A bone-chilling howl split the air, nearly stopping her heart. Kyra leaped and stared at the dense cover of spruce trees on either side of the hill, blade in hand. Nothing moved. Still she waited, every sense alert. The wind blew soft through the trees and insects chittered in the grass, but beyond that the world was silent. At last she slid her blade back into its scabbard, calming herself.
It could have been an ordinary wolf. Wyr-wolves rarely came down to the valley in the warmer season. But sometimes a goat or a calf or—rarely—a human would go missing, and the telltale tracks of the beasts would be seen, elongated and clawed. Nothing was ever recovered of the victims—not a scrap of clothing or a shard of bone. The Markswomen followed the trail when they could and relied on their instincts when they could not. It was dangerous work; wyr-wolves were twice as big and fast as ordinary wolves and far more deadly, at least during the full moon. No one had ever seen them during the new moon, not even Tamsyn herself. The kiss of a wyr-wolf meant certain death, for in their saliva was enough venom to paralyze a horse.
Kyra had ridden in three hunts last year, a necessary prerequisite to becoming a full Markswoman. The first and second times, the wyr-wolves outran their horses and the Markswomen returned with nothing to show for the night’s work. But the third time, the pack of seven wyr-wolves they were tracking wheeled around to attack their pursuers. Kyra had been shocked at the size, speed, and slathering fury of the fearsome beasts. Ria Farad’s blade had flashed through the darkness, lopping off the head of the snarling pack leader.
Kyra herself had killed one. She had waited, terrified, until the beast was almost upon her and she could smell its fetid breath before thrusting her katari up into its massive chest. The encounter lasted less than three minutes. At the end of it, five wyr-wolves lay dead on the forest floor. Two escaped, much to Ria’s chagrin.
Later, Kyra had wondered what she would do if she had to face a pack, or even just one wyr-wolf, on her own.
Keeping a wary eye about her, Kyra continued down the hill. It must have been an ordinary wolf. Wyr-wolves knew better than to come anywhere near the caves of Kali. But she didn’t care to hang around, waiting to find out. Such bravado could be left to the likes of Tamsyn and Ria.
*
The Order’s kitchen was a roomy space hollowed out of the hillside, part of the same cave system that contained the main cavern and the individual cells of the Markswomen. But it had a separate entrance, a wide wooden door that was open during the day and padlocked at night to keep the food safe from animals.
Kyra entered through the door, inhaling the aromas of Tarshana’s cooking and feeling herself relax. The Order of Kali might rule the Ferghana, but Tarshana ruled the Order’s kitchen. A big-boned, red-cheeked woman with a thick plait of gleaming black hair, she had worked for the Order of Kali for over a decade, and her mother and grandmother had had the job before her. She stood now, perspiring over an enormous pot that hung above the fireplace.
“What’s for lunch, Tarshana?” called Kyra, making her way to Nineth and Elena, who had saved a place for her between them.
“Everything you like,” said the cook, grinning. “Pilaf, fried eggplant, and potato samsas.”
Delicious. Kyra eagerly settled down on the kilim-covered stone floor with a plate in front of her, ready to dig in. Just as she had taken her first bite, Helen Pichto, a plain-faced little novice with serious eyes, scurried over to whisper in her ear. Shirin Mam wanted to see her.
“Right away,” murmured Helen before bending to collect the empty dishes in front of the other Markswomen.
With a sigh of longing, Kyra pushed her plate away and stood up, hunger and dismay warring within her.
“You’re not eating that?” said Nineth, reaching for Kyra’s plate.
“Are you all right?” said Elena.
“Sure,” lied Kyra, and gave them a big smile before heading out of the kitchen. She had been expecting this summons for a while—ever since the night she returned from her first mark and Shirin Mam gave her that “special assignment,” in fact. But did it have to be right now? This was the third meal she’d be missing in four days.
She walked down the corridor to the Mahimata’s cell, thinking of what she could say, what excuse she could make for not having visited as soon as she had solved the puzzle. But there wasn’t any. She’d been delaying the inevitable.
Shirin Mam sat at her desk: a huge carved affair of solid oak that had been gifted to her predecessor by a grateful petitioner. A bronze candlestick with three candles threw a small pool of yellow light on the books and scrolls scattered on the desk. In one corner of the Mahimata’s cell was a pallet, and in another, a grass mat for meditation.
As always, Kyra was struck by how little of the Mahimata’s personality this room reflected, how insignificant it seemed. There was nothing to indicate that it was the seat of power for the most formidable woman in Asiana.
Shirin Mam put down her quill. “When were you going to tell me you had decoded Felda’s string of numbers?” she asked without preamble.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” said Kyra. “It must be all the meals I’m missing.” It was out of her mouth before she realized how insolent it sounded. But what she wanted most right then was to go back to the kitchen and wolf down some eggplant and pilaf before the next class. Her stomach rumbled in agreement.
Shirin Mam rose from her desk. “You are not a fool, and neither am I. It has been two weeks now and you did not come to me with the answer. Why?”
Kyra felt the first stirring of anger. Shirin Mam had all but ignored her for the past few weeks. She hadn’t even mentioned the assignment again after giving Kyra the parchment. “I’ve been busy and I forgot,” she said curtly.
“Is that all?” said Shirin Mam, her expression unreadable as always. “Or is there something else you wish to tell me?”
Of course there was something else. There was the dream she’d had over and over again. There was her fear the dream was connected to this “special assignment.” But it was nothing she wanted to tell Shirin Mam about. When she was a child, she could run sobbing to the Mahimata, telling her of doors that ate her, that made the world disappear. Shirin Mam would hold her close and soothe the fears away—sometimes even sing her to sleep. For the rest of the world, she may have been the leader of the most ancient Order of Peace in Asiana, but for Kyra, Shirin Mam had taken the place of the mother she had lost.
But that was years ago. Kyra was a Markswoman now and if such dreams still came to her, she was not a child to be comforted.
The tension stretched between them like a tightrope. Kyra’s eyes watered but she did not speak, willing her limbs not to tremble from fatigue.
Finally, it was Shirin Mam who broke the silence. “The solution, Kyra. I know that you carry it with you.”
Kyra fished out a crumpled piece of parchment from an inner pocket of her robe. “It was simple,” she said. “I rearranged the numbers and got this pyramid.”
2
30203
133020331
1713302033171
12171330203317121
151217133020331712151
1815121713302033171215181
16181512171330203317121518161
331618151217133020331712151816133
9333161815121713302033171215181613339