Malini did not know how Priya’s look of fury and betrayal made her feel. There was a pain in her chest that reminded her of the sensation of eating a fresh green chili whole when she was a small girl, purely because her nursemaid had told her not to—a pain throbbing and yet intensely sweet. She was not sure if she hated it or hungered for more of it.
I do not want you to hate me, she thought. I want you to like me. It’s absurd, but why else would I ask you to imagine me in my finest saris? Why else would I ask you to imagine me beautiful?
This truth could do her no favors. And she needed Priya.
“You should listen to what I have to offer,” Malini said again, instead. “Even if you will not help me escape—you should listen.”
“With respect,” Priya said, voice cutting, “I don’t have to listen to you. You have nothing.”
Priya was right. Everything Malini had fostered in her time at court—a garden of loyal highborn women and kings and lords and princes, a network of whispers to feed her the nectar of knowledge—was gone, withered or scoured by fire or simply placed beyond her reach. Even her mind was not what it should have been, thanks to the needle-flower poison. She had nothing and no one. She could only offer Priya favors and debts she would hopefully be able to pay one day.
She leaned forward, pressing a hand to the cool ground that had been covered with moss. She did not play any game that Priya would reject. Instead she met Priya’s eyes and thought, I am a highborn daughter of Parijat, I have outlived the sisters of my heart, I have won men to my cause. I still live, despite faith and flame.
You will listen to me. I command it.
She poured the thought into every inch of her own limbs: into the tilt of her neck, the firmness of her hand on the ground, the proud jut of her shoulders.
It was enough to hold Priya fast for a moment. Just enough.
“You have little love for the Parijati, I know,” Malini said. “But you do love Ahiranya. And you know that Emperor Chandra will soon remove your regent.”
“What do I care if he does?”
“You want one of his cronies lording over your country? A zealous believer in the unity of Parijatdvipa under the one flame of faith? Whatever you may think of General Vikram, he’s no idealist. Idealists are by far the most dangerous rulers.”
What was she doing, trying to explain politics to a maidservant?
But Priya is no simple maid, a voice whispered in her head. It sounded like her own voice from—before. Before she had drunk poison day in and out and her thoughts had begun to fray within her mind. It was a sweet voice, speaking cultured court Dvipan with a cadence like a boat skimming deep, deep waters. She is a temple child, isn’t she? She has more power in one finger than you possess in your entire body. You do not know what she knows. You do not know what she can do.
“What harm,” Malini asked, “is there in listening to me?”
Priya hesitated. There was a sound somewhere in the Hirana. A name was being shouted. Priya’s mouth firmed, and she took Malini by the elbow, hauling them both to their feet.
“Harm enough,” said Priya. “But I’ll do it anyway, I suppose.”
The bitterness in Priya’s voice… ah, if Malini were one to indulge in self-hate, she would have felt it then. There was something so blazingly soft about Priya’s heart. She had never seen the like of it before. When Priya had spoken of making an offering of coconut and flowers to the Ahiranyi spirits, when she had spoken of grieving her dead, Malini had been sure she could feel that heart in her hands: a muscle as fragile as an egg with a world inside it, compassion flowing from it as terrible and nourishing as lifeblood.
But Malini was not one for regrets, so she felt nothing.
Pramila was not even angry. Priya glibly concocted a story of how Malini had raced away in fear and panic and Priya had sought her out, calmed her, and brought her back as soon as she could—a blatant untruth, but one Pramila was ready to believe. The older woman had been crying, and trembled still. Once she was assured that Malini was safe, she turned away and closed herself into her own room. To weep more, Malini assumed.
She and Priya were not the only ones with terrible memories of fire, after all.
Priya moved restlessly around the room as Malini sat still upon the charpoy, cross-legged, her spine straight. Without preamble Malini said, “My brother wanted me dead because I tried to arrange for our elder brother to take the throne from him.”
Priya stopped pacing.
“Aditya left the faith,” Malini added. She did not know what Priya knew, or did not know, about Parijati politics. Best to tell her everything. “He had a vision and became a priest of the nameless god. He could not do that and remain crown prince of Parijatdvipa. He could not be emperor. And so we were left with Chandra. But I knew in my soul Aditya should rule. I knew he would be so much better at it than Chandra, because he was so much better than Chandra in every way. And I knew his status as my father’s firstborn—and his nature—would give him the backing of Parijatdvipa’s nations. So I sought those kings and princes out, and cultivated them. I ensured their support. Then Chandra discovered my intent.”