With what? Kyra looked around for some cloth. Her eyes fell on Shurik, who was staring at Rustan with an expression of shock, his hand still raised.
“Give me your headcloth,” she snapped at him. She had to repeat herself before Shurik seemed to hear her. He unwrapped the red and brown square of cotton from his head with hands that shook slightly, and gave it to her without a word. She deftly tore it into strips and knelt before Rustan.
Rustan looked up at Shurik. “You would have killed me?” He swallowed hard.
Shurik hung his head. He looked young and scared and lost—no longer the stranger who had compelled Kyra. As if, in that one terrible act of throwing his blade, he had remembered who he was—or at least who he was supposed to be.
“Talk to me,” said Rustan, a note of command entering his voice. “Tell me you understand what you just tried to do.”
“I . . . I’m sorry,” said Shurik, raising his head, anguished. “I . . . I do understand and it’s unforgivable. I don’t know what came over me. But she’s going to die now. I thought I could save her.”
“We all die,” said Rustan. “The most we can hope for is that the time and manner of our death are of our choosing. Kyra has chosen to challenge the mightiest Markswoman in Asiana, and it might be that she will die for it. How long could you have kept her safe? How long before you broke her mind, or she escaped, full of hatred for you?”
They were talking about her as if she wasn’t even there. Kyra glared at Rustan, but he had eyes only for Shurik. “I know you’re thinking of running away right now,” he said. “But don’t do that. Please. Go to the Maji-khan and plead for clemency.”
Kyra finished binding the gash in Rustan’s shoulder, jerking his arm a bit harder than necessary as she tied it off. Thankfully, it was not too deep. Then she stood up, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to still the cold fury racing through her.
“How will the elders punish me?” asked Shurik. “Will they exile me? Take away my katari?”
“I don’t know,” said Rustan. “The katari belongs to you. But you need to make sure that your emotions don’t rule your blade. You must take it to the Maji-khan and let him decide.” He picked up the katari from the floor and held it out to Shurik, who eyed it as he might a spitting cobra.
“We all got lucky today,” Rustan went on. “I arrived before you could take Kyra away, and the blade missed my vital organs—but you can’t rely on luck in the Order. I think, at the very least, Barkav will make you retrain with the apprentices. You’ll have to earn your blade back.”
A spasm of pain rippled across Shurik’s face. “As long as they don’t send me away,” he said. “As long as you can still bear to have me around.”
“Of course I can,” said Rustan. “I wouldn’t be able to bear not having you around. You’re my friend; you always will be.” He held his arms out. Shurik reached down and hugged him, carefully avoiding his injury.
Kyra was stunned. Shurik had almost killed Rustan a few moments ago, and now they were embracing like long-lost brothers. She would never understand them. At that moment, she didn’t even want to. She had a splitting headache and she was thoroughly shaken from the ordeal Shurik had put her through. “If you will excuse me, I want my katari,” she said. “I’m going to my room now.” Her voice was hard and flat, alien to her own ears.
Shurik drew away from Rustan and said, in a pleading voice, “Kyra, I’m so sorry, I . . .”
Something in her snapped. “Don’t you ever say my name again!” she shouted. “If you’re not gone by morning, I’ll speak to the Maji-khan myself. I thought you were my friend. But you betrayed my trust. You broke the law. You entered my mind, Shurik.” She shuddered anew at the violation she had suffered.
Shurik looked down, his face crimson. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice a husky whisper. “I will confess to the Maji-khan, and be gone by morning.”
“Kyra,” began Rustan, but she didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. She couldn’t bear to be in Shurik’s presence one second longer. Or Rustan’s, for that matter. Not right now.
She marched out and made her way across the courtyard, giving a wide margin to the groups of people still sleeping out in the open. Her face burned as she thought of the story Shurik had paid the little groom to circulate about her. Why, oh why hadn’t she warned the Maji-khan not to let Shurik travel with them? She had known the kind of feelings he had for her, after all. But she’d never dreamed he would be capable of . . . of this!
She burst into her room and snatched her katari from under the pillow. She withdrew the blade from its sheath and touched it to her forehead, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
She huddled in the quilt, clutching the katari to her chest. Her headache dissipated as the warmth and power of the blade flowed into her. Never again would she be parted from it. She would wear it in a scabbard around her neck while sleeping. It was shameful, the way she had been caught. Shirin Mam would have been most cutting. She could hear her now, in her most caustic voice:
A Markswoman without her weapon is like a horse without legs.
Kyra sat up, startled. It was a long time since she had heard her teacher’s voice. She bent down to retrieve Shirin Mam’s blade from the bundle of clothes underneath her bed, but at that moment there was a rap on the door.
Kyra tensed. She knew it was Rustan. She didn’t want to see him or talk to him. It wasn’t his fault, what had happened, but he had witnessed her awful humiliation, her almost-abduction by his so-called best friend and fellow Marksman.
He probably saved you from a great deal of pain, my child.
Kyra winced. Shirin Mam again. Get out of my head, please, she thought.
She put on her blandest face and opened the door.
Rustan stood outside, looking as edgy as she felt. He had donned a fresh shirt and there was no evidence of the wound beneath. Beyond him Kyra could hear the clatter of a wagon across the courtyard and the stamping of hooves. Dawn, and people were already on the move.
“Who were you talking to?” said Rustan, walking in and shutting the door without so much as a by-your-leave.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Kyra coolly. “As you can see, there is no one here besides us.”
Rustan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, studying her. It made her uncomfortable, as if there was not enough space in the room for both of them.
When she could no longer bear his silent scrutiny, she burst out, “Have you come seeking my gratitude?”
Rustan’s eyes widened. “Three things,” he said, holding up his fingers. “One: the worst thing that can happen to a Marksman or Markswoman is the loss of his or her blade. You have been careless.”
Kyra closed her eyes. First Shirin Mam and now Rustan. She was ashamed. Did he have to rub it in?
“Two: even though you have been careless, you cannot blame yourself for what happened.”