No one could leave Ahiranya, the people in the mahal had told her. Anyone who tried to leave died, speared by thorns or swallowed by the soil.
And no one could enter, either. Walking into Ahiranya was just as deadly.
But Priya wasn’tmostpeople.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped beyond the trees.
She could feel those people. Their knees pressed to soil. Their mouths whispering prayers. They raised their heads when she crossed the boundary. Some scrambled back with gasps of fear. Others bowed their faces to the ground in reverence.
She turned for one brief moment to look at the mask-keepers behind her in the trees. In the moonlight, the mask-keepers looked eerie, the wood concealing their faces both gleaming and shadowed. She was glad she hadn’t worn her mask; the crown mask still lay at her bedside.
She took a step forward into better light, and someone gave a shriek.
Ah. She’d forgotten her skin.
But… she assessed the faces in front of her. Leaves. Bark on fingertips and jaws. One woman had a flower growing from her throat.
The mask-keeper who’d woken her had been right. All of the strangers were rot-riven. Their skin wasn’t so different from hers after all.
All of them were silent now. Watching her.
“I heard you,” Priya said, forcing herself to be loud. Forcing her voice to carry. “I heard your worship. I am the High Elder of Ahiranya. Why are you here?”
The crowd moved uneasily. Then one kneeling figure stood. A man—broad-shouldered and scarred—stepped forward and bowed.
“Elder Priya,” he said. “We are here for your help.”
“You know my name,” Priya said, surprised.
“You’re the Ahiranyi witch,” he said, without sharpness. “The one who tried to kill our empress. Everyone knows your name.”
That shook her more than it should have. Of course people knew what she’d done. She should have expected it.
“What do you need from me?” Priya asked.
“High Elder,” he said. “We seek a new home. We seek safety.”
He spoke Zaban with a distinct accent.
“You’re from Parijat,” she said. “Why would you seek a home here?”
He hesitated. It was one of the women behind him who spoke.
“There’s nowhere safe for us anywhere else,” she said bluntly, meeting Priya’s eyes. “Our own villages turn us away. Our own people try to kill us. Imperial soldiers hunt us down, saying we’ll sicken the crops. Where else can we go?”
“We heard that if we pray hard enough, the rot can be cured,” another said tearily. “That it may not kill us after all. We’ve brought all we have. Gold, coin, food—”
“Stop,” Priya said sharply, and the worshippers fell silent.
A child was crying. She heard someone shush it.
“Please,” the man said, voice wavering. “The soldiers will be back here soon—don’t leave us here.”
She exhaled.
“Wait here,” she said. “I need to speak with the yaksa.”
In Ahiranya the mask-keepers had their heads bowed. Between them, sitting on the sheared stump of a tree, legs crossed, was the yaksa wearing Nandi’s face. He’d been waiting for her.
