Around the bend, Kyra saw the Mahimata disappear into one of the huge towers, and quickened her pace. She caught a flash of gray on her left, and her skin prickled the way it had when wyr-wolves had appeared as she fled the caves of Kali. She and Shirin Mam were not alone here.
But Kyra did not pause to investigate. She sprinted to the metal door at the base of the tower. It slid open and she stepped into a small, blue-walled room, illuminated by a harsh light. The door closed and the floor beneath her vibrated. It was like being inside a Transport Chamber, only smaller and more claustrophobic. But before her fears had time to coalesce, the wall in front of her melted away and a ray of light pierced her eyes.
Kyra stepped into the light and drew a sharp breath. She was in a white, marble-floored hall, so vast that she could barely see the other end. Carved stone pillars reached up to a distant ceiling. Diamond-shaped windows glittered in the sunlight.
And there, in the middle of that vast space, stood Shirin Mam. The symbol of Kali gleamed on her breast. Her hair was gathered behind in a neat bun. She looked for all the world as if she was about to give a class in Mental Arts.
Kyra moved forward eagerly, almost tripping over her robes in her hurry to reach Shirin Mam before she could disappear again.
Shirin Mam held up a warning hand. “Not too close. You will see me better from a distance.”
Kyra came to a halt a few feet away from the Mahimata. Sure enough, Shirin Mam seemed less solid somehow, almost translucent, her edges wavering.
“Are you a ghost?” she whispered.
Shirin Mam gave a short laugh. “Look at yourself.”
Kyra looked down and swallowed. She could see through her body to the floor below.
“So I’m not really here?” she said.
“Of course you are. But your physical self is elsewhere, and your katari knows it.”
“What is this place?” Kyra looked around the hall. “Is it always daylight here?”
Shirin Mam shrugged. “This is simply a place I have been drawn to, an aspect of Anant-kal that I think is safer than most. I imagine that this hall we are standing in existed a long time ago, and its form is embedded in the memory of my blade. As the mistress of my blade, I have some degree of control here. That is why I have brought you here, for one last lesson.”
“But . . .” began Kyra.
“But I am dead?” said Shirin Mam. “What of it?”
Kyra looked at her in mute appeal.
Finally Shirin Mam relented. “We are in the mind and memory of my blade, which you have so tenderly placed under your pillow. It does not matter whether I am alive or dead in the physical world. My soul is imprinted on my katari, and it has drawn you here.”
“Then I can see you again, whenever I need to?” said Kyra, a bubble of happiness rising within her.
“It is not that simple,” said Shirin Mam. “This is something I planned on doing when I was still alive.” Seeing Kyra’s defeated expression, she said robustly, “Come, there is no time for idle chatter. Walk with me.”
Kyra fell into step beside her and they walked down the hall. Was Shirin Mam going to take her through some advanced form of katari duel that would help her defeat Tamsyn? But to practice they would need their kataris. Kyra’s hands were empty and so were Shirin Mam’s.
“Observe the pillars,” commanded Shirin Mam. “There are thirty-six, eighteen on each side. Look closely; there are carvings on each of them.”
Kyra obediently looked at the pillars. The carvings were strange; one showed a woman—vaguely familiar—wrestling an enormous fanged serpent. Another showed the same woman holding a long, slim blade over the bent heads of a row of kneeling men and women. Kyra frowned. It was clearly a Markswoman, but who did she remind her of, with her rippling dark hair, triumphant smile, and that elongated katari that could almost be a sword?
The answer came to her in a burst of understanding. “These are carvings of the Goddess Kali.”
“Perhaps,” said Shirin Mam. “Do you admire my artistry?”
Kyra stopped short. “You made these? But how? Our physical selves are elsewhere, you said.”
“Nothing is here in the physical sense,” said Shirin Mam. “That does not make it any less real. I told you that I have some degree of control in this place. I have been here many times and shaped it to the best of my abilities. Remember every aspect of this hall, for you may wish to return here one day without my aid.”
Kyra tried to do as she was told, but she was quite sure she wouldn’t want to return to this eerie world without Shirin Mam. They had reached the other end of the hall and she dragged her eyes away from the last carving, a particularly horrible one of a three-headed monster with drooling fangs. The heads resembled those of wyr-wolves—hungry wyr-wolves, contemplating a meal.
“Each of these thirty-six carvings represents a word of power in the ancient tongue,” said Shirin Mam. “It is your task to remember each word, the pronunciation as well as the tone. The price of error is high. The wrong word can bring death.”
“Thirty-six words?” Kyra swallowed. The most that any young Markswoman usually knew was three or four, and even then, only the safest ones. Navroz Lan herself would not know more than ten or eleven. Words of power were a secret, passed on from one Mahimata to the next. Shirin Mam was showing great trust in her. “I am honored, Mother.”
“Look, child.” Shirin Mam stood next to the image of the three-headed monster. “The carvings will help you remember. Fix all the little details of the images in your mind. The word you need will spring forth when you summon the right image.”
Kyra stared hard at the image of the three-headed monster, wishing that Shirin Mam could have picked something a little less terrifying. Kali sat astride the monster, her bare legs gripping its scaly hide. The Goddess looked into the distance with remote eyes.
Shirin Mam leaned toward her. “Now listen well to what I say, but concentrate on staying where we are. Trishindaar.”
The word reverberated inside Kyra’s skull. The hall swam out of focus and she had the strangest sensation that she was surrounded by water. She opened her mouth to speak, but only bubbles escaped her lips. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She tried to move, but her limbs were too heavy and an oppressive weight pressed down on her chest, trapping her. Kyra flailed and fought her rising panic. Where was her teacher?
Shirin Mam had said to concentrate on staying where they were. And they were in a hall, weren’t they? A hall with thirty-six pillars and a smooth marble floor.
Kyra shut her eyes and remembered the hall, forcing her mind to think of it and nothing else, forcing down her panic. The floor slowly solidified beneath her feet. She opened her eyes and exhaled, shaky with relief. She was back in the hall. Shirin Mam stood next to her, watching her.
“What—what does that word mean?” asked Kyra, hoping that Shirin Mam would not repeat it aloud.
“Look at the carving,” said the Mahimata, instead of answering her. “What do you think the creature represents?”