Swati and Sahar shared a look. But the maid only nodded, and Sahar said, “I’ll be just beyond the curtain, Empress.” And then Malini was alone.
A bed beneath her. The smell of cedar around her, and the rising sweetness of sandalwood, from the incense left lit by Swati. There were thin curtains around her, clouds of frothing white. She closed her eyes and felt the coolness of the bedding beneath her.
Closed her eyes, and found herself dragged forcefully into sleep.
She walked directly into a dream.
She dreamt that she was crossing the court of the imperial mahal again. The marble was colder than the bed and suddenly gave way to wetness. Water was running over the floor, softening the stone to sand. Above her the roof had vanished, leaving her surrounded by sky, trees, soil.
The fire at the heart of the court was still burning, blooming its flowers of flame. And Priya was lying next to it, her hair loose, dark tendrils fanned out around her, saturated with water.
Perhaps in this dream I will kill her before she can kill me, Malini thought, feeling oddly detached. She walked closer to Priya, taking in the shape of her—the lines of her body, the arm flung out, the head tilted away.
She looked at Priya’s face and saw… not Priya’s face.
Instead she saw a face carved of wood, so close to Priya’s that it was almost perfect. If Malini had not known her, known her skin, perhaps she would have been fooled. The carved face was peaceful, strangely beautiful, haloed by roses.
Perhaps the person lying on the ground was not Priya at all. Perhaps it was a statue—as empty and lifeless as the wooden effigy of Aditya in the imperial temple.
Malini’s footsteps faltered at the thought. In the silence, the figure on the ground stirred.
Malini had been mistaken, or her dreaming eyes had lied to her. Priya’s face was not wood. She was wearing a mask. At its edges her real skin was visible. The eyes that stared back at Malini through the mask’s sockets were warm brown, familiar and hazy with sleep. They fixed on Malini. Focused.
“Malini,” Priya whispered.
Rage came over Malini like a tide. She kneeled over Priya, her knees and hands against wet stone. Those eyes through hollows of wood looked up at her in sorrow.
Why did she dream Priya sorrowful? What a cruel lie to gift herself. It made her angrier still.
“I felt you in the trees,” Malini said, her voice shaky with anger. “You should have faced me. Isn’t that my right? After what you did to me, after you stabbed me with a thorn knife, don’t I deserve the right to aim a saber of fire at your heart in return?”
“You did hurt me,” Priya said. She said it like she wanted to soothe Malini. As if any promise of Priya’s pain could be acomfort. “Malini, you did. I was in the trees and you reached me, your soul to mine, piercing me through.”
A wild fear ran through Malini. That she had burned Priya’s skin away. That beneath that mask there was nothing, only gristle, or only flowers.
“Show me your face,” Malini demanded. “Don’t hide beneath masks. Show me.”
Priya was moving too slowly, hands rising gently, skimming close to Malini’s arms. So Malini reached for the mask herself.
The mask blistered her fingers. Not a mask of plain wood, or even a mask of sacred wood, but a mask of fire—
Her hands were burning. She was screaming, weeping, and Priya was whispering her name—strange, sweet whispering that was not wanted and yet terribly wanted, that cut harsher than any blade because of its softness, the way it was a balm. Malini could not stand it. Could not. She said more words, poisonous, furious words.
“You did this to me,” she gasped. “You’ve changed me. What rot have you forced between my ribs? Why do I dream of you?”
“I don’t know,” Priya said, tender, tender. “I don’t know. Forget me, Malini. Forget me—”
“How could I?” Malini snapped. Heart pounding, a wild bird caged in her chest. “How dare you be here in my dreams, and not under my hands, not where I can really hurt you?”
The mask was gone, and she could see Priya’s face again. Priya’s eyes held no guilt, no shame, not even sorrow anymore—only implacable determination, hard as stone.
“Malini,” Priya said again. “If there had been any other way, I wish, but therewasn’t—”
Malini pressed a hand roughly against her mouth, her nose, to silence her. Priya struggled—her teeth snagged against Malini’s palm, then bit deeper. The pain was so bright it made Malini hiss out a breath and draw back her hand. Priya’s mouth was red.
“I don’t regret it,” Priya said, defiant now. “I’m sorry. I love you. I would do it again.”
Malini took her fiery hands and grasped Priya’s scalp, drew her up. Whispered against her lips—
