He pressed his forehead to Taru Ara’s.Sister, he thought, in a voice that wasn’t his own. She did not stir.
He thought of the temple children. He would take one—the oldest maybe, the boy Ashish—to the deathless waters. He would guide him in. Make a once-born of him. If they did not have Priya any longer, he could make more worthy vessels for the greatest of his kin. He left Taru Aru to seek the children out, his heart pounding, nausea a roiling sea in his belly.
The temple children were not in their beds.
His rage was heard all through the mahal—the trees shook and the birds took flight.
They weregone.
Cira Ara was the newest of them, and still the most green-veined in all the ways that mattered. She led Arahli Ara and his kin through the woods, following the subtle echo of their footsteps in soil, the whispers of trees. Arahli could not feel as she could. His senses were clumsy, dulled by the blood in him.
“Of course I feel them,” she said merrily, flashing her sharpteeth in joyful malice. “Do you not, dear kin? Shall I kill the ones that are not temple children, flay them as an example?”
“No,” he said. He could feel another presence.Ganam.Anger kindled in his breastbone. “Go to Ganam. Take Avan Ara with you. Keep him restrained. I’ll find the children.”
He and Bhisa Ara and Vata Ara sought the children who were on the seeker’s path. Ashish saw them first—turned, and widened his eyes, and screamed, “Run!”
The children fled, but not swiftly enough. Arahli’s kin turned the earth, bidding it to swallow them to the knees. Stuck fast, they sobbed. They were easy to collect—to tie with vines and guide back toward the edge of the forest.
Ganam was kneeling, lashed with vines, face set with rage. Next to him, Avan Ara was trembling. A blade lay on the ground beside him, violently cracked in two.
“He was carrying this,” Avan Ara said. He jerked his chin at the blade.
Arahli Ara walked toward it and kneeled. He brushed only a fingertip against it and felt a repulsive emptiness—a negation of his own magic. He recoiled. He understood why Avan Ara had sought to shatter it.
He looked at Ganam. “Traitor,” he whispered.
But Ganam was not looking at him. His eyes were on the children, his expression shattered, all grief.
“Rukh,” he said. “Why are they all here? I toldyouto run.”
“I’m sorry,” Rukh said miserably, his fingers white where they gripped Bhumika’s child. “I couldn’t leave without them. When you told me to run, I told the others to come with me. I had to try.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
Ganam closed his eyes in defeat.
“I should kill you,” Arahli observed, “for what you’ve done.”
“If you kill me you’ve got nothing left,” Ganam said. “No temple elders. No Bhumika. No Priya. Just—weeping children. And you’ve got no time to test them, have you? The Parijati are coming. You’ve only got me.”
“I should kill you anyway,” Arahli Ara said.
“Do what you want,” Ganam said. “I’ve got no regrets. Kill me, then. It makes no difference.” His jaw was set. “I’ll probably die when you throw me into the waters again anyway. So kill me now if you want. I don’t care.”
Viciousness curdled in Arahli’s blood.
“I do not need the boy, Rukh,” he said, low. “Perhaps I will kill him instead. That would serve to punish you.”
One of the children behind began to sob.
“Hush, Pallavi,” Ashish said, drawing her to his side. “It’s okay. Hush.”
Rukh did not make a sound. His expression was set, his chin raised.
A dizzying memory shot through Arahli Ara’s skull. A child’s weight in his arms. Fire in his throat, his eyes. Death at his heels.
Don’t look, Pri. Don’t look—
“Yaksa,” a voice called.
