Markswoman (Asiana #1)(65)
Kyra glared at Shurik. This foolishness had gone further than she had thought possible. It was time to set the boy straight, before things got out of hand. She stood up and dusted her robe. Shurik rose and tried to embrace her again but this time she deflected his arms and stepped away with a warning look.
“You will not try to kiss me again,” she said. “If you do, I’ll hit you. Hard.”
Shurik raised his hands, and a look of innocent protest entered his face. “I’m sorry, Kyra. I didn’t mean to surprise you.” His tone became warmer and he stepped toward her. “Have I told you how beautiful your eyes are? They are the color of—of the desert after rain. I could drown in them.”
Kyra backed away, fighting a sudden impulse to laugh. “Stay away from me,” she said severely, holding up her hand. “And listen well, because I’ll only say this once. I am not running away with you anywhere. I have my duty, even though you seem to have forgotten yours. No more talk of love or pretty eyes. I do not love you, Shurik.” Seeing his crushed expression, she added in a gentler tone, “I like you, though, and I hope we can continue being friends. But only if you give up this foolish love talk.”
“If you like me, you can one day love me,” said Shurik. “Don’t frown. I’m not going to kiss you again. But I’m not going to stand aside and watch you die on Tamsyn’s blade either. I want us to have a chance together. As long as you’re safe and alive somewhere, I can bear us being apart, because I know we’ll meet again. Give it up, Kyra. There must be another way for you to get back to your Order.”
“There is no way other than a duel,” said Kyra, exasperated. She had been over this many times, both with herself and with him. “Tamsyn killed Shirin Mam. She has the elders of Kali in her thrall. The only thing that protected me from her, letting me escape, was Shirin Mam’s katari.”
“Which you still have,” Shurik pointed out, changing tack. “If you must duel Tamsyn, then use Shirin Mam’s blade instead of your own. You will have a far better chance of winning.”
Attractive though this idea was, Kyra had discarded it long ago. “It is not lawful to use any weapon but your own in a duel,” she said. “I will leave Shirin Mam’s katari in Rustan’s safekeeping before going to Sikandra.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Shurik. “Why would you give it to him? The one thing that kept you safe from the Hand of Kali!”
Kyra hesitated. How could she tell him that Shirin Mam herself had asked this of her? “I can’t explain,” she said. “But I know in my heart it’s the right thing to do.”
“The right thing is to protect yourself by any means possible,” said Shurik. His face had gone red and he spoke with effort, as if trying hard to stay calm.
“I’m sorry,” said Kyra. “I cannot use Shirin Mam’s blade. I must face Tamsyn armed only with my own katari.”
“If you will not listen to reason, there’s no point in talking with you,” said Shurik coldly. He walked away before she could say another word.
Was Shurik going to give up on her so easily? Kyra felt a pang at the prospect of him abandoning her. He was the only real friend she had in Khur and she would hate to lose him, especially when there were just a few days left before the journey to Kashgar. It was not a trip she was looking forward to: a week on camelback through the desolate landscape of the Empty Place, with only the dour and disapproving elders of Khur for company, and only the duel with Tamsyn to look forward to at the end of it.
With a sigh, Kyra slowly headed out of the grove, back to her tent. Perhaps she could get an hour of rest before the evening classes, when she usually joined the Marksmen in katari-play or Mental Arts practice.
But as usual, sleep evaded her. She twisted and turned on the rugs in her tent, unable to still the fluttering in her stomach. She touched her lips with her fingers, and recalled how it had felt to be kissed by Shurik. His lips had been soft against hers, his eyes passionate. But her primary emotion had been one of surprise, followed by embarrassment when she noticed Rustan watching them.
Rustan. What would he think of her now? And why, why did she care so much what he thought of her? And then the most traitorous notion of all: What would it be like to be kissed by him? This thought made her feel hot and cold at once, like shivering in a furnace. She got up and splashed her face with water, but it still felt as if she was on fire.
Chapter 23
Escaping the Self
Rustan strode out of the grove. Someone called out to him—was it an elder?—but he did not respond. Distantly, he sensed the fierce glow of the katari against his side.
Shurik, that pie-faced fool. He could have strangled him with his bare hands. As for Kyra, he had thought she had more sense than this. Shurik was hardly more than an apprentice. Perhaps she liked to be told that she had pretty eyes. Perhaps she liked boys mooning after her like brainless calves.
Rustan forced himself to appear expressionless. No one must know what he had seen. But he had to get out of Khur. Now. He was done with the girl and the complications she had brought into his life. If not for her, he would have left weeks ago. But he had stayed; he had obeyed his Maji-khan and taught her what he could. It was out of his hands now.
When he reached Barkav’s tent, he had to wait his turn to meet the Maji-khan. Saninda and Ghasil were inside; he could discern their voices. A full ten minutes passed before the elders left the tent. They greeted him in surprise. He gave them a quick bow before asking Barkav’s permission to enter.