Nineth supervised the novices, brewing potions and preparing salves. Tarshana sent for her own cousins to help in the kitchen, preparing healthful soups for those who could eat.
How much time passed? It was difficult to say. Weeks, perhaps, or months. One day blurred into another, with little sleep and less rest, marked only by the last rites of those who were gone forever from their midst.
One by one, clansfolk came to collect their surviving kin, to take care of them in their own homes. At last Chintil was able to sit up and snap at Kyra to stop hovering around her with a face like death, she was quite all right, thank you very much, and go take care of the others. Kyra smiled for the first time since her return as she left Chintil’s cell. It felt strange, as if her facial muscles had forgotten how to smile.
She went to the Maji-khan, who had recovered enough to be able to sit outside under the mulberry tree, meditating with Samant, Aram standing guard behind them. The Maji-khan had been reduced to a mere shadow of his once-powerful self. His robes hung on his skeletal frame and his face was that of a much older man who had seen and suffered much. But his eyes were as deep and compelling as ever. Kyra exhaled and knelt before him.
It was hard to tell him about Rustan’s fate, hard to add to the suffering in that face. But Kyra made herself do it, leaving nothing out.
When she was done, there was silence but for the sound of the wind in the branches of the mulberry tree. The last days of autumn, and soon winter would be upon them. Before that, Kyra would leave.
As if he had read her thoughts, Barkav said, “Your Order needs you.”
Kyra bowed her head. “They have each other,” she said. “And Rustan needs me too.”
“Are you sure?” asked the Maji-khan, his voice soft. “Perhaps he has gone to a place you cannot follow.”
“I have to try,” she said. “He said he would wait for me. Perhaps my path is different from his, but our destination is the same.”
“So be it,” said Barkav, and sadness passed across his face. “Go with my blessing, Kyra Veer. May you find what you are looking for.”
She rose and bowed to him, not trusting herself to speak.
The Marksmen left a few days later, along with their clansfolk. They would stay in Kashgar until the Maji-khan was well enough to travel to Khur. Shurik came to say goodbye to Kyra, but when the moment to part came, they were both tongue-tied. Odd, how much he seemed to have become a part of Kyra’s own Order in the past few weeks. At last he gave her a brief, fierce hug, and told her to punch Rustan for him when she finally found him, which made her laugh through her tears.
With the Marksmen and clansfolk gone, the caves of Kali returned to their old quiet. Akassa and Nineth were initiated as Markswomen—Elena too, in a special ceremony that recognized her gift and her tireless efforts to heal the war-wounded. Helen passed her coming-of-age ritual and was made apprentice. Ria Farad was inducted as an elder into the council.
Slowly, classes resumed. Two new novices—twin sisters from Nineth’s clan—found their way to the Order, and this so heartened the elders that they almost began to resemble their old selves.
Every evening, Kyra sat with the elders in the central cavern, discussing how the Orders might best survive the changes that had been wrought on their world by time and war. She brought up the incident of Akassa’s first mark, and Navroz agreed that the woman had needed healing more than punishment. They constructed a decision tree on a roll of parchment that would help them resolve such situations in future.
She also finally confessed to her crime of Compulsion, telling the elders how she had used the Mental Arts to subjugate Rustan and steal the kalishium from the monastery. They were silent as she poured out the whole story to them, but when she asked for a penance, the words sounded hollow even to her own ears. They did not have to tell her that any penance they could devise would be as nothing compared to how she had already been punished. But under Mumuksu’s guidance, she meditated every day, scraping out from her soul every last bit of influence that still lingered from Tamsyn’s blade. The day she achieved the third level of meditation, she knew she had succeeded at last.
Felda’s absence was an aching wound that became duller with time, but never quite healed. Mumuksu took up some of Felda’s work, poring over her old books with Kyra, trying to decipher the mathematician’s notes.
It would have been easy to slip back into this new routine, to forget what she had vowed to do.
But one full-moon night, a howl sounded outside the caves of Kali. Kyra awoke, her heart thudding. Her hand went to the tiny wyr-wolf image she kept hidden under her pillow, and she knew. It was time to deliver it.
She dragged on a cloak and stumbled out of her cell, clutching the image. Mumuksu, Ria, and Navroz strode into the cavern, their faces anxious, but Kyra deflected them. “It’s a friend,” she reassured them. “Someone I must meet.”
Outside, the full moon bathed the landscape in silver light, transforming it so it looked unreal. And in the middle of the grassy hollow just beyond the caves, half hidden by the rushes that swayed in the chilly wind, was Kyra’s visitor: Sudali, the alpha female of the Vulon pack.
Kyra went up to her and bowed. “Greetings, Sudali,” she whispered. “I . . . I have what Menadin asked for.”
She held out her palm, proffering the kalishium image. Sudali’s eyes glowed and she dipped her massive head toward Kyra’s hand. Kyra felt the wyr-wolf’s warm breath, and then the image disappeared from her palm into Sudali’s mouth.
The wyr-wolf reared back, snorting and gasping, and Kyra stepped back in alarm. The fearsome wolf shape twisted and elongated, replaced by a tall, strapping woman with golden eyes and long black hair streaked with silver. Her naked skin shone in the moonlight. She was both beautiful and terrifying to look upon. Kyra blinked, her mouth dry, and resisted the impulse to flee.
The woman held up her hands and laughed in delight. “I remember,” she said in a rich, throaty voice. She touched her own cheek in wonder.
“What—what do you remember?” asked Kyra.
“Everything,” said the woman, who was also Sudali. “The Ones made us—did you know that? They made us in the shape of one of their favorite images.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kyra, her stunned mind trying to process what Sudali was telling her.
Sudali smiled. “They were—they are—shape-shifters themselves.”
“What do they truly look like?” asked Kyra eagerly.
Sudali shook her head. “That they did not reveal, not to us. Perhaps not to any humans. Easier, you see, to take the shapes they found here.” She squeezed Kyra’s shoulder. “I must return to my pack and tell them what I have seen. I must share the kalishium, so they too can remember.”
Kyra nodded numbly, trying to take in what she had learned.
Sudali’s shape hunched and twisted back into a wyr-wolf. Watching the reverse transformation was somehow more alarming, but Kyra knew it was an honor to have been allowed to witness it, and she bowed in thanks.
Sudali gave a small whuff and touched Kyra’s shoulder with her snout before turning away. When she had reached the edge of the hollow, the wyr-wolf turned and gave Kyra a last look.
It is time.
And she left, moving with silent grace, becoming one with the night.
* * *
Kyra returned to the cavern with leaden feet. Navroz sat on a bench, waiting for her.
“Eldest . . .” she said, a plea in her voice.
“You’re going away,” said Navroz flatly.
Kyra swallowed. “I have vowed to rid Asiana of the dark weapons. There is only one way I know how.”
“And if that way takes you from us, is it worth it?” said Navroz, rising from the bench and coming up to her, gripping her arm hard.
“Never again,” said Kyra. “Never again in Asiana will those kalashiks work their evil. Yes, it’s worth it, and you know it, Eldest.”
Navroz let go of her arm and leaned
against the wall, closing her eyes. Kyra wanted to hug her, to tell her she was sorry, that she would stay after all, but she couldn’t. So she hardened herself. If she weakened now, it would all be for nothing. Another Kai Tau would rise up, and the dark weapons would find a way to kill again. “Did you gather the weapons, as I asked?” she said instead.
Navroz nodded. “We stashed them in the funerary chamber,” she said in a dead voice. “By the feet of the Goddess. To dampen their power.”
“What about”—Kyra made herself say it—“what about the ones that were fused with Kai Tau?”
“With the rest of them,” said Navroz. “All twelve kalashiks stolen by Kai Tau are accounted for. We have eight and the remaining four are with the Valavians.”
Those twelve kalashiks had killed her entire clan. “Never again,” repeated Kyra fiercely.
Navroz exhaled. “What about the ones in the Temple of Valavan?”
“I will get them tomorrow,” said Kyra. “Faran Lashail will give them to me.”
Navroz nodded. “Mumuksu and I will accompany you,” she said. “You should have an escort for such a task.”
“Thank you, Eldest,” said Kyra, and this time she did hug Navroz, and took comfort from the warmth of her embrace. Her heart lifted, as if she had been released from a burden that had weighed her down for the past several weeks. And hadn’t she? An unfulfilled vow was the heaviest yoke of all. Better the weight of the dark weapons on her back. Better the door that beckoned, saying, Come, it is time.
What had Rustan said? Some doors are put there for us, and some we have to make. They go where we need them to.
Chapter 47
Into the Dark
Half the Order of Valavan was still in the Thar Desert, working with the villagers to rebuild burned homes and broken lives. Derla Siyal, Kyra was glad to hear, had recovered from her wounds and been made a council elder. She had returned to the Thar to direct relief efforts. But Faran Lashail was in the temple, waiting for Kyra. Had been waiting, she told Kyra, for weeks.
“What is this way you’ve found to remove the dark weapons from Asiana?” she asked once the greetings were over and steaming hot cinnamon tea had been served. They sat in a small chamber down a passage off the Hall of Reflection. As they had crossed the hall, Kyra hadn’t been able to help glancing at the mirrors, remembering the mishmash of images she had last seen.
But to her surprise, she saw just herself this time; the only bit that reminded her of Shirin Mam was the black robe, which had once belonged to her old teacher. Navroz and Mumuksu, she noted, studiously avoided looking into the mirrors.
Kyra set aside her cup and considered what to tell Faran Lashail. “I have found a door in a secret Hub,” she said at last. “A door that leads out of Asiana.”
Faran Lashail raised her eyebrows. “And it goes . . . where?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It feels like an abyss. But it feels also as if I am meant to take that door. I have dreamed of it since my childhood.”
“You are needed here,” said Faran, echoing the words of the Maji-khan and the doubts in Kyra’s own heart.
“The Mahimata will do what she must,” said Navroz. “If this is the destiny she chooses, then so be it. But we will not anoint another, not during her natural life-span.” She turned to Kyra. “We will wait for you. Try to return to us, if you can.”
Kyra’s eyes stung. Eldest’s words of support and love cut deeper than any recriminations would have. “I will try,” she promised.
They did not stay long after that. Faran ordered two of her elders to fetch the death-sticks from the underground vault where they were hidden. They were brought forth, wrapped in a thin kalishium shroud: thirteen of them, Faran said, the last remnants of the weapons of the Great War.
Kyra fashioned a sledge for herself with the help of the Valavians, using a narrow wooden pallet and a rope to drag the load. Mumuksu and Navroz lashed the kalashiks to the sledge, but Kyra would not let them pull it. This was her burden, and hers alone. The less the elders touched it, the easier it would go for them. The only tricky part was bringing it down the stairs to the Hub of Valavan, but Kyra managed it without breaking the sledge, which was a blessing.
And so they left the Temple of Valavan, Faran standing at the top of the steps that led down to the Hub, her hand raised in farewell, her face tight with sorrow. “Till we meet again, Kyra Veer,” she called, as the Transport door closed behind them.
* * *
The hardest part was saying goodbye to Elena and Nineth. They could not understand why Kyra had to go, why the kalashiks could not simply remain in the Temple of Valavan. Again and again she tried to explain it to them, but at last she had no more reasons left, and cried instead, the language of tears accomplishing what words could not. She gathered them in her arms, their individual griefs becoming one, enveloping them until she did not know where she ended and they began.
She left early the next day, deflecting their entreaties to stay longer. It would only get more difficult to leave with time, not easier. The kalishium armor, the mask of Kali, and Shirin Mam’s blade she left in Mumuksu’s care; they would stay in the funerary chamber until needed again. The Goddess willing, they would not be needed for many, many years. She took nothing but her own katari with her.
The entire Order came out to bid Kyra farewell. She turned to look at them one last time, the small knot of women under the mulberry tree. So few in number, so strong in heart. Akassa stood straight and proud, a fierce glare on her face, as if daring the tears to touch her cheeks. She nodded and gave Kyra an encouraging smile. Go on now, do what you have to. Don’t worry about us.
The novices gathered around Mumuksu, the emotions evident on their young faces. Nineth stood with Elena a little way away from the others, the only one crying openly. Kyra’s heart clenched. But she would not worry about Nineth. Nineth had Elena, after all, and all the others.
But what of Navroz? Eldest looked close to the door of death, her face ashen, her cheeks hollow. Goodbye, Kyra, she sent to her, and Kyra knew, in that moment, she would never see Eldest alive again.
She almost went running back to them. Was it worth it? How could anything be worth this? It wasn’t fair.
Her katari burned with a quiet urgency, and with a start she remembered the dreadful burden she must drag all the way to Yashmin-Gah. And, remembering, she was barely able to stay upright.
She had a task to do, the most important task that had ever befallen a Markswoman, and she would do it even though every step she took away from her home was a knife through her heart.
Goodbye, Eldest, she sent to Navroz, holding her grief at bay. She would not disgrace her teachers and break down, but it was hard, oh so hard.
Elena moved away from Nineth and went to stand with Navroz. She put an arm around the elder, supporting her. Akassa and Nineth came and stood on the other side of the elder. And it seemed to Kyra that Navroz stood a little straighter, a little stronger. Thank you, my dear friends, for everything, thought Kyra. The Goddess be with you till we meet again.
She turned to go, feeling their gazes on her back, their longing pulling at her.
A long, drawn-out howl split the air. Far in the distance, Kyra made out several large shapes cresting a hill and loping downward.
Her spirits lifted slightly. The wyr-wolves were coming . . . to send her off, perhaps? Make sure she did as she had promised Menadin and rid their world of the death-sticks?
The wyr-wolves—ten of them, all from Menadin’s pack, Kyra guessed, led by Sudali—circled her once, then split into two lines, padding to her left and right.
Behind Kyra came gasps and tiny suppressed cries. This time, Kyra was able to smile as she set off across the grassy meadows between the hills. She had an honor guard to be proud of. The sun rose in the sky and stabbed her with its first rays, so that, for a moment, she could not see.
Then she saw, and the sight brought wonder to her heart, for the mountains looked as if th
ey were on fire, and all around, flowers were unfurling pink and scarlet petals in the sun.
* * *
How long did she walk across the valley? It could have been hours, or days. The wyr-wolves never once left her side, and for this she was grateful; otherwise she may have faltered. When she reached the base of Yashmin-Gah, it was dusk, and they loped ahead of her, showing her the way up the hill.
She dragged the sledge up the steep path, one weary step at a time. Thrice she slipped on the stones and fell, scratching her hands and knees, but she barely felt the cuts. She was like an observer, watching herself as she trudged up the hill, heedless of the pain in her back and legs.
At last, she arrived at the little pool of water. The moon rose, fat and silver, nestled against the starry sky. Kyra shrugged the rope from her burning shoulders and bent to drink from the shimmering pool. I am drinking the moon, she thought, splashing water on her face.
Exhaustion hit her, and she collapsed on the bed of rushes that edged the pool. It was soft here, and comfortable, and she would dearly have liked to rest. But she was cold, so cold.
Warm bodies pressed around her, giving her their heat, nudging her away from the pool. Kyra’s eyes flew open. The wyr-wolves bent their hideous faces toward her, and multiple forked tongues caressed her cheeks. She sat up abruptly, her tiredness gone.
“Thank you,” she said. “Yes, I’m leaving. I will keep my promise, if it’s the last thing I do.”
Before she could lose her temporary strength, Kyra crawled to the place where she knew the door was hidden and pushed away the spiky undergrowth.
And there was the door, just like before. She inserted the tip of her blade into the slot, and the door swung open. Welcome, it said. I have been waiting for you a long time.
Mahimata Page 37