His eyes closed. But his chest rose and fell; his breath came in irregular gasps. He was still alive. And while there was breath in her body, she would do whatever it took to protect him.
She withdrew Shirin Mam’s blade from the black metal scabbard at his waist, willing her hands not to shake. Then she turned and faced the killer who stood waiting for her, a smile playing on his lips. Standing, he towered over her. His arms hung loosely by his sides, the weapons gleaming wetly, as if they had drunk Rustan’s blood.
“Another katari?” he said, sounding disappointed. “Is that all you have to offer me, daughter?”
“I. Am. Not. Your. Daughter,” she hissed, and with every word she took a deliberate step toward him, even though she was shaking inwardly with fear and grief and rage. With every step she took, he took one forward as well, as if they were in a dance.
He expected her to throw the blade or stab him with it. She did neither. She made a sudden feint with her blade hand, pivoted sideways when he raised his arm to deflect her, and smashed her foot into his chest in a hard side kick.
It was like trying to smash a rock. Her foot felt as though it had broken in two. But it worked; Kai Tau stumbled back and fell. Quick as a fox she leaped on him, straddling his chest and pinning both arms down with her legs. She pushed aside her revulsion at the touch of the dark weapons. They could not hurt her any more than they already had.
She sent a quick prayer to Kali and thrust Shirin Mam’s ancient blade into Kai Tau’s chest.
The blade did not break, but it could not penetrate Kai Tau’s skin. It was as if he wore armor of his own, impervious to kalishium. She gritted her teeth and kept up the pressure.
Beneath her, Kai Tau stopped struggling. “Twist the blade and find the chink,” he said urgently.
Kyra glared with hatred into his eyes. “You want to die,” she rasped. “You want me to kill you.”
His body spasmed. “Quick,” he said through gritted teeth. “I can’t hold them back much longer.”
He threw his head back and moaned. His eyes rolled in their sockets. The guns began to beat on the floor, a staccato rhythm. Kill, kill, kill, they sang.
Kyra closed her eyes and gave herself up to Shirin Mam’s katari. She let her hands feel the blade, feel the small twist to position the edge just so, in that infinitesimal space between the metal fibers that protected Kai Tau’s flesh. When she found the tiny chink, she did not even have to press down. The blade sank into his flesh and blood seeped out.
Kai Tau thrashed and fought beneath her, or maybe his weapons fought—was there any difference? Kyra hung on grimly until the thrashing slowed and then stopped. Kai Tau’s head lolled to one side. His arms stilled. Blood frothed from his mouth.
Kyra withdrew Shirin Mam’s blade, exhaling. She rose and made herself examine the body. There was no pulse in his throat.
Kai Tau was dead.
Her stomach heaved, and she stumbled away from the body. But she controlled herself. Rustan needed her. She pushed down her nausea, sheathed Shirin Mam’s katari, and went to where Rustan lay unmoving by the entrance.
She licked a finger and put it to his nostrils. Still breathing. But he was so cold now, so clammy to the touch. He needed healing, fast.
Help me, she thought to Shurik and Ria and the others. Please.
She stroked Rustan’s forehead, smoothed his tangled hair. He had let it grow out. After a while she realized that tears were falling from her eyes onto his cheeks, and she wiped her face with her sleeve.
Shurik and Ria arrived a minute later, along with some of the others. Not all were present. She couldn’t remember who was missing. It was important, she knew, but she pushed it away, pushed everything away so she wouldn’t have to feel.
Shurik brought horses and they slung Rustan over one of them, taking care not to touch his wound. They saw Kai Tau’s body and asked her questions in urgent tones, but she could not make herself understand or answer them. She went back inside and retrieved both of the damaged blades, hoping that Rustan’s might still have a spark of life. She could feel the pulse of a bond from her own. But Rustan’s blade was cold and sterile, the tip twisted where it had melted. Even so, she slid it back into the scabbard at Rustan’s belt. That was where it belonged.
Shurik picked up the bundle of kalashiks she had dropped in front of the council house and tied them to his saddle. The mask he handed over to Kyra. She took it without a word, unable to meet his gaze.
“Wait here,” she said in a hollow voice. “Something I must do.”
Something she needed the mask of Kali to do. She slipped on the mask, feeling the power of the Goddess surge through her blood and strengthen her for the loathsome task ahead.
No, not loathsome. Necessary. Best to do it now, while the body was still warm. She withdrew her blade and turned back to the council house.
“What are you doing, Kyra? We need to move,” said Shurik from behind her.
“Removing his guns,” said Kyra, and willed him to stay silent, stay outside.
Shurik, Ria, and the others did not follow her back in, for which she was grateful. She did not want them to witness what she had to do.
Inside the council house, the shadows on the walls went into a frenzy at her return. Kai Tau’s body seemed to have moved to a different position, but how was that possible? Kyra gripped her blade and advanced on him. His eyes stared sightlessly at her.
We knew you would return to us. Take us for your own.
The cold, caressing voice startled her. Kai Tau’s arms moved feebly, and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed her revulsion. The guns were still alive, even if the man they were fused to was dead. But they had no power over her, not while she wore kalishium, and not while she wore the mask.
“How right you are,” she said tightly. “I have come to take you for my own.”
And she brought her blade down on his upper arms, sawing through the metal and flesh and bone with sickening crunches. “For you, Mother,” she muttered, as she perspired beneath her mask, not knowing which mother she meant: the one who had given birth to her, the one who had raised her, or the one whose mask she now wore.
When it was done, she picked up the two vile objects, still dripping with blood, and strode out of the council house. Ria averted her eyes and Shurik inhaled sharply, but she ignored them. She wrapped them in Ria’s saddlebag and hung them on her mount.
At last they rode away. Distantly, Kyra could make out the sounds of battle; the fighting continued around them. Ria told her the Valavians had arrived and the Taus were in full retreat.
All that mattered was getting Rustan to Navroz in time.
It seemed to take hours. As they rode in and out of firelight, weaving between burning tents and broken bodies, it came to Kyra that she had come to conquer and kill, wearing the face of Kali. But the Goddess had extracted a heavy price for her victory—if it could be called such.
Kyra looked at Rustan, slumped over the saddle of his horse, and willed him not to die.
Chapter 45
Ice Mother
With the dawn came clouds, rare in the Thar Desert, as if the sun itself could not bear to look upon the carnage in Jethwa. Thousands of men and women lay dead or injured—among them villagers of the Thar Desert, who had been forced to join Kai Tau’s army at gunpoint, and clansfolk loyal to the Orders, who had fought by their side and paid for it with their lives.
Tonar Kalam was dead. So was Noor Sialbi. Kyra was too stunned to take it in. They had fallen holding back Kai’s men from the council house. Felda and Ghasil were missing, as were a number of other Marksmen and Markswomen. Chintil and the Maji-khan were badly injured.
Healers from the Order of Valavan picked their way through the bodies, reviving those they could, marking for the pyre those who were beyond their power to save. The elders of Khur led the search for kalashiks, directing the Marksmen to return them to the Order of Kali, with strict injunctions not to lay a hand upon the dark weapons.
Kyra leaned against the wall of the cliff near the healer’s post, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders in a futile effort to stave off the dawn chill. She had removed her armor and placed it with the mask of Kali in a saddlebag for Mumuksu. Her part in the battle was over, for good or ill. She had led the charge; she had killed the outlaw chief. Like father, like daughter, taunted an inner voice, but she ignored it.
She should be with the others in Jethwa, sifting through the weapons, checking the bodies, directing relief measures, and thought-shaping the survivors. But Faran Lashail, the head of the Order of Valavan, had stepped in to lead the cleanup. Navroz had told Kyra to stay with them, “where I can keep my eye on you.”
It was not hard to obey Eldest. All of Kyra’s thoughts were concentrated on the still form that lay before Navroz, covered with a blanket. As long as she could look at him, Rustan would stay alive. He would not leave her. She wouldn’t let him. Stay alive, Rustan.
Navroz had explained to Kyra that she had removed the bullet from Rustan’s chest and staunched the bleeding, but she could do nothing about the internal injury. Even now, black lines of poison crept over his skin. Unless they stopped, the best they could do for Rustan was keep him warm and pain-free until the inevitable end—perhaps no more than three days away.
Elena and Akassa tended to the others who had been wounded. But they came up to her now and then, to squeeze her hand or sit with her. She knew they meant well, but she wished they would leave her alone. She could not bring herself to speak, and the depth of the worry in their eyes made her feel guilty.
Nineth, who had been wounded, sat near Kyra, her face bleak. She had taken down her first mark, killed with her blade. So had Akassa. Kyra could sense the conflict in Nineth’s thoughts. She had realized, as they all did sooner or later, how little glory there was in killing.
Shurik sat a little way away from them, his gaze also on Rustan. His eyes were exhausted, his face pale. He had expended too much of himself last night, and Eldest had told him gravely that he might never recover his powers in the Mental Arts. He had looked at her blankly, then bowed his head and said that it did not matter.
And how could it matter, how could anything matter, when Rustan’s life ebbed away in front of their eyes?
Kyra tried to reach him with her thoughts, not caring who might overhear. Wake up, beloved. Fight the poison. Stay with me.
His eyes fluttered open and his head turned toward her. His mouth shaped her name: Kyra. Navroz beckoned her.
Kyra sprang up and rushed to his side, Shurik and Nineth close behind her. “Rustan,” she said, bending over him, trying to smile. “How are you feeling?” She knew even as she said it how inane her words were. How are you feeling after being shot with a dark weapon, its poison spreading through your body?
“Kyra,” said Rustan, his words clear although his voice was weak, “I must go to Kunlun Shan.”
Her heart constricted. He was delirious. “We are taking you to the Order of Kali first,” she said. “Navroz and I will take care of you. When you are well . . .”
His hand slipped out from under the blanket and caught hers. “I must go now,” he said, his eyes fever-bright. “If you want to save me, take me there.”
Confusion welled up in her. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How will going to Kunlun Shan save you?” His hand in hers was hot. He was burning up from inside.
“On the roof of the world, you will see and understand everything,” said Rustan, and he closed his eyes, falling back into unconsciousness.
“We need to take him there,” said Shurik grimly. “Those monks of his must have some sort of healing power.”
Kyra started. She had forgotten his presence behind her. She had told him and Nineth about the monastery and the monks Rustan had talked about.
Navroz frowned. “He is in no shape to travel,” she said. “We should take him to the caves of Kali.”
Kyra swallowed, torn. “But, Eldest, you said you cannot do anything about the poison in his body,” she finally said. “Perhaps there is something in the monastery that will heal him.”
“Or perhaps he simply wants to go there and die,” said Navroz quietly. “Do not get your hopes up.”
Kyra’s vision blurred. Eldest was most likely right. But she had to try. If there was the smallest chance that going to Kunlun Shan might restore Rustan to health, then she would do everything in her power to get him there.
“I’ll go with you,” said Shurik. “You’ll need someone to help you carry him.”
“And I,” said Nineth firmly. “You’re not leaving me behind this time.”
“You’re hurt—” began Kyra.
But Nineth interrupted: “A flesh wound. I will not slow you down, I promise.”
“We’ll take horses,” said Kyra, and her heart began to lift. Despite Eldest’s bleak words, hope stirred within her.
Navroz nodded, her face tight. “If your mind is made up, you should go now. I will inform the Maji-khan. And I will give you potions for him for the journey, to ease his pain.” She looked up at Elena, who hovered behind them, her face taut. “I’m afraid we need you here, Elena. I can spare Nineth, but not you.”
Nineth muttered something under her breath about being a spare, and Kyra could not help but smile. Elena had told her about the attack on the healer’s post, and how Nineth had saved them all.
“When we return,” she told Nineth, “we will have your initiation ceremony, as well as Akassa’s.”
Rustan stirred and moaned, spurring them into action. They saddled their horses, Shurik propping up Rustan in front of him with some effort. Navroz gave Rustan a brew to drink for strength, but it was obvious that he was in deep pain. Kyra’s heart smote her whenever she looked at his drawn face, his tired eyes. Soon, my love, she thought. Soon you will be free from suffering.
Nineth packed provisions, and Elena gave them salves and analgesics. As the sun rose in the sky, they started toward Jhelmil, fifty miles away. They would take the door to the Deccan Hub, and then the door to Kunlun Shan. With luck, they could be in Kunlun Shan by early evening.
As they rode, they came across grim reminders of the battle they had fought the night before. Broken bodies littered the desert; people wept over them, searching for relatives. A group of stunned-looking children were being herded briskly by one of the Valavian Markswomen.
Kyra’s eyes stung. It was a battle that had to be fought, and yet how she wished there had been no need for it. All because of one madman and the dark weapons he had stolen, which had in turn stolen all humanity from him. Once Rustan was all right, she was going to fulfill her vow and get rid of them, the only way she knew how.
They arrived at the Jhelmil door without incident. The little town was in upheaval, filled with refugees and survivors from Jethwa. Nineth and Kyra kept them away with the Inner Speech, although it was hard because both were spent from the fighting. Shurik could not summon the Inner Speech at all, although he tried. Even without it, he had a persuasive voice.
To one group of men and women who blocked their way to the door and demanded answers, explanations, and healing, he said in an exasperated tone that the able-bodied among them should go to Jethwa and help the less fortunate. He added the news that had been spreading like wildfire, but that none of them had believed: Kai Tau was dead, and the dark weapons were safe with the Orders once again.
Their faces cleared, and they bowed and stepped back. Kyra was grateful for Shurik’s intervention. She knew it was not their fault, but she was impatient to get Rus
tan to the monastery, and anyone who stood in their way seemed nothing more than another obstacle to be overcome.
The Deccan Hub was busy, filled with the comings and goings of the Valavians and the clansfolk who had volunteered to help in Jethwa. They called out greetings to Kyra and cast curious glances at Rustan, but no one asked where they were headed, for which Kyra was grateful.
Their luck held; Kyra had been nervous about the door to Kunlun Shan, remembering how it had tricked her the first time she had tried to use it, how it had thrown her into the future and then into the past. But it worked like an ordinary door this time, and the four of them emerged into the dense forest of oak and pine at the base of Kunlun Shan, Nineth leading their horses, Rustan leaning on Shurik. Behind them, the door closed, the outline almost disappearing into the bark of the ancient tree.
Nineth inhaled deeply and gazed around in awe. Even Shurik seemed stricken into silence. Rustan, in contrast, perked up for the first time that day.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, every word costing him effort. “If we start now, we might make it by midnight.”
“It’s already almost evening,” said Kyra with regret. “We can camp here tonight and start at dawn. It will be dangerous trying to climb in the dark.” She knew the perils of the forest and the icy slopes; Nineth and Shurik did not. Much as she wanted to get Rustan to the monastery as soon as possible, she could not risk the safety of her friends.
“How about we go partway and stop before the light fails?” asked Shurik.
Kyra agreed. They mounted their horses and Kyra led the way, Rustan stopping her from time to time to point out an easier path.
At dusk, they halted and made a small camp below the spreading branches of an oak.
You will lose someone you hold dear, the wyr-wolf had said. But you will find them again. A bargain, is it not?
Surely those words meant that Rustan would heal from his wound. Surely they must.
Nineth brewed tea and made Kyra drink it. They settled Rustan as best they could, wrapping him in warm blankets after spooning Navroz Lan’s potion into his mouth to help him sleep. The lines of poison had spread; they extended from the wound on his chest up his neck, like the branching of a dark and terrible river. Kyra could not bear to look at them.
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