PRIYA
Shyam, dead. She’d felt it when Malini’s saber had gone through him. She’d felt it when some of her mask-keepers had died, broken on heart’s shell.
Shyam had told her the yaksa had let him drink; let themalldrink. She felt dizzy with grief and with rage, and guilt for her own failures.
This had to end. The sooner the better. She needed the yaksa to be gone.
She and Malini walked together, side by side through the path Priya had carved. Malini’s surviving guards and soldiers and priests followed behind them in a narrow line. The path—and Ahiranya itself—were not built to welcome the broad swathe of an army. At least within the path they could move more swiftly than they would have beyond its tree-lined borders.
Priya looked through those trees. The world beyond was blurred, soft and strange. She could see no one. Not the Ahiranyi warriors she’d left behind, and no new enemies. That was some good luck.
The only enemy they needed to face lay ahead of them on the path.
She was conscious of all the people behind her. Some wounded, some limping forward, using one another for support. Cira Ara was ahead of them, waiting on the path, crouched patiently in the green and soil.
“I’ll go first,” said Priya. “I have to.” She turned to look at Malini. “I’m not leaving you behind,” Priya vowed. “But a yaksa is… different. I should face her.”
“I’m not arguing,” Malini said. Her gray eyes looked deep into Priya. It was as if she saw and felt what Priya did: the vibrant, green life of a yaksa ahead of them. That call in the sangam.
“Go,” Malini urged, and Priya straightened her shoulders and walked ahead of her.
Cira Ara was crouched in a ring of leaves. Cira Ara wore her long-dead temple sister Riti’s face, carved into a new shape by soil and stone. She straightened when she saw Priya, and held one hand out to her.
“Little one,” Cira Ara rasped, her voice a rough-hewn stone. “Mani Ara is waiting for you.”
“Why have you come for me, Cira?” Priya asked. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve come back for Mani Ara. You didn’t need to seek me out.”
A creak of her neck, a low noise from her throat, a grating laugh.
“Lie,” said Cira Ara. “Arahli told me you lie. Look at your army of mortals. Shall I make the soil swallow them?”
“No,” Priya said sharply. She stretched her magic, touching all of the people behind her that she could. Holding them, in case Cira turned on them. Oh, if only she could have escorted those priests here without a wall of guards. The soldiers were more a hindrance than a help. “I need them. Leave them be.”
The yaksa began to walk toward her. Still unsteady on her legs, coltish and new—or as if she lacked an understanding of the joints she needed for seamless movement. There was too much stone in her, and too much deep ore.
“The others should come and collect you,” Cira Ara said. “But they could not.”
“Why?” Priya asked. She could feel Malini not far behind her, more strongly than all the rest. “Were they too busy?”
Bared teeth—pearling gray and sharp. “They grow moremortal,” said the yaksa. “They fear it. Terror runs in them. But I am still freshly born to this world—still green and strong. You drew me from the ground and I can feel my power running through me, no blood at all.” Her eyes flashed, malevolent. “Come with me, Priya.”
“No.”
Cira Ara lurched toward her. Roots erupted from the ground and caught her arm before it could touch Priya. Behind her, Priya could hear a sword being unsheathed once more.
“Don’t make me fight you,” Priya said, voice hard. “I will if you stand in my way.”
“As you fought the mortals we sent to find you?” Another movement of her head. Her eyes, the most human part of her, fixed on Priya. They were Riti’s eyes—brown, wide, soft-lashed. “Poor poisoned soldiers. They tried. But I am not like them. You cannot kill me, little Elder.”
Priya gave an ugly laugh. “Are you sure?” Another step closer. “Do you understand how you’ve changed? Mani Ara dragged you into this world long ago. Made you one with the trees, the soil, the flowers. The earth was yours. But youdied, Cira Ara. And now you grow more and more like humans were—are—before they’re touched by rot. You’ll soon be meat, gristle, bone.” Priya took a step closer. “Your kin are right to fear it. Meat can die so easily, after all.”
A hunted look flickered over the yaksa’s face.
She opened her mouth to speak—and looked, suddenly, beyond Priya’s shoulder.
That was when Priya heard the screaming begin. A panicked tumult of noise from within the seeker’s path, all howling and begging—and behind it, the crackle of fire.
No.
