Navroz pursed her lips and rose. She clearly still had reservations, as did they all. But Kyra had given an order, and she would not disobey her Mahimata.
The realization made Kyra feel hot and cold all over. She needed them to obey her—but now that it was happening, she felt deeply uncomfortable. These were the women who had trained her since she was a child. No matter what mistakes they had made with Tamsyn and Nineth, they were still her teachers and guides. She was asking a great deal of them.
She hoped with all her heart that she was right about Menadin.
The other three followed Navroz’s lead, saying nothing more as they moved to the doorway.
Before they could leave, Kyra said, “Not you, please, Elder Felda. I have something to ask you.”
A look of surprise crossed Felda’s face, but she managed to smooth it away. When Navroz, Chintil, and Mumuksu had departed, Kyra exhaled, trying to breathe out her pain. Felda’s brow creased as she sat down next to Kyra’s bed.
“You were in no shape to go wyr-wolf hunting and you know it. Why not get rid of Tamsyn’s blade and leave such matters to us?”
Kyra looked at the tranquil, square face of the stocky woman sitting beside her. If there was one elder she felt she could trust completely, it was Felda Seshur. Still, she felt reluctant to reveal the bond she had with Tamsyn’s blade. She wasn’t quite sure why. “I have my reasons, Elder. But that’s not why I asked you to stay. I want to know . . .” She hesitated. Shirin Mam had told her to ask Felda about the visions she had seen in the secret Hub, pointing out that no one knew more about Transport than the Order’s talented mathematician. But Kyra didn’t know where to start, how even to begin to describe what she had experienced.
“You want to know about the codes Shirin Mam gave you,” said Felda. “About Transport. Yes?”
Was she always going to be this transparent? Kyra stifled her irritation. “Yes, please.”
“Years ago, I deduced that although each door has a unique code, there must exist a special sequence that can override those codes,” said Felda. “I worked on re-creating a formula that could be used to open a door—any door. Last year I succeeded; at least, I thought I did. I told Shirin Mam, and she instructed me to stay quiet about it. She took the list of numbers my formula had generated and gave it to you.” Felda’s face relaxed into a smile. “The pyramid is beautiful, is it not? It makes such perfect sense.”
“Er . . . yes. But what I saw in the Hub—none of that made any sense, Elder.”
The words tumbled out. Kyra told Felda what had happened—how the first three doors in the secret Hub had shown her visions of the child Tamsyn, the dead Shirin Mam, and the emptiness beyond the world. And how the fourth door had made her lose time, a fact that always brought a wave of nausea whenever she thought about it.
It was a relief to confide in Felda, to be able to share the terror she had experienced. But it also brought back to the surface everything she had suppressed, and Kyra found herself having to stop more than once to ease her breathing and calm herself.
“And, Elder, I could have sworn that . . . after the voice said ‘code override,’ there was an awful sort of laugh.” Kyra was unable to keep the plea out of her voice. “Do you think I could have imagined that?”
Felda’s expression had become graver and graver as Kyra spoke. “I cannot explain it, but I don’t think you imagined anything. You must remember that the Hubs are old, older than anything else in Asiana.” She clasped her hands together. “Perhaps something has gone wrong with them, something with their mechanics that we cannot even begin to guess at. Or perhaps they pine for the Ones.”
“You talk as if the Hubs are alive,” said Kyra, goose bumps erupting on her skin.
“And why should they not be?” countered Felda. “Think of the Hubs as one vast mind. Parts of that mind are falling into disuse or madness. Other parts are perfectly aware of that, and still functioning valiantly.”
“But what about the things I saw?” asked Kyra.
“Kalishium is the key that unlocks the doors,” Felda mused. “Kalishium, that can look into our minds and know our every thought. Perhaps the visions came to you through the blades you carried. Perhaps they are simply what the doors chose to show you. As for losing time, I think that must have been an error made by the Hub. If you consider that the doors move us using dimensions that we cannot see, a mistake in that calculation would explain the lost time. Still, we must all approach that particular Hub with caution from now on.”
“Yes, Elder,” said Kyra dutifully.
But inside, she was remembering the dreams that had haunted her since childhood—dreams of a door that opened up to swallow her, casting her into the emptiness beyond. She had learned to her horror that this door actually existed in the secret Hub. And she had seen its image carved on a pillar in the hall where Shirin Mam had given her one last lesson in words of power. For each of us it is different, Shirin Mam had said. For you, a door. For me, it was a blade. This word of power tells us how we will leave the world.
Chapter 9
Up the Holy Mountain
The village of Bankot clung to the foothills of Kunlun Shan, a ragged cluster of huts that looked as if they would be washed away by the next landslide. The wind whistled down the slopes, bringing the scent of pine and the promise of snow.
Rustan sat on a tree stump outside the lone teahouse and gazed at the mountains in awe. He had stopped in the village at noon to rest his horse and eat, and in all that time he had been unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent peaks that pierced the tattered clouds above.
“You’ll die out there,” said one of the four oldsters sitting on the rickety bench opposite him. “Just like all the others.” His companions grunted in agreement and sipped apricot tea, looking for all the world as if they hadn’t stirred from that sunny spot in years.
“Have you been up the mountains yourself?” asked Rustan.
One of them snorted. “Him? He hasn’t gone farther than the next field in the last twenty years.”
The first man scowled. “I’ve been to Igiziyar, haven’t I?”
“That was half a century ago,” cackled a third.
Rustan finished his tea and rose from the stump, shouldering his knapsack. He hadn’t been able to glean much information about the way ahead. The locals were either genuinely ignorant or suspicious of strangers, and he was reluctant to use the Inner Speech on them.
“Can I take the road through the valley of the Green Jade River?” he asked.
“It’s not much of a road anymore,” said the man who had first spoken. “A landslide blocked it many years ago. Take it if you want; you’ll have to abandon that pretty horse of yours.”
“Not worth risking your neck on those cliffs,” added the second man. “Ice Mother, Heart of Stone, and Snow Pyramid do not look kindly on trespassers.”
The three main peaks of Kunlun Shan. “Thank you for your advice,” said Rustan. “Perhaps I’ll go a little way and return.” He bowed to them and mounted his horse.
There was no coming back for him until he had found what he was looking for, but they didn’t need to know that. Rustan guided his horse toward the dried riverbed on the edge of Bankot, mulling over the little he had learned. The road must have been important once, before the landslide. He could follow it until the way was blocked and then try to find a path up the mountains. The air was clean and crisp, the sky a deep blue, and the voices within him silent. There was something uplifting in the names of the three peaks that towered above the rest: Ice Mother, Heart of Stone, Snow Pyramid. How hard could it be to find a way up Kunlun Shan? He was young and fit; he’d make it.
* * *
A couple of hours later, he wasn’t so sure. The path was strewn with boulders and his horse stumbled often on the loose stones. The boulders gradually became larger and the ground more uneven, until it was well-nigh impossible for the horse to find its footing.
Rustan dismounted and turned it aroun
d, giving it a pat.
“Go on,” he said. “Go back to the village. They’ll take care of you.”
The horse trotted away, and he continued on foot, clambering over the rocks, breathing hard from the exertion, yet feeling lighter than he had in weeks. Something in the mountains had called to him from all the way across the desert. Surely that something would not let him return empty-handed.
He arrived at a place where the boulders formed a solid wall in front of him, just as the old men had warned. He hunted around until he found a rough path—scarcely more than a goat track—that threaded up the sides of the range to his left, and he followed it.
The path wound uphill through a dense forest of oak, pine, and birch. An unseen bird called in alarm at his approach. Small animals darted away into the ground cover. Branches slashed at his face; pine needles and jagged stones caught on his boots. More than once, he had to use his mother’s blade to hack his way through the underbrush.
Rustan hoped to make his way above the tree line before nightfall, but dusk found him still in the forest, moving slower now as light stole out of the world and darkness closed like a fist. He paused to rest against a gnarled oak tree trunk and wiped the cooling sweat from his forehead.
He was considering whether to continue in the dark or search for a hollow bush to shelter beneath for the night, when something crashed madly through the undergrowth and the noxious smell of carrion assailed his nostrils.
Without hesitation, Rustan spun, grabbing the rough bark and digging his foot into a crack in order to haul himself up to the nearest branch. His heart pounded; the air around him vibrated with deep growling. There was a moment of stillness, and then the tree shook as a huge weight hurled itself against the trunk.
Rustan bit down his fear. It was an animal of some kind—but what kind of animal could make a massive oak tree tremble? He climbed faster, ignoring the cuts and scratches to his palms, praying that whatever it was couldn’t climb trees.
Midway up he stopped and risked a glance down. Nothing but darkness and that growling again, low and angry, setting his teeth on edge. The tree shook once more, and Rustan clutched the crooked branches he had lodged himself between. No. He would not let go. Sooner or later the tiger—if that’s what it was—would give up and go after other prey.
The night wore on, endless. Rustan grew stiff and cold. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, difficult to remember why he was there. But this was also part of his penance, was it not? To sit like this, though every limb ached, to hold his mother’s blade and repeat to himself, I am a Marksman of the Order of Khur. I am Rustan, a Marksman. I have a blade, though it is not mine. It will keep me safe.
At times he would hear the animal moving through the undergrowth, and the carrion smell would fade, and he would begin to hope that it had gone away. But always it came back, and the stench would wrap itself around his throat once more, as if to promise, I will not let you go.
In the mist of dawn, he woke from a restless, broken sleep filled with disturbing visions. He undid his knapsack and took a few sips from his waterskin, but they brought no relief to his parched mouth. And still the creature prowled around the base of the tree, waiting for him.
Was this to be the final sentence of his story? To be ripped apart by a wild animal that should not exist? Snap of neck, crunch of bone, and the grinding of meat. The door of death opening to welcome him in.
He closed his eyes, practiced breath control, and summoned his inner strength. And then he slid down the tree onto the fog-wrapped forest floor, though every molecule screamed against it. He fought against his own sense of self-preservation and opened himself up to whatever it was that stalked the forest.
“COME THEN,” he subvocalized in the Inner Speech. “KILL ME. I ACCEPT MY FATE. SEE, I WILL NOT RESIST YOU.” He let his mother’s blade drop from his hand onto the ground and waited, slowing his breath, stilling his fear.
The carrion smell grew overpowering. A massive striped creature approached, bigger than a tiger, bigger than any animal Rustan had heard tell. Thick, fetid breath blasted his face. Talons, long and sharp as knives, caressed his throat. Fangs, stained with the blood of hundreds of men, halted mere inches from his head. All this Rustan sensed and did not see, though he strained his eyes in the half-light.
You will see me better with your mind.
Rustan closed his eyes and sought the calm of a meditative trance. The form before him contracted and solidifed into the shape of a man, with the face of his mark. “I am innocent,” the mark said, tears running down his cheeks. “Please don’t kill me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rustan desperately. “Please . . .”
But it was too late. A katari buried itself in the man’s throat—Rustan’s katari.
“No!” cried Rustan, and broke out of his trance, sweating and shaking.
The man was gone.
So was the beast.
The dawn mist dissipated; somewhere a bird called, heralding sunrise.
Rustan sank against the tree trunk, trying to breathe. Trying to understand what had just happened. Was he truly beast-haunted, or had he imagined it all?
After a while, his pulse slowed, and he moved at last, retrieving Shirin Mam’s blade from the thick carpet of leaves and twigs on the forest floor. He was still alive, still on his quest.
He climbed without a break that day, despite his fatigue, determined to make it out of the forest before night fell again. Yet the sun had dipped below the horizon when the trees finally thinned and gave way to moss-coated rocks. He paused to catch his breath and saw the distant lake below the forest, twilight blue in the dusk.
There was no path now, only the merest suggestion of one. Still he continued to climb, convinced he was going in the right direction.
Darkness fell in earnest, and it began to rain: freezing rain mixed with snow that soaked his skin and chilled his bones. The going was treacherous; Rustan was reduced to crawling forward on his hands and knees, trying to find toe- and fingerholds in the icy stone. His face and hands became numb; the sweat froze on his forehead.
At last, hours later, he crept into the shelter of a little cave on the rock face. He collapsed on the floor, shivering and exhausted. His hand touched something smooth and hard, and he jerked away, wary.
A long thighbone gleamed in the dark. A rib cage curved above it, grotesque. Rustan pushed himself away as far as possible from the remains. A human body, decades old. Was this one of the seekers who had escaped the creature in the forest only to die of cold? He hoped some vision had come to the seeker before death closed his eyes, some truth or beauty to alleviate the pain of the end.
He slipped in and out of dreams, seeing strange shapes and faces. Once, he sensed the approach of an animal, its long, low form blocking the mouth of the cave. He felt no fear. The beast was within him, not without, and he would have welcomed the rank breath of a bear, the howl of a wolf, or the snarl of a leopard.
The rain stopped, and the wind sang outside. Pale moonlight shone into the cave, and he opened his eyes.
Two figures bent over him, their faces hidden by hoods. He tried to get up, but his legs would not obey him. For a moment he panicked, wondering if the cold had robbed him of the use of his limbs. But the men grasped his shoulders and helped him up and led him out of the cave.
He tried to speak, to ask them who they were, but no words emerged from his lips.
How he made it outside and up the moonlit path was a mystery, for his companions were slight of form and he felt only the lightest touch of their hands on his arms. He must have been walking on those useless legs of his, but he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him.
They rounded a steep bend, and the rectangular shape of a building obscured the moon. The edifice perched impossibly on the mountainside, rising out of it with what seemed like sheer will. It appeared to be made of stone; there were two levels topped by a wooden pagoda. A monastery? But the path ended before reaching the doors, and Rustan stopped in c
onfusion. There was nothing but a gaping chasm before him. His two companions urged him on, and he continued, hoping that a path existed even though he could not see it.
They walked—floated—on a trail Rustan could not see, until they reached the great wooden doors of the structure. The doors opened, and the warm yellow light of oil lamps welcomed them.
Once inside, Rustan could stay upright no longer. His legs buckled, and the two men eased him down onto soft rugs. They peeled off his wet clothes and rubbed his skin with rough, warm cloths. Pain crackled through his limbs as feeling returned.
Rustan’s saviors had removed their hoods, and he saw that they were old—older than Astinsai, the seer and katari mistress of Khur. Their withered faces and bald heads were covered with liver spots, their mouths innocent of teeth. Their scrawny necks gave them the appearance of ancient twin cranes. They were so thin beneath their loose saffron robes, Rustan wondered if they ate at all.
Despite their age, they had strong, fast hands, and they rubbed him down expertly until he began to think he would live after all. When he could sit up, one of them offered him a musty saffron robe and a cup of hot, strong tea, both of which he accepted with gratitude. He tried to thank them, but they waved at him to be quiet.
Rustan sipped the tea and blearily surveyed the room. Oil lamps set in the corners showed rough stone walls, a rug-covered floor, a battered kettle, a glimpse of rickety wooden steps winding up to the second story, and a dark opening at the back of the room—an opening to caves inside the mountain, he guessed. And the two monks, sitting opposite him with folded hands, faces split in wide, toothless grins.
He set down his cup. “Please, who are you?” he croaked. “Where are the others who live here?”
The monks glanced at each other, and then back at him. The answer came in a wave of sadness.
There are no others. We are the last of the Sahirus.
Mahimata Page 7