Chapter 11: Priya

PRIYA

There were prison cells beneath the mahal. Priya had never had reason to consider that reality before. But she had good reason to now.

The guards had been gentle enough with her. They’d allowed her to make her own way down the Hirana’s surface—by necessity, more than anything else, she suspected—then bound her hands and guided her beyond the general’s orchards, the near-overflowing stepwell, and into a separate iron-gated staircase that led down into the bowels of the mahal. They had locked her into a cell, bid her to sit and rest until she was called upon, and then left her.

There was only one window in her cell: a high slat, covered in a filigree of bars, that seemed to let in barely any light but allowed the rainwater in freely. It had stopped raining finally, finally, but the water still poured through the slat in a slow, steady stream, as everything the soil couldn’t swallow up rolled down the sloping earth and into Priya’s chamber.

She wondered if the design of it—the slope, the window, the water pooling unavoidably at her feet—was intentional. After an hour of standing in the murky chill, too numb with shock to do anything more, she decided grimly that it probably was. She edged her way to the farthest corner of the space. Sat, curling forward, her head upon her knees.

The minute she sat on the ground, her body began to shudder. She couldn’t control it. She clutched her own palms to her elbows, struggling to control her breath, and felt a wild kind of panic tighten her chest.

She’d wanted to remember, hadn’t she? Oh, she could admit that to herself now. She’d wanted more than fragments of memory. Well, she’d achieved her wish. More than achieved it. For a moment, as she’d fought Meena, she’d been the Priya who was a temple child. She had seen the sangam in her mind.

And she’d killed a woman.

Meena had been trying to kill her, of course. But that didn’t make her feel any less shaken now.

As a child, she’d learned how to inflict and handle pain. All temple children of the Hirana had been taught to be strong in the same way, so that they would stand a chance of surviving the process of becoming an elder. Three journeys, through magical deathless waters. Three journeys that could leave them dead by drowning. Or other, worse ways.

Priya had sunk beneath the waters once. Only once. And she’d come out with gifts. The ability to manipulate the Hirana. The skill of slipping into the sangam.

She hadn’t done that since she was a girl. She hadn’t been able to.

She looked down at her hands. She’d wanted coin. Wanted power. Maybe, in her secret heart of hearts, she’d even wanted her rightful gifts. But now she stared at her trembling fingers and wondered if her wants were wise. Wondered if her memories had splintered to save her from a greater pain.

Eventually, despite the cold and the water, she dozed. The heat began to filter in, as the sun rose, and she slept uneasily, dreaming that the water beneath her feet was hissing and writhing, that eyes watched her from the dark.

When she woke she saw that someone had brought food. She ate it, then curled up once more. Slept, and dreamt of the water again. Her brother’s shadow in the liquid dark.

Hours passed.

The door clanged open. She thought more food was being brought for her. Instead, she felt a hand upon her arm.

“Come,” said the guard. He was armed to the teeth, but his voice was gentle enough, and his grip, too. “Lady Bhumika wants you.”

Within Lady Bhumika’s chambers in the rose palace, there were profusions of flowers set in ornate vases upon the windows. Cut lilies floated like pale clouds on pools of water, shifting as if a breeze nudged them about with light hands.

Lady Bhumika herself sat on a divan of amethyst silk. She did not recline, despite the profusion of pillows behind her. She sat tall, one hand resting on the swell of her belly. A maidservant stood at her side, fanning her. When Priya entered the room and bowed low, Lady Bhumika did not smile. Her eyes were rimmed with shadow.

“All is well, child,” she said, in a soft voice. “My husband has asked me to make arrangements for you. You need not be afraid.”

“My lady,” Priya said, and bowed her head once more demurely.

Bhumika had a reputation as a kind mistress. Ever since her marriage she had taken the rot-riven and orphaned into her household. All her guards, her servants, were her chosen, and fiercely loyal for it. So when she said, “Leave us alone, now,” it was no surprise that her maidservant lowered the fan and her guards bowed their heads in acknowledgment, all departing in swift silence.

The doors closed with an audible thud. Priya raised her head.

After a moment, Bhumika spoke.

“Tell me what happened.” The softness of her voice fell away, leaving only iron behind, and they were no longer maidservant and mistress.

They were temple daughter and temple daughter. Sisters, although Priya did not often allow herself to think in those terms. She didn’t like to look too closely at what sisterhood meant, a decade since their siblings had burned.

“Meena attacked me on the Hirana,” Priya said. “She knew what I was. She wanted me to show her the way to the deathless waters. And when I told her I couldn’t, she tried to hurt me.” Images of the fight flickered through her mind. They were too fresh to even feel like memories, yet. Her heart still raced. Her skin still itched with magic. “She had a crown mask.”

Bhumika’s right eye gave a rather expressive twitch. “Then? What happened?”

“She put on the mask. She hurt Gauri and tried to hurt Sima. And I—I threw her from the Hirana.”

“Did you say anything to reveal yourself?”

Priya said nothing.

“Priya.”

“Only to her.” She did not mention the princess. She did not know what the princess had heard, after all. Still, her words felt like a lie, one that curdled to bitter terror on her tongue.

“How could you have been such an idiot? Have I taught you nothing?”

“She was going to kill me. What was I meant to do? Hug her?”

Bhumika rolled her eyes. “Spirits, Priya. You could have said nothing. You could have cried out for help. I know there are plenty of guards up there.”

“And let them speak to her? She already knew what I—was. Am.” Priya raised her head. “Killing her was the only thing I could do to protect us. It would be worse if I’d admitted what I was and still let her live, wouldn’t it?”

“Obviously, yes,” Bhumika said tersely. “And how did she know what you are anyway?”

Priya shrugged. Ah, she knew that would only inflame Bhumika’s usually well-hidden temper further, but she was feeling rather ill-tempered herself. She’d been attacked. She had killed someone, and no matter how many times she told herself that it was something she’d been reared for, and tried to convince herself that she’d had no other choice, it had shaken her. And it angered her that she felt anything at all—that she wasn’t strong enough to feel nothing.

It was easier to be furious at Bhumika than to be angry at herself.

“Have you told anyone else about your past?” Bhumika asked.

“I’m not a fool.”

There was a long silence. Bhumika stared at her unblinking.

Finally, mulishly, Priya added, “No.”

Bhumika’s eyes narrowed. She drummed the fingers of her left hand upon her knee. “First you saved Sima, and now—”

“You’d rather I’d let Sima die?”

“To protect yourself? Yes,” snapped Bhumika. “Have you considered that saving Sima might be exactly what revealed you to the rebel?”

Bhumika was right, of course. That was how Meena had figured her out. She’d seen Priya confidently climb the Hirana, as the temple children once had.

“I can’t do as much as you can, twice-born,” said Priya.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fine. Anyway, you know, Bhumika—I can’t even do as much as a once-born like me should be able to. Walking on the Hirana, saving Sima—it was a risk, but it wasn’t more than any brave woman could do or would do. Even if I weren’t what I am,” Priya went on, “I would have risked myself for Sima.”

A once-born should have been able to enter the sangam at will. Should have been able to manipulate the surface of the Hirana with ease. Should have felt nature, all its glowing, breathing power, wherever she went.

She’d had all that, as a little girl. Before the night of the fire had broken something in her.

The twice-born like Bhumika had been stronger still. And the thrice-born…

Well. There were none of them left, now.

“I think,” Priya said slowly, “that you’re just determined to be angry with me. I have done nothing wrong. I didn’t ask to be attacked by a rebel searching for the deathless waters. And I have done everything I can to protect myself. And you.”

“You could have died. Do you understand that?”

“I do.”

“You could have been accused of being an assassin. Or a rebel. Or both.”

“I’m truly not a fool,” Priya snapped. “I don’t know how often I have to tell you. I know.”

Sometimes she hated Bhumika. She could not help it. There was something about her temple sister that made her blood burn and poison rise to her tongue. Bhumika was all falsehood: meek to the world, fire in her heart. Bhumika liked fine sweets and fine saris and fine music. She had never, ever scrubbed a floor. And Bhumika had married the regent. That, Priya would never be able to comprehend, for all that Bhumika had saved countless lives in her role as his gentlehearted wife.

When Priya’s brother had abandoned her on Gautam’s doorstep, it had been Bhumika who had saved her. Bhumika, who had arrived in her mahogany palanquin and taken Priya into her household and ensured that Priya had food and shelter and the opportunity to live anew.

I can’t give you power. I can’t give you what we lost. I can’t even give you a family, Bhumika had told her. But I can give you a job. And that will have to be enough for you.

“Thank you for getting me out of the prisons,” Priya forced herself to say, tempering her tone. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, you don’t have me to thank,” said Bhumika. “It was the princess who interceded on your behalf. She told Vikram that you saved her life. She begged to have you as her own maidservant. Begged. And what could he do, but agree?”

“What?” Priya croaked out.

“There’s lemon water on the table by the window,” Bhumika said, gesturing vaguely to the left of the room. “Pour yourself a glass, and pour me one too.”

Priya did. Her hands did not even shake. But Bhumika’s voice was kinder when Priya handed her the glass. Spirits knew what Priya’s expression must have held, to blunt the edge of her ire.

“The general is in a difficult position,” said Bhumika. “The princess is… not her brother’s favorite individual. But she is still imperial blood, and if she dies here—by assassin or by sickness or some ill chance—then the general and his household will be punished. All of us will be punished.” Bhumika’s hand moved a little, where it rested on her stomach. “The princess must be kept in solitude. The emperor ordered it, and he must be obeyed. But her isolation means that Vikram cannot see her regularly either. She cannot be watched, or protected, as well as any of us would like.” A pause. “The general is inclined to give her what little he is able to.”

“You’re telling me,” Priya said slowly, “that you can’t save me from this task.”

“I’ve never been able to make you do anything, Priya. You could walk away, if you like. I think you of all people would find a way to survive, somehow. But if you stay, and become the princess’s maidservant, you could do us all a great deal of good,” said Bhumika. “The general was concerned when he beheld the princess. She is sick, and weak, and she cried a great deal. He doesn’t believe she is entirely well, or that the servant sent with her by the emperor is entirely—attentive. From what I saw of her when she arrived, I am inclined to agree. I can’t place any loyal guards on her doors. Lord Santosh has too many spies in the household for me to rearrange things quietly.” Her mouth twisted. “There’s only you, Priya.”

“You want me to watch her,” Priya said. “Spy on her. Keep her safe.”

“It would be helpful if you could keep her alive without exposing either of us, yes.”

Priya’s stomach felt leaden. “I’ll do my best,” she managed.

“Drink your water. You look terrible.”

“I’ve been sitting in a cell all day. Of course I look terrible.”

“Drink.”

Priya drank. Bhumika watched her as she did so, her own glass untouched, her gaze too knowing by far.

“I know you want to find the deathless waters,” Bhumika said finally. “No—don’t lie to me, Pri,” she went on, when Priya gave her an incredulous look. “Lie to yourself if you like, but I know you. And I know you think if you find the waters, you’ll find yourself. But, Priya, you remember as well as I do the price the waters can demand. I do not want to see you die for this. And if you choose to help me instead, if you watch the princess and her jailer, if you give me information—you may save many more lives than you can imagine.”

“Save your husband, you mean,” Priya said. She regretted the words even as she spoke them; but it was too late, there was no undoing them. And it was not exactly untrue, was it? It was General Vikram who had the most to lose from the emperor’s ire. People like Priya had already lost everything.

“I see. And what do you think will happen to this household if he dies, exactly? No, don’t answer me,” Bhumika said, when Priya’s mouth parted. “Judge me all you like, Pri, I don’t care what you think of me, or anyone else. Call me a whore and a traitor if you wish, I simply don’t care. All I want is to ensure an outcome where as many of us as possible survive. So, will you watch over the princess or not?”

“If the regent has ordered it…”

“Don’t think of the regent. I’m asking you. Will you do it?”

Priya looked into Bhumika’s eyes. “You would trust me?” Priya asked.

“It seems so,” said Bhumika mildly.

But still, Bhumika looked at Priya with wary, guarded eyes, the way she always looked at Priya—as if Priya were about to run off a cliff, or push someone off one; as if Priya were unpredictable.

Priya thought of the princess’s dark eyes, bloodshot with weeping. She thought of the princess watching her after Meena fell to her death. Thought of the lack of terror in that blank face. The smooth, steady gaze.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

Bhumika exhaled. “Good.” She drank her own water in one swift gulp. Lowered the glass. “Go and bathe. Rest. I’ll make the arrangements.”

Priya turned. Hesitated. “Bhumika…”

“What?”

“Meena. The assassin.” Voice halting. “She told me she’d drunk the deathless waters from a vial. And that the power was killing her. She told me a temple child gave her the waters. I know now, we’re not alone after all. We’re not the last.”

Silence.

“Bhumika,” Priya prompted.

“Leave me alone,” Bhumika said tiredly. “I’ve got enough to worry about already.”

“You can’t mean that.”

Bhumika shook her head. “Can’t I? If there’s a temple child out there cruel enough to peddle deathless water—bottled, what folly—and send children to die on their behalf, then we do not need to find them. They’re dangerous. And we have enough danger to contend with, Priya.”

“I suppose we do,” Priya said.

“You suppose correctly. Now go and clean yourself up. You smell awful.”

Priya turned to go. Bhumika’s voice stopped her.

“The boy you brought, Priya.”

Priya turned back, alarmed. “He’s fine? He’s doing fine, isn’t he?”

“I’ve heard nothing, so I must assume he is,” said Bhumika. “But please don’t bring any more strays home. I know I have a benevolent reputation, but I can only get away with so much before I’ll have to explain myself to my husband.”

Priya said nothing. What was there to say?

“I know how you help rot sufferers in the city,” Bhumika went on. “You could have asked me for aid with them, you know.”

Bhumika had just pointed out exactly why Priya had not asked. But Priya didn’t mention the regent. Instead she said, “I shouldn’t have had to ask.”

“I can’t do everything,” Bhumika said. “Unfortunately.”

Priya registered just how exhausted Bhumika looked then, and felt a pang at the thought of all the tasks Bhumika was struggling with. But before she could say a word, Bhumika was speaking once more.

“I’ll arrange a supply of sacred wood for those that I can. In the city—and within the mahal.”

“And for Rukh? He’ll need more than the rest. More often.”

A pause. “He’s dying, Priya. It would be a waste to give him additional help.”

Priya swallowed. “I brought him here,” she said. “And now I won’t be here to help him.”

“Your soft heart,” Bhumika said. And Priya did not know if it was an insult or not. She only knew that Bhumika turned her head away, to the roses upon the windows that were rustling in the breeze, and said, “Just go. I’ll do what I can. That’s all I promise you.”

Priya left Bhumika and walked toward the servants’ chambers. Bhumika had not sent a guard to escort her, and Priya was glad of that. She needed time alone.

It was darkening to evening, but Priya did not suppose she would be needed or wanted at the Hirana tonight. In the fading light, she could see that the hem of her sari was stained with water and mud, and blood, too. The realization made her wince. It would be no end of trouble to remove it.

It was easier to think of the stains on her hem than it was to think of anything else.

“Priya,” whispered a voice.

She turned.

Rukh stood under the shade thrown by one vast carved column, his hands in fists at his sides. He looked slight and out of place, and even from here, she could see that his wrists were painted in the shadows of underskin leaves.

Rukh, who had warned her not to climb the Hirana. She gazed at him steadily—his guilty, familiar face, his skin flushed with green—and touched a single fingertip to the bead of sacred wood at her wrist.

“What have you done, Rukh?”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I really am. But I… I didn’t talk to you, ask for your help, for work, just because I needed it. Even though I did—I did need it. I was told to talk to you and try to get into the mahal. I was ordered.” He swallowed. “And now I need you to come with me. Out of the mahal. Please?”

Told. Ordered. Who had ordered him?

A chill ran through her. She could guess.

Slowly, she shook her head. Before she could speak, Rukh darted forward. He grabbed her hand.

“I told them you wouldn’t come,” he said earnestly. “That you wouldn’t forgive me. That you’re not as weak as they think. And maybe… maybe you shouldn’t come. But they promised me they won’t hurt you, Priya, and I believe them. They asked me to make sure you weren’t hurt, so you’ll be safe. Or I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—” There were tears of frustration in his eyes.

“Rukh.” Her free hand hovered over his head before she lightly smoothed his hair. “Calm down. Speak slowly. You’re not making any sense.”

He furled and unfurled his fingers around her wrist. He said nothing for a long moment, and Priya sighed.

“I’m hungry,” Priya said. “And tired, and I’ve been told reliably that I smell awful. I just want to sleep, Rukh. I don’t have any desire to play these games.”

“If you don’t come,” he whispered, “I don’t know what they’ll do to me.”

“Who?”

“You know.”

“I’d like you to tell me,” she said.

He held her wrist, still. His fingers were light enough on her that she could have broken free with no trouble at all. She didn’t.

“The rebels,” he sniffed, his head hanging before he looked up at her. “The rebels in the forest.”

She looked into his eyes for a long moment.

She’d thought she knew exactly what he was. She’d thought he was a little like she’d once been—starving, hurt, alone. She’d pitied him.

The pity hadn’t changed. But as she looked at him, she let her assumptions about him fall away. He was more than a little like the child she’d once been. He had his own secrets. His own obligations. She knew exactly how that felt.

It worried her. Worry for him.

He’s in danger, she thought. He still needs me.

“Steal me something from the kitchens,” said Priya finally. “And then I’ll come with you.”