“The elders once welcomed us,” the yaksa Chandni crooned, as if she were singing, the vines undulating around them as lulling as waves. “The first of your kind let us in. They did it so sweetly, so easily. They were glad to have us. Glad to serve us.
“Perhaps you did not know what we were, when you entered the waters. Perhaps the ones who raised you did not know. But you let us in all the same.” Her hand against Bhumika’s cheek. “You are bound to us. We carved a place out inside of you and made it our home. You are no more a creature of this world than we are.”
Bhumika wanted to scream. Her skin crawled with revulsion. But she remained still, allowing the touch on her face.
“And what is our purpose?” Bhumika asked. “You must understand, yaksa, as children we were taught that our purpose was to venerate you. Encourage your worship and remember you for the glory you gave Ahiranya—and for the sacrifice of your deaths. But you are here now, and I think perhaps you seek more than worship from me.”
“Worship never goes amiss,” the yaksa said lightly, smiling with Chandni’s mouth, with Chandni’s eyes that crinkled up at the corners. “But no, it is not worship we seek from you. You have the same purpose your ancient elders had, when we first came to the shores of your world and made them into more than the mortals they were.” The yaksa leaned closer. “War, Elder Bhumika. A brilliance of war, so large that it sweeps all of Parijatdvipa into our waiting arms.”
“You’re reshaping the world,” Bhumika said, keeping her voice deferential. “It will all fall to you eventually. What need is there for war that may cost you worshippers?”Or end your time on this world, as it did in the Age of Flowers?Bhumika thought.
She knew better than to say it. You do not confront a powerful man with his failures. And for all they were spirits, gods, they wielded power with a very human cruelty indeed.
“Necessity,” the yaksa said simply. Bhumika thought she would say no more, but then the yaksa sighed, a sound like the susurration of leaves, and said, “There are natural laws that must be obeyed.”
Natural laws.That meant nothing. The yaksa was hiding something from her. She could feel it.
She nodded. “I understand, yaksa,” she lied.
Bhumika knew the pain of being conquered. She knew what it felt like to have your history, your culture, your pride erased by increments.
She had thought, all this past year, that she and Priya and the mask-keepers had been rebuilding. Bit by bit, returning Ahiranya back to itself. But the country they had been building—sewn together by fragile threads—was no more than a shroud for an old beast.
She had a duty to protect the people of this land. She had always tried to do so, in small ways and large. But ah, she was so tired, and nothing made her wearier than the horror that seeped through her as the yaksa before her smiled and smiled, as if she had learned smiling from a tale.
“What do you need from me? How may I serve?”
“A feast,” Chandni said. “Your yaksa desire a feast to celebrate our return, that all the highborn of our land must attend.”
Bhumika inclined her head. Her stomach a stone.
“A feast,” she repeated. “It will be done.”
SWATI
There was no rest on the journey toward Parijat, not for Swati. Every time the empress’s tent was disassembled or assembled, she had to supervise the packing or unpacking of all the empress’s possessions: her beautiful saris, her jewels, her weapons, her books and inks and the paper she valued so much. If any of it went astray it would be Swati’s fault, so Swati did not allow anyone else to interfere with her work.
As the empress’s tent was erected in a grove not far from Parijat itself—only a day’s journey left, at most—Swati was mending the embroidery on the map of Parijatdvipa, neatly working in knots and markings to mimic the villages and fields they had passed. Swati worked to untangle a thread with care, tongue between her teeth. Hours might have passed, or only minutes, when she felt fingertips on her shoulder. She startled and dropped her bone needle with a sharp exhale of surprise.
“I’m sorry,” said a voice. The accent took a moment to place. Dwarali. Then Swati looked up, and realized it was one of Lady Raziya’s archers who had interrupted her. “Come with me?” the woman asked. “There’s something you will like, I think.”
“I have work,” Swati said, even though the map was nearly done.
“Will your lady need her map tonight?” The woman snorted delicately. “No. So come.”
Swati followed, largely out of curiosity. The archer guided her to a space behind Lady Deepa’s tent, where a group of women stood. She saw Lady Raziya’s other guards. A few soldiers, slouching, holding bows over their shoulders. And a handful of maids and the few highborn women of Empress Malini’s retinue, all of them picking up bows of their own, staring at the wooden targets set in the distance.
“Come closer!” Sahar shouted. She was one of Lady Raziya’s women, an archer and charioteer, and quite frightening for it. “Pick up a bow!”
Some of the women shuffled closer. Swati tentatively joined them.
“Lady Raziya asked me to train the women of the court, and the women of the camp,” Sahar said, looking them over. “If you want to learn, you’re welcome to. And if you don’t…” She shrugged. “Go. I’ll be demonstrating, and then we will teach any of you that want to try.” She gestured at the men and the other guardswomen. One of the men waved, and his fellow soldier kicked him in the foot, rolling his eyes.
Swati wrung her hands together. Took a small step back.
“Where are you going?” the woman who had found her asked.
“There are many soldiers here,” Swati said, lowering her eyes in a show of humbleness. As she did so, she cast a glance around. The many booted feet of Lady Raziya’s guardswomen, the delicate sandals of some of the highborn women. The feet of the woman beside her, in narrow boots beneath a dark salwar kameez. She looked up, and met the eyes of the Ahiranyi advisor, Sima.
