“Take your stance,” he said.
Kyra looked up, startled. He felt almost sorry for her. He made his move without waiting, using a small outside kick of the Kawamuri style to sweep her off her feet. She lay on the ground, stunned.
“You should have been able to counter that easily,” he said, shaking his head. “But you weren’t paying attention.”
Kyra snarled and leaped to her feet. He certainly had her attention now.
She came at him, as expected, with a classic hip technique of the same Kawamuri style.
So predictable, he thought, and countered her with a reverse hip throw.
This time she was slower to leap at him. At least she switched forms, but he was still able to foresee the Kawashi axe kick before it came close to connecting.
He knocked her down six times before saying in exasperation, “No, no! You are going about it all wrong. You are trying to watch me with your eyes when you should be watching me with your mind. Where is the wisdom of your third eye? Anticipate me, or all the moves of all the schools in Asiana will not keep you on your feet.”
Kyra got up, spitting dirt, her eyes black slits of fury. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started hissing at him like a banded snake. He didn’t care, as long as she listened to him.
“Anger will cloud your judgment and blunt your weapon,” he said. “You must be quiet in body and mind to be able to listen to your opponent. Where is her balance? What does she intend? If you know this, the fight is won before it starts.” He paused. “What are you smiling at?”
Kyra’s smile vanished. “You sounded like Shirin Mam just then,” she said quietly.
That stopped him cold—as if she had anticipated what could hurt him most. “Back to work,” he snapped. “This time, use your elbows, feet, hands—whatever it takes to counter my moves.”
They continued sparring until the sun was overhead in the sky. Rivulets of sweat trickled down Rustan’s face and back as he danced and spun with the Markswoman. He was in a place outside time where he didn’t have to think or feel. There were only the forms of the dance, and the opponent he must cut down time and time again. How to explain this to her? The fight was unimportant, the enemy even less so. There was only the self and the need to prevail.
At last, when Kyra looked ready to drop from exhaustion, he said, “We’ll break for the midday meal. Eat sparingly and be back here within the hour.”
He strode away before she could speak, breathing hard. Feeling and memory returned. There was a dull ache in his head and chest. He sounded like Shirin Mam, did he? It was going to be even more torturous teaching this Markswoman than he had thought. One more punishment added to everything else—when would the scales balance out?
The month until the next clan meeting stretched before him, each grueling day worse than the previous one. And for what? So that her blood could stain the floors of Sikandra Hall.
Get ahold of yourself, he thought as he walked to his tent, ignoring the curious glances of his fellow Marksmen. It’s not as if she doesn’t know what she’s doing.
But that was the problem. He doubted very much that she did.
*
Kyra gazed at Rustan’s retreating back with a mixture of frustration and anger. What was the matter with him? If she bothered him so much, he should tell Barkav that he didn’t want to teach her. Then maybe Barkav would pick someone like Shurik, who would have been happy to spend all day with her.
But reviewing the lesson in her mind, she had to admit that Rustan knew his stuff. For all his chatter and friendliness, she doubted Shurik was as skilled as his brooding fellow Marksman.
Rustan was also right about the fact that she was afraid, though she’d die before admitting it to him. Even without the use of Mental Arts, Tamsyn was the deadliest bladeswoman in the entire Order. Better than even Chintil, it was rumored. How was Kyra going to defeat her?
Yet defeat her she must if she wanted to live.
Irritated, she ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging clumps of dirt. She cursed, knowing it would take ages to comb it all out. She shook the strands as best she could, and tied them into a semblance of neatness. As she walked in the direction of the camp, she caught sight of the small tent that the Old One occupied.
Though she had tossed and turned all night, she had not spared a thought for Astinsai’s incredible story during the last few hours. Too busy being beaten up. If nothing else, training for the duel with Tamsyn would help keep her mind focused on the present. But she could only train for so many hours a day . . .
“Hey, Kyra.” A cheerful voice broke into her thoughts. It was Shurik, standing outside the communal tent. “Come quick or the food will be all gone.”
Glad for another distraction, she hurried to join him. Inside the tent, Marksmen were already seated in two rows opposite each other, being served by the novices. Some inclined their heads in greeting and some stared at her. Most simply went on eating.
Kyra let Shurik take her arm, covertly scanning the tent for Rustan. But she couldn’t spy his lean, grim face among the others. Perhaps he was eating by himself. Well, she certainly didn’t care where he was. She let Shurik guide her to a place at the end of one row and thanked the novice serving her with a smile of such toothy brilliance that the boy almost fell over in his attempt to get away. She noticed the elder called Ghasil glowering at her, and made a mental note to be more careful.
The millet and onion stew was simple but tasty and she ate it with relish, dipping in pieces of flatbread to soak up the spiciness.
“Who does the cooking around here?” she asked Shurik between mouthfuls.
“It changes every day,” said Shurik. “Today it is Gajin and he’s a fair cook, which is why the stew is tasty. Tomorrow it is David and we will be lucky if he serves us something edible.”
“Everyone cooks by turn?” asked Kyra, trying and failing to imagine Barkav sweating over a cooking pot.
“Everyone except the elders,” said Shurik, grinning. “I expect you’ll get a turn too and we’ll see how well the Order of Kali eats.” He noticed her aghast expression and added, “What’s the matter, haven’t you cooked before?”
“Not for so many people,” mumbled Kyra. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Shurik. “If you can cook for one, you can cook for forty, Gajin always says.” He continued to shovel food into his mouth.
Kyra stared at her plate, appetite gone. Was it not enough that her combat skills had been found lacking? Would she be judged on her nonexistent cooking skills as well? No one in the Order of Kali knew how to cook. That was what Tarshana was for. A wave of homesickness swamped Kyra; she desperately longed for the world she had left behind.
The world that no longer exists, she reminded herself.
Chapter 17
Visitor from Valavan