Chapter 43 Malini #3
“You must burn,” Kartik went on. “Your willing death would be an incomparable weapon against the yaksa. But your brother believes that if you will refuse him and defy him, then there are other sacrifices that will do well enough in your place.”
The women he had murdered in their droves to make his weapons.
The fire that burned Malini’s men in turn, when it flew on strange wings from the maze fort’s walls.
The fire on her saber, gifted to her by Kartik’s people, flickering and fading away.
“He would kill you, or allow you to perish, now that he has made his false fire. But his false fire will not save us. Just as your death unwilling and stolen from you will not save us.”
“You understand, then,” Malini said, in a voice that was far calmer than she felt. “That I will never be willing, so long as Chandra lives and holds the throne.”
“No priest has ever desired your unwilling death,” he said, with tenderness that galled. “We have always respected your worth. Always sought your glad sacrifice. If this is the gift you demand for your willing service, then tell me so. That is all I ask.”
“If the High Priest and the inner circle who serve Chandra do not support me wholeheartedly, then I will not burn,” Malini said, into the silence that fell as his words faded, feeling her own horror only distantly. Her determination to win was stronger.
“But you would be willing,” he said, “if we served you, lovingly and loyally? Divyanshi’s scion, tell me: If you wear the crown and sit upon the throne—will you die for it?”
“It is the will of the mothers that brought me to war against Chandra,” Malini said. “It is the priests of the mothers that brought me here. For Parijatdvipa, and for faith, I will take the throne. And I will burn to save us. That is my vow.”
He smiled at her, and nodded.
“Then I will send a message to my allies in Harsinghar,” he said. “And when you reach the city—when you are at the doors of the mahal—my allies will find you.”
“How will you send a message swiftly enough?” Malini demanded.
“I will outpace you to Harsinghar,” he said, amused. “You have an army to move. I am one man, and the lanterns in the temple spires will light my message for me, if I do not.”
“What assurance…” Malini paused. Shook her head. “Faith,” she said. “You will tell me my only assurance is faith.”
“Just so, Divyanshi’s scion,” he said. “There will still be a battle ahead of you. Your men will still die. But when you are captured—and you shall be—the tide will turn in your favor. And I will tell you how.”
He told her what was to come. And when he was done, she thought of the battle that awaited her. Thought of men dead, and bloodied soil, and Rao’s tired eyes. Thought of Aditya, in Saketa, fighting to keep the enemy at her back at bay.
She knew that Chandra had wasted swathes of men at the battle on the Veri.
But he still had his fire—and false though it was, it would still devastate her army before it died.
It would still cost her the bulk of her forces—those allies she had brought along with her using nothing but the fraying promise of the myth that surrounded her, all its gilt and glory.
She was still so terribly likely to lose.
She would have to trust this man. This priest, who spoke to her as if he knew her. Called her good. Dutiful. Pure. She would, if all else failed, have to place her life in his hands. Her skin crawled, even as she held the certainty inside herself, cold and sure.
She would make her own plans, of course. She would ensure Chandra’s death if she had the power to do it. If the priest betrayed her, then she would make sure she would not die helpless, all her work undone. By the mothers, and by her own vicious nature, some of her ambitions would outlive her.
She would need Priya’s help for that.
She thought of Priya. Priya, who was a temple elder. Priya, who worshipped the yaksa, and loved her people and her flowering gods.
She felt a terrible realization slide its way between her ribs.
She could not tell Priya the truth.
She would ask Priya to fight for her, maybe die for her, on the basis of lies.
To enter battle for the sake not just of the bonds between their nations but for love.
For the trust she’d placed in Malini long ago, when she’d allowed Malini to hold a knife to her heart.
When she’d kissed Malini in a forest and told Malini she did not have the power to hurt her.
But I do, Malini thought. Her heart hurt. She wanted to be sick.
Malini had always known in her soul what her mission would make of her.
She touched her fingertips to the flower beneath her blouse—a helpless gesture.
She loved Priya. The feeling was dark and deep within her, with its own steady undercurrent, always reaching for her, always dragging her under.
But she needed to win this war. Needed it more than tenderness or love, needed it with a fire that burned and burned and screamed in her heart sisters’ names.
She needed it because her brother’s blade had found her and cut the goodness from her long before she’d ever learned the shape of a gentle, encompassing love.
If she had to risk Priya for her vengeance—if she had to place her in danger in order to win, and see her brother dead?
So be it.