Kyra’s throat was so dry she could barely continue. But there was no help for it. She couldn’t let Tamsyn take Shirin Mam’s blade, not when the Mahimata herself had told her that she would need it. She swallowed and continued, “It is not true that Shirin Mam does not wish to be touched. I will prove it to you. I will take her katari myself.”
She walked up to the slab before she could lose her momentary courage, before Tamsyn could recover from her surprise, and before any of the elders could command her to stop. She reached over Shirin Mam, heart thudding. Oh, Kali, help me now, or all is lost for your disciple.
Then the katari was in her hands, so quick and smooth that it seemed to come there of its own accord. Kyra’s palm tingled and confidence rushed through her blood. She held Shirin Mam’s katari aloft so that everyone could see it, the beauty of the transparent blade that reflected the purity and power of Shirin Mam’s soul.
She did not know how long she stood there gazing at the blade, surrounded by the awestruck silence of her companions. Perhaps she would not have seen Tamsyn gliding toward her if someone—Nineth, perhaps—had not coughed in warning.
Kyra swung around to face Tamsyn. The elder stopped a few feet away, her eyes slits of hatred, her lips curved in that smile that seemed to say, How delicious, I will eat you now.
But Kyra was not afraid of her, not while she held Shirin Mam’s katari in her hands. And Tamsyn knew it.
“See, Elder?” said Kyra. “Shirin Mam does want to go into the fire. But she didn’t want you to have two weapons. Two weapons would divide your power and put your soul in danger. Even in death, Shirin Mam teaches us something.”
The four other elders murmured their approval.
“How right you are, little deer,” said Tamsyn sweetly. “Certainly, the wisdom of our respected teacher cannot be doubted. You have taught me a good lesson. Now put the katari back where it belongs and let us proceed immediately with the last rite.”
Kyra hesitated, caught in the trap of her own cleverness. If she put the katari back, she would be plain Kyra again, with none of the protection and strength that Shirin Mam’s weapon offered. In Shirin Mam’s katari lay centuries of power—she had sensed it at once.
Perhaps Tamsyn had killed Shirin Mam not only to take her place, but also to take her katari. If Tamsyn could not obtain this ancient weapon herself, she would want it out of Kyra’s reach. And once that happened, she would certainly punish Kyra for daring to challenge her—and Kyra stood no chance against the deadly Hand of Kali.
“Well, Kyra?” Tamsyn tapped her foot as if she wished to delay the last rite no longer. “What are you waiting for?”
For inspiration, thought Kyra. She gazed at the blade in her hand. “I think,” she said slowly, hoping that it would not appear as if she was making things up on the spur of the moment, “Shirin Mam must want me to be the guardian of her katari. Why else would she let me pick it up?” Her voice grew stronger. “Perhaps the katari is intended for someone who is not yet known to us? Yes, that must be it. The katari comes to me from Shirin Mam to protect as the inheritance of someone who is yet to be revealed.”
“Kyra,” said Navroz, her voice sharp. “Enough. Please return the katari so we can proceed.”
Felda, Chintil, and Mumuksu were staring at Kyra, their faces taut with worry.
Tamsyn was clapping her hands, laughing. It was not a pleasant sound. “That is a good story, little deer. Except that it is quite untrue. If Shirin Mam wanted to pass on her katari to someone else, she would have told us years ago.” A note of command entered her voice. “Put the katari back, Kyra. It is I, the new Mahimata, who tells you this.”
Kyra bowed. “I am sorry, Elder, but the old Mahimata tells me something else. It would be disastrous for the Order to ignore the voice that comes from her katari. In fact, the katari tells me that I must leave at once to search for its true successor.”
Tamsyn tried to stop her, as Kyra had known she would, summoning all her mental forces against her. Without the protection of Shirin Mam’s katari, Kyra would have crumpled senseless to the floor. But the katari acted like a shield, bathing her in its silver light, and Tamsyn could not come near her, mentally or physically. The other Markswomen stood back as Kyra strode from the cavern. She could sense the elation of some of her companions, the dismay of the others. Most of all, she could sense Tamsyn’s fury. It was a monster, straining against the fraying leash of the rules of the Order, hungry for revenge. What would it feed on in her absence?
Chapter 11
A New Assignment
In the middle of the Khur camp was an open, circular space surrounded by tents, and it was here that Ishtul, the blademaster of Khur, liked to hold his class. The sand was hard-packed by decades of use, and ideal for fighting.
It was midmorning and the sun beat down on the heads of the Marksmen who clustered around the elder, awaiting instructions. Rustan stood to one side, barefooted and loose-robed, as they all were for the combat class. In the last year, Ishtul had begun to treat him more as an assistant than as a pupil, and usually Rustan loved this class more than any other.
But not today. Maybe not ever again. His katari was tainted, and so was he.
“Pair up for katari duel,” barked Ishtul. “Shurik, you will duel Rustan. Try to stay upright for more than a minute.”
Inwardly, Rustan groaned. Shurik was his closest friend in the Order, despite the three-year age gap. He had shared a tent with Shurik when the boy first arrived in the Order, and mentored him as a novice. Now, he was the person Rustan wanted to avoid the most. Shurik could sense, even if the other Marksmen couldn’t, that something was wrong with Rustan.
Shurik sauntered over as the others fell into pairs and Ishtul circled them, shouting instructions and curses.
“Why the long face?” He grinned. “Afraid I’ll finally beat you and take your place as Ishtul’s favorite?”
Despite himself, Rustan laughed. The dour, hook-nosed blademaster of Khur never minced words about Shurik’s abilities—or rather, his lack of them. “Jests will not win you a duel,” he said.
Shurik flexed his muscles. “Worth trying. Anyway, I think you’re slipping. Standing there so slack and glum, I could have stabbed you three times by now.”
“Three times?” Rustan shook his head. Shurik was gifted in the Mental Arts—more so than perhaps anyone in the Order. But combat was not his strongest suit. Rustan withdrew his katari and held it in both hands, one on the grip and the other on the glowing blade. “Talk less and concentrate. If you can but touch me with your blade, I will concede.”
Shurik did not have to be told twice. He gripped his katari in his right hand and lunged, aiming for a downward diagonal stab at Rustan’s shoulder.