Markswoman (Asiana #1)(80)

After another mock fight—which, predictably, she lost—the Maji-khan began to teach her in earnest. He took her through eight lesser-known styles of katari duel. One by one, the elders left for various meetings after wishing her well. Rustan too was summoned by Ishtul and had to leave, and finally it was just Kyra and Barkav who remained.

The Maji-khan taught with patience and lucidity, even though she knew he had returned from a daylong meeting with the Kushan clan elders and had many more petitions to hear before he could sleep that night. When she finally managed to disarm him—after several tries—he applauded her with delight. She left the stall aglow with a sense of achievement, feeling more confident about facing Tamsyn than she had before, and full of gratitude for the Maji-khan.

They gathered together for the evening meal a little later—all except Shurik. Kyra wondered where he was and what had made him miss dinner. That wasn’t like him at all.

When the meal was over, she lingered at the table, hoping to speak to Rustan alone again. She wanted to know what he thought of her duel with Barkav. But the elders wouldn’t budge from his side. They plied him with questions about what had happened in Herat and how Samant had fared with the Ersanis. Finally she gave up and decided to go up to her room.

Shisqa was as cozy and welcoming as ever. Firelight flickered on the walls, reflecting the glow inside Kyra. She threw herself on the bed and sighed. Today had been wonderful. She wished every day could be like this. If only she could stop time so that nothing moved and nothing lived except her and Rustan. She would wear that green silk for him and they would walk hand in hand through the empty streets of Kashgar, with no one to look at them, no one to point and whisper.

She drifted off to sleep thinking about this, smiling.

*

It was a sound that woke her up—a rustling, as of someone in the room. Her eyes flew open and she was instantly awake. Had she forgotten to bolt the door? The fire had gone out but she sensed movement near the end of her bed. Her hand slipped under the pillow for her blade, but before she could withdraw it from the scabbard, a voice spoke in the dark:

“Leave your katari and come. Do not make a sound.”

The mental bonds fell on her like a heavy net. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound emerged. She tried to will her hands toward her katari, but they refused to obey.

Tamsyn, she thought, her insides congealing in fear. Tamsyn had found her. Kyra would never have a chance to challenge her to a duel now. She would be dead long before then.

“Follow me.”

Kyra’s legs made her stand and move with the dark figure out of the room. She tried to claw her way out of the panic fogging her mind. She had to warn the Marksmen that the Hand of Kali was here. She tried desperately to remember what she knew about Compulsion. Misuse of the Inner Speech. Breaking of the rules. Breaking of the mind.

Tamsyn was the Mistress of Mental Arts, the most powerful Markswoman the Order of Kali had seen in decades. How would Kyra break free from her long enough to call for help, let alone make a run for her katari?

But in the light of the lamps hanging in the gallery outside, Kyra received her second shock. The figure striding in front of her wasn’t Tamsyn.

It was Shurik.

What are you doing, you fool! she wanted to scream. Let me go.

But no words emerged from her mouth. Barkav had mentioned that Shurik was exceptionally gifted in the Mental Arts, but Kyra hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

Heart pounding, Kyra followed Shurik down the wooden staircase to the courtyard below. It had to be the middle of the night, for no one was awake. The courtyard was dotted with groups of people huddled under blankets. Somewhere a horse stamped and neighed.

At the bottom of the stairs, Shurik veered left, heading for the gate. Kyra tried to stop, and once she stumbled and fell, but he hauled her up again. His face was a stranger’s face. Why was he doing this to her?

He led her into a stable near the gate. The light of an oil lamp fell on a young boy holding the reins of a saddled horse. Shurik tossed the boy a coin; he caught it deftly and scampered off into the night. The hope that had flared in Kyra at the sight of another person flickered out.

Shurik pointed at the horse.

“Get on the horse,” he said. “We’re leaving Kashgar.”

Kyra’s mouth worked with the effort of trying to speak against a direct order. “Why?” she whispered, leaning against the wall for support, her body trembling as she fought the command to mount the horse.

Shurik gazed at her out of calm brown eyes. “Because I love you,” he said. “I’ll not stand by and let you go to your death. Did you not tell me yourself to choose the most difficult path of all? This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Leave with me.”

Kyra shuddered as his voice rolled into her skull, obliterating everything else. Oh, how it hurt. She reached for the reins with shaking hands. Her eyes stung as she thought of her katari, buried under the pillow in her room. Would she ever see it again? She would rather die than be parted from it forever.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Shurik whirled around and swore.

A tall, lean figure was silhouetted against the entrance to the stall. Rustan? Kyra tried to turn toward him, but Shurik had gripped her upper arm. His blade was out.

“We’re leaving,” said Shurik. “Don’t try to stop us. Kyra has changed her mind about the duel and I’m helping her escape.”