Priya blinked.
“What?”
“Yes,” said Malini.
Priya stared at her silently. Malini stared back, calm and unsmiling.
“My scribes will arrange a contract,” said Malini. “A true political pact between the Elders of Ahiranya and the Empress of Parijatdvipa in return for knowledge.”
“You’ll do it, then?” Priya asked, her voice small. “Spare Ahiranya?”
“I will. I don’t fear killing,” said Malini. “But if I have the opportunity to spare my own people and ensure that the yaksa never return, I’m going to take it.”
She moved toward Priya. Hesitated, as if she feared to draw closer. Priya saw a flash of vulnerability in those dark eyes again.
“I wouldn’t lie about this,” Malini said softly.
Priya let out a shaky laugh.
“You hate me,” Priya said. “You have good reason to lie to me. To hurt me. I thought I would have to fight you for this.”
“Do you believe I still want to hurt you, or do you believe Ishouldwant to?”
Priya said nothing. From some reason, those words were more awful than any knife would have been.
“To destroy Ahiranya would destroy you,” Malini said. “I don’t want to destroy you. Not any longer.”
Priya swallowed. The room suddenly felt too small, and she could think of nothing but reaching for Malini—of crossing the distance between them and grasping Malini’s arms, drawing her close and tasting her again, the salt and flowers of her—
She clenched her hands tight. Her nails pressed grooves into her palms, grounding her. Did she deserve Malini’s touch, her mouth, the tender promise that Malini did not want to destroy her? She knew she did not.
“Arrange the contract,” Priya managed to say. “Then I’ll tell you all you need to know. In return for saving Ahiranya, I promise, Malini—I’ll win Parijatdvipa this war.”
MALINI
Once the contract was drawn, she gathered her court around her.
“My lords and princes,” she said. “My highborn women—my sage and my dearest advisors.” She inclined her head to Lata, to Deepa, to the women that surrounded them. They no longer sat behind her but before her—the very head of her court. “We have a path forward.”
She told them of the weapon of sacrifice. How Elder Priya would guide willing priests to the deathless waters where they would die, and burn the waters away. She spoke with confidence and calm, unsurprised by the panicked and skeptical looks of her men. She told them this was a vision of the nameless, confirmed to her by the mothers of flame. Sunder, the head priest of the sacred Nimisa Monastery, would stand with her on this matter. It was a story convincingly woven.
“Can the Elders of Ahiranya be trusted?” one asked.
“They fear that their people will perish,” Malini said. “You can trust their desire for survival.”
“And should Elder Priya show disloyalty,” Lata said, “she will be surrounded by loyal priests willing to die for our empire, and soldiers with heart’s shell to control her.”
“Should she turn traitor, her land will burn,” Malini said coldly, and the dissent in the room quelled.
One man stood.
“Forgive me, Empress,” Ashutosh said. His eyes were cold, his chin upraised. “But you have been misled by the Ahiranyi before.”
Malini smiled at him, a diamond-hard smile.
“I have her on my leash,” she said simply.
“At the lacquer gardens in Srugna, you allowed priests to die,” he went on. “Do you fear your own death so thoroughly that you will allow holy men to die for you again?” He did not speak of his dead liegemen—the ones who had tried to murder Priya—but she saw the feeling in his eyes.
