by Varsha Ravi
Mohini was still watching her, a little fearful and a little wary, as if unsure whether the other girl was joking or not. In a low whisper, she said, “That was, you know, the high priest.”
Isa crossed her arms. “I thought Kita was the high priestess?”
The other maid’s mouth puckered as she slowly caught on to the fact that Isa was toying with her. Still, she continued, “The other high priest. The thyvaayan.”
She tore her gaze away from them. Suri still felt a little lightheaded, though she was unsure whether that was from the blood loss or that strange, unsteadying show of faith. She couldn’t fathom it—the thought of someone putting that trust in her, the reality of that person being him.
“My lady?” Isa repeated, placing her hand on her shoulder. Her tone was brittle, and Suri knew she had finally seen the bandages. There was an unsaid question in those two words—Did he hurt you?
She shook her head, the lies coming easily to her lips. “I was sleepwalking, and I fell and cut my hands. He walked me back and cleaned the wounds.”
“But why was he out there this late?” Mohini asked, tone hushed and clipped, as if she had tasted something bitter. She shivered, as if the concept of him wandering the city was something to fear, something that held danger.
Irritation sparked behind her sternum. “He suffers from insomnia, Mohini,” she said sharply. The maid flinched with surprise at her tone; her mouth twitched as if to say something in response, but eventually she fell still, gaze trained on the floor.
Isa looked at her curiously, but Suri turned away, pulling her knees up. She spoke without looking back, keeping her eyes on the glittering city outside. “The walk has tired me. I would like to rest.”
They left without complaint, but Mohini cornered her the next morning before they left for the day’s errands.
“My lady,” she began, and then paused, unsure of how to continue. Finally, she said, “It is not that I do not trust you.”
It took Suri a few seconds to understand what she was referring to. She exhaled, weary though the sun had only just risen. “It is him you distrust. Is that what you mean to say?”
Mohini glanced around them nervously before saying, “I do not distrust him. After all he has done, who could possibly doubt his loyalty to the crown?”
Suri raised an eyebrow. “Then?”
“It is simply that—” she cut off, sighing. “I have not seen this, only heard of it, but—there is a rumor that—”
“A rumor, Mohini?”
“Please, my lady,” she pleaded. “I only say this because I—I worry.” Her voice was tense, shoulders bunched together.
Suri pinched the bridge of her nose and waved a hand to show her acquiescence. Mohini mustered a ghost of a relieved smile, but it dropped off her face seconds after. “There is this old rumor, you see. From before the war—when the late high priestess was still alive. She taught her daughter—the current high priestess—and him all that they know, as it goes.” She swallowed hard, and then continued, “The temple was newly made for him—Avya had told him how he wanted it built, and he had given the laborers meticulously detailed descriptions. And this, this was his first service he would truly participate in. If I remember correctly, he was less than seven years of age. And… And when he picked up the unthi to clean the statue, it is said it cracked and shattered under his fingertips. Simply from the touch—he had not said anything, nor thrown it. He had only touched it.”
His scars, she thought. The thin, short white lines that tangled on the backs of his hands. She had assumed he had gotten them in some kind of conflict, and yet it was strangely fitting. A pot, broken by innocence. She pursed her lips to keep her expression neutral. “And what is so frightening about that?”
Mohini looked at her sideways, as if she were the odd one for not immediately understanding. “He is not human, my lady—he is not normal, the way you and I are. If he could break a pot with his bare hands as a child, with no effort—with no intention—imagine what he is capable of. If one were to anger him…” She shuddered and made a quick gesture of protection. The irony of it sat bitter on Suri’s tongue.
“I will keep that in mind,” Suri assured her. The way Mohini had described it nauseated her, but a small, wary part of her—the part that had always kept her alive—wondered if she was right. If Kiran had only grown in power since that misstep, if his fingers—his blood—could split open the sky, just like his patron’s had.
14
Lyne
She didn’t hear him approach. Kiran had always been quiet, but this was a cultivated silence, something taught and learned. He ducked into the living room, dark hair curling and damp against the nape of his neck. His borrowed T-shirt hung off him at an awkward angle, exposing wet, nut-brown skin. He nodded at the board in her hands. “What’s that?”
Her hands tightened around it instinctively, and his eyes tracked the movement. Carefully, he perched on the edge of the armchair. “You don’t have to tell me. You are allowed your secrets, Suri.”
And she was, but part of her still wondered, still dreamt. She had asked the gods for a sign, and they had given her him; for the longest time, she had considered that the divine equivalent of them flipping her off. But she’d been trying to piece together the tangled web of this for years, had gone over all the evidence hundreds of times, thousands. He was something new—logically, she knew it was unlikely he wasn’t related, even if he hadn’t been behind it.
She gave the board a cursory glance. Her grandmother had bought her a pack of poster boards for a grade school project and she had used all but this one. When night fell, she would take it out and work on it by lamplight, by moonlight. It was so clearly the work of a hopeful, naive child. She handed it to him, only slightly shaking.
He took it, covering her hand with his for just a moment. And then he let go, drawing back and taking in the poster board. After a while, he spoke. “How long have you been working on this?”
She could only manage a bitter, choked-off chuckle. “A long time. Longer than I should have. I don’t know why I never stopped, it’s just—I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, over and over. And it doesn’t make sense.”
Kiran cocked his head in a silent question. He rubbed his thumb over the yellowed newsprint picture of the burning car.
“It’s the car, you see,” she continued; the words refused to be stopped. Where were they coming from? There was a gaping, ugly hole in her, taped up with glitter glue and red sunlight. Offering him the board had ripped it open abruptly, and now she was bleeding hope. “They said the car spontaneously combusted. Fuel leak. That was the public statement. But, when I started looking, the police report says the car was completely fine. External fire, apparently.”
“Police report?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She folded her arms, flushing. “I was curious. Defiant. Probably a little too unbothered by things like the law or my own youth for my own good. It took me a while, but I kept searching, and it doesn’t add up. None of it.”
“Tell me how it happened,” he said, leaning back. The red yarn she’d used to connect evidence together slid under his skin. “How you think it happened, not them.”
The words unsteadied her. How she thought it happened. All she had were hypotheses, fragmented ideas and thoughts that connected at tangential points. She drew in a breath and said, “I’m not entirely sure. I’m still searching. But… I think they were murdered. I think someone started the fire in that car, and I think they covered it up. I just can’t understand why someone would want to kill my parents. They were good people, innocent people.”
“Murder is not always an action of wrath,” he said softly. His eyes were critical, but thoughtful, too. As if he took her words seriously, trying, in his own way, to help. “People often wield it as a tool. A scythe to carve the world in an image they desire.” He glanced up and held her gaze. “You started this years ago. Why haven’t you shared it with anyone?”
Her lips twisted bitterly. “I know I can’t show my grandmother. She’s too cynical; she’d dismiss it immediately. And if she did believe me, if she got her hopes up and then had them dashed—I don’t think she would be able to bear it. This is all… speculation. It’s not baseless, but there’s no empirical proof. No one would believe me. They’d think I was paranoid.”
“I don’t,” he affirmed. His mouth quirked to the side sharply. “Then again, I may be paranoid myself. I’ve seen a lot of strange things happen in the world, Suri, but this is stranger still, and coincidence is rare. Do you know anything more about the fire set in the car, apart from the police report?”
“No,” she said, hesitant. Reaching forward, she pointed at the sigil she’d drawn on the board in black permanent marker. It was dry, matte, but she still felt as though it might peel off the board and grip her tightly. “But when I was seven, my grandmother left me alone in the shop. It was for a short while, and I’d been left alone for longer before. A man came in, pale and cold, dressed in black. I can’t remember much about him apart from that. He laid a letter on the front table, said it was for my grandmother. And then he gave me a bag, plastic and bound with a blue tie. Told me it was a gift—sweets. After that, he left.”
Kiran had gone still. His skin was dark, bloodless. “What happened?”
“I almost ate them,” she said, and the words were cloying on her tongue. She was only alive by fortune, by chance. A ghost in all but form. “But my grandmother came back, saw the bag. Holly berries, dusted in white granules. I’d thought it was powdered sugar, but it was more poison. In case the berries didn’t do the job.”
In a rare moment of reverence, he made an unfamiliar gesture, an ancient one. She tilted her head in a question, and he said, “A rite of protection, for you.”
She forced a weak smile; he looked truly shaken. But the truth of it was that even speaking of that day still unsettled her. She wanted to forget it so badly, wanted to dismiss it as a fluke, an illusion. But it wasn’t. “The thing is, though, the letter the man had placed on the table—it had no writing. It was blank, save for this single mark in the middle. A circle and a strike straight through. I didn’t understand it back then, but I think it’s related. To whoever killed my parents, and why they did it.”
“I agree.” Eyes shuttered, he rubbed his thumb over the mark. “I don’t recognize it, and I’m sorry for that. I know you thought I might know something. I will help you look, though. If you will have me.”
There was a strange uncertainty to the offer. She smiled a little, despite herself. He was solemn at times, but never shy, never unsure.
Suri nodded, surprised at her own resolve. “I wouldn’t have given you the board if I didn’t want your help. I trust you.”
He ducked his head, the three words piercing him as though they were knives. She had not meant them to hurt, and he knew that. And yet, they cut. “Then I’ll try to earn it.”
“I think,” Kiran said lightly, “That you all need to take some time to unwind.”
“Gee,” Aza drawled, the single word dripping with sarcasm. “You think?”
Kiran simply smiled at her faintly. It wasn’t one of his old grins, sharp and fever-warm, but it still knew how to shine.
Dai rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. “I appreciate the sentiment, but honestly, I don’t even think a massage would help at this point.”
“Speak for yourself,” Miya mumbled, poring over her textbook. “I would love a massage. Any massage.”
Exams were around the corner, and the past few weeks had been hectic. Busy work days, back-to-back projects, and in Suri’s case, running around the city doing deliveries for her grandmother. Kiran did the majority of the work, but even he couldn’t cover it all. “I’m not talking about massages.”
“Then what are you talking about?” Suri said suspiciously, glancing over at him.
His eyes glittered with humor, but they were strangely hard, too. “Have any of you ever learned to fight?”
Ellis sipped his tea and stared through him. “Please don’t suggest what I think you’re about to suggest.”
“And what’s that?” he asked pleasantly, goading.
Aza raised her hand. Her legs were thrown across the side of the armchair, and she was peering intently at something on her laptop. “I have. Tried to teach Dai, but he hated it. Refused on principle.”
“Principles don’t really come into play when somebody’s threatening to kill you,” Kiran replied. Suri cut a glance at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. His memories made themselves clear in small, sharp gestures such as these. Old bitterness, tempered by pain. “Self-defense, at the very least. And stress relief, for the rest of you.”
Miya rolled over on the couch. “I wouldn’t mind. It might be fun to punch someone after all the time I’ve spent fantasizing about punching this professor.”
Ellis made a reluctant noise of assent, and Aza turned to convincing Dai. He was pointedly staring at his book, but he hadn’t turned a page in a startlingly long time and his expression was strained. He was notoriously avoidant of confrontation.
“Please,” she wheedled. It was a ridiculous look on her, like a poodle growling. “Dai, please. It’ll be fun.”
“It won’t be fun,” he said tonelessly. “Hitting people is not fun.”
“It kind of is,” Miya said, and he glared at her.
Dai threw his hands up. “Why are you all trying to convince me? Ask Suri. If Suri says yes, I’ll come.”
All eyes in the room turned to her.
“I’ll buy you ice cream for a month,” Aza said, solemn.
“It’s almost winter,” she replied, arching an eyebrow. But she knew they wouldn’t relent until she gave an answer.
Suri had never learned to fight, had never really thought about it. Life in her grandmother’s shop had always sheltered her. Self-defense hadn’t seemed necessary.
But Kiran had proposed it for a reason, something more salient than stress relief. She turned to him; there was a plea in his eyes, dark gold and meant only for her. Please.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Whatever. I vote yes.” Dai gave her a wounded look, and she patted his arm. “Sorry. Self-defense is important.”
“This is a bad idea,” he announced. “I’m just putting it out there. This is going to go horribly.”
After they’d all left, she brought it up to him. “Why do you want us to learn how to fight?”
His features were limned by the flickering glow of the game show. A contestant got a question right, and flashing blue and white lights colored his skin. His mouth was a thin, thin line. “A man tried to kill you.”
“It was twelve years ago.”
“And your parents died seven years before the act,” he returned, fluid and unrelenting. There was a terrible softness to his voice, and it nearly resembled concern. “Time is irrelevant here, Suri. He tried to kill you, and he could try again, and so could someone else—what of whoever bound us? You need to be able to protect yourself.”
She turned to face him, and in the darkness, she struggled to piece together his expression. But it was only ashes and fear, bitter on her tongue and cold on his. Eventually, he said, “You trust me.”
It was a question that tried so hard not to be. “I do.”
Kiran exhaled, a brittle sound. “Then trust me now, and let me teach you. Please.”
Silently, she watched him breathe, traced the heave of his chest and the slant of his jaw, the sharp line of his mouth, twisted with anticipation.
She didn’t think knowing how to block a punch would keep her alive, not if someone truly meant to kill her. And she thought maybe Kiran knew that too, and that odd, strained ache in his gaze was because he knew it. And still, he wished for this. She couldn’t deny him his hope. “Okay. I’ll do it.” A contestant got a question wrong; canned laughter filled the air, and he smiled.
Kiran was flippant and fastidious by turns, and he took the matter of teaching th
em how to fight far more seriously than he’d suggested he would. Ellis suggested a gym on the southwest edges of the city, and they met there after finishing their exams for the month. Finals were coming up soon, but there was little point in taking a test if you couldn’t temporarily forget that academia existed for a short period of time afterward.
The gym was nestled within the bare bones of an old warehouse. Suri would’ve thought it abandoned if not for the scattered signs of life—a few cars parked haphazardly near the city limits, lights flickering from inside, the distant sound of shouts.
They lingered by the entrance while Kiran talked to the owners of the gym, two ladies in their mid-twenties. He said something, and they both laughed before handing him a shining, crooked object and ducking out of the building.
“You can come in now,” Kiran called, and they hesitantly shuffled into the building. The warehouse had vaulted ceilings, lanterns hanging from the thick, wooden beams slotted into the roof. High windows lined the walls, letting in the faintest drip of moonlight.
Kiran was leaned against the edge of the ring, a keychain hanging from long, scarred fingers. He gestured for them to join him, and they all exchanged glances with each other—Aza’s mouth curved with that sharp, small grin that meant she was excited, Miya arching a single eyebrow, Ellis mildly bemused, and Dai vaguely nauseated.
Suri didn’t know how she felt about this yet—every time she thought deeply about it, she remembered Kiran’s gaze, soft and pleading. Please.
They toed their shoes off, and one by one, pulled themselves up and into the ring. Aza led them through taping, looping it around their wrists and hands. Kiran twirled the keychain around his finger, then slipped it into his pocket. His lips parted to speak, but Aza cut in. “I know we’re all thinking this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Can you fight? Like—” she gestured at him, as if it was meant to be an explanation.