Was Shurik going to give up on her so easily? Kyra felt a pang at the prospect of him abandoning her. He was the only real friend she had in Khur and she would hate to lose him, especially when there were just a few days left before the journey to Kashgar. It was not a trip she was looking forward to: a week on camelback through the desolate landscape of the Empty Place, with only the dour and disapproving elders of Khur for company, and only the duel with Tamsyn to look forward to at the end of it.
With a sigh, Kyra slowly headed out of the grove, back to her tent. Perhaps she could get an hour of rest before the evening classes, when she usually joined the Marksmen in katari-play or Mental Arts practice.
But as usual, sleep evaded her. She twisted and turned on the rugs in her tent, unable to still the fluttering in her stomach. She touched her lips with her fingers, and recalled how it had felt to be kissed by Shurik. His lips had been soft against hers, his eyes passionate. But her primary emotion had been one of surprise, followed by embarrassment when she noticed Rustan watching them.
Rustan. What would he think of her now? And why, why did she care so much what he thought of her? And then the most traitorous notion of all: What would it be like to be kissed by him? This thought made her feel hot and cold at once, like shivering in a furnace. She got up and splashed her face with water, but it still felt as if she was on fire.
Chapter 23
Escaping the Self
Rustan strode out of the grove. Someone called out to him—was it an elder?—but he did not respond. Distantly, he sensed the fierce glow of the katari against his side.
Shurik, that pie-faced fool. He could have strangled him with his bare hands. As for Kyra, he had thought she had more sense than this. Shurik was hardly more than an apprentice. Perhaps she liked to be told that she had pretty eyes. Perhaps she liked boys mooning after her like brainless calves.
Rustan forced himself to appear expressionless. No one must know what he had seen. But he had to get out of Khur. Now. He was done with the girl and the complications she had brought into his life. If not for her, he would have left weeks ago. But he had stayed; he had obeyed his Maji-khan and taught her what he could. It was out of his hands now.
When he reached Barkav’s tent, he had to wait his turn to meet the Maji-khan. Saninda and Ghasil were inside; he could discern their voices. A full ten minutes passed before the elders left the tent. They greeted him in surprise. He gave them a quick bow before asking Barkav’s permission to enter.
The Maji-khan was kneeling on the carpeted floor, a pile of letters in his hand. Barkav often spent the afternoons reading petitions that arrived with the camel caravans on their way to Kashgar. He looked up when Rustan entered and broke into a smile. “Come, Rustan. It has been a while since you sought me out.”
Rustan bowed and sat down. “Yes, Father. I had a task to do, and there was no point in bothering you with my presence. It would have been impossible for me not to bring up what happened in Tezbasti.”
“Ghasil has executed the real killers in front of the entire village,” said the Maji-khan, stroking his beard. “It will not happen again. That is all you need to know.”
“And it is not for me to seek vengeance,” said Rustan. “I understand.” And a part of him did. Vengeance would have assuaged his ego, nothing more. Hard as it was for him to accept it, Barkav had been right not to send him back to Tezbasti.
But Rustan could do nothing about the anger he still felt, the guilt that dogged his waking hours and haunted the edges of his dreams. At first he had thought the raw pain of it would finish him off, that his own blade would turn against him and reject him.
Then the Markswoman arrived by the Akal-shin door, and the news of Shirin Mam’s death overshadowed everything else.
Rustan looked up to see Barkav watching him, his eyes calm as ever, and it hit him that Barkav had chosen him to teach the Markswoman for a reason—a reason that had nothing to do with his dueling skills. Bitterness rose in his mouth and he spoke more harshly than he had intended:
“I salute you, Father. You have succeeded.”
Barkav’s brow creased, but he did not say anything.
“I have begun to care for the Markswoman. That is what you wanted, is it not?”
“What I wanted was for her to have a capable teacher,” said Barkav. “What is the matter, Rustan?”
Rustan stared at him. Everything, he wanted to shout.
“I have taught Kyra all I can. There is little more I can do in the week that is left, except torture myself with looking at her face, and imagining how she will die.”
“I see,” said Barkav. “You wish to give up your assignment because it is too hard?”
Rustan started to argue, but Barkav forestalled him. “When you are given a task, it is your duty to finish it,” he said. “I am aware of how—trying—circumstances have been for you this past month, but that is no excuse for a Marksman.”
“I have taught her all I can,” Rustan repeated. Unable to sit still any longer with the Maji-khan’s penetrating gaze on him, he stood up and began to pace the tent. “Give me another assignment, Father. There must be something you need doing away from here.”
“You not only wish to give up your assignment, you also wish to leave Khur. You would flee, rather than stay with your pupil to the end?” There was no judgment in Barkav’s voice, and yet the words cut deeply.
Rustan spun around to face the Maji-khan, anger heating his face. “What would you have me do?” he demanded, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Surely you would not have me accompany you to Sikandra?”
“It is not for me to decide whether you should go to Sikandra,” said Barkav. “I can give you another assignment if you like. But don’t delude yourself. You cannot run away, no matter how far you go. There is no escaping the self.”
Rustan looked up, stricken. Had Barkav guessed the true depth of his feelings for Kyra? But Barkav’s face was expressionless. “Help me, Father,” he pleaded.
Barkav was silent. “I need a man in the Thar Desert,” he said finally. “But first, I want to find out what happened to Samant.”
Rustan frowned. Samant was the eldest of the elders of Khur and the Master of Meditation. He had left for the Kashgar Hub almost a month ago, shortly after Kyra’s arrival. His destination was Herat, the home of the Ersanis, a clan of cultivators and carpet weavers. The trip was supposed to be a brief prelude to scoping their young boys as possible novitiates. Samant should have been back a week ago, but had yet to return.
“You can go to Kashgar ahead of us and Transport to Herat,” said Barkav. “We will meet you in Kashgar, on our way to or back from Sikandra Fort, depending on how long it takes you to find Samant. In Kashgar, you can make your choice: come back to Khur or go to the Thar Desert. By then the Markswoman will have met her fate, and perhaps you will be able to think more clearly.”
Rustan’s heart constricted. The Maji-khan made it sound as if Kyra was sure to die. If he cared at all about the outcome of the duel, why didn’t he teach her himself?
“Is there anything else, Marksman? I have much to do this afternoon.” Barkav waved a hand at the letters scattered around him.
“Who will teach her when I am gone?” asked Rustan.