Chapter 45 Priya #2
“You can’t put so much faith in me,” Priya said immediately. I can’t live up to what you think I am, she thought. “And I told you—I showed you—the fire can hurt me—”
“There are Aloran forces that can be spared to protect,” said Malini.
“Or Saketan. Whatever you want, Priya. They will be arranged to defend you. A crescent of shields and archers, with whip or dagger wielders within it, to keep Chandra’s forces at bay and their fire, too.
As long as you can work through a barrier—”
“I can’t bring down a whole city,” said Priya swiftly. Her heart was hammering again. She felt almost suffocated by Malini’s weight against her. She could not do what Malini wanted. She could not. “I barely survived bringing down the river. Malini…”
She trailed off. Malini was still leaning into her. It was, Priya realized, as if Malini was afraid that if she let go, Priya would vanish entirely.
“It would be,” Malini said, “a last resort.”
Priya exhaled through an ache in her lungs she couldn’t put a name to.
How can you look at me so tenderly, and ask me to die for you?
“What would you have done if I hadn’t come?” Priya asked. “What then?”
“I would have faced all my battles with everything in me,” said Malini.
“I would have struggled with Mahesh’s faith and his loyalties.
I would have watched Rao seek to turn from me, back to my brother’s light, again and again.
And I would have kept on fighting, Priya, for all that I want, and all that I deserve.
And I would have lost.” Her eyes fluttered closed.
“I may lose, still. But I cannot let Chandra win. Let Aditya be forced onto the throne, if he must. Let me die. But Chandra cannot have it.”
The kind of power Malini was asking her to use was not power Priya had.
The kind of power she had used in the river—
It was yaksa born. Yaksa gifted. And it came with a price.
The yaksa in the sangam had wanted something from her. The yaksa had made her vow to give—something. More than she had. More than her heart.
What was left to give? What could the yaksa—who lay beyond this world, who were gone—want from Priya now, in return for the strength to win Malini’s war?
And was Priya willing to give it?
“I can’t believe we’re having this kind of conversation like this,” Priya said eventually.
“Like what?”
“With you clinging to me.”
“I’m not clinging,” Malini said.
“Really?”
“‘Clinging’ doesn’t sound very dignified.” Malini’s voice was faintly disgruntled. Even through her fear—even through everything—Priya felt a lance of fondness.
Priya placed her hand around Malini’s wrist. Maybe Malini thought Priya wanted to untangle them from each other, because her grip tightened, nails against the skin of Priya’s belly, cloth scrunched tightly in her hand.
“If I can’t hold on to you, then I can hold on to no one,” Malini said quietly. “And here. Now. What else can I do?”
Ah. Priya swallowed.
How lonely it was, to have power. How lonely.
Priya was glad suddenly, of the home she’d left behind.
The broken regent’s mahal. Billu lording over his kitchens, and Khalida’s glares; Ganam, grumpy and steady and sure, and even Kritika with her fanatic desire for a better world.
And Rukh growing taller and stronger, more sure of himself every day, as Padma learned to kick her tiny legs and shape the shadows of words, grasping the world with her fingers like every little bit of it was wondrous to her.
Maybe by the time she returned home, Padma would be walking in truth.
Speaking. For all that she feared for her family—for Bhumika, for all of them—she still had the hope that something golden and true was waiting for her.
“Hold on to me, then,” Priya said, and pressed her lips to Malini’s eyebrow, her cheek, her jaw. Drew her down onto the bed.
It was hours later, in the dark after the candles had died, when Priya finally turned and touched her forehead to Malini’s. Shared breath with her again.
“I’ll do it. If it comes to it… I’ll fight with all I have.”
Malini’s next exhale was a shudder. She cupped Priya’s cheek. Said nothing, as Priya whispered battle plans to her like they were love stories.
“When this ends,” Malini said finally, in a voice like a scrap of silk—like a fragile weft against Priya’s lips, her hands.
“When I am alive and I am empress. When you have everything I’ve vowed to you and Ahiranya…
” Silence, as Malini cupped Priya’s waist with a hand; as she stretched her fingers wide, as if she could encompass it, hold Priya and keep her.
“I’ve dreamt of garlanding you,” Malini confessed.
A small, secret thing. “Flowers around your throat, and you garlanding me in turn. The two of us making our own promises to each other. I’ve dreamt of naming you my own. My heart. My wife.”
Priya swallowed. Her heart ached, and it was like her whole self ached with it.
“That’s a cruel thing to let yourself dream of,” she whispered. “Isn’t it?”
“It is,” Malini agreed, sounding wretched and yet sweet, sweet because she was Priya’s. “And yet. Women could marry women once in Ahiranya. And in my foolish dreams I can’t forget that.”
Priya blinked back tears. Silly of her. They were like children, weren’t they?
Wanting things they shouldn’t, when there were bigger things than the both of them shaping the world, and those forces would wash them away without a care.
There was something living in Priya’s skin and her soul.
There was a throne waiting in Malini’s future. And yet. And yet.
She took Malini’s hand from her hip and guided it up, until Malini’s warm fingers were against the nape of her neck. Until Malini was drawing Priya close, and Priya’s fingers were moving, tracing Malini’s bare ribs, her breasts; the flower at her throat.
This is my garland. Her own fingers, pressing against the chain at Malini’s neck, and the flower that lay there. Malini’s hand on her skin. And this is yours.
Perhaps Malini understood, because she cupped the back of Priya’s neck and kissed her deeply, sweetly. Traced a circle, ever so gently, against the first point of Priya’s spine.
This could be the last time, Priya realized. The last time they lay next to each other in the dark. The last time they were both together and alive. The last time they kissed.
But oh, how Priya hoped it would not be.
The morning came, cold and pale, and the army readied itself for war.
Priya found Sima sitting with Lata. When Priya approached, Lata rose to her feet, giving Priya a nod of greeting before walking away.
“What were you talking about?” Priya asked.
Sima shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter. What is it, Pri?”
Priya stepped forward. Kneeled down.
“Please,” said Priya. “Don’t follow me into the next battle. The last one was—bad.”
“Terrible,” Sima agreed.
“This one is going to be worse,” Priya said. She’d seen the look on Malini’s face—haunted, almost gutted by the knowledge that both failure and success were so very close, but failure was closer. “I… I’d feel so much better if you stayed away. Like Lady Deepa.”
“I’d rather be like Lady Raziya,” said Sima. “Leading my own little army around.”
Sima shuffled closer to Priya.
“You made a promise to me, Pri,” she added. A quiet, firm voice. “You promised I’d be by your side in the next battle. Well, it’s here.”
“It is.”
“And I’m not letting you break that promise. You can say what you like, but I’m going with you.”
“Sima,” Priya murmured, helpless.
“It’s my choice.” Her tone brooked no argument. But Sima was watching her carefully. Waiting to see what she’d say.
“This time you’re not going into battle unprotected,” said Priya finally.
“No snatching up shields at the last minute, all right? And your bow won’t be enough.
We need to get you something more. Better.
You won’t be able to rely on me. So. We’ll have to make sure you can protect yourself. I’ll get it sorted.”
Sima smiled then, and nudged her arm against Priya’s.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No thanks needed,” said Priya. “We protect each other.”
On the last leg of the army’s journey to Harsinghar, Priya made her way to Ashutosh. She offered Ashutosh the bow of an equal—shoulders straight, inclining her head. Surrounded by his men, he bowed in return, expression wary.
“Prince Ashutosh,” Priya said. “You owe me a favor.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I owe you no such thing.”
“I saved your life.” She smiled at him, aiming for charm and achieving… something that made his right eyebrow twitch. Obnoxiousness, maybe. “Come now, we’re fellow leaders of an army, aren’t we? Warriors in the service of our empress.”
His nostrils flared.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“Armor,” she told him. “For my fellow Ahiranyi woman. Armor to keep her alive.” A beat. “And something else,” she added. “Something for the battle. If you’re brave enough, and you believe your men may be willing to work with the Ahiranyi witch that saved their lives.”
“Shut up about lifesaving, I beg you,” he muttered. Then he said, “Speak. And don’t insult the bravery of my men again.”
One of Ashutosh’s men that she’d healed, back in Saketa, was small. He had spare armor—a little dented but serviceable—that were given over to Priya for Sima’s use.
It was Priya who helped Sima dress and bind the plates over her salwar kameez, tying severe knots into fabric and metal to hold it all in place.
“You should have gotten something for yourself, too,” Sima said.
Priya shook her head.
“I carry my armor with me,” she said. And there was nothing, in Ashutosh’s possession, or in the possession of anyone in this army, that would protect her from the fire. The only thing that had saved her in Saketa had been the yaksa wearing Bhumika’s face—the yaksa’s magic within her.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to save her again.
But she would do whatever she had to do. Today, she and Sima climbed into their own chariot. Lata watched, something dark in her eyes, her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders by her white-knuckled hands.
“Doesn’t the empress need you?” Priya asked.
“The empress has already said her goodbyes to me, and to all of us,” said Lata. “Including you. I tried to change her mind again. As did Lady Raziya.” She met Priya’s gaze. “I should have known if she would not fight with you by her side, she would not take any of us.”
“You sages,” Priya said with a smile. “I was always told you could see too much.”
“The gift and curse of all who seek knowledge,” Lata said dryly. “Perhaps I will see you again, Elder Priya.” Her expression was so very grave. “I shall hope that I do. But I must admit, our situation looks somewhat dire.”
Priya wanted to say something brave, or funny—wanted to laugh, and show her teeth, and tell Lata that of course she’d survive. No “perhaps” was necessary. But Priya knew better, and Lata did too.
“Perhaps,” Priya agreed, instead.
Lata inclined her head and stepped back. And then the charioteer clicked his teeth, and raised the reins—and then they were on the move, the chariot racing over the ground, the rumble of an entire army surrounding them.