Markswoman (Asiana #1)(84)

She hardly knew him. He should mean less to her than Nineth or Elena did, less than the memory of those she had loved and lost. Why did thoughts of him consume her waking moments? She longed to be alone with him again; at the same time the force of her feelings frightened her. Such feelings were surely a sign of weakness in a Markswoman. Would they be what broke her during the duel with Tamsyn?

A Markswoman belonged to no one but her Order. She could not allow personal desires to get in her way. This was what Shirin Mam had said, and certainly what the Maji-khan believed too.

Kyra quaked inwardly at the thought of what Barkav would say if he knew of the kiss. First Shurik and now Rustan. He would forbid the Order of Khur from having anything to do with her, ever again. As it was, Kyra had gleaned from talk among the elders that Barkav had been furious with Shurik. He had questioned both Shurik and Rustan closely, and sent Shurik back to the camp of Khur. Shurik had gone at once. Apparently, he would have to relinquish his blade to Astinsai until the Maji-khan returned and decided what to do with him. Kyra had waited on tenterhooks to be summoned to the Maji-khan herself, but he had not asked for her. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or anxious about that.

Kyra reached the door of the last room but one and drew a deep breath. Watch yourself now, she thought. She raised a hand, but the door flew open before she could knock on it.

Rustan looked disheveled, as if he had woken up a short while ago. Behind him, she could see robes and underclothes strewn about his chamber. A knapsack lay open on his bed. She had caught him in the middle of packing. It was too intimate somehow, and she could feel her face flush as she began to say that she would come back later, but Rustan gently pulled her inside and told her to sit down.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning visit?” He spoke lightly, but she could tell that he was not quite at ease.

She smiled, trying to appear as cool and polite as him. “It’s not that early, you know,” she said. “It will soon be time for the morning meal. In an hour we leave for Sikandra.”

“Oh, really? I’d better hurry up.” He began to throw his things higgledy-piggledy into the knapsack.

That puzzled her. “Are you leaving too?” she said. “I thought you were going to stay here until the elders returned from Sikandra.”

“I’m going with you.” Rustan closed the straps of his knapsack and straightened up.

“But . . . but why?”

“Surely you can guess?” said Rustan. “I taught you what I know of dueling. I don’t know if it was enough, but it is my duty to see you through this. The Maji-khan agreed.”

“Oh.” Kyra wasn’t sure what she had wanted him to say, but his answer was a bit deflating in its practicality. He was accompanying her out of a sense of duty. What had she hoped for, declarations of undying love? Neither of them had any use for those. Just as the silence between them turned awkward, she remembered why she was there and held Shirin Mam’s scabbard out to him. “I give this to you for safekeeping.”

Rustan accepted it without a word, tying it to the belt around his waist.

Kyra felt a sense of anticlimax. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I gave that to you?” she said, a touch acerbically.

Rustan looked surprised. “Who else is there? I suppose you could have given it to the Maji-khan, but he would probably have passed it along to me anyway. I’ll take excellent care of it, don’t worry.”

Kyra frowned. “I gave that to you because Shirin Mam told me to,” she said, and was gratified to see the look of shock on Rustan’s face.

“What do you mean? When did she tell you?” he demanded.

“Some weeks ago. In a—I guess it was a dream.” To Kyra’s dismay, tears sprang to her eyes. She got up and turned away before he could see them. “I’d better go finish my packing,” she choked out.

She slipped out, relieved that he did not stop her. She went back to the room that wasn’t hers anymore, and gave in to a fit of silent weeping. Giving up the katari was like losing Shirin Mam all over again. But when she had cried herself out, it was as if an unseen weight had lifted from her shoulders. She took out her own silvery green blade and kissed it.

“It’s just you and me now,” she said.

Her katari sparkled in response.

*

Rustan held himself rigid until he was sure that Kyra was out of earshot. Then he pounded his fist against the wall, growling in frustration, until his knuckles were bruised and the pain brought him back to his senses. He pushed away from the wall and swore under his breath. By all the gods of Asiana, that had been close. Standing so near Kyra, in this confined space—it had taken iron self-control to not reach for her, to not kiss her the way he had in her room, to talk to her as a friend . . . as more than a friend. He knew she was upset. But if she had known how close he had come to touching her . . .

He slumped on the bed and held his head in his hands, focusing on his breath. It was all right. The danger was past. He had restrained himself.

When his breath had evened out, he withdrew Shirin Mam’s katari from its sheath. He gently touched the translucent blade, wondering if anything would happen.

As he had expected, nothing did.

Rustan frowned, twirling the blade in his hands. Why had Shirin Mam wanted him to have her katari?

You will have need of me before you are done.