Balavan sighs. “Don’t you see, Marinda? You keep trying to play a game that I’ve already won.”
He’s right. I can’t meet his eyes, can’t bear to let him see the resignation in my expression. Instead I glance around the room—at the glazed-tile walls and the rich furniture swathed in silk. The endless bowls of fruit and the gleaming hardwood floors. It’s the room of a man who gets everything he desires.
And now he’ll get whatever he wants from me too. As long as Mani is safe, I will give him the entire world in my open palms.
My gaze lands on the diamond-shaped pearl mirror on the wall. Something catches in my mind, and my pulse speeds up. I remember seeing it the first time I visited this room. Even the mirrors are made of gems, I thought. But on closer inspection, it doesn’t particularly look like a mirror. I only assumed it was one because Balavan examined his reflection on its surface.
It actually looks more like a giant snake scale.
Understanding seeps into me. It’s the relic—the reservoir that holds all of Balavan’s extra lives. Only Balavan would have the arrogance to keep it on display. To gaze into it like a mirror and let it reflect invincibility back at him. But then again, who would ever think to look for it here? Maybe hidden in plain sight is the most secret place of all. I take a step back toward where the dagger lies on the floor. I need to keep talking to distract Balavan, or he’ll never let me get close enough.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
“I want you to stop fighting,” he says. “I want you to take your place by my side, where you were always meant to be.”
“Why would I do that?” Another step. And then another. The dagger is within reach now, but I don’t dare look at it.
“Because I control Mani,” he says. “And that means I control you.”
I let my face go slack. I sink to my knees and drop my head in my hands. My hair is loose, and it falls around me like a dark curtain, shielding my hands from Balavan’s view. In one fluid motion I snatch the dagger from the floor and spring to my feet.
Balavan’s gaze drops to the weapon. His eyes widen and then he laughs. The sound hits my ears like breaking glass.
“Oh, Marinda,” he says. “That would be a very bad idea.”
He takes a step toward me and I back away, inching closer to where the scale hangs on the wall.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”
He moves forward again and I twist away, like he’s my partner in a carefully orchestrated dance. I try to remember exactly what Vara said about destroying the relics. Blood…willingly shed. The blood of the power itself. And then, I heard that Balavan had fathered a daughter. If I’m his daughter—if we share blood—then I should be able to destroy the relic.
“You really think such a small blade can defeat me?”
My fingers inch along the handle of the dagger until I’m holding the blade in my palm. I squeeze as hard as I can. Sharp pain bites into my flesh, and bright blood wells at the wound. I run toward the wall and press my hand to the giant scale.
And nothing happens.
Fazel and I slept under the stars last night, curled on a patch of unyielding ground, and now I can’t quite roll the stiffness from my neck. I arch my back and stretch my arms above my head. From the corner of my eye I catch Fazel studying me with an expression on his face that I can’t quite name.
When he sees me looking, he drops his gaze and suddenly finds a thread on his sleeve that seems to need his urgent attention.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
There’s a hint of red at the tips of his ears. “Sure,” he says without looking up. “Of course.”
I want to press him—I know there’s something wrong—but he seems so uncomfortable that I decide to let it drop. Ever since he nearly kissed me, something has shifted between us, like the pressure in the air right before a storm.
“We should get moving,” I say. The Raja’s palace is only a handful of hours from here, and the less time we’re out in the open, the better.
Fazel’s shoulders relax at the change of subject. “Lead the way.”
He aggressively avoids touching me as we walk. Before, he didn’t hesitate to lay a hand on my forearm to emphasize a point, or squeeze my shoulder to get my attention. But now he walks with his hands clenched at his sides. The space between us is conspicuously large.
It shouldn’t bother me. And yet…in that moment when Fazel’s breath danced across my cheeks, I thought I might actually have the first kiss that wasn’t ordered by someone else. That wasn’t part of a job. That wasn’t initiated by me. The possibility of having that choice—to be offered affection and have the option to accept or reject it—made me feel desired and powerful and important.
Until Fazel pulled away. And now he seems awash in regret.
The cold weight of being someone’s mistake presses on my chest.
As we get closer to the palace, a fragrance drifts to us on the wind—at first it’s delicate, and then, with every step we take, it grows more oppressive, more cloying. It reminds me of when Gita used to make chutney, and the smell of the boiling fruit would burn the inside of my nostrils like I was being suffocated with the scent of sugar.
When we finally crest the hill, the palace stretches across the valley floor like a giant, glittering dragon. Fazel lets out an appreciative sigh, but we barely have time to take it all in before I see smoke in the distance. It curls above the treetops in a massive brown column. Fazel and I break into a run. And we aren’t the only ones. The palace doors emit servants in a frantic stream. They carry water in buckets and barrels and even bare hands as they rush toward the fire.
Time seems to slow as I take in the scene before me. The air is filled with the crackle of breaking branches, the shouts of people racing toward the fire, the thud of damaged trees hitting the ground. The wind changes direction and clears the smoke directly in front of me.
Orange flames lick up trees that hang heavy with pale fruit. In the center of it all is a small form. I squint. A boy.
And one of his arms is missing below the elbow.
Slick dread goes through me as I race forward. Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Why isn’t anyone trying to help him?
“Mani!” I shout. “Run.” But my voice is swallowed up in the chaos.
“What’s wrong?” Fazel asks as he pulls alongside me.
I point toward Mani. “I know him,” I say. “He’s my…” I choke back a sob. “We have to get to him.”
Fazel gasps as he spots Mani. He grabs my hand—the first time he’s touched me all day—and we hurry forward.
“Mani!” I call again. “Run.” But he isn’t moving. He stands motionless in the midst of the smoke and flames, as if he’s oblivious to the danger around him. As if he’s the eye in a storm of his own making. A gust of wind changes the direction of the smoke and obscures Mani from my sight.
I try to speed up, but I can’t make my legs move fast enough.
My throat starts to close from the dirty air. “There’s a little boy in the fire!” I shout to the men entering the orchard from the opposite side. “You have to help him.” But no one is listening to me. No one cares. The wind shifts again and the smoke clears.
And Mani slumps to the ground.
Blood drips from my palm and trickles toward my elbow. I cut myself too deeply, and the sight of the wound makes me light-headed. The giant snake scale is painted with my crimson handprint, the fingers smeared and unnaturally long. My blood has ruined the beauty of the luminescent surface but otherwise seems useless.
My hand throbs. Maybe I’m expecting too much of a change. Maybe Balavan will quietly die without anything happening to the scale. I turn to face him, my injured palm cradled in the opposite hand. The jeweled dagger lies at my feet.
Balavan holds perfectly still. His gaze jumps from the scale on the wall to the blood running down my arm. His head is cocked to one side, his lips pursed, and then, like clo
uds parting, understanding dawns on his face.
“Garuda told you about the relics.” He says it so softly I barely hear. His voice has lost the mocking arrogance it had earlier. Now his tone is full of something quieter and far more dangerous. Seething rage. He gives a harsh laugh. “You thought you were my daughter? You thought you could destroy me?”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. My mouth goes dry.
Balavan takes a step toward me. “Was it the title that confused you?” he asks. “The fact that we made you our rajakumari? It’s true that the title of princess is usually reserved for the daughter of a king. But not in this case.”
A tremble builds in my legs. I’m not sure if it’s from the blood loss or the raw fear of being in the same room with a man I just tried—and failed—to kill. But once I start shaking, I can’t stop.
Balavan strides to his wardrobe, yanks open a drawer and pulls out a white dhoti. He rips off a section and holds it out to me. I blink in confusion.
“For your hand,” he says. “You’ll ruin my rugs.”
I take the cloth and wrap it tightly around my palm. Blood blooms against the white fabric.
“You’re not a beloved child, Marinda,” Balavan says. “You’re a spoil of war.”
My voice is trapped in my throat. What does he mean? Which war? The war between him and the Raja? Between him and the other members of the Raksaka?
“I don’t understand,” I say. The room seems to tilt, and I have to lean against a chair to keep from toppling over.
Balavan steps close to me and runs his cold knuckles along my cheek. His liquid eyes stay fixed on my face like he’s drinking me in. I can’t look away. His eyes in human form are nearly as mesmerizing as they are when he becomes the Nagaraja. I should have known who he was from the moment I met him.
“Darling Marinda,” he says. “I value you so dearly because you represent my greatest victory over my enemy.”
I swallow. “What victory?” I ask. “Creating a visha kanya?”
He smiles. “Not just creating a visha kanya,” he says. “Creating a visha kanya out of you.”
“Stop speaking in riddles.” I mean for it to sound forceful, but it comes out faint and strained. My hand throbs.
“Let me see,” Balavan says. He takes my palm in his and wraps it with a fresh piece of cloth, putting pressure on the wound until the bleeding finally slows. I’m desperate to ask about Mani. Where he is. If he’s safe. But now that I know Balavan can control my brother, I don’t dare draw his attention away from me.
“So much blood,” he says. And then, as if it’s an afterthought, “Your blood could destroy a relic, you know. Just not mine.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a rush of understanding. A spoil of war. The Nagaraja is not my father. Garuda is my mother. Her words come back to me. He declared war against me….But then something happened that made me realize I couldn’t win against him, that I couldn’t stand to lose anything else, that I was so tired of fighting.
What if that something was losing me?
Balavan must see the dawning realization on my face, because he laughs. “What better revenge than stealing Vara’s daughter and turning her into a weapon who would kill her own mother’s followers?”
Horror wells in my chest. Not just at Balavan’s actions, but that Vara gave up on fighting him. That she gave up on me.
“You’re a monster,” I say.
He gives me a rueful smile. “That’s true,” he says. “But aren’t we all?”
I back away slowly. Inch by inch I move toward the door.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Run back to her.” I freeze. It must be a trick—he’s baiting me. I spin on my heel and dash out of the room, but Balavan doesn’t even bother to chase me. It’s like he knows he can get to me whenever he wants.
But still I run.
When I finally stumble from the rain forest, Deven gasps. His gaze travels from my blood-splattered sari to the cloth wrapped around my hand that’s soaked and dripping red. He rushes to my side and I fall against him.
“What happened?” he asks, and then before I can answer, “I never should have let you go in there alone.”
I lift my eyes to his. “Mani is in Colapi City. At the palace.”
He smooths the hair away from my face. His hands are trembling. “But that’s good, right? He went home.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Why not? Marinda, talk to me. What happened in there?” Deven’s voice is jagged.
“We have to get to him,” I say. “Balavan can control him.”
“What do you mean, control him?”
“Mani wasn’t having nightmares. Balavan was taking over his mind.”
Deven sucks in a sharp breath. I can see him putting it together—the sleepwalking, the destroying things, the haunted look in Mani’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I…Is he in danger? Has Balavan hurt him?”
“I don’t know. He said something about using Mani to defeat his enemies. I’m not going to feel better until I have Mani in my arms.”
Vara lifts herself from the ground. “Balavan doesn’t have the boy, but he let you go?”
I bite my lip. “He wanted you to see me,” I say. “He wanted you to know what he’d done.”
Vara sways on her feet. She shakes her head, confused. “What he’d done?”
“To your daughter.”
“To my…”
The air around us stills. A spasm of disbelief crosses Vara’s face, and then a dozen other emotions flit across her features—pain, sorrow, regret, acceptance—before her expression melts into tenderness. She cups my chin in her palms. “Is it true?” Her voice breaks. “I thought he killed you.”
I flinch. “No,” I say. “He thought it would be better revenge to use me to kill the people who believe in you.”
Vara’s hands tremble. “He was wrong.”
Her expression is so raw, so gentle, that it stirs something inside me, but I don’t know if it’s love or hate. Pain or joy.
“I can’t…I can’t do this right now. I have to get to Mani.”
Vara catches one of my tears with her thumb before she drops her hands to her sides. “Of course,” she says. “Let’s focus on your brother. We can talk later.”
I turn to Deven. “How will we ever get to him in time?”
He pulls me against his chest and presses his lips to the top of my head. “We will,” he says. “We’ll get an elephant.”
“It won’t be fast enough.”
“I’ll take you,” Vara says softly. “We can be there in a few minutes.”
I spin to face her. “You’re not strong enough,” I say. “You’re still shaking from bringing us here.”
“I can manage. It will be all right.”
“But what if the journey kills you?”
“If I die making sure you are able to hold someone you love in your arms again, it will be a worthy sacrifice.” Vara smiles sadly. “I’ve given you so little,” she says. “Let me give you this.”
Garuda shudders as she flies. Her body tips and bobs, careening through the sky like she can barely maintain control. When we finally touch down, air surges back into my lungs. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.
But my relief lasts only a moment. Something is wrong.
The palace grounds are swarming with people, and the smell of something sickly sweet hangs in the air. Behind me, Vara groans. She’s struggling to climb to her feet. Her face is pale, and her breath is coming in shallow gasps.
I grab Deven’s elbow, but I don’t even need to ask before he’s already springing into action. He scoops Vara into his arms. “I’ll take her to my father’s physician,” he says. “Go find Mani.”
“Thank you.” I press a kiss against his cheek and hurry away.
I’m running toward the palace when I spot Iyla in the distance. A weight lifts from my chest. So much has gone wrong today that the sight of her is like a jug of s
unlight spilling over me.
She’s alive.
Hope nudges aside my worry for just a moment. Iyla is alive.
She’s sitting on the ground in the middle of a clearing. Her back is to me, and she’s bent over like she’s searching for something. For a moment I waver between rushing toward her and running toward Mani’s room in the palace. But maybe Iyla has seen Mani. Maybe she can help me find him.
A young man kneels next to her, his hand on her shoulder. He’s tall, with hair cropped close to his scalp. He whispers something to her as he strokes her hair. Her shoulders start to tremble.
My heart strains against my rib cage, understanding before my mind does. The trees surrounding Iyla are charred and black. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, along with the scent of burning fruit, and I suddenly realize where I am. This isn’t just a clearing in a copse of trees.
It’s the Raja’s maraka orchard.
A series of scenes flash through my mind. Balavan asking me how so many of the Raja’s men were able to survive my kiss. The answer falling from my lips like liquid poison as I told him about the antidote and the orchards. And then, just a few hours ago, Balavan in his rooms, his face tipped to the sky, trance-like, as if whatever task he was engaged in required his full concentration. I interrupted him. I pulled his attention away.
And now Iyla is curled toward the earth. Her shoulders shake, her body racked with sobs. I don’t want to know why she’s crying. I don’t want to know what she holds in her arms. But my feet don’t seem to care what I want. They take me toward her anyway.
“Iyla.” The word is ragged as it leaves my throat.
She turns. Her face is smudged with soot, dirty except for where tears have cleared a crooked path.
Mani lies limp in her arms. His eyes are wide and still, as if his own death has caught him by surprise.
I fall to my knees. My throat closes as I push Iyla aside and gather Mani in my arms.
I thought I had known pain before, but I was wrong. Nothing I’ve felt before compares with this sudden, brutal slash of despair that leaves me breathless and bleeding. Bleeding out hope. Bleeding out regret for the last few months that I’ve spent far away from Mani, missing him every second but not holding him in my arms. Bleeding out every misguided, horrible decision that has brought me to this moment where my tiny brother is dead and I’m not.
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