“You’ll be fine,” Ganam said. “You don’t need my brawn. I’ve seen you in a fight, Priya.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
She could hear the warriors behind her, clutching their scythes and sabers. Some of them were shivering with fear. Others looked nothing but determined. None of them had drunk from their vials yet.
She closed her eyes for a single breath, feeling the song and swell of the green. “A whole contingent of Srugani warriors,” she murmured. “Armed with maces, mostly. But some have sabers. And some have arrows. And others… fire. But not mothers’ fire.”
“Fire’s fire,” Ganam muttered. “We could wait here until the patrol passes.”
Priya shook her head.
“They’re not moving,” she said. “Their camp is at the end of the seeker’s path. We’ll need to go through them.”
They were nearing the end of the path—near Srugna itself, where the forest receded and its power began to gently ebb. She could feel the warriors arrayed, waiting for them.
Behind her, one of her soldiers took a step forward. She was timid, square-faced and strong but trembling.
“Elder,” the woman—thegirl—whispered. “What do we do now?”
Priya could hear everything, feel everything. The uneasy shifting from foot to foot of her own soldiers; the creak of hands on scythe handles and bows; the drag of heavy boots from beyond the forest. The grunt from a throat as someone hefted a mace. The eyes watching the forest. Waiting.
“We start,” she said, addressing the people huddled close around her—trying to sound authoritative. Trying to sound ready. “By pretending to be prey.”
ARAVIND
“It’s a thankless job,” Aravind’s commander told him before their force set out to the border between Srugna and Ahiranya, where the trees loomed and old monsters now walked. “But you have to do it, boy. It’ll be good for you.” A pat on the back, oddly gentle.
The commander was often kind to him because he was the youngest warrior in this patrol. Too many men had died in the war for the imperial throne, or from the rot, which meant even boys had to fight. But Aravind was glad to be in the army. He wasn’t as much of a child as everyone seemed to think he was.
Aravind hadn’t argued, because it didn’t seem like anyone cared if he wanted to go to the border or not. That wasn’t what it meant to be a Srugani warrior. He hadn’t built his strength hefting river stones and, later, heavy carved maces so that he could stay home and be comfortable. His job was to be a loyal body, and that was what he was going to be.
He was fifteen. Old enough for war.
Patrolling the border with Ahiranya was still not a job he wanted to do for long. The forest was old and dark and soundless and rotten. Sometimes, at night, some of the other men swore it sang, trying to call them in. His mother had warned him about the forest when he was a boy, fed him warnings in the sweet milk of a bedtime story. The last time the yaksa had walked the subcontinent, they had come to Srugna with feasts and promises.Sometimes they’d tempt people with gifts. Fruit that split open into flowers, or gold and jewels that could only be won by combat or marriage. Sometime people took what was offered.
People who went with them never came back.
Now Aravind shuddered. His armor wasn’t heavy, and part of him wished it had a bit more weight and cloth to it. The trees here blotted out the sunlight, leaving the air uncomfortably cool. All he could hear was the creak of leather, the muttering of his fellow soldiers, sharing more of those stories that settled like stones in Aravind’s guts. Even the birds didn’t sing this close to Ahiranya. There was nothing to distract him.
Because he wasn’t sharing stories—because he was looking at the birdless trees—he was the first one to spot the woman who stumbled out of Ahiranya’s forest. She was in a light-colored salwar kameez, stained up to the calves in forest dirt. She was rot-riven, which wasn’t a surprise. He knew that local villages hounded out their sick, sending them into exile.
He was reluctant to approach her. Like most folk, he feared catching the rot. “You,” he called out. “Move along.”
She took a stumbling step forward. Aravind clutched his mace tighter, then let his grip loosen. She was just one girl.
She went to her knees. She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought—nor was she old. She was just short, narrow-boned, her face visibly tense, even in the dim light. “I need your help,” she called back. Her voice was low, almost rasping. “Will you help me, brothers?”
“What kind of help?” Aravind’s commander asked. He was frowning. He reached for his belt. “I have a water flask here, little sister. You can drink.”
She whispered her thanks, looking between them. She held out a hand—and the commander grasped her hard by the wrist, wrenching her forward.
“You’re not Srugani,” he said flatly. “What are you doing here? How did you get out?”
The woman’s expression flickered. Gone was the soft look on it. Her mouth firmed.
“Well,” she said flatly. “I’ve never been good at this sort of thing.”
The world exploded around him.
