Chapter Twenty-Three Pantheon of Silent Gods #2
“Hardly,” Hasan said. “There’s nothing simple about bargaining with the gods.
If they believe the sacrifice isn’t genuine, or if the intent behind a person’s request for divine power is unworthy, they’ll deny you.
For example, in the old days, the daivyakt would use their divine energy to care for the island: to temper tsunamis, soothe the volcano, regulate rains, and keep the earth fertile for planting.
But if they prayed for power to usurp the king and seize the throne, the gods might deny their request.”
“What stops the person from asking again?”
“Common sense, I’d hope.” Hasan traced one of the rivers on the diorama.
“You don’t want to piss off a god. Especially because, in rare cases, the gods have been known to forsake men.
If a person commits a sin so offensive in the eyes of the pantheon, the gods can refuse to bestow power on them for the rest of the person’s life.
It’s considered a great shame, and often the ruling class would strip these people of their names and cast them out of their homes. ”
Her stomach turned. What a horrible fate, to lose your name and your home. “So how do you ask the gods for power, then?”
“We make sacrifices, or naumya,” Hasan answered. “Usually, we dedicate the sacrifice to the god whose patron cause is similar to what we intend to use the power for, or a god who we think would be most sympathetic to us, so that there’s a better chance of the prayer being heard.”
“Is there a specific prayer?”
Hasan spoke, two lines in Virian. She could recognize the smaller words, but the meaning of the prayer was lost on her.
Poppy winced, averting her gaze. “I don’t understand what you said.”
“How much Virian do you know?”
“Some,” she admitted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Basic words and phrases. I haven’t needed to use it in seventeen years.”
Hasan’s brow creased. She braced herself for his judgment, but it didn’t come. “We’ll have to practice, then.”
Silence filled the room. Poppy walked around the edge of the miniature island, careful not to step on the flowers and other offerings.
She studied each god, taking in their lacquered faces, their whimsical designs.
They stared back at her, their gazes hard and unyielding.
She swallowed. When she looked up, Hasan was watching her, his face inscrutable.
She changed the topic. “What’s the plan, then?”
“The plan is twofold,” he said. “First, you’re going to reacquaint yourself with Virian. You’ll be allowed out of your room whenever you please from now on. Harithi and the widows will speak to you in Virian only, and you’ll pick up the language from them.”
“Widows?”
“Those women in white,” Hasan clarified. “They help my mother around the house.”
Poppy recalled the women who had aided her upon her arrival. She’d assumed they were Hasan’s family. “But they’re so young,” she said. “How can they be widows?”
Hasan hesitated. “I’ll explain another time,” he said. “It’s late, and that’s a long story.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “And the second part of the plan?”
“You’ll learn to make naumya and wield daivyakhi.”
Poppy’s heart sank. She had to relearn an entire language?
While seeking the blessings of gods who might or might not exist, so that she could use magic?
If anyone from back home found out, she’d be branded a heretic in an instant.
Nanny had been fired just for talking about magic—what would happen if anyone found out she practiced it?
“Seems like a very reasonable itinerary for two weeks,” she deadpanned, trying to hide her discomfort.
“I don’t expect mastery, Miss Sutherland, but you need exposure.” Hasan sighed. “I wish we had more time, too, okay? But we have to make the best of what we’ve got. Do we have a deal?”
He extended his hand. Poppy’s gaze flickered from his hand, to the pantheon, to his face.
She doubted this would work. She didn’t have the upbringing Hasan did, never had parents who could sit and show her how to use her budding powers instead of teaching her to revile and fear them.
There was no guarantee that the gods would even hear her prayers, given that she had been raised to follow her adoptive culture’s religion.
But what choice did she have? She had already tied her fate to the most notorious criminal in Marnapur; she might as well put her trust in these unseen gods as well.
She placed her hand in his. His bare skin was callused and warm, but his grip was soft.
“Deal.” Under the watchful eyes of the island’s gods, they shook once, firmly.
· · ·
Poppy had already washed and dressed in her white widow’s attire when Hasan fetched her for breakfast. He’d dressed casually, in a plain green cotton kurta with little white buttons.
Though the sun had just begun to stretch into the sky, Rohini had already set the table with platters of parathas, fresh fruit, puffed puris, jam, and a rotund pot that no doubt was responsible for the aromatic scent of cardamom and black tea wafting through the air.
Poppy got in line in front of Hasan, reaching for a plate eagerly.
“Take some food,” he said, speaking in slow, precise Virian, “but touch none of it.”
Though her stomach rumbled in protest, she did as he instructed. She thought back toward the little motley mound of food and flowers and coins at the base of the pantheon. “Will this be my sacrifice?” she asked, wincing at her stilted Virian.
Hasan grinned, approval on his face. “Yes, you’re going to make your first sacrifice today.”
Her limbs went leaden as she followed him to the pantheon. Though Hasan had said he didn’t expect mastery from her, she set her heart on it anyway. Throughout her life, people had only ever expected perfection from her. To strive for anything less would be to risk rejection.
But it wasn’t human approval she’d need this morning—it was that of the divine.
This entire deal hinged on one thing: if the gods accepted her sacrifice as worthy.
If they deemed Poppy as worthy. As she stared at the pantheon, it seemed like all the idols had pulled rank, shutting her out as they glared with hostile eyes.
One thing Hasan had said yesterday had kept her up nearly half the night: If a person commits a sin so offensive in the eyes of the pantheon, the gods can refuse to bestow power on them for the rest of the person’s life.
It was likely incredibly rare, she reasoned, and probably for very dark sins, like murder. Nothing that she had to worry about.
Except she did worry, because what if, in all her years of ignorance, she had done something to turn the gods against her?
What if she put her plate down, said her prayer, and still felt nothing?
The royals of old had been stripped of name and family, but Poppy’s name and family had been given to her by Clarence Sutherland.
And if he learns you’ve summoned this magic, he will strip you of name and family, a little voice in her head said. Would it truly be so bad to fail?
“Okay,” Hasan said, completely unaware of her inner turmoil. “I’ll go first, show you how it’s done. I’m going to put my plate there, where the rest of the offerings are, and then say the prayer. Let’s practice it a couple of times before we start.” He recited a line in Virian.
She still didn’t understand it. “What does it mean?”
“My veins are a vessel for the divine power of the gods. If they find my sacrifice worthy, may I be filled with their cosmic energy,” Hasan translated. “Okay, now, repeat after me.” He restated the lines in Virian.
Poppy echoed the words, concentrating hard to match his pronunciation.
“Better. Try one more time,” he insisted. She obliged him, focused on navigating the sticky consonants and lilting vowels. He nodded. “Good enough.”
She wrinkled her nose. Good enough? She made a mental note to recite the prayer to herself later, until it was just as good as his pronunciation.
“Now, take a minute to choose which god or goddess you want to direct your intention to. I would recommend Indara, god of knowledge, and Nathria, the goddess of victory.” He brushed his fingers over the head of each idol.
“You can direct your prayer to the gods at large, but I find it’s always nice to name one close to the cause. ”
Before she could protest that she didn’t know what a single one of these gods represented, Hasan stepped forward and placed his plate at the foot of the pantheon. Kneeling, he recited the prayer, then lingered a moment before rising.
“Nothing happened,” she said. “How do we know that it worked?” How will you know if I’ve failed?
He chuckled dryly. “What, were you expecting something theatrical? The room to light up? A holy choir?”
Poppy glared at him.
“Sometimes, you feel your skin prickle.” He turned his palms up casually. “There really are no theatrics involved.”
She slackened a degree in relief. There would be no visible sign of her failure, no empty silence following her desperate plea.
Then he added, “Most of the time, the only way to tell if your prayer was answered is to summon your daivyakhi.”
Of course. She would have to prove that the gods had answered her with a display of power, on which this entire deal hinged. Her stomach turned over again. For once, she was grateful that it was empty.
Then Hasan spoke the dreaded words. “Okay, your turn. Show me what you’ve got.”
His eyes burned like a lit cigarette against Poppy’s skin as she stepped forward, placing her plate beside his.
Saying a mournful goodbye to the stuffed parathas, she stepped back, clearing her mind as she recalled the prayer.
“My veins are a vessel for the divine power of the gods,” she recited slowly, putting all her attention on enunciating the unfamiliar words.
“If they find my sacrifice worthy, may I be filled with their cosmic energy.”