“I asked you what your purpose was, and you said you did not know. I asked you what my purpose was, and you told me that I would know it when it happened.” Sita sat with her back straight as an arrow, arms at her side. There was no inflection in her voice.
“I am so sorry,” I repeated uselessly. “Please know that had I known how things would turn out—”
“I am not interested in your apologies,” she said. “I think your purpose is clear. Helping the women of this kingdom is noble indeed. But I have not yet found mine. If you have any idea what it might be…”
Her purpose, I believed, was to spark all that had already happened. But she could not know that, because she did not know about Ravana—
Ravana. In all of this, I had forgotten about him.
Lakshmana had asked me to pick Panchavati because it was far away from Ayodhya and near to a friendly city that could harbor Sita, if needed. I had gone along with it, swept up in the moment.
But Janasthana held more than a safe haven. The moment Rama left, I needed to send Ravana a missive. I had kept his hawk for that purpose, after all. Because for Ravana, this outcome was the best possible one. He would be close enough to watch over Sita and take matters into his own hands if need be, without ever harming Kosala or Ayodhya.
“So you do know,” Sita said, and I quickly set my expression to something less obvious. Not fast enough, though.
“No, I do not, but…” Sita needed to know at least a bit of the truth. I was tired, so tired, of secrets. “I am sure that with Lakshmana’s presence, you will be well taken care of in Panchavati Forest. But if anything should ever happen, the nearest city is Janasthana. The ruler of that city will give you anything your heart desires, and you can trust him absolutely.”
“You have spoken with him?” she asked, confused. “Did you know Rama would take me along? Is that why you made such an arrangement?”
“No! No. I had no idea. And I have not yet spoken to him, but I will. The ruler of Janasthana and I are old friends. You have met him once. Ravana, raja of Lanka.”
Sita wrinkled her nose. “I remember. But I do not think that an old jealous suitor will help me much.”
“Trust me. He is not a jealous suitor, and he bears you no ill will. He will protect you. So do not hesitate. There is no need to be a martyr.”
“I am already a martyr,” she said. “But thank you. I will go to him, should I have need.” She stood up in a single fluid motion.
“I am sorry,” I repeated, unable to rise to my feet. “I hope that one day you can forgive me for what I have done.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” Sita opened the door slowly, and as she stepped into the hall, she squared her shoulders and lifted her head. I watched each piece of armor settle into place until no weakness could be found, and then she disappeared from view.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THEY SAY THAT DASHARATH’S cries could be heard from the palace to the city gates. They say he pleaded with the gods and cursed my name and made absurd promises if only Rama would remain in Ayodhya. They say he ripped at his clothes and beat the ground and wailed, a sound so primal and intimate that people turned away from their broken king.
The departure, Manthara told me, was like a funeral procession. Crowds lined the streets that Rama would take, and he rode out at a snail’s pace, Sita behind him, Lakshmana at his side, allowing everyone a chance to observe the cheated prince of Ayodhya. He wore an ascetic’s robes and carried only a small pack on the back of his horse. Rama had an excellent sense of drama, if nothing else.
I myself sat in the gardens alone, straining to hear the faint hubbub of the city.
It felt like hours had passed until Kaushalya came and found me. “You must come. It is Dasharath,” she said.
“Is he executing me?” I asked dully, not getting up. “I would like to die here. It is beautiful, and peaceful. He should come to me.”
“What are you talking about?” Kaushalya demanded, grabbing my wrist and dragging me to my feet.
I rolled my eyes. “You said I needed to come and see the raja. I was wondering when he has set the date for my execution.”
Kaushalya slapped me across my left cheek. I reeled back with an audible gasp. “Dasharath had a fit. He collapsed, and the healers do not know if he will wake up. I am bringing you to his room. Not everything is about you.”
I resisted the strong urge to tell her that I had almost definitely caused the fit, and therefore this was about me. Instead, I let her lead me away. But as we navigated the deserted hallways, dread burrowed into its ancestral home in my stomach. By the time we reached the door to Dasharath’s rooms, it was all I could do to bite back the sob building in my throat.