“We fight for Ahiranya still. Our loyal worshippers walk the forest, empowered by our waters,” Nandi said. “The forest will always be ours.”
“Fighting is not what Ahiranya needs from you,” said Bhumika. “It needs your death.”
Sendhil strode toward her. He reached for her, a grasping hand, sharp-taloned. She did not know if he wanted to hurt her, but her heart thumped, her blood ran cold. Bhumika clutched her daughter tighter, turning to shield her with her back. The air thickened. Jeevan’s saber was drawn.
Sima got there first.
A heart’s-shell knife slid through the yaksa’s chest. He staggered.
Red blood poured from his wound. The sound he made was wet, guttural with horror.
“You’re dying already,” Bhumika repeated, with a great calm she did not feel. “At least make it a death worthy of you.” She met Arahli Ara’s eyes. “Leave the Hirana. Go, and face your fate. You know you must.”
RAO
In the chaos—the fire and screaming, the tumult of bodies—Hemanth managed to get on a horse and ride away.
“Someone stop him!” Rao demanded.
“I’ll go,” Narayan said. “With me!” He ordered his men, and Rao saw them move into formation, unsteady with terror as flames arced overhead, sinuous as serpents.
Someone was riding toward them. Mahesh, again.
“You must leave! They’ve turned on each other,” Mahesh said savagely. He was wounded, blood pouring from his side. He listed unsteadily on his horse, then keeled over. A handful of soldiers grabbed him before he could crack his skull and helped him carefully to the ground. “Those warrior priests. Thosebastards.” He winced. “Fucking Hemanth has warrior turning on warrior. What a time for fighting over faith.”
Rao raised his head. The whole army was fighting itself, and those who weren’t fighting were burning. He swore. He could have been sick.
“My most loyal soldiers know what to do,” Mahesh was saying grimly. “They’ll slit the throats of any priestly warrior they see. Those fucking fanatics won’t make it beyond the perimeter of my own men. You know the strangest thing, Prince Rao?” He coughed, blood on his lips. “Not all of them fight against us,” he said. “Some fight for us. The empress truly swayed them.”
A soldier was racing toward them, tumbling over his own feet.
“The fire is targeting people with rot first!” he yelled. There were leaves in his hair. He ran without stopping.
Rao looked down at Mahesh, eyes drawn to the lichen at his throat. He felt his heart thud.
There was a crash. A horse felled. The ground ahead of them began to burn, as a horse and rider were engulfed. The fire began to roll toward them, a wave of golden heat.
Mahesh met Rao’s eyes. His smile was joyless, knowing.
“Tell my daughter,” Mahesh said, his voice a rasp. “Tell her…”
The fire swallowed him like a fist. Rao leapt back, landing on his back, narrowly avoiding the burst of fire. His face felt painfully hot, his lips singed, eyes stinging. He scrambled to his feet, reaching—but Mahesh was writhing in agony, rolling on the ground. Mahesh was going still. Mahesh was gone.
“Rao!” Lata called, terrified.
“Take a horse,” Rao heard Lord Khalil bark at her.
“No, I—”
“You’re no warrior,” he told her brusquely. Rao could barely hear him over the crackle of flames, the screaming. “And the empress will need your guidance when this war is done.Ride, Sage Lata. Go to the war camp and wait there.”
“A horse will not ride through flames,” she said, her voice choked.
“You think I didn’t train my horses to face fire, after our war with Chandra?” Khalil’s grin was all teeth—fierce and wild. “Go now, or Prince Rao will be too worried to face battle.”
Khalil helped her onto one of the horses. It raced away, Lata on its back, and Rao felt some terrible fear unknot in him.
Good. At least she’d live.
