Markswoman (Asiana #1)(85)
Rustan dropped the blade in shock. Shirin Mam’s quiet voice, heard after so many years, sounded exactly the same. Except that it wasn’t a voice, not exactly. More like hearing someone’s thought, clear and low.
Rustan picked up the blade again, but although he concentrated for several minutes, he heard nothing more.
Saninda’s voice, sharp and demanding outside his door, snapped him back to the present. Rustan sheathed Shirin Mam’s katari, slung the knapsack on his shoulders, and hurried to join the others downstairs.
*
The Hub of Kashgar was below a ruined temple in the heart of the old town. It was hard to say whether the temple had been built because of the gleaming corridors of Transport underneath, or in spite of them. Those who had laid the foundations of the temple were long dead, their skeletal remains hidden in stone chests in the burial chamber beneath the main hall. People stayed away from the temple now; it was rumored to be haunted.
Kyra, following Barkav and Saninda down the uneven, rock-hewn steps to the burial chamber, could believe that it was so. The air was dank and musty; there was no light, save the glow of their kataris.
“Why didn’t we bring a torch?” she muttered to herself.
“A local superstition,” said Rustan from behind her. “They do not wish to wake the dead.”
Kyra almost stumbled, but Rustan steadied her with his arm, his touch warm against her skin. Her breath caught. She hadn’t realized how close behind he was.
“Watch your feet now,” said Barkav. “The last step is broken.”
Kyra shook off Rustan’s arm and felt her way to the bottom. They reached the end of the stairs and stood, as far as she could make out, in an unadorned chamber lined with stone chests that were covered with inscriptions. Knowing what they contained, she avoided looking at them. Her gaze went instead to the door on the far side of the room.
“The Hub of Kashgar,” said Saninda. “Shall I?” The elder strode to the door and inserted his katari in the slot. A moment later the slot glowed blue and the door swung open.
Kyra’s heart accelerated. She wouldn’t survive another Transport experience like the last one. It would break her mind if she saw things and lost time again. She began to hyperventilate, her breath coming in short gasps, the dark abyss yawning before her.
“It’s all right, Kyra,” said Rustan softly in her ear. “This is the Hub of Kashgar. We use it all the time. No reports of anyone getting lost. And we’re all with you.”
Kyra forced her breathing to slow, but it didn’t help that Rustan was standing so close to her they were practically touching. “I’m perfectly all right,” she said, her voice uneven, and marched toward the open door. Behind her, Rustan followed.
Barkav and Saninda had disappeared into the darkness of the corridor ahead. Ghasil and Ishtul must already be at Sikandra Fort, having Transported an hour ago with the Kushan and Turguz clan elders.
The door swung shut behind them, and Kyra was once more in the strange yet familiar landscape of Transport: a dark, winding corridor, lit only by the slots on the doors and the glowing kataris of the Marksmen.
“It’s the fifth door on the right,” came the Maji-khan’s voice. “Go on, Saninda, you know the code.”
This corridor had doors on both sides. It was a vast, complex Hub that possibly connected Kashgar with every corner of Asiana. Except, of course, that many of the doors were unusable, having shifted over time.
But Felda had discovered that special sets of primes could unlock any door in any Hub. Kyra’s stomach clenched as she thought of the vast possibilities of this, as if she teetered at the edge of some great insight. It was too much to grasp, too much power for anyone to have. Was this why the old war had been fought? She fingered the fraying parchment with the secret codes in her pocket. She would have to keep it safely hidden.
The Transport Chamber opened and its light—brilliant after the dimness of the corridor—beckoned them in.
Kyra followed the others into the circular room, taking one of the seats melded to the floor. It moved beneath her, as she had known it would, adjusting to her weight and shape. She shuddered.
Barkav and Saninda talked about the meeting, but Rustan was quiet, watching her. The room began to spin and Kyra schooled herself to stay calm.
Barkav stopped talking and glanced at her. “Once we arrive at Sikandra, you’re on your own.”
“Yes, Father.” It made sense. The Order of Khur could not afford to take sides until the duel had been fought and the outcome decided.
“The use of Mental Arts is not permitted in the Hall of Sikandra, where clans and Orders meet as equals,” said Barkav. “This is to your advantage. Stay hidden until you declare yourself to the assembly. We will pray for your success.”
The chamber stopped spinning, the door swung open, and the Marksmen stood up. To Kyra’s surprise, Barkav leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. “May you live long and die well,” he murmured. He left the chamber without a backward glance.
Saninda put his bony hand on her head, his touch featherlight. “Live long and die well,” he repeated gruffly, before following Barkav out of the chamber.
And then she was alone with Rustan and he was holding her so close she could hear the beating of his heart and feel his breath on her cheeks, and she wanted the moment to go on forever, because it felt so right, so safe, so good.