And Shirin Mam never did anything without a reason.
A reward for your success, the Mahimata had said, without a hint of irony. And now every night Kyra was haunted by the dream of a door that waited for her to open it, waited to engulf her in darkness.
Kyra reached a terrace midway up the hill and stopped, panting. Tamsyn was already in full flow. Students surrounded her, sitting on the rocks that dotted the terrace, listening with every appearance of raptness to the elder’s deep voice.
She tried to sneak in behind the others while Tamsyn’s back was turned, but someone said loudly, “Oh, it’s you, Kyra. You startled me.”
It was Akassa, of course. Arrogant and beautiful with sleek black hair and olive skin, the eighteen-year-old thought that she was ready for her first mark. She had been furious when Kyra was chosen ahead of her.
Tamsyn broke off her lecture mid-stride and cast her gaze upon Kyra. A little smile of anticipation played on her lips. Kyra stood rooted to the spot, wishing that one, Tamsyn would look away from her, and two, Akassa would drop dead.
“Look who has decided to grace my class with her presence,” said Tamsyn lightly. “The newest Markswoman, no less.”
There were a few sycophantic titters. Kyra, who had been wondering whether to apologize, realized it would make no difference what she said. Tamsyn had already decided what she would do.
“I was explaining to the class the difference between Inner Speech and Compulsion,” said Tamsyn. “Perhaps you would like to offer your expert opinion on this matter?”
There was a snort of laughter from Akassa. Elena and Nineth gave Kyra sympathetic glances. It was a simple question Tamsyn had asked, but Tamsyn’s simple questions never had easy answers.
“Inner Speech is the gift of kalishium,” said Kyra. “Properly trained, a Markswoman can read and control other people’s minds and actions. Compulsion is a misuse of this gift and punishable under the Kanun.”
“So, the difference between the two is that one is allowed and one is not?” said Tamsyn, her lips curling. “You give a whole new dimension to the field of Mental Arts. Thank you for this great insight.”
There were more titters. Akassa gave a derisive bow to Kyra, her eyes glinting with amusement.
Kyra kept quiet, but inwardly she fumed. She had answered correctly, even though she hadn’t elaborated. But of course, that was not good enough for Tamsyn, who delighted in mocking her students as a means of “teaching” them.
“My, my, what turbulent thoughts you have, little deer,” said Tamsyn. “You really need to work on controlling those wayward emotions of yours.”
It was as if Kyra had been turned inside out, with every thought she had ever had on display for all to see; such was the force of Tamsyn’s gaze.
The dark, hypnotic eyes turned away from her and Kyra sagged with relief. Sweat beaded her forehead and her heart thumped.
“Make no mistake—Inner Speech is not a ‘gift,’” Tamsyn told the class. “It is an art to be learned and practiced every day of your life, if you aspire to any degree of skill. The bond you have with your kalishium blade allows you to hear the thoughts of those around you, but to delve into individual minds and exert control requires years of dedication. There are four rules. First, that we use Inner Speech sparingly and in great need. Second, that we never use it against another Markswoman—”
“Or Marksman,” murmured Nineth unthinkingly. She clamped her hand on her mouth with a stricken look on her face, but it was too late.
Tamsyn’s face went red, her lips pressed in a thin line. She glared at Nineth. “Is not one prize for stupidity every year enough for you? Must I inform the Mahimata how utterly undeserving you are to be an apprentice of the Order of Kali? The very word ‘Marksman’ is a blasphemy. The Kanun of Ture-asa says nothing about men being able to bond with kalishium. There are four Orders in Asiana: Kali, Zorya, Valavan, and Mat-su. The fifth is nothing more than a bunch of outlaws. Understand?”
“Yes, Elder,” said Nineth meekly.
“Obviously, it is something you find hard to remember. You will carve it for me on a stone tablet as a penance.”
On stone? Kyra winced. That would take ages. Poor Nineth.
“Where was I before being rudely interrupted?” said Tamsyn. “Yes, the rules of Inner Speech. The third rule is that we must not use it for personal gain. Fourth, that we do not use it to take a life. That is what the kataris are for. When we break the rules, it is called ‘Compulsion’ and—as our cleverest young Markswoman pointed out—punishable by law. One more thing: Inner Speech does not usually work on animals, but it does have some effect on wyr-wolves. This is to our advantage when we hunt the beasts. Questions?”
Predictably, there were none. To ask a question in Tamsyn’s class was an act of optimism bordering on lunacy.
The class came to an end. But before Kyra could escape with Nineth and Elena, Tamsyn called her back and told her to do a hundred sun salutations as “a small penance for being late.”
Kyra glared at the elder’s graceful, retreating figure, not bothering to try to hide how she felt. It was noon; the penance would cause her to miss the start of the midday meal, which was no doubt as Tamsyn had intended. Kyra considered simply ignoring the elder’s command, but the penalty for that was a meeting with the Mahimata and her entire council of elders.
No, it wasn’t worth defying Tamsyn. Kyra fell into the sequence of twelve poses that comprised the sun salutation. If she hurried, she could still reach the kitchen in time to eat something.
Somewhere between her sixtieth and sixty-third asana, a prickly sensation crept up her spine. As if someone was watching her, contemplating stabbing her between the shoulder blades.
She froze, fighting the urge to spin around. She was being foolish—hungry, exhausted, and now imagining things.
After the hundredth asana she stopped, swayed, and toppled to the ground. The grass was spiky and unpleasant to lie upon, but she was beyond caring. It was good to rest. She drew in deep breaths, trying to muster the energy to move. And then it came again, the lingering sensation of being watched, strong enough that she dragged herself to her feet. She brushed the hair from her face and started walking downhill, glancing cautiously around her.