Mahimata

by Rati Mehrotra

  “She’s trying hard,” said Elena. “Don’t tease her, all right? It was such a shock when she failed her first mark.”

  “Good thing she did,” Nineth decided. “Took her down several notches. I can almost tolerate being in the same room as her now.”

  “Do you feel any difference in your katari after being separated from it for so long?” asked Kyra, trying to change the subject, which she knew was making Elena uncomfortable.

  “Not a difference as such, no,” said Nineth. “It is as if I forgot a part of myself and have remembered who I am again.” She paused. “Tell me why you threw my katari into the lake.” There was no judgment in her voice—only curiosity.

  Kyra squirmed. “I saw you kissing Hattur Nisalki,” she answered.

  “And you were angry?” asked Nineth.

  Kyra thought about it. “I was angry,” she admitted at last. “It was a stupid thing to do, and I wish I hadn’t done it. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Part of it was the fact that I was carrying Tamsyn’s blade. It affected me more than I realized. By the time I did realize it, it was too late.”

  “So if you hadn’t been carrying Tamsyn’s blade, you wouldn’t have done it?” asked Nineth.

  Kyra shook her head. “I don’t think so. But I can’t just blame Tamsyn’s blade for how I felt. I saw you kissing and I was”—she swallowed and made herself say it—“jealous. I thought about Rustan and how much I wanted to be with him. How I was stuck here, and it didn’t matter what I wanted. And how worried we were about you—and there you were, enjoying yourself, without a care in the world. You didn’t even like Hattur that much, and yet you were the one who escaped from here and ended up with him.”

  “Was kidnapped, more like,” said Nineth. She looked thoughtful. “Hattur’s not a bad sort. He thought he was saving my life. I like him, but I wouldn’t have stayed with him, even if I wasn’t an apprentice of Kali. But all of this seems to be more about you than about me. What’s going on between you and Rustan?”

  Kyra’s cheeks warmed as she remembered the feel of Rustan’s lips on hers, his hands enfolding her, drawing her to him. The beat of his heart against her own. The hitch in his breath as she ran her hands along his hard, muscled body.

  She couldn’t tell her friends about that. It was his secret as well as her own. And it meant too much; she would diminish it by talking about it. “He wasn’t too well after the battle of Valavan,” she hedged. “He’s fine now that he’s reunited with his blade, but . . .” She waved a hand.

  “He’s surrounded by his Order,” finished Elena. “It won’t ever be otherwise for you two. You know that. And what about you, Nineth. Will you see Hattur again?”

  Nineth shrugged, popping the last of the samsa into her mouth. “Maybe, at the next festival in Chorzu. I have to return his horse. But I could be a Markswoman by then. Or I will be one if Kyra lets me go into battle.”

  “No,” said Kyra at once. “Please, don’t ask this of me. I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt. It would be my fault.” She hesitated. How to tell them what Astinsai had hinted to her, what she herself now believed? “But . . . about Rustan . . . I think we can be Markswomen and still love other people,” she said at last. “I know Shirin Mam taught us the importance of detachment, but remember, what she actually did was something else entirely. She bore a son. She must have loved someone enough to have a child with them.”

  “Or maybe she did it for entirely different reasons,” said Nineth.

  “Possibly,” agreed Kyra. “Astinsai, the seer and katari mistress of Khur, told me that the ability to bond with a kalishium blade is inherited. The reason the number of Markswomen and Marksmen have declined over time is because the trait is dying out. We aren’t passing our gifts on to future generations.”

  There was a stunned silence. Both girls stared at her as if she was mad.

  “Have you told the elders this?” asked Nineth. “They’ll throw you out, never mind that they’ve made the grievous mistake of anointing you the Mahimata while I wasn’t around to prevent it.”

  Kyra grimaced. “Not yet, no. But I did tell the Valavians. And I’m telling you. Not that we all have to go out and start procreating—that would be ridiculous and stupid, and I’m sure most of us have no desire to do so. But maybe it’s not a bad thing if one or two of us likes a man well enough to have a child with him.”

  “Well, count me out,” said Elena firmly. “I don’t feel that way about boys. Not the way you two do. And even if I did, I’d much rather die than get pregnant. Yuck!”

  “I don’t want to get pregnant either,” said Nineth fervently. “Or what is the difference between me and my poor mother who had five babies because the first three were all boys and we needed a girl to carry on the family name and the fourth was a girl, but it was me, and Mother thought quite rightly that she needed a spare, just in case, and look what happened—”

  “Yes, yes,” Kyra interrupted, “but there may be others who feel differently. Markswomen who would like to have a child. A child who may or may not be born with the gift but would be loved nevertheless.” She threw her hands up. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just saying we should all have choice in the matter. Choice in who we love and whether we have children. Our bodies, our decision!”

  “Not going to happen,” said Nineth flatly. “Not if the elders have anything to say about it. And most of the older Markswomen won’t like what you’re saying either. Just because Tamsyn is gone doesn’t mean you can overturn centuries-old rules.”

  Kyra sighed. “I know. Maybe things will change with time. Otherwise, the Orders may well be doomed to die out.” She noticed their expressions and hastened to add, “I mean, much later. Not in our lifetimes.”

  “Do we have to talk about this kind of dark, terrible stuff?” grumbled Nineth. “I’ve had quite enough of it.”

  Kyra gave her an affectionate glance. “Of course. How many samsas did you manage to scarf today?”

  “Eleven, I think,” said Nineth, with a satisfied smile. “Tarshana’s cooking is the one thing I’ll miss in the Thar.”

  “You stay here and recover,” said Kyra. “Regain some of your strength. You’ve gone quite thin.”

  Nineth shook her head, decisive. “I’m strong enough to fight. Not even Tarshana’s samsas will tempt me to stay. I’m going with you to the Thar Desert. You owe me, all right?”

  Kyra’s head began to ache. She had forgotten just how stubborn her friend could be.

  “I’m coming too,” said Elena casually.

  “You need to stay here and look after the novices,” protested Kyra.

  Elena gave her a withering look. “I already asked, and Navroz said yes. She needs me. There’ll be plenty of wounded, and my skill may save somebody’s life.”

  “That’s decided then,” said Nineth. “We’re all going. Akassa can guard us while we save lives.” And she grinned as if they were talking about going on a picnic.

  Kyra held her head in her hands and groaned. “I could forbid you from coming.”

  Elena laid a hand on her arm. “But you won’t. Weren’t you talking about choice just now? We choose the risks we take. We choose to be with you. Respect our choice.”

  The gong rang for solitary meditation, saving Kyra from having to reply. And truly, there was no reply, for Elena was right.

  Chapter 40

  Someone to Fear

  Two days had passed. Rustan slept under the mulberry tree outside the caves of Kali and dreamed of Kyra. He had fallen asleep thinking of her, so this was not surprising, but the content of the dream was. In the dream, Kyra walked up to a door that stood by itself in the middle of nowhere. He stood on the other side of the door, but she could not see him, nor could he call out to her. He tried to open the door, but it refused to budge. He felt himself being sucked away by a terrible wind, and all the while Kyra stood on the other side, unwilling or unable to open the door and come to his aid.

  He woke sweating, despite the cool predawn br
eeze. On either side of him, Marksmen slept, wrapped in rugs that the Order of Kali had thoughtfully provided. Farther out still were the camps of the eighty-odd warriors sent by various clans of the valley who had arrived yesterday. Kyra’s face had turned grim as she sized them up. Not enough, he could hear her thinking, and he had agreed. He hoped that Ghasil and Saninda had managed to persuade the Kushan and Turguz clans to part with more fighters than this.

  Rustan lay back and tried to get another hour of sleep, but it was impossible. Tomorrow they would defeat Kai Tau or die in the attempt. If he managed to survive, he would have to make a decision: stay with the Order of Khur or return to the monastery. Either way, his path would diverge from Kyra’s.

  He had made a vow to the Sahirus. But his Order needed him too, especially after the loss of Ishtul.

  And Kyra, did she need him? Surely not; he had never seen her so relaxed and happy as when she was with her friends Nineth and Elena. But she had kept glancing at him too, and her glance had reflected the yearning of his own heart.

  Whether or not she needed him, he knew that he needed her. If only they could find a way to be together and yet fulfill their obligations.

  “Can’t sleep?” murmured a voice beside him, and Rustan jerked out of his thoughts. It was Samant, the Master of Meditation—the only one to whom he had confessed his love for Kyra.

  “No, Elder,” said Rustan. “In an hour we must wake anyway and continue our preparations.”

  “We have been preparing a long while,” said the elder quietly. “Ever since Ishtul was taken from us. We will make them pay.”

  “Yes, Elder, but how many of us will fall so that Asiana might be free of Kai Tau?” asked Rustan. “And how long before some other outlaw with delusions of power tries to steal the kalashiks? How safe are they even in the Temple of Valavan?”

  “The guns must leave this world,” said Samant. “Or we will never have peace.”

  Peace. What a fragile thing it was. Asiana had never known peace, not truly since the Great War more than eight hundred fifty years ago. The men and women who had lived in that time were gone, but they had made sure their weapons remained to create havoc among their descendants.

  “Who in his right mind would make such a weapon?” asked Rustan. “What kind of evil did men fall into?”

  Samant shook his head and sighed. “There are no answers to such questions. There is only the matter of what we are willing to do to protect our people.”

  They were both quiet after that. The sky lightened and, somewhere far distant, a rooster crowed. The men and women sent by the clans began to stir. Time to sharpen weapons and check horses. The Markswomen had forbidden cookfires so close to their caves, so the men made do with bread, cheese, and berries, supplemented by Tarshana’s porridge, which was carried out in steaming vats by the novices.

  The Marksmen, of course, were welcome to eat with the Order of Kali. They wrapped up their bedding, packed their knapsacks, and stored them in the cavern before heading to the kitchen. Kyra was already up, sipping a cup of tea, her eyes fever-bright. Rustan dropped down next to her, his heart quickening as it always did in her presence.

  “Today is the day you will prove to be a better fighter than any of your teachers,” he said, and she smiled, but he could tell how tense she was in the way she held herself.

  “I will be with you all the time,” he said, putting as much reassurance as he could into his voice. “I promise you that.”

  She frowned. “I must go forward alone. I am the only one with armor. The Maji-khan and Chintil will lead the main attack force, and you can be with them.”

  Nineth, who was sitting on her other side, snorted. “Yes, just listen to her. She is planning on taking on the entire army single-handed, because she’s the only one with measly armor.”

  “Kalishium armor,” hissed Kyra. “Impervious to bullets. As I have told you several times.”

  “You cannot be the sole vanguard,” said Rustan. “That doesn’t make sense. Even if you are impervious to bullets, enough of Kai Tau’s men could surround you to physically overpower you and rip off the armor. The degree of Mental Arts required to control all potential attackers would be enormous. You would be dead long before you reached Kai Tau.”

  “Yes, that is what Eldest also said,” agreed Nineth. “The vanguard must be a team of at least thirteen Markswomen.”

  “And Marksmen,” said Rustan. He noticed Kyra’s expression and added, “You cannot protect everyone. The best you can do is stay alive to confront Kai Tau himself. Even Astinsai says you are the one who must do that. The rest of us—we will have our hands full. We will play the roles we are given. And certainly, Marksmen will be part of the vanguard.”

  “The Maji-khan and Chintil are working it out,” said Nineth, pointing to where the two sat together, heads bent, arguing over a sketch.

  “You can rest assured you will be nowhere near the fighting,” Kyra told her. “You will be at the rear with Elena, to help tend the wounded.”

  Chintil looked up at that moment. “Kyra, the Maji-khan and I have concluded that a direct attack will not work. This is what the Valavians have warned too. The Taus are expecting us and have had months to prepare. A direct attack will lead to a huge loss of life, both at our end as well as their lowliest fighters, who may well be viewed by their top leaders as mere fodder.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Rustan. “The Thar is mostly flat; there’s nowhere to hide. They will see us coming for miles.”

  “Not if we arrive after dusk, as we have planned,” said Barkav. “It is a new-moon night; this will be to our advantage.”

  “Also disadvantage, if our archers cannot see their targets,” Kyra pointed out.

  “I agree, but the gains outweigh the potential risks,” said Chintil. She spread out the parchment in front of her. “We need the element of surprise to turn the odds in our favor. Look.”

  They gathered around her. She had drawn several concentric circles on the parchment. “Kai Tau is adept in battle strategy. Based on what we know of their numbers and weapons, they will have at least three lines of defense around Kai Tau and his kinsmen. There are only eight kalashiks left, and I’m guessing most of them will be in the innermost line or the heart of the Tau camp. Moreover, given how uncontrollable the dark weapons are, they will not be used right at the start of fighting.”

  “If they have succeeded in duplicating the weapons, some primitive versions will be in the outermost ring,” said Rustan.

  Chintil nodded. “I have studied the parchments you took from their camp. In addition to trying to duplicate kalashiks, they have been trying to build explosive balls that they can launch from within their circles. Additionally, they will have a quick-moving line of attack planned—possibly horsemen with spears and primitive guns—ready to split from the main lines and tear through any attacking force.” She traced her fingers around the circles. “We will approach from the west and split into three. One force will flow north, the second will flow south, both meeting the Valavian forces pouring in from the east. Thus, we will encircle and trap the Taus. Meanwhile, the third force—our smallest and strongest—will break through the defensive circles and go straight for Kai Tau at the center.” She locked eyes with Kyra. “You will lead the third force, Mahimata, in a flying wedge.”

  Kyra exhaled. “Yes, Elder.” The flying wedge was an ancient strategy to break through enemy lines. It was highly effective, if done right, but also perilous.

  “Choose twelve Marksmen and Markswomen to go with you, six on each side,” said Chintil. “This will be the most dangerous part, and all success depends upon you. A dozen horsemen will protect your flanks, but we need everyone else to surround the enemy. We will press forward, squeezing them in a tightening horseshoe. If our timing is right, the Valavians will close the pincer from the other side.”

  “I am in favor of leaving an avenue for escape,” said Rustan. “They will fight with more ferocity if they are completely surrounded
with no hope of escape. We must allow them the opportunity to run away.”

  Chintil frowned. “We cannot plan this in advance. It will depend on how the battle progresses. There will be an appearance of escape to the east—until the Valavians close it off. We may take heavy losses, in which case I fear that the loss of life on their side must be a secondary concern.”

  “I agree,” said the Maji-khan. He laid a hand on Rustan’s shoulder. “The most important thing is to capture the kalashiks and Kai Tau. The sooner we can do that, the faster we can end the battle. I will be part of the third force behind Kyra. I want you there as well.”

  “To fight by the side of my Maji-khan,” said Rustan, and he glanced at Kyra, “led by the Mahimata of Kali. What more can I ask for?”

  “To not have to fight,” said Kyra. “Let us hope, when this is over, that we have many years of peace.”

  “Who else will you take with you, Kyra?” asked Navroz.

  Kyra calculated. “Elder Chintil, you and Elder Mumuksu must lead one of the forces. Elder Felda, you and one of the Khur elders can lead the second force.”

  “Ghasil,” said Barkav. “We need someone strong in the Mental Arts.”

  Kyra nodded. “I will take Tonar Kalam, Ria Farad, Sandi Meersil, Noor Sialbi, Ninsing Kishtol, and Selene Deo. The rest will be Marksmen of your choice, Maji-khan.”

  As she said the names, Rustan noticed the individual Markswomen straighten and glance at each other with tight smiles. They were proud that she had singled them out for the most dangerous mission of all.

  “Eldest, you must stay at the rear to treat the wounded,” continued Kyra.

  Navroz scowled. “I am not so old that I cannot fight better than just about anybody in this room.”

  “Yes, Eldest,” said Kyra patiently. “But we need you for something more important than fighting. All of us can fight. No one has your skill for healing.”