Markswoman (Asiana #1)(81)

“Is that so?”

Rustan closed the gap between them. Shurik’s grip on her arm tightened. The horse whinnied nervously.

“I thought I heard you use the Inner Speech,” said Rustan.

“Oh?” Shurik paused before answering. “I had to make sure that groom didn’t go about telling tales of us come daybreak.”

“Strange,” said Rustan. “The boy who came running out of here was so eager to describe your long and tender embrace that I could almost believe the opposite.”

Some of the fog lifted from Kyra’s brain. Shurik must be losing his concentration. She struggled to free herself, holding on to the image of her blade.

“You’re jealous,” said Shurik, his voice scornful. “I know how you feel about her, even if no one else does. I’m honest enough to admit my feelings, but you—you’re a coward and a hypocrite. Now get out of our way.”

It was too much to be borne. Kyra’s anger finally broke the last of the bonds Shurik had laid on her, and she twisted her arm free of his grip. “How dare you!” She was barely able to get the words out. Her throat felt parched, like it had after the sandstorm. “How dare you compel me like this!”

Shurik stepped away from her and raised his hands. “Compel? My sweet, you came to me of your own free will, remember? Begging for a way out of here. Don’t lose your courage now because of Rustan. He cannot stop you. He will not even tell the elders if we ask him not to.”

Kyra’s head swam. Shurik’s voice was subtly laced with the Inner Speech. Could Rustan not sense it? She looked across the stable to where Rustan stood, his eyes troubled as they rested on her.

“Help me,” she begged.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” said Shurik. “Get on the horse. We must leave before daybreak.”

“Wait,” said Rustan. “Where is your katari, Kyra?”

“In my room,” she said, and it was hard to admit, even though it should have been a relief to have someone else know she had been forcibly separated from her katari.

Rustan looked at Shurik, anger darkening his face. “As if she would leave without her blade. What the sands were you thinking, you idiot? You’ve broken one of our most fundamental rules. You must have known you wouldn’t be able to keep her under Compulsion for long.”

“Long enough,” said Shurik, his voice brittle. “A couple of days was all I needed. A couple of days and she would have been mine—if not for your interference.”

Without warning he raised his hand and a silver blue streak flew straight at Rustan. Kyra cried out in horror and threw herself toward him. But Rustan moved faster than she did, almost out of reach of the blade. Almost. It grazed his shoulder and he slid down the wall, breathing hard.

Kyra was in front of him in a second, a cold pit opening up in her stomach. Reaching out, she gently touched his arm. “You’re bleeding. Let me fetch the Maji-khan.”

She straightened up but Rustan said, “No. It’s only a minor wound. Please don’t call Barkav. You can bind it up for me.”

With what? Kyra looked around for some cloth. Her eyes fell on Shurik, who was staring at Rustan with an expression of shock, his hand still raised.

“Give me your headcloth,” she snapped at him. She had to repeat herself before Shurik seemed to hear her. He unwrapped the red and brown square of cotton from his head with hands that shook slightly, and gave it to her without a word. She deftly tore it into strips and knelt before Rustan.

Rustan looked up at Shurik. “You would have killed me?” He swallowed hard.

Shurik hung his head. He looked young and scared and lost—no longer the stranger who had compelled Kyra. As if, in that one terrible act of throwing his blade, he had remembered who he was—or at least who he was supposed to be.

“Talk to me,” said Rustan, a note of command entering his voice. “Tell me you understand what you just tried to do.”

“I . . . I’m sorry,” said Shurik, raising his head, anguished. “I . . . I do understand and it’s unforgivable. I don’t know what came over me. But she’s going to die now. I thought I could save her.”

“We all die,” said Rustan. “The most we can hope for is that the time and manner of our death are of our choosing. Kyra has chosen to challenge the mightiest Markswoman in Asiana, and it might be that she will die for it. How long could you have kept her safe? How long before you broke her mind, or she escaped, full of hatred for you?”

They were talking about her as if she wasn’t even there. Kyra glared at Rustan, but he had eyes only for Shurik. “I know you’re thinking of running away right now,” he said. “But don’t do that. Please. Go to the Maji-khan and plead for clemency.”

Kyra finished binding the gash in Rustan’s shoulder, jerking his arm a bit harder than necessary as she tied it off. Thankfully, it was not too deep. Then she stood up, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to still the cold fury racing through her.

“How will the elders punish me?” asked Shurik. “Will they exile me? Take away my katari?”

“I don’t know,” said Rustan. “The katari belongs to you. But you need to make sure that your emotions don’t rule your blade. You must take it to the Maji-khan and let him decide.” He picked up the katari from the floor and held it out to Shurik, who eyed it as he might a spitting cobra.