34
KALINDA
The Tigress Pavilion is warm today. Spring awakens heat from the afternoon, and a breeze ushers in a sweetness scented of blooming irises and sun-warmed citrus. None of the women or girls complain, of course. We are content with the sunshine, remembering vividly a world under a broken sky.
I have finished my art lesson and dismissed my class. Sarita, my co-instructor, will come by later to pack up my supplies and return them to my chamber. She has an aptitude for painting, and as I may never sketch like I used to, she is a fine asset.
In the center of the pavilion, Parisa and Eshana demonstrate sparring strategies. Their class of temple wards sits cross-legged in front of the full weapon racks, their attention rapt on the ranis wielding staffs. Near the black-and-white-tiled fountain, Shyla shushes three girls for whispering instead of listening and then lectures them on the importance of honoring the land-goddess Ki and her sister warriors. Rehan toddles at her feet, her little hands clinging to her mother’s knees.
Priestess Mita, Healer Baka, Sister Hetal, and all the other sisters kneel on floor cushions in the shade of a ruby-red canopy. They sip on chilled mint-and-lemon tea and select ice chips from a bucket to suck on or wipe across their brows. Natesa suggested the wards and sisters stay at the palace until another temple could be built. Construction may not begin for a long while, though, as benefactors are reluctant to contribute to our collection now that we have altered the terms of the Claiming. Some of them like the challenge of winning over a sister warrior, while others believe it is improper for women to select their occupation and, should they desire, a husband. Regardless, the land-goddess Ki always intended for women to have a choice, and so they will. Eventually we will collect enough funds to erect the first Sisterhood temple in Vanhi, but I already lament the day when these girls will leave us. They have been a pleasant distraction.
Parisa’s voice carries across the pavilion. “We should always be kind to our sisters,” she advises her pupils.
“Unless we’re sparring,” Eshana replies, bopping Parisa on the hip with her staff.
Their class giggles as the pair exchange a series of light, playful whacks. I slink by the row of girls, waving good-bye to the few who also attend my art course, and slip out.
In the corridor, I maneuver past men working high above on scaffolding. They spread white plaster across the wall and ceiling, patching holes and cracks in the ivory facade. Repairs on the palace began as soon as we returned to Vanhi.
Well, almost immediately. First, we banished the rebels to the arctic tundra. Anjali and the rest of Hastin’s followers were commanded never to set foot in Tarachand again. Given their gross offenses, their punishment was a mercy. Then we helped our refugees relocate to their homes in Vanhi. The city is still partly empty, but more and more people return every day.
I stride through to the center of the palace. The gate to the rajah’s private atrium hangs open. I start down the path of the well-tended garden, alive with leafy trees and brightly colored flowers, and pause before I step on a fallen lime. I pick up the ripe citrus with my left hand, my only hand. Indah had to amputate my other one. She told me afterward that demon venom is deadlier than a dragon cobra’s, which can kill a man in fifteen minutes and an elephant in a few hours. Pons crafted me a prosthesis out of wood and leather, but I returned it to him so he could improve the cuff and strap. It fell off while I was teaching my art study. None of my students laughed—they have more respect for me than that—but I will not wear that hand again until it fits right.
Through the shady trees, Natesa and Yatin bustle about. Brac, Mathura, and Chitt help them set up for tonight’s feast in celebration of the arrival of Princess Gemi and Datu Bulan, as well as Chief Naresh and Tinley. The lot of them flew in this morning. This is our first reunion since we left Samiya.
I was in terrible shape that day. I spent the entire flight back to Vanhi holed up in my cabin on the chief’s airship, refusing to see anyone except Indah for my healing sessions.
Somedays I wish I had never left that cabin.
Setting down the lime, I back out of the atrium before my friends see me and invite me in. I ascend the staircase down to the main entry hall. Before I make it out the main palace door, Indah calls to me. She and Pons catch up, their bundled newborn cradled in his big arms.
“How was your visit with your father yesterday?” I ask Indah. Admiral Rimba and his wife came ahead of the datu and princess to spend more time with their daughter and grandchild.
“Better,” Indah says, leading us into an alcove off the entry. “Whenever he’s grumpy, I pass him the baby. Little by little, he’ll accept our new family.”
I heard the admiral’s fit of temper while aboard the airship. He was none too happy about his daughter expecting a child out of wedlock, which evidently was more shameful to him than what Pons would experience from most Janardanians. Natesa told me later that he tried to wed Indah and Pons right then, in the air somewhere over northern Tarachand. But Indah would not allow her father to pressure her into a life-changing commitment like marriage before she was ready.
The three of us, or four, including the baby, enter the hushed chapel. Burnt offerings lie in ash on the stone altar, the scent of sandalwood in the air. The chapel has rarely been empty since our return. Natesa and I burn sacrifices every day for those who perished on the mountaintop. I spend more time here than I do my bedchamber.
Pons holds their swaddled infant out for me to see.
I peer down at her. “She’s already growing.”
“She’s twelve days old, and you haven’t held her yet,” Indah replies.
“Oh, I don’t think—” Indah extracts her daughter from Pons’s arms and places her in mine, and then pauses to see how I do with just one hand. I cuddle the sleeping baby snugly. “Have you decided on a name yet?”
“We chose Pons’s mother’s name, Jala.” For a moment, I thought Indah said Jaya. “Pons and I discussed it. We’d like you to be Jala’s godmother. I never told you, but when I was carrying Jala, I felt at peace around you. Perhaps that’s why I took to you, despite our being competitors. Odd as it may be, my feelings strengthened as Jala grew. Even seeing her with you now feels right. Look how happy she is. It’s as though she recognizes you.”
Tears burn behind my nose. I cannot say if this little soul is Jaya come to her next life, or her contentment with me is Indah’s imagination, but holding Jala does feel right. Nothing remains of the Samiya temple, but this little girl . . . she feels like home.
“Will you accept?” Pons asks.
“Of course.” Although they both forgave me for parching Indah, I have still wondered if such a violation could or should ever be forgiven. Their entrusting me with Jala’s welfare rids the last of my doubts, and I promise myself never to question them again.
The supper gong rings. Indah reaches for Jala, and I pass her to her mother. I will not wait another twelve days before I hold her again.
After I slip an incense stick into my pocket, I trail them out of the chapel.
“Are you coming to the feast?” Indah asks.
“I have something I need to do.” I pretend not to notice her and Pons’s frowns.
Indah gentles her tone. “Kalinda, you need to try to move on.”
At some point, all my friends have given me this advice. But they do not tell me what I should move on to. They just want to push me over a cliff and see where I land.
“Thank you for letting me hold Jala,” I say, and then resume my path out the front entry.
Palm fronds rustle beneath a quiet dusk. The palace gardens, recently restored to their prewar grandeur, are empty. Everyone is gathering for the feast. Natesa will spoil our guests with decadent dishes and desserts. She even arranged for dancers with bells on their ankles and wrists. My absence will disappoint them, but this is a happy occasion, and I cannot bring myself to fake a smile tonight.
My mother’s tomb lies between the two eucalyptus trees on a pathway lined with sweet- and fruity-scented marigolds. My fingers tremble as I trace the newly carved names on the door beneath hers.
KISHAN ZACHARIAS.
GENERAL DEVEN NAIK.
I skim the rough imprint of Deven’s name but feel only emptiness, as if the tomb were made of his body. When I awoke on the airship on the flight home from Samiya, my first question was: Who? Who washed ashore? Indah told me the Aquifiers brought back Ashwin, and then ice reformed over the lake, sealing off the gate. But I cannot accept that Deven is gone.
Pressing my palm over his name, I loiter on the threshold of the dead. The shadows around me deepen from dusky hues to inky velvet. I inhale their dewy scent. Nighttime has become my haven. I can be myself in the dark.
An awareness prickles up my arms. Someone is watching me. Maybe it is wishful thinking, yet I strain to see through the shadows.
“I like that you still wear trousers,” Ashwin says from behind me.
The sensation of being watched passes as I turn toward him. “You’re late to the feast.”
“As are you.” He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. He is dressed in his finery for supper, a gold embroidered scarlet tunic jacket with a stand-up collar and matching turban. “Everyone is having a grand time. Chitt offered to train Brac for his position. I want him for my bhuta ambassador.”
“He’ll be perfect,” I say. Brac will ensure that all bhutas feel welcome in Tarachand, but also keep them in line. Recent squabbles have raised questions about how to enforce laws for those who misuse their powers. Bhuta children, especially, need proper rearing and training. I am certain that Brac’s first assignment will be to create a fair solution.
Ashwin swings his shoulders casually, searching for something else to say. “Natesa and Yatin asked to hold their wedding here.”
I do not believe his nonchalance. “They asked or you offered?”
“I may have suggested it. They don’t have much means, what with their inn opening soon.” Ashwin plucks a bloom from the neem tree and twirls it in his hand. “It’s odd to plan a wedding that isn’t mine. I’ve chosen four Virtue Guards but cannot commit to a single bride. The ranis and courtesans are growing restless waiting. I told them they can all stay . . . but there’s only one name I wish to announce as my kindred.”
“Ashwin,” I say tiredly, “it’s time that I step aside and let there be another.”
“If the role of the kindred is unappealing, be my second or third wife.”
“You know I cannot.” My duty to the throne ended when I vanquished Kur. “I’ll serve as your Burner Virtue Guard, though you really should choose one with two hands.”
He sobers some. “How is your sketching coming along?”
“Slowly.” I have sketched every day since returning to the palace, and have shown improvement, but my poor drawings are not much to boast about. “Ask Gemi to marry you, Ashwin. She’ll be a good wife, and your union will strengthen foreign ties.”
And as an heir, Gemi will understand Ashwin’s need to place the empire first, above even her.
“You’ve thought through all the advantages,” he says, tossing the flower aside.
“You know I’m right,” I reply in kind. “It’s time for you to marry. The empire needs ranis, and you’re ready.”
Ashwin skims his finger across my cheek. “I wish it could be you.”
“You’ll always place the empire first. That’s how it should be. But I . . . I have a different dream for myself.”
My attention strays to the shadows, to the sandalwood incense in my pocket, to the sketch in my bedchamber that I have been working on for a fortnight.
Ashwin takes my hand in his. “If you ever change your mind . . .”
“Thank you.” I squeeze his fingers lightly.
He releases me without any more provocation. “Are you certain you won’t join us? Yatin’s older sisters are going to recite tales of the gods.”
“That does sound divine, but I really am tired.” This is my customary excuse to reduce his disappointment in my absence or lack of interest about the happenings in the palace. “Please send our guests my regards.”
“I will.” Ashwin tucks his hands in his trouser pockets and strolls off.
I pick up the bloom he dropped and lay it in front of the tomb. “Good night, Mother and Father.”
By the time I return inside, the lamps are lit, and the aroma of rich spices from the feast permeates the corridors. The balcony doors in my bedchamber are closed, the room stifling. Asha has been busy as of late. She is apprenticing to become a healer under Baka. I kick off my sandals and open the exterior doors. A wind ripples the draperies. I remember a time when Deven and I cocooned inside them, tangled up and—
I stop myself before I cannot breathe, and I return to my bedchamber.
Parchment and charcoal sketches are spread out across my table. I light the lamp, casting a glow over the sketch on top. An intriguing portrayal, mostly finished, stares up at me. His angular jaw that I have grazed, sweeping cheekbones that I have cupped, full lips that I have kissed, and kind, resolute eyes.
His nose still is not straight. My left hand struggles with the evenness of the charcoal strokes that my right hand could once perform so deftly. It took me nearly three days to replicate the thickness of his eyelashes. But the effort must be put in.
The sketch will be of no use until his nose is correct.
I sit and try once more. Tiny trembles shake my left hand. The first line is wrong. I rub it clean and try once more. Then again . . . and again . . .
The oil lamp burns low. The moon rises high, and the far-off noises from the feast quiet. Charcoal stains my fingers and nails, and my back aches from hunching over. When I am certain I will never draw a perfect line again, I finally do it. I draw the straight slope of his nose, and there he is, in all his perfection.
My nerves spark, revitalizing my purpose. I have done it. I am ready.
I take out the sandalwood incense I pocketed from the chapel. My fingertip glows with fire, and I ignite the end. A steady flow of smoke rises, hazing the chamber, and treating my senses to a smell I have missed.
The sketch I toiled over for many days is laid on the table. Several moons’ worth of preparation and practice to regain a level of artistry with my weaker hand waits for me. Is it good enough? Does it look like him? Or have I forgotten any details? The thought sets me ill at ease. I pick up the sketch and examine it, racking my memory. Each detail required painstaking care.
No, I haven’t missed anything. This is him.
But if I am wrong. If I fail . . .
My nerves cannot handle another moment of wavering. I blow out the lantern, and shadows fall in around me. Pressing the sketch over my thudding heart, I survey the darkest corner of my chamber. Inhaling the sandalwood scent, I welcome the shadows, for they are the door to the evernight.
Anu, please let this be . . .
Closing my eyes, I go deep into my mind and unlock my chest of treasures. Memories of Deven Naik, alive and whole, fill me. His deep chuckle, satiny kiss, and soft beard. I continue the trail of memories, going back to the first time I saw him atop his horse, riding toward the temple. I hone my senses, seeking for a change in the dark, and open my eyes.
No one is here. I expand my sense of awareness, seeking a presence in my dim room, but grasp on to nothing.
Names hold power.
I call to him, first with my mind and heart, and then with my lips. “Deven Naik.”
The shadows do not stir. I am speaking to myself, to a ghost, to a lost dream.
The tears come, though I scarcely feel them. They are so prevalent as of late, especially at night when I am alone. I set down the sketch and put out the incense.
Moonlight frosts my balcony. I shut the doors, deepening the shadows in my chamber, and trudge to my bed. Tears fill up my nose and throat. I always think they will drown me, but they never do. I drop onto the mound of frivolous pillows, though I have found one use for them. Selecting a square one, I press it over my face and release a sob. Natesa sometimes checks on me at night, and I do not want her to hear me.
I weep into the satin cloth until my head swims with a headache. Tossing it aside, I wipe at my soggy nose, and a sudden awareness passes over me.
Someone is here.
I capture my breath and slowly sit up.
A shadow of a man stands near the empty hearth. I gasp, my lips trembling. I can hardly exhale as he crosses to me. At the side of my bed, I push up and lift my fingers to his profile, the one I sketched this evening and dream of each night.
“Kali,” Deven says at the same moment I touch his cheek.
He is real, not a pillar of dark. He pulses soul-fire.
“You came. You found me.” I leap at him, and his arms lock around me, solid and strong. He is a real man. I grab him close as can be, terrified that if I let go he will disappear. “I knew you were alive. I looked for you in the shadows.”
He buries his face in my hair. “I tried to come before, but the dark made it difficult. There are so many pathways to take. I felt you stronger tonight. You were like a beacon.”
I lean back and cup his bearded chin. His serious eyes are the same rich brown. Though his hair is longer, the shaggy length frames and softens his stern jaw. He smells of his normal sandalwood, tagged on by a hint of mist. “You’re trapped in the evernight?”
“Yes.”
I run my hand down to his chest. His heart thuds regularly against my palm. “Does it hurt? Are you in pain?”
He strokes my hair. “It’s dark, but I’m all right.”
“I have to get you out of there. I know of a tale. Inanna’s . . . Inanna’s Descent. She saved her intended from death. She went down into the Void and found him. I can use my powers to come for you.” I push a glow into my hand, and he starts to fade from view. I pull back on my soul-fire, and a frustrated groan lodges in my throat.
He is confined to shadows, unable to come into the light.
Do not cry. He doesn’t need your weeping. But as I gaze at Deven once more, his soul-fire feels wrong, like a flame trapped behind glass.
“I’m so sorry. I should have done more, gone back in the lake after you or made the others onshore search harder and longer.” My tears squeeze past my restraint. “I tried. I did.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “When I went through the gate, I thought . . . I thought I was dead. I thought all light was gone from existence, and I . . . I wanted it to be. But each night I could feel you dreaming of me, wishing for me. You kept me from fading away. I couldn’t have navigated through the shadows without you, Kali.”
I run my hand up and down his arm.
He’s alive. He’s here.
“We’ll find a way to bring you back,” I promise. “I’m just grateful you’re here now.”
Deven presses his cheek to mine. “Now that I know the path, I’ll come to you every night. Nothing will keep me away.”
Hunger for life that I have not felt since he was taken quivers inside me. I throw my arms around him, and his kisses sprinkle my forehead. I swear on every star in the heavens, I will find a way to descend into the depths of the Void and bring him home. But for this moment, and in this time, I rest against him and revel in the bliss of the midnight hour.