Chapter Twenty-Five The Gift of a Story
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Gift of a Story
A woman dressed in red and brown, with a green dupatta over her hair, entered the stage, her anklets chiming with each step.
Her announcement was accompanied by the lilting harmony of the sitar and wooden flutes.
Her kameez stretched tight over her belly, which had been padded to give the appearance of pregnancy.
Hasan leaned toward Poppy to whisper, “That’s Rukmini. She’s the goddess of fertility, motherhood, and the bountiful harvest.”
A second woman entered the stage, dressed in a cropped aquamarine blouse and a skirt that flared when she spun. The music intensified, the pitch frenzied as the newcomer whirled around Rukmini.
“Neelam,” Hasan supplied. “Goddess of the sea. She is Rukmini’s sister.
Their constant clashing created Viryana, with the lava from Rukmini’s womb becoming solid ground when it touches Neelam’s waves.
In turn, the ocean throws itself on the land, eroding it.
It is a constant battle between the two, but they love each other dearly. ”
The actress playing Rukmini opened her mouth and began to sing in high, clear Virian. As she sang, Hasan shifted closer to Poppy and began to interpret in a low voice: “Sister, be still for me. I seek a mirror to the stars.”
Neelam fell still, tumbling gracefully to the stage. As she lay flat on her stomach, stagehands rushed forward, pulling a reflective black cloth studded with silver pieces over her.
Rukmini circled her sister, tracing her finger over the cloth. Suddenly, she gasped, holding her padded belly. “Daughter,” she cried, “the stars have seen an auspicious match for you! Your wedding will bring color to this land.”
Poppy shot Hasan a look. “Aren’t they already wearing color?”
“The color is for our benefit,” he explained readily. “We cannot name the gods and goddesses in our lyrics, because of the law. So we use visual cues to distinguish them. At the time this tale takes place, color had not yet come to Viryana.”
Onstage, the musicians beat their drums into a hard frenzy as Rukmini went into labor.
She and Neelam slipped off the stage as the drums crescendoed, then went silent.
Rukmini reemerged onstage, a child-sized bundle in her arms. “The stars have given me a daughter,” she announced.
“Her laughter brings the rain; her wailing rouses a monsoon. She will water the earth with her storms.” With that, she disappeared back behind the curtain.
When the next song began, Rukmini still appeared pregnant, but with a little girl in tow. Anticipating Poppy’s next question, Hasan said, “Another visual cue. Rukmini is always portrayed pregnant.”
Onstage, mother and daughter bonded, the former braiding the latter’s hair.
Poppy’s chest constricted at the sight. Demetria had never done Poppy’s hair herself, leaving that for Nanny to do—she always said Poppy had too much hair, and besides, it was a maid’s task.
Yet here was a goddess, doing something as trivial as grooming her daughter.
“Mama,” the little girl sang in a clear and strong voice, “may I go out and play?”
“No,” Rukmini answered. “You are safest with me, child.”
“I want to be like the other girls,” the girl cried.
“My darling Savana,” Rukmini sang back, “no other girl is quite like you.” To the audience, she turned and sang, “I will not let my daughter fall into the wrong hands. A century of safekeeping, if I must. That is my duty as a mother.”
With that, Rukmini wrapped Savana into her arms and dashed back behind the curtains.
For the next song and scene, a teenage girl took the stage alone, dressed in a gray salwar kameez. As the audience watched, an adolescent Savana sang about her solitude, about the hobbies she had mastered in her time alone: archery, music, academics. But nothing she did filled her ache for freedom.
If Poppy had felt emotional at the sight of Rukmini brushing Savana’s hair, then this song nearly undid her.
Savana’s solitude reminded her of her time in Welkland spent mastering the skills of a lady in her free time, unable to staunch the loneliness weeping from the hole in her heart, a hole created by the missing piece back home in Viryana.
Hyperaware of Hasan’s and Harithi’s presence in the tent, she clenched her teeth, swallowing back the memories.
Finally, the scene shifted, and a new, fast-paced song began. Rukmini took the stage again, along with a young woman, dressed in the same grays as the teenaged girl. She was Savana, grown at last.
Rukmini sang of her plan to invite every eligible male to compete for her daughter’s hand: “There will be three contests. To ensure she has the fiercest warrior to guard her, a contest of marksmanship. To ensure that she has the most sensitive of souls to cherish her, a contest of art. And to ensure that she has the most intelligent of minds to advise her, a contest of wits. Only the one who succeeds at all three trials will win my daughter’s hand.
These are the rules, and I vow that I will honor them. ”
Men climbed the stage, dressed in browns and blacks, but there was one man in white and yellow, a large gold crown settled on his hair, who stood out among the rest. When Rukmini called for entrants, he stood at the front of the line.
“The sun god, Altan,” Hasan said. “Prince of the stars, master of fortune.”
“He’s going to win, isn’t he?”
“What makes you say that?”
She rolled her eyes at Hasan. “Even if you hadn’t told me that destiny was his domain, he’s the only one in an elaborate costume. Of course he’s a main character.”
Onstage, the men in line had all moved to the back, leaving Savana in front of her mother, the pair of them singing lines back and forth in a furious volley.
“Wait,” Poppy said. “What’s happened?”
“Savana has entered her own name in the contest,” Hasan filled in. “Rukmini is protesting that she is destined for an auspicious match and is not meant for a life of solitude.”
“You vowed to honor the rules, and nothing about my entry violates them,” Savana argued. “You seek a warrior, a sensitive soul, an intelligent mind. I am all three.”
Unable to refute that logic, Rukmini grudgingly allowed her daughter to enter the contest.
Poppy marveled at Savana’s daring—and envied her freedom. Savana didn’t need a husband, not when she was a goddess. Her powers came from within.
As the contest began, Savana and Altan battled each other through every round.
During the marksmanship contest, their arrows split each other’s, neither willing to concede even half a hair to the other.
During the artistry contest, Savana fashioned her own flute by hand and played a melody so sweet it brought even Aganath, the war god, to tears.
Altan, on the other hand, painted a perfect rendition of her while blindfolded.
And during the battle of wits, the other competitors were hard-pressed to get a word in edgewise while the two sparred in a verbal flurry of parries and thrusts.
The chemistry between Savana and Altan was so riveting, Poppy hardly noticed when Rukmini took center stage. She started as Rukmini sounded a horn, then announced, “The contest is concluded. The champion is none other than my daughter, Savana.”
Though Rukmini did not seem pleased, she tied a red ribbon around her daughter’s wrist.
“Old Virian wedding tradition sealed the marriage bond with a red ribbon,” Hasan explained. “It’s tied around the wrists of both parties, to signify the joining of their bloodlines.”
Onstage, all the other competitors began slinking away, disgruntled.
Only one man remained: Altan, who had paused to cast one last look at Savana.
Her back was to him, but the audience could clearly see her face as she examined the ribbon.
The triumph in her eyes was clear, but then she looked up, peering over her shoulder at Altan.
The music slowed to a lull, a sweet, tentative song where the yearning notes of the sitar overtook the drums.
From opposite ends of the stage, Altan and Savana stared at one another. Then Savana approached Altan. “In this contest, I won my own hand,” she told him, “but you won my heart. If you are not opposed, prince of stars, I would have you as my husband.”
Altan’s answering smile was radiant as he extended his wrist to her.
“Princess of rain,” he sang, “it would be my honor.” He held still, allowing her to tie a red ribbon around his wrist. As she did, the stagehands reemerged with banners of cloth, running in circles around the couple until the colors blurred and merged with each other, giving the appearance of a rainbow.
Rukmini appeared onstage, looking satisfied. “Thus, the prophecy is fulfilled,” she told the crowd directly. “The marriage of rain and sun has brought color to Viryana. Under their rainbow banner, crops flourish, and the country prospers.”
The music came to a grand finish. As the actors and musicians lined up onstage to bow, Poppy blinked, then hastily brought her hands together to applaud. “It’s over?” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her tone.
Harithi stretched. “Unfortunately,” she said dryly, then slipped out of the tent.
Hasan rolled his eyes at her exit. “Harithi prefers the bloodier epics. I tried to persuade the troupe to perform more of the legends, but this was the only one they were willing to do. It’s one of the ones my grandfather used to take us to see every Bahaari.”
“Bahaari?”
“The beginning of the spring planting season,” he elaborated. “The farmers celebrate the marriage of Savana and Altan with a festival of colors. The entire village attends. It’s not unusual for there to be archery contests, artisans, and recitations by scholars and poets.”
Poppy tried to picture that: the streets full of celebration, merriment and mirth swirling in the spring air.
“I’ve never been to a festival,” she yawned.
Without the music and the story to keep her engaged, sleep beckoned to her, the warm summer night and her full stomach making her drowsy.
Perhaps that was why, in a moment of thoughtlessness, she added, “You’ll have to take me next year. ”
Immediately, she bit her tongue. There would be no next year, if all went to plan. She’d be back in society, her father’s daughter and heir, and he would be reunited with his brother, free to resume his life of crime.
For one long, mortifying moment, Hasan said nothing, not meeting her eyes. Stupid, she admonished herself. He was likely thinking of ways to let her down gently.
Then, he said, “If you insist.”
Somehow, this unsettled her far more than a rejection.
Mercifully, Hasan changed the topic. “Today was a bad start, I’ll admit. But I meant what I said: I believe in our deal. I’m not giving up. Not unless you want to.”
She bit her bottom lip, both heartened and intimidated by his words. She was so used to having to earn other people’s faith. Hasan’s conviction weighed on her like an obligation, a debt she couldn’t repay.
“You’re putting a lot of pressure on me,” she said.
“It’s nothing close to the pressure you’ll face as vicereine. Are you up for this or not?”
Poppy turned over the question in her mind, doubt crawling over.
Even with Hasan’s alliance, this would be an uphill battle until the very end.
She wasn’t a goddess like Savana. She didn’t have a century to prepare.
But when she thought about the bleary damp of Welkland, of Richard’s laughter as he discussed murdering daivyakt, her resolve hardened.
No matter what it cost, he had to be stopped.
“I am,” she said.
Satisfaction gleamed in his black eyes. “Then I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”