Priya stepped into the tunnel, followed the dark until finally blue light began to bleed through it, overcoming the shadows around her. The deathless waters lay ahead. It was time.
A hand grasped her own, clammy with sweat.
“Priya,” said Kritika. Her voice was a gasp. All fear. Priya turned to her and saw her fractured shadow face: her trembling mouth, her wide eyes. Her terror, all the hope and faith stripped clean. “I do not know if I will survive it.”
She thought of telling Kritika she could turn back. But she knew Kritika wouldn’t, no matter how much she wanted to. There was a lump in Priya’s throat, fresh nausea in her stomach. She gripped Kritika’s hand tight. “None of us know,” Priya said quietly. “But you won’t go alone.”
“Kritika.” Another voice ahead. Ganam, waiting for them. His expression was resolute. He held out his hand.
Hesitation. Then, with a gasp, Kritika wrenched from Priya. Her mouth went firm. Her spine straightened. She took Ganam’s hand and walked toward the water.
There were, perhaps, things Priya should have said or done. But she could only stand with her feet in damp soil, blue water-light shining on the walls. She could only watch, as Chandni said in her melodious voice, “Go. We wait for you.”
Twice-born—a bare handful, only three mask-keepers—walked into the water. Their white tunics billowed around them. She saw their bodies sink. First torsos. Then necks. Then their heads were immersed. Hair rose, a cloud around them. Then even that vanished, and there was nothing but the light of the water. Not even the shape of their bodies remained.
Ganam and Kritika entered together.
And then—silence.
It stretched, and stretched. She waited, counting her heartbeats. But they were too swift, too unsteady to be a reasonablemeasure of time. She took another step forward, and another, and felt Nandi’s—Avan Ara’s—fingers grasp her tunic, holding her fast.
“The water isn’t for you,” he whispered. “Wait.”
She waited, and her mind was empty, blank. She couldn’t think. If she thought, she would feel her fear not just in her body but in her mind, and then she wouldn’t be able to stand here with a yaksa grasping her skirts, waiting for the living or dead to rise out of the water.
The first body to emerge rose like a flower—blooming, each limb rising at a time, feet first, and then a torso, and finally the head. Mouth open, eyes sightless.
Avan Ara let her go then, allowing her to stand on the wet edge of the waters and heave the body out. A woman. One of the mask-keepers. She would be no thrice-born.
Priya thought she would be sick.
Silence again. A steady sure grief began to rise in Priya. It had been too long. There would be no one else. No survivors. Only, if they were lucky, bodies to bury.
And then, a shadow—something rising. Someone broad, strong, and her stomach twisted violently at the sight.Dead, dead, and all my allies are gone—
Ganam rose with a gasp, and a swear, and scrambled for the bank, and heaved himself out. She ran over to him, helping, dragging him by the shoulders. She was crying like a child and she didn’t give a shit.
“You’re alive,” she sobbed.
“See,” he said, teeth chattering, water in his hair. “P-Priya. See. You’re not the only one who gets to survive.”
“Get up,” she said, and slapped his arm. “Up, now. You need to get warm.”
“Where are the rest?” he asked.
“None yet,” she said. “But there will be more.”
She waited. Waited. The joy turned bitter. Her vision went narrow and small. Her false confidence shriveled and faded away.
Nothing and no one.
There were no other survivors.
The yaksa were speaking. Their voices above her were like storm-bent trees, furious and fearful and strange.
“How is this possible?”
A murmur, in response. She couldn’t understand it.
