But I’m not simply a yaksa.
She woke and allowed Swati to brush her hair, and looked at her own face in the silvery glass of her mirror. She was not golden carved, or a living mother of flame. She looked mortal and tired.
But in the night, a flower had grown at her chest. A black bloom.
A promise.
BHUMIKA
Her magic was gone.
She reached for the sangam again and again
Her magic was gone, and Priya was dead.
She could still feel the trees, the sway and motion of them. The song of water, of roots uncurling. But she could move nothing, shape nothing. Perhaps this knowing was what all people who’d never tasted the deathless waters felt.
If they dug away the rubble of the Hirana they would find nothing, she knew. No deathless waters, gleaming with blue inner light. No Priya. Everything was gone.
But Malini wanted to bargain with her.
“I believe she wants to truly negotiate. But for the sake of caution, take them to safety,” she said to Jeevan. She lifted Padma from her hip and placed her in Jeevan’s arms. He took her tenderly. Their fingertips brushed. “Use the paths Ganam carved. Lead the children away, at least. Keep them safe until I bring news.”
Jeevan nodded.
He did not tell her how much he did not want to leave her; did not tell her that he loved her, and how much he’d feared losing her in the horrors of the temple, and all the horrors that came before it. The sickness on their journey to Alor. The bandits, the hunger. The roiling waters around the village. The yaksa who awakened beneath the monastery, and the fire. But he said, “Bhumika.” And she knew.
An opulent tent. An empress, gray and tired, unadorned, dressed in unrelenting white.
“The yaksa are dead,” Malini said. “You have held up your part of our bargain. Sit.”
Bhumika sat.
“There are many who say I should ask a vow from you,” said Malini. “A vow of loyalty, as nations of the empire make. But I do not think you will make that.”
“I won’t bargain away the soul of Ahiranya,” Bhumika said. Once, perhaps she would have. She had sacrificed many ideals for safety and survival. “Ahiranya has given up enough.”
Malini met her eyes, her gaze searching. Then she nodded.
“There is a wheel turning,” Malini said. “A wheel where flowers bloom and die and bloom again. If I bind you to Parijatdvipa, will Ahiranya one day ensure something like the Age of Flowers returns? Will we crush you in turn, until time ends? No. I am tired of the cruelty of the wheel. Have Ahiranya’s freedom, Elder Bhumika. Rule your home well. We will ink contracts, and I will tell my people that if they defy me, they defy a mother of flame made flesh. They won’t gainsay me.”
RAO
He watched Malini speak in front of a roaring crowd of Harsinghar’s citizens. Jasmine flowers were thrown. The air was filled with exultation. And Malini, a thin figure in white, stood above it all, and proclaimed the future with as much authority as the nameless god.
This war was won with the help of the Ahiranyi, who turned on their gods for their own sakes, and ours.
They showed courage.
We will bargain with them. We will move forward in peace.
Peace. He wondered what it would look like.
In the midst of the celebrations he found Sima—sitting alone, on the roof where he’d once sat and drunk himself stupid. She had no liquor with her. She was staring up at the sky, but when he called her name, she slid down to join him. His leg wasn’t fit for roof climbs quite yet.
They sat together, listening to the sounds of the city in celebration.
“I think Priya’s dead,” Sima said, eventually. Her hands brushed her cheeks. They came away wet.
