One breath. Another.
Priya’s eyes opened. She could see the sky above her. Brilliant blue, scarred with smoke. There were still people shouting. It couldn’t have been long since the attack. And below it all, Sima, leaning over her.
“Get up,” Sima was saying, and Priya blinked at her.
“Is anyone here…?”
“Just us,” said Sima. “I dragged you behind a tent. Look, we were lucky—this one isn’t even on fire.”
Sima hoisted her up.
“Our guards…?”
“Some are—alive. I think,” Sima said curtly. There was something grieving and frightened under her hard expression. “Maybe they were taken to a sickroom. Maybe they’ve run home.”
“Don’t think they have,” Priya said, forcing the words out through her own pain. Sweat dripped into her eyes.
“No?”
“They don’t know the way back to Ahiranya. They’ll be around somewhere.”
Sima laughed wildly. “You have a point.”
She leaned in closer.
“The burn healed up while you were unconscious,” Sima said, keeping her voice small. It took Priya a moment to realize that she was worried about being overheard. “It… itflowered, and you were growing things. Through your skin. And then the flowers were gone and it healed. Just like that.”
“Flowered,” Priya echoed, dazed. But Sima was still talking, blinking back tears.
“I thought it had killed you, Pri. You don’t know how you looked. For a moment. A moment…”
Priya swallowed, and clutched Sima’s hand.
“It could have killed me,” Priya said. “I was lucky.”
“Lucky how?”
Priya didn’t know how to explain Bhumika. Those eyes gleaming gold. The flowers pouring over her, seeping into the burn. So she settled on saying, “Bhumika helped me somehow.”
“Ah.That’s good.”
“It was—temple elder magic. But I can’t. Can’t rely on it again.” A deep thrill of wrongness was working through her.
If the fire could kill her magic? Well. The fire could kill Ahiranya, too.
DEEPA
When the conches sounded and the fires struck again, Deepa was far from the danger. Not as far as she would have liked, of course—not home with her mother and sisters, with the comfort of her books and not a single rheumy-eyed war elephant in sight—but still in relative safety.
In her father’s tent, she crouched on her knees, and placed her head on her own knees, and struggled to breathe. She could smell smoke. She couldn’t run. What good would it be to run? And she was being foolish. If the fire came, she would burn, and if it didn’t, then curling up on the floor would make no difference either way.
She forced herself to straighten. Wiped any stray tears from her eyes. Sat herself down—and yelped like a scalded cat when the tent flap was flung open, and a figure entered.
“Calm yourself, Lady Deepa,” said Lata. She looked as stern as she always did when Deepa was in her company. “Wipe your face.”
“I—I was trying. I’ll do it now,” she corrected hastily, when Lata gave her a look. She dabbed her eyes with the edge of her pallu. “Do you need me for something?” she asked.
Deepa had taken her responsibility of assisting Lata very seriously. She carried stacks of books and paper after her, checked her ledgers, and wrote correspondence on her behalf. Lata was exacting, and never seemed to rest. The only time Deepa had seen the sage smile had been when Prince Rao came to speak with her. Lata had actuallyteasedhim. Deepa had never seen anything like it.
