Markswoman (Asiana #1)(29)

The Markswomen streamed past the raised platform, folding their hands and murmuring their goodbyes. One or two paused to kiss the hem of her robe, and Noor Sialbi laid a white wildflower at Shirin Mam’s feet.

When it was Kyra’s turn, she forced herself to look at the slab where Shirin Mam lay, the slender katari on her breast, eyes closed as if in sleep. Small and still, diminished in death. There should have been an aura of power around her still, something to tell the world what a remarkable person she had been. Kyra’s soul cried out at the unfairness of it all. Did death make everyone ordinary? Did it make no difference who you were, what you had accomplished?

No, of course not, came Shirin Mam’s gentle, chiding voice. Death is but another door I have walked through. You see my husk, the part I have left behind, and mistake it for the whole. I am elsewhere, a place you cannot reach—not yet.

Kyra sighed. Her teacher’s voice was still with her. If nothing else, she still had that. She bowed her head and moved away.

The elders bent to whisper together. Kyra could see Tamsyn gesticulating with her hands, and Felda shaking her head and scowling. What was going on?

She found out soon enough.

“Tradition holds that the Hand of Kali succeeds the Mahimata in the event of a sudden death,” said Navroz. “While we wait for the formal ceremony, I see no reason to delay in informing you that the Mistress of Mental Arts has agreed to take over the Mahimata’s duties.”

Kyra gasped. This could not be happening. Tamsyn the new Mahimata of Kali? What was wrong with the elders? How could they be so blind? The Hand of Kali was the only Markswoman who was even remotely capable of killing Shirin Mam.

Tamsyn went to stand near Shirin Mam, gazing at everyone in turn, as if she was carrying on a special conversation with each. You fraud, thought Kyra, her anger growing until she felt she would burst. Your grief is all pretense. Why can no one else see through you?

Tamsyn pinned her with a piercing stare, and Kyra lowered her eyes and emptied her mind. Tamsyn gestured to Baliya, the Markswoman standing nearest the gong. Baliya bowed and struck the raised central boss of the gong with the mallet. The clear tones echoed through the cavern. It was time for the song of farewell.

Tamsyn began to chant, her voice high and clear:

“Even the katari will wear out one day,

what is this skin that I leave behind.

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.