Even the sun will dim one day,
what is the fading of this one life.
Even the Ones will leave one day,
the sky empty like my eyes.
Time will eat all
Only Time will remain
And Kali formless in the dark
Will return to the night from which She came.”
Kyra observed the faces around her, the women she had grown up with, the elders with their depthless eyes and composed faces, the novices quite still, not daring to move, though their eyelashes fluttered as they glanced at each other. And all the others, young and old, her companions during sunlit hours of working in the orchards, rubbing down the horses, meditating on the hilltops. They were all she knew, and yet how well did she truly know them? Would they accept Tamsyn’s leadership simply out of fear? She searched the faces—Ria Farad, Tonar Kalam, Ninsing Kishtol, Sandi Meersil, Noor Sialbi, and all the others—but she found no answer.
No one noticed Kyra staring. They were transfixed by Tamsyn’s melodious voice and the words they had known by heart for most of their lives. Tamsyn continued to chant and the other elders joined in one by one:
“O Divine Mother
Demon Destroyer
Mistress of three worlds
Enchantress of Shiva
Giver of life, Bringer of death
Most noble assassin
Bless your daughters
In whom you dwell.”
The chanting died away and the cavern fell silent once more. Heartsick, Kyra stole a last look at the tiny woman lying on the platform. She looked peaceful. And old. Shirin Mam had never looked old, not while she was alive.
Why did you die? Kyra wanted to shout. Why did you leave me?
“Stay well, Shirin Mam,” she whispered. “The blessings of Kali go with you.”
She backed away from the cavern, eyes lowered so that no one would see the glimmer of tears in them.
The novices were sobbing. Nineth still wept, red-eyed and blotchy. Mumuksu laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Kyra escaped into the cool night air, still fighting her tears. She should go back inside. Her absence would be marked and remembered. Navroz would be anointing Shirin Mam with sacred oil to prepare her for meeting Agni, the Fire God. It was he who claimed the flesh of all Markswomen when they died, destroying the earthly doors that bound them to life.
But the caves of Kali were no longer the safe home Kyra had known for fourteen years, and she was loath to go back in. Shirin Mam was dead and Tamsyn was the new Mahimata. Either the elders wanted Tamsyn to lead the Order and were utterly oblivious to her true nature, or they were in her power somehow and did not dare to oppose her. Kyra didn’t know which was worse.
She leaned against the gnarled trunk of the mulberry tree and looked up at the branches framing the dark sky. The wind whispered through the leaves, as if telling secrets.
If only she was more adept in the Mental Arts. Or as skilled in combat as Chintil Maya. If only she had some talent—any talent—that could help her now. She couldn’t even enter Anant-kal unaided, and now that Shirin Mam was dead, perhaps she never would again.
Or could she?
Kyra glanced around to make sure she was alone. She drew in a deep breath, focusing on the present moment. The sounds of the night—the soft breeze, the chittering of insects, the distant hoot of an owl—calmed her. She closed her eyes and folded her hands. There was no time for the complete ritual, the slowing down of the breath and the gradual strengthening of the meditative trance. But Shirin Mam used to say that need was the greatest motivator; when the time came, the lowliest novice could embrace the oneness of space-time and see where her true path lay.
Kyra let the wind blow her thoughts away. Her mind emptied as she sank into the first level of the trance. And in place of the grassy patch before the entrance to the caves of Kali, there was now a pool of water glittering under the light of a full moon, tall banks of reeds around it. The pendulous boughs of a stately old elm reached down to caress the water. The fragrance of damask roses filled the night air with sweet longing. The sights and scents of this place were familiar; Kyra knew she had been here—but when?
“For shame, little deer; have you no respect for the soul of our departed teacher? You have missed the lighting of incense and the last prayers.”
Kyra jumped and broke out of her trance. The pool of water vanished. Tamsyn stood before her with folded arms, a frown on her oval face.
“You can never know the love and respect I had for Shirin Mam,” said Kyra, biting the words off.
Tamsyn drew her lips in a thin line. “Oh, but I do know. I know it well. But you are a Markswoman now, not a foolish little novice. I told you my time would come, and it has come, a little sooner than everyone expected, that is all. I am going to make some changes around here; are you not looking forward to it? To going back to the Thar and fulfilling your vow?”
Not at this price.
“Poor Kyra,” said Tamsyn. “It must be difficult to lose a mother for the second time in your life. I forgive you your weakness. Tomorrow I will not be so kind.”
“Shirin Mam was kind to you, was she not?” said Kyra, guilt and rage driving away the last of her caution. “Did she regret it in the end?”
Tamsyn took one step forward and grabbed Kyra’s hair, forcing her head back. “Be careful, little deer,” she whispered, her voice laced with the Inner Speech. “Apologize, before I make you regret your rudeness.”
Kyra’s throat tightened with fear. She tried to stop the words, but they tumbled out anyway. “I’m sorry, Elder.”
Tamsyn’s teeth flashed. She let go Kyra’s hair and Kyra stumbled back, her scalp stinging.
The gong boomed: once, twice, thrice.
“Time to build the pyre,” said Tamsyn calmly, as if nothing had happened. “The burning of the old, the anointing of the new.” She inhaled deeply. “I can smell it already.”
She turned and left, her black robe swirling behind her. Kyra followed, her feet like lead. Keep walking, she told herself. Do what you must.
Chapter 10
The Blade of Shirin Mam
They worked by firelight, building the pyre on a metal grate that faced the wind. The sacred wood of the chenar tree mixed with the sweet wood of cinnamon; strong and bittersweet would be the burn.
Kyra bent low as she dragged another heavy stake of wood from the pile to the pyre. Her back throbbed and her eyes burned. Drag, heave, shove the stake into place. Do it again. And again. She welcomed the ache in her body, the rawness of her palms, the sweat trickling down her forehead. It helped keep her mind empty, helped deflect the probing tendrils of Tamsyn’s gaze.
She looked up once and caught Elena’s eye, and wished she hadn’t. Elena’s face was strange in the flickering firelight; they all were. A sense of unreality took hold of her. Who were these hollow-eyed women and what was she doing with them?