“A priest of the mothers almost destroyed my men and me,” Malini said. “Can I trust this gift, priest? I am not sure.”
“There is no force more righteous in all of Parijatdvipa than priests of mothers,” the man said, which was not what Malini had asked.
Malini felt bitter laughter threaten. She reminded herself that she was prophesied by the nameless, that she had claimed to know the voices of the mothers of flame, that she had proclaimed that she had been chosen by them for the imperial throne. She had to believe in her power, to hold all those lies steady.
She could not think of the day her heart sisters had burned. She could not thinkYour righteousness is liable to kill me, if I let it.
“I trust your righteousness,” she said instead. “I trust you are loyal to ideals that may serve to save or destroy me. But priest, I assure you: ideals that bring about the murder of the last woman of Divyanshi’s line are a defiance of the will of the mothers, and the will of the nameless god. I know it. So, I ask you again, as an imperial daughter with the mothers’ hands on her heart: Can I trust this gift?”
“You will not die here,” the priest said. “Empress. You have my word.”
Malini gestured over Lata, who held out her hands for the box in Malini’s stead. The head priest handed it to her. Settled deeper onto his knees.
“If this gift pleases you,” he said. “If you… if you accept that our ally is benevolent. Then I must request a gesture in return. A favor. If you promise to fulfill it, I will happily supply you his whereabouts. Where he will willingly meet you, and make a pact, if you desire it.”
I could torture that information from you, Malini thought dispassionately. He was already fear-struck. A little pain, the threat of more, and he’d collapse like dampened sheaves of paper.
But that would hardly win her allies. Alas.
“Bring it here, Lata,” she said.
Lata held the box forward. It was solid, and now she could see that it was made of a mixture of dark wood and onyx stone, its lid carved in swirls and whorls that formed a black rose. It had to be weighty, in Lata’s hands, but she held it up steadily, with no sign of strain.
Malini touched her fingers to the latch. Opened the lid.
Inside was ash. A thick, heavy layer of it, black dust mixed with white gristle. Wood, char, bone. Malini almost recoiled, but caught herself.
“Lata.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“A knife, please.”
Lata drew a small dagger—previously concealed in the fold of her sari—and offered it to Malini, who took it and used the tip to move the ash, peeling its surface like skin. And ah. There.
Beneath the ash lay a bud of fire.
Lata gave a muffled gasp. Malini thought of those priests upon the walls with their arrows; those priests with their swords drawn. She pressed her own blade to the flame and watched the flame shiver. Unfurl, like a blossom meeting sunlight.
She raised the dagger and the flame writhed. It moved nothing like real fire: uncanny, winding, opening and closing like a fist. It almost looked as if it were reaching for her.
She placed the knife into the box. Closed the lid with an abrupt snap.
“What does your secret ally require in return?” Malini asked the priest.
“The priest you have imprisoned,” he said. “Release him.”
That was a surprise.
“He sought to end my life,” said Malini. “He conspired to murder my men.”
“He acted out of faith,” the priest before her retorted, but gently. “You have been called a priest-killer by some,” he went on, watching her carefully. Was this a warning? Advice, or a threat? She was not yet sure. “You took the lives of priests of the nameless in Srugna. I have heard the tales of your fire. Lives offered willingly,” he added, as if Malini had argued with him. “But nonetheless, holy lives, stolen by your flame, your men, your guiding hand. But you have not yet harmed a priest of the mothers. To fight the men who faced you from Saketa’s fortress—that is an honorable battle, and no one would judge you for it. But to kill a priest of the mothers who willingly entered your war camp, who kneeled before you—it cannot be forgiven.”
Malini gave herself a moment to breathe and weigh up her options. Then she nodded.
“Your ally must have very good spies, to learn so swiftly what passes on a distant battlefield,” she murmured. “He is in Parijat, is he not?”
Instead of replying, the priest returned to his shelves. Drew down a cloth bundle, which he unrolled, revealing a map of Parijat.
