Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

  “What is it?” asked Kyra, glancing at him sideways.

  He stiffened his shoulders. “Nothing,” he said.

  Fine. Be like that, she thought.

  A few minutes later, he broke the silence. “It’s my katari,” he said. “I have been parted from it for months. But it knows I am returning. I can feel it”—he frowned—“pulling me.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” she asked. “It means your bond is still strong, even after the separation.”

  He shook his head. “It almost drove me mad to leave it behind. I thought it would tear me apart. I heard voices, I saw things. And”—he swallowed—“I can hear them again now, very faint.”

  The look on Rustan’s face made her heart clench. It was the first time she had ever seen him look lost or uncertain. Kyra nudged her camel closer to his. When they were alongside, she reached out and encircled his wrist with her hand. “It will be all right.” She echoed his words. “And I am with you.”

  He gave a startled smile. Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. So soft his lips, so rough the stubble of his cheeks. She wanted to trace her hands over him, to know him as intimately as she knew herself. Heat flooded her face and she withdrew her hand abruptly.

  “How will we time our breaks?” she said, her voice uneven.

  “We have started late in the day, so we should continue until nightfall,” he answered. “Tomorrow, if we start at dawn, we will let the camels rest in the afternoon.” His eyes lingered on her face, searching, and she pulled her camel away from him.

  They continued in silence after that, letting their bodies move in rhythm to the swaying camels. The heat of midday gave way to the slant of the late-afternoon sun. The dune field stretched to the horizon, an austere landscape that brooked no indulgence, no carelessness. And yet, with Rustan by her side, the bleakest setting turned to gold. Kyra let her mind empty and her thoughts drift. It was a bit of peace, all the more precious because of the days that would follow.

  But the peace ended all too soon. As darkness fell and stars winked in the sky, and Kyra began to think it was about time they halted and stretched their limbs, Rustan slumped forward in the saddle of his camel. At first, she didn’t register it; her mind had slowed, in tune with the landscape that surrounded them. Then she realized with a jolt that she could no longer sense Rustan’s warm, comforting presence ahead of her; he had slipped away from her, as if through a door.

  She urged her camel forward and saw, with a sickening plunge of her heart, that Rustan lay unmoving on his camel. Only the horn of the saddle had protected him from falling. She commanded the camels to sit and dismounted, her own discomfort forgotten as she raced to Rustan’s side. His pulse, thank the Goddess, was regular, though faint. She put an arm around him to try to get him out of the saddle and onto the ground, but he was too heavy for her and she was afraid that he would fall.

  “Wake up, Rustan, please, open your eyes,” she said, repeating the words over and over, rubbing his cold hands between her palms. At last he stirred and turned his head toward her, bewildered, as if he did not know who she was or where they were. She helped him off the camel and onto the sandy earth. He collapsed, sweat beading his brow. She undid a waterskin with shaking hands and held it to his lips. After a few sips, he revived somewhat. Kyra knelt beside him, feeling her own breathing return to normal.

  “What happened?” she asked at last.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Voices. Dark ones. I pushed them away, but it was hard.”

  “The dark weapons.” Coldness crept up her limbs. “They are calling to you. You need Astinsai’s help.”

  “What I need is my own katari,” said Rustan. “My mother’s blade helps, but I am not bonded to it.”

  “Then we must return to Khur as fast as possible,” said Kyra. It took five days, if you rested at night and in the afternoons. But they could go faster than that; the camels did not need to rest as much as humans did. “Sleep,” she told Rustan. “I will keep watch and wake you in three hours so we can continue.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “No. The voices get stronger at night; if I sleep, they will take over my dreams.”

  “You must rest,” said Kyra. When he began to argue, she forestalled him. “Do you not trust me?” she said, and he fell quiet.

  She made him drink more water and eat some dates, then tucked a rug around him and bade him sleep. He tried to resist for a while, but finally his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing lengthened.

  Kyra tried to stay awake, leaning against her camel, but she was tired, and the night was cold. At last, unable to help herself, she edged under the rug next to Rustan.

  He stirred and moaned, restless. “No, no,” he muttered. “Get away.” He thrashed his head from side to side.

  “Hush,” said Kyra, leaning on her elbow and laying a hand on his chest, trying to calm him. “It’s okay. It’s just a dream.”

  He threw the rug off and sat bolt upright. “Stay away from me!” he shouted.

  Kyra sat up in alarm. In the starlight, Rustan’s eyes were unfocused, his face torn with anguish.

  “Rustan,” she commanded, with a hint of the Inner Speech, “wake up.” She knelt in front of him and grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her.

  Slowly, he returned to himself, and his eyes focused on her. His face twisted with pain. “Hold me,” he whispered. “The voices are too strong.”

  Kyra drew her arms around him, cradling his head on her chest. “I’m here,” she said, her breath uneven. She kissed the top of his hair, inhaling the heady, confusing scent of him she loved so much: desert and sky, hope and despair, darkness and desire.

  He rubbed his cheek against her, his breath warm on her skin. His hands moved up her hips, over her scabbard, and her breath caught as tiny shocks of pleasure sparked in her body.

  His arms tightened around her and he pulled her down next to him, slipping his hand under her belt, anchoring her to himself. For a moment it was as if Kyra had stepped outside her own body, and almost she could not recognize herself, this woman who gasped and arched her back as Rustan trailed hot kisses down her neck.

  “Rustan,” she said in a ragged voice. “Rustan.”

  “I am here,” he breathed in her ear. He gazed at her, the want in his deep blue eyes mirroring her own. Slowly, deliberately, he bent his lips to hers, the kiss soft at first, and then harder, more insistent. A small sound escaped her throat. Her heart beat like a drum, both terrified and exhilarated. He entwined one hand in hers; she could feel every tendon, every callus of his palm. With his other hand he unclasped her belt, and she dissolved, melting into his embrace.

  The world vanished; it was as if only the two of them lived and, for however brief a time, it was enough to love and be loved by the one person who could keep the darkness of the whole universe at bay.

  Chapter 35

  To Forge Kalishium

  Rustan and Kyra arrived in the camp of Khur three days later, grimy and exhausted. They had ridden hard, stopping only for a few hours each night to rest the camels. Kyra was trembling with fatigue and Rustan looked in even worse shape. She was sure the voices continued to haunt him; though he did not speak of it again, his eyes betrayed his inner anguish. She hoped and prayed that being reunited with his blade would drive away the vile touch of the kalashiks from his mind. Her spirits soared as they came in sight of the vast dune that shimmered over the camp of Khur.

  In Khur, they were expected; the Maji-khan himself stood at the edge of the camp, his visage grave, the elders arrayed behind him in a semicircle. It reminded Kyra of the first time she had arrived in Khur, with one poignant exception: Ishtul the blademaster was missing, and he would never return.

  They dismounted, and a couple of apprentices ran up to lead the camels away. Kyra heaved the sack containing the kalishium image onto her shoulders. Rustan almost stumbled at Barkav’s feet. The Maji-khan grasped his arm and helped him up.

&nb
sp; “Father, Ishtul . . .” Rustan’s voice broke.

  “I know,” said Barkav tightly. He nodded to Kyra. “Welcome, Kyra Veer. It is good to see you looking well.”

  Looking well? Did she look that different from how she felt? Tired, aching, and hungry from traveling across the Empty Place on camelback with meager rations. Apprehensive about the image she carried, seeing Astinsai, and persuading her to help them. Anxious about Rustan and the upcoming battle with Kai Tau and his death-sticks.

  Then she remembered that the last time the Maji-khan had seen her, she had been almost dead from the wound delivered by Tamsyn’s blade. Anything would be an improvement.

  She bowed to Barkav and the elders. “Thank you,” she said. “It is good to be back. If only we had better tidings.”

  “The Order of Kali sent us Ishtul’s remains, for which we are grateful,” said Barkav. “We buried him at the edge of the grove, in sight of the dune that protects us. He will be sorely missed.”

  “We have not had such an accomplished blademaster in decades,” put in Saninda, one of the elders. “You are needed here, Rustan.”

  “He has returned to us,” said Barkav. “Have you not, Marksman?”

  Rustan took a deep breath. “There is a war to be fought, and I would fight by your side, if you will have me.”

  Barkav smiled, his expression relaxing into something almost like tenderness. “Then I have something that belongs to you.” He withdrew a wooden scabbard from his belt and proffered it to Rustan. “It has been waiting for you these many months.”

  Rustan grasped the hilt of his katari and slid it from the scabbard. He touched it to his forehead, and Kyra gasped and took an involuntary step back. Soft blue light sprang from the blade and enveloped Rustan in radiance so that he looked, for a moment, like a bygone king.

  He sheathed the blade, and the light dissipated. The Majikhan spoke, his voice ringing in the silence that followed, “Even though we stand on the brink of battle, and our hearts are filled with sorrow at the fate of Ishtul, let us put aside our grief for one day and celebrate the return of a son of Khur.”

  The Marksmen cheered and bore Rustan away. He twisted his head back and locked eyes with Kyra. She gave him a reassuring smile. Although he looked ready to drop dead from fatigue, his face softened, and he smiled back at her. She watched him until he disappeared in the knot of Marksmen that surrounded him. She could understand how he felt; he was back where he belonged, reunited with his katari. What more could anyone ask for?

  The Maji-khan had not moved from his place. He stood, solid as a mountain, and regarded her with his calm gray eyes. “You mentioned in your letter that you have been anointed as the Mahimata of Kali. Please accept my congratulations. You must be the youngest Mahimata in the entire history of your Order.”

  “The youngest and most foolish, according to my elders, I’m sure,” said Kyra drily.

  Barkav threw his head back and laughed. “Youth has advantages that old age sometimes refuses to see,” he said. “You will always have the support of the Order of Khur, if that is any consolation. Now, we have much to discuss, but you carry a burden that not many shoulders could bear. Will you not lay it down?”

  Kyra hesitated. But the Maji-khan had sensed the contents of her sack, even if no one else had. She dropped it onto the ground and sighed, rubbing her shoulders. “It weighs on me,” she confessed. “It is not mine; I took it from a monastery. Rustan tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen to him. We need it, Maji-khan.”

  She outlined her plan to Barkav, how she hoped Astinsai would forge the stolen kalishium into shields to protect the vanguard of Markswomen who would attack the Tau camp.

  Barkav stroked his beard and frowned. “It is not rightfully yours,” he said at last. “You will pay the price for this theft, one way or another.”

  Kyra shivered. This was what Rustan had warned too. “If I must, then I must,” she said stoutly. “There is no other way that I can see, not without risking all our lives.”

  Barkav nodded. “I will speak to Astinsai. You may rest and eat first; I will have an apprentice inform you when Astinsai is ready to see you.” He turned, beckoning her to follow him. “You remember the tent where you stayed when you first arrived?”

  “Yes, Maji-khan.” She hefted her burden once again and followed him.

  She had spent more than a month living in the camp of Khur. As Barkav led her to the little tent set aside for guests, Kyra was struck by a pang of sadness. Little had she realized then that, despite Shirin Mam’s death and the duel with Tamsyn looming over her, it was one of the most carefree times she would ever know. She had learned new ways to fight; she had made new friends; she had even cooked a meal for them. And a large part of what had made this a happy time for her had been the company of Shurik, the cheerful young Marksman who, in the end, betrayed their friendship in a way she had deemed unforgivable.

  But had she not done the same to Rustan? And had he not forgiven her, out of the love and generosity of his heart? Could she do any less?

  “You know where everything is,” said Barkav, waving a hand to encompass the camp. “Feel free to go to the communal tent and ask for something to eat. Jeev has already placed fresh water in your tent.”

  When she had first arrived, it had been Shurik who had fetched water for her and shown her around the camp. But she had seen no sign of him since their arrival. What had happened to her former friend? “Please, Maji-khan, where is Shurik?” she asked.

  Barkav frowned, the sudden change in his countenance almost frightening. “You need not worry about him,” he said. “The boy will not bother you again.”

  “I’m not worried,” Kyra assured him. “Isn’t he here, though?” She wasn’t afraid of seeing him again; she found that she wanted to see him and speak to him. To put the past behind them.

  “I sent him to the Thar Desert after his penance,” said Barkav. “He meditated in solitude for three months without his blade, and at the end of it, requested an assignment away from Khur to prove himself worthy to rejoin the Order. We knew it would be dangerous, but I thought I was sending him to Ishtul. That was before I realized that Ishtul had been killed.”

  Kyra’s chest tighened. “So you have no idea where Shurik is, or if he’s safe.”

  Barkav shook his head, looking troubled. “I believe he lives, but more than that I cannot say. We will find him again, God willing.”

  He left, and Kyra ducked into the tent, glad for a chance to escape his piercing gaze. She prayed Shurik was all right and would rejoin his Order soon.

  There was clean water in a pitcher, and she drank her fill before using some to wet a piece of cloth and wipe herself down, knowing that was all the bath she’d get before returning to the Ferghana. As she lay down to rest, she wondered how Rustan was doing. If being reunited with his blade had banished the voices plaguing his mind. If being reunited with his friends and fellow Marksmen had healed the old wounds he had tried to run away from. She felt a surge of jealousy as she remembered how they had surrounded him and swept him away. There was genuine love and affection there—both how they felt about him, and how he felt about them. It was clear that he was happy to be back, that he would not leave their side willingly.

  And then she was surprised and angry at herself for feeling jealous. She did not own Rustan, just as he did not own her. They had loyalties, responsibilities, and friends. What they felt for each other was a small part of the whole, and she had better remember it. Perhaps, when the menace of Kai Tau had been dealt with, they could travel together occasionally. She wouldn’t try to separate him from his Order, but she could ask him to accompany her on the most dangerous and difficult missions. Surely the Maji-khan would not object to that. And surely it was possible that on those missions, they would know again the intimacy they had shared so briefly in the desert.

  Dreaming of this, of the touch of his skin on hers, his breath in her hair, his hands on her blade, she drifted off to sleep, smiling.
r />   She came to a rude awakening when someone shouted her name from outside the tent.

  “Kyra?” It sounded like the apprentice Jeev. “Astinsai says she is ready to meet you, and to bring your gift.”

  Gift? Kyra sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her gummed-up eyes. “I will be there soon,” she called. She peeked her head out of the tent, noticing that the light had dimmed to late evening. Jeev stood on one leg, grinning at her, his face thinner and older than she remembered.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said shyly. He cast a nervous look around, then produced a ragged bit of parchment from his pocket. “From Shurik,” he said, and thrust it at her.

  “What?” said Kyra, startled, taking the parchment. The parchment was folded and the edges sealed with wax; she noticed Jeev was still standing there hopefully, as if she was going to open it right away and read it aloud to him.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I will read it later. Goodnight,” she added pointedly, and he finally left.

  Kyra tore open the letter. It contained a single word: “Sorry.” Below that was the drawing of a stick figure with a sad face—presumably Shurik. His drawing skills left much to be desired, but the sentiment was clear, and her lips twitched. She really hoped he was okay.

  She tucked the letter into a pocket and tried to make herself presentable, washing her face with cold water and running a comb through her unruly hair. She stepped out and donned her traveling cloak, glad of its warmth in the chilly wind.

  What did the Old One mean, she should bring her gift? Did she mean the kalishium? Kyra hefted the sack onto her shoulders and walked to the Old One’s tent. It was slow going. She passed several Marksmen on the way, all of whom stopped to shout a greeting or ask how she was. Quite a change from the last time she visited Khur, and it gladdened her.

  Astinsai sat cross-legged on the floor of her tent, looking exactly the same as ever: tiny and ancient, with blackbird-sharp eyes peeking out of a wizened face.

  “Welcome, Mahimata of Kali,” she said, inclining her head. “The first such distinguished personage to visit my humble abode. I am indeed blessed.”