One evening, about a year after my mother left, my father announced to us that a week hence we would travel to the Sarasvati River to pay tribute. There had been rumors of a rakshasa hiding in the northern foothills, where sparse herding villages dotted the rocky outcroppings. Each tale brought to our court was more fanciful than the last—that the rakshasa lived in a village and raided their neighbors, that the villagers worshipped the rakshasa for his protection, that some of the humans had begun drinking the blood of the rakshasa’s victims just as the rakshasa did. But it was indisputable that one of my father’s own scouts had seen the demonic ugliness of the rakshasa, and that any rakshasa walking our land was a threat.
Rakshasas were demons, though not as powerful as asuras. They satisfied the evil in their hearts by stalking humans rather than gods. I had only heard about them from scrolls and in Manthara’s tales—rakshasas ate misbehaving children, slaughtered those abandoned by the gods—but we all knew they still walked the outskirts of civilization. And so, my father thought it best to obtain the blessing of a goddess before facing the monster.
The Sarasvati was the source of many blessings for our people—women went there to pray and nine months later were gifted with sons. Warriors who stood in the Sarasvati and asked for strength returned from battles where greater men died. But most of all, the river was known for granting visions to the most learned of sages, who used their knowledge of things to come to avert disasters. They would see a rising flood and pray to the gods to change its course or foretell a poor crop and pray for better harvest. When their visions did not come to pass, the kingdom was grateful for their work.
Sarasvati prized intelligence above all else, and for this reason I had prayed to her daily as a young girl. It was due to this river that Kekaya was the powerful kingdom it was. Our sages had used the knowledge granted by the goddess to ensure our people remained holy—and in return we had her favor.
It had been some years since we had last visited the river, for with a royal retinue the trip could take several weeks there and back. My brothers and I greeted the announcement with great enthusiasm—while traveling, we all got to ride and play and sleep together in tents with no lessons or other responsibilities.
But the last time we had visited the Sarasvati, my mother had still been with us, and as I thought of traveling without her, a strange loneliness came over me. Manthara would not be attending, for she did not like to ride, and so one evening when Neeti came to my quarters, a small silver platter of sugared almonds and pistachios in her hands and a story ready on her lips, I asked her, “Will you come with me to the river?”
Her face fell instantly. “I’m sorry, Yuvradnyi. I have not been asked to go.”
“That is quite all right. I could arrange for it,” I said confidently.
She shook her head. “Even if you could, I would not wish to go.”
“It will be fun,” I wheedled, slipping into the Binding Plane as I did. Our orange cord had about the thickness of a thumb, and I sent the simple message through it in a slow, steady pulse. “We will travel with a whole retinue.”
Despite my work in the Binding Plane, though, Neeti shook her head. “I really am sorry, Yuvradnyi. Perhaps someone else can accompany you? I know a girl, Shruti, in the kitchens. You would like her.”
Frustrated, I gave another tug on the cord. It started to move up and down more quickly, gathering speed as I said, “Neeti, I am asking you for this. Please.” Now that I had the idea in my head, I would not be so easily dissuaded.
“I really do want to come,” she said quietly, and I assumed victory was near. After all, with the Binding Plane on my side, I could not fail. Then Neeti shook her head. “But I can’t.”
In the Binding Plane, the cord between us was just a blur of orange movement. I was sure that soon she would acquiesce. “I am asking as your yuvradnyi that you attend to me.”
Neeti’s expression hardened from regret into anger.
And then, in an instant, the cord reached its highest peak and snapped.
I stumbled back, forgetting for a moment that the bond was not in the real world. Around us, the shattered remnants of the cord drifted like orange ash, and my heart hammered in my throat. What had just happened? Neeti took a step toward me and hissed, “My mother is very sick. Just because your mother left you does not mean everyone else’s world is the same.” And then she upturned the plate of sweets onto me, her kind eyes sharp with fury, and disappeared out the door.