“No,” whispered Kyra. Not like this. Helpless, undignified, soiled.
“Then let us clean her and change the robes before we take her to the main cavern.”
Bile rose in Kyra’s throat but she pushed it down. Help me, Goddess. Make me strong.
They worked in silence, straightening the body and removing the robes. Kyra tried not to look at Shirin Mam’s face, her empty blue eyes. As long as she didn’t look, she could believe that her teacher was still alive, and that this thin, shrunken body belonged to someone else. She wiped the skin with a damp cloth that Navroz handed her, checking for any marks or clues as to what had happened. But there were none.
Kyra swallowed and made herself speak. “She looks untouched.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Navroz.
Eldest was right. A katari in the hands of a trained Markswoman like Tamsyn could kill without seeming to—not a drop of blood, no cut to the skin, just a stopping of the breath and a stilling of the heart. But Shirin Mam was skilled in the art of katari defense. Surely no one could have taken the Mahimata by surprise, she who had taught them all how to see with the third eye?
But how else could Shirin Mam have died? She had been healthy and strong, at the peak of her powers.
They dressed the body in a fresh robe that Navroz dug out from a chest in the corner. The elder combed Shirin Mam’s hair and closed her eyes.
“Quick now,” she commanded. “The others are almost here.”
Kyra grasped the corpse by the shoulders while Navroz took hold of the feet. Kyra was shocked at how light the body was. It was like carrying a child.
Back in the cavern, Nineth and Elena still waited, pale and anxious. They both burst into tears at the sight of the body.
“Hush,” said Navroz. “I won’t have you wailing like farmwives. Shirin Mam would not like it. Remember who you are.”
Elena stopped at once but Nineth continued to sob, stuffing her fists in her mouth to stop the cries escaping her throat.
They laid the body on the slab. Navroz told Elena to fetch the Mahimata’s katari, which was still lying on the floor of her cell. When Elena returned, Navroz laid the katari on Shirin Mam’s chest, folded her hands over it, and stepped back.
“It looks as if Shirin is only sleeping,” said Navroz, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.
But Kyra could not look at the still, black-robed figure on the platform. She watched Navroz instead. The elder seemed to have aged ten years in one night. Her face was drawn, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Elder,” said Kyra, “I must speak with you.”
Navroz shot her a warning glance, and she heard what the elder must have already sensed: low, worried voices and the rustling of robes.
Chintil and Tamsyn were the first to arrive. Chintil’s hands flew to her mouth and she fell to the floor in shock. Tamsyn gave a cry of grief and circled the body on the platform, wringing her delicate hands. Like a vulture, thought Kyra numbly. Closing in to finish its meal.
The others began to arrive one after another, including a red-eyed and subdued-looking Akassa. Kyra stared hard at her but Akassa refused to meet her eyes. Everything they had been fighting about now seemed stupid and trivial, and Kyra was filled with self-loathing. To think that she had been baiting an apprentice while Shirin Mam lay dying in her cell. If only she hadn’t gone to the festival, or fought with Akassa. Perhaps she would have sensed something was wrong much sooner than she had, and returned in time to help her teacher.
The last to arrive was Felda. She led the four novices to a corner, hugging them one by one when they began to cry.
When everyone was assembled, Navroz clapped for silence and said, “Shirin Mam, our beloved Mahimata, is no more.” Her voice was hoarse but it did not waver.
She waited until the cries had subsided. “I have examined her body, and found no marks. I do not know the cause of death. Perhaps she simply chose to leave us? I cannot say. I know this is a shock to all of you. Do not hesitate to come and talk to one of us if you need to.” She paused to swallow. “Shirin Mam was our teacher, friend, and mother. Many years ago, she was also my most challenging pupil. She questioned me in everything, and in turn forced me to question myself. She taught me to take nothing for granted. But in this I am guilty: I took her for granted. I did not expect to outlive her.” She bowed her head and was silent for a moment. When she raised it again, her face was calm and resolute. “We must prepare Shirin Mam for the last rites. You may come to your Mahimata one by one and say your farewells.”
The Markswomen streamed past the raised platform, folding their hands and murmuring their goodbyes. One or two paused to kiss the hem of her robe, and Noor Sialbi laid a white wildflower at Shirin Mam’s feet.
When it was Kyra’s turn, she forced herself to look at the slab where Shirin Mam lay, the slender katari on her breast, eyes closed as if in sleep. Small and still, diminished in death. There should have been an aura of power around her still, something to tell the world what a remarkable person she had been. Kyra’s soul cried out at the unfairness of it all. Did death make everyone ordinary? Did it make no difference who you were, what you had accomplished?
No, of course not, came Shirin Mam’s gentle, chiding voice. Death is but another door I have walked through. You see my husk, the part I have left behind, and mistake it for the whole. I am elsewhere, a place you cannot reach—not yet.
Kyra sighed. Her teacher’s voice was still with her. If nothing else, she still had that. She bowed her head and moved away.
The elders bent to whisper together. Kyra could see Tamsyn gesticulating with her hands, and Felda shaking her head and scowling. What was going on?
She found out soon enough.
“Tradition holds that the Hand of Kali succeeds the Mahimata in the event of a sudden death,” said Navroz. “While we wait for the formal ceremony, I see no reason to delay in informing you that the Mistress of Mental Arts has agreed to take over the Mahimata’s duties.”
Kyra gasped. This could not be happening. Tamsyn the new Mahimata of Kali? What was wrong with the elders? How could they be so blind? The Hand of Kali was the only Markswoman who was even remotely capable of killing Shirin Mam.
Tamsyn went to stand near Shirin Mam, gazing at everyone in turn, as if she was carrying on a special conversation with each. You fraud, thought Kyra, her anger growing until she felt she would burst. Your grief is all pretense. Why can no one else see through you?
Tamsyn pinned her with a piercing stare, and Kyra lowered her eyes and emptied her mind. Tamsyn gestured to Baliya, the Markswoman standing nearest the gong. Baliya bowed and struck the raised central boss of the gong with the mallet. The clear tones echoed through the cavern. It was time for the song of farewell.
Tamsyn began to chant, her voice high and clear:
“Even the katari will wear out one day,
what is this skin that I leave behind.