Markswoman (Asiana #1)(93)

Kyra turned her head sideways and locked eyes with Rustan, standing at the front of the circle around them.

Stay alive, Kyra, he pleaded, and his voice was a hook that snagged her, pulled her back from the door that had begun to open. The pain came back in a red rush and she bit back a scream. No, no, no! Why couldn’t Rustan let her go?

“It is a pity,” said Tamsyn. “So young and rebellious. I would have spared her life, but a duel demands death.” She gazed with concern into Kyra’s eyes. “Does it hurt, little deer? Do not worry; I will put you out of your misery now.” She reached for the blade that was still buried in Kyra’s flesh.

Afterward, Kyra would not know what impelled her to it. But as Tamsyn’s fingers closed over the hilt of her katari, the image of a scaly three-headed wolf-monster with an empty-eyed Kali sitting astride it filled Kyra’s mind.

“Trishindaar,” she whispered, and everything went dark.





Chapter 32

Trishindaar




They stood at the edge of a narrow, bustling street. Kyra blinked and felt a shock of recognition as she took in the grubby shop fronts, sloping roofs, and smoking chimneys. She had been here before. It was the same street she had seen through the first door of the secret Hub. The only difference was that it was late evening now; lamps were lit on the shop fronts, casting their uneven glow on the faces of those hurrying by. Shadows pooled in the corners of the buildings. A dark feline shape slinking along the open drain took one look at them and fled, yowling.

Tamsyn looked even more stunned than Kyra felt.

“This is your talent?” she said. “Where have you brought us?”

Kyra had no idea, but she wasn’t about to tell Tamsyn that. She glanced at the elder. Strange, she had never seen Tamsyn afraid before. She, on the other hand, felt an odd sort of peace, as if she wasn’t bleeding right this minute on the floor of Sikandra Hall.

Her wound—where was it? Kyra looked down the front of her robe, but it was clean and dry. The place on her belt where her katari usually hung was empty. Tamsyn, she was glad to see, did not seem to have her katari either. Of course she didn’t; it was still buried in Kyra’s flesh—wasn’t it? Yet it must have been Tamsyn’s katari that had brought them here.

No, it was Kyra who had brought them here, using the word of power Shirin Mam had taught her. Tamsyn’s katari had merely been the conduit for that power.

Shirin Mam had said that the Markswoman who used this word of power went beyond the reach of time. That meant—what exactly? If only Shirin Mam had been more explicit.

Kyra stepped away from the wall and began to make her way down the street. Could the people in this place, this time, see her? The cat had certainly seen them, or at least had sensed something amiss. Perhaps people could sense them as well, for they flowed around her, without seeming to notice what they were doing. Kyra was glad of that. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to walk through her.

Tamsyn followed her. “Where do you think you’re going?” she hissed. “You take us back to Sikandra Fort right now.”

Kyra did not respond. She kept walking. There was something here, something that held the key to Tamsyn. Why else would her katari have channeled them here?

A note of panic entered Tamsyn’s voice. “Take us back now, you fool. You don’t know what you’re playing with. Listen to me!”

“Why, Tamsyn, are you in a hurry to leave?” said Kyra. “I am not. There is much to learn from words of power. Did you not once offer to teach me some yourself? Luckily, I had a far better teacher than you.”

But Tamsyn was no longer listening to her. She was looking at something beyond Kyra, her breath coming in little gasps, her face stricken in the smoky lamplight.

Kyra glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing much to see except another street, emptier and darker than the one they had left behind. She sighed. A part of her had thought Shirin Mam would turn up and take care of Tamsyn, but that was probably too much to hope for.

A man with an ill-kempt beard and long, straggly hair wove drunkenly down the narrow street. It was this man that Tamsyn was watching, Kyra realized. Two children followed close behind him. Kyra felt a jolt of recognition as they came closer. They were the same two children she had met before, the ones she had wanted to help. What had the boy said his name was? Arvil. They were dressed as outlandishly as ever, in overlarge hand-me-downs.

The man shouted at the children. They shrank from him and clung together, yet they followed his unsteady footsteps.

Kyra flattened herself against the wall as the pitiful trio passed. Would the children be able to see her this time as well?

But they had eyes only for the man they followed. As he passed the two Markswomen, Kyra heard Tamsyn take a deep, sobbing breath.

She scrutinized the elder. Tamsyn’s eyes were closed and she leaned against the wall for support. And all at once Kyra knew. This man, and these children, were the key to Tamsyn.

Without a word she detached herself from the wall and began to follow the trio down the street. What would she do if Tamsyn did not follow her? Would she be able to find her again in this place?

But Tamsyn fell into step next to her. Perhaps, having been brought here by Kyra’s word of power, she was tied to her in some way. They walked in silence for a few minutes. Kyra kept her eyes on the two children ahead.