Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

  Maybe Faran had taken her words seriously, about how Markswomen could not pass on their talents to future generations because they did not have children. Maybe Faran had decided to put this to the ultimate test. And who better to test this on than Rustan, whom Kyra herself had foolishly revealed as one of the best in the Order of Khur?

  No, she was being ridiculous.

  Still, no harm in checking out what exactly they were up to. Kyra gripped her blade and started down the corridor.

  She stole up to the door, laid her hand on it, and held her breath. She heard a murmur of voices, indistinct, and again that low laugh, almost seductive in its tone.

  Kyra threw open the door and leaped in, ready to pounce.

  Eight bewildered faces gazed at her from around a table covered with maps. Faran rose. “Ah, Kyra. Just the person we needed,” she said. “I was about to send for you.” She paused, frowning. “Why is your katari in your hand?”

  “Oh, this?” Kyra sheathed the katari, her face hot. “I don’t know. I’m still all jumpy from the battle.” And my brain is not working properly.

  “And the blanket?” said Rustan, his mouth quirking into a grin.

  “I’m cold,” said Kyra. She sat on one of the chairs, wrapping the blanket around herself, not looking at him. She emptied her mind so they would not see how flustered she was. Although she could tell that Rustan knew.

  “Well, thank you for joining us,” said Faran. She smoothed the edges of a detailed, hand-drawn map on the table, and pointed. “The Tau clan has set up camp in a village called Jethwa, fifty miles from the door in Jhelmil. It is likely that the door is being watched now. If we want to use it to Transport people and weapons, we will first have to take down the spies. Or else find another door. Time is of the essence.” She turned to Rustan. “You have been there. Tell us what you found.”

  As Rustan began to speak of his journey to Jethwa and how he had burned Kai Tau’s weapons forge, Kyra allowed herself to relax. All eyes were on him, so hers could be too, with no one the wiser. There was a bandage on the side of his face, and his eyes betrayed exhaustion, but otherwise he appeared to be fine.

  She wished, suddenly, that they were alone, and she could get a detailed account from him of what had happened. She longed to tell him about Menadin, their unlikely friendship and his ultimate sacrifice.

  She would never be able to tell him about Shirin Mam, though. It would hurt him too much. Just like it hurt her. Pain and anger squeezed her heart. Shirin Mam had loved her enough to die by her own hand. But she had not trusted Kyra with the truth, had instead let Kyra believe a lie.

  But Menadin was right. If Kyra had not been so blinded by her own prejudice, she would have known the truth without anyone’s help. Shirin Mam had once taught Tamsyn. Tamsyn had sworn an unbreakable oath to Shirin Mam when Shirin became the Mahimata of Kali—just as all the Markswomen were now sworn to Kyra. The Mistress of Mental Arts could not have killed her own teacher. Not without paying a grave price.

  But Kyra had run away from the Order of Kali before Tamsyn was inducted as the new Mahimata. Kyra had never sworn to Tamsyn, and so she was able to challenge her to a duel in the Hall of Sikandra without breaking a blood oath.

  It made sense, but it felt wrong. Tamsyn did not deserve to be in a position of power, perhaps, but she had not deserved to die. Kyra remembered how she had died—carried away by the swirling waters where once her own father had tried to drown her—and felt a deep sadness. She was glad she no longer carried the burden of either teacher’s blade.

  “Kyra?” Faran’s voice was loud, as if this was the third or fourth time she was trying to get her attention.

  Kyra snapped guiltily back to the present. “Sorry, I . . . I was thinking over what everyone said.”

  “And your conclusion?” said Faran, tapping the map. “Which door should we use, and when?”

  “I must discuss this with my elders,” said Kyra, hoping she sounded lucid. “But we have another door to the Thar Desert, to the west of Jethwa. Although it is farther than the Jhelmil door to the Tau camp, the advantage is that it is well hidden and will not be watched. I propose that we use both doors and coordinate our assault to surround the camp. The Order of Kali can lead the first attack from the west, throwing the Taus into disarray. The Order of Valavan can follow by attacking from the east.”

  “So even if they have spies, it will do little good,” said Faran thoughtfully. “They will already be under attack, and you will draw off their forces to the west. Before they can counter us, we will encircle them.”

  “We don’t know how many fighters they have gained in the past few days,” said one of the elders—the Mistress of Combat, Kyra guessed. “Nor if they have succeeded in building the weapons the young Marksman mentioned.” She nodded at Rustan. “But we had best move fast. I will summon the clan elders of the Deccan to contribute soldiers and weapons. And you, Mahimata, what do you propose? Will you return to the caves of Kali to prepare your Order?”

  “Yes,” said Kyra, “but first, I need something from Astinsai, the katari mistress of Khur.”

  There were raised eyebrows at this; apparently Rustan had not told them about the kalishium or her plan for using it to make shields. Good.

  “What do you need from her?” said Faran. “The Order of Khur is five days’ journey from any usable door. Anything can happen in that much time.”

  “It’s vital,” said Kyra. “Something that might help save lives. Please,” she added when the elders sitting around the table frowned. “You’ve trusted me this far—believe me when I say it’s crucial. We need ten days anyway to mobilize our fighters. And we need the Order of Khur by our side.”

  Rustan stirred. “I will accompany you,” he said. “I must report to Barkav, and the Desert of No Return isn’t the safest of places to travel alone.”

  Kyra was about to argue that she didn’t need his protection when Faran said, “You should stay here and recover from your wound, Marksman. Kyra can fill in the Order of Khur on your behalf. A Markswoman is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

  Although this was exactly what Kyra had been about to say, what she said instead was “Of course I am capable of looking after myself, but I carry something more precious than any of you can imagine. It would be wise to have more than one person on this journey, one to keep watch while the other sleeps.” No way she was leaving Rustan with the Order of Valavan, not with Faran Lashail regarding him with such open interest.

  And so it was decided, without any more words being said. At dusk the next day, when Kyra escorted the wyr-wolves back to the Ferghana Valley, Rustan went with her.

  Part IV

  Fragment of parchment found in Kunlun Shan

  Our time is coming to an end. All things end, and this should not grieve us, but it does. We grieve not for ourselves but for Asiana. Once the last Sahiru is gone from this world, the last living link with the Araini will break. The world will forget us. But it should not forget the Araini. It should not stop hoping for their return.

  We remember the Araini, even though they left before we were born. For we have the memories of the first Sahiru, just as we have the memories of the last one.

  The first Sahiru was Vamika the Wise. She was part of the trade delegation sent to negotiate with the Araini when they landed in their vast, elegant ships on the Uzbek Plains. Like small planets they were, those leviathans. And now only one is left. It sits like an iceberg on top of a mountain, revealing a fraction of what it hides. There we will go when our work is done, as our elders have gone before us.

  Vamika the Wise stayed with the Araini in one of their ships to learn their language. It is said that her goal was not wisdom, but the securing of a better deal for her own people. But the longer she stayed, and the more she learned, the less inclined she was to leave. The day came at last when she mastered the language and became other-human, for she saw then our thousand-year history unfurl before her like a scroll. She saw humanity teete
r on the brink of greatness and misery, death and resurrection. She went into silence, knowing the terrible power of words. But the Araini sent her from their ship, bidding her work to the best of her abilities. Knowing the arc of history does not release us from the pain of living it.

  The Araini made three kinds of other-humans: Those who could bond with kalishium, so they could communicate their thoughts, even if they could not grasp the language of the Ones. Those who could, like the Araini themselves, change shape and heal wounds. The latter abilities were greatly coveted, and if not for the fact that most humans could not bear the pain of transformation, there would have been a stampede to their ships. Still, several hundred were successfully transformed by the Araini over the years, and they formed an important link between the Ones and the natural world of Asiana.

  But of us, the Sahirus, there will only ever be twenty-six. Very few can learn the language of the Araini. Fewer still can learn it and stay sane. And of our precious number, twelve died during the Great War alone, in an unprovoked and cowardly strike on our people.

  Few though we are in number, we have played our part. Did we not build the world where all other-humans may meet as equals? The world that will come to be called many names in many tongues, but which we will always call Anant-kal, the world beyond time. At the height of our powers, we used to meet our compatriots every new moon, gathering in a large hall in a beautiful city of gleaming towers and white domes—a mirror of the city that flourished on an island state in the Dead Sea.

  The real city was ravaged by war, the island sunk under the ocean. But the one in Anant-kal will outlast us all.

  Our end draws close.

  The last Sahiru is yet to be born. But we have seen him cross the desert and climb the mountain in search of our monastery. He will ride through a firestorm and crawl over icy stones to reach us. Bleeding from wounds unseen, stumbling in the dark of his mind—that is how we will find him.

  We must go forward to await him. We must teach him what we can, even though he will have little time with us. It will have to be enough. He is the key that will release us from our earthbound prison.

  This is the Araini’s gift to us—to know and to remember past and future, within the living memory of our sect. A thousand years of history, and it will die with us. None will find these scrolls. They will crumble to dust, and our monastery will fall to ruin. It will be the end of an age, and we cannot see what comes after.

  Yet we leave these seeds of knowledge in the hope that we are wrong. In the hope that some day, they will fall into the right hands and spread the light of truth.

  Chapter 33

  A Friend’s Fury

  It was a perfect evening, the residual warmth of the setting sun dispelling the last cold dreams of winter. Green shoots covered the Ferghana Valley with new life. Night birds sang, and squirrels chittered—sounds that were abruptly cut off when the wyr-wolves slouched out of the Ferghana Hub, close behind Kyra and Rustan.

  Kyra knelt in front of Sudali, the alpha female. “Thank you,” she said, her throat constricted. “I will not forget your bravery and sacrifice. And I will not forget my promise to Menadin.”

  Sudali locked eyes with Kyra. Till we meet again, Kyra Veer. She lowered her great head and rested it on Kyra’s shoulder before turning away. The wyr-wolves vanished behind the tamarisk bushes that covered the hill.

  Kyra rose and noticed Rustan breathing deeply, gazing at the twilit valley with awe.

  “Welcome to my home,” she said, smiling at his expression. How many times she had dreamed of this moment—to bring Rustan to the place that she loved above all others and introduce him to her “family.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Rustan. “You live in paradise. I can see why you risked your life to return to it.”

  Kyra cleared her throat. “Er, yes. Please follow me.” She turned so he could not see the flush on her cheeks. The memory of her duel with Tamsyn was forever tainted with the knowledge that Tamsyn, whatever else she was guilty of, had been innocent of the crime of killing the Mahimata of Kali. It hadn’t been a fair fight. Kyra wouldn’t have won a fair fight. She had gained the position of Mahimata because of Shirin Mam; she did not deserve or desire it. But there was no way out of it now. It made her feel helpless and angry and impotent all at once, because Shirin Mam was dead, beyond her reach. And so was Tamsyn.

  “If I see you again, Mother, I’ll throttle you,” she muttered.

  “Did you say something?” asked Rustan from behind her.

  “Nothing,” said Kyra. “Watch your feet, make sure you don’t sink into a burrow.”

  From the horse enclosure came a whinny, and Kyra couldn’t help grinning. Rinna knew she was back.

  Elena and Akassa should have known too, as well as the elders, but no one came to greet them. It was what Kyra had expected—she had, after all, brought a Marksman with her—but it still annoyed her.

  They reached the grassy meadow at the base of the hill, and Kyra pointed to the gnarled old mulberry tree that stood before the caves. “We often have classes here in good weather,” she told Rustan. “The novices pick the mulberries when they’re ripe and Tarshana—she’s our cook—makes the most delicious pies.”

  Rustan drank it all in, a wistful look on his face. Kyra longed to slip her hand into his, to smooth his furrowed brow. But they were within sight of the caves now, and she would have to be more careful. Instead, she tried to send him a wave of reassurance and comfort.

  I know what it is to lose a mother, twice over, she thought.

  The corners of his mouth twisted. “And yet I envy you, for you spent years with Shirin Mam that I did not. Isn’t that foolish of me?”

  Not foolish, no. It was natural. But Kyra did not trust herself to speak without betraying her own mixed feelings for her old teacher. “Let me show you the entrance to the caves,” she said. “You have to crawl the first few meters, but then it broadens to a fairly big passage.”

  She showed him the crawlway. He was examining it with interest when Ria Farad materialized before them with her usual suddenness. Kyra should have been used to it by now, but it never failed to startle her.

  “Welcome back, Mahimata. And you too, Marksman,” said Ria, with a glint in her eyes. “You may enter our abode, once you have relinquished your weapon.”

  “What? The Marksmen never asked me to do that!” said Kyra indignantly.

  “I don’t have my katari,” said Rustan. “It is back in Khur with the Maji-khan—a matter of penance. I do carry Shirin Mam’s blade, though. Would you like to keep it for me?”

  He withdrew the katari and proffered it to Ria. The blade sparkled, throwing a ghostly light on his face.

  Ria stepped back, uncertain. “You survived a separation from your katari?” She shook her head. “You may keep Shirin Mam’s blade. Let the elders try to take that from you, if they will.”

  Kyra resolved not to allow anything of the sort. Rustan had told her how his mother’s blade had helped stave off the madness that threatened to consume him when he was parted from his own katari. She’d order the elders to stand down with every bit of authority she possessed as the Mahimata of Kali.

  But in the end, she did not need to. The elders were waiting in the torch-lit central cavern, relief emanating from them at her safe return. Felda grinned at her, and Chintil even nodded at Rustan. Mumuksu betrayed nothing in her expression. Navroz looked disapproving, but that was only to be expected from Eldest.

  The rest of the Markswomen were not in the cavern, but Kyra could sense them in their individual cells; the elders must have told them to make themselves scarce, given the unexpected arrival. She could imagine the curiosity, especially among the younger ones. And she could literally feel Elena and Akassa bursting with questions. With a pang, she remembered her own arrival at Khur and how Shurik had befriended her.

  “Elders,” said Kyra before any of them could speak, “I present to you Rustan of the Order of Khur, the son of Shirin Mam. He helped m
e practice in preparation for my duel with Tamsyn Turani, and I owe him a great debt. He also helped the Valavians fight the outlaws. We will give you a full account of what transpired, after we’ve had a chance to wash and eat.”

  “Welcome,” said Navroz Lan in as cold a voice as Kyra had ever heard from her.

  “You look so much like your mother,” said Felda Seshur, beaming.

  Rustan bowed. “Thank you, Elders,” he said. “I am honored to be here.”

  “The first time a Marksman has entered the caves of Kali in centuries,” remarked Mumuksu. “Let us hope the Goddess does not take offense.”

  “And if the Goddess does not take offense, neither should her disciples,” said Kyra, with a touch of asperity.

  Rustan’s gaze went to the ocher and charcoal paintings that danced on the walls, lit by a hundred sconces. “May I see the places where my mother meditated and taught class?” he asked. “It would mean a great deal to me to be able to understand how she lived and what she believed. It is my greatest regret that I did not know her while she was still alive.”

  “Certainly,” said Navroz, thawing just a bit.

  Kyra hid a grin as the elders led Rustan across the cavern, talking over each other, pointing out the paintings and the passageway to the Mahimata’s cell, and explaining the function of the raised slab. If they could only cease to see him as a man, they would get beyond their prejudice, much as the Valavians had.

  It wasn’t that simple, of course. As Navroz summoned the older Markswomen to meet Rustan, the Mistress of Meditation hung back to whisper in Kyra’s ear.

  “Why is he here?” hissed Mumuksu. “Why have you brought him?”

  He belongs by my side, Kyra could have said, and then watched Mumuksu’s face redden with a suppressed explosion.

  Instead she said, her voice grave, “It is a pilgrimage, Elder. He wants to pay his respects to Shirin Mam.”