Chapter Twenty-Two Two Paths
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two Paths
Needless to say, their ma was just as shocked as Hasan to learn that Poppy was daivyakt.
At first, she’d been piqued to see the two of them downstairs without the thumb, but when Hasan revealed what Poppy had told them and recounted the story of the burst pipe, she’d been stunned into silence—a rare thing for someone as sharp as his mother.
“I thought the viceroy picked her off the street,” she said. She was chopping behndi for lunch, her movements deft and quick. “What was a daivyakt girl doing in the gutters?”
“She was orphaned,” Zeyar said. “They found her in the ashes after a fire in a textile factory in Andhra—”
“I’m familiar with the tale,” Rohini snapped.
“I was there when it happened. Gods, it was a scandal. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.
The Welks were all displeased—I don’t think I saw any positive press coverage.
Virians were divided; some felt that it was a sign that Welkish society was becoming more accepting of us, whereas others thought it was a new phase in eradicating our identity, by taking our children and implanting their values in them. ”
“What did you think?” Hasan asked.
His ma sighed. “It was one less child on the streets. Evidently, no Virian was planning to claim her if they found her in the wreckage of that factory. I suppose it makes sense, that this girl from Andhra has control over water. Narayan Sovan and his family spent years in that city before Jagat Rai finally executed them all at the end of the war. Perhaps he didn’t do a thorough job, and whoever escaped had to start over with nothing.
But still, daivyakt living like vasudhakt?
” She shook her head. “What has this island come to?”
Hasan’s mouth flattened into a straight line. “Vasudhakt don’t belong on the streets either, Ma.”
His mother waved his words off with her knife. “The gods place us where we need to be,” she stated. “It’s not for us to decide what roles we play in the destiny of the world.”
Silently, Hasan wondered if it was power or the cold indifference toward the plight of the human condition that marked the difference between man and god.
“Anyway,” Rohini said, bringing him back to the conversation at hand, “we cannot continue with our plan as it is.”
“Why not?” Zeyar asked.
She shot him a dirty look. “She is beloved by the gods,” she said.
“Not only does she have the power to channel divine energy, but her domain is water. Since the slaughter of the Sovans, water daivyakt have been practically unheard of. The gods show us great favor by blessing her with such an ability. To cut her fingers off would be inviting their wrath. They might forsake us, and then we would be even worse off than the vasudhakt.”
“So then we ought to back her, then,” Hasan said, pouncing on the opening. “If she’s daivyakt, likely descended from the royals of old, then she’s born to rule. The gods would want us to support her, don’t you think, Ma?”
Zeyar glared at Hasan. “If she’s truly destined for the role, she’ll come into it on her own. If the gods want her to have it, then it will come to be, with or without our interference.”
Their ma blew out an exasperated breath. “What are you talking about?”
“Poppy and her fiancé are in a power struggle,” Zeyar explained. “Montrose intends to marry her so he can be the next viceroy, but she wants the role herself.”
“There’s never been a vicereine,” Rohini said.
Zeyar shot Hasan a triumphant look. “That’s what I said.”
“More’s the pity,” she continued. She lifted her bowl of chopped behndi, walking to the stove where the rest of her ingredients waited.
Hasan and Zeyar followed, flanking her as she turned on the gas stove and poured oil into the pan.
“In the age of maharajas, there were several, highly competent dowager maharanis, some of whom were even more blessed by the gods than their late husbands! This island could use a woman’s touch—especially one of our women, with divine favor. ”
“She has no one to support her, Ma,” Zeyar said.
“She’s been gone for seven years and has only just returned.
She has no connections, no allies. By her own admission, even her lord father’s influence isn’t enough.
She wants us to fight for her, but once she’s in office, then what?
Do you think white men will lie down and accept orders from her?
A brown woman? They’ll overthrow her, and then whoever succeeds her will stamp us out like cockroaches. ”
“But she would be sympathetic to us,” Hasan countered.
“Having her as vicereine could open the doors for real change. She could introduce all kinds of legislation to improve the quality of life for Virians in this country. Montrose has always persecuted us, has even chosen a career that gives him the license to do it without repercussion. Do you think that will stop if he gets even more power?”
“Her sympathy would be her downfall,” Zeyar said.
“The other nobles would see it as a weakness, and work even harder to overthrow her. What do you think she’ll do then?
If it comes to saving her own neck or fighting for your idealist notion of a better world, she’ll pick herself.
Then you’ll have chained yourself to the losing side, with nothing to show for it. ”
Hasan turned on as much of his youngest-son charm as possible. “Ma, what do you think?”
Zeyar shot him a look: Not fair.
He gave him a wry smile in return. I thought we weren’t in the business of fairness?
“Both of you are a disappointment,” she said, dropping chopped onions into the pan with a loud sizzle. Hasan’s smile fell off his face. “Your brother is imprisoned, and yet you sit in this kitchen, playing at being kingmakers.”
Queenmaker, he thought, but said nothing, instead bowing his head. Zeyar lowered his gaze as well.
Their ma pointed her rolling pin at both of them. “Have you forgotten what the goal is?” she asked, her voice scathing. “We need to rescue your brother. Back either one of them—back both, if you must—but make the decision that will return Paranjay to us the fastest.”
“Poppy would do it,” he insisted vehemently. “We tried dealing with Montrose, and he proved that he’s unreliable. Now, let’s try Poppy.”
“It would take a long time for her to even assume office,” Zeyar said. “Remember, her father is still viceroy until he retires or dies, and he wouldn’t agree to returning Paranjay. Are we just going to wait for the old man to bite it to get Paranjay back?”
“Ma.” Hasan cast his eyes toward his mother, begging her to intercede for him. “What do you think we should do?”
“I told you.” His ma scowled. “Get Paranjay back. Do what must be done. You are grown men, now. Don’t tell me you cannot come up with a plan on your own?”
“The way forward is clear,” Zeyar said loftily, “but Hasan can’t see it because he’s too busy envisioning a utopian future where all injustice is miraculously solved by a Virian leader.”
“You have to admit that things would be better if we had a leader who was sympathetic to us,” Hasan said. “One of our own.”
“If we’re going to be ruled by one of our own, it should be someone who has a fighting chance of staying in power!”
“Like who?” Hasan leaned over his mother’s head, his lips curled into a leer. “You? Since you seem to think you know it all. Well, you don’t know sh—”
“Enough!” their ma exploded, slamming her wooden ladle against the counter. “This kind of childish fighting is counterproductive and will not get your brother back. Get out. Cool off. When you can behave like grown men, then we’ll discuss it.”
Zeyar gave Hasan a cool, indifferent look over their mother’s head. Then he spun on his heel and left the room.
“Okay, Ma,” Hasan sighed. He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek, but she swiped at him with the ladle, forcing him to jump back.
“No,” she said. “I want my son back. If you loved me, you would do that for me.”
He bowed his head, teeth clenched. With that, he left his mother to prepare lunch.
· · ·
It was a blistering day for a walk. Hasan wiped his hand uselessly along his sweat-slick forehead as he slogged up the road.
Though the exercise aggravated his gunshot wound, he had to blow off steam.
After an hour, however, he couldn’t ignore the throbbing in his shoulder any longer.
He forced himself to turn around, cringing with every step.
By the time he returned to the house, his shoulder was on fire.
He let himself in, the screen door slamming shut behind him.
The large wooden ceiling fans wafted cool air over him in gentle greeting.
He tilted his head up in relief, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water to soothe the harsh burn of his parched throat.
There, he discovered a grim tableau: his mother, standing beside a tray of her medical implements, her features drawn, while Zeyar and Harithi flanked her, helping to hold down a slight woman with short hair.
His mother’s patient lifted her head at the sound of Hasan’s footsteps. It took Hasan a moment to recognize her, because in all his years of working with Samina, he had never seen her so badly injured.
Blue-and-purple bruises flowered around her eyes and the crooked bridge of her broken nose. Her lips were split and swollen; some of the scabs had cracked, silently weeping blood. A dark bruise peeked from the hairline close to her right temple. Her right arm had been set in a fresh cast.
“Lie back down,” his mother told Samina. “You have at least one broken rib, if not more.”
Samina didn’t listen, wincing as she sat upright.
“Who did this to you?” Hasan demanded, but he already knew. He’d known since the moment Montrose had emerged alone from that room at the museum. “I’ll kill him,” Hasan seethed. “We won’t let him get away with this.”
“Sit down,” Zeyar said gently.