Kyra pushed down her fear. “Well, here I am at last,” she said. “I hope the wait was worth it.”
She pushed the sledge with its repulsive load into the passage. It landed with a sickening thud, as if the Hub knew what it contained and was horrified by it. She turned to bid farewell to the wyr-wolves. They had retreated to the edges of the forest around the pool, but she knew they were there, all the same.
“Goodbye,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I hope we meet again.”
Then she squeezed herself into the passage. The door swung closed behind her, and she was once more in the womb of the secret Hub. She had escaped it once, only to return a second time, a willing victim.
As the passage broadened, Kyra stood, dragging the weapons behind her. Nothing to be gained in delaying this any longer. The quicker she did it, the less chance of her panicking.
First door, second door, and . . . third door.
She stood before it awhile, letting the strangeness seep into her, become one with her. If she laid her palm on it, would she sense the world end the way she had last time?
But nothing happened when she touched the door. Only when she slipped the tip of her blade into the slot did a numbered screen slide out. She tapped in the third code from Felda’s pyramid, and the door slid open to reveal an ordinary Transport Chamber. She entered, and pale blue lights came on in the circular room with seats melded to the floor. She sat down on one to wait, and still no vision came to her, no sense of anything amiss.
Several minutes passed, and Kyra sensed the spinning room slow down and then stop. She swallowed hard and stood. It was time.
She walked to the Transport door and pushed it open. A rush of breath escaped her lips, and she staggered back, her heart pumping.
There was nothing beyond the door. Just darkness. Not the darkness of a new-moon night, for that is softened by stars, nor the darkness of a Transport corridor, which is lined by the glowing slots of Transport doors.
This was the complete and utter absence of light.
But wasn’t that also the definition of the Goddess Kali? Kali the dark one, she who came before light itself, before time itself.
Then what was there to fear about the dark?
Kyra gripped the rope of her sledge and steadied herself. She gathered her courage and shouted, “I’m coming, Mother!”
And then, before she could think about what she was doing, Kyra ran through the door and leaped.
And
she
fell.
She tried to hold on to the rope of her sledge, but it slipped from her, as did so much else. The first thing to go was her name. She tried to remember it as she fell, tried to remember why it was important. Something about a clan, a mother and a father who had been taken from her. But she could not remember them, could not recall what had happened, who had taken them, and why.
The next to go were her senses. There was nothing to see, to touch, to hear in the endless dark. As her memories vanished, one by one, there was nothing left to feel.
Except, she had loved someone once. Loved so much it hurt.
In every heart there was a blade, and . . .
Stay alive, Kyra.
The blade within her twisted and feeling came back in a rush of pain and fear. She would have screamed, if she had a voice left to scream with. She would have struggled, if she still had limbs.
Kyra, she thought. That is who I am. Kyra of the clan of Veer and the Order of Kali. She held on to her name like a talisman.
And still she fell, for an eternity or a moment—it was impossible to know. But now it was like falling up, as if this nothingness had a destination. Slowly, the rest of her senses returned to her. Coldness on her skin, a rush of wind in her hair, and in the darkness, far distant, a speck of violet light, almost unbearable after the pitch-black.
She opened her mouth, heard herself gasp in great lungfuls of the cold air. And still that speck of light grew larger, brighter, as if to say: Look, there is still a world, if only you could reach it.
Kyra sobbed and prayed, Oh, Kali, let me live or let me die.
She fell toward the light even faster, as if it had a gravity of its own. She thought it might be a door, but the light spread as far as the eye could see above her. Like a lilac sky. And with that thought she hit the ground, landing on her hands and knees in what appeared to be stiff purple grass.
She pushed herself up, trying to breathe normally and failing. The twilit air was sharp and cool, scented with unfamiliar odors, with a tinge, oddly, of raspberries. A red sun shone low in the sky. On the opposite horizon were two gibbous moons. It should have given her pause, made her examine her surroundings more closely. Made her wonder why she felt lighter than she was.
But she had eyes only for the man who stood facing her, facing the Hub she had tumbled out of. A tall man with dark hair, broad-shouldered and lean. A mind she recognized, and a heart that had called out to her across time and space, drawing her to him. A face that was older than she remembered, but with the same slate-blue eyes, the same tender smile. Free of the poison that had nearly killed him.
She opened her mouth to say his name but could not. Her breath hitched, and tears gathered in her eyes.
He opened his arms, and she took one step toward him. Then another. And then she was flying toward him, running so hard she almost knocked him over. He gave a low laugh against her hair and locked his arms around her. “Kyra,” he said, and it was his voice, his pulse that beat with hers, his lips against her lips.
She laughed, cried, then laughed again. It was a long while before she could shape coherent thoughts. It was a long while before he released her. Then, and only then, did she step away from him and turn her gaze to the lilac sky.
Acknowledgments
This is the book of my heart. Yet it would not exist without the help of several amazing and talented people.
First and foremost, I must thank my editors at Harper Voyager, Priyanka Krishnan and David Pomerico, for guiding this little craft to safety. Thanks also to designer Damonza and art director Jeanne Reina for the lovely cover and to the entire team at Harper Voyager for all their hard work in making this book possible.
My deep gratitude to my agent, Mary C. Moore of Kimberley Cameron & Associates, for being my beta reader, advocate, and advisor.
Thanks to all the friends and fellow writers who read and critique my work: Charlotte, Ariella, Phoebe, Kari, and Vanessa. The writerly life would be very isolating if I did not have you.
Much love to my parents, grandmother, and sister for their enthusiasm for and encouragement of my creative pursuits.
Lastly, thanks to you, dear reader, for sharing this journey with me. I hope we meet again.
About the Author
Born and raised in India, RATI MEHROTRA currently makes her home in Toronto, Canada. When not working on her Asiana books, she writes short fiction and blogs at ratiwrites.com. Her short stories have appeared in Apex Magazine, AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review, Abyss & Apex, IGMS, and many other publications, and have also been featured on the podcasts Podcastle and Cast of Wonders. Find her on Twitter @Rati_Mehrotra.
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Praise for Markswoman
“Well-developed characters and intriguing worldbuilding . . . will keep readers engrossed in this fast-paced, enchanting postapocalyptic fantasy debut.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“An utterly remarkable world with female assassins and telepathic blades; I adored this book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Julie Kagawa
“Mehrotra’s page-turning debut concocts a solid fantasy world with a strong heroine. Readers will look forward to the next in the series.”
—Booklist
“Markswoman gives us a heroine as principled as she is fierce, a gifted outcast who is forced to navigate the maze of treachery at the heart of a unique and finely drawn world.”
—A. J. Hartley, author of Steeplejack
“Markswoman is unputdownable. Rati Mehrotra paints a vivid world filled with compelling characters, awesome knives, and all the thrilling adventure and drama you could want.”
—Sarah Beth Durst, award-winning author of the Queens of Renthia series
“Markswoman is a breathlessly paced postapocalyptic fantasy with a highly original setting and characters you can’t help but love (and hate).”
—Beth Cato, author of Breath of Earth and The Clockwork Dagger
Also by Rati Mehrotra
Markswoman
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MAHIMATA. Copyright © 2019 by Rati Mehrotra. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Harper Voyager and design are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers LLC.
Cover design and illustration by Damonza
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition MARCH 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-256457-3
Version 01292019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-256455-9
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