The yaksa are right to consider me nothing.
A soft wind touched her. She followed its grasp, turning her head.
In the shadows of the trees she saw her veiled watchers, bowlsspilling bright water uselessly into the earth, the ether. They looked clearer than they ever had before, their limbs mottled blue with cold, their eyes hollows beneath water and cloth.
Drowned, she thought.They are drowned, and yet they breathe still.
“It must be this one,” she replied quietly. That would have to be enough.
They stayed at the food stall long enough for the rain to abate, and for Bhumika to carefully eke information out of the woman washing the cups and pans behind it. She’d been talkative enough when Bhumika had offered to help, though she’d laughed over Bhumika’s efforts.
“They must see worshippers,” Bhumika murmured to Jeevan as they left. “That is the one requirement of a priest. To serve a deity, a god, a spirit is to be its mouthpiece. To offer comfort.”
“Not all priests believe so,” said Jeevan.
She had to hope these would.
Nimisa Monastery was ancient. Five hundred years had shaped its gray stone, erasing any human-made flourishes of beauty, making it one with the soil and the green that surrounded it. Its vast entrance arch, set above steps that curved like a crescent moon, shone as if emeralds had been carved into its walls. But lichen and vines were what bejeweled it, not gemstones. They were so oddly, beautifully lustrous that Bhumika had to pause momentarily in her walk toward the monastery’s steps simply to stare up in awe.
She and Jeevan had walked along a path carved through the trees toward the steps of the monastery. The stone steps were silvery with pools of water. Perhaps it was the rain or the rot, or the looming threat from Ahiranya, but there were no worshippers waiting to enter Nimisa Monastery.
There was one young priest near the entrance, scrubbing the steps. He raised his head and looked at them with confusion in his eyes, even as a tentative smile shaped his mouth.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice low and kind. He rose to hisfeet, visibly hesitating. “Forgive me. In these difficult times we, ah, do not receive visitors. We are a… a monastery of solitude and contemplation.”
She felt Jeevan’s eyes on her for a second. Well, that was her answer.Not all monasteries were open to worshippers after all.No matter.
“Priest,” she said. “I must speak with the head of your monastery. I come with a message for him.”
The man’s smile faded into utter uncertainty.
“I come from Ahiranya,” Bhumika continued, not allowing herself to falter. “I come with a way to kill the yaksa. The nameNimisaechoes in the darkest of their memories for a reason. The head of your monastery will know why. Call him here. Please.”
The priest still did not move.
She drew a step closer to where he stood, then another, until she could see his dark pupils, the whites of his eyes. Was it wishful thinking, or could she see a strange light in his gaze—a hint of otherness, a sign that he had the gift she sought? Surely if he had served here, worshipped here, he would have been touched by the magic of this place.
Bhumika had no weapon to sway him with but her words. So she turned to them once more.
“Let him ask the nameless god, if he wishes. His deity knows what I carry.” She lowered her voice, cajoling. “Yourdeity knows what I say is true. The nameless speaks in your heart, yes? Please. Listen.”
Finally, something flickered in the priest’s eyes. He nodded slowly and turned to enter the monastery.
He was gone for some time.
There was a strange, uncomfortable desire in her to draw on something to convince him more fully. Some power that had once existed in her body—a magic, perhaps, or a cunning that losing her memories had stripped her of. But whatever it had been, she lacked it now. She stood tall with her hands gently clasped in front of her and tried to feel no fear.
The priest returned with five guards, who moved swiftly,striding down the stairs to ring Jeevan and Bhumika, fencing them in. Jeevan’s hand flew to his saber hilt.
“Remove your weapon,” one said to Jeevan, his face grim.
“Step back, and I will do so,” Jeevan replied.
“Ahiranyi bastard,” the guard said, and Bhumika felt the mood of the men around her darken, as if his anger had given them permission to feel rage too. They were not going to allow themselves to be reasoned with. “How dare you come here, speaking of your monstrous yaksa—”
“Stop,” a booming voice ordered. Bhumika raised her head.
Above them on the stairs stood a much older man in his blue robes, chest bare, long hair swept back.
