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  Behind her Nineth and Elena followed, stumbling in their haste over the familiar, grassy paths, calling to her to wait for them.

  But Kyra did not wait. Her heart thudded with every step and twice she tripped over an unseen rock and bruised herself. Somewhere, not far distant, a wyr-wolf howled: a lonely, drawn-out wail that sent shivers up Kyra’s spine.

  She did not stop running until she had crested the hill that overlooked the caves of Kali.

  Chapter 9

  But Another Door

  A cool wind chased ragged clouds across the dark sky. Kyra stood on the hill overlooking the shadowy hollow in front of the caves and tried to overcome her dread. Whatever had happened here, it was over now; the sense of wrongness had abruptly withdrawn as she reached the top of the hill. She drew her katari as she advanced down the slope. Behind her, she sensed Nineth and Elena follow suit. They ducked into the crawlway of the caves and made their way through the widening passage into the torchlit cavern.

  It was empty; the others hadn’t returned yet. They would be on their way, though. They would have sensed, as she did, that some balance had been disturbed.

  Kyra walked into the middle of the silent cavern and slowly circled it. The Goddess Kali danced on the walls, flickering in the firelight as she vanquished one demonic force after another. It all appeared as it should. Then why this cold prickling certainty of the world turned inside out? Just because Shirin Mam wasn’t sitting at a bench, reading one of her old books?

  The Mahimata must be meditating in her cell. Kyra would go and check, and Shirin Mam would rebuke her for disturbing her, and all would be well.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Kyra’s blade began to burn. She gripped it, letting its warmth flow into her arm, its strength into her heart.

  “Stay here,” she told Nineth and Elena, before making her way to Shirin Mam’s cell.

  The walk down the Mahimata’s corridor was the longest Kyra had ever taken. The lamplight flickered, and the faces of previous Mahimatas gazed sternly down at her from the portraits that hung on the walls. Each step she took increased her sense of unreality.

  And then she arrived at the entrance to the Mahimata’s cell, and could put off the moment no longer. Kyra grasped the white horsehair curtain, lips moving in wordless prayer, before pushing it aside.

  The cell was dark. Kyra blinked and called out, “Mother?”

  No one answered.

  She sheathed her blade and went back into the corridor. She took down one of the torches from the wall, trying not to shake. The Mahimata must have been called away by a petitioner. An emergency of some sort, a life in need of saving.

  But in her heart, she knew that was not true. She reentered the cell, holding aloft the torch, afraid to breathe.

  A body lay in a small, twisted heap on the floor next to the pallet. A thin arm was outstretched, the fingers curling over a lifeless blade.

  The blood rushed away from her brain and Kyra thought she would faint. She leaned against the wall and tried to inhale. But it felt like all the air had left the world and she would never be able to take another breath.

  Get ahold of yourself. Shirin Mam needs you. She might be ill.

  Kyra hooked the torch to a sconce on the wall and ran to where the Mahimata lay on the floor, her legs trembling. She knelt and placed two fingertips gently on the inside of Shirin Mam’s wrist. Please, please be alive.

  There was no pulse.

  Kyra’s self-control broke. “Mother!” she cried, grasping her teacher’s face with both hands. “Wake up. It’s me, Kyra. Look at me!”

  Shirin Mam’s eyes stared sightlessly back at her. That emptiness told Kyra what she had known ever since she entered the caves of Kali.

  Shirin Mam was dead. Dead.

  Kyra rocked back on her heels, gasping. The sob started in her chest and burst out of her mouth like an animal’s cry of pain. She put a hand across her mouth to stifle the sound.

  “Kyra! What is it? What has happened?”

  Navroz Lan stood framed by the entrance to the Mahimata’s cell. Her white hair was disheveled, her mouth open in distress.

  Wordlessly, Kyra pointed to the body on the floor.

  Navroz rushed to her side and bent over Shirin Mam. She felt for a pulse, as Kyra had done. She shook her head, muttering under her breath, and went to work. She laid Shirin Mam straight on her back, and placed the heels of her hands on her chest, one on top of the other. She began chest compressions, hard and fast, counting aloud.

  Kyra watched, hope blooming like a treacherous flower inside her.

  After a minute, Navroz stopped. She lifted Shirin Mam’s chin and tilted her head up. She bent to listen, then breathed into Shirin Mam’s mouth, pinching her nose shut.

  Navroz repeated the whole process again, then again. Each time, Kyra scanned her face for some sign that it was working, that Shirin Mam’s heart had started beating of its own accord.

  But at last the elder sat back, her face tight with grief. “I’m sorry, Kyra,” she said, her voice breaking. “She’s gone.”

  No, Mother. Kyra doubled over, hugging herself.

  Navroz slipped an arm around her shoulders and held her as she cried.

  “How?” sobbed Kyra. “Why?”

  But Navroz didn’t have the answers. It was Kyra who knew what must have happened.

  Shirin Mam will not always be around, she had said. Are you with me? she had asked, and: Yes, Elder, Kyra had meekly replied.

  Tamsyn had all but told her she would do this, and what had Kyra done to stop her? Nothing.

  Navroz continued to hold her for a while. Then she grasped her by the arms, looking straight into Kyra’s eyes. “I know you loved Shirin Mam,” she said softly. “So did I. We both will grieve. But right now, I need your help.”

  Help? What could she possibly do that would mean anything? Kyra shook her head and shied away from Navroz’s gaze. All she wanted was to crawl into a dark corner and never emerge again.

  “Please, Kyra. You’ll have to be strong for Shirin Mam’s sake. You meant a lot to her. Don’t let her down now.”

  But I already did. Kyra’s chest hurt. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe.

  Navroz pulled her up to her feet. “Listen. The others will be here soon and I would like her to be ready for them. You don’t want them to see her like this, do you?”

  “No,” whispered Kyra. Not like this. Helpless, undignified, soiled.

  “Then let us clean her and change the robes before we take her to the main cavern.”

  Bile rose in Kyra’s throat but she pushed it down. Help me, Goddess. Make me strong.

  They worked in silence, straightening the body and removing the robes. Kyra tried not to look at Shirin Mam’s face, her empty blue eyes. As long as she didn’t look, she could believe that her teacher was still alive, and that this thin, shrunken body belonged to someone else. She wiped the skin with a damp cloth that Navroz handed her, checking for any marks or clues as to what had happened. But there were none.

  Kyra swallowed and made herself speak. “She looks untouched.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” said Navroz.

  Eldest was right. A katari in the hands of a trained Markswoman like Tamsyn could kill without seeming to—not a drop of blood, no cut to the skin, just a stopping of the breath and a stilling of the heart. But Shirin Mam was skilled in the art of katari defense. Surely no one could have taken the Mahimata by surprise, she who had taught them all how to see with the third eye?

  But how else could Shirin Mam have died? She had been healthy and strong, at the peak of her powers.

  They dressed the body in a fresh robe that Navroz dug out from a chest in the corner. The elder combed Shirin Mam’s hair and closed her eyes.

  “Quick now,” she commanded. “The others are almost here.”

  Kyra grasped the corpse by the shoulders while Navroz took hold of the feet. Kyra was shocked at how light the body was. It was like carrying a child.


  Back in the cavern, Nineth and Elena still waited, pale and anxious. They both burst into tears at the sight of the body.

  “Hush,” said Navroz. “I won’t have you wailing like farmwives. Shirin Mam would not like it. Remember who you are.”

  Elena stopped at once but Nineth continued to sob, stuffing her fists in her mouth to stop the cries escaping her throat.

  They laid the body on the slab. Navroz told Elena to fetch the Mahimata’s katari, which was still lying on the floor of her cell. When Elena returned, Navroz laid the katari on Shirin Mam’s chest, folded her hands over it, and stepped back.

  “It looks as if Shirin is only sleeping,” said Navroz, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.

  But Kyra could not look at the still, black-robed figure on the platform. She watched Navroz instead. The elder seemed to have aged ten years in one night. Her face was drawn, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “Elder,” said Kyra, “I must speak with you.”

  Navroz shot her a warning glance, and she heard what the elder must have already sensed: low, worried voices and the rustling of robes.

  Chintil and Tamsyn were the first to arrive. Chintil’s hands flew to her mouth and she fell to the floor in shock. Tamsyn gave a cry of grief and circled the body on the platform, wringing her delicate hands. Like a vulture, thought Kyra numbly. Closing in to finish its meal.

  The others began to arrive one after another, including a red-eyed and subdued-looking Akassa. Kyra stared hard at her but Akassa refused to meet her eyes. Everything they had been fighting about now seemed stupid and trivial, and Kyra was filled with self-loathing. To think that she had been baiting an apprentice while Shirin Mam lay dying in her cell. If only she hadn’t gone to the festival, or fought with Akassa. Perhaps she would have sensed something was wrong much sooner than she had, and returned in time to help her teacher.

  The last to arrive was Felda. She led the four novices to a corner, hugging them one by one when they began to cry.

  When everyone was assembled, Navroz clapped for silence and said, “Shirin Mam, our beloved Mahimata, is no more.” Her voice was hoarse but it did not waver.

  She waited until the cries had subsided. “I have examined her body, and found no marks. I do not know the cause of death. Perhaps she simply chose to leave us? I cannot say. I know this is a shock to all of you. Do not hesitate to come and talk to one of us if you need to.” She paused to swallow. “Shirin Mam was our teacher, friend, and mother. Many years ago, she was also my most challenging pupil. She questioned me in everything, and in turn forced me to question myself. She taught me to take nothing for granted. But in this I am guilty: I took her for granted. I did not expect to outlive her.” She bowed her head and was silent for a moment. When she raised it again, her face was calm and resolute. “We must prepare Shirin Mam for the last rites. You may come to your Mahimata one by one and say your farewells.”

  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 n
ot 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.

  Or could she?

  Kyra glanced around to make sure she was alone. She drew in a deep breath, focusing on the present moment. The sounds of the night—the soft breeze, the chittering of insects, the distant hoot of an owl—calmed her. She closed her eyes and folded her hands. There was no time for the complete ritual, the slowing down of the breath and the gradual strengthening of the meditative trance. But Shirin Mam used to say that need was the greatest motivator; when the time came, the lowliest novice could embrace the oneness of space-time and see where her true path lay.

  Kyra let the wind blow her thoughts away. Her mind emptied as she sank into the first level of the trance. And in place of the grassy patch before the entrance to the caves of Kali, there was now a pool of water glittering under the light of a full moon, tall banks of reeds around it. The pendulous boughs of a stately old elm reached down to caress the water. The fragrance of damask roses filled the night air with sweet longing. The sights and scents of this place were familiar; Kyra knew she had been here—but when?

  “For shame, little deer; have you no respect for the soul of our departed teacher? You have missed the lighting of incense and the last prayers.”

  Kyra jumped and broke out of her trance. The pool of water vanished. Tamsyn stood before her with folded arms, a frown on her oval face.

  “You can never know the love and respect I had for Shirin Mam,” said Kyra, biting the words off.

  Tamsyn drew her lips in a thin line. “Oh, but I do know. I know it well. But you are a Markswoman now, not a foolish little novice. I told you my time would come, and it has come, a little sooner than everyone expected, that is all. I am going to make some changes around here; are you not looking forward to it? To going back to the Thar and fulfilling your vow?”