Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

  “What?” Kyra was flabbergasted. “Why would I turn back? Why should I not find the kalishium?”

  “You think this is an ordinary forest?” His pressure on her arm increased, and his eyes trapped her, blue and intense. Shirin Mam’s eyes. Shirin Mam’s son, who had taught her, and held her, and kissed her, and whom she still did not understand.

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of forest it is,” said Kyra, keeping her voice calm. “I have been called here, and I will stay until I find what I seek.”

  “It is your own death you seek,” said Rustan. “The forest is guarded by a beast you cannot kill, for it is born of your deepest fears. I am the first to have escaped it unscathed in many decades.”

  “Unscathed?” Kyra shook his hand off, anger growing inside her. “Are you sure of that? Perhaps the beast has damaged you in ways you cannot see.”

  “Would you rather it had ripped my arms off? Because that too can happen.” A note of frustration entered his voice. “Believe me, Kyra. This is not something you can fight.”

  “And yet I must, if I am to pass through the forest and climb the mountain,” said Kyra.

  He stepped back, and his face shuttered. “And if you were to vanquish the beast, and climb the mountain, and find the place where the kalishium is hidden—if you were to do all that, you would then have me to reckon with.”

  “What?” Kyra stared at him in dismay. “Why?”

  “The kalishium is not ours to do with as we wish,” said Rustan. “It is a legacy of the Ones, and it might contain their memories. This particular stash you are seeking is made in the images of the kings and queens of Asiana and their gods. They are too powerful and dangerous. Touch them, and you could lose yourself.”

  Kyra’s skin prickled; she wrapped her robe more closely around herself. “How do you know all this? And is it my safety you fear for, or the kalishium you wish to protect?”

  “Both,” he said. “Each image tells a story; destroy it, and the story is gone from us forever. I know this because I have been there and seen it with my own eyes.”

  Kyra shivered. She was cold, within and without.

  Rustan was not going to help her. He was going to try to stop her. And his reasoning was not without merit. After all, she hadn’t wanted to use the kataris of the long-dead Markswomen of Kali precisely because their memories were too important for the Order to lose.

  But she didn’t have the luxury of worrying about the ancient history of Asiana, not with war threatening the stability of her world and the safety of her people right now.

  “Kai Tau is killing innocent people in the Thar,” she said. “We will have to move against him soon. I must do whatever I can to gain the slightest advantage.”

  “There has to be another way to defeat him,” said Rustan. “Come back with me to Khur; let us show Barkav these weapon designs and ask Astinsai’s counsel. We will fight him together.”

  “Nothing can stand against the bullets of the dark weapons except kalishium,” argued Kyra. “And I don’t plan to take all of it—just one or two of the images you’re so concerned about.”

  “You will not take even one,” said Rustan, his voice like granite. “Not while I’m around to prevent it.” He folded his arms and regarded her, challenge in every line of his taut body.

  Kyra’s heart sank. He had made up his mind to stop her; she could see it. Nothing she said would make any difference.

  She had three choices now. She could give in. She could fight him. Or she could run.

  She ran. If she had stopped to think more about it, she could not have done it, could not have left Rustan, his face slack with disbelief, her own heartbreak reflected in his eyes. Don’t leave me. Don’t go.

  Branches slashed her face. Kyra hacked her way through the undergrowth, breathing hard, her eyes stinging. Behind her, Rustan gave chase. “Kyra!” he shouted. But his voice faded, and the forest closed around her, thick and watchful. As if it had been waiting for a chance to separate the two of them all along.

  She pushed aside her growing sense of dread and fought through the forest. It was what Rustan had done; he had battled with the beast and earned his way through. She would do no less. Had he not taught her, after all? And was she not the Mahimata of Kali, with the fate of Asiana resting on her shoulders?

  But the forest did not yield to her. She had to fight every step of the way. When darkness fell, she came to a halt, scratched and filthy, bleeding from a hundred tiny wounds.

  Now the beast will come.

  But it didn’t, not right away. Kyra spent the night leaning against the roots of a massive tree, trying not to succumb to sleep. The canopy closed above her, blotting out the night sky. No light but the light of her blade, no voice but her own. It had been stupid to run away from Rustan. Stupid to throw away the chance to be with him, fight with him. And for what? To walk circles in the labyrinth of this endless forest? Perhaps it would all be for nothing, and she would die, just as Rustan had warned.

  Something sparked a warning, and Kyra started. Not her own blade. Her katari lay unsheathed on her palm, giving her its light and comfort, small in the immensity of darkness that surrounded her.

  It was Tamsyn’s katari. Kyra withdrew it from the scabbard around her neck, and it blazed, red and triumphant, sending a thin current of courage and power into her veins. Kyra drew a deep breath and stilled herself. Her erstwhile enemy’s weapon was now her ally. Tamsyn would have appreciated the irony of this, perhaps even applauded it.

  A great roar split the night, and Kyra leaped to her feet, her pulse racing. Something huge crashed through the undergrowth, and a smell of carrion assaulted her senses, making her gag.

  Goddess protect me. Kyra fell into the stance of Twin Blades at Dawn, her arms crossed in front of her face, a blade in each hand. A deep growling shook the ground, setting her teeth on edge.

  “Come on, then,” she shouted. “I am here. I am ready for you.”

  Something moved to her right, but when she twisted her neck, she saw nothing. And then it was behind her. No, to her left. Kyra spun, holding her stance, keeping it in front of her. It prowled always at the periphery of her vision, but she sensed enough to know that it was huge, clawed, and fanged.

  Then it stood directly before her, and her eyes skittered over it, because it was impossible—such things did not exist. Should not exist. Like an unholy cross between a wyr-wolf and a tiger, only much, much bigger. The head alone was wider than the span of her arms. The eyes glowed crimson, and the fangs curved like tusks. And she thought she could kill it?

  “Attack, why don’t you?” she screamed, and it sprang.

  Kyra closed her eyes and opened herself to the first-level meditative trance. To fight in the trance was terribly risky—Chintil had warned against it—but she had no choice. She needed to slow down time if she didn’t want her bones crushed in those massive jaws.

  Time elongated, and the beast flew at her in slow motion. Kyra’s own body moved much faster, her right hand already reaching back to throw the katari in a killing strike. But as the beast sprang, it metamorphosed. It dissolved, lengthened, shifted, until it resembled nothing so much as a man. And not just any man.

  Rustan. Kyra had no time to stop the flow of her own body in response to the threat. Perhaps, if it were just her own katari that she had been wielding, she could have controlled it. But as the figure solidified, Tamsyn’s blade flew from her hand into his heart, and shattered into a million pieces.

  Kyra fell out of the trance, screaming Rustan’s name. Her hand—the one that had held Tamsyn’s katari—burned as if it had been set on fire. Her own blade had gone cold and quiet in her other hand.

  After a while, she made herself stop screaming. The forest was still, silent but for her own heavy breathing. No beast, no Rustan corpse stained the ground before her. A dream, but for the fact that Tamsyn’s katari was gone. She felt its absence like a pit in her stomach. It had been with her so long, she had taken its power for granted
. Without it, she felt smaller, diminished.

  No, not diminished. Just plain Kyra with her own katari, the way it was meant to be.

  She kissed her blade and coaxed a tiny, answering spark from it. Goodbye, Tamsyn, she thought, and swallowed a lump in her throat. Odd that she should feel grief. Tamsyn had been a killer and had met a much-deserved end. While she’d held Tamsyn’s blade, though, it was as if a part of Tamsyn was still with her. Not the murderous, apprentice-torturing part, but the part that hungered, that felt pain, that knew the darkness she had fallen into. Kyra thought back to what she had seen of Tamsyn’s past—the harsh life on the streets, the murder of her brother—and felt regret. What might Tamsyn have been under different circumstances?

  But there was no changing the past. And holding on to it only embittered you and made you undeserving of the present. Kyra had fantasized enough about her own dead family to know that.

  She took a few swallows from her waterskin. Dawn’s light filtered through the trees, and the forest awoke around her. Birdsong filled the air.

  It was time to move on.

  * * *

  Kyra continued to climb all that day, and as she walked, she replayed the encounter in her mind. Why had the beast taken on Rustan’s face and form when she went into the first-level meditative trance? Had she actually hurt him in some way? She prayed not; she hoped he had given up on her, gone back through the door to the Deccan Hub, and returned to Kashgar.

  Her mind chased itself in circles, and her body ached as the climb grew steeper. Exhaustion began to wrap itself around her, until it was sheer force of will that made her carry on.

  Her thoughts went to Nineth. Her friend was tired too. Kyra didn’t know how she knew this, or where Nineth was—just that the ache in her limbs mirrored Nineth’s. Stay safe, she thought, as if Nineth could hear her. Come back home.

  Finally, just when she was ready to drop, the trees thinned, and she emerged above the tree line. The peaks of Kunlun Shan towered above her, majestic in the setting sun.

  The wind sharpened, and the path grew icy. She slipped and stumbled on the sharp stones, but she never once thought of stopping. Time was her enemy now; it circled like a hungry wolf. Every hour that she spent resting was an hour that Kai Tau gained power.

  When she saw the stone edifice clinging to the rock face, her heart sang, even though she was numb with cold and it was a near-vertical climb. This was the monastery she sought; she was sure of it. The place Rustan had tried to prevent her from reaching.

  As night fell, she continued on her hands and knees, the going cruelly slow and hard. Her black robe was ripped; her palms bled. But the moon rose in the sky and shone on the path leading up to the monastery, lighting the way for her. She crawled forward, shivering, determined not to give in to the cold, the pain, and the fatigue.

  Just a little more. You can do it. Her teacher’s voice—or her own?

  And then she was at the massive doors, and they swung open, and a figure stepped out. Rustan. Another illusion.

  But he bent down and picked her up and rubbed his face against her cold cheek, melting away the horror of what she had been through. “I thought I’d lost you again,” he said, and his face was wet with tears.

  Chapter 22

  A Duel and a Theft

  Rustan carried her inside the monastery and laid her down, wrapping her in moth-eaten blankets that smelled musty but were warm. She tried to tell him what she had seen, how the beast had taken his form and how she had killed it, but she sounded incoherent even to her own ears. At last, he stroked her cheek and shushed her.

  “We can talk tomorrow,” he said. “You will do no good to anyone if you fall sick.” He turned his head this way and that, as if listening for someone. “I wish they were here,” he muttered, before pushing a bowl toward her lips. “Drink—hot butter tea will do you good.”

  Kyra took a sip and almost spat the tea out. By the Goddess, it was as bad as one of Navroz Lan’s brews. Rustan cajoled her to keep sipping it, though, and she felt better when it was inside her, warmth and life returning to her limbs.

  “Rest now,” he said. “Honestly, you must be the most stubborn creature to walk this planet. You should have listened to me and returned to the Hub. I don’t know what the monks will make of you.”

  What monks? They were alone in a large, lamp-lit room. It didn’t look as if anyone had lived here for a long time; the fireplace was cold and dark, and the air smelled of dust—the kind of thick dust that takes years to accumulate. The only bit of heat came from the stove; Rustan must have lit it to make that awful, salty tea.

  Drowsiness took hold of her. She was warm, she was safe, she was reunited with Rustan, and the kalishium was close. She could afford to sleep for a few hours.

  * * *

  Kyra woke to sunlight and birdsong. She felt rested and clear-eyed. Rustan had thrown open the doors of the monastery, and the fresh morning breeze had chased away the musty odor of the previous night. A pot bubbled on the stove, giving off a rather dubious aroma.

  “Breakfast,” said Rustan cheerfully. “Not as good as they make it, but I found a few things that haven’t gone bad. Not all the way bad.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” she asked, sitting up.

  “The last of the Sahiru sect,” said Rustan, ladling gruel into a bowl and passing it to her. “They saved my life. They taught me so much. I was with them for a while before I went to the Thar Desert to look for Ishtul.”

  “But no one has lived here for years,” Kyra pointed out. “You can see that for yourself.”

  He had no answer, but she could see that he didn’t understand their absence and it made him unhappy.

  They ate in silence. Kyra was loath to break it, but at last, when the frugal meal was over, she could put off her question no longer. “Where is the kalishium?” she asked. “We should take it and be on our way. If we leave soon, we could be at the Hub by nightfall. I don’t fancy another night in the forest.” As if it was just a matter of logistics and Rustan would fall in with whatever she suggested.

  “I cannot let you take the kalishium,” said Rustan, gentle yet implacable.

  Kyra threw up her hands. “Why?” she cried. “How can it matter more than the lives we might save?”

  “The images here are also alive, in a way different from our blades,” said Rustan. “You would be killing something precious.”

  Kyra gritted her teeth. “I will deal with the guilt. It will be my burden, not yours.”

  “You misunderstand,” said Rustan. “In the absence of the Sahirus, the guardianship of this monastery and all it contains falls to me. I can no more let you desecrate it than I can commit such an act myself.” He stood, relaxed and ready, and gave her a tender smile. “I love you, Kyra Veer,” he said, and it was true, but she realized to her horror that it didn’t change anything. He would not yield on this, because he thought he was right. She wanted to cry.

  Instead she rose, drawing in her strength.

  Anticipate me, or all the moves of all the schools in Asiana will not keep you on your feet.

  She blinked, startled. But it was only a memory, an echo of a time when Rustan had stood beside her, teaching her how to fight, preparing her for the duel with Tamsyn Turani.

  She would not draw her blade, no matter what he did. And with that thought, Kyra flowed into the dance of Empty Hands. She fell into Hidden Snake stance, and he responded with Striking Mongoose. She answered with Flying Arrow, and he blocked with Rhino’s Tusk.

  Kick, parry, retreat, punch, withdraw, sidestep, block, and thrust, switching forms every time. And all of it nothing but a show, a match with no end. Kyra made her moves, anticipating every one of Rustan’s, and he did the same. The blood pounded in her ears and her breath came short and sharp. He didn’t even look winded.

  I know you, Rustan, and you know me too well. With that thought, Kyra let her arms fall and allowed Rustan to kick her so that she flew across the room and landed with a painful thud a
gainst the stone wall. For a moment she could not breathe. Then the pain sank in and she moaned. Her head hurt where she had hit it against the wall. Her chest felt as though it were on fire. She hoped she hadn’t broken a rib. So soon after her old wound had healed too. Navroz would disown her.

  Rustan ran across the room and crouched by her side. “I’ve hurt you,” he said, his face taut with worry. “Why did you not block that? You saw it coming . . .”

  Yes, I did. Kyra swallowed her pain and summoned the Inner Speech before he could come to his senses:

  “YOU WILL LIE DOWN ON THE FLOOR. YOU WILL NOT MOVE OR SPEAK.”

  Rustan froze as the mental bonds settled on him. Then he dropped like a stone to the floor.

  Good. She would never have been able to do this if she hadn’t caught him unawares. Perhaps a bit of Tamsyn’s power still clung to her, despite the loss of her katari. Kyra dragged herself to her feet, massaging her chest. She put all her remaining strength into her voice, hoping it would be enough:

  “YOU WILL STAY HERE UNTIL I RELEASE YOU.”

  His slate-blue eyes followed her, full of shock at her betrayal.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “I’m doing what I must.” But her heart clenched within her as she stumbled away from him, leaning against the wall for support.

  She’d tricked him; she’d broken the rules. Never use Inner Speech against another Marksman or Markswoman.

  She was no better than Shurik, no better than Tamsyn. Shirin Mam would have exiled her from the Order and confiscated her blade.

  But Shirin Mam was gone; the rules were made for times of peace, not war. She needed the kalishium to defeat Kai Tau. Even at the cost of hurting the one person whom she loved above all others.

  * * *

  Menadin had said that the kalishium was secreted in a cave in the monastery. Kyra explored the room, running her hands over the rough walls. It did not take her long to find the dark opening that led inside the mountain; it had been blocked by a heap of rotting firewood, as if that could hide it. She kicked it aside and bent to enter.