Markswoman (Asiana #1)(56)

“Observe the pillars,” commanded Shirin Mam. “There are thirty-six, eighteen on each side. Look closely; there are carvings on each of them.”

Kyra obediently looked at the pillars. The carvings were strange; one showed a woman—vaguely familiar—wrestling an enormous fanged serpent. Another showed the same woman holding a long, slim blade over the bent heads of a row of kneeling men and women. Kyra frowned. It was clearly a Markswoman, but who did she remind her of, with her rippling dark hair, triumphant smile, and that elongated katari that could almost be a sword?

The answer came to her in a burst of understanding. “These are carvings of the Goddess Kali.”

“Perhaps,” said Shirin Mam. “Do you admire my artistry?”

Kyra stopped short. “You made these? But how? Our physical selves are elsewhere, you said.”

“Nothing is here in the physical sense,” said Shirin Mam. “That does not make it any less real. I told you that I have some degree of control in this place. I have been here many times and shaped it to the best of my abilities. Remember every aspect of this hall, for you may wish to return here one day without my aid.”

Kyra tried to do as she was told, but she was quite sure she wouldn’t want to return to this eerie world without Shirin Mam. They had reached the other end of the hall and she dragged her eyes away from the last carving, a particularly horrible one of a three-headed monster with drooling fangs. The heads resembled those of wyr-wolves—hungry wyr-wolves, contemplating a meal.

“Each of these thirty-six carvings represents a word of power in the ancient tongue,” said Shirin Mam. “It is your task to remember each word, the pronunciation as well as the tone. The price of error is high. The wrong word can bring death.”

“Thirty-six words?” Kyra swallowed. The most that any young Markswoman usually knew was three or four, and even then, only the safest ones. Navroz Lan herself would not know more than ten or eleven. Words of power were a secret, passed on from one Mahimata to the next. Shirin Mam was showing great trust in her. “I am honored, Mother.”

“Look, child.” Shirin Mam stood next to the image of the three-headed monster. “The carvings will help you remember. Fix all the little details of the images in your mind. The word you need will spring forth when you summon the right image.”

Kyra stared hard at the image of the three-headed monster, wishing that Shirin Mam could have picked something a little less terrifying. Kali sat astride the monster, her bare legs gripping its scaly hide. The Goddess looked into the distance with remote eyes.

Shirin Mam leaned toward her. “Now listen well to what I say, but concentrate on staying where we are. Trishindaar.”

The word reverberated inside Kyra’s skull. The hall swam out of focus and she had the strangest sensation that she was surrounded by water. She opened her mouth to speak, but only bubbles escaped her lips. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. She tried to move, but her limbs were too heavy and an oppressive weight pressed down on her chest, trapping her. Kyra flailed and fought her rising panic. Where was her teacher?

Shirin Mam had said to concentrate on staying where they were. And they were in a hall, weren’t they? A hall with thirty-six pillars and a smooth marble floor.

Kyra shut her eyes and remembered the hall, forcing her mind to think of it and nothing else, forcing down her panic. The floor slowly solidified beneath her feet. She opened her eyes and exhaled, shaky with relief. She was back in the hall. Shirin Mam stood next to her, watching her.

“What—what does that word mean?” asked Kyra, hoping that Shirin Mam would not repeat it aloud.

“Look at the carving,” said the Mahimata, instead of answering her. “What do you think the creature represents?”

“Kali is the demon-slayer. Perhaps this is a demon she has conquered?” Kyra hazarded.

“You are too literal,” said Shirin Mam, “but that is one way of looking at it. Actually, the creature represents time. The three heads stand for the past, the present, and the future. Kali is beyond the reach of time and so too is the Markswoman who uses this word of power.”

“I don’t understand,” whispered Kyra.

“You will,” said Shirin Mam. Kyra wanted to ask for an explanation, but her teacher had already walked to the next pillar.

The next carving was even more ghastly than the previous one. A fire raged through a field, ravaging people and animals alike. Their faces and bodies were distorted, melting into one another. In the middle of the field Kali—untouched by the flames—stood in a familiar pose. Her right hand was raised in benediction. Her left hand clutched the severed, blackened head of a demon.

Shirin Mam pressed her lips together, disapproving. Then she gave a fierce grin and said, “Agnisthil.”

And now Kyra was in the carving, screaming and twisting as the flames burned her flesh.

“Focus,” came Shirin Mam’s sharp voice. “Fix the hall in your mind and you will return to it.”

Once more Kyra shut her eyes. But it was difficult to ignore the searing of her flesh and the thin, screaming sounds from her own throat. It’s not real, she told herself. It’s the hall that’s real.

By the time she made it back, she was panting with the effort it had taken to wrench herself away from the flames.

“If you’d rather not go on . . .” said Shirin Mam softly.