The lords ran. And Chandra placed his face in his hands and wept.
He went to the temple.
Even before Hemanth had taken him under his wing, the temple had been his solace. He had never avoided worship, as Aditya had; had never smiled and allowed the words of the Book of Mothers to slide off him like water, ignoring every entreaty from the priesthood to stay and learn and know what it meant to serve Parijatdvipa. No, unlike his brother, he had read the Book of Mothers over and over to himself. He had gone willingly to worship at the imperial temple, his sister arranging garlands at the altar with his mother.
He had watched them both: The slight figure of his mother laying out flowers, and his sister’s even slighter form beside her, performing piety, and thought of them burning. He’d felt something rise through him at that thought. A peace, and a rightness.
He had told his mother of it once. She had looked at him as if he were a stranger.
Hemanth had never recoiled from him. Hemanth had trulyseenChandra, and molded him into a man worthy of his name. He had given Chandra a faith that was simple and pure, as clear as glass: The Parijati were the mothers’ chosen. Chandra had a holy bloodline, and holy purpose. The only rightful path for the empire lay in his heart and his hands.
Chandra sat in the gardens upon a bench. Beneath trees, in gentle sunlight. Lowered his head into his palms.
He heard Hemanth’s approach. The gentle whisper of robes. He felt Hemanth’s hand come to rest upon his forehead. Tender.
“The world,” Chandra said into the silence, “is even stranger and crueler than I imagined.”
The priest said nothing.
“You should have told me all your fears,” Chandra said. “All the things your priests had said. You should have told me a long time ago. Why didn’t you?”
“I knew,” said the High Priest, as he stroked Chandra’s hair, “that you would respond as you have. That you would fear the yaksa more than you have ever feared any mortal man. More than any subordinate king, claiming falsely to be your equal.”
“I fear nothing,” Chandra choked out, knowing it was a lie.
“You have always desired order and meaning. And I have striven to give it to you. Faith has been your armor and your guiding star. I am sorry that the sky is clouded by ill omens.”
Chandra let a breath shudder out of him. At least he had Hemanth. Even Hemanth’s loyalty was imperfect. But Hemanth loved him, and Chandra loved him in turn. Hemanth was better than any family Chandra had ever possessed. He could forgive this. He would.
“I’ll do it,” Chandra said finally. “I will tell all my men, all my warriors—capture her. Bring her to me. And then I’ll… convince her.” His voice choked on that word. Convince. Would he be expected to beg her? He would not.
“My emperor is wise,” Hemanth said. “As I always knew.”
“I dream sometimes of the women who have burned to save Parijatdvipa,” Chandra confessed. “I dream that they—theylaughat me. They tell me I will join them. That the mothers do not choose me.” He squeezed his eyes tight, holding back furious tears. “Tell me the dreams are false.”
Hemanth’s hand paused upon his hair. A beat passed, and then he resumed the motion. “The dreams are false,” he said.
“The mothers chose me, didn’t they?” Chandra said, knowing his voice sounded like a plea and not caring. “I am the one who will defeat the yaksa, am I not? I’ll fashion the empire into greatness, placing Parijat high?”
“The mothers made you,” Hemanth said. “Your faith and your idealism, your vision for a better world, and the bravery with which you seek it. Be the man they made you, Chandra. Go beyond the walls. Claim your sister.”
He thought of it. Going beyond the walls. His fire on a sword in his hands.
Like a knife strike, the image came to him again—the faceless burned woman. The laughter.
In the void, Chandra. We are waiting for you.
“I will send my men,” he said, through the dizzying feeling running through him—a feeling like the heat of a pyre. “I will meet her before the holy fire. And I will claim my fate. As the mothers intend.”
PRIYA
Harsinghar appeared in the distance. The army did not stop to gaze upon it, but behind the body of the charioteer, Priya could make out glimpses of white marble and golden spires. She could sense the tug of the ancient trees, with great drooping branches and roots shallow enough to feel footsteps on their surface, or the sun beating down on them.
She closed her eyes and tried to feel nothing but the green—the trees and flowers and the soft creepers wound around windows and colonnades. Every inch of it sang comfortingly. She was surrounded by weapons. She could do what Malini had asked. She could survive this.
“You should open your eyes,” Sima said.
“I don’t have anyone to impress here,” Priya said, still reaching out for green.
