“That is not what happened,” Tamsyn spat. “Our father loved us. He would never have hurt us.”
They had reached the bridge. Kyra stopped and whirled around. The bridge swayed, groaning in the wind. “Your father tried to kill you both,” she said. “Words of power cannot lie, and you know it.”
Tamsyn was still as a statue. “You’ve tricked me somehow,” she said finally, her voice wavering. “This is not what happened.”
Kyra shrugged. She was cold and weary. “You’ve spent your whole life lying to yourself. Stay here and see if you can get the past to reflect your lie.”
“You can’t go without me,” cried Tamsyn.
But Kyra, walking on the desolate bridge, suspected that she could. The only question was, should she? Tamsyn was a monster. If Kyra had had any doubts about that, they were quashed when she gloated about starving Nineth to death.
Nineth. Dead. A sob racked her chest, but she controlled it. Now was not the time to weep. That would come later, if there was a later.
She heard Tamsyn’s light, running footsteps behind her, swinging the bridge.
“You’re not going without me.” This time there was a thread of panic in Tamsyn’s voice.
Kyra smiled. Good. Let her wonder, let her suffer. Had Nineth too been torn between hope and despair, granted a reprieve one minute, and condemned the next?
“My katari brought us here,” said Tamsyn. “Mine, not yours.”
“You are in my debt and your katari knows it, even if you don’t,” said Kyra, more sure of herself with every passing minute. “If I wish to return without you, your katari will obey me.”
Tamsyn’s brow wrinkled. “In your debt?”
“I saved your life,” said Kyra. “If I hadn’t distracted your father, he would have held you down long enough to kill you. There would have been no Tamsyn Turani, famed Markswoman of Asiana, killer of innocent apprentices.”
“You saved nothing,” said Tamsyn. “We are in a distorted memory of the past, that is all.”
“It is no mere memory,” said Kyra. “We are here, Tamsyn. Your father actually sensed me.”
Tamsyn glared at her, breathing hard, her eyes slits of hatred. Moments passed before she spoke in a flat voice, “Fine, little deer. What do you want in return for taking me back to Sikandra?”
“Your katari,” said Kyra. “It is mine now. You will leave it buried in my flesh and walk away. You will announce to the hall that you yield the duel, and relinquish your post as the Mahimata of Kali, as well as your right to bear a weapon. You will leave Sikandra Fort and never show your face in Ferghana again.”
“You’re mad,” hissed Tamsyn.
“It’s up to you,” said Kyra. “I can leave you here, and you can spend eternity figuring out a way to come back on your own. I will win the duel in any case.”
“If you live.”
“There are worse things than dying,” said Kyra. “To be trapped in your past—that is one of them.”
“To give up your katari—that is another.”
“Stay if you will,” Kyra told her, calm now. “I don’t care one way or another. If you wish to come back with me, you must do as I have said.”
“Wait,” said Tamsyn. “If I do as you say, how do I know that you will not kill me?”
“I’m bleeding to death myself,” Kyra reminded her. “I don’t think I’m in a state to jump up and strike you dead. We’ll have to keep that for later.”
“Later, yes.” Tamsyn cocked her head, eyes gleaming with malice. “We’re not done yet, little deer.” She bared her teeth and held out one long-fingered hand. “I give you my word. I will yield the duel if you take us back to the Hall of Sikandra.”
Kyra leaned against the railing of the bridge, feeling exhaustion creep up on her. The wind had died down and the night was still, the stillness before dawn that brings the strangest dreams. It was time to leave. She eyed Tamsyn’s outstretched hand.
Tamsyn’s face gave away nothing. She could not be trusted, but she had given her word. It was probably the best Kyra could wring from her. In any case, Kyra could not maintain the link to this place indefinitely. She clasped Tamsyn’s hand in her own. It was like trying to hold on to air, but she supposed it was the principle of the thing that counted.
She bent her mind to the hall they had left behind, to that moment when Tamsyn had grasped the hilt of her katari. The river and the night blurred like a damaged painting; superimposed on it now was an image of the Hall of Sikandra. Tamsyn’s hand solidified in her own.
It was then that Tamsyn chose to strike, in that in-between place where two realities clashed and converged.
She twisted Kyra around, grabbing her midriff with one arm, and choking her with the other. “Foolish little deer,” she panted. “Did you truly think I would yield to you?”
Kyra bucked and tried not to panic. No. Not now, not after everything. She could not let Tamsyn defeat her. She gripped the arm around her neck, trying to loosen its deadly hold, and concentrated on recovering her link to Tamsyn’s past. But the night stayed out of focus, and Tamsyn’s hold on her did not weaken. Black spots danced in front of Kyra’s eyes and she gasped for air.
Do it for Nineth, then, if you can’t do it for yourself. Shirin Mam’s voice, calm, compassionate, and full of love.
“Nineth,” choked Kyra, and with a last burst of strength pried the arm from her neck. She swung her assailant around and Divided the Wind, breaking both of Tamsyn’s wrists with the sides of her palms. Tamsyn cried out in pain and stumbled back at the precise moment that the bridge solidified around them once more.
Kyra took an involuntary step toward her, but it was too late. The barrier broke and Tamsyn tumbled into the rushing black water beneath.
Kyra knelt at the edge of the broken railing and gazed down at the river, panting. But there was no one and nothing to see. Tamsyn was gone. The river had claimed its victim, once and for all.
She pushed herself away from the edge and collapsed on the wooden slats of the bridge, trying to recover her breath. “Goodbye, Tamsyn,” she whispered. “You will not be mourned.”
She hurt everywhere. Her throat and palms burned, and from somewhere deep inside, the ghost of a wound inflicted in another world began to pulse.
Time to go back and face that world, that wound.
“Trishindaar,” she said, and Tamsyn’s past dissolved. For a moment Kyra fought against the drowning sensation. With an enormous effort of will she closed her eyes and yielded herself to the currents of time.
Chapter 33
Last Twist
Pain, red pain that held her in its bloody embrace. Why wasn’t she dead yet? Kyra closed her eyes, shivering. Cold. She was so cold. If life were to end now, she would welcome the release. The duel was over, although she could not remember now why it had been so important.
She heard the sound of running footsteps. People bent over her, talking.
“She’s lost a lot of blood.”
“She will live! She’s young and strong, and the blade missed her lung.”
“Out of my way, young man. I think I know a little bit more about healing than you do.”