Finally, he tipped his head side to side in acceptance. “The Tiger of Ullal had a minor injury and has healed. He will lead us to victory against the Porcugi.”
I nodded in thankful approval of the message Chetan was certain to carry to the rest of the city. With the hardest part of the negotiations done, it was easy to arrange for the delivery of the pyres’ flowers. Chetan agreed to send enough to decorate all seven by late afternoon so we’d have everything ready in time for the ceremonies at sundown.
I paid Chetan handsomely for his trouble, but I had no regrets about the cost, especially when several merchants swarmed around his stall after I left. Soon, everyone would know the Porcugi had attacked, but they would also believe that the reports of my uncle’s injury were exaggerated.
It was just enough truth to let the lie slip by.
Chapter 4
I hesitated when I reached the doors to the fort, looking up in the direction of the infirmary as I bit my lip. I knew I ought to go and check on my uncle. After all, he’d raised me for the last fifteen years and understood me better than anyone. As a child, I’d marveled at how he would always stop me before I could put my mischievous plans into action. Later, he told me he would just imagine what he would have done in my shoes, and then he tried to stay two steps ahead. He was, in many ways, the father I’d never had since my own passed away while my mother was still carrying me. I owed him a visit.
But I’d also promised him I would see to the last rites of our soldiers. So I made my way toward the beach and pretended I was doing it to make sure I fulfilled my duty to my uncle. It certainly wasn’t because I couldn’t look at those seven sheet-covered beds again. It had nothing to do with the fact that Samanth was under one of them.
Samanth.
I had trained with Samanth and Thevan since childhood, under their father’s watchful eye. When I’d had trouble with the sword, Samanth had gotten up early to do extra drills with me. He’d encouraged me but never let me get away with sloppiness, and he had always made sure to bring some almond burfi as a reward for when we finished. The silver-lined diamond desserts always tasted sweeter after our practice.
For years, I’d tied a rakhi around his and Thevan’s wrists for Raksha Bandhan, and they promised me their protection as if I were their sister. When Thevan didn’t come for the ceremony last year, Samanth had found me in the gardens that evening. He’d wiped my tears and tied a bracelet with a patterned gold medallion on my wrist, demanding my protection in exchange for his, since our skills with the sword were now equally matched. He’d told me Thevan just needed time for his heart to accept what his mind already knew. I’d wanted to pretend that I didn’t know what Samanth was talking about?—that I hadn’t noticed Thevan’s furtive glances or the way my cheeks always seemed to be on fire when he was around?—but Samanth’s shake of his head told me there was no point in denying it.
Thankfully, Samanth hadn’t put words to any of that, and he didn’t ask me to either. Instead, he’d pulled some almond burfi out of his pocket with a mischievous smile, and the world’s problems had melted away for a while as we savored the garden’s evening air, giggling like children over our stolen sweets.
I covered my bracelet’s gold medallion with my other hand, feeling its bumps as it dug into my palm and wrist. Who could I go to now when I struggled?
Wood for the pyres had already been delivered to the beach, and I immediately began to stack it, ignoring everyone who protested. It was hard work?—the logs were heavy and had to be arranged carefully to burn well. My guards joined me wordlessly, perhaps feeling as I did: a need todosomething when we all felt so helpless.
The sun rose higher, and I was thankful for the breeze on the beach. It carried the taste of salt and left my face crusted. Soon I wasn’t sure if I was tasting my sweat, the sea, or my tears when I licked my lips.
Flowers began arriving from Chetan’s shop. Baskets overflowed with marigolds threaded into long garlands, stacks of broad green mango leaves, and clusters of white jasmine and chrysanthemum. After the pyres were built, I draped the garlands around them and arranged the fragrant white flowers. The people who’d left us deserved to be sent to the Spirits with the same beauty they brought to us in life.
We left the mango leaves for the monks, who arrived wearing their white robes when the sun was well past its zenith. They stared at my sweat-streaked face and matted hair, but I folded my hands together dutifully and thanked them for coming. They took the mango leaves from me and began their prayers and chants as they circled the pyres. I followed to see how I could help but jumped when I felt a cool hand on my shoulder.
I batted it away and whirled around to see who dared to touch me.
Ektha did not flinch. She stepped forward instead, taking my hand in hers. She covered it with her other hand and stood with me for a moment before tugging me away from the pyres.
My feet dragged as I followed. Ektha didn’t force me to go faster, but she did not let me stop either. I wanted to protest that there was more work and that I didn’t have time for this, but my voice had left me.
I went along as she led, putting one foot in front of the other, and didn’t worry about where we were going. I just followed. It didn’t matter where we went, anyway. The sands of time always shifted so more people waited beyond the line of the Spirits instead of here by my side. Nowhere I could go would change that. Nothing I could do would change that.
Ektha took one of her hands off mine and raised my chin to her face. I didn’t want to meet her eyes, so I turned my head. I blinked in surprise when I realized we were in the fort. In my room, no less.
My older sister cupped my cheek with her hand, and in that moment, we were four and six again. And seven and nine. And ten and twelve. And all the times in between and after.
The times when she could see me pushing any sense of sadness to the side, in the far corner of myself where it belonged, so I could get up and move along. My grief stayed there and festered. Cleansing that wound would cause too much pain, and I kept telling myself I’d handle it later?—when I had more time. But there would never be enough time.
And so today, as always, Ektha tried to talk to me. “Abbakka, you know I am always here for you. You must?—”
“They will begin the rites soon.” I turned to the window, toward the lowering sun. “We should never have left the beach. We cannot be late.”
She lifted my hands up to my face, and I became aware of the cuts crisscrossing my palms and forearms. Drips of blood oozed out, but they hadn’t stung until just now. Sand had worked its way into the woven fabric of my sari and its sopping wet hem.
“If you think your sari is a mess, you should see your face.” Ektha poured some water from a pitcher into a shiny brass bowl, then dipped her pastel yellow handkerchief in it. Cool water dribbled down my face as she wiped from my right temple to my jawbone and then held the cloth in front of me.
The gentle yellow was completely obscured by dark debris that coated the wet cloth. I reached up to touch my face, but Ektha swatted my hand away.
“Your hand is even worse!” She sighed and called two maidservants over. “We need to get you ready. For now, we’ll clean you up. There is much we should discuss, but at the very least, you need to appear more composed than... this.”
I nodded numbly.
