“I don’t understand,” she said, oddly numb.
He laughed. “One day you will. Do not give them everything,” he begged. “Once you know all, keep a shard of knowledge from them. Make them vow that Ahiranya will be safe before you place the whole truth in their hands.”
“Of course,” she said softly. “I will make them vow, and I will also go back for my daughter. I will go back for the Ahiranyi, and I will protect them. Now. Let me drink.”
“Drink if you like, then. But I know now: You will grieve, sister. Whether you know why or not, you will grieve.”
Let me grieve, then, she thought.Only let these people live.
She held her hands out, palms cupped. Red water poured into them, spilling, falling. But she raised what she could carry to her mouth like a woman in prayer and touched her hands to her lips.
She drank. It was agony. She drank again. She thought she would choke—she could not continue. It was like swallowing knives. Her skull would split. She was grateful, suddenly, for her watchers. If she had carried this screaming ache every day of her journey, she would have died.
She drank more. More.More.
And finally her knowledge spoke freely to her. She knew what had to be done.
She opened her eyes and looked at the kneeling priests around her. At Jeevan standing at the entrance door, saber drawn. At Prince Rao, dulled of his light by his blade of stone. Her knowledge, full and complete, made her nauseated. She wished she could weep.
But all power required its price. When the yaksa came, everyone in the monastery would perish. Better this. Better the awful thing she carried than the death of all.
Perhaps she had been a woman capable of making hard choices once. Perhaps she still was.
Her heart twisted like a knot. She breathed deeply and released all the grief and love wound through her like gold. She looked at the priests around her and their eyes that saw deep and far. Their eyes heavy with faith.
And she said, “Let me show you how to kill a yaksa.”
RAO
The priests had been praying for what felt like hours. Torches had guttered and been relit. The air smelled of smoke and bodies. There were no windows in this hall. Rao did not know if night had fallen or if the sun still shone beyond the dark walls. The priests and Bhumika were a crescent of bodies, gold and dark in the flickering light.
He stood at the entrance of the hall with Jeevan and his own soldiers, his heart’s-shell dagger clenched in his fist. At his urging, his men had taken what heart’s shell they had and bound those daggers and arrowheads to spears taken from the monastery’s own guards. But he could not bring himself to do the same with his own weapon. The closer the stone was to his skin, the less he felt the pulsing voice of the nameless in his skull.
He wished he had more of his men with him. He wished he had more heart’s shell. But he’d done his best. He had left one of his best archers on the monastery roof, ready to shoot a heart’s-shell arrow if he saw a yaksa approach.
If the heart’s shell could kill the yaksa outright, that would be… easier. But he did not think it likely. Still, better to try than not.
Rao moved his dagger hilt back and forth in his palm: slow, even motions, as he tried to keep himself calm. Jeevan did not seem to need anything to ground him. He stood there calmly, one hand on his saber, the other neatly behind him.
Rao gestured to one of his men. At his unspoken urging, the soldier removed a spare heart’s-shell blade from his belt and placed it in Rao’s hand.
“Here,” Rao said, and held it out to Jeevan. “Make your own spear. You’ll be of more use properly armed.”
Jeevan eyed it without any expression, but he took it after a moment and nodded his thanks.
Rao turned away, fixing his gaze on Bhumika again. Her eyes, previously closed, were now open and fixed on the door.
The ground shook—a deep tremor. In flashes of shadow and golden light, he saw green things begin to worm through the stone walls. His men hissed and cursed, stepping away from the edges of the room.
“The yaksa is coming,” Bhumika said. “Do not stop praying.”
The priests were chanting mantras, their voices swelling to fill the room.
There was a groan like the splintering of wood and stone. A guttural cry followed, so wild and alien that it made a chill run down Rao’s spine.
The man Rao had sent to the roof had possessed a conch to sound in warning. No warning note had been blown. Either the man was dead, or the yaksa had crawled through the stone foundations of the monastery into its innards without ever walking across the threshold. Rao had been a fool to think it would approach like a person.
The ground shook harder, cracks spidering along the ancient walls. Rao gripped his dagger tighter and watched as the soldiers around him readied their spears. Sweat was crawling down his neck.
