Chapter 2 Priya #2
“You all did well,” Priya said, once they were inside. Took off her shawl and wiped what remained of the dried sweat and blood of battle from her face, her neck. “Does anyone know who is on the next patrol? They’ll want to check that no more imperial soldiers are hiding somewhere.”
“I’ll ask Kritika who volunteered,” Ganam said. “I told her I’d join her on the Hirana anyway.”
“Then I’ll talk to Jeevan,” Priya said. The mask-keepers were Kritika’s people, just as the ex-soldiers were Jeevan’s, and the balance of power was always…
interesting, at best. Priya was desperately glad that Bhumika was so good at soothing the tensions between all the fragmented groups that made up Ahiranya’s new, ragtag government.
She had no head for that kind of emotional, tiresome work.
“I’ll talk to Jeevan,” said Sima. “You need to go and wash and change. Aren’t you meant to be receiving people on the Hirana this evening? You can’t go like that. You’ll scare people.”
Priya was meant to be on the Hirana later, it was true. Welcoming worshippers and helping the rot-riven. Placing her hands on them, and freezing the rot within them, so it would progress no further. So they would live.
And then, tomorrow, she would be out on patrol again.
“Thank you,” Priya said. She gave Sima a grin and turned, intending to hurry back to her own room, where she could change. But instead, she found her feet leading her toward the orchard.
Time to herself was so rare now. And though she didn’t exactly have complaints, she couldn’t resist the urge to take a moment alone.
Just a moment, when she could walk under trees and pluck a ripe fruit from a low-hanging branch, and purge the memory of imperial soldiers and imperial steel with the comfort of being alone in a familiar place.
She had barely stepped into the orchard when she heard a voice calling her name.
“Priya!”
She looked up.
“Rukh,” she greeted him, squinting against the sunlight. He was seated on a high branch—leaning forward so he could see her and waving one arm to catch her attention. “What are you doing up there?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Want me to throw you a fig?”
“Yes,” she said. He chucked one down, and she caught it one-handed. Bit straight into it. Between bites, she said, “You’re hiding, aren’t you?”
“‘Hiding’ is a strong word,” Rukh said. “I said hello, didn’t I? If I were hiding, I would have kept quiet.”
“I know you’re not hiding from me. You’re meant to be in training.”
“Do you want anything else?” Rukh asked helpfully. “I can climb a different tree if you like. Any tree.”
“Jeevan is going to skin you.”
“He would never,” said Rukh. “He’s too nice. He’ll just make me run around the practice yard.”
Nice wasn’t a word Priya would have applied to Jeevan, who was solemn and harsh-faced and unsmiling and seemed to spend all his time hovering around Bhumika or herding his trainees around like cats. But she didn’t argue. “Ganam’s back.”
Rukh’s expression visibly brightened.
“Where is he?”
“He’s going up the Hirana.”
“I’m going to go see him,” Rukh said decisively. “Maybe he can train me later. Then Jeevan won’t be disappointed.”
Rukh and Ganam had been rebels together, once.
Rukh had vowed to serve Bhumika and had been saved from death by Priya—that kind of bond stuck.
But he and Ganam had grown something special in their shared time in the mahal, and Priya was glad of it.
Often, she found the two of them together—Ganam patiently demonstrating the use of a sickle to Rukh, who’d copy him, frowning, all focus.
“Jeevan will still be disappointed, but do what you like,” Priya said with a sigh.
Rukh jumped down. He straightened up. Once, he’d been so thin and so small—but even the short time he’d spent in the Hirana had added flesh to his bones and softened his face.
He was stronger, taller, his curling hair thick enough now to almost conceal the fronds of leaves growing from his scalp. “Do you want to come?”
She shook her head. “I’ve had a busy morning.”
“Are you going to see Elder Bhumika?” Rukh asked.
“I wasn’t planning to,” she said. “Do you know how our little grandma is doing?”
“Padma doesn’t look like an old lady anymore,” Rukh said in his most disapproving voice. “Well. Mostly. She’s not crying as much, I think. Khalida said Jeevan got her a wooden bracelet to bite on to help her gums stop hurting.”
“Sweet of him,” said Priya. Then: “Is there a reason I should see Bhumika?”
Rukh—who’d gained a disturbing interest in knowing absolutely everything—said, “She’s got a letter for you in her study. Something from the empress.”
A beat of silence. Priya swallowed, her heart racing. Finally, she said, “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”
“I was helping Khalida look after Padma. We went to bring her to Lady Bhumika, and I saw it then,” he said anyway. “Do you know what the letter’s about?”
“Go and find Ganam, you beast,” Priya said. “I won’t tell Jeevan I saw you unless he asks.”
She turned, walking sedately until Rukh—who yelled his thanks with a laugh—had scampered off behind her.
She didn’t quite start running, but it was a close thing.
She read the official letter from the empress to the elders of Ahiranya first. It was lying plainly on Bhumika’s desk.
Bhumika’s study was barred to outsiders, but Priya, of course, had a key.
Maybe Bhumika had known Priya would wander in at some point and rifle through her papers, and had decided to make Priya’s life easier.
She often made such small, thoughtful gestures.
Sometimes Priya would return to her room and find sachets of herbs to perfume her clothes, or a meal wrapped in cloth, and she knew it was Bhumika trying to take care of her, even as their responsibilities kept them so often apart, like two ghosts haunting the same space, never quite crossing paths.
Next to the official missive, propped pointedly against a pile of books, lay a letter plainly addressed to Priya. It had no official seal of the empress on it—no sign it was from Malini at all. But Priya knew.
That Malini had gone one step further and written to her, had put down some of what bound them permanently in ink, was—well. It made Priya feel soft and tender, and stunned by Malini’s foolishness.
She opened the letter. Pressed it flat. That writing—it had to be Malini’s. It was too graceful to be anyone else’s.
She wrote of garlands. Of Mani Ara, and her river. And other tales of yaksa and mortals.
“I didn’t tell her these,” Priya whispered. Which meant that at some point, Malini had read the Birch Bark Mantras. Had she learned the tales for Priya’s sake?
Priya couldn’t write back. She knew it. Whatever subtle means Malini had used to deliver this to her—and spirits, she hoped they had been subtle, for Malini’s sake—there was no way Priya should write to her in return.
But somehow she found herself sitting at Bhumika’s desk. Grasping a clean sheet of paper. Writing down words.
I miss you, she began.