She felt that knife-edge balance keenly when she crossed the bridge. Beneath her lay a chasm, sharp-rocked. The bridge itself was a fragile weft, rocking alarmingly with the motion of their bodies crossing its surface.
Once they were across, Aditya fell into step beside her. “The garden was carved—built—according to the vision of the first Srugani priest of the nameless. He was told to ‘go to the valley of the lotus, and build within its heart a palace to me, a place of lac.’ So he did.”
Aditya took her hand. He led her to the fine, gem-hung trees surrounding the entrance to the monastery. Placed her hand against the surface of the bark.
Lac. Lacquer. Sweet, resinous.
Not simply a name after all.
She drew back her hand.
“Anyone,” she said, “could burn this place to the ground, by error or design. You know that, don’t you? It would take barely a spark.”
“No more than one candle,” a new voice agreed. A priest approached them, clad in the blue robes of the nameless, his voice and his expression tranquil. “But we are priests of the nameless, princess, and we surrender ourselves to fate. It is our calling.”
“Come,” Aditya said, gently urging her forward. “Let me show you your new chambers.”
A simple room. A bed. These luxuries, after so long, should have overwhelmed her.
She sat on the ground and quite carefully resisted the urge to scream.
They lived willingly within an unlit pyre, the fools. She felt the knowledge close over her skull like a vise.
Fire. Burning. It was lucky she did not believe in fate, because these things seemed to be following her. Waiting for her.
“Princess Malini,” said a voice. It was quiet but warm. “I am so glad you live.”
She turned her head to the door. Her old teacher’s favorite disciple stood before her. Like all sages, Lata was austere. She wore her hair in tight braids, bound in a corona against her skull. Her sari, covered by a gray shawl, was pristine.
“Lata! I did not expect to see you,” said Malini in surprise.
“I accompanied the Aloran prince,” murmured Lata. “As you asked me to.”
Malini was lucky some of her many messages, sent during her confinement before she was meant to burn, or hastily written and paid for with bribes of jewels before her imprisonment in Ahiranya, had reached their targets after all.
“I am so very glad you did,” said Malini warmly, though her heart felt cold. “Please. Come and sit.”
Lata sat down by her side.
“How shall I begin, princess?” Lata said, cocking her head to one side. Those were the words of a sage—a kind of rote offering. “What knowledge do you seek?”
“Everything,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
According to Lata, the large bulk of the forces seeking to overthrow Chandra were based in Srugna and upon the road to Dwarali. There was no place for them in the monastery, confined and dangerous as it was. Only lords and princes interested in politicking, or who sought the measure of Aditya, had chosen to come to the lacquer gardens.
“Well,” murmured Malini, when Lata was done. “If the highborn men want politicking…” She stood. “You’ll have to act as chaperone and as one of my ladies,” she said. “Can you do so?”
“I’m sure I can manage,” Lata said.
“Then first,” said Malini, “I need to bathe.”
She bathed in cold water, and tried not to think of Priya offering her a ladle of cold water in the Hirana; Priya kneeling, gazing at her. Her hair was combed as best as it could be, after its long mistreatment. Lata gave Malini one of her own saris. The blouse was so loose that it gaped—but it would be hidden beneath cloth, so would have to do. Malini had no jewels. No marks of status. Nothing to signify her worth.
Then she looked up, at the window.
Of course.
With Lata’s help, she bound her hair into a knot, and carefully pinned in place a crescent of freshly plucked lacquer flowers.
The men quieted abruptly when she entered the rooms. There was no sign of Aditya, and no sign of Rao either.
She’d interrupted a game of catur. But she understood that games of dice and strategy were not simply an amusement to highborn men. She inclined her head—a graceful motion she knew emphasized the vulnerability of her neck and the regality of her bearing—and said, “I fear I’m interrupting.”
“Princess.” The men did not stand, but they inclined their heads in equal respect. It was enough. “No apologies are necessary. Are you searching for someone?”