The top layer of soil sprayed everywhere as a miniature geyser of water shot out of the earth. Harithi swore using a creative string of filthy words, both Virian and Welkish. Hasan jumped back, lifting a hand in a futile attempt to shield himself from the muck. Poppy tried to funnel the water into the bucket, but the geyser struck the tin, punting it toward the house with a clank.
“Okay, stop!” Hasan shouted. “Stop, stop. Let’s not use all the energy at once.”
She let go immediately. The water slumped back down into the earth, trickling away. She waited for the nausea to hit, for the earth to spin. Nothing. Her senses remained clear, her pulse racing with excitement, not exertion.
“I did it!” she cried, elated. She spun around to Hasan, eager for his approval. “Did you see that? It worked!”
Hasan wiped mud off his face as he tried to gather his composure. “It was kind of hard with the water in my eyes,” he deadpanned, “but yes. I saw it. You did well.”
Warmth spread through her at the praise.
Harithi laughed, raking clumps of dead grass out of her dark mane. “It was fucking great.” She grinned. “Let’s do it again.”
Poppy got two more rounds of practice with the power from her breakfast sacrifice before her daivyakhi ran out. On her last try, she even managed to get some of the water into the bucket, which was now badly dented, although most of it had splashed everywhere else. Harithi headed inside, loudly proclaiming that she wanted to use the bathtub first. Hasan’s kameez was soaked, the wet fabric plastered indecently to his skin. Poppy averted her eyes, focusing on a clump of mud stuck in his hair.
“Good job,” he huffed, wringing out the tail of his shirt. “We’ll work on it. Control will come with practice.”
“That’s one thing I don’t understand,” she said. “How did the rulers of old maintain the island if they got such little mileage out of each sacrifice?”
“Well, they were sacrificing more than just their breakfasts,” Hasan pointed out. “But beyond that, you’re right?—our sacrifices aren’t as potent as theirs used to be. We think that the gods’ power and influence has diminished since their temples were desecrated in the fall of Viryana.” His expression grew distant as he recalled, “There used to be massive, grand temples built around the island. There were always two on any royal compound: one meant for the use of all the palace inhabitants, and then a small, personal one for the maharaja’s use. These temples housed grand, life-sized statues of the gods.”
“Wait, I’ve seen those statues,” she realized. “In a museum in Welkland. The headmistress took us on a trip there once.”
A muscle in Hasan’s jaw ticked. “They were stolen,” he said. “After Jagat Rai died and the Welks finally annexed Viryana, they ransacked the temples, then built cathedrals to their own god atop the skeletons.”
She shifted from foot to foot. How vile, that the statues Hasan’s ancestors had worshipped were trapped in glass cases on a continent across the sea, where their descendants would never see them again. “Is there a solution?” she asked.
Hasan shook his head. “The gods have been banned, so we can’t build new temples. Most Virians hide their pantheons in subtle ways, but the power from these makeshift altars is limited. For many, it’s not worth having them at all. Under the imperial edict, the penalty for having them is up to five years imprisonment.”
“But it’s still worth it for you?”
“Miss Sutherland, I run a criminal organization,” Hasan reminded her. “Household idols are the least of my concerns.”
She rolled her eyes at him but remained quiet, expectant.
He rubbed at his chin. “My grandfather was adamant that we remain faithful to the old ways,” he said. “The idols were his prized possessions. He believed firmly that one day, the gods and their chosen people would have control over Viryana again. I used to think it was the wishful thinking of an old man, but now...” He glanced at her as his sentence trailed off.
“Now?” she prompted.
“Now, I think I’m a little more optimistic than I used to be.” He looked away. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s go inside and get cleaned up. Tomorrow, we’ll try again.”
• • •
By the time the pair of them had washed the grass and mud from their skin and changed into dry clothes, the others in the house had already eaten lunch. They had left portions for Poppy and Hasan in the kitchen, where the two sat together and ate. Privately, Poppy considered the absurdity of her reality: Not even a full month ago, she and Richard had been dining in the best restaurants in the city of Marnapur. Now, she was in Sanivali, a rural village, eating lunch with her hands with a notorious criminal for company, after a morning of using unnatural magic she’d gained by praying at an illegal altar.
She’d had some time to reflect more on what Hasan had mentioned earlier, that the sacrifices made through these small altars did not yield the same amount of daivyakhi as the grand temples of old Viryana. It had certainly given her more insight into the current social climate?—despite Hasan’s earlier notion that the people had the power to choose or reject a ruler, the diminished strength of divine magic was further evidence as to why Virians had not yet revolted against imperial rule. Using one’s daivyakhi against the empire was virtually ineffective, even with training, and would only result in steep personal consequences for the wielder. But it did not explain a blind spot in her education that was becoming increasingly obvious the longer she dwelled on it: Why hadn’t the daivyakt of old used their power to stop Welkish colonizers, before it had been outlawed and reduced to the shadow it was today?
“Hasan?” she asked, fiddling with the edge of her placemat.
He looked over at her. “What is it?”
“I was wondering if you’d tell me the story of how the Welkish people came to rule Viryana. Not the version that my tutors taught me. Your version, the one your parents told you.”
Hasan pushed his empty plate away from him, sitting back. “I’d wondered about that, at the museum,” he said. “If you only knew their version of our history. Why are you thinking about that now?”
Poppy explained her question, about why the old daivyakt had not fought to preserve the independence of the country.
“They did fight,” Hasan said, “but in the revised history that the Welks tell, they are both villainized and minimized. The true story starts, funnily enough, with the dry season.
