“What,” she said slowly, “will they know?”
He closed his eyes.
“I told you, Lady Bhumika,” he said. “I told you when we last met. Your rule has not been beneficial to all of us. We are Ahiranyi through and through, all of us. But Parijatdvipa…” He paused, swallowing painfully, heavily. “We Ahiranyi, we benefited greatly under Parijati rule. And some of us have—acted. According to the interests of the nation.”
A leaden feeling in her stomach. Ah, the fool. The fool.
“I do not need to know more,” she said, when he moved to speak again. “No. Do not unburden yourself to me. It is far too late for that.”
“Lady Bhumika—”
“Lord Chetan,” she snapped, with far more anger than she had intended. “I thought I had impressed upon you the danger of turning on me. I thought you understood the danger you placed us all in.”
“You are only one woman,” he said thinly. “But they. What will they do?”
“You ask me for assurances?” Her voice was incredulous. “Well, I can give you none. You will have to hope they care less about mortal politics than I do.”
“Will you tell them?” Chetan asked. “If they do not know—will you tell them? Will you demand justice?”
“No,” she said. “I have no need to.” She swept to the door, fury heavy in her. “As you said, they already know what lies in your heart. They will make their own judgments. And you must hope they judge you kindly.”
Bhumika could not delay any longer. She began to walk toward the feasting hall. At her side, Jeevan was her shadow, as always.
“My lady,” he said. “At the feast. I will be there.”
She waited. When it became clear he did not intend to say anything more, she said, “Of course. You’ll be on guard.”
His boots thumped against the marble. Her own footsteps were a swish of silk. Their rhythm was discordant. “If there is trouble,” he said eventually. “If you… if you are in danger. I will intervene. I promise you.”
“Intervene with the yaksa?”
“Yes.”
“A brave thought,” she said. “But it would be a pointless act.”
“However pointless it would be, I would try.”
“I am capable of keeping myself safe,” she said quietly. “And if I can’t, I would be happier knowing that someone I trust remains behind, alive, to deal with the consequences.”
It was like a beautiful garden in the hall, so beautiful that she could only pause for a moment and stare at it in awe. Creepers were draped from the ceiling. Flowers bloomed at the lattice windows. A bed of sweet grasses rose from the floor that had once been plain sandstone. The mahal had long been fractured, broken by war and by root and flower, but the yaksa had turned those flowers into architecture.
Then she walked forward, a steady and even glide, between the rows of laden tables, heavy with ripe fruit, rich dhals, sabzis studded with almonds; platters of rice, colored yellow and red and gold with saffron, fat raisins, and filigrees of crisp onions flecked darkly onto their surfaces.
The yaksa were kneeling at the head of the feast, all of them seated together. To their left sat the twice-born mask-keepers and Kritika. To the right sat Ashok. Next to him was a space clearly reserved for her.
The lords of Ahiranya had come in droves. Like Chetan, many of them had been dragged here, or cajoled by Jeevan’s men. But some were here for faith. She could see the certainty, the worship in their eyes.
Her lateness meant that they were all far into their meals, plates piled high, half-empty glasses of liquor arrayed in front of them.
Bhumika seated and then steeled herself; forced a smile to her mouth and reached for the food. Ashok took her hand.
“No,” he said, voice hushed. He wasn’t looking at her. “Wait.”
“Ashok…?”
“Wait,” he said again. He met her eyes. “Can’t you feel it?Seeit?”
Bhumika looked down at the food. Then, she understood.
