*
It was a sound that woke her up—a rustling, as of someone in the room. Her eyes flew open and she was instantly awake. Had she forgotten to bolt the door? The fire had gone out but she sensed movement near the end of her bed. Her hand slipped under the pillow for her blade, but before she could withdraw it from the scabbard, a voice spoke in the dark:
“Leave your katari and come. Do not make a sound.”
The mental bonds fell on her like a heavy net. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound emerged. She tried to will her hands toward her katari, but they refused to obey.
Tamsyn, she thought, her insides congealing in fear. Tamsyn had found her. Kyra would never have a chance to challenge her to a duel now. She would be dead long before then.
“Follow me.”
Kyra’s legs made her stand and move with the dark figure out of the room. She tried to claw her way out of the panic fogging her mind. She had to warn the Marksmen that the Hand of Kali was here. She tried desperately to remember what she knew about Compulsion. Misuse of the Inner Speech. Breaking of the rules. Breaking of the mind.
Tamsyn was the Mistress of Mental Arts, the most powerful Markswoman the Order of Kali had seen in decades. How would Kyra break free from her long enough to call for help, let alone make a run for her katari?
But in the light of the lamps hanging in the gallery outside, Kyra received her second shock. The figure striding in front of her wasn’t Tamsyn.
It was Shurik.
What are you doing, you fool! she wanted to scream. Let me go.
But no words emerged from her mouth. Barkav had mentioned that Shurik was exceptionally gifted in the Mental Arts, but Kyra hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.
Heart pounding, Kyra followed Shurik down the wooden staircase to the courtyard below. It had to be the middle of the night, for no one was awake. The courtyard was dotted with groups of people huddled under blankets. Somewhere a horse stamped and neighed.
At the bottom of the stairs, Shurik veered left, heading for the gate. Kyra tried to stop, and once she stumbled and fell, but he hauled her up again. His face was a stranger’s face. Why was he doing this to her?
He led her into a stable near the gate. The light of an oil lamp fell on a young boy holding the reins of a saddled horse. Shurik tossed the boy a coin; he caught it deftly and scampered off into the night. The hope that had flared in Kyra at the sight of another person flickered out.
Shurik pointed at the horse.
“Get on the horse,” he said. “We’re leaving Kashgar.”
Kyra’s mouth worked with the effort of trying to speak against a direct order. “Why?” she whispered, leaning against the wall for support, her body trembling as she fought the command to mount the horse.
Shurik gazed at her out of calm brown eyes. “Because I love you,” he said. “I’ll not stand by and let you go to your death. Did you not tell me yourself to choose the most difficult path of all? This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Leave with me.”
Kyra shuddered as his voice rolled into her skull, obliterating everything else. Oh, how it hurt. She reached for the reins with shaking hands. Her eyes stung as she thought of her katari, buried under the pillow in her room. Would she ever see it again? She would rather die than be parted from it forever.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Shurik whirled around and swore.
A tall, lean figure was silhouetted against the entrance to the stall. Rustan? Kyra tried to turn toward him, but Shurik had gripped her upper arm. His blade was out.
“We’re leaving,” said Shurik. “Don’t try to stop us. Kyra has changed her mind about the duel and I’m helping her escape.”
“Is that so?”
Rustan closed the gap between them. Shurik’s grip on her arm tightened. The horse whinnied nervously.
“I thought I heard you use the Inner Speech,” said Rustan.
“Oh?” Shurik paused before answering. “I had to make sure that groom didn’t go about telling tales of us come daybreak.”
“Strange,” said Rustan. “The boy who came running out of here was so eager to describe your long and tender embrace that I could almost believe the opposite.”
Some of the fog lifted from Kyra’s brain. Shurik must be losing his concentration. She struggled to free herself, holding on to the image of her blade.
“You’re jealous,” said Shurik, his voice scornful. “I know how you feel about her, even if no one else does. I’m honest enough to admit my feelings, but you—you’re a coward and a hypocrite. Now get out of our way.”
It was too much to be borne. Kyra’s anger finally broke the last of the bonds Shurik had laid on her, and she twisted her arm free of his grip. “How dare you!” She was barely able to get the words out. Her throat felt parched, like it had after the sandstorm. “How dare you compel me like this!”
Shurik stepped away from her and raised his hands. “Compel? My sweet, you came to me of your own free will, remember? Begging for a way out of here. Don’t lose your courage now because of Rustan. He cannot stop you. He will not even tell the elders if we ask him not to.”
Kyra’s head swam. Shurik’s voice was subtly laced with the Inner Speech. Could Rustan not sense it? She looked across the stable to where Rustan stood, his eyes troubled as they rested on her.
“Help me,” she begged.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” said Shurik. “Get on the horse. We must leave before daybreak.”
“Wait,” said Rustan. “Where is your katari, Kyra?”
“In my room,” she said, and it was hard to admit, even though it should have been a relief to have someone else know she had been forcibly separated from her katari.
Rustan looked at Shurik, anger darkening his face. “As if she would leave without her blade. What the sands were you thinking, you idiot? You’ve broken one of our most fundamental rules. You must have known you wouldn’t be able to keep her under Compulsion for long.”
“Long enough,” said Shurik, his voice brittle. “A couple of days was all I needed. A couple of days and she would have been mine—if not for your interference.”
Without warning he raised his hand and a silver blue streak flew straight at Rustan. Kyra cried out in horror and threw herself toward him. But Rustan moved faster than she did, almost out of reach of the blade. Almost. It grazed his shoulder and he slid down the wall, breathing hard.
Kyra was in front of him in a second, a cold pit opening up in her stomach. Reaching out, she gently touched his arm. “You’re bleeding. Let me fetch the Maji-khan.”
She straightened up but Rustan said, “No. It’s only a minor wound. Please don’t call Barkav. You can bind it up for me.”