Chapter 4
I hesitated when I reached the doors to the fort, looking up in the direction of the infirmary as I bit my lip.
I knew I ought to go and check on my uncle.
After all, he’d raised me for the last fifteen years and understood me better than anyone.
As a child, I’d marveled at how he would always stop me before I could put my mischievous plans into action.
Later, he told me he would just imagine what he would have done in my shoes, and then he tried to stay two steps ahead.
He was, in many ways, the father I’d never had since my own passed away while my mother was still carrying me. I owed him a visit.
But I’d also promised him I would see to the last rites of our soldiers.
So I made my way toward the beach and pretended I was doing it to make sure I fulfilled my duty to my uncle.
It certainly wasn’t because I couldn’t look at those seven sheet-covered beds again.
It had nothing to do with the fact that Samanth was under one of them.
Samanth.
I had trained with Samanth and Thevan since childhood, under their father’s watchful eye.
When I’d had trouble with the sword, Samanth had gotten up early to do extra drills with me.
He’d encouraged me but never let me get away with sloppiness, and he had always made sure to bring some almond burfi as a reward for when we finished.
The silver-lined diamond desserts always tasted sweeter after our practice.
For years, I’d tied a rakhi around his and Thevan’s wrists for Raksha Bandhan, and they promised me their protection as if I were their sister.
When Thevan didn’t come for the ceremony last year, Samanth had found me in the gardens that evening.
He’d wiped my tears and tied a bracelet with a patterned gold medallion on my wrist, demanding my protection in exchange for his, since our skills with the sword were now equally matched.
He’d told me Thevan just needed time for his heart to accept what his mind already knew.
I’d wanted to pretend that I didn’t know what Samanth was talking about—that I hadn’t noticed Thevan’s furtive glances or the way my cheeks always seemed to be on fire when he was around—but Samanth’s shake of his head told me there was no point in denying it.
Thankfully, Samanth hadn’t put words to any of that, and he didn’t ask me to either.
Instead, he’d pulled some almond burfi out of his pocket with a mischievous smile, and the world’s problems had melted away for a while as we savored the garden’s evening air, giggling like children over our stolen sweets.
I covered my bracelet’s gold medallion with my other hand, feeling its bumps as it dug into my palm and wrist. Who could I go to now when I struggled?
Wood for the pyres had already been delivered to the beach, and I immediately began to stack it, ignoring everyone who protested.
It was hard work—the logs were heavy and had to be arranged carefully to burn well.
My guards joined me wordlessly, perhaps feeling as I did: a need to do something when we all felt so helpless.
The sun rose higher, and I was thankful for the breeze on the beach. It carried the taste of salt and left my face crusted. Soon I wasn’t sure if I was tasting my sweat, the sea, or my tears when I licked my lips.
Flowers began arriving from Chetan’s shop.
Baskets overflowed with marigolds threaded into long garlands, stacks of broad green mango leaves, and clusters of white jasmine and chrysanthemum.
After the pyres were built, I draped the garlands around them and arranged the fragrant white flowers.
The people who’d left us deserved to be sent to the Spirits with the same beauty they brought to us in life.
We left the mango leaves for the monks, who arrived wearing their white robes when the sun was well past its zenith.
They stared at my sweat-streaked face and matted hair, but I folded my hands together dutifully and thanked them for coming.
They took the mango leaves from me and began their prayers and chants as they circled the pyres.
I followed to see how I could help but jumped when I felt a cool hand on my shoulder.
I batted it away and whirled around to see who dared to touch me.
Ektha did not flinch. She stepped forward instead, taking my hand in hers. She covered it with her other hand and stood with me for a moment before tugging me away from the pyres.
My feet dragged as I followed. Ektha didn’t force me to go faster, but she did not let me stop either. I wanted to protest that there was more work and that I didn’t have time for this, but my voice had left me.
I went along as she led, putting one foot in front of the other, and didn’t worry about where we were going.
I just followed. It didn’t matter where we went, anyway.
The sands of time always shifted so more people waited beyond the line of the Spirits instead of here by my side.
Nowhere I could go would change that. Nothing I could do would change that.
Ektha took one of her hands off mine and raised my chin to her face. I didn’t want to meet her eyes, so I turned my head. I blinked in surprise when I realized we were in the fort. In my room, no less.
My older sister cupped my cheek with her hand, and in that moment, we were four and six again. And seven and nine. And ten and twelve. And all the times in between and after.
The times when she could see me pushing any sense of sadness to the side, in the far corner of myself where it belonged, so I could get up and move along.
My grief stayed there and festered. Cleansing that wound would cause too much pain, and I kept telling myself I’d handle it later—when I had more time. But there would never be enough time.
And so today, as always, Ektha tried to talk to me. “Abbakka, you know I am always here for you. You must—”
“They will begin the rites soon.” I turned to the window, toward the lowering sun. “We should never have left the beach. We cannot be late.”
She lifted my hands up to my face, and I became aware of the cuts crisscrossing my palms and forearms. Drips of blood oozed out, but they hadn’t stung until just now. Sand had worked its way into the woven fabric of my sari and its sopping wet hem.
“If you think your sari is a mess, you should see your face.” Ektha poured some water from a pitcher into a shiny brass bowl, then dipped her pastel yellow handkerchief in it. Cool water dribbled down my face as she wiped from my right temple to my jawbone and then held the cloth in front of me.
The gentle yellow was completely obscured by dark debris that coated the wet cloth. I reached up to touch my face, but Ektha swatted my hand away.
“Your hand is even worse!” She sighed and called two maidservants over. “We need to get you ready. For now, we’ll clean you up. There is much we should discuss, but at the very least, you need to appear more composed than . . . this.”
I nodded numbly.
“We will speak of this again, sister.” Ektha squeezed my hand. “Don’t think I will forget.”
A wave of heat crashed over me, filling my mouth with the taste of smoke and salt.
Soot and ash swirled in the air, sullying my once pristine white sari and turning me gray.
There would be no relief today, not even from the breeze, as we stood on the beach and stared at the smoke billowing ever higher.
My eyes burned, but rubbing them did no good. I had run out of tears long ago. I traced my thumb over the bracelet from Samanth. Its red and gold threads were frayed and faded, but I refused to let it go. It was the last gift from a lifelong friend.
The flames of the pyres had begun to die down, leaving us under the dark sky with only the moon and glowing embers to light the night.
The priests had finished their chants long ago, but few people had left the beach.
We stayed together in silence, unwilling to go back to our homes—as if doing so would somehow signal that we had accepted reality and permitted this moment to be woven into our history.
For now, if we stood here, perhaps we could reject incorporating it into the fabric of our being.
I glanced past Ektha and Nikith and to my uncle, who remained steadfast at Jagath’s side.
Jagath was more than our trusted general.
He was Uncle Trimulya’s friend, insomuch as someone could be friends with the raja.
But there was no doubt that my uncle was there as a friend today.
After paying his respects to the other mourning families, Uncle Trimulya stayed by Jagath’s side as he sent his oldest son to the Spirits.
Jagath had hardly moved since arriving on the beach.
He was a statue at the head of the pyre, with Thevan standing close on his father’s left.
In truth, though, Thevan was far away. He stared at the waters beyond the pyre, determinedly refusing to look at the decorated wooden structure in front of him.
His eyes were glazed with tears, and the rivulets running down his cheeks left ghosts of his sorrow in their tracks.
A monk arrived with a bowl of milk and offered it to Jagath.
My uncle’s general looked down at the bowl, moving his eyes alone, but otherwise stayed motionless.
No matter how much closer the monk pushed the bowl toward Jagath’s hands, he refused to take it.
He clenched his fists, and his lower lip began to quiver.
Thevan stared resolutely out to the sea.
My uncle cleared his throat and inclined his head toward me.
My mouth went dry. It wasn’t my place. Even Ektha appeared troubled as she looked from our uncle to me.
That milk would extinguish the final flames of the pyre; pouring it was the sacred right of the closest family member.
With Samanth’s father and brother right there, it seemed wrong for me to take the bowl.
But neither of them moved. And the monk was likely to continue to try to push the milk into their hands even though neither wanted to take it.
I stepped next to Thevan and reached for the bowl. The monk opened his mouth to protest but then glanced at my uncle and thought better of it. The wooden bowl was warm in my hands, and I did my best to keep it steady as the sands shifted beneath my feet, creating ripples on the surface.
Even those tiny grains of sand were making their impact known. But I was here, fully grown and unable to change anything about this moment.
No matter what I did, Samanth would be gone.
Just like my mother.
And my father.
And the Spirits knew how many more.
Through the smoke that enveloped us, I saw Uncle Trimulya’s wince as he shifted his weight.
He needed to get back to the infirmary again.
Soon. The healers had placed a hard splint to support him as he stood on the beach, but the wound was almost certainly throbbing by now and would need to be rebandaged.
Probably elevated as well, but the raja would be far too impatient for such a thing.
I nudged Thevan with my toes. He ignored me, so I placed one foot on top of his and applied slowly increasing pressure until he looked at me in wide-eyed surprise.
In the darkness, the light of the embers shone in his tears.
I wanted to step away and give him the time he needed to mourn, but I held the bowl of milk out to him instead.
Thevan glanced down and shook his head. “Please,” he whispered.
“This is not mine.” My voice was dry and scratchy even without an attempt to whisper. “It is taking everything your father has to keep standing. This will be too much. You must do this for your brother.”
“And what of me?” Thevan’s eyes flashed in anger and something I couldn’t quite see. “What if it is too much for me? Who will be at my side?”
“You can do this.” Our hands were almost touching, and I sent strength to him through the space in between. “I am standing right here. Just as I have always been. Just as I ever will be.”
“That’s the kind of promise that lights a fire of its own,” he said. “Do not make it lightly.”
Thevan held my gaze as shadows from the flickering flames raced across his face.
For a brief moment, the light illuminated his pain before the darkness covered it again.
My hand burned with the desire to reach up and caress his cheek, filling the hollows with my warmth.
But I kept it still, embracing him with my eyes alone until he finally took the bowl from me.
I made my way to my uncle. The fire spat again, sending out sparks as some of the wood cracked and fell.
A few landed on my sari, and I frantically patted the bright orange sparks until they dimmed into nothing and left only tiny holes behind.
My uncle put a hand on my arm and shifted his weight so he could lean on me when I reached his side.
Pain crisscrossed his face as he tried not to wince.
After paying our final respects, Nikith and I helped my uncle make his way back, with Ektha following close behind.
I looked over my shoulder at the beach one last time.
A shiver ran up my spine, and I reached for my bracelet but felt only my skin, which stung as I touched it.
My bracelet was gone, and a raised blister stung beneath my fingertips.
I hadn’t even noticed when it happened, but I must have gotten burned when the sparks flew out.
There was no sign of my bracelet in the sand, and it was difficult to see anything with so little light.
Somehow, I didn’t need to see it to be certain the singed threads had joined the swirling plumes of the pyre.
By morning, my bracelet would be gone. As would all the ashes. Even our footprints in the sand would be washed away, erased as the earth reset.
And Samanth would be a memory.