The walls were still stained black, the carvings in the room blasted and faded, worn by neglect and flame. Malini looked around. Raised her head to the ceiling, as the guards and Pramila and Santosh bustled around her, and realized, with horror, that this had to have been the room where Ahiranya’s priests burned to death.
Of course it was. Damn her brother and the cruel, twisted nature of his mind. Of course he would lock her away far from all her support, all her alliances. Of course he would send her to a room in a decaying temple where dozens of children had died screaming in flame, simply for the crime of being too powerful, too monstrous—
“Yes,” Santosh said. A heavy hand settled on her arm. Malini did not flinch. Did not hit him. She was proud and sickened by that in turns. “This will do. Emperor Chandra will be pleased.”
After the guards had been placed at the entrance to the Hirana—after Commander Jeevan had left, guiding Santosh down with him—Malini lay back on the charpoy and Pramila opened the tiny bottle of medicine she wore at her throat. She poured two doses, as promised, into a carafe of wine. Placed it by Malini’s side.
“Drink,” she said.
Malini turned her face away. Closed her eyes.
“Not this again,” Pramila sighed. “Drink, Princess Malini, or I will be forced to call the guards.”
She would do it. She had done it before. Had them pin Malini’s arms as Pramila wrenched back her head and pried open her mouth and forced the liquid in, watching Malini choke and splutter, all the while saying, If only you were good—good as the emperor demands… No one wants to hurt you, princess, no one.
Malini raised herself up onto her elbow and lifted the carafe. Drank.
Then she lay back down and waited for the drugged stupor to overtake her.
I cannot survive like this, she thought, already growing detached. The ash-marked ceiling stared back at her. I cannot.
“The regent has arranged maidservants to maintain the temple,” Pramila murmured. Malini heard Pramila open the Book of Mothers once more, to begin Malini’s lessons all over again. “You will not see them, though, princess. I’ve made sure of that.”
Pramila knew Malini too well.
A draft made its way in from the strange atrium beyond, the one that was exposed to the elements, even at its roof where the sky peered through a vast opening cut into the stone. She shivered, curling up to ward off the cold.
Use what you have, Malini reminded herself. Use anything and everything you have. What can you do? What do you have here that may save you?
They were stealing her mind from her. They had denied her human company. She had nothing but herself. Nothing but the rage and grief that pulsed in her heart.
The darkness crept over her. She heard Pramila’s voice, muted and distant. In the lightless world between sleep and waking, she tried to remember her old strength. Her old cunning. She wrapped her anger at Chandra around herself like new skin; as if she were a snake, sloughing off one body and making another.
She would force herself to survive. She would wait. And when an opportunity came to escape the Hirana—any opportunity—she would take it.
She promised herself this, and sank down deep, deep. Down into the memory of her heart sisters’ screams as they burned.
ASHOK
When Ashok was ten years old, he entered the deathless waters for the first time.
That was the right age for the first immersion. He had lived at the temple since he was no more than a toddling child. He’d been selected and trained. Taught not to complain when seated in the sweltering heat of the midday sun or in the cold night’s dark without a candle. He had learned how to cope with hunger, with the burn of an older temple sibling’s hands twisting his skin. That was how the temple children of the Hirana were taught. How they learned about pain and strength and the need to excise weakness.
It had been a normal morning, until then. Elder Saroj had led him and the others through their prayers and chores, and watched as they had prepared gifts for pilgrims to take home with them: vials of deathless waters, broken from their source but still a beautiful, glowing blue in their bottles; sacred wood, whittled into tiny charms; tender fruits, their piths studded with spices carefully pressed into place by childish hands.
But after all that had been completed, instead of releasing them as usual, she had led them to the waters.
“Three journeys,” she had said. “After three journeys through the waters, you will be elders like us. This is only your first journey. Don’t forget: Those of you strong enough to survive must still work hard and grow even stronger. It is our responsibility to keep the faith, and to preserve the memory and traditions of Ahiranya’s grand history. Even if the Parijatdvipan empire forgets what we once were, we do not forget.”