Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

“It is,” said Menadin. “Remember what I told you about our two worlds being connected? Asiana stands on the brink of chaos. If the Orders fall, Wyr-mandil will cease to exist.”

  “Help me, then.” Kyra leaned forward. “The first battle will be fought tomorrow night near the Temple of Valavan.” She recounted what had happened in the Deccan, how Kai Tau had split his forces and surrounded the temple. “There are at least three, perhaps four kalashiks with them,” she said. “We have a chance of taking on all four or five hundred of the soldiers—but not if their kalashiks warn them of our presence. The dark weapons would ignore you.”

  Menadin stroked his chin. “The kalashiks would ignore us at first. But the instant we attack, we are as good as dead. My people hate and fear the death-sticks. Far more than your kataris.”

  “Of course,” said Kyra. “There is no comparison. The kalashiks are deformed, evil of intent. Do I not know this? They have no place in Asiana.”

  “Then get rid of them,” said Menadin.

  “How?” asked Kyra. “They cannot be cut, burned, buried, or drowned.”

  “You are the Mahimata of Kali,” said Menadin, frowning. “If you truly wish it, you will find a way. A door, perhaps, that waits for you to open it. Swear to me in the name of your clan that you will at least try.”

  The breath left Kyra’s body. A door that waits for you to open it. She knew such a door. It had haunted her dreams since childhood. Its image was carved on the last pillar in the hall where Shirin Mam had taught her about words of power. The last time Kyra had seen it, the door was slightly open. She knew, without a doubt, that if she returned to the hall and that pillar, the door would appear to have opened wider still. The time to use it was drawing near.

  “What’s the matter?” growled Menadin, not understanding the emotions rippling through her. “Do you or do you not swear?”

  “I swear it,” she whispered. “I will do all in my power to rid Asiana of the dark weapons, even if it brings my own death closer.”

  Menadin rubbed his hands. “Good. Then we shall help you, even though you have not yet brought us the promised kalishium.”

  “I have procured the kalishium,” she said. “But I must take it to the katari mistress of Khur to forge into shields. I will ask her to leave a small piece for me, and I will bring it back to you.”

  “Then you have done well indeed,” said Menadin. “My people will be pleased. It will be something for me to barter with, when I ask the Deccan pack to risk their lives for you.”

  “What?” She was dismayed. “Then you won’t be there?”

  “I run in the Ferghana Valley,” he reminded her. “Many days’ travel from the Temple of Valavan, even at our speed.”

  “I could use the Hub to bring you here,” she said, without pausing to think.

  They both stared at each other, for what Kyra had suggested was so radical, even Menadin was rendered speechless.

  Chapter 26

  The Land of the Living

  A strong, musky odor, like that of a wolf, stole across the room, jerking Rustan out of the first-level meditative trance.

  Two days had passed—perhaps three—since Kyra had left, and her bonds no longer held him. Yet he had not pursued her. He had roamed the caves behind the monastery, feeling his way in the dark, not caring if he got lost and could not find his way back. All of his life thus far had felt like that: a blind movement in the dark toward death and oblivion.

  But always his feet took him back to the cavern with the kalishium images; always the light of the Seeing Stone banished the worst of his bitter thoughts, leaving him lighter, stronger, until at last he turned his back on the caves and sat on the dusty floor of the main room to meditate.

  The bright rays of the morning sun angled across the room, trapping dust motes in a ghostly dance. Rustan could not remember having opened the door of the monastery. And there was that smell, alien yet familiar. He stood, wary, reaching for his mother’s blade.

  A huge, gray-furred beast with a long snout and pointed, black-tipped ears materialized at the doorway. A wyr-wolf. Twice as large as an ordinary wolf and far more dangerous. Rustan swallowed and gripped his blade. The wyr-wolf prowled into the monastery, swishing its bushy tail, regarding him with light yellow eyes with what could have been curiosity. Or hunger. Do they eat people? Rustan couldn’t recall having heard anything to the contrary. Not that he’d heard much; the Order of Khur, despite its ancient reverence for wyr-wolves, hadn’t had any actual encounters with them, living as it did in the Empty Place.

  As if it had read his mind, the wyr-wolf dropped to its haunches. Sitting, it was no less powerful, but it was less threatening—maybe it wasn’t planning on eating him after all. It raised a massive paw and began to lick it with a long, forked tongue.

  Rustan sheathed his mother’s blade and knelt, forcing his breathing to slow. The wyr-wolf wasn’t here to attack him. Its purpose was different, and if he was patient and did not succumb to fear, he might discover it.

  A small brown wren flew down from the open door of the monastery to the floor, distracting Rustan. It scratched the floor, searching, perhaps, for insects. Fly away, little one, before you are gobbled up. But the bird, with a complete disregard for its safety, hopped closer to the wyr-wolf, and then right through it.

  Rustan blinked and memory returned, sharp with clarity. He had seen this apparition before in the death hut of the Ersanis, a clan of cultivators and carpet weavers. The villagers had told him it was Varka, their ancestral spirit, and they had claimed to be descended from wyr-wolves. Seeing the spirit had saved both Rustan and Samant, the Master of Meditation, from the wrath of the villagers. They had told him it was exceedingly lucky to be able to glimpse the spirit. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, grateful just to be able to make his escape with the elder without having to resort to killing anyone.

  Now here was the ghostly wyr-wolf once again, quite far from its ancestral grounds.

  “Varka?” whispered Rustan. The wyr-wolf stopped licking its paw and yawned, revealing two rows of hideous fangs. Fangs that could tear Rustan’s limbs off.

  But the wyr-wolf didn’t appear to be very interested in him, for all that it had manifested in front of his eyes. It rose, shook its massive head, and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” called Rustan, scrambling to his feet.

  Varka stopped at the door. He turned his head and regarded Rustan with that same expression of curiosity.

  “Aren’t you going to . . .?” Rustan’s voice caught. “Aren’t you going to tell me anything before you leave?”

  You are not your father or your mother.

  Rustan took a deep breath. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Return to the land of the living.

  And then he vanished.

  Rustan exhaled, staring at the spot where Varka had disappeared, as if he could will him back. He went to the door and studied the ground, although he knew it was pointless. No paw prints embellished the muddy path that led down from the monastery. No tuft of fur, no rattle of stones, no echo of that voice.

  The wind blew soft against Rustan’s face, birds called in the trees, and he closed his eyes. He felt hollow inside, as if he teetered at the edge of an abyss or a revelation, he didn’t know which. There was nothing to anchor himself to. The Sahirus were gone. He had failed to rescue Ishtul. The Order of Khur felt far away. And Kyra . . .

  Kyra had tricked and betrayed him.

  It was this, somehow, that hurt the most. He had found her and lost her, found her again, only to lose her yet again in the most devastating way. He understood why she had done it, but understanding did not make it any easier to bear. It did not lessen the hurt. And it did not excuse what she had done.

  If you love me, fight by my side.

  Ironic, that she should talk of love after having used Compulsion to bind him.

  No, Kyra, if you love me, then free my bonds and return the image.

  That’s what he would have said,
if he had been capable of speaking.

  He would fight the menace that loomed over Asiana because it was his duty to do so—personal feelings did not enter into it, although he did still love Kyra, even after what she had done to him. Love was not something that could be granted or withheld based on reason. But his love now had a painful edge to it, like a hook in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

  It was time to leave the monastery. His penance was over, and he had done what he could for the Sahirus. What had Varka said?

  Return to the land of the living.

  Rustan went back inside and packed his knapsack. He gathered his things, forced himself to eat the remaining gruel, and filled his waterskin from the stream outside. All the while, his heart ached, as if he were going into exile rather than returning from it.

  Chapter 27

  Return to Ferghana

  It was much harder than Kyra had anticipated to use the Ferghana and Deccan Hubs to Transport Menadin and eleven of his pack members to the Temple of Valavan. The first hurdle was Faran Lashail’s council of elders. They claimed the temple was a sacred place and the presence of wyr-wolves would pollute it eternally.

  “You use wyr-wolf blood in your ceremonies,” Kyra pointed out. “You have wyr-wolf pelts in your halls. Why is a dead wyr-wolf more acceptable than a living one?”

  “That is different,” one of the elders argued. “We offer them as sacrifice.”

  “As you have agreed to ban the killing of wyr-wolves, that practice will have to cease,” Kyra returned. “And I do think it would be better for you to remove all pelts from the Hall of Reflection, because that is where the wyr-wolves will pass. I will escort them out of the temple at once. I’m quite sure they will not wish to linger here. They are creatures of the forest and the mountains.”

  “Then that is where they should remain,” muttered another Markswoman.

  “They come to help us,” said Kyra for the hundredth time. “They will be risking their lives.”

  In the end, Faran Lashail agreed, on the condition that Kyra accompany the wyr-wolves at all times and act as translator. She seemed to think Kyra could communicate with them freely, and Kyra did not disabuse her of that belief. Things were difficult enough without making them more so.

  “And you should talk to your elders,” Faran added. “Alert them to the danger we are in and your plan to seek the wyr-wolves’ help. They may have advice for you.”

  Faran was right. Kyra had to let her elders know what had transpired in Kunlun Shan and the threat the Temple of Valavan was facing. Besides, the kalishium image would be safer in the caves of Kali. Rustan would follow her as soon as he could, and if he found it in the Transport Chamber, he would almost certainly return it to the monastery.

  Derla accompanied Kyra down to the Deccan Hub and bade her farewell. Kyra retrieved the kalishium image from the Kunlun Transport Chamber, relieved to see that it was still there, still intact. The lack of a direct door between the Deccan and the Ferghana Hubs meant not only that she would have to take two doors to get home, but that her job of herding the wyr-wolves to the temple would be twice as hard.

  Herding. As if they were sheep. She remembered Menadin’s fangs and pressed her lips together. She had best not make the mistake of thinking them tame or altruistic. The wyr-wolves had goals of their own, and in this case, their goals aligned with hers—to rid Asiana of its dark weapons and stabilize Wyr-mandil. Even then, Menadin had put a price on their aid.

  Kyra took the door to the connecting Hub, and then the second one to the Ferghana. As she sat down to wait in the Transport Chamber, she realized with a start that Transport no longer terrified her. The mind that was behind the Hubs had thrown her into a warring past and a dead future. It had shown her visions and made her lose time. But it hadn’t hurt her, not yet. And one day, a door would open into darkness that would take her away from everything she knew and loved.

  But that day was not here, not now. When the room stopped spinning, Kyra rose and exited the door with a sense of inner calm that she knew would have made Shirin Mam proud. She emerged from the Hub and breathed the familiar air of the sun-drenched Ferghana Valley, gladness stealing into her heart. The snow had melted, and spring would soon fill the green valley with wildflowers. If not for the burden on her back, it would have been a perfect homecoming.

  Elena was the first to sense her return. Her friend came bounding up the hill to meet her with very un-Elena-like excitement, her plaits flying behind her, as she trailed a scent of sacred basil and mint. She must have been working with her beloved herbs.

  They embraced, Elena half laughing, half crying, and Kyra felt the familiar tug of guilt in her heart. She had left those who loved her behind, and she would have to leave them again soon.

  To her surprise, Akassa came running to meet her as well and gave her a fierce hug that warmed her heart. She held the girl out at arm’s length and smiled. “Did you know I was back too?” she asked.

  “Elena knew you were back,” said Akassa, “and I always know what Elena is thinking.” A shared look of affection passed between the two girls—a look that excluded Kyra. But the twinge Kyra felt was not of jealousy, but of wonderment. And relief too, that Elena had someone to rely on and comfort her. That they had each other.

  As they walked down the hill, Kyra gave the two girls a condensed version of what had transpired, leaving Rustan out. Their eyes widened as Kyra described the secret hoard of kalishium she had discovered and the image she had borrowed—stolen—from the cave. But when she came to the part about using wyr-wolves to help the Order of Valavan, Elena shook her head.

  “The elders won’t like it,” she said flatly. “They’ll have visions of you being torn limb from limb. Kyra, can you actually control the wyr-wolves?”

  No, of course not. The very idea was absurd. Before Kyra could speak, though, they had arrived at the entrance to the caves of Kali, where the elders stood waiting for her, a mix of emotions emanating from them: joy and relief tempered with wariness, as if they sensed that she intended to implement a dangerous and unorthodox plan.

  Kyra set down the rug-wrapped image and straightened her shoulders. “I have succeeded in obtaining the kalishium, Elders,” she announced.

  “And in not dying,” said Navroz, a touch acerbically, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

  “My codes worked,” said Felda, unable to conceal her triumph. “You didn’t have any trouble with the door, did you?”

  “Not exactly,” Kyra hedged. She was loath to tell them what the Kunlun door had shown her, but she had to let them know how dangerous doors that had shifted could still be, Felda’s codes notwithstanding.

  A look of alarm crossed the mathematician’s face. “What happened?” she demanded. “Tell me quickly!”

  “What Kyra should do first is take a bath,” interjected Mumuksu. “What she should do second is eat a meal in the communal kitchen, so everyone can greet her. Then we will talk.”

  Felda grumbled a bit, and Kyra shot Mumuksu a grateful look. Elena called the novices, and together they lugged the kalishium into the central cavern of Kali, with strict injunctions not to unwrap the image.

  It was lovely to take a proper bath in the small rock-filled pool not far from the caves. The cherry trees that surrounded it would soon be in full bloom, and Kyra was reminded of all the times she had played here with Elena and Nineth when they were younger, splashing water on each other and diving down to the sandy, weed-covered bottom.

  She felt a wave of shame when she remembered how she had thrown Nineth’s blade into the funerary chamber lake. It was not something she could ever forget, but in the chaos of all that had happened since she took the door to Kunlun Shan, she had pushed the memory to one side. If she came out of the battle of Valavan intact, she would find a way to retrieve the katari and contact her friend. She would beg her forgiveness. With Tamsyn’s blade gone, she could see even more clearly how it had held her in its thrall. Her actions in the funerary cha
mber felt both foolish and inexplicable.

  For a few precious moments, she allowed herself to relax to the sound of water tumbling down the rock face behind her and the warmth of the sun on her face, contrasting with the coolness of the water. Then, reluctantly, she rose and dried herself and headed back into the caves.

  Tarshana had prepared a delicious meal of vegetable pilaf and creamy yoghurt. Kyra sat cross-legged on the kilim-covered kitchen floor and ate with relish. Akassa insisted on serving her; she grinned and winked at Kyra as she bent to put the plate in front of her. Kyra nodded and smiled when anyone else in the kitchen caught her eye. Which, admittedly, was not very often.

  “What’s wrong with them all?” she muttered to Elena, who was seated next to her. “Why aren’t they looking at me?”

  “Because you’re the Mahimata, you ninny,” Elena whispered back, and Kyra burst into laughter. It was almost like old times. Not quite, of course. Nineth was missing.

  At least she still had Elena. And Akassa, and Tonar, and Sandi, and Noor, and all the rest. How few they were, how tight they would have to hold on to each other, their way of life. This was her world, worth living for and worth dying for.

  After the meal, Kyra went to Shirin Mam’s cell—she still couldn’t think of it as hers—where the elders awaited her. They sat on the rug, rapt, as she told them what had happened—once again, she omitted mention of Rustan. Surely it was not relevant, she told herself. She had met Rustan through happenstance, nothing more. But she remembered how the Hub had brought them together and felt a stab of unease. She couldn’t keep him out of the story indefinitely, for she would also have to confess her crime of using Compulsion on him sooner or later.

  Felda was dismayed at what Kyra had to say about the door to Kunlun Shan. “It took you where?” she said, stunned. “It showed you what?”

  Kyra began to repeat herself, but Felda held up a hand. “Don’t tell me,” she said grimly. “I need to go back and check my formulae.”

  Navroz and Mumuksu shared a quick, worried glance, and Kyra suppressed her mirth. It was quite obvious what they thought Felda should do with her precious formulae. But they wouldn’t dare say it aloud. The Order of Kali had always revered its mathematicians, and Felda was one of the most gifted they had ever had.