How long before Shirin Mam came? Hours? Days? Kyra could remember being lifted by strong arms and tied to a horse, but she had no memory of the actual journey to Ferghana.
In the caves of Kali she was put under the care of Navroz Lan, the healer. Navroz forced her to drink the bitterest of brews every night to help her sleep, but Kyra wondered later whether the potion had made the nightmares worse. That was the darkest of times, when madness held her in its relentless grip. Often, she could not tell what was real and what was not. Her days were filled with raw grief. She cried constantly, but tears brought no relief—no mother to hold her, no father to lift her on his shoulder. She dreamed of nothing but an endless series of doors and a terrible blank void that lay beyond them. She opened one after another, chasing the ghosts of those she’d loved, and finding only emptiness. It wasn’t until she was older that she learned to separate dream and reality, though the doors haunted her still.
The gong sounded, reverberating through the caves.
Goddess, was it already time for the ceremony? Kyra leaped up and grabbed a comb to run through her long hair. She tried to get the tangles out, but it was impossible, and at last she gave up and tied it in a loose bun, hoping she looked neat enough. She took down a tiny mirror from a shelf above and brought the candle close to her face to check for smudges. Her features—the snub nose, dark brown eyes, and generous mouth—reflected back at her as always. But today, it wasn’t just the face of Kyra. It was the face of a soon-to-be Markswoman.
She tossed the mirror back on the shelf and withdrew her katari from its scabbard.
*
The Markswomen filled the cavern, all dressed in the brown, loose-sleeved robes with divided skirts that were the uniform of the Order, embroidered with their symbol: an inverted katari encircled by a ring of fire. White novice robes and green apprentice robes were conspicuous by their absence; only a full Markswoman could attend the initiation rites. Kyra knew this, but the fact that she was the only one wearing green made her heart beat faster. The katari almost slipped from her sweaty palm. She discreetly wiped her hands against her sides and clutched it. She would not drop the blade and make a fool of herself.
The women streamed out of their cells in silence, looking not at each other but at their blades. Kyra joined them at the wooden benches surrounding the central slab, but she found it hard not to fidget. Her last hour as an apprentice.
When everyone was seated, Shirin Mam stepped into the cavern and took her place by the platform in the middle. She looked different, somehow, from the small, slight woman who had spoken with Kyra a short while ago. Her back was straight, her robe a shimmering black, the katari shining before her in translucent diamond-like splendor. Her face in the torchlight was neither young nor old, neither good nor evil. She simply was, Shirin Mam the Mahimata of Kali, leader of the most ancient Order of Peace in Asiana.
“. . . and Ture-asa, the last king of Asiana, decreed that to live we must die, and to rule we must serve, and to uphold the peace we must kill. Thus was the Order of Kali born and to this day we, the chosen ones from all the clans, the shining outcasts, do follow the path laid down for us. In our sacrifice lies the salvation of Asiana. And so it will ever be.”
“And so it will ever be,” they all intoned, their voices echoing through the cavern.
Shirin Mam’s voice grew deeper. “This day a new Markswoman is born among us. Rise, daughter of Kali, and come to me.”
Kyra rose and advanced to the central slab.
“Kneel,” commanded the Mahimata.
Kyra knelt and Shirin Mam touched her forehead with the tip of her lucent blade. Kyra closed her eyes and held herself rigid as the Mahimata’s katari seared her flesh for a long, excruciating minute. This was the mark that would brand her as a Markswoman of Kali forever. Through a haze of pain she heard Shirin Mam’s voice ring out like a bell on a clear autumn day:
“May you walk on water and pass through fire. May the blood that you shed nourish the soil and the bodies you strike feed the crows. May the katari protect your flesh and Kali protect your soul. And when your work is done, may the Ones take you with them to the stars for the last journey of your life.” Shirin Mam grasped Kyra’s shoulders, helping her up. “Drink,” she said.
Kyra stared at the swirling red liquid in the wooden bowl that had materialized in her hands. It looked like wine or . . . blood. Wyr-wolf blood? The rumors were true. Yuck. Kyra shuddered but there was no help for it. She took the bowl and raised it to her lips. A collective sigh rose from the Markswomen.
Kyra drank without stopping, without thinking, without tasting. When she had drained the last drop from the bowl, a mighty cheer rang through the cavern. Her head swam and faces danced before her eyes.
Shirin Mam slashed open Kyra’s apprentice robe with her katari and led her to the slab.
Kyra lay on the raised platform, clad in just her shift, trying to ignore the goose bumps on her skin. The five black-robed elders—Navroz Lan, Chintil Maya, Felda Seshur, Mumuksu Chan, and Tamsyn Turani—surrounded her. The first four touched her forehead with their kataris, their lips moving in silent benediction. But Tamsyn, her face distorted in the torchlight, laid the bloodred tip of her weapon in the middle of Kyra’s chest, just above the heart. Pain rose like a scream within her, then subsided to become a distant, bearable thing.
Kyra struggled to stay conscious but the effort was too great. The last thing she heard was the singing of many voices, sweet and low. The song lifted her from pain and took her by the hand into the corridor of sleep. As Kyra walked down that corridor she saw, as plain as if it were her own reflection in a mirror, the serene face of her mother, beckoning at the far end. Joy filled Kyra and she ran toward her. Mother, I’ve missed you. She ran and ran, but her mother was no nearer than before. The corridor stretched away into the distance and her mother’s form dimmed. No, Kyra tried to shout, don’t leave me again.
But no words escaped her lips and her mother faded away, still smiling, still beckoning. Kyra collapsed, sobbing in frustration and despair. Then she smelled ash, and felt the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.
A blue-skinned, four-armed woman with a vermilion-streaked forehead and bloodshot eyes stood over her. Twice as tall as Kyra, her black hair rippled in turbulent waves over her wolfskin skirt to her bare feet. A garland of skulls rattled around her neck as she presented Kyra with a lotus in one hand, a pair of scissors in another, and a sword in the third.
Kyra gaped at the fearsome form in disbelief. It cannot be. She wanted to grovel at her feet. She wanted to run away. In the end, she did neither. And as the Goddess flicked out her long red tongue and held out the final hand in benediction, her eyes bore into the depths of Kyra’s soul, and Kyra’s world went dark.
Chapter 3
The Judgment of Khur