The Oleander Sword, page 42
He stood upon a field. It was night, and the field was black beneath him, the ash smoldering, fractured with starlight. Around him were women dressed in bridal red, crowns of fire glowing on their skulls. They stretched off into the distance, so many women that he could not count them all.
“We are waiting for you,” one said, wreaths of smoke gathering at her feet.
Always, it was the same: relief crashing through him. Elation. He was where he was meant to be. He knew them, and they knew him.
He went to his knees.
“Mothers,” he gasped. “Mothers of flame. I am here. Tell me what you desire, and it will be done.”
“Oh, Chandra,” another said pityingly. “We are not the mothers. The mothers don’t wait to greet you with glory. You are no one’s chosen. A tale you tell yourself is not a true thing simply because you say so. Do the tides obey you? The waning of the moon? No. Then why should pitiless fate garb you in glory, simply because you believe you should be glorious?”
“You are not chosen,” said another voice. Sweet, airy. He almost knew it. Had he heard it before, in the palace, from a girl walking at his sister’s side? “Your mothers speak. The nameless speaks. And you close your ears.”
“I am chosen,” he said, and the ashen wind caught his voice and carried it away, leaving his mouth empty. “I am,” he whispered. “My faith guides me. My faith protects me.”
“Faith,” one laughs. Faith, the rest echo. “What is there to have faith in? There is only the void, Chandra.”
She loomed over him. Her crown was dripping fire like water. It poured down over her face, which was empty—nothing and everything all at once.
“We are waiting,” she said. “In the void, Chandra. We are waiting for you.”
The fire wound its way into his mouth. Burned, hot and vicious and agonizing, through his lungs, his belly, the viscera of him.
He woke with a howl.
One of his loyal lords advised him in the presence of the court that he should lead the fight against his sister. “You must go beyond the walls, Emperor,” he urged desperately. “You did not go to the Veri. But you must defend Harsinghar. Your men need you.”
“An emperor’s place is in his mahal,” Chandra snapped. “Not in the dirt of battle. I will not abandon my throne.”
“Emperor, it would not be abandonment,” the man said. “Your father led his men in battle. And his father before him—”
“Am I my father?” Chandra thundered. His vision was swimming, exhaustion and fury mingling together. “Am I an emperor who debases himself, lowers himself to the level of those who do not have Divyanshi’s blood? No.”
Silence. The lord bowed deep, lowering his gaze.
I will not leave my throne, Chandra thought wildly. It is mine, by the mothers, by destiny, by blood. There was a terrible fear in him that if he walked away from the mahal—walked from this hall, this throne, the carapace of his power—he would have nothing. He would be nothing.
“Get out of my sight,” he said. “You do not deserve to be in my presence. Go. All of you.”
The lords ran. And Chandra placed his face in his hands and wept.
He went to the temple.
Even before Hemanth had taken him under his wing, the temple had been his solace. He had never avoided worship, as Aditya had; had never smiled and allowed the words of the Book of Mothers to slide off him like water, ignoring every entreaty from the priesthood to stay and learn and know what it meant to serve Parijatdvipa. No, unlike his brother, he had read the Book of Mothers over and over to himself. He had gone willingly to worship at the imperial temple, his sister arranging garlands at the altar with his mother.
He had watched them both: The slight figure of his mother laying out flowers, and his sister’s even slighter form beside her, performing piety, and thought of them burning. He’d felt something rise through him at that thought. A peace, and a rightness.
He had told his mother of it once. She had looked at him as if he were a stranger.
Hemanth had never recoiled from him. Hemanth had truly seen Chandra, and molded him into a man worthy of his name. He had given Chandra a faith that was simple and pure, as clear as glass: The Parijati were the mothers’ chosen. Chandra had a holy bloodline, and holy purpose. The only rightful path for the empire lay in his heart and his hands.
Chandra sat in the gardens upon a bench. Beneath trees, in gentle sunlight. Lowered his head into his palms.
He heard Hemanth’s approach. The gentle whisper of robes. He felt Hemanth’s hand come to rest upon his forehead. Tender.
“The world,” Chandra said into the silence, “is even stranger and crueler than I imagined.”
The priest said nothing.
“You should have told me all your fears,” Chandra said. “All the things your priests had said. You should have told me a long time ago. Why didn’t you?”
“I knew,” said the High Priest, as he stroked Chandra’s hair, “that you would respond as you have. That you would fear the yaksa more than you have ever feared any mortal man. More than any subordinate king, claiming falsely to be your equal.”
“I fear nothing,” Chandra choked out, knowing it was a lie.
“You have always desired order and meaning. And I have striven to give it to you. Faith has been your armor and your guiding star. I am sorry that the sky is clouded by ill omens.”
Chandra let a breath shudder out of him. At least he had Hemanth. Even Hemanth’s loyalty was imperfect. But Hemanth loved him, and Chandra loved him in turn. Hemanth was better than any family Chandra had ever possessed. He could forgive this. He would.
“I’ll do it,” Chandra said finally. “I will tell all my men, all my warriors—capture her. Bring her to me. And then I’ll… convince her.” His voice choked on that word. Convince. Would he be expected to beg her? He would not.
“My emperor is wise,” Hemanth said. “As I always knew.”
“I dream sometimes of the women who have burned to save Parijatdvipa,” Chandra confessed. “I dream that they—they laugh at me. They tell me I will join them. That the mothers do not choose me.” He squeezed his eyes tight, holding back furious tears. “Tell me the dreams are false.”
Hemanth’s hand paused upon his hair. A beat passed, and then he resumed the motion. “The dreams are false,” he said.
“The mothers chose me, didn’t they?” Chandra said, knowing his voice sounded like a plea and not caring. “I am the one who will defeat the yaksa, am I not? I’ll fashion the empire into greatness, placing Parijat high?”
“The mothers made you,” Hemanth said. “Your faith and your idealism, your vision for a better world, and the bravery with which you seek it. Be the man they made you, Chandra. Go beyond the walls. Claim your sister.”
He thought of it. Going beyond the walls. His fire on a sword in his hands.
Like a knife strike, the image came to him again—the faceless burned woman. The laughter.
In the void, Chandra. We are waiting for you.
“I will send my men,” he said, through the dizzying feeling running through him—a feeling like the heat of a pyre. “I will meet her before the holy fire. And I will claim my fate. As the mothers intend.”
PRIYA
Harsinghar appeared in the distance. The army did not stop to gaze upon it, but behind the body of the charioteer, Priya could make out glimpses of white marble and golden spires. She could sense the tug of the ancient trees, with great drooping branches and roots shallow enough to feel footsteps on their surface, or the sun beating down on them.
She closed her eyes and tried to feel nothing but the green—the trees and flowers and the soft creepers wound around windows and colonnades. Every inch of it sang comfortingly. She was surrounded by weapons. She could do what Malini had asked. She could survive this.
“You should open your eyes,” Sima said.
“I don’t have anyone to impress here,” Priya said, still reaching out for green.
“No. Pri. Look.”
Priya opened her eyes.
A sea of shining white and gold filled her vision.
The Parijati army surrounded the city in a gleaming wall of sunlit armor, vast Parijatdvipan flags on gold-and-white swathes of cloth wavering in the breeze. They were waiting.
Their sabers—held aloft before them—were alight with flame.
“It doesn’t look like the emperor’s willing to negotiate,” Sima said.
“No.” Priya’s mouth felt dry. She wetted her lips with her tongue; breathed in the air, already rich with the smell of fire. “He never struck me as the type, really.”
“Hold on tight,” their charioteer said tersely. “I’ve been instructed to carry you as near to the city’s walls as I can.”
Priya gave a jerky nod. She brushed her knuckles against Sima’s own. Said, “Keep your shield up.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Sima said. She clutched Priya’s hand for a single moment, then let it go. “Let me worry about you for once.”
Priya was afraid for Sima. Afraid for herself. For all of them, really. As the chariot jolted forward, she looked out at the riders around them—almost all of them were Ashutosh’s liegemen.
Conches sounded. And her foot soldiers were racing forward, the dust churning beneath their feet. She heard the clashing, roaring noise of boots and metal and—screaming. Of course there was screaming.
Her stomach was writhing. Whenever she blinked, she saw the yaksa behind her eyes.
The chariot gave a sickening lurch. The charioteer swore and veered hard to the left as men piled past them.
“Almost time,” their charioteer called. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, but his mouth was set in grim determination. Priya breathed out, and lowered herself to the ground of the chariot. Sima kneeled with her, her armor creaking.
There was an unnatural pressure to the air. A heaviness, as the wind howled against flags, as horse hooves thudded against the ground, as elephants made low, chuffing noises.
“I’ll make sure nothing touches you,” said Sima quietly, beside her.
“I’m only worried about one thing,” Priya said, voice already a little ragged—as if she were running, fast, hard—not sitting still on the floor of a chariot with Sima crouched beside her, a great shield strapped to her arm. “If the fire touches me…”
“It won’t,” Sima said. “I won’t let it.”
Priya closed her eyes. “Just you and your shield,” she said. “Come on, Sima. Don’t coddle me.”
“Don’t underestimate my strength,” Sima said. “You and me, we’re going to be okay. We’re going to get through.”
“If I don’t—”
“Priya, no—”
“If I don’t,” Priya said more firmly. “Then I want you to be okay. Don’t die for me. Whatever happens.”
“You’re my best friend,” Sima said quietly.
“Sima.”
Sima squeezed her hand. “You don’t have time to argue with me right now.” She stood, in the shadow of their charioteer. Stared out at the raging battlefield.
“The army’s getting closer,” Sima said, and then Priya felt the jolt of the chariot beneath them.
Listened to the crash of metal. The screaming.
She watched as fire crossed the sky above her head like a shooting star.
She held her breath. Held it inside her, then released it. Held, released. An inhale and exhale and inhale and exhale like a wheel turning, as if she were not so much reaching for the sangam as churning its waters, frothing them into violence. She got one of her feet beneath her. A knee against the ground.
Drew her magic and held it.
Plans she’d whispered like they were loving things. Plans for battle, in the dark with Malini. Now, in the light of day, she’d have to see them through.
She hoped Ashutosh’s men were are brave as he’d claimed.
Priya had arranged armor for Sima, but she’d arranged a different kind of defense for herself. Buds tucked behind her ears. Seeds sewn and folded into her chunni, her tunic.
Seeds tucked in the sleeves of the soldiers’ armor. In their collars and turbans, helms and boots. Just as she’d asked, Ashutosh’s men had carried her weapons on themselves. They’d been brave after all, and trusted the witch who had saved their lord’s life. Good.
She reached her strength out.
The seeds and buds began to unfurl. Ready. Thorns prickled up at her sleeves—drawing drops of blood at her upper arms, her shoulders. Grounding pain.
The kind of power she would need to take the city terrified her. But until the moment came when the battle was clearly almost lost—until there was no other choice—Priya could rely on some old tricks. Breaking the earth. Throwing up roots. Sending skewers of thorn and branch to pierce and bind.
What was the earth, what was mere soil, compared to the weight of a river?
The ground cracked open, a great lightning strike gouge that spread in splinters, fanning out with the patterned grace of leaf veins. She had to look—stood, gripping the edge of the chariot as she raised her other hand before her—and aimed her strength.
Thorns and roots rose from the ground, burrowing out of the deep soil. Those roots caught legs, snared bodies. Those thorns forced their way through flesh, spearing limbs before flinging them back violently down. Bodies fell, and Sima twisted to the side, shield up, keeping them safe. Through the gaps between shield and armor and Sima’s protective shadow, Priya saw thorns rise on the surface of the Saketan liegemen’s armor. If they were terrified, or feared her gifts, they didn’t show it. Only pressed on.
Chandra’s army had sentient fire. But her plants had her own mind in them. And if they couldn’t stand against flame, at least they could shoot out like arrows—cut enemy flesh. They could break a throat, a spine.
The harder Priya worked, the more fiercely Ashutosh’s men fought, their whips shining against the air, the blood streaming in an arc after them.
Her vision was beginning to blur. She closed her eyes once more, and focused.
Fiery arrows were still falling. Priya felt one thud into the ground by the wheel to the left of her. The fire arced up, and Sima swore and shoved the shield down, trying to bar the flames even as the chariot swerved.
The chariot lurched wildly.
She could hear the screaming clash of the battle. Louder, louder.
“Are we losing?” Priya yelled.
“I have no idea!” Sima yelled back, ducking low. She drew the shield up, over them, high now. In front of them, their charioteer swore.
Distantly, she heard the wail of conches. A chorus.
The empress had been captured.
Malini, Priya thought. It was a helpless thought, like a call into the void.
A part of her truly hadn’t believed Malini would allow it. But she had told Priya she would, and Malini hadn’t lied to her for a long, long time.
“Take us a little closer to the city,” she yelled to the charioteer, who nodded sharply.
“They’ve got more fire,” the charioteer called, and Sima looked at Priya. Said to the charioteer, “I think we need to—avoid—”
Her words were cut off. A huge gout of fire hit the ground to the right of them, sending their chariot careening. Priya felt the hot wind lash her face.
One of Ashutosh’s liegemen fell from his horse, rolling away roughly with a panicked, terrible yell. Priya squeezed her eyes shut, reaching abruptly for the green tangled into his armor. She grasped it with her magic and dragged him out of the path of the flames, by the earth and the green and anything she could hold in that moment, on that breath. Her eyes snapped open, firelight burning across her vision, and saw another soldier lean down from his horse and grab the man and desperately, swiftly haul him up.
They’re all going to die, she thought with something like terror, and reached again—reached for all the green she could feel, pushing those men back in a wave, away from the falling flames. Crests of earth rose, like waves to give them a little shelter. Go back, she thought. All the strength you have is nothing against that fire—
There was another blast. Ringing in Priya’s ears. She heard Sima scream, her voice ringing like a distant bell. Before the heat could even touch her—and it was coming, gold-glint of fire, it was coming—Priya wrenched a hand up in the air. Drew the earth over them, a dark wall, a wave, but not enough. Not enough.
The earth shuddered. She’d done too much. Already, too much, as the chariot rolled, the horses screamed.
Fell, fell, fell—
Back into cosmic waters. Back into waiting arms.
“Sapling,” the yaksa whispered. “Your debt has come due.”
RAO
The sun had faded, the sky white-gray with the falling night, when they finally stopped to rest. Prince Kunal was untied, on Rao’s orders. Kunal rubbed his wrists, flexed his fingers to get the blood moving. He considered running—Rao could tell, from the back-and-forth flick of his gaze and the tension in his shoulders—but he clearly thought better of it. Rao’s men were, after all, watching him in return.
Rao helped to settle the horses and start the campfire, then kneeled down in front of him. He placed food and water in front of Kunal, and watched the prince frown and lower his head.
“Drink,” said Rao. “You must be thirsty. If you won’t eat, at least do that.” He waited. Kunal did not move. “It’s only water,” Rao told him then. “I’ll drink first, if it’ll put your mind at ease.”
“I don’t know what you hope to do with me,” the prince rasped, still not touching the flask. “But I’m no use to you. I have nothing for you.”
Not true, and surely they both knew it. There was a hunted look in Prince Kunal’s eyes. The light of the campfire flickered over his face in golden scars.
“I heard of your sister’s marriage,” Rao said eventually. “Congratulations.” He watched Kunal’s mouth tighten. “Perhaps you don’t want my congratulations,” Rao added carefully, and watched that mouth tighten an increment further.
“I have nothing useful to tell you,” Kunal said again through gritted teeth.
