When Kyra emerged from the Transport Chamber into the Deccan Hub, it had altered beyond recognition. Where before the corridor had been silent and empty, it was now a hive of activity—which hardened her suspicion that when she and Rustan found each other, they hadn’t been in the Deccan Hub at all. They had been . . . elsewhere. But she could not regret it; no matter what the Hub had put her through, it had reunited her with Rustan. That time alone with him had been a gift. He had told her he loved her, and he hadn’t lied.
Then she had to go and destroy it all. He wouldn’t ever trust her again, and rightly so.
Kyra found herself close to tears and resolutely pushed all thoughts of Rustan away. She needed to focus on her surroundings. She had planned to go straight back to the caves of Kali, and then to the Order of Khur, but something was amiss.
Valavian Markswomen hurried down the passage with their blades drawn, herding people in front of them, shouting instructions in a language she did not understand. Men and women milled about, some holding weapons, others clutching children. Kyra sensed fear, bordering on panic. Somewhere, a baby started to cry.
Kyra put down her load and plastered herself against the wall to avoid the crowd. What was happening? She could not see anyone’s face clearly, despite the glow of the blades and the occasional lamp.
A Markswoman stopped in front of her and raised a lamp to her face. “Kyra Veer?” she cried. She turned to the others. “It is the Mahimata of Kali,” she announced in a shocked tone.
A petite figure hurried toward her and bowed. “Derla Siyal of the Order of Valavan,” she said by way of introduction. “The Goddess herself must have sent you. I was on my way to the caves of Kali to ask for help.”
Help? Since when had the Valavians deigned to ask anyone else for assistance? They numbered seventy-five strong—the largest of any Order—and were known far and wide for their fierceness and fighting skills. “What’s going on?” asked Kyra.
“You’d best come and see for yourself, Mahimata,” said Derla. “Here, let me help you carry that.” And she reached for the rug-wrapped kalishium image that Kyra had stolen from the monastery of Kunlun Shan.
“No thank you,” said Kyra, blocking her. “It is my burden, and no one else may touch it.”
“As you wish,” said Derla, straightening, eyes agleam with curiosity as Kyra heaved the bundle onto her back, trying not to groan. Those eyes said what Kyra already knew; Derla would take the first opportunity to peek at the bundle. Once discovered, the kalishium would be whisked away from her for “safekeeping” or some such excuse. The Valavians would not relinquish such a treasure.
“I’m going to leave it in the Transport Chamber so I don’t have to carry it,” said Kyra. “I can retrieve it later.”
“That one? That’s the door you used?” Derla’s voice was heavy with doubt. Kyra ignored Derla’s sharp intake of breath as she keyed in the code to the Kunlun door and it swung open.
“That door shifted many years ago,” said Derla slowly. “The last Markswoman to use it never returned. And we should know, because she was a Valavian elder.”
Kyra placed the kalishium image on the chamber floor and let the door close again. It would be safe—at least for the next couple of days, until Rustan could follow her. “I just happen to know a special code,” she said, dusting off her hands and making her voice bright. “Now, isn’t there a matter of great importance we must attend to at once?”
Derla’s face clouded. “Of course. Please follow me.”
“Where are you taking all these people?” asked Kyra, as they inched along the wall, against the tide of humanity rushing past them.
“Somewhere safe,” said Derla over her shoulder. “These are farmers and villagers who live near the Temple of Valavan. They were the first casualties when the outlaws rode in. All who survived ran to the temple for safety.”
A finger of ice brushed Kyra’s spine. “Kai Tau is here?”
They had arrived at the main door of the Hub, propped open by a young girl with frightened eyes. An apprentice, most likely, seeing her first real battle.
“We don’t know if Kai Tau himself is here, but at least two of his death-sticks are,” said Derla. “One to the north, and one to the south, they hold us captive—at least for now.”
They crossed the threshold and hurried down a narrow, underground passage. The stream of people fleeing the fighting had slowed to a trickle, and it was possible to walk faster. They went up a short flight of stone steps, and at the top, Derla turned and gave Kyra a short bow. “Welcome to the Temple of Valavan,” she said. “I would that you could have seen it in circumstances different from these.”
Kyra followed her down a corridor, at the end of which Derla took off her shoes, explaining that they must be barefoot within the temple precincts. Kyra followed suit, glad to escape the confines of her boots. They emerged into a vast, domed space so bright it hurt the eyes. Kyra blinked until her vision had adjusted to the light, then gazed around in awe.
She stood on a white marble floor laced with a black cobra-hood pattern. The ceiling that soared overhead was studded with intricate carvings and rectangular panes of painted glass. All around, the walls were gilded with a mosaic of mirrors. Kyra could see endless images of herself, reflections of reflections, stretching into an infinity of glass. Except, that wasn’t what she really looked like, was it? That arrogant smile, that crimson blade—those belonged to Tamsyn. And the gray hair, the black robe—those were Shirin Mam’s. As for the striped skin, the overlong canines—those were utterly inhuman and did not, could not, belong to anyone she knew.
“Welcome to the Hall of Reflection.” A deep, musical voice broke her vision, shattering it to pieces and leaving Kyra disoriented. She looked down at her empty hands, then up at the tall, dark-skinned woman bearing down on her. Faran Lashail, the head of the Order of Valavan, every bit as imposing in person as Shirin Mam had been at the height of her powers.
Kyra inclined her head in thanks, resisting the urge to bow. She must meet Faran Lashail as an equal, despite the differences in their age and experience. The Order of Kali was the oldest in Asiana, and she must never let anyone forget it.
“What did I just see?” she asked, indicating the mirrors.
“You saw yourself, as you are or as you could be,” said Faran. “We bring murderers here before we execute them. The truth is often harder to bear than death.”
“If only there was a way to bring Kai Tau here,” said Kyra.
Faran gave a humorless smile. “There are those who know what they are and don’t care, and on them the mirrors will not work. You see an image only if you also have one to maintain. I have witnessed men throw themselves on the glass and scratch it until their fingernails bled. But I doubt Kai Tau would fall in that category.”
“What do you see?” blurted out Kyra, then wished she hadn’t, as Derla stiffened and threw her a warning look.
But Faran did not seem put out. “I see what I should,” she said. “And now you have too. What you do with it, if anything, is up to you.”
A young Markswoman entered the hall and bowed. “Elder Ishandi is back, Mother,” she announced.
Faran frowned. “What about Ikana?” she demanded. “She left before Ishandi did.”
But the Markswoman did not know, and Faran asked Kyra to accompany them to the council room where the elder waited.
“Ishandi and Ikana are the best among us at camouflage,” said Faran, as she strode down the hall, Kyra and Derla having to almost run to keep up with her. “I sent them north and south to spy on the outlaws. Ikana should have been back by now.”
They walked down a corridor lined with bas-reliefs of horses, elephants, and tigers, up a steep flight of marble steps, into another hall lined with paintings, and down a different corridor, turning left and right and left again until Kyra had lost all sense of direction. The temple was a vast maze of rooms and passages that could easily have housed thousands of Markswomen instead of just seventy-five. Kyra wondered if the Order of Valavan too had diminished with time.
As if she had read her mind, Faran glanced at her and said, “At its peak, our Order numbered over two thousand Markswomen.”
There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, and also resignation, as if the gradual decline of the Orders was inevitable and there was nothing to be done about it.
Kyra took a deep breath. “Some months ago, I met Astinsai, the last living katari mistress. She said that the ability to bond with kalishium was becoming rarer because—because Markswomen do not have children and cannot pass on their talents to future generations.”
Faran stopped and wheeled to face her, astonishment and disapproval writ large on her face. “Markswomen have never taken mates. It is not a trait that is inherited, like eye or skin color. I don’t know what Shirin Mam taught you—”
“Shirin Mam never did anything without good reason,” interrupted Kyra. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment but she pushed ahead, knowing she would not get the chance to say it again. “Her son is one of the best in combat in the Order of Khur.”
Faran snorted. “The Order of Khur, safely tucked into the middle of the Empty Place, five days from the nearest usable door. They are the ones who spawned the outlaw filth that has invaded the Deccan and now stands at our threshold.”
“They will help us fight Kai Tau,” said Kyra. “I have the Maji-khan’s word. I was on my way to the camp of Khur to confer with them.”
“You will waste ten days,” said Faran. “That time would be better served in preparing for the battle of the soul of Asiana. Because that is what this is.”
“Why are Kai Tau’s men even here?” asked Kyra, hoping to deflect her. “What do they have to gain from splitting their forces and attacking the Temple of Valavan?” The temple was known far and wide as an impenetrable stronghold. Bullets might damage its stone walls, but they would not bring it down.
Faran hesitated, and Kyra knew at once that her question had hit home.
“We will speak of this in the council room,” said Faran at last. “It is on the third level.”
Derla explained to Kyra as they walked that the temple was a step pyramid with nine platforms, each symbolizing a level of enlightenment. “The base levels represent the world of desire, where most people dwell,” she said. “The middle levels represent the world of form, and those belong to us: Markswomen who have gone beyond material desire. The highest three levels represent true reality, beyond self and form. It is this state of liberation that we must aspire to.”
“And you would have us slip to the bottom,” said Faran without turning around. “You would have us take mates and bear children like commoners.”
“Shirin Mam was not a commoner,” said Kyra, keeping her voice even. “Perhaps she saw and understood something that we do not in our blind arrogance. Perhaps the ability to bond with a blade is inheritable. If a Markswoman wished to have a child—”
“Enough!” said Faran, her eyes flashing. “No Markswoman of mine would wish it.”
“But I would do it, if you asked it of me,” murmured Derla. “Just to test the hypothesis.”
“I do not ask it,” snapped Faran. “I expressly forbid it. Why are we even discussing this?”
“Because there is a possibility that the last living katari mistress and seer might be right,” said Kyra, exasperated, “and Shirin Mam went against her vows and her own nature to set an example for us.”
Faran rolled her eyes. “Yes, let us all reproduce like rabbits until we repopulate the Orders with our amazing and talented offspring. Your thinking is diseased. It is not your fault, of course. The Order of Kali has suffered greatly in recent months, and you are far too young to shoulder the terrible responsibility that has been thrust upon you. Perhaps, when this is over, you can spend some time meditating in the upper levels of our temple. You would be most welcome, and it would benefit you.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” said Kyra, torn between amusement and anger. “I will be sure to communicate it to my elders. Is this not the council room?”
They stood at an archway through which Kyra could see a rectangular hall with a long table and map-covered walls. Several women with tense faces stood around the table—the elders of Valavan, Kyra guessed.
She was right; Faran led the way in and introduced her to the council before sitting down at the table and demanding a report from Ishandi, a small, slight woman with a faded air who looked like she might vanish any moment.
“There are more than two hundred fighters, armed and horsed,” whispered Ishandi, her voice so soft that Kyra had to lean forward and strain her ears to hear it. “Two kalashiks, as far as I can judge, and the rest have bows and arrows, spears and clubs. They have set up camp a mile north of us, just beyond the sacred grove.” She paused, and a somber expression crossed her face. “They are cutting the banyan for fuel.”
Faran made a whistling noise between her teeth. “They will pay for this sacrilege with their lives,” she declared. “Each and every one of them.”
“They have posted lookouts, Mother,” said Ishandi in the same barely audible voice. “They will see us approaching in the daylight, but perhaps we can take them down at night, one by one.”
“No,” said Faran. “Not if they have kalashiks. The evil weapons will tell them when we’re close enough to kill. The guns form a bond with their handlers, a sick and twisted version of the bond we ourselves have with our blades.”
Kyra started. How did Faran know so much about the death-sticks? Realization dawned, slow and cold. Rustan had destroyed the Taus’ weapons forge. The only reason Kai Tau would risk dividing his forces at this juncture was if he had the chance to procure more death-sticks. She remembered, now, that Tamsyn had spoken of the dark weapons kept by the Order of Valavan during the Sikandra Fort assembly, just before the duel. How could she have forgotten?
“You have a cache of guns here, don’t you?” she said. “That’s why Kai Tau sent his men to attack the temple.”
“It is not a secret,” said Faran with a cool smile. “We guard the weapons so they do not fall into the wrong hands. Your elders know this, even though they don’t seem to have mentioned it to you.”
The Markswomen turned to stare at her. The weight of their judging looks was crushing, but Kyra refused to bow under it. She sat up straighter and said, “There is much the elders and I have not had time to discuss. I was fighting for my life for several weeks after the duel. There was rather a lot on our minds. But I survived, and I have a plan. A plan that will decimate the outlaws with little danger to you, although the greater danger comes from the guns you hide here.”
“And what is this plan of yours?” asked Faran, ignoring Kyra’s last comment. “Do you propose to decimate the outlaws yourself through some magical strength only you possess?”
Kyra summoned her confidence. “Not by myself,” she said. “But with the help of wyr-wolves.”
There was a small, shocked silence. Help me convince them, Goddess.
“That is the strangest thing I have ever heard,” said a white-haired Markswoman at last. She leaned toward Faran. “I was against going to the Order of Kali from the beginning. They have enough ill luck to poison the whole continent.”
“Such superstition,” said Kyra, keeping her voice calm and cold. “I am surprised at you, Elder. When the time comes to fight, we must use what weapons we have. And I consider the wyr-wolves to be weapons. The kalashiks will ignore their presence. They will sneak up on the guards and overpower them, and that’s when it will be safe for us to move in.”
“And wyr-wolves will do this—why, exactly?” asked Faran, with the air of one who is humoring a child.
“Because I request them to,” said Kyra. “And because you will issue a ban on the hunting and killing of wyr-wolves in your jurisdiction.”
At that, pandemonium broke out across the table. The Valavians leaped to their feet and began to shout at Kyra. One told her she was mad. Another said that she was a demon, in league with evil beasts. Through it all, Faran watched her with thoughtful eyes, not joining the din but not trying to stop it either, as if she was testing Kyra, deciding which side of sanity she was on.
What ended the clamor was not an order by the head of Valavan, but a sudden flurry of activity by the archway of the hall. Kyra recognized the young apprentice who had held open the main door of the Deccan Hub as they exited it.
“Ikana is dead,” the apprentice announced, and burst into tears.