Chapter 14: Priya

PRIYA

Priya had been upon the Hirana not even a week, and she felt as if she would go mad.

Without anyone to help her launder the clothes and sweep the floors, lug the water and build fires—not to mention feed the entire household, including the door guards—she was overwhelmed. Although Pramila clearly thought a weekly visit from the other maidservants was enough, it was most assuredly not. And Priya was beginning to feel like a prisoner herself.

Pramila was always watching, always sour-faced and oozing resentment. At night, she ensured that the guards locked the northern chamber with Priya and Malini inside. At dawn, it was unlocked once more, so Priya could attend to her duties all over again.

Malini merely… slept. And woke, sometimes, to watch Priya with her unnerving dark eyes, before requesting small favors: a glass of water, a little attar to freshen her pillows, a wet muslin for her head to ease the day’s heat.

She did not ask for tales. She did not ask about what Priya had done to Meena that night on the Hirana. The questions she did not ask were like a quiet sword at Priya’s throat.

Every evening, before the door was locked, Pramila would visit Malini and lecture her about the mothers of flame. She would recite many passages from a thick book that she held upon her lap. Malini would listen without a word. Then Pramila would give her wine, which Malini obediently drank before falling into a stupor of sleep.

Once, when Priya was keeping herself busy folding Malini’s clean saris, Priya heard Pramila talk about the temple elders and children. She found her hands were suddenly frozen; unable to make herself move, she listened.

“… and the children chose to follow the elders and burn. An honorable death even for the impure,” Pramila said pointedly.

“The children didn’t burn willingly,” Malini murmured. She was lying on her back, her hands clasped over her stomach, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. The ceiling that was blackened by a corona of soot from the night Priya’s family had died. “How could children choose to burn?”

Pramila sighed, as if this was a tired argument, one they had worn out between them.

“The lesson,” Pramila said, “is that burning is holy. It puts an end to any human failings. It is a gift.”

They didn’t notice her or think of her, even when the cloth slipped from her trembling hands.

When the weekly visit of the other maidservants finally occurred, she was not allowed to sneak away to meet Sima or Gauri. She paced the northern chamber, not looking at the princess, not listening for her friends walking beyond the walls. And then, begrudgingly, she slept, wrapped in her shawl on a straw mat by the door.

She spent the time thinking of Bhumika, flint-eyed and heavy with child, desperately trying to hold her frayed household together. She thought of Ashok, who was alive—who had asked her to save him, and save them all, by doing exactly what she wanted to do anyway.

She thought of Rukh, the child she’d taken responsibility for and left, who wanted to help make a better world.

She pressed her ear to the straw mat and imagined she could hear them: the waters, strange and deep and powerful, moving somewhere beneath her. Just out of reach.

Patience. She needed patience. Her connection to the Hirana was growing. Now, when she walked across the stone, she felt it warm like sun-drenched earth beneath her feet. The carvings on the walls of the northern chamber had begun to move. Subtly, spirits be thanked—no more than a slight change in the shapes of eyes or mouths, or the position of yaksa hands, venom-tipped fingers turning upward or curled palms opening. The flowers around them had bloomed new petals, curled like licks of flame. Any more, and even Princess Malini or Pramila would likely have noticed, eventually.

Once, as a girl, she’d been told she had a special bond to the Hirana. She could have found the way to the deathless waters with her eyes closed—with nothing but instinct. As her bond to the Hirana grew, that instinct would return…

She hoped.

The maidservants had brought grain and firewood and oil. They’d left the Hirana sparkling clean, and hidden beneath a pan, they’d left Priya her own message: thumbprints, hastily imprinted on a scrap of white cloth.

Priya swallowed a lump in her throat. For those who couldn’t write, this was the only kind of memento they could leave for a loved one going far from home.

The maidservants had cooked breakfast for the princess: slow-simmered kichadi flecked with cumin, and thick parathas with yoghurt and sugar and raisin-studded malai. But by the time Malini woke in the late morning, sluggish and barely aware of what lay around her, the parathas were stiff, the kichadi cold, the malai congealed. Pramila barely touched her food either. It was as if the both of them were gnawed by something that left no room for hunger. So it was the guards who ate the most, with Priya keeping a choice piece for herself.

The water Priya warmed every dawn was barely ever used by the princess. It was Pramila who used it, perfunctorily bathing, allowing Priya to comb her hair, snapping at her when she caught a tangle or bound it back too tightly. Malini simply slept dirty, tangle-haired. And Priya… watched, and obeyed, and felt her contempt for Pramila grow.

She was not certain if Pramila neglected Malini on purpose, or if she considered the matter of feeding, bathing, and caring for the princess the work of attendants and therefore below her dignity. But she suspected it was the former. The woman demanded her fire be lit and her food be warm but cared nothing for Malini’s well-being, beyond ensuring that she listened to sanctimonious tales and drank her evening wine.

She marveled at the uselessness of highborn women, her scorn for the lot of them curdling in her. Priya had been a girl of status once, but temple children were plucked from villages and settlements across Ahiranya and then tested, day in and day out, for their strength and resilience and cunning. If Priya had refused to start a fire as a girl, she would have been boxed around the ears for laziness. In her childhood, idleness was weakness to be unlearned.

Thank the spirits, there would be a holy day soon, and for a time she would be free.

“Of course you’re not leaving.”

“All servants have a day’s ease,” Priya said. “My lady,” she added, after a beat. It wouldn’t do to anger Pramila too much. Not when she needed something from her.

“You stay here,” Pramila said slowly, as though Priya were stupid. “You serve an imperial scion now, girl. Don’t you understand? Your local customs don’t apply.”

Priya was fairly sure servants in other parts of Parijatdvipa also had days of rest, but what good would it do to say so, when Lady Pramila was looking at her as if she were an idiot, her mind clearly already set?

“I… I have other duties.”

“Not anymore. Your duties are here,” Pramila said. “Now bring me dinner and a cup of tea. There’s a girl.”

Priya bowed her head, murmuring an acknowledgment. She warmed some food, brewed a pan of tea laden with spices and bamboo cane, her hands trembling with banked fury.

She poured the tea. Prepared a plate. Returned to Pramila’s side and arranged the meal. Lowering her eyes demurely, she said, “If I may speak to my fellow maids, perhaps…”

“Yes, yes,” Pramila said, waving a hand in dismissal. She took a key from her belt. Tossed it to Priya. “Keep it, girl. I have another. Do whatever is needful. But do not allow the princess to wander, you understand?”

“I do, ma’am,” said Priya. “Thank you.”

There was a small triumph in that at least: She had permission to talk with the others, and also had evidence that Pramila no longer felt the need to watch her. Her false meekness had set her free—left her invisible and given her a way out of Malini’s cell.

Priya was beyond suspicion again. She could explore the Hirana once more.

She sought out Sima, grabbing her outside the eastern chamber. Sima whirled when she felt a hand on her arm. Then her eyes widened, and she flung her arms around Priya, drawing her into a bone-crushing hug.

“That’s a lot of emotion,” Priya said, lightly teasing. “I’d almost think you missed me.”

“Of course I’ve missed you. Do you know how boring it is without you? None of the other girls gossip about anything, they’re owl-headed idiots, the lot of them.” Sima sniffed. “But look at you. Your sari—”

“I was ordered to wear it.”

“Well, it’s rather nice. I wouldn’t say no to a new sari.” As neatly as she had mended the rip in the sleeve from her fall, it was still visible—a faint, puckering scar in the fabric. “Why haven’t you spoken to any of us? I looked for you. Gauri asked the jailer about you, but was told you were busy and to stop asking questions.”

“I have duties at night that keep me busy,” said Priya. “Not that I like it. I’ve missed you too. You have to tell me everything I’ve missed. Everything, okay?”

Sima laughed.

“Of course. Where should I start?”

“Tell me about Gauri first,” said Priya. “And Billu, if you like. And—”

And Rukh, she almost said. But then she paused. The words withered on her tongue, unspoken.

Of course. Rukh.

“And?” Sima asked.

Priya shook her head.

“Go on,” she told her. “Start with them. And you. I want to know what you’ve been doing without me, too.”

Thankfully, Sima began to talk without any further prompting. And Priya listened, and thought of the problem of Rukh. Rukh, and his rot, and his loyalties.

Rukh was loyal to the rebels. Rukh was a spy. Trapped here in the Hirana, with no day of ease, Priya couldn’t watch him. Couldn’t protect him from himself.

Priya knew it was her duty to tell Bhumika about him. She knew.

But she wasn’t going to.

The certainty of that seeped through her. Settled into her bones.

There was only so much a single servant boy could learn about the workings of the mahal. He was no trained spy. He was no assassin. He was just a child. He was young and idealistic and dying and alone, and she wouldn’t—couldn’t—be the one to send him back out into the city with nothing. And Bhumika would send him away if she knew the truth, of that Priya was sure.

For a boy with rot, with hunger, with no family… it would be a death sentence.

“I need a favor,” she said to Sima, when Sima eventually went quiet.

“Tell me.”

“Rukh,” she said, and Sima sighed, as if she’d guessed what was coming. “I—can you make sure he’s all right? He’s still so new to the mahal, he doesn’t really know how anything works. And can you check that he has enough sacred wood? If Lady Bhumika has provided any…? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“I told you I’d help you any way you need, didn’t I? I’ll try.”

“If he behaves oddly, or you’re worried, could you—send me a message somehow? Leave me a note when you visit?” Priya cursed inwardly. There was no way for her to say anything close to If he betrays the household, let me know with subtlety.

Sima gave her a measuring look, as if Priya’s words had struck her oddly. But she nodded anyway. “You know I will,” she said.

This time it was Priya who hugged her, so fierce that Sima protested, laughing, that she couldn’t breathe. So Priya drew back and said reluctantly, “I should go. The princess will be waking soon. I need to be ready.”

“You’re safe?” Sima blurted out. “And—well?”

“I’m just fine,” Priya said.

“And the princess…?”

“She isn’t a difficult mistress.”

“But still more mistress than you want, I expect,” Sima said, with the faintest, bitterest smile. She reached for Priya again. Clasped her hand, then let it go. “Take care, Priya. And… talk to me again. Assure me that you’re well.”

Priya shook her head. She felt all the banked fury in her, the itch that wanted nothing more than to fling off the responsibilities of the deathless waters and the ailing princess and return to the comforting weight of her normal life. Part of her wanted desperately to leave with Sima, to escape the trap she’d made for herself.

But the rest of her wanted to see this through.

“And what will you do if I’m not well, in the end?” Priya asked.

“Nothing,” Sima said. “I could do nothing. But I’d still want to know. That’s what friends want.”

Dawn came, and the maidservants left. As the first gray light filtered over her charpoy, the princess arose. She gave a groan and placed her face in her hands. Then she raised her head. Her hands trembled. The whites of her eyes were veined red.

“Priya,” she said. “I wish to bathe.”

Priya was used to gentle, strange requests from the princess when she was half asleep. But Malini was wide awake now, standing, her voice a firm command.

Surely it would break no laws to do this simple task, but still Priya touched the hard-earned key on her waist chain. Pramila, she hoped, would not yet be awake.

“I’ll warm the water, my lady,” Priya said, moving around the room to collect a drying cloth, soap, a comb.

“No. I need cold water. Now, please.” She held out one arm, sandalwood pale, beckoning Priya closer.

Priya approached her, and Malini laced her arm with Priya’s, leaning her frail weight against Priya’s smaller frame. Priya should not have been able to support her as easily as she did, but then, Priya was all muscle and sinew where Malini was all fragile bones and barely a scrap of flesh on her.

Priya looked at the hand on her arm. The seawater color of Malini’s veins through her soft skin.

Priya thought, absurdly, of the bower. The clink of white bones in wind.

They walked slowly together from the northern chamber across the triveni. Priya expected Pramila to appear at any moment, but thankfully there was no sign of her as they left the open air and entered a dark corridor. The maids had snuffed out the lamps along the wall on their departure, preserving the oil and the wicks for future use.

“You must forgive me for being such terrible company,” said Malini. “Once, I was wonderful company. But I am not entirely as I used to be.”

Malini’s eyes suddenly met Priya’s, and Priya nearly stumbled. It was like the moment when their gazes had first locked through the lattice—a jolt that hummed through her. Priya did not know if she would ever get used to the strangeness of being seen, really seen, by someone who had power over her.

“I have terrible dreams,” Malini said, as if in apology. Her voice, in the semidark, was like the brush of a wing against Priya’s ear. “Every time I sleep, I dream them. I dream of the imperial mahal. I dream of my favorite attendants. I dream of…” A hitch in her breath. “Of what my brother did.”

A pause. Her breath, quiet as the tread of a tiger’s paw.

Priya looked away from her. “This way, my lady,” she said, guiding Malini into the bathing chamber.

Without waiting for Priya to undress her, ignoring Priya’s vague attempt at a protest, the princess sat down on the low stool set on the floor. She brushed her tangled hair back from her face with an impatient hand as Priya dragged over a full bucket of now lukewarm water the maids had left.

“Cold, I said.”

“My lady—”

“Please,” said Malini.

Priya went to the kitchens—there was water there, stored for cleaning—and brought a kitchen bucket full to the bathing room. She set it on the ground, took the long-handled ladle, and dipped it into the water.

“Hand me the ladle,” Malini said.

Priya didn’t argue. Malini took it from her and poured the cold water straight over her own head. There was a splash as the water met the stone floor, a hiss from between Malini’s gritted teeth. Her hair was dripping, her sari soaked.

Priya looked away and made a show of seeking out the comb she’d tucked into the waist of her sari, and the soap too. She’d forgotten the drying cloth, and marveled silently at the absurdity of her own life.

“Shall I wash your hair?”

Malini was silent for a long moment, head bowed. Then she dipped the ladle once more in the water and poured it over her head.

“Yes,” she said finally, water trailing rivulets down her face. “If you like.”

Priya stepped behind her and squatted down, hooking her sari between her knees to stop it from getting wet.

Lightly she took Malini’s long hair in her hands. It was thick and dark and utterly, horribly snarled. Priya didn’t dare to think how long it had been since someone had brushed it. Malini certainly hadn’t done so—oh, these highborn women—and Pramila would hardly have tried. Still, Priya carded her fingers gingerly through its length, trying to ease the lightest of the knots with nothing but her damp hands.

“I’ll need to use oil,” said Priya carefully, “to get out the worst of your knots. I can’t do much more as it is.”

“My maids in Parijat used jasmine oil,” said Malini. “My mother’s favorite, though I never cared for it.”

Malini didn’t even wince when Priya caught at one snarl with her fingernail; didn’t react when Priya murmured an apology and reached for the ladle, pouring more water over Malini’s hair before she began to lightly scrub a thin lather of soap into it, washing it clean.

Beneath the weight of her hair, Malini’s bare neck was pale, her shoulders through the wet cloth all birdlike bones. There was an old scar on her neck—a faint tracery of silver, curved like a sickle moon.

“May I tell you a secret, Priya?”

If Sima had said that to her, she would have leaned in, conspiratorial; would have laughed or grinned, and said, You can tell me whatever you like—light, casual words. But she could not be casual with the princess. She thought of all the questions the princess had asked her, when she’d first arrived. The steady, patient stream of them, measuring Priya.

Priya scrambled for the right words, wishing she had Bhumika’s quick mind and silver tongue.

“I am your loyal servant, my lady,” she said hurriedly, filling the silence. “You can tell me whatever you wish.”

Malini was silent for a time, as Priya untangled her hair, as the water dripped to the floor.

“Do you know,” Malini said, “why Pramila tells me tales of the mothers of flame?”

Because your brother wants you to burn, thought Priya. She understood that.

“I don’t know, my lady,” Priya said. It seemed like the safest answer.

“Because my brother wants me to be pure and honorable like them. Because he thinks the only way a woman can truly serve the empire, the only way a woman can be good, is through the sacrifice of her life.” She lowered her head a little, looking down at her hands. “I worship the mothers, Priya. I should want to be one of them. The burning is, after all, the lot of only the bravest and noblest of women. But I was—afraid.” Her voice cracked, a little. “I did not want to burn, Priya. And now every morning I wake from dreams of flame and believe I am on fire.”

Priya swallowed, hands stilling. Malini’s words—they were too much.

Once, the temple children had burned.

She understood a little how Malini felt, in that moment. Priya stood behind her, hands still entangled in her hair, thinking of bodies writhing and screaming and burning, and found that nothing tethered her to her skin but the cold drip of water, the damp coil of a curl of hair around her thumb.

“He sent me here so I would think of all those who burned and sacrificed themselves. Willingly and unwillingly. A good burning and a bad one.” Malini swallowed audibly. “But they are all the same. And all I can see when I sleep are my women, and now children, and fire…”

Malini’s voice faded. She raised her head.

“I do not usually talk like this,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize, my lady,” Priya murmured.

“I would not sleep at all, I think,” Malini said slowly, “would not rest, if not for my medicine. And now for you.”

“I did not know you took any medicine,” Priya said dumbly.

“A dose is placed in my wine, by Pramila,” said Malini. “Something made of flowers. Needle-flower, perhaps. I know nothing more.”

“Medicine brewed from flowers,” Priya said slowly. “I see.” A hard dread coiled in her stomach. It could not be. And yet…

The apothecary sold exactly such a thing in the Old Bazaar. Gautam had tiny husk-sized casks of it, a yellow thread of warning wrapped round the stopper of each bottle. A medicine brewed from needle-flower. A little could dampen pain. A little more could give bliss.

A little more than that could kill.

Sometimes it was given to the sick in measured doses over time to ease pain, but prolonged exposure could cause a sickness all of its own—a wasting of the mind and flesh that ended inevitably in death, or something horrifically close to it.

Did Pramila want the princess dead, or did she simply want to weaken her?

It was not a matter of whether Pramila wanted Malini dead, of course. It was a matter of whether the emperor did, and what would become of Bhumika’s carefully carved-out sanctuary if he achieved his goal, thus ensuring that General Vikram failed to protect Malini as he’d sworn to do.

Priya looked at Malini’s back then, without worry or shame, but with a clinical kind of fury, at the sharpness of her bones, the translucence of her skin. Oh, she knew the fragility of a mortal body—its resilience could only be stretched so far. Even if the emperor did not want his sister dead—and what was Priya meant to know of an emperor’s intent?—Malini could die so easily. She thought of vulnerable lungs, the stuttering pulse of that mortal heart.

“How often do you take your medicine, my lady?” Priya asked calmly.

“Every evening,” said Malini. “And sometimes during the day, if Pramila decides I am unduly—restless. Why?”

She craned her neck, looking back at Priya.

Malini did not look unknowing or even curious. There was a challenge in the arch of her brows.

“That is a great deal of medicine,” said Priya. “But—I am not a physician. I am only a maidservant. What do I know? My lady.”

“It is not my choice, whether I take the medicine or not,” Malini said. “You understand, of course. It is Pramila’s choice, and I must obey.”

Finally, Malini turned away. Priya fumbled for the ladle. Cleansed Malini’s hair, then set it down. Took hold of the soap and kneeled before Malini, perfunctorily scrubbing Malini’s arms and her feet, exposed by damp cloth. She did no more than that—she did not think Malini would care for more. It was the cold she hungered for, not the cleansing.

Priya raised her gaze when she lowered Malini’s left foot to the ground. She could not tell if Malini had been crying, not through those already red eyes, the water on her face. But Malini’s jaw was trembling faintly, her hands curled upon her lap into fists.

“Whenever you want to bathe in cold water, you just need to ask,” said Priya. “I’ll arrange it.”

The trembling eased, a little. Malini’s smile was weak but pointed—a lash of white teeth against the gray of her face.

“Thank you,” said Malini. “That is—kind of you, Priya.”

Priya swallowed. Lowered her head. She ground her own teeth together, forcing herself not to ask the razor-winged question racing about her skull.

What do you want from me?

And even more dangerous.

What do I want from you?