“That is why I am here,” said Rustan. He gave the ghost of a smile. “I follow your trail, and it takes me to the front line.”
Kyra wet her lips. “But I thought—did you not need to return to your Order?”
“I do. As do you,” said Rustan. “I will accompany you to Khur once this is done.” He eyed the wyr-wolves, who had now gathered in a tight pack around Menadin, in front of one of the mirrors—oh no, they were looking at the mirrors—and added, “You have powerful friends, Kyra Veer. This will be interesting.”
“Menadin,” said Kyra, urgent. “Tell your people to get away from the mirrors.”
“Why?” said Rustan, sounding mystified. “What’s wrong with them?”
“You do not know?” asked Kyra, astonished. “Did you not look?”
He turned and craned his neck. “Yes, I did. They seem ordinary enough to me.”
“He sees only himself,” said Faran, a complex emotion in her voice that Kyra could not identify.
“Which is the real reason she let him stay,” murmured Derla.
Another puzzle, but one that could wait. For now, she had to get the wyr-wolves away from the mirrors and out of the temple. Kyra crossed the hall to them, taking care to avoid looking Rustan’s way, but feeling his gaze on her back as if it were something physical.
“Menadin,” said Kyra. “You have to get away from here.” She pushed her way through the pack and crouched next to him, where he sat on his haunches, gazing at the hundreds of wolf images with every appearance of raptness. “Look at me.”
Menadin raised one gigantic paw and placed it on the mirror. The glass splintered, cracks spreading across the surface. Behind her, Kyra heard cries of alarm and distress, but she had no time to spare for the Valavians; in the moment of splintering, the images before her changed. It was no longer Menadin the wyr-wolf she saw, but a man. And not the wild, rough man she had met in Wyr-mandil, but a well-groomed and well-dressed one, as if he was a noble at a king’s court. Golden-eyed and brown-skinned, he wore a pristine white robe and an amused smile. His long gray hair was neatly tied back in a half-bun. Kyra stumbled back in shock, and at last Menadin turned to face her. In his unfathomable eyes she saw the truth.
Menadin and his pack saw themselves as human in the mirrors. It was their past, or their future, or some version of themselves that was as true as anything else.
“Time to go,” she said, her mouth dry. “Please.”
“Yes,” said Faran, her voice tight with anger. “Please leave, before the cracks spread across the entire hall and I go down in history as the one who allowed the destruction of our most sacred artifact.”
Menadin swung around, almost knocking Kyra over, and padded across the hall. The rest of the wolves followed him, silent. Kyra hurried to catch up with them, Rustan close behind her.
“What was that about?” he whispered, but she shook her head, unable to speak of what she had seen. He seemed to understand, for he did not press her.
A young, tense-looking Markswoman ushered them out of the hall, down a corridor, into another hall, and then at last to the great double doors that led outside. The doors opened with a tremendous groan onto a massive plinth, and the wyr-wolves spilled out into the moonlight, blending with the night. They were back in their domain. Far in the distance stretched the sacred groves that surrounded the temple. Beyond the groves, Kai Tau’s men waited with their weapons.
Kyra pulled on her boots and inhaled deeply as they descended the steps from the plinth to the ground. Her heart thudded—leftover adrenaline from the duel, she decided. Not because Rustan was right next to her, so close she could have touched him. She glanced sideways at him, but his face gave nothing away. She remembered how they had kissed in the Transport corridor, and a lump came into her throat.
“The kalishium image—” she began hesitantly, but he interrupted her.
“I did not ask you about it,” he said, a warning note in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But I—we—need it.”
Rustan swung around and gripped her shoulders. His eyes blazed in the moonlight, but she stood before him unflinching.
“You broke the law,” he said. “Or do you now think you are above it?”
“No,” she said, meeting his fierce gaze. “But I will do what needs to be done. Whatever it takes to defeat Kai Tau. And you know it.”
His arms dropped; his shoulders sagged. “I know,” he said. “Why didn’t you talk to me, Kyra?”
“I tried,” she pointed out, “but you would not listen. I could have talked till I was blue in the face and it wouldn’t have changed your mind.”
He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But it does not absolve you.”
“You are right,” she said, her heart contracting. “I will ask the elders to give me a penance, when this is over. If they refuse, I will give one to myself.”
He reached forward and brushed the mark on her forehead with his fingertips. “Were you afraid?” he asked, his voice suddenly, unexpectedly tender. When I threw that blade?
Not once.
He bent down and touched her forehead with his lips. “You were never in danger,” he murmured.
“I know,” she said, her voice husky. She wanted, in that moment, to melt into his arms. Only her awareness of the wyr-wolves made her draw back.
Rustan’s gaze went to them. “Will you introduce me to your friends?”
“They’re not exactly my friends,” she said. The wyr-wolves sprawled at the base of the steps, waiting for them. Even at this distance, and in the dark, they could not be mistaken for anything other than what they were—dangerous, hulking beasts, neither wolf nor man, but something more terrible than either. And yet, had she not pushed her hand into the gray fur of Menadin’s back? Had he not held her arm in his mouth, so carefully that he did not even break the skin?
“They are not your friends, and yet they are willing to risk their lives for you?” said Rustan. “For the Orders?”
“We pledged to stop hunting them,” said Kyra. “And,” she added in a smaller voice, “I agreed to give them a piece of the kalishium I took from the monastery.”
“It is not yours to give,” Rustan reminded her.
Kyra sighed. “Kalishium does not belong to anyone. Well, except the pieces that form our blades, the ones that we bond with. And that too is only temporary, until we die.”
“Did you never wonder why the Ones left it behind?” asked Rustan. “That it may serve a higher purpose than what we can see and understand?”
“It’s going to serve a higher purpose, all right,” said Kyra. “That kalishium is going to save the lives of my Markswomen when we attack Kai Tau. Now, did you not wish to be introduced to my ‘friends’?”
Rustan’s mouth quirked and he followed her down the steps. She was beyond grateful he was there. Though he had bested her in front of the Valavians. Though he was still angry about how she had stolen the kalishium. There was no better warrior than Rustan; having him on her side made her feel more confident. But it also made her feel more anxious; she wouldn’t be able to bear it if something happened to him tonight.
At the bottom of the steps was a stretch of tended grass and here Menadin lolled in the center of an adoring circle. One of the wyr-wolves playfully nipped his ears, and he nudged her with his muzzle. His mate? Kyra hoped not. She wanted to think Menadin’s family was safely back home in the Ferghana Valley.
She cleared her throat. “Menadin, I present to you my friend, the Marksman Rustan of the Order of Khur.”
But she had no need to speak. The wyr-wolves rose and pushed past her. She turned to find Rustan kneeling, surrounded by the massive beasts, and for a moment she was overcome with fear and horror. Suppose they hurt him?
But they only sniffed at him, uttering low whuffs. Rustan murmured to them in a respectful voice, words Kyra could not hear. One of the wyr-wolves butted his shoulder and he gave a joyful laugh
, and Kyra felt a sudden stab of jealousy, which was stupid. She needed them to like each other, but somehow, the fact that what had been so hard for her appeared to come easily for Rustan was deeply annoying.
“Faran said we would start at midnight,” she said, unable to keep the asperity from her voice. “Which is in a few minutes. Have you talked with her?”
“Of course.” Rustan leaned forward and traced a rectangle on the grass. “Here is the temple, surrounded by groves of trees. Here are the two main contingents of men, to the north and south. Faran and I agreed that there are probably spies to the east and west as well. She has sent forty Markswomen, ten for each direction, to neutralize them. They used a door, emerging not too far from here. They’ll double back and cut off any retreat from the rear. Twenty more Markswomen, including Faran herself, will come with us. The rest will remain at the temple.”
“We will have to split up,” said Kyra, although she hated the thought of it. She didn’t want to be separated from Rustan, not for this. “Half of us go north, and half south.”
Rustan nodded. “I will go north, and you lead the party south. Faran said there are two kalashiks with each contingent, if not more.” He said this in such a matter-of-fact way, as if he didn’t care at all—as if their fates were not intertwined and it was all right if one died while the other lived.
The double doors of the temple swung open, and Faran stepped out. Markswomen streamed out behind her, kataris gripped in their hands, the light of battle in their eyes.
“Markswomen!” roared Faran, stabbing her silver-lit blade toward the sky. “Kai Tau’s men have killed Ikana, they have cut our sacred trees, and they dare stand at our threshold, armed with kalashiks. Will we let them defile our land?”
“Never!” came the resounding response.
“Will we let them hurt our people?”
“We will not!”
“Will we let them live?”
“No! Death to the intruders,” bellowed the Valavians.
“Then march with me,” shouted Faran. “March for the glory of Valavan!”
The blood thundered in Kyra’s ears and the katari sprang into her hand.
It had begun.
Chapter 29
The Battle of the Wolves
The sacred groves were as silent as graves. Kyra, trying to keep track of Ishandi as she darted through the trees ahead of her, could imagine they walked through a mausoleum. Perhaps it was the presence of those supreme hunters, the wyr-wolves, prowling beside her. Or perhaps it was the bloodlust of the Markswomen themselves that kept the nocturnals away, but not an owl hooted, not a bulbul called.
A light wind rippled through unseen leaves and touched her cheek, bringing the scent of moonflower. Kyra practiced Sheetali, the Cooling Breath. It helped her rein in her feelings about Rustan and fix her attention on the present. She had to keep Ishandi in sight so she could lead the others. The distant canopy was too thick to let in moonlight; instead, Kyra had to rely on the glow of their blades.
Menadin had chosen to stay with her, sending six of his pack mates with Faran and Rustan in the opposite direction. Behind Kyra were the ten Valavian Markswomen Faran had assigned to her. There were elders among them, Markswomen more skilled in combat than she was. But for this attack, Faran had ordered them to accept Kyra’s lead. She was the one who could “talk” to wyr-wolves, after all. And she was the Mahimata of Kali, even though it was clear some of them thought she was an upstart who had reached her current position more by accident than merit.
Well, that wasn’t far from the truth—but it didn’t matter. Now was the time to show the Valavians what she was capable of. Kyra’s grip on her blade tightened; if it had been made of anything but kalishium, it would have drawn blood.
Ishandi turned and signaled a halt.
“No farther,” she whispered. “The kalashiks will sense us.”
Menadin gave a low growl, a deep vibration that lifted the hair on the back of Kyra’s neck. He trotted forward and pawed the ground, as if he couldn’t wait to attack the outlaws.
“Go, then,” said Kyra. “We will await your signal.”
Menadin leaped forward, and the pack sprang after him in a rush of powerful bodies.
“Take care and good luck,” called Kyra in a low voice, but they were already gone, vanished into the night.
The seconds ticked by. Kyra waited, taut as a drawn bowstring. The Valavians looked as tense as she felt. Every minute that passed seemed longer than the last, and she was unable to stop herself imagining the worst—bullets cutting down the wyr-wolves mid-spring, blood seeping from their broken bodies . . .
Screams split the night, followed by a long, piercing howl. The signal.
“Go!” shouted Kyra. They ran, uncaring now of the noise they made, feet thudding across the forest floor, snapping twigs and crackling leaves. Ahead of them came the roar of gunfire and more shrieks.
Kyra raced to keep up with Ishandi, who flew ahead of them seemingly unhindered by the branches that tore and snagged at everyone else. Kyra put in an extra burst of speed; she wanted to arrive first at the camp, so she could assess the level of danger and signal a retreat if it was unacceptably high. The pain from her old stab wound reared its ugly head, but she pushed it down.
Then they were out of the grove and in the open ground, in a version of hell straight from one of the old stories of the Great War.
Before them stretched a clearing dotted with tents and cookfires. Horses tied to posts were bucking and neighing in terror. Men shouted and passed weapons to each other, trying to organize themselves in the wake of the unexpected attack. One group huddled behind a cart-like contraption on wheels mounted with a nasty, elongated tube that put Kyra in mind of a death-stick. A catapult of some sort?
Bodies lay crumpled on the ground, with necks torn and faces gouged out; among them was the body of a wyr-wolf. Off to one side, another wyr-wolf snarled as it was surrounded by more than a dozen men with spears and swords. The remaining wyr-wolves Kyra could not see, but judging by the screams, they were spreading mayhem throughout the camp.
All this she grasped in a fraction of a second. But the kalashiks—where were the kalashiks? They had fallen silent moments before.
“The Goddess go with you,” Kyra told the Markswomen, and the Valavians uttered their war cry—a bone-chilling shriek that froze the tableau before them—and fell upon the outlaws. Kai Tau’s men screamed and died as kataris found their hearts and the Inner Speech took their minds. Kyra took advantage of the chaos to check the wyr-wolf sprawled on the ground amid the humans. Please don’t let it be Menadin, she prayed.
It wasn’t. Kyra grasped its head in both hands and turned its face up. Dead eyes stared sightlessly back at her, and blood trickled through a hole in its forehead. Kyra cursed and laid down the head.
That was when she noticed the gleaming black gun beneath it.
Heart thudding, she used the blade of her katari to pry it out from beneath the wyr-wolf’s corpse, taking care not to touch it with her hands. She sensed a tiny movement behind her and threw herself aside just in time to avoid the bolt that plunged into the dead wyr-wolf instead, spilling out its guts. Goddess, that was too close. Her blade slipped from her sweaty palm.
The man who had attacked her stood several yards away—too far for the Inner Speech, but Kyra had to try. She slowed her pulse and focused. The man fitted another bolt in his crossbow and aimed.
“YOU WILL NOT MOVE,” said Kyra. The man hesitated a split second, and that was all she needed. She grabbed her blade and threw it. The katari flew straight and true into the man’s chest. Blood spurted out and the crossbow dropped from his hands. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest as if he could somehow stem the flow. Her fourth mark, but she could not think of that then, for there was the kalashik, shining in the moonlight, begging to be picked up, to be used, to punish these men like they deserved.
Take me, mistress. Its oily voice coiled around her, gripping her by the th
roat. I have waited so long for you. Do you remember how your family died?
Kyra stood, breathing deep and slow, though every sense screamed at her to run, run hard, away from that dreadful voice. She called back her katari and, thank the Goddess, it listened. She gripped it in both hands, letting its soothing warmth wash over her. Then she unslung the bag from her shoulder, untied the string, and kicked the gun into it. Faran had given her the bag before they parted, warning her not to touch any kalashik with her bare skin. As if she needed to be warned.
Coward. Weakling. Kyra froze in the act of retying the bag. Just like all the others. Tell me, who is brave and strong enough to wield me, if not you? Who can tame me, if not you? Who deserves me, if not you?
It came to Kyra, clear as glass, what she should be doing. She should be taking the gun in her hands and slaughtering the outlaws who had dared threaten the Temple of Valavan. Not a single one would she leave alive. Let them taste the bullets, let the pain of shattered limbs and leaking guts be theirs. They had killed her mother, her father, her sisters. They had massacred every single member of her clan. They had destroyed her world. And now she would destroy theirs.
Time stopped. Kyra no longer heard the cries of the battle that surrounded her. There was only herself, and the dark weapon that called to her with a need that matched her own. She reached inside the bag with shaking hands.
“LOOK OUT, KYRA!”
The Inner Speech shattered the spell the death-stick had woven. Kyra dropped the bag and gripped her blade. Time flowed back, and with it the heat and noise of battle: the snarls of wyr-wolves, the shouts of men, the fierce cries of the Valavians, fire crackling through the tents, burning canvas like parchment, smoke rising through the air, stinging her eyes.
And right in front of her, the thing the Valavians had been trying to warn her about. The cart-like contraption she had noticed earlier was pointed directly at her. Men turned a lever behind the tube, their faces grim with concentration. They were too far for the Inner Speech or her katari, and the Valavians were caught in clashes of their own, keeping at bay the hundreds of fighters who poured out of the tents.
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