Markswoman (Asiana #1)(74)
Aram glowered and the elders bristled. Even Shurik frowned at her. Kyra squirmed and wished that she had held her tongue.
But Barkav only said, “Not everything that is passed on is to be taken literally. We believe the essence of it, as do the Zoryans, which is why we follow the injunction Zibalik laid on us to never raise our blades against wyr-wolves.”
Kyra frowned. Easy for them to say, living as they did in the Empty Place. Try telling a herder in the Ferghana who had lost his finest calves that wyr-wolves were not to be harmed.
But there was something else Aram had said that she didn’t understand. “That doesn’t explain why Zibalik named them wyr-wolves, though,” she said.
Shurik spoke fast, before anyone else could: “‘Wyr’ means ‘man’ in the ancient tongue. By giving the wolves this name, Zibalik recognized them as equal parts wolf and human.”
Barkav gave a slight smile of approval. Ghasil snorted and muttered, “Show-off.”
Kyra hid a grin at Shurik’s expression and didn’t ask further questions when the topic changed to the Zoryan style of fighting. Although she was curious to know more about Zibalik, she suspected that she would hear more malarkey about how wonderful the wyr-wolves were. The men of Khur were a credulous lot, to believe such a tall tale.
The dune provided some shelter from the wind, and the camels surrounded them in what Kyra found was a comforting circle, almost as if they were protecting the humans. With the two stoves lit in the middle, one could almost ignore the cold, dark night. After they had eaten, talk petered out. They sat in silence until Barkav announced that they had six hours before dawn and they had better use them to get some sleep. Aram damped down the stoves; the loss of the little light and warmth was almost painful.
Kyra wrapped herself in all her blankets and, after a moment’s hesitation, rested against her camel as the others were doing. She looked up at the twinkling stars and the crescent moon; it was higher in the sky now, and paler. The night sky was crystal clear; she could see the milky river of light arcing across it that Felda had once explained was the light from stars that could not be individually distinguished.
What had Astinsai said? There is always a price to pay for beauty. Or for love. Kyra shivered and closed her eyes.
Of course, sleep was no easier to come by here than it had been in her tent. She wriggled, trying to find a more comfortable spot against the camel’s hard, furry flank. Her thoughts turned to Rustan, as they did every night. Where was he now? Was he safe? Did he think of her at all? Why had he left without even saying goodbye?
She knew he had merely done what he had been ordered to do, and gone on to another mission. He was a Marksman, after all. And she was a Markswoman. Feelings played no part in that truth.
It was a long time before Kyra could sleep, and she could not keep Rustan’s face out of her mind. After a while she stopped trying, and let her thoughts wander where they would. What did it matter? She would not see him again. But she could think of him. She could remember what he had taught her. She could remember the way his eyes pierced her when he was trying to make her understand something. Or the rare smiles when she managed to surprise him: a move he did not expect, a punch that he didn’t see coming.
And she could imagine. She imagined what it would be like to see him again. She would be cool and polite with him, of course. He would ask her if she wanted some practice sparring, and she would agree. She would send him sprawling facedown in the sand, as he had done many times to her. There would be sand in his mouth and hair and he would look at her in surprise and respect. That duel is as good as won, he would tell her. She would laugh lightly, and he would smile that smile of his that made him look not much older than one of the apprentices. He would grasp her hand in his and say that he had missed her. He would bend toward her, and press his lips to hers . . .
One of the elders coughed and Kyra jerked out of her little dream with a start. Hurriedly she began to count her breaths: breathe in, hold it, hold it, breathe out. It would never do to allow the elders the slightest glimpse into her mind. She breathed and counted until she had calmed enough to try to sleep.
*
It was on the afternoon of the fifth day that the sandstorm hit. It had been deathly still since morning. Barkav kept scanning the horizon every few minutes, his brow furrowed.
They had been on the move since dawn and Kyra’s limbs were stiff, her throat parched. Sand and wind, sun and sky—she felt as if she had never known anything else. When Barkav called for a halt in the shelter of a cliff, she almost fell off in her eagerness to dismount. Two more days and she could get off this camel, guzzle as much water as she wanted, and have a bath.
Kyra was doing a stretching exercise to loosen her limbs when she heard the cry go up behind her:
“Calima! Calima comes.”
She straightened up, and her heart sank. Over to the south, perhaps thirty or forty miles away, sky and sand had merged into a solid, terrifying wall of red-brown dust. Even as she watched, it grew larger, billowing toward them with uncanny speed.
“We have fifteen or twenty minutes at most,” said Saninda. “Do we run or do we hunker down?”
Barkav moved his lips; he seemed to be calculating the odds. “We hunker down. We can’t outrun that and this is the only shelter we’ve seen for miles.”
Even Shurik’s face was grim. He worked with Aram, tethering the camels to the large rocks jutting out of the sand on the leeward side of the cliff. Kyra helped Saninda and Ghasil secure their food and waterskins rapidly, wrapping them in layers of canvas and tying the bulky bundles with ropes to the rocks at the base of the cliff.