrespectful to your Mahimata and disobeyed the most fundamental rules of the Order. Don’t look anxious. There is a way to remedy your situation. An apprentice can be forgiven anything. You need not share the fate that awaits your friend Kyra. This is what I want you to do as a penance . . .”
Nineth leaned forward and tried to listen, but it was hard, with Tamsyn dangling her blade like that, just out of reach. She did the only thing she could, which was to agree with everything Tamsyn was saying. The full import of it did not hit her until she had left the caves of Kali.
Chapter 21
In the Grove
The two kataris slashed and whirled in a lethal dance of colors. There was no need for guards, not with kalishium blades, and Kyra gave it all she had, trying to close in for the decisive thrust that would end this particular bout. But Rustan evaded her with his usual speed and grace, blocking every stab with a counter of his own. Despite the cold, sweat poured down her face and neck. They had been sparring since dawn and it was now midmorning. Kyra was hungry and thirsty and covered in cuts and bruises—all minor, of course, but they did nothing to help her mood.
Finally she lost her temper and rushed at him with her katari raised for an obvious overhead strike. Rustan blocked her with his own katari, pushed her weapon hand sharply to the right, pivoted, and secured her elbow in an armpit lock, forcing her to bend double and loosen her grip on her weapon. She hung there, gasping for breath, until he released her.
“You lost control there for a minute, but overall you’re improving,” said Rustan, examining his own blade before sheathing it.
Kyra glared at him and mopped the sweat from her eyes with a torn and dusty sleeve. “You’re joking,” she muttered, wiping her palms on robes that were much the worse for wear after almost a month in the desert. “I have only been able to disarm you a few times.”
“Yes,” said Rustan. “But you make it more difficult for me all the time. If only you would anticipate me instead of reacting to me.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white against his tan face.
Kyra threw up her hands in frustration. What did he think she was—a mind reader? “You keep saying that! But I cannot anticipate you. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you think or feel or dream. There is some small chance I could predict Tamsyn, but you—you are a stranger to me, even after all this time we have spent together.”
A curious lump came in her throat. She swallowed hard and bent down as if to dust her robes so that he would not see her expression. When she straightened up, she was composed once more. But Rustan was frowning.
“I wish I could say the same about you,” he said, his voice cool and hard. “After all, one does not care overmuch if a stranger lives or dies. But I do care about you. I care very much.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Kyra, her face heating up.
“What did you mean, Kyra Veer? What is it you wish to know about me?” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her out of his deep blue eyes. Eyes you could fall into, if you weren’t careful.
“I don’t even know your clan,” said Kyra after a moment, wishing fervently she had just kept her silence to begin with.
“Neither do I,” said Rustan. “But I was adopted by the clan of Pusht. Barkav brought me here fourteen years ago, when I had seen but seven summers.”
“Was it . . .” Kyra hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Was it hard for you? Leaving your adopted family and coming here?”
“Not as hard as it must have been for you,” said Rustan, and his face softened in sympathy. “Barkav told me a little of what happened to the clan of Veer.”
Here it was, the perfect moment to probe Rustan about Kai Tau. Kyra doubted he would be able to answer her questions; he would have been an infant when Kai turned renegade. But she had to try. “Do you know anything of Kai Tau?” she asked. “He’s the one who killed my family. Astinsai told me he was once a Marksman.” And there is a small chance he might be my father, she did not say—did not even want to think.