“I’ll come to the practice yard,” Bhumika said.
When she arrived, after settling Padma for her nap, the two rebels were sparring, scythe blades sparking in the hot sun. She watched for a moment, from the shade. Then, when they both paused, she said to Rukh, “You’re improving.”
“Thank you, elder,” Rukh said, panting. He wiped sweat from his brow. Hooked the scythe against his hip. The movement was almost beginning to look practiced. “Ganam, can I…?”
“Go on,” he said. To Bhumika he said, “I’ll keep watch. You talk.”
Rukh told her the way the yaksa vanished, sometimes. Into the orchard, only returning when all the trees were twisted and strange. Out toward the forest. Even into the Hirana. “Melting the wall away,” he said. “Opening a corridor and walking through it. I guess they’re going to the deathless waters?”
“If you witnessed that, then you are taking too many risks, Rukh,” Bhumika said sharply. “I asked for your assistance. I don’t require you to put yourself in danger of death, you understand?”
“They don’t notice me,” said Rukh. “They never do.”
“They may be pretending not to notice you,” Bhumika said. Talking to Rukh always reminded her of talking to Priya when they were both only girls—an act of trying to direct wild, aimless energy to a useful purpose, without giving the fire of her more fuel. But Rukh was gentler by nature, which was a relief. He took to direction and praise like a plant thirsting for light and water. “But you’ve done well,” Bhumika said, and as she’d expected, he brightened. Smiled at her.
But his smile quickly dimmed. “The one who looks like a little boy,” he said. “He’s—he doesn’t know I’m watching, but…”
“But?”
“He always wants to be around other children.” Hesitation. “I don’t want to scare you, elder,” Rukh said. “But he thinks Padma’s interesting. He likes following when Khalida takes her outside.”
Bhumika’s insides went cold. She thought of Padma sleeping against her chest; the warm weight of her, the softness of her curls, the rise and fall of her breaths. She abruptly wanted to be with her daughter again, desperately.
“Thank you for telling me, Rukh,” she said.
He looked at her and nodded resolutely.
“I’ll try and find something better,” he vowed. “Something more useful.”
“I told you,” Bhumika said. “You need to take care. No foolish risks. Promise me.”
He nodded again, quickly this time. Then, as if they’d never spoken, he and Ganam resumed their sparring.
Passivity had never suited Bhumika.
No one was coming to save her from the strange circumstances she had found herself in. She would have to find her own solution.
One afternoon, when the day was still blisteringly hot, she called for a palanquin. She wore her temple whites as she often did. But she also wore her gold: her nath and earrings, her bracelets and a necklace, as she always did when she dealt with highborn. This had to have the appearance of a political journey. She adorned herself for the lie.
There was nothing strange about her needing to meet with one of her highborn in their own haveli. She assured herself the yaksa would not remark on it. What care did they have, after all, for mortal politics? And if they did remark she would bow her head and give some pretty explanation and that would, she hoped, be the end of it.
Jeevan met her with the palanquin and a handful of soldiers to carry it. They made their way across the city swiftly, despite the stifling heat.
In the pink lantern district, where there had once been nothing but pleasure houses, was a library. Nestled between rows of lantern-strung buildings, it was a modest building with pale walls and narrow windows, its interior pleasantly cool, and filled with the noise of rustling paper, distant strains of song and laughter from the pleasure houses, and the hum of voices reciting the Birch Bark Mantras.
Ever since she and Priya had taken over leadership of Ahiranya, Bhumika had made a point of investing in the arts in a way she had never been able to do as the regent’s wife. Even when there had been precious little coin to spare, she had arranged for a library to be built, where sages and poets could study, and share their work, and keep their creations safely stored.
Under Parijatdvipan rule, it was the scholars and artists who had kept the memory of Ahiranyi faith and culture alive. The Birch Bark Mantras had survived in their recitations—in handwritten copies, hidden by household after household. Bhumika understood very well that to build a new Ahiranya would require strong foundations. A nation could not survive without food—but it could not survive without a soul either.
Kritika may have believed the Hirana was where the soul of Ahiranya lay. But in Bhumika’s eyes, it was here.
Bhumika emerged from her palanquin before the library’s steps. Jeevan offered his hand and she took it. He clasped it carefully, his palm warm and callused around her own. With the daylight behind him, veiling his face, he was reduced to his harshest angles—his strong jaw and that pronounced blade of a nose. But she could feel the softness of his gaze on her, just as palpably as she could feel the gentle guidance of his hand. Ever since the day in the rose garden he had been more careful with her. She straightened, and clasped his hand tighter in return.I’m well, she tried to say, with her eyes, her touch. His head lowered, and after a moment, he released her.
They walked together into the interior of the library. A woman met them near the entrance, with a bow and a smile.
“Elder,” she said. “Welcome. How can we help you today?”
“Have you been well, Amina?” Bhumika asked.
