10
Aasha had never seen Bharata so beautiful. Colored lights hung from trees. A tent of marigolds spiraled downwards from a translucent tent, bright as caught stars. Several bonfires threw ruby sparks into the air, and everyone—Ujijain citizen and Bharata native alike—linked arms and danced, their hands twirling in the air, heady nectar splashing onto the ground. Aasha felt her training settling into her skin. She had not eaten for the banquet, but had requested that food be brought in advance to her quarters. She watched Gauri and Vikram, listening to the crackle of the fire and kindling of dry wood. She smelled the air for anything out of the ordinary from the jasmine and amber oil that the wives and courtesans used to the sharp char of burnt fruit and rice that would be offered to the gods in honor of Gauri and Vikram.
A wide curving banquet table sat just outside the tent. Servants bustled back and forth, carrying great pitchers of fruit juice and mintwater, and platters heaping with aromatic dishes. Aasha’s stomach grumbled, but she did nothing.
At the end of the table, stiff and watchful as an owl, Zahril surveyed the crowd. Behind her stood a row of handsome statues painted in the likeness of heroes from the fairy tales. Someone had even sprayed them with water, so that their muscles looked like they were sheened in sweat.
Zahril had not adorned herself any differently for the occasion. Her hair was twisted away from her face, and she wore simple jewelry. A net of pearls and rubies at her throat. Dainty amethysts hanging from her ears.
And yet, for all of her practiced calm, Aasha felt her strain. She wanted to tell her that the future would be all right, that they could protect each other against all the world would dare to throw at them. After all, she had not imagined what strength she would find within herself. That the very act of trusting her own instinct above all would rescue her from her living nightmares. Her greatest fear had come and gone, and now all that was left was this… this fear to reach out and be reached for in return. It was the most delicious fear Aasha had ever known.
At that moment, Zahril turned to look at her. Aasha was impressed. She had trained for centuries not to make a single sound with her footfall. But Zahril could hear her through any chaos. Her eyes widened as she took in the brilliant red of Aasha’ssalwar kameez,the unadorned collar of garnets and pearls at her throat. Fashionable, and yet powerful as well. For it could hide hervishakanyastar even when it was at full bloom.
Zahril took a deep breath. Her hesitance chastened Aasha.Maybe all this time it hadn’t been about her fear or rejection, but her worry…
They were standing in the same place—on the samesoil—where Zahril had lost Sazma. Aasha sat down beside her, refusing the food and water offered. Together, they watched the festivities.
After awhile, Zahril said:
“I don’t know how to be soft anymore. I used to know. I might hurt you, and scream instead of apologizing. I might run, and accuse you of abandoning. But…” and this time, she turned to look at Aasha. Really look at her. Aasha couldn’t have felt more pinned by that mismatched jewel-toned gaze if they had caused manacles to wrap around her wrists. “I would give you all that I am. In time. If you let me. If you thought it… I… might be worth it.”
Aasha didn’t trust herself to speak for a whole minute.
It must have taken Zahril all five days just to speak that much. Toshowthat much.
“I think thorns make a rose even more desirable.”
Zahril stared at her. “On the one hand, I’m delighted. But we must do something about your sense of metaphors. I’ve heard courtiers so drunk they could barely remember their own names speak more compelling lines of poetry.”
Aasha just laughed.
They sat in comfortable silence, each scanning the party.
“What kind of protocols have you ordered?” asked Aasha.
“The usual. Although the Ujijain Spy Master was insistent on his own methods for his half of the festivities, so I find myself on guard.”
Aasha nodded. Though she felt guilty about it, she let hervishakanyastar rise onto her skin. Her stomach gave a squeeze of discomfort. It felt disrespectful to Sazma’s memory, to summon the very power that had taken her life. Especially when she sat so close to Zahril that the bare skin of their arms occasionally pressed against one another.
The desires of the crowd were nothing out of the ordinary.
They wanted food. Drink. Each other.
But one thought reached Aasha, digging into her skin.
So close. Just her neck. So open.
A shudder ran through Aasha. She moved closer to Zahril, but the thought grew louder. A slight gust of air—the kind caused not from a wind, but by an arm moving swiftly—stirred the beads of her dress at the same time that she realized why the voice was so disconcerting:
It was coming from right behind them.
Zahril reacted only half a second after Aasha. She flattened herself against the table, just as Aasha reached out—poison brimming in her fingers—for the culprit. Her eyes fell on the lifelike statue.Toolifelike.
Someone had painted them. Enchanted them so that they could not move until the final moment. The gray man raised his stone sword. But Aasha could feel his pulse, and she knew that he was living.
“A knife!” shouted Zahril. “Here!”
But Aasha didn’t take it.
