Markswoman (Asiana #1)(5)

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.

All around the cavern were openings into passageways. Kyra took the narrow passage that led to her own cell, trying to ignore the empty chambers yawning on both sides. Each Markswoman and apprentice had a cell to herself for sleep and meditation. But most of the chambers of the cave system were empty. The Order numbered just thirty-three these days, not counting the four novices, instead of the hundreds that used to inhabit the caves of Kali.

Before she had gone more than a few steps down the passage, a figure stepped around the corner holding up a lamp.

“Kyra,” came a mellifluous voice.

She blinked in the sudden light, and her heart sank as she saw the beautiful face behind it. Tamsyn.

“Elder.” Kyra bowed and made as if to move past her.

But the elegant, ebony-haired woman fell in step beside her. “Is it done?” she asked in a husky whisper, raising the lamp and peering at Kyra’s face.