Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

  He gave a sardonic grin. “I wouldn’t dare,” he said. His voice lowered. “But be careful, all right? If something does not ring true to you, then it isn’t. Listen to the wisdom of your inner voice before doing anything she asks. You are not honor-bound in this.”

  Kyra sighed. “I don’t trust her,” she admitted. “But she isn’t lying when she says she needs help. I just hope I have what it takes to be her assistant.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, grasping her shoulders, his touch warm. “You are the Mahimata of Kali. You have the blessings of the Goddess herself. And do I not know that you are the best pupil any teacher could hope to have? The kind of pupil who will outmatch her teacher one day.”

  Kyra opened her mouth to protest, but he bent down and kissed her forehead, leaving the words trapped in her throat.

  “Tell the Old One,” he whispered against her cheek, making her heart palpitate, “that if she lets harm come to you, I will kill her with the blade she forged for me. And there will be no more katari mistress of Khur.”

  He held her tightly for a moment, then released her and stepped back, breathing hard. His eyes burned into hers. Then he turned and was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

  Kyra walked to her tent, trying to slow her pulse. It was almost midnight. But she wasn’t about to go to Astinsai like this. She ducked inside and splashed cold water on her face and breathed in the lotus position until she had herself under control. Only then did she make her way to the Old One.

  Astinsai was waiting for her, a feral grin of anticipation on her face. “I wondered if you would come,” she remarked when Kyra was seated opposite her. “Or if you would listen to the young man who is so head over heels in love that he has forgotten where his duties lie.”

  Kyra gritted her teeth. “He has not forgotten,” she assured the katari mistress. “But he has other loyalties now.”

  “To you?” sneered Astinsai. “How long do you think that will last?”

  Kyra flushed with anger. “I was thinking of the Sahirus,” she said. “Rustan owes his life to the monks he met in Kunlun Shan. He owes nothing to me. Although,” she added, “he did ask me to tell you that if you let harm come to me, he will kill you.”

  At that Astinsai laughed outright. “Love, lust, deewangee,” she said softly. “It is what drives us all in the end.” She bent her head for a moment, lost in her own thoughts, her own memories. When she raised her head, the sparkle was back in her eyes. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Kyra squared her shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, although the words sounded hollow. Of course she was not ready.

  The Old One lifted an iron pot and poured a measure of steaming liquid into a clay cup.

  “Rasaynam,” she said, and proffered the cup to Kyra. “You declined it the first time I gave it to you. Remember what I told you then? Come back to me when you’re ready. Come back when you think you have no more tears to shed.”

  Kyra accepted the cup, willing her hands not to shake. “What will it show me?” she asked. “Do I have to think of something specific?”

  “No,” said Astinsai. “Rasaynam knows the deepest, most urgent question of your heart.” She waved a hand. “Drink, drink it all. The potion will do the rest.”

  Kyra put the cup to her lips. Astinsai watched, her ancient face agog. Kyra squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, Kali keep me sane for what comes next.

  Then she tilted her head back and drank, without stopping, until the cup was empty. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in Astinsai’s tent.

  * * *

  Fidan Veer had escaped her mother’s eagle eye and gone to the central market of Yartan with her cousins. If only it were not so cold. The girls were clad in sheepskin coats and thick boots, woolen scarves wrapped around their throats, and they were still shivering. Ice floated on the surface of the Yartan River, which coiled around the main market square. The square was mostly empty; a few enterprising souls had set up stalls to sell woolens, frozen butter, cheese, knives, and other odds and ends. It was good to be out, with the brisk air on her face, one giggling cousin on each arm, the faded blue and pink facade of the old prayerhouse radiant in the winter sun.

  Fidan’s cousins paused to inspect a cart full of old-fashioned bracelets and brooches. Bored, she drifted ahead of them to a more interesting stall displaying tools and weapons.

  It was then that she noticed him. He was watching her from across the square, holding the reins of a black horse. He was the most arresting young man she had ever seen, tall and well built, with piercing green eyes and smooth dark hair tied back in a braid. He was travel-worn and hollow-cheeked, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in a while. She wanted, suddenly, to go to him.

  She blushed and turned away. What was wrong with her? Her heart was beating fast and she could feel his eyes on her back. She should go back to her cousins. They were but a few steps away, haggling over the price of a bracelet.

  Come to me, a voice whispered in her mind, and she obeyed. Her feet took her across the square, to the man who leaned against his horse, waiting for her. Panic congealed in her stomach as she approached him. She wanted to run but couldn’t. Don’t be afraid, he said to her, but she was, more afraid than she had ever been in her entire life. Then he did or said something, and her panic dissipated. Her mind fogged and she could no longer remember what she was doing there. He held his hand out to her and she took it, unable to help herself. His touch was warm, possessive, and she trembled. “Please,” she said once, “let me go.”

  He smiled. It was not a smile of cruelty, but of hunger: a deep, deep want that she had never felt before. But she could feel it now, his want that was somehow also her want.

  The small part of her mind that remained hers recoiled in horror, screamed in warning.

  But it was too late. He lifted her into the saddle of his horse and leaped up behind her. He wrapped one arm around her waist and brushed her neck with his lips. “Mine now,” he murmured. As they cantered away from the square, darkness came before Fidan’s eyes . . .

  * * *

  “Kyra? Wake up! Fool girl. I should have known it would be too much for you.”

  Cold water drenched her face, and Kyra sat up, spluttering. “What . . . what happened?” she asked feebly.

  Astinsai sat back, her relief palpable. “You passed out after drinking the Rasaynam. What did you see?”

  Kyra wiped her face with her sleeve. She felt cold and numb and shaky. Yes, she had seen something. The Marksman Kai Tau had misused the Mental Arts to subjugate her poor mother. She had felt her mother’s fear, bewilderment, and confusion. Fidan had been two years younger than Kyra when she was assaulted; how had she recovered from such terrible trauma? Kyra remembered her mother as a sweet-faced, laughing woman with a musical voice and loving hands, yet who could be quite stern when her eldest daughter did something particularly reprehensible, like pushing her cousin into the pond or hiding her grandmother’s knitting.

  “Tell me,” commanded Astinsai, and the yearning in her voice was repulsive, almost like the yearning Fidan Veer had sensed from Kai Tau.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” asked Kyra. Something in her face or voice must have given Astinsai pause, for the katari mistress hesitated.

  “Why would I not wish to know?” asked Astinsai at last. “Does it hurt you too much to speak of it?” Again that avidness in her tone, as if it was the hurt she wished to see, as much as the vision.

  “No more than it would hurt you to listen to it,” said Kyra. “Did you not tell me once that perhaps not all things are meant to be known? Otherwise, how would we take sides?”

  Astinsai glared at her as if she were a repulsive insect. “You dare throw my words back at me?” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kyra, not feeling particularly sorry. “If you wish, I will tell you.”

  A long moment passed, Astinsai still glaring at her. “Tell me,” she repeated at last, but she sounded almost resigned, an
d her eyes had lost their avaricious gleam.

  So Kyra told her. She described in detail the vision she had seen, the fear she had felt in her mother, the hunger in Kai Tau. She told Astinsai how the Marksman had compelled Fidan Veer to follow him, how he had fogged her mind so she could no longer remember who or where she was. Kai Tau’s last thought, before they cantered away: Mine now.

  When she had finished speaking, there was silence for so long that Kyra thought the old woman had fallen asleep. But when she sneaked a quick glance at Astinsai’s face, she saw it was wet with tears. And then Kyra did feel bad, for Kai had been the Old One’s favorite Marksman. She had believed the lie Kai Tau had told her, that Fidan had fallen in love and gone with him of her own accord.

  Astinsai met her gaze. “It was my fault,” she said with difficulty. “What happened to your clan. My fault they died.”

  Something hard and painful squeezed Kyra’s heart. “No. It was not your fault,” she said. “It was Kai Tau who killed them, mistress.”

  “I freed the bonds that had been laid on him,” whispered Astinsai. “Love blinded me to his true nature, and by the time my eyes opened, it was too late.”

  “You loved him?” The words stuck in Kyra’s throat. “As a . . . pupil?”

  “I loved him like a son,” said Astinsai, her voice breaking. “The son I never had. Unlike the others, he was never afraid of me. He used to seek me out, ask my counsel, bring me little gifts from his travels. He used to make me laugh. I thought we had a special bond. I never thought he’d lie to me. That he would grow to be a murderer.”

  Kyra swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it this time.

  Astinsai rallied and waved a bony hand in dismissal. “No matter. You have given me knowledge, and knowledge is precious, even when it is painful. And I am glad you did not die in my tent. That would have been most inconvenient.”

  “Especially for me,” said Kyra drily. She was beginning to recover from the ordeal, although there was still a bitter taste in her mouth, and her limbs felt heavy as lead. At least her mind was clear. “Are we ready to begin forging kalishium shields?”

  “We are ready to begin, yes,” said Astinsai. “But as to what we will get as an end result, I cannot say.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Kyra.

  “I have only ever tried to forge blades,” said Astinsai. “One blade at a time, losing something of myself with each one. And too, it matters who you are making it for. Do not be surprised if we arrive at something else entirely. Especially considering whose image we are destroying in the process.”

  Kyra suppressed her unease. She had gone to great lengths to bring Astinsai the kalishium. “Let us at least make the attempt,” she said. And hope for the best.

  Astinsai smiled without humor. “Very well.” She opened the door of her stove, reached for some discolored lumps, and threw them in. The flames leaped up inside the stove, and a noxious smell stole into the tent. Kyra wrinkled her nose. Probably dried camel dung, she thought. She was thankful for the smoke hole in the top of the tent that funneled most of the fumes away.

  Astinsai reverently undid the sack and uncovered the kalishium image. “Accept our gratitude,” she muttered, “and our deepest apologies for what we are about to do. Understand our need and help us.”

  The image glowed, throwing its golden light onto the ragged walls of the tent. Kyra looked into the wolf’s eyes and felt herself falling into them.

  At last, said Menadin, and he grinned at her, his fangs gleaming.

  But that wasn’t possible. Menadin was dead.

  “Pay attention,” snapped Astinsai. “I asked you to lift the image and put it on the stove.”

  Kyra obeyed. The image felt heavier somehow, and resistant to her touch. But she managed to lay it on the heated top of the flat stove, almost burning her hands in the process.

  “What will this accomplish?” she asked. “Kalishium does not burn.”

  Astinsai grimaced. “No. But it can reshape itself when we use a word of power.”

  A word of power in the ancient tongue of the Goddess. Kyra should have known that’s what it took to forge kalishium.

  “Only those with an affinity for kalishium can use the word safely,” added Astinsai. “It will kill anyone else who tries, or worse, drive them insane.”

  “You’re going to have me say it, aren’t you?” asked Kyra flatly.

  “Of course,” said Astinsai. “The image is your burden; the forging will be yours too. Now, repeat after me.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Aakaarmaya.”

  The stove dimmed. The candles flickered out. A cold wind blew through the tent, and the image lying on the stove turned silver. Kyra stared at it; its eyes followed her, as if it were alive.

  Astinsai’s bony hand closed around Kyra’s wrist so hard, she winced. “Say it,” she hissed. “This is the moment.”

  Kyra swallowed. Goddess protect me. “Aakaarmaya,” she said, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Nothing happened. Kyra let out the breath she had been holding and opened her eyes. And screamed.

  Astinsai and her tent were gone.

  She stood on a vast, smoking black plain. The ground was almost too hot to stand on. Fires licked the sky in the distance. It was like a scene from hell. But it was what loomed directly in front of her that almost stopped her heart.

  A huge, silver wyr-wolf, at least thrice her height, rested on its haunches, regarding her with golden eyes.

  An interesting word, said the wyr-wolf, its voice a deep, thrumming growl in her mind. Shape is an illusion, like everything else. What illusion do you seek to create?

  Kyra licked her dry lips. “Shields to protect my Markswomen from the dark weapons,” she managed to croak.

  You ask too much and give too little, said the wyr-wolf.

  “What must I give?” asked Kyra.

  Yourself, said the wyr-wolf.

  “I don’t understand,” said Kyra, desperate. She was beginning to feel light-headed. It was too hot and smoky.

  You will lose someone you hold dear, said the wyr-wolf. But you will find them again. A bargain, is it not? It crouched down and opened its maw. A huge, forked tongue slithered out from the cage of its teeth. A cage large enough for Kyra to walk into. Inside was only darkness. Kyra stumbled back, her heart racing.

  But in the darkness, a pale, familiar form glimmered into being: Menadin in his human aspect, with his wild hair and feral grin. He beckoned her, as if to say, Come on. Don’t be afraid.

  But she was deathly afraid. An illusion—wasn’t that what the huge wyr-wolf had told her? Menadin was not real. She was only imagining him. But then, she must be imagining everything else as well. She gulped and clenched her fists, mustering her courage. Before she could lose it, she strode into the maw of the beast. Menadin reached for her and touched her hair, a tender expression on his face. She opened her arms to hug him, but her hands closed on emptiness. The darkness twisted.

  Kyra returned to the tent, gasping and sweating. Astinsai sat before her, her face avid. She glanced at the stove, and an expression of triumph crossed her face. “Look,” she said.

  Kyra’s gaze went to the flat stove top. The image was melting, dissolving before her eyes. Even though this was what she had wanted, the knowledge that she had destroyed something so beautiful and unique smote her.

  Not destroyed, came the wyr-wolf’s voice. Changed.

  “Shape it with your thoughts and hands,” said Astinsai urgently. “While it is still malleable.”

  What? Kyra stared at the heaving silver mass on the stove, deeply reluctant to touch it.

  “Go on,” said Astinsai. “It will not hurt you—no more than it already has.”

  Kyra plunged her hands into the remains of the image and gasped. The metal was like a cool breeze on her skin. Like touching a cloud. She moved her hands and the fluid metal moved with them, as if it were a dance. Shields, armor, protection, she thought disjointedly, wishing she could have pra
cticed at something less important before doing this. It was like going for a first mark without knowing how to use a katari.

  But kalishium was too precious, too rare. There was no question of wasting it on anything as dumb as “practice.” You had to get it right the first time, and every time thereafter.

  Before her disbelieving eyes, the metal began to coalesce into a single elongated shape. Her shape. Full arms, high neck, knee-length skirt.

  “Kalishium armor,” said Astinsai, awe in her voice. “You are indeed fortunate.”

  “But,” Kyra stammered in dismay, “I wanted shields. Many of them.”

  Astinsai gave her a pitying look. “You are the one who forged it, and you are the one it will protect. No one else.”

  Kyra touched the armor, her heart sinking. She could not take on Kai Tau’s army single-handed. And she could not risk her Markswomen against the bullets of Kai’s kalashiks.

  The armor was stiff, as she had expected, but flexible, light and thin. Not at all like the image she had carried there, as if the transformation she had wrought had changed the basic nature of the metal itself.

  Or perhaps she only felt this way because it was hers now, because she had given herself to it.

  “No helmet,” observed Astinsai. “Try not to get your head blown off.”

  Kyra thought of the mask of Kali from the funerary chamber and said, “I have something else that will work as well as a helmet.”

  “Good,” said Astinsai. “You have what you came for. And I have an apprentice.”

  Kyra shifted, uncomfortable. “About that . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” said Astinsai, with surprising patience. “You have a battle to fight, and an Order to lead. Nevertheless, if you survive, one day you may find your way back to my tent, and learn more of my art. You have but dipped your toe in the water—and withdrawn it with much haste.”

  “Thank you for everything,” said Kyra, pushing down her irritation at Astinsai’s words. “I will leave in the morning.”

  “Alone?” asked Astinsai slyly. “Or with Rustan?”