Rustan gripped the table. Of course. Kunlun Shan, sky-ladder to the heavens, was rumored to be the abode of the mystical and reclusive Sahiru sect that belonged to no clan, gave tithe to no Order, and claimed that the Ones spoke to them in their dreams. He had heard tales of them from storytellers, but until now, he had not realized that he was seeking them out. It was a moment of clarity, a gift from a stranger.
“What made you think I was one of the seekers?” he asked.
“You are not a merchant or a trader. You abstain from liquor and meat. Besides . . .” Nursat hesitated.
Rustan leaned forward. “Yes?”
“You remind me of the last seeker that passed this way. It was over two decades ago, but I remember it like yesterday.”
“Who was that man, do you know?” asked Rustan.
“He called himself Rubathar, and we never saw him after that one evening. He was a strange one. He had no money; we wouldn’t have taken his coin anyway. He asked us riddles and to all who answered correctly, he told them how long they would live.” His face grew grim. “May I never know such a night again.”
Rustan stared at the man in some astonishment. “That’s . . . incredible,” he said. “Foretelling death is an exceedingly rare gift. Perhaps he was merely guessing? Or pretending to have the gift?”
Nursat shook his head. “I didn’t believe it at first, but then I saw them die one by one, just as he foretold.”
Rustan didn’t ask him the obvious question; he already knew the answer. How hard it must be to live when you knew just how many precious days you had left.
“Would you like to forget?” he asked. “I can help you, if you wish.”
“Some things are just the price you pay,” said Nursat. “I’ll carry on paying, because it’s worth it, knowing what I do.” He rose. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my other guests.”
Rustan inclined his head and watched him leave. Such an ordinary man and such valuable information he had imparted. This was the nature of knowledge; you had to be ready to find it anywhere, without prejudice and without judgment.
The other nature of knowledge was that it led to ever more questions. Did the Sahirus really exist, or were they just another tall tale from the olden days? And if they did exist, could they lighten the burden on his heart? Could they show him a way to be a Marksman without enduring constant guilt and doubt?
And who was this man that Rustan reminded Nursat of, with his dubious gift? No Marksman, of that he was certain. He had been the last seeker to come this way until Rustan himself. What had become of him?
Chapter 6
Wolf’s Kiss
The wind had quieted as dusk deepened into night. Snow fell outside the caves, soft and heavy. It was a full-moon night—a night for hunting wyr-wolves. But Kyra had asked for the ceremony and there was no question of delaying it any longer. The elders scrambled to make things ready, banishing everyone from the central cavern except the novices, who were put to work cleaning the floor and replenishing the torches on the walls. Mumuksu went down to the funerary chamber and returned with a large package wrapped in cloth that she refused to let anyone else touch.
Kyra sat in her cell, resting. She had taken a large dose of Elena’s pain reliever, awful-tasting as it was, in preparation for the night ahead. It wouldn’t do to keel over in the middle of the ceremony.
Less than a year had passed since her initiation as a Markswoman. Yet Shirin Mam had marked her as her successor. What had the Mahimata seen in her that no one else could? The only distinctive talent Kyra knew she possessed was the ability to enter Anant-kal. But such a talent was not necessary for someone to lead the Order.
Shirin Mam could have passed on her knowledge of words of power to someone else, Navroz or Mumuksu, for instance. Someone with age, strength, and wisdom, who was familiar with the inter-clan politics of the valley. Someone who could command respect without lifting a finger. All things that would be much more difficult for Kyra.
She closed her eyes, trying to slow her thoughts. The mind was a house with countless rooms and endless doors. She walked along the corridors, away from the questions and memories that haunted her. The ache of those who had gone mingled with the ache of more recent wounds, but she moved past them, going deeper into herself, the way Shirin Mam had taught her.
By the time the gong sounded, Kyra had retreated to a place of calm within. She surfaced reluctantly, holding on to an image of still water and reflected moonlight. She withdrew her katari from its scabbard and held it against her heart. It was time.
They were all waiting for her in the cavern, sitting on the wooden benches that surrounded the raised central slab. Everyone was present, even the novices. Akassa sat next to Elena, her hair brushed, her face scrubbed and defiant. The four elders stood next to the slab in the middle.
When Kyra entered the cavern, Chintil Maya, the Mistress of Hatha-kala, gestured to the seated Markswomen. Everyone rose and bowed. A sense of unreality took hold of Kyra. It’s a dream, she thought. I’ll wake up and Shirin Mam will still be alive, and none of this will have happened.
“Today we make our vows to the new Mahimata, and she makes her vows to us,” said Navroz. “The form that this ceremony takes depends on the will of the Goddess. When Shirin Mam was initiated, the gong sounded of itself, so loud that it drove us out of the cavern. When Tamsyn took her place, the torches guttered out, plunging us into darkness.”
Kyra started. She had not heard these stories before. Of course, she had never attended a ceremony in which a new Mahimata was anointed to lead the Order. She had run away when Tamsyn was declared the Mahimata, using a secret Transport Hub in the hills of Gonur.
Navroz bowed, pressing her palms together. “Kali, divine Mother, you have spoken into our hearts and told us what must be. Your mask falls today on the face of the youngest Markswoman of our Order. Protect and guide her, that she may protect and guide us.”
She knelt and laid her katari at Kyra’s feet. “I yield my blade, my heart, and my life.”
Kyra stared at her bent, white head in shock. This was Eldest, who had caught her nodding off during a history lesson, who had despaired of her mastering the simplest healing remedies, who had held and comforted her when Shirin Mam died. Who, despite everything, now vowed to follow Kyra to the death. Kyra’s eyes stung. Thank you for your trust, she thought. I will never let you down.
Navroz retrieved her weapon and rose, making way for the others. One by one, the elders knelt and repeated the phrase: I yield my blade, my heart, and my life. And as they did, desire grew fierce within her to rise above her own petty wounds of flesh and spirit and deserve the title of Mahimata.
The Markswomen followed the elders, then Elena and Akassa, and last of all, the four little novices. Kyra stood rigid, holding her emotions in check. She felt the weight of their oaths settle on her, a burden she would carry all her life. Was this how Shirin Mam had felt?
When they were done, the Markswomen, apprentices, and novices returned to their seats. The elders continued to stand, gazing at her expectantly.
Kyra’s mouth was dry. She had to say or do something. But what could she possibly give them in return for their oaths?
At last she walked to the slab, raised her right arm, and brought down her katari in a quick slash. Blood dripped down her forearm and onto the stone: red drops on pure white. She turned to the dumbstruck elders.
“I swear by my blood, with all my power and every breath, I will be worthy of your oaths.”
There was utter silence in the cavern. Kyra thought she could feel the individual pulse of each of the women who had sworn to her reverberating within her.
Mumuksu cleared her throat and stepped forward. In her hand was the cloth-wrapped package she had fetched from the funerary chamber. “This passes to you, from now until your death. It has not been used in decades. But one day you may have need of it.”
Kyra accepted the package, mystified. It was hard and heavy, with s
harp edges. She glanced up at Navroz, who nodded: You may open it. She peeled away the outer layers of linen and stopped short. The inner layer was beautiful—shimmering green silk, like the one Rustan had bought for her in Kashgar. Rustan, who had kissed her once, making the whole world disappear. A sudden, sharp pain twisted her insides. For a moment, she could not breathe.
Then she was back in control, stripping away the green silk to reveal at last the fearsome visage within: a wooden mask of the Goddess Kali in her warrior aspect. The skin was ebony, the tongue long and red, the fangs white and elongated. On her forehead gleamed the third, terrible eye of destruction.
Was she supposed to wear this? The expressions of the elders revealed nothing. Kyra brought the mask up to her face and fastened the jute strings behind her head. The elders gasped and took a step back. She regarded them through the dark holes of Kali’s eyes, puzzled. What were they afraid of? It was just her beneath the mask.
The bone-chilling howl of a wyr-wolf shattered the silence. Another joined it, and another. It sounded as if there was a pack just outside the caves.
Ria Farad ran toward the crawlway that led out of the cavern, but jerked back as Chintil’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding:
“Stop. We must complete the ceremony before we do anything else.”
“But . . . the horses!” cried Ria.
“Will have to wait,” said Navroz. “Kyra, step forward.”
Kyra removed the mask and laid it on the slab. The four elders raised their blades and slashed her brown robe so that it fell in pieces at her feet. She stood before them, her flesh turning cold, as Navroz lifted up the thick black robe in her arms.
“This belonged to Shirin Mam.” Were those tears glimmering in Eldest’s eyes? “Wear it well.”
Kyra held her arms out for the robe and let the elders help her into it. The robe was warm against her skin, as though it had just been worn by someone else. Navroz wrapped and tied it around her, and Mumuksu corded her katari to her waist.
And it was done. Kyra was now the Mahimata of the Order of Kali.
* * *
As soon as the ceremony was over, Ria began barking orders, telling the novices to fetch their woolen cloaks and saddle the horses.
“Not you, Kyra,” cried Navroz, but Kyra ignored her. She was not missing out on this, a wyr-wolf hunt on the night of her ceremony.
The snow-covered clearing outside the caves was a jumble of tracks. Ria bent to study them before making for the paddocks. “There are at least seven of them,” she called out.
“What were they doing near the caves?” Kyra panted, trying to keep up with Ria and ignore the searing pain in her chest. It had flared up the instant she started running.
“Perhaps the snow and wind confused them. Or perhaps they were chasing some animal.”
But Kyra could tell that Ria didn’t believe that. Snow and wind didn’t confuse wyr-wolves. They had an uncanny sense of direction that had little to do with sight or hearing. And no matter how juicy the prey, they wouldn’t be reckless enough to follow it to the caves of Kali. Too many wyr-wolves had died by kalishium blades for them to make such a mistake.
They reached the paddocks. Close at Kyra’s heels were Chintil, Felda, Sandi, Tonar, and Akassa. Akassa’s face was filled with grim determination. She had jumped at the chance to go with them, desperate to prove herself.
Sandi lit a lamp. The horses were skittish; they would have heard the howls and known the wyr-wolves were nearby. Kyra had a hard time saddling Rinna. She stroked the mare’s neck, whispering soothing words.
Ria was the first out of the paddocks, racing away on her powerful roan mare. The rest fanned out behind her. Clouds scudded across the dark sky; now and then the moon revealed itself, bathing the valley in ghostly light.
The horses galloped, swift and sure-footed, kicking up snow behind them. Kyra’s heart sank as she realized that Ria was leading them to the walnut forest southwest of the caves; it was far easier to face the wolves on open ground. At least there would be little underbrush in the forest; the villagers cleared it every autumn before harvesting the nuts.
As the trees thickened, cutting off the moonlight, Ria reined in her mare. Everyone clustered around her.
“We’ll walk in single file on the main path that cuts through the forest,” said Ria. “I will lead and Elder Chintil will take the rear. Remember: we stay close and stay on the path, no matter what. The Inner Speech only influences the wyr-wolves when we speak together; individually, we cannot hope to touch their minds.”
“Do you sense where they are?” asked Chintil.
“They are in the forest, Elder, but I cannot tell exactly where.” Ria glanced at Kyra. “Tamsyn would have known.”
Kyra snorted. “Tamsyn enjoyed killing wyr-wolves, but she did not have your ability to track them, nor your gift for concealment.”
Ria gave a noncommittal grunt. Kyra wondered if she wished Tamsyn was still around. The Mistress of Mental Arts had taken down more wyr-wolves than all the rest of them put together, except Ria.
They walked deeper into the forest in single file, with Ria leading and the two elders at the rear, where they were most vulnerable. Kyra was between Akassa and Chintil. The wind rose, whispering through the trees, blowing snow from the branches. Ice crackled beneath the horses’ hooves. A deep exhaustion took hold of her. Shirin Mam’s black robes no longer felt warm against her skin. She longed to be back in her cell, wrapped in her rugs, cradling a cup of hot tea in her hands.
Akassa let out a yell. “Over there! I saw something move.”
“Wait!” shouted Kyra. But the apprentice spurred her horse around and veered off to the right. She was soon lost in the shadows between the trees.
“Fool girl.” Ria turned her horse around. “Wait for us, Kyra!”
But Kyra had already moved, urging Rinna on in the direction Akassa had taken, hoping the apprentice was all right. Branches whipped her face and she cursed and ducked. Akassa had ridden in a couple of hunts; she should have known better than to take off on her own. Kyra could hear the sound of hooves pounding the forest floor just ahead. She should be able to catch up with Akassa quickly enough.
But the minutes passed, and Kyra’s sense of foreboding increased. Soon, she could no longer hear Akassa’s horse. The trees seemed to close in around her.
As she slowed Rinna and weaved through the dense forest, Kyra became aware of two things: first, the voices of the Markswomen behind her had faded, as if they had taken another direction. Second, there were shapes in the darkness, flowing on either side of her.
Rinna bucked and snorted in terror. Kyra tightened her grip on the reins and risked a quick glance to her left and right. But it was too dark to see anything.
Then the moon sailed out from behind the clouds, bathing the snow in silver light, and Kyra saw them as clear as day: two massive beasts loping behind the trees to her left, keeping pace with her.
Fear crept like ice through her veins. Where was Akassa? Where were the others? She wanted to turn Rinna around, but she was no longer sure of the direction in which she was going. Were the wyr-wolves following her, or was she following them?
The trees began to thin, and Kyra could have wept with relief. They were heading out of the forest. If she could gain open ground, she could at least try to make it back to the caves.
Rinna cantered into a clearing. Then she stopped so suddenly that Kyra was thrown over her head, too taken aback to even scream as she fell. She hit the snow hard and lay stunned on her back, staring up dazedly at the moon, now coin-bright in the sky. Every square inch of her body felt as if it had been pummelled, her chest as if it had been stabbed afresh. Snow blew over her hair and cheeks, cold and soft, and from somewhere, far in the distance, came an inhuman laugh. She wanted, in that moment, to disappear, to melt into the snow and swirl away on the wind. To not have to get up and face whatever it was that stood before her.
Stay alive, Kyra.
Rustan’s w
ords. They had brought her back from the brink of death in the Hall of Sikandra.
Kyra struggled to her feet, groaning with effort.
Rinna was gone. Despite the cold, Kyra began to sweat. She had no chance against the wyr-wolves without her horse, but still, she drew her blade and advanced farther into the clearing: a vast space surrounded by tall, bare trees that formed a tight, dark wall.
When she reached the middle, she stopped. In front of her, a pair of golden eyes gleamed through the lattice of trees. Another pair, and then another. Huge, lupine shapes materialized out of the shadows—nightmares made real. Kyra swung around and blinked in shock. There were so many of them. She trembled and the katari almost slipped from her hand.
One of the wyr-wolves detached itself from the sheltering darkness and padded toward her. It was enormous, almost up to her shoulders, with a thick gray mane and a white streak on its ridged forehead. The beast stopped a few feet from her. A forked tongue flicked over curving fangs that glinted in the moonlight.
Kyra willed herself not to faint. She tightened her grip on the katari and dropped into the jigo-huari stance.
The wyr-wolf reared onto its hind legs, turned its snout to the sky, and howled: a drawn-out, mind-numbing wail that echoed through the clearing.
Kyra stumbled back, ears ringing, dizzy with pain. Her feet sank into a deep drift of snow and she fell, crying out as her left foot twisted beneath her.
The hulking beast loomed above her, blotting out the moonlight. One huge paw came down on the hand that held the katari, hard enough for Kyra to feel the pressure in her wrist, but not enough to injure it. The wyr-wolf lowered its massive head until its muzzle was just a few inches from her face, its golden yellow eyes boring into hers. Kyra could not breathe; the smell of its musty fur was overpowering. She tried to use the Inner Speech, but no words came to her.
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