Markswoman (Asiana #1)(4)
“I would’ve been back sooner, but it took a while to find that nest of vipers,” said Kyra. “And on my way back I was stuck in the Transport Chamber. I have no idea how long I was in that spinning room, but it felt like hours.”
Nineth hesitated. “Did you . . . is he . . . ?”
“Yes. Maidul is dead,” said Kyra flatly. She should have had a sense of accomplishment as she said it, but she felt nothing—just a deep, aching tiredness.
Nineth’s eyes widened with awe. With a pang, Kyra realized that a gulf now separated her from her friends. She had killed with the katari and was no longer an apprentice. Would Elena and Nineth distance themselves from her? She hoped not; she had been lonely in the Order until they arrived. At five, she had been the youngest novice the Order had ever seen. And also, despite Shirin Mam’s efforts, the most damaged. It had taken years to come out of the darkness that had threatened to consume her. Even now, the ghosts were never too far away.
“Where is Shirin Mam?” asked Kyra.
“In the cavern,” replied Nineth, “pretending to read some old book, and waiting for you with all the patience of a fox outside a rabbit hole.”
Kyra grinned at the image. “I’d better hurry.”
“She had me scrubbing the cavern until I thought my skin would come off,” said Nineth, taking the reins from her. “The initiation will be tonight. There hasn’t been one for three years, not since Tonar Kalam. All the elders are excited. Aren’t you?”
Nervous, more like. “You’ll be next,” said Kyra with a smile she didn’t quite feel as they walked downhill. “You’ll find out how exciting it is.”
Nineth gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh no, not yet. Shirin Mam says I am not even ready to kill a wyr-wolf, let alone a man. I’m quite happy being an apprentice.”
Kyra looked at her with affection. Plump, cheerful Nineth with the brown hair hanging over her eyes and the perpetually crumpled robe—there were many in the Order who wondered why Shirin Mam had chosen her as a novice, from all the girls of the Dan tribe that dwelled in the eastern end of the valley. Kyra could have told them the reason, but what would be the use? Most Markswomen measured prowess by one’s ability with the Mental Arts or in Hatha-kala. Something as nebulous as “spirit” wouldn’t make sense to them—but Nineth had it in spades.
“You can’t be an apprentice forever,” said Kyra. “You’ll be seventeen next month.”
Nineth snorted. “So what? You’re two years older than me. And don’t forget dear Akassa. She’s champing at the bit. Probably claw me apart if I get my first mark before her.”
Kyra laughed. Akassa Chan was another apprentice, and a favorite of Tamsyn’s, the Mistress of Mental Arts. Come to think of it, now that she herself was going to be initiated as a Markswoman, Nineth, Elena, and Akassa were the only apprentices left. True, there were four novices who had yet to pass the coming-of-age trial and earn their kataris, but it troubled Shirin Mam that she hadn’t found more girls with the ability to bond with a kalishium blade in recent years.
They parted at the foot of the hill, Nineth leading Rinna to the horse enclosure and Kyra heading for the cave system where the Order of Kali dwelled. The entrance to the caves was a crawlway on the base of a hill opposite the Hub. After the first few meters, the narrow passage of the crawlway widened into a broad corridor. Keep walking, and you arrived at the immense cavern where all the sacred rites were held.
“You are back.”
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.