“So,” he said. “All-powerful Priya. What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know yet,” she whispered. “Anything I can. Even if it kills me.”
MALINI
She arrived back to Parijat to so much celebration that she wondered if her people had somehow been misled and believed the war had been won. Even through the curtains of her chariot and the shadowy perimeter of guards on horseback around her, she could see the throng of crowds and hear their voices crying out.
Empress. Empress. Empress.
In her imperial court, seated on her raised throne, she could still hear the faint sounds of the city of Harsinghar celebrating her return. Drumbeats and cymbals echoed like wingbeats through the hall as kings and warriors seated themselves beneath her raised dais. The women of court were already seated behind her.
Varsha had joined them. She was close to the end of her pregnancy, and the strain was visible in every line of her body. Her pallu was drawn over her face; the hand not holding her sari was pressed to the swell of her stomach. She sat at the very back of the crescent of seated women, behind Raziya and Lata and Deepa, among the highborn wives and daughters and grandmothers of the kings and princes who kneeled below.
Servants closed the shutters. The sound grew muted until there was nothing but the noise of men’s low murmuring voices, the rustle of silks, and the crackle of lanterns.
Malini leaned forward, and even the sound of those voices died away.
“There are wars,” Malini said, “that cannot be fought by warriors alone. The rot grows. The priesthood have assured us that the yaksa will return, and what we all witnessed in Ahiranya—and the soldiers we lost—confirms their claim. The warriors who remain to watch Ahiranya’s borders are brave,” she continued, speaking of Mahesh and the priestly warriors—the ones left behind. “But we have an even greater duty: We must protect our food and fields from the rot, or all is lost.”
She gestured to Lata, who rose smoothly to her feet and began to explain the inner workings of their plan: the essential harvests that had to be protected; the grain and rice in Alor, the herds in Dwarali, the Srugani orchards. The way soldiers uninfected with the rot would be directed and managed; the way harvests would need to be stored and distributed to ensure the empire’s survival.
There were objections, of course. There were always objections.
“Empress,” one quavering-voiced lord from Alor said. “Not all of this can be done. Not in an empire of our size. Not with perfection. We do not have the men. The war has drained us.”
“Starvation would drain us much further,” Malini said crisply. “We do not need perfection, my lord. Only willingness. Only bravery. All of you claim you would die by the sword for Parijatdvipa. If you are willing to do so, you can take on the smaller sacrifice of sharing food.”
“There are many landowners and lords who will not wish to give their grain to the empire,” another prince said. His gaze was steady. “They may resist.”
“This is war,” Malini replied. “They will do what is needful. And if they do not, you will convince them to do what is right.”
He bowed. “Empress,” he said. “As you command.”
She went to the imperial temple. In these times, an appearance of piety was to her benefit.
She walked through the gardens of the temple under the cover of a parasol, with only Sahar to guard her. Hemanth soon joinedher. He looked as unassuming as ever, an unremarkable figure in his plain robes, his ash-marked brow furrowed.
“High Priest,” she said, inclining her head with a practiced smile. Then she allowed her face to smooth to graveness. “I have come to pray.”
“You are welcome, Empress, in the temple of your ancestor,” Hemanth replied. “Will you pray alongside me?”
“I have come for solitude,” she said.
His jaw tightened.
“I am glad to see you safe,” he said. “Is Ahiranya quelled?”
“I am sure you know how the battle fared,” she murmured.
“I trust your word above all else, Empress.” He met her gaze.
Every time she met his eyes she saw a sure belief in them. Not hatred—it would have been simpler if she simply saw hatred in his eyes—but a steady truth. Even as he bowed to her, she read the message in every line of his body.
One day you will burn.
Hemanth and the priesthood that served him believed the yaksa would return, and that Malini’s willing death—like the deaths of the mothers of flame long before her—would give Parijatdvipa the strength to destroy the yaksa once more. When they had supported her brother Chandra’s claim to the throne, they had done so for the sake of that truth. And when the High Priest had finally,finally, turned upon Chandra and backed Malini’s rise to empress, he had done so for the same reason.
She had vowed she would not burn if she could not have her throne. The loyalty of the priesthood hinged upon that vow.
