“All the temple council are dead, elders and children alike. Or should be,” Priya said.
You killed us. You should have had the decency to die with us.
“Some of us chose to die with the children,” said Chandni. “And some of us chose this.”
This. Priya looked around. Mold upon the wooden walls. The scuttle and worm of insects through boards decayed and speckled with damp. The drip of a broken roof.
Malini was watching her with hooded eyes, apparently indifferent. But Priya knew better.
“It isn’t much of an exile,” Priya managed to say. “You’re still in Ahiranya.”
“Not exile,” Chandni said. Still soft. So soft. She took a step closer, and Priya realized it was not gentleness as she’d first supposed, but the lulling voice one uses with a feral animal. To calm it, before the leash or the slaughter. “We still had work to do. Or thought we did.”
“Who else is here?”
“Just Sendhil, now. The rest are gone. But he won’t harm you.”
Chandni leaned down, with difficulty. She placed a hand on Priya’s forehead. Priya did not move. Only stared back at her.
“How did you save me? I thought the waters had me.”
“I didn’t,” said Chandni. “You survived on your own, Priya, just as the children taken to the sickroom at the temple did. Or did not.”
They looked at one another, distrustful, distorted reflections in the half light.
“Your fever is gone.” Chandni lowered her hand. “That’s good. You’ll live, then.”
“If I’d known it was you, I would never have come,” Priya said. “I would have expected you to kill me the moment you laid eyes on me.”
“I should not have let you live, Priya,” said Chandni. “Not—then. And not now. I should have killed you when your companion brought you here. That’s true enough.”
“So why didn’t you?” Priya asked, suddenly angry—so angry that she could feel now that she was shaking and hadn’t even realized it. “I could hardly have stopped you.”
“When you’re better, we’ll talk.”
Chandni began to rise and Priya gripped her by the shoulder. She did not hold tight. She didn’t need to. Chandni’s bones were sharp points beneath her hand, fragile as shell.
“I’m well now,” Priya said in Zaban—the common tongue flowing so much more easily from her lips. “I’m well now. And now, we’ll talk.”
I am the stronger one, Priya thought, holding Chandni’s gaze fixedly.I am not a child anymore. And you will give me answers.
“Well, then,” said Chandni, now in careful Zaban. “If you’re healthy, get up. Follow me outside, and we’ll talk. Alone.”
Chandni didn’t do her the kindness of looking away as she struggled to her feet. Malini stood with her, hands clasped neatly before her. She didn’t follow as Priya and Chandni made their way out of the room, though Priya could feel the weight of her gaze.
Priya ached. Every part of her. The great strength she’d possessed right after rising from the deathless waters was gone, leaving her completely drained. But at least she was no longer feverish or dying. She felt mostly like herself. And her self was furious and tired, flayed bare. She didn’t know if it wanted to strangle Chandni or weep over her.
“This way,” Chandni said. Using the wall for support, she guided Priya toward the back of the hut. Sendhil sat by the edge of the hut, a hood drawn low over his head. He looked to be sleeping, but Priya was sure he was not. You didn’t sleep when a child you’d tried to murder returned to your home full grown.
“How have you lived, since the temple council fell?” Chandni asked.
“Fell,” repeated Priya. “That doesn’t really capture what happened.”
Chandni was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Never mind.”
Some of the softness seemed to leave her then. In its place were slightly bowed shoulders, a sudden lowering of her head. She looked defeated.
“What is worship called, in the oldest Ahiranyi texts?” Chandni asked eventually.
