MALINI
Lata had been visibly troubled for days. When she and Malini were crossing the mahal’s grounds she finally spoke her mind.
“I think the path of war is unwise,” Lata said. Her voice was a whisper, but it was firm.
Malini gestured a hand at the attendants around them. The maids carrying parasols whisked themselves away. The guards, gold-helmed and armed with sabers, bowed their heads and stepped back, leaving Lata and Malini in relative privacy.
Without the shade of parasols, the sun bloomed hot against Malini’s shoulders. She met Lata’s eyes, squinting against the light.
“Continue,” Malini urged.
“Your allies have survived a terrible war. Your victory against Chandra came at a high cost. To you, and to them. To turn your strength on Ahiranya now—to draw your allies into another battle…” Lata shook her head. “You risk their loyalty,” she went on. “And you risk the empire’s survival.”
“What would you have me do instead?”
“Wait,” Lata said immediately. “Give them time. Giveyourselftime. We don’t truly yet know what threat faces you from Ahiranya. Why not gather your strength and wait for more information?”
“Moreinformation? Every day I receive new messages tellingme the rot is spreading. Every dayyoutell me that the empire will soon be at risk of a famine if the rot eats its way through our crops before harvest. You call war unwise, but how can I risk waiting to learn more?”
Lata lowered her eyes and said, quietly, “No matter what the priests may say, we’ve seen no yaksa. Will you take your followers to fight ghosts? Trees? What will they say when they reach Ahiranya and meet no enemies? The Ahiranyi have no army.”
“No army that we’ve seen,” Malini corrected, but she knew what Lata was saying was true. When Malini had summoned Priya to join her in the fight against Chandra, Priya had come with only the sparsest retinue. Herself. Her friend. A handful of men. Ahiranya was weak in manpower.
But the Ahiranyi—Priya—did not need an army to be a formidable foe. Priya had raised a whole river with her hands. She’d cracked and roiled the earth.
Malini had seen the power of a temple elder. She could not even imagine what a yaksa, with greater power still, would be able to do to her people.
“My followers will meet enemies,” Malini said with certainty. “Whether we find the yaksa or not… we’ll meetsomethingat Ahiranya’s borders. I am sure of that.” An edge of humor touched her voice. “Besides, you would be wise not to underestimate Ahiranya’s trees, Lata. They’re more effective than many a soldier with a sword.”
Lata didn’t seem to find that funny. Her mouth was pursed into a worried line.
“If you’re wrong…”
“I’m not,” Malini said. “Lata, I do not discount your advice. I trust in your guidance. But I cannot avoid this path. I can only seek to prepare for it.” She was fairly certain her maids and guards were not close enough to hear. But she still lowered her own voice further. “We have one weapon that may kill the yaksa. Only one.” The memory of fire on the battlefield—strange, unnatural fire—lurched through her skull. “If we can raze Ahiranya with flame,there will be no need to prepare for a protracted war. Parijatdvipa will be safe.”
Lata raised her head.
“And if the fire is not enough?” Lata asked. There was real fear in her face.
“Then at least we will know,” said Malini. “And we will use what time we have to prepare and find another way to win.” She filled her voice with steel. “Wewillwin, Lata.”
After a moment, Lata nodded.
Malini waited. When Lata remained silent, she began walking again. A heartbeat later, she was under the shade of parasols once more. Her guards were walking alongside her, a wall of steel and armor.
She entered the temple.
Her real grief had been folded away. She’d allowed herself tears and trembling weakness on the day of Aditya’s funeral, but that was done now. She’d make sure of it.
Every day, she dressed in white: a sari the color of ivory, brocaded in silver-white thread. Her jewels were pale gold, moonstones, and pearls. And every morning, she worshipped as her mother had once taught her to worship, laying garlands at the feet of the statues of the mothers of flame. She prayed with her hands clasped, reciting their names over her prayer stones. Nanvishi, Suhana, Meenakshi, Ahamara. Divyanshi, her own ancestor.
And then—unlike her mother, or any woman who had come before her—she laid garlands at the feet of three new effigies. Two women wrought from silver: Alori and Narina, her heart sisters, the women who had burned at her brother Chandra’s orders, burned when Malini had refused to. And finally, the statue of a man.
Aditya.
The first statue wrought of Aditya had been carved from gold. One of the finest artisans in Parijat had presented it to her, drawing back the cloth concealing it with a flourish. It had been hastily but skillfully cast, with her brother’s particular strong noseand even, serious brows. Her brother’s effigy had been garbed like an imperial crown prince, in a rich tunic that had billowed into flames at his knees. A symbol of his death and his immortality.
The statue had not possessed eyes. Until the eyes were carved in place, it would not become an idol for worship, complete and holy, to be garlanded and wreathed in incense. It was just molded gold.
