Chandra did not bow his head. He watched his sister.
She wore no crown. Her hair was loose—tangled, trailing across her shoulders. He had sent maids to prepare her, but she had denied them all, gnashing her teeth and weeping. He had sent her a sari of crimson, embroidered in the finest Dwarali gold, scented with needle-flower and perfume. She had refused it, choosing instead to wear palest mourning white. He had ordered the cooks to lace her food with opium, but she had refused to eat. She had not been blessed. She stood in the court, her head unadorned and her hair wild, like a living curse.
His sister was a fool and a petulant child. They would not be here, he reminded himself, if she had not proven herself thoroughly unwomanly. If she had not tried to ruin it all.
The head priest kissed the nameless princess upon the forehead. He did the same to Lady Narina. When he reached for Chandra’s sister, she flinched, turning her cheek.
The priest stepped back. His gaze—and his voice—were tranquil.
“You may rise,” he said. “Rise, and become mothers of flame.”
His sister took her ladies’ hands. She clasped them tight. They stood, the three of them, for a long moment, simply holding one another. Then his sister released them.
The ladies walked to the pyre and rose to its zenith. They kneeled.
His sister remained where she was. She stood with her head raised. A breeze blew needle-flower into her hair—white upon deepest black.
“Princess Malini,” said the head priest. “You may rise.”
She shook her head wordlessly.
Rise, Chandra thought. I have been more merciful than you deserve, and we both know it.
Rise, sister.
“It is your choice,” the priest said. “We will not compel you. Will you forsake immortality, or will you rise?”
The offer was a straightforward one. But she did not move. She shook her head once more. She was weeping, silently, her face otherwise devoid of feeling.
The priest nodded.
“Then we begin,” he said.
Chandra stood. The prayer stones clinked as he released them.
Of course it had come to this.
He stepped down from his throne. He crossed the court, before a sea of bowing men. He took his sister by the shoulders, ever so gentle.
“Do not be afraid,” he told her. “You are proving your purity. You are saving your name. Your honor. Now. Rise.”
One of the priests had lit a torch. The scent of burning and camphor filled the court. The priests began to sing, a low song that filled the air, swelled within it. They would not wait for his sister.
But there was still time. The pyre had not yet been lit.
As his sister shook her head once more, he grasped her by the skull, raising her face up.
He did not hold her tight. He did not harm her. He was not a monster.
“Remember,” he said, voice low, drowned out by the sonorous song, “that you have brought this upon yourself. Remember that you have betrayed your family and denied your name. If you do not rise… sister, remember that you have chosen to ruin yourself, and I have done all in my power to help you. Remember that.”
The priest touched his torch to the pyre. The wood, slowly, began to burn.
Firelight reflected in her eyes. She looked at him with a face like a mirror: blank of feeling, reflecting nothing back at him but their shared dark eyes and serious brows. Their shared blood and shared bone.
“My brother,” she said. “I will not forget.”
CHAPTER ONE
PRIYA
Someone important must have been killed in the night.
Priya was sure of it the minute she heard the thud of hooves on the road behind her. She stepped to the roadside as a group of guards clad in Parijati white and gold raced past her on their horses, their sabers clinking against their embossed belts. She drew her pallu over her face—partly because they would expect such a gesture of respect from a common woman, and partly to avoid the risk that one of them would recognize her—and watched them through the gap between her fingers and the cloth.
When they were out of sight, she didn’t run. But she did start walking very, very fast. The sky was already transforming from milky gray to the pearly blue of dawn, and she still had a long way to go.
The Old Bazaar was on the outskirts of the city. It was far enough from the regent’s mahal that Priya had a vague hope it wouldn’t have been shut yet. And today, she was lucky. As she arrived, breathless, sweat dampening the back of her blouse, she could see that the streets were still seething with people: parents tugging along small children; traders carrying large sacks of flour or rice on their heads; gaunt beggars, skirting the edges of the market with their alms bowls in hand; and women like Priya, plain ordinary women in even plainer saris, stubbornly shoving their way through the crowd in search of stalls with fresh vegetables and reasonable prices.