Chapter 48 Priya
PRIYA
Harsinghar appeared in the distance. The army did not stop to gaze upon it, but behind the body of the charioteer, Priya could make out glimpses of white marble and golden spires.
She could sense the tug of the ancient trees, with great drooping branches and roots shallow enough to feel footsteps on their surface, or the sun beating down on them.
She closed her eyes and tried to feel nothing but the green—the trees and flowers and the soft creepers wound around windows and colonnades. Every inch of it sang comfortingly. She was surrounded by weapons. She could do what Malini had asked. She could survive this.
“You should open your eyes,” Sima said.
“I don’t have anyone to impress here,” Priya said, still reaching out for green.
“No. Pri. Look.”
Priya opened her eyes.
A sea of shining white and gold filled her vision.
The Parijati army surrounded the city in a gleaming wall of sunlit armor, vast Parijatdvipan flags on gold-and-white swathes of cloth wavering in the breeze. They were waiting.
Their sabers—held aloft before them—were alight with flame.
“It doesn’t look like the emperor’s willing to negotiate,” Sima said.
“No.” Priya’s mouth felt dry. She wetted her lips with her tongue; breathed in the air, already rich with the smell of fire. “He never struck me as the type, really.”
“Hold on tight,” their charioteer said tersely. “I’ve been instructed to carry you as near to the city’s walls as I can.”
Priya gave a jerky nod. She brushed her knuckles against Sima’s own. Said, “Keep your shield up.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Sima said. She clutched Priya’s hand for a single moment, then let it go. “Let me worry about you for once.”
Priya was afraid for Sima. Afraid for herself. For all of them, really. As the chariot jolted forward, she looked out at the riders around them—almost all of them were Ashutosh’s liegemen.
Conches sounded. And her foot soldiers were racing forward, the dust churning beneath their feet. She heard the clashing, roaring noise of boots and metal and—screaming. Of course there was screaming.
Her stomach was writhing. Whenever she blinked, she saw the yaksa behind her eyes.
The chariot gave a sickening lurch. The charioteer swore and veered hard to the left as men piled past them.
“Almost time,” their charioteer called. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, but his mouth was set in grim determination. Priya breathed out, and lowered herself to the ground of the chariot. Sima kneeled with her, her armor creaking.
There was an unnatural pressure to the air. A heaviness, as the wind howled against flags, as horse hooves thudded against the ground, as elephants made low, chuffing noises.
“I’ll make sure nothing touches you,” said Sima quietly, beside her.
“I’m only worried about one thing,” Priya said, voice already a little ragged—as if she were running, fast, hard—not sitting still on the floor of a chariot with Sima crouched beside her, a great shield strapped to her arm. “If the fire touches me…”
“It won’t,” Sima said. “I won’t let it.”
Priya closed her eyes. “Just you and your shield,” she said. “Come on, Sima. Don’t coddle me.”
“Don’t underestimate my strength,” Sima said. “You and me, we’re going to be okay. We’re going to get through.”
“If I don’t—”
“Priya, no—”
“If I don’t,” Priya said more firmly. “Then I want you to be okay. Don’t die for me. Whatever happens.”
“You’re my best friend,” Sima said quietly.
“Sima.”
Sima squeezed her hand. “You don’t have time to argue with me right now.” She stood, in the shadow of their charioteer. Stared out at the raging battlefield.
“The army’s getting closer,” Sima said, and then Priya felt the jolt of the chariot beneath them.
Listened to the crash of metal. The screaming.
She watched as fire crossed the sky above her head like a shooting star.
She held her breath. Held it inside her, then released it.
Held, released. An inhale and exhale and inhale and exhale like a wheel turning, as if she were not so much reaching for the sangam as churning its waters, frothing them into violence.
She got one of her feet beneath her. A knee against the ground.
Drew her magic and held it.
Plans she’d whispered like they were loving things. Plans for battle, in the dark with Malini. Now, in the light of day, she’d have to see them through.
She hoped Ashutosh’s men were are brave as he’d claimed.
Priya had arranged armor for Sima, but she’d arranged a different kind of defense for herself. Buds tucked behind her ears. Seeds sewn and folded into her chunni, her tunic.
Seeds tucked in the sleeves of the soldiers’ armor. In their collars and turbans, helms and boots. Just as she’d asked, Ashutosh’s men had carried her weapons on themselves. They’d been brave after all, and trusted the witch who had saved their lord’s life. Good.
She reached her strength out.
The seeds and buds began to unfurl. Ready. Thorns prickled up at her sleeves—drawing drops of blood at her upper arms, her shoulders. Grounding pain.
The kind of power she would need to take the city terrified her. But until the moment came when the battle was clearly almost lost—until there was no other choice—Priya could rely on some old tricks. Breaking the earth. Throwing up roots. Sending skewers of thorn and branch to pierce and bind.
What was the earth, what was mere soil, compared to the weight of a river?
The ground cracked open, a great lightning strike gouge that spread in splinters, fanning out with the patterned grace of leaf veins. She had to look—stood, gripping the edge of the chariot as she raised her other hand before her—and aimed her strength.
Thorns and roots rose from the ground, burrowing out of the deep soil.
Those roots caught legs, snared bodies. Those thorns forced their way through flesh, spearing limbs before flinging them back violently down.
Bodies fell, and Sima twisted to the side, shield up, keeping them safe.
Through the gaps between shield and armor and Sima’s protective shadow, Priya saw thorns rise on the surface of the Saketan liegemen’s armor.
If they were terrified, or feared her gifts, they didn’t show it. Only pressed on.
Chandra’s army had sentient fire. But her plants had her own mind in them. And if they couldn’t stand against flame, at least they could shoot out like arrows—cut enemy flesh. They could break a throat, a spine.
The harder Priya worked, the more fiercely Ashutosh’s men fought, their whips shining against the air, the blood streaming in an arc after them.
Her vision was beginning to blur. She closed her eyes once more, and focused.
Fiery arrows were still falling. Priya felt one thud into the ground by the wheel to the left of her. The fire arced up, and Sima swore and shoved the shield down, trying to bar the flames even as the chariot swerved.
The chariot lurched wildly.
She could hear the screaming clash of the battle. Louder, louder.
“Are we losing?” Priya yelled.
“I have no idea!” Sima yelled back, ducking low. She drew the shield up, over them, high now. In front of them, their charioteer swore.
Distantly, she heard the wail of conches. A chorus.
The empress had been captured.
Malini, Priya thought. It was a helpless thought, like a call into the void.
A part of her truly hadn’t believed Malini would allow it. But she had told Priya she would, and Malini hadn’t lied to her for a long, long time.
“Take us a little closer to the city,” she yelled to the charioteer, who nodded sharply.
“They’ve got more fire,” the charioteer called, and Sima looked at Priya. Said to the charioteer, “I think we need to—avoid—”
Her words were cut off. A huge gout of fire hit the ground to the right of them, sending their chariot careening. Priya felt the hot wind lash her face.
One of Ashutosh’s liegemen fell from his horse, rolling away roughly with a panicked, terrible yell.
Priya squeezed her eyes shut, reaching abruptly for the green tangled into his armor.
She grasped it with her magic and dragged him out of the path of the flames, by the earth and the green and anything she could hold in that moment, on that breath.
Her eyes snapped open, firelight burning across her vision, and saw another soldier lean down from his horse and grab the man and desperately, swiftly haul him up.
They’re all going to die, she thought with something like terror, and reached again—reached for all the green she could feel, pushing those men back in a wave, away from the falling flames.
Crests of earth rose, like waves to give them a little shelter.
Go back, she thought. All the strength you have is nothing against that fire—
There was another blast. Ringing in Priya’s ears.
She heard Sima scream, her voice ringing like a distant bell.
Before the heat could even touch her—and it was coming, gold-glint of fire, it was coming—Priya wrenched a hand up in the air.
Drew the earth over them, a dark wall, a wave, but not enough. Not enough.
The earth shuddered. She’d done too much. Already, too much, as the chariot rolled, the horses screamed.
Fell, fell, fell—
Back into cosmic waters. Back into waiting arms.
“Sapling,” the yaksa whispered. “Your debt has come due.”