Figures, standing among the trees. He had felt them approaching but thought little of it. They were his own people—worshippers, and outsiders who had sworn loyalty. They had heard his rage and followed his steps.
One stepped forward, a Parijatdvipan man. He bowed low to the ground.
“Yaksa,” he said again. “Great ones, I beg you to give this honor of fighting the Parijatdvipans to us. We are fully grown and trained for war, and faithful to you. Let us drink deep of the waters. Let us fight for you.”
“It will not make temple elders of you,” Bhisa Ara observed.
“You are not worthy,” Avan Ara said.
“We saw Ruchi drink waters broken from the source, and we saw her perish. We know what the cost of service is. But we would gladly take up this glorious burden,” the man said, determined.
“Shyam,” Ganam said roughly. “Don’t do it.”
“The children will grow strong and serve you in years to come,” the man said, not looking at Ganam. His whole focus was onArahli and his kin, seeking them with his eyes, imploring them with every line of his body. “Let us drink and die for you now, so they may live.” Finally, he looked at Ganam, then the children. “All of them,” he said. “In return for our faithful service.”
His words washed over Arahli Ara like relief, like a tide, and took the memory of a child Priya in his arms with them. Yes. Let the children live for now. Yes.
“Anything,” he said indulgently, “for our loyal worshippers.”
MALINI
Nowhere.
Priya’s hazy, sleep-soft voice echoed through Malini’s skull. In Malini’s arms, Priya was a comforting weight. Her dark hair shone in the light of a single oil lamp by their bedside. Her gold-brown lashes were closed, a line like firelight against the dark skin of her face. Malini could have stared at that face for hours—that crooked nose, and that mouth that smiled so easily, and that stubborn chin. She stroked a hand through Priya’s hair, feeling the weight of it, that pin-straight softness.
Malini had never understood Priya as she should have. She’d seen Priya’s soft heart and her strength and never considered how Priya’s strength and softness could lead her to lie to those she loved—for their safety, for their comfort. To defer grief.
But she understood Priya now.
Nowhere.
Priya was not planning to return from Ahiranya. She was planning to die.
Malini did not want to leave their bed. But her heart was a leaden weight in her chest. She pressed a kiss to Priya’s forehead—simply for the pleasure of kissing her, of knowing Priya was hers to kiss—and then she slipped out of the bed. She dressed and left her tent.
Sahar was outside, head bowed, arms crossed. She raised her head, and Malini said, “Come.”
Lady Bhumika had her own demesne, carefully protected by a handful of Malini’s own guards. She recognized Sanvi, yawning into her hand—then suddenly straightening when she caught sight of Malini approaching.
“Wait here,” Malini said to Sahar. “All of you: We are not to be disturbed.” She entered the tent.
It did not surprise her that Bhumika was awake. She sat on her own pallet, with an oil lamp burning, as if she’d been waiting for company. She met Malini’s eyes gravely.
“Empress,” she said.
“I need to speak with you.”
Bhumika inclined her head.
Malini had no room in her for artifice. Not when it came to this—toPriya.
“Tell me,” Malini said. “When you spoke alone to your sister in my mahal, what did you speak of?”
“How to kill the yaksa.” A mirthless smile curved her mouth. “It is all I speak of, Empress.”
Malini walked to her and found she could not loom over Bhumika. She could not stand and tremble with rage and fear, and she could not sit as calmly as Bhumika did. So she walked, carefully measured steps, back and forth in the narrow tent. She did not care if it revealed her agitation.
“And Priya,” she said. “Who shares her nature with a yaksa. Who must lead my priests into Ahiranya—why does she believe she will die?”
