The shard flew toward me. I swung the branch, somehow managing to strike it with the flame, and it splintered and fell.
“Who comes to Ayodhya?” I demanded, backing away from him toward the trees at the edge of the clearing.
Shishir stalked forward, and the wind whipped snow in my eyes, ice stinging my skin. “You already know, or you would not be here.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I had reached my destination. I pressed the flaming branch against the trunk of the nearest tree, and as it caught, Shishir howled. “How dare you? This is a sacred grove.”
“Why do you want to kill me?” I shouted. The trees were catching one by one, crackling and spitting as the flames spread unusually fast.
“Because you stand in our way,” he growled, lunging again. I swung the branch to meet him, and he jumped back.
“Run, Lakshmana,” I cried, reaching out for his hand. He took it, and we began to race, stumbling out of the clearing and back toward the road as the flames licked the trees behind us.
I heard Shishir scream, a sound of pure agony—or maybe it was simply the keening of the wind.
By the time we reached our horses, the air was once again warm, and our limbs were damp with sweat. We burst onto the road, panting, and held each other as we watched the fire consume the god’s grove. The trees crumbled into ash, the flames dying as they reached the true forest farther down the path. After a few more moments, it was gone. Before us was a charred swathe of land.
You are forsaken, Agni had said. Today those words had been a blessing. The forest and the snow and the wind had been gods-made and so had been powerless to stop the flames lit by my hand.
Lakshmana squeezed my arm, and I turned to look at him. He had the same confused look as he had worn in the forest. “I—I don’t…” He trailed off, before groaning in pain, a sound that rattled inside my core. I only just caught his head before it hit the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I BROUGHT LAKSHMANA TO Sripura, half-crazed with worry, and found a healer.
All I could think about was that I had brought my son into the grove and shattered that bond without a thought for the effect it might have. He might never heal.
It was only after the healer assured me several times that Lakshmana was suffering from a simple fever common to these parts and would be fine with a few days of rest and medicine that I calmed. That I had broken Rama’s bond moments before Lakshmana’s collapse could not be a coincidence, but I had no better remedy.
As soon as the healer left, I asked the innkeeper to send a message to Dasharath’s man, a trader by the name of Hirav, telling him that his cousin was visiting. The innkeeper brought Hirav to my room shortly after—and his grim expression only confirmed my worst fears.
“I have written many missives to Ayodhya,” he said immediately. “But I am worried they have not arrived.”
“Raja Dasharath received a letter. He sent soldiers. Did they not arrive?”
“No! Did you get my letter about the siege of Janasthana? I fear Sripura may be next.”
“A siege?” I repeated.
Hirav shuddered. “Yes, my lady. It is a rakshasa and a menagerie of feral, slavering monsters. They have attacked many who dare risk the path to Janasthana. And when last I tried to go, I found my way blocked by a ring of fire, leaping toward the stars. I thought it better to return.”
This was far worse than Dasharath and I had imagined. A rakshasa? “Why do you fear Sripura is next? Has the rakshasa come here?”
“Not yet. But nothing has arrived from Kosala. No letters, no soldiers, no supplies. It is only a matter of time.”
I held my alarm in check, trying to make sense of the mystery before me. How could the rakshasa be on both sides of Sripura?
The realization came to me, absurd, impossible, and yet—it fit. For I had encountered someone on the other side of Sripura who may have barred the way.
But Shishir was a god. It couldn’t be. For all my frustrations with the gods, I did not think them evil. The gods would not aid the rakshasas. Would they?
And yet, I already knew the answer. Dread seeped through my limbs as I recalled the story of the churning of the ocean, the one I had loved as a child. Had the gods not long ago joined forces with the asuras because they needed one another to succeed? Shishir had threatened a reckoning. But what had he planned, this god, that would have required the help of a rakshasa?
“I believe the road to Kosala is clear now. We could send a missive to Dasharath. But even if we send a messenger, it will be several moons before soldiers arrive.”