The Oleander Sword, page 47
She needed no weapon. Her own tale shielded her.
She walked to her throne room. Her guards bowed to her and opened the doors. “Empress,” they said.
She stepped through the doors. Heard them close behind her.
Finally alone, she looked at the room where she should have burned, the room where her heart sisters had perished. The fire was burning, still. Shadows and light played on the walls. The fragrance of needle-flower and jasmine wafted in it, honeyed, mingling with the scent of ash.
She closed her eyes and let herself feel everything: Her fear of fire. Her grief. Her rage. Her relief. The bloodied, vicious weight of her own joy.
She smiled—one smile so bright and fierce that she felt like her whole body was shining with it. She had done it. Finally, she had done it.
She had truly won.
PRIYA
The celebration that took place after the battle for Harsinghar was almost a frenzy. The grand gardens of the mahal had been taken over by tables of fruits and wine, of tandoor and colored rice. Sima and Priya were soon separated by the press, and for a long moment Priya stood alone, surrounded by noise and color. It made Priya wince a little, imagining what the kitchens had gone through to make such a celebration possible, in the midst of their home and city being overrun, their emperor being captured and dying by his own hand.
Lata had turned up before them briefly, a somber figure carving her way through the noise and feasting.
She’d relaxed at the sight of Priya. Just a little unraveling of the tension in her shoulders, and a smoothing of her brow, before her face went severe again. She took Priya aside. “I will tell the empress that you’re safe and well. She feared for you.”
“Is she…?”
“Almost unhurt,” said Lata. “Triumphant. Relieved. As we all are.” Her gaze softened. “The empress’s other women are in the old queen’s quarters now, if you want to seek them out. They’d be glad to see you well. Sima, too.”
“Later,” Priya managed to say. “Thank you.”
Lata nodded, eyes oddly kind, and disappeared back into the chaos of the crowd.
Malini was going to be empress in truth: Parijat under her control. Emperor Chandra dead. In a different time, in a life Priya wasn’t living, she’d be elated in this moment. It meant Malini would have her throne. It meant Ahiranya would finally have its freedom from Parijatdvipa.
In a different time, she would have left Malini behind and gone home and helped build Ahiranya into something new and whole, piece by piece. Until one day, maybe, Ahiranya would be safe and secure, its fields free from rot, its temple council large enough and trustworthy enough that Bhumika could finally sleep easily at night. And then Priya would, perhaps, leave again. Would come to Harsinghar and see it in peacetime. See Malini in peacetime. And then, then—
Foolish dreams. Even more foolish hopes. None of that lay ahead of her.
There was only the yaksa. Only the ache in Priya’s chest.
Only her purpose.
“You there,” one highborn slurred. “Should you be here?”
“Yes,” Priya said flatly.
He looked over her—her plain salwar kameez, her boots, the knotted cloth of her chunni, rumpled but bound in place at her hip. She was clearly no dancer or courtesan, and his face creased into a frown. He reached for her, one big hand trying to grip her arm, and Priya took a pointed step back. He opened his mouth.
“See here—”
“The Ahiranyi woman is allowed to be here,” Ashutosh said sharply. “Leave her be.” He stayed when the highborn stranger apologized and skulked away. “My men are looking for you,” he said abruptly. “Something about a rematch.” Then he gestured broadly at the edge of the hall and walked away.
Priya walked toward where he’d pointed. She saw Romesh and the others, flowers and vines still strewn across their armor, with carafes of wine scattered all around them. They were shouting and laughing, and Raziya’s women were with them. One was rolling up her sleeve. “If a little thing like Sima can beat you,” she was saying, “then what trouble are you going to give me?”
“Oh, big talk,” said one of Ashutosh’s men. “What are you betting to back that pride up, huh?”
“You really want to bet against an archer?” She flexed her arm pointedly, and one of the men whooped like she’d just offered to kiss him. “I’m not betting wine, sweetheart. I’m betting real money.”
“I want archery lessons,” said the man. “If I win, that’s what I want from you.”
“You’d be better letting her teach you.” The Dwarali woman gestured at Sima, who was sitting with a carafe in her lap, her face glowing with joy and liquor. “She’s got all the patience, don’t you, Sima?”
“I’m not bad,” Sima said. “But you’ll have to beat me at arm wrestling too if you want me to teach you. That’s only fair. And frankly, I don’t see that happening.”
There was some more good-natured yelling. When Priya walked over, numb inside, Romesh looked up. “Elder Priya,” he said, smiling. His careworn face was… happy. “Come join us. Have a drink.”
“I have your favorite, my lady,” Sahar said. Waved a bottle in the air. “We can share.”
A pang of grief ran through Priya like lightning. She thought of sitting there with all of them, drinking that wine, laughing with them. Thought of being embraced by all that new trust. By friendship. She thought of how far they’d come, all of them and how rosy the future looked, like something good could be cobbled together out of all the blood and death and sacrifices, the horrors they’d seen.
She was going to ruin it all. She had to ruin it all.
“I’d love to,” she said, with false lightness. “But I need to talk to my advisor alone first.” She grabbed Sima’s arm, smiling. “Come on,” she said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I think Romesh really likes you now,” Sima mused. “He still won’t offer to share a drink with me without making some kind of bargain, you know.” She was looking around at the hall, a smile on her mouth. “Fuck, this is such a relief, isn’t it, Pri? We’re finally through. We can talk to your empress. Tell her what we need. We can go home and hopefully—”
“Remember,” Priya said, suddenly mustering her courage. “How I once told you passing through the deathless waters wasn’t something I wanted for you?” She watched the highborn lords laughing, jubilant; the flicker of torchlight turning the lattices of the marble and sandstone palace golden, liquid, alien. Watched as Sima’s smile faded with disquiet.
“I remember,” said Sima, voice low.
“The waters have done something to me. They’ve demanded a price. And I…” Priya’s voice faltered. Her heart hurt, hurt so much she didn’t know how her ribs could contain it.
“I’m going to leave this feast in a moment,” Priya told Sima. “I want you to speak to Lata, if you can find her. Or Lord Raziya. Or Lord Khalil. You choose. Tell them I’m planning to betray the empire. Tell them… tell them I’m going to kill her. Tell them you came as soon as you realized, and they must stop me.”
“Wh-what?” Sima’s eyes were wide, her expression horrified.
“You heard me,” Priya said wretchedly.
“I’m not letting you do that,” Sima said, after one beat of silence. “You—that isn’t something you want. I know it isn’t. You need to explain, Pri. Not just talk like this—like you’re not yourself.”
I’m not myself, Priya thought miserably. I’m not.
“Something reached for me when I used my gifts in the battle,” Priya said. “A yaksa spoke to me again. It said if… if I want all the people we love to live, I need to do what it asks. I need to do this. I’m afraid, Sima. But I have no choice.” Her voice cracked. She forced it to remain low, to not draw attention. “I just need your help to control the outcome.”
“Okay,” Sima said, blinking rapidly like she was trying to hold back panic. “Okay. And then what? We leave?”
“No,” said Priya. “You stay. You have to stay, to warn them. And then you convince them to protect you, because whatever is in Ahiranya—it’s dangerous, Sima, and it doesn’t love us. It doesn’t love anyone.”
“These Parijatdvipans will rip me apart.”
“They won’t,” Priya said, not knowing if she believed it or if she wanted to believe it. “You’re smart. You’ll survive. And you’ll have betrayed me. Maybe—maybe that will count for something.”
“D-don’t be stupid.” Sima stumbled over her words, sounding close to tears, all her joy twisted to horror.
“Please,” Priya said in a small voice. “I can’t. I can’t save myself. Or you. This is all I have. I have to do this for our family. For Bhumika, and Padma and Rukh and—everyone. The yaksa will kill them if I don’t. I have to do this for love.”
Love and love. Like two opposite points she was forever reaching for, stretching her thin. Love for Malini and love for home. Love like a future, and love like sacrifice.
“There’s something wrong with Ahiranya,” Priya said, as dancers swirled around them, as the wail of the sarangi filled the incense-laden air. “I can feel it. And more than that—no. It isn’t important. I’ve spoken too much already.” She looked across the crowd, at Ashutosh’s men and Raziya’s women playing some kind of game of dice. At Sahar throwing back her head in a laugh, and Romesh shaking his own head, but smiling. Smiling like the war was finally done, and there was nothing but better days ahead of them. “There are people here who know you. Who like you. They’ll protect you if you let them.”
“Priya, you can’t,” said Sima helplessly. “You love her—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Priya managed to say, forcing the words out. “And I love you too, Sima. And I’m so sorry.”
Sima made a choked noise.
“Don’t cry,” Priya said sternly, pressing her arm harder against Sima’s own. “Please. Don’t.”
“Fine,” said Sima. “Fine. I won’t. I’m trusting you. Fuck knows why.” A beat. “I love you too. Oh, Pri.”
Priya’s chest was tight. Inside it, something burned.
“Give me half an hour,” she said. “Then tell them.”
There had been no sign of Empress Malini at the celebration. That had disturbed no one. Apparently, emperors past had often arrived belatedly to their own celebrations and left swiftly. It allowed their men to debauch themselves without shame, without an imperial audience.
That was all to Priya’s benefit. Malini was not surrounded by eyes.
She knew where Malini would be.
She walked, and walked, and somehow no one stopped her. The corridors of the mahal were beautiful. Silk on the walls. Gemstones inlaid in the ceilings, the columns. The wind moved through the gauze curtains at the window and made them dance, soft-winged like resting birds. The moon was out. It was a beautiful night.
Against her side, the thorn knife burned.
She could feel the thrum of the trees in the garden.
She could feel the needle-flower at Malini’s throat. It called to her like a song.
There were guards, of course, at the doors of the imperial courtroom. Five of them looked like priests. Priya did not have to approach them. The seeds sewn into her clothes bloomed, and vines drifted across the floor. She choked them quietly unconscious. It was a gentle business, as these things went. She was almost sure they would awaken again.
Then she walked in.
Malini was standing alone in the court. Above her on a dais was the throne: an expansive pillow of silver, backed by ivory carved into delicate flowers, flecked gold by the light. Empty, for now. Next to her stood a pit of fire, which flickered and burned strangely, the flames inside it dying down. Soon they would be nothing but sputtering embers. She turned. The firelight shone on her face, which was cold, remote. But then she clearly realized it was Priya before her, and her expression went tender, warmed by more than flame.
“Priya,” she said. “It’s done.”
Priya walked forward. Cold marble beneath her. Malini’s bright face before her. Beloved.
“I need,” said Priya, “to cut the needle-flower from your throat. I need to take it from you. I’m so sorry, Malini.”
MALINI
Malini had never seen such a look in Priya’s eyes before.
Priya looked a little ragged. A little wild. Dirt on her clothes. Her face raised up, the gold of the mothers’ fire glinting in her eyes.
“I’ve trusted you, Malini,” Priya said. “I’ve trusted you so many times. I’m sorry. I’m going to need you to trust me in return.”
Malini took a step toward her. Stopped.
She knew that look. She knew it because she had worn it.
It was like… like gazing into her own past. Into a dark mirror, which showed the reflection not of her face but of her own terrors.
Priya looked like a feral thing caged, desperate to get out.
Some deep, inborn instinct held Malini very still.
“Priya,” she called out. Gentle. “If this is what you need from me, you have it.” Slowly, she lifted the chain above her blouse. Laid the needle-flower upon it against cloth, so that it was visible to Priya’s eyes. “Take it,” she said.
Priya walked over to her. In her hand lay a blade—a strange thing, narrow and whittled to sharpness, more thorn than knife. But it was as sharp as any steel, severing the needle-flower neatly from the necklace that held it. Malini felt the coolness, the lightness of its absence from her throat.
“This isn’t what she meant,” Priya whispered. Her voice, her eyes, were hollowed out, an emotion Malini could not possibly read.
“I don’t understand,” said Malini.
“She said she needed it back.” Priya swallowed, and met her eyes. “The yaksa.”
Malini stepped back. Reflexive.
A war coming. A war, and Priya before her, spilling a secret with barbs. A yaksa. She had been speaking to a yaksa.
“Will you ask me to trust you,” Malini said tightly, “now that you have spoken of yaksa? Now that you have claimed to talk to one?”
Priya stared at her. “No,” she said. “No. Though you’ve asked me for more trust than that. Asked me to trust that you’ll keep your vows to Ahiranya. Asked me to risk my life, my magic, everything I am—”
“You gave everything willingly.”
“You still asked. I won’t do the same to you. Because I. I…” Priya’s eyes closed, and she swayed on her feet. “My power,” she said. “Comes at a price. And if I had known… Malini, I wouldn’t have paid it. But now I have to do this. For my family. For Ahiranya. I can’t betray them.”
Malini tried to move forward, around her to the door. Foolish. The marble cracked with a sound like thunder. Something wrapped tight around her feet, holding her fast by the flickering fire pit, before Priya’s tired, tortured face.
“Priya.” She was breathing hard suddenly. Shaking. “Priya, don’t you dare betray me. Don’t. Don’t.” Please, she did not say. Please, not you. Not you.
Priya was breathing the pained breaths of someone trying not to weep. It was ugly. It made Malini furious.
“I gave you my heart. I need to take it back,” said Priya. “I need to hollow it, like everything else. Like the rest of me.”
“Whatever you gave me doesn’t live in that insipid flower,” Malini gasped, furious that she was crying, furious at the salt on her face, the way her heart hammered as she edged back, back, fighting Priya’s magical grip on her, as Priya circled her, the mothers’ fire flickering palely strange in the lamps, in the pit.
“Don’t say it,” said Priya. “Don’t.”
But it was too late.
“It lives in me,” Malini said. Furious. “It lives in me, and you cannot take it.”
Priya shuddered. The knife moved in her hand, sharpening as if of its own volition.
“I love you,” Priya choked out. “I really do. I don’t want to do this.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Malini rasped. “Do you really think I haven’t been hurt by people who love me, who claimed I gave them no choice?”
“I know you have,” said Priya. “I know.”
“Don’t you know how I love you?” Malini asked. Those were not soft words. She threw them out like a lash. “Don’t you know that I hold everyone at bay, that I cannot stand to love anyone and yet I love you utterly? Don’t you understand?”
Priya took a step forward. Took hold of her. It was almost an embrace; almost like being held tenderly, and it was so cruel that Malini could not stand it. She flinched back, and Priya’s grip tightened.
Malini snarled—a sound she had never, ever made—and twisted. Wrenched. Priya refused to let go of her, and they were both stumbling. Both falling. Both on the marble, the coldness of it jarring Malini’s back, her skull. Priya was above her, fierce and breathing fast, eyes wet. She was beautiful and Malini wanted nothing more than to fling her away, to be free of her. She bucked, pushing at Priya with her fists, her nails. But Priya was immovable. Speaking, her voice too close, too familiar, too much.
“If you hold still, I—”
“No,” Malini snapped, clawing at Priya’s arm, yanking her braid. Grasping that soft hair in her hands, wishing she could wrench it right out. “No, no, I won’t make this easy for you. Priya you fool, you fool, how dare you—”
The thorn blade met the marble at her side and Malini rolled. Grasped the edge of the pit.
“Don’t,” she said again. Pleaded. “Don’t, Priya, don’t.”
“I have to,” Priya snapped, in a voice that was wild. “Malini, I have to.”
There was wood, laid at its side, ready to be thrown on the flames. Malini grabbed a piece—unseeing, almost unthinking through the haze of her own fury and fear—and shoved it into the fire. And lifted it. And turned.
