Kyra jumped. But it was only Ria Farad, a tawny-haired, slender Markswoman who was often on guard duty outside the caves.
“You startled me,” said Kyra. “I should have known you would be here, imitating the night.”
Ria laughed. “You don’t imitate the night, young one. You become the night.”
She melted once more into the darkness. Kyra scanned the surroundings to catch another glimpse of the Markswoman. She could be anywhere: among the rushes that bent and swayed in the wind, behind the trunk of the ancient mulberry tree, or even right in front of her. But it was no use trying to see her, and Kyra gave up.
She crawled through the narrow passage to the caves, shaking with fatigue. Her wrist throbbed and her throat was still raw and painful from being squeezed by Maidul’s fingers. She would have to be careful what she said to Shirin Mam.
The main cavern was empty save for the Mahimata. The light from a hundred sconces flickered on the walls, bringing the ocher and charcoal paintings on them to life. Kali the demon-slayer danced across the walls, holding aloft the sword of knowledge to cut the bonds of ignorance and destroy her enemy, falsehood.
Kali, whose name literally meant “the dark one,” had been worshipped by millions before the Great War, Shirin Mam had told them. She was the oldest in the pantheon of deities that once flourished in Asiana. She was there at the beginning of things, and would be there when everything ended. Protector of devotees and bestower of boons, she was nonetheless a fearsome warrior, called by the gods to the battlefield when all else failed.
Black-skinned and four-armed, adorned with a garland of human skulls and a girdle of human arms, in the paintings the Goddess carved her way through a multiplicity of mythic monsters: a demon with the body of a water buffalo, another that could kill with his roar, and yet another that could duplicate himself with every drop of his blood that fell to the ground. One of the paintings showed Kali catching the demon’s blood with her tongue before it could fall. From the detailed depictions of her battling demons with sword, spear, and dagger had grown Hatha-kala, the style of fighting unique to the Order of Kali.
But some of the paintings showed a slightly different version of Kali: a blue-skinned woman wearing a wolf-hide skirt and holding one of her four hands out in benediction. This was Tara, the maternal aspect of the Goddess. The mother loved her children as much as the warrior hated demons.
But who still worshipped the Goddess beyond the caves? Did anyone else remember what she stood for?
Perhaps only the Markswomen of the Order of Kali did, they who took her name when they went into battle.
Shirin Mam—slim, gray-haired, and black-robed—sat on one of the dozen wooden benches that surrounded the raised central slab. Behind her was the silver gong, suspended from a metal frame, its rune-covered disc gleaming in the torchlight. The Mahimata’s head was bent over a book; she appeared completely absorbed by it. Kyra felt a rush of relief at the familiar sight. Her first impulse was to run and hug her teacher, but she controlled it and waited for Shirin Mam to notice her.
Shirin Mam raised her head and fixed a stern gaze on her. “What kept you?” she demanded.
Kyra bowed. “I apologize, Mother. The camp was not easy to find.”
“No, I meant what kept you after you returned here. No doubt you were chattering with Nineth and Ria.”
That wasn’t fair. Kyra wanted to protest, but then Shirin Mam smiled—a smile that transformed her face so that she looked, for a moment, quite young. Kyra found herself smiling back, warmed from within. The moment passed and Shirin Mam said, “Is it done?”
“It is done, Mother,” replied Kyra.
“We will have your ceremony at dawn. Tell me everything.”
Kyra gave the Mahimata a brief account of the events of the night, leaving out the bit about how she had hesitated and almost been strangled as a result. When she came to the part where the kalashik had spoken to her, Shirin Mam frowned.
“Those guns know they do not belong in our world. You were wise to leave it there, although I think the clan of Arikken would have been grateful if we had returned it to them for safekeeping. The weapons were stolen from them, as you know.”
As I know. Those guns slaughtered my entire family.
“Cannot something be done about them, Mother?” asked Kyra. “Can they not be destroyed?”
“Fire does not burn them,” said Shirin Mam. “Water does not rust them. Even the blade of a katari cannot cut them. Throw them into the sea and they will find their way into a fisherman’s net. Bury them in the deepest pit, and they will be dug up again. Kalashiks were made before the war and if there is a way to destroy them, it is lost to us now. The best we can do is keep what caches remain safe from the hands of the ignorant and the evil. Unfortunately, it is always the ignorant and the evil that the dark weapons seek to align themselves with.”
Kyra shuddered as she remembered how the kalashik had exhorted her to slaughter the Taus. “It was all I could do to ignore its voice,” she confessed.
“It is a voice few could resist,” said Shirin Mam gravely. “Thank your kalishium blade for protecting you from it. Tell me, how did it feel when you killed Maidul?”
Kyra was taken aback. “It felt . . .” She hesitated. Should she tell the truth? Would Shirin Mam think less of her if she did?
But she needn’t have worried. The Mahimata said, “You found it repugnant, did you not? It will never be otherwise for you.” She nodded, almost to herself. “Still, you will do what needs to be done.”
“How do you feel when you have to kill someone?” Kyra blurted out.
Shirin Mam’s expression gave nothing away. “To be evil is to suffer, and there is joy in releasing others from suffering. Now you must change your robes and prepare for the ceremony. But first, a special assignment. A reward for your success.” She withdrew a folded piece of parchment from her book and held it up to Kyra.
Kyra took it, puzzled. Her mystification increased when she unfolded it and saw that it contained nothing but a meaningless string of numbers. “What is this, Mother?”
“A secret,” said Shirin Mam, her eyes dancing. “Felda Seshur derived it from a formula in one of her oldest tomes. Decode it, and come to me when you are done.” She reopened her book, adding, “Speak of it to no one. Now go.”
Kyra stuffed the parchment in a pocket and left, glad to get away from Shirin Mam’s piercing eyes. She was too exhausted to try to hide her thoughts from her teacher, and she didn’t want Shirin Mam to guess that she had almost failed to kill her first mark.