“You carry something precious within you,” he told her, his voice hushed. He grasped her hands, turning them over. The bluish light of the deathless waters reflected on her skin, turning the brown of her palms soft gray. “We want to protect you.”
She felt the sangam pour over her—cosmic and rippling, mingling with the light of the deathless waters before her. She breathed out, only half knowing her lungs, and felt Sanjana’s nails press deeper against her scalp, points of grounding, points of pain.
Is this healing?Priya thought.Is this rest?It certainly didn’t feel like it. But she had stabbed Malini and watched the terror and betrayal fill her eyes. She had left Sima behind. And Bhumika—wherever Bhumika was—could not help her.
“Rest,” Nandi urged again. And Priya…
Priya closed her eyes.
On the second day, she dreamt.
She was in the sangam. Wholly, deeply, immersed in rivers of green and gold and blood red. And they were around her, the yaksa. All five of them, all utterly inhuman. Fish-scaled, flower-eyed, lichen-fleshed—river water oozing from their skin, and pearly sap adorning their finger bones. She loved them, a little, or perhaps entirely. She’d worshipped them all her life, after all. But she feared them too, and that was bitter, a sharp thorn under her tongue.
Are you hollow?the yaksa asked.Are you ours, wholly and utterly?
Are you hers?
Yes, she told them. Yes and yes. She had cut out her heart, after all. If they could see her soul, then surely they could see that. Her ribs of wood, and no human heart within them.
They picked at her. Picked her apart. They asked her again, and again.
Can you be trusted?
Will you stay? Will you serve?
Yes.
She isn’t enough. She isn’t ready. She isn’t strong enough.
Words not meant for her that darted through her anyway; silvery arrows, piercing her.
Will you be what you need to be? Will you reach for her? Can you find her? Can you break your bones, your heart, your mind in her service? Can you yield?
Yield to it, Priya. Beloved. Yield.
Yes, and yes, and yes, and yes—
On the third day, she stopped counting.
Someone pressed water to her mouth. She drank.
She slept. She dreamt of the war: the churn of chariot wheels, and the Saketan warriors around her racing forward on their horses, and Sima holding up a shield to protect her.
More water. Pangs of hunger through her belly.
She was walking into the imperial court. She was sliding a knife between Malini’s ribs. She was kissing Malini—kissing her even though she hadn’t kissed Malini when she’d stabbed her. Kisses that tasted of blood, salt.I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Hate me, you can hate me.
Hate me and live.
She woke. Back in her own body, breathing and aching, sprawled in the dirt. There were flowers growing from her wrists, burrowing their heads into the soil. The yaksa were still there. She could feel them, even before she caught sight of them; kneeling as she had kneeled, as if they were tending to her, worshipping her.
She was dizzy with hunger. Her body hurt.
“Where is Bhumika?” Her voice cracked. “Where is my sister?”
Silence.
“Padma, then,” Priya said, when no answer came. “Where is she?” She rose up on her elbows, dislodging growing things—feeling the soil under her thrum at her presence. “I came back for my family,” Priya went on. “For my people. If you won’t tell me about Bhumika, then at least tell me her child is safe.”
