There would be plenty of time to argue in the future.
“It sounds like it could have been a lot worse,” Sima said later.
They were sitting with their backs to a tree in the orchard. It was night, velvet and dark, and they had a carafe of wine between them.
“Probably. I just can’t think of how right now.”
Priya didn’t usually become maudlin when she drank wine, but it had been a trying day. She had been rambling on for some time—tracing the rim of the bottle restlessly, constantly, with her thumb.
“If I sat all day in a room and did nothing but tend to rot sufferers, I’d still barely make a difference. I’d be like—like one ladle in a bucket the size of the world. You understand?”
“Never try to become a poet, Pri,” Sima said. She’d spent the day tending to the running of the mahal and was about as tired as Priya, but mellowed by liquor. She smiled a little.
“I was a poet to her,” Priya said quietly, letting the confession slip free. “I… I wrote to her, you know.”
“How is your empress?”
“Who knows.” Priya shrugged. She suddenly felt a little exposed. Her face was warm. “But we’re not talking about that.”
“You’re the one that mentioned her.”
“Look, she’s—she’s not important. What matters is this, okay? I can’t fix a field,” said Priya. “Not of rot sufferers, I don’t mean field like I meant ladle, but—oh, I should never have turned poet at you, you’re right. Look, the plain truth of it is this: There’s so much work to do, and I can’t do it alone.” The words exposed a hollow ache in her chest—a sheer knot of anxiety that she couldn’t ignore any longer. “We need more elders. More thrice-born.”
Sima exhaled.
“That’s hard, Pri.” Silence. Then she raised her head and looked at Priya. “What would you say,” she said slowly, “if I wanted to be more than I am? If I wanted to travel through the deathless waters like the mask-keepers? Like you?”
Priya stared down at her hands.
“I don’t think it’s what you really want.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not like they are.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Sima’s shoulders tense, saw her visibly bristle. Quickly, Priya said, “Not like—Sima, not in a bad way.”
“In what way, then?”
“Let me take a drink,” Priya said. “Then I’ll explain.”
They sat in taut silence as Priya swigged the bottle, taking three or four methodical mouthfuls. Her lips burned. Her throat felt fiery.
“The kind of strength you need to pass through the waters and survive—it’s a hard kind. A scarring kind. The kind of scars that sit inside your soul, under the skin.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t. I don’t want that for you. I don’t think you really want that for yourself, either. You’re too smart for that.”
“It’s pretty scarring to learn weapons too, you know,” Sima observed. “And the fear never really goes away. The guilt, either. What’s the difference, getting a weapon that lives in your blood instead of your hands?”
“It’s different,” Priya said. “Believe me.”
“I’ve known hardship,” Sima offered. “And I’m willing to know more if it’s for something worthwhile. Protecting the home we’ve built, the family we’ve made here… that feels worth it.”
“You don’t know the price,” Priya said. “And I…” Her voice cracked a little. Something flickered through her—the image of a knife, a flower. Wood, bones. “They’ve already done it. Paid some of it. They can’t go back. But it’s not a price I’d ever want a friend to pay.”
A pause.
“What happens,” Sima asked finally, “when you enter the waters? What is it like?”
Priya laughed and shook her head. Drank another mouthful of liquor. She bit her lip lightly, flesh-sour and liquor-sweet.
“I’m not even sure I know,” she said. “I’m not even sure I remember.”
