2
Winter’s chill soaks into the temple’s ancient bones, dampening the shadowed corridors. Jaya and I leave the dining hall in silence and return to our bedchamber. We change into our nightclothes and brush out our braids, and then Jaya tends to her pots of seedlings, and I cozy into my cot with a sketchbook. Our nightly routine is effortless, comforting. I refuse to think that this evening’s could be our last.
Jaya drizzles water over green shoots in her clay pots. She is assigned to tend to Healer Baka’s medicinal garden, but these are not herbs. With little exposure to sunlight in our windowless home, Jaya has successfully grown only poisonous plants, but she prefers to nurture something rather than nothing.
She sets aside her watering can and stands behind me, stroking her fingers through my hair. She considers my sketch. This is how we first met. Jaya had spent her early weeks at the temple in the infirmary, recovering from being starved, beaten, and hurt in other ways that Healer Baka only whispered about. During one of my bouts of fevers, I was laid up in the cot beside Jaya’s, and she asked to see my drawing. Most of the other girls would not come near me, for fear that I was contagious, but Jaya did not mind. I have shown her all of my sketches since.
Jaya finishes smoothing down my hair. “The wheels were bigger.”
She has a fine eye for proportions, so naturally she is right. She sits down beside me. I rub away the wheels and redraw them wider. Jaya picks up my other sketchbook and flips through finished drawings: portraits of her, the garden where we played Fly-Fly Crane between the barley, and the meditation pond where we raced lotus flower petals.
She stops on a drawing of the sky-god. Anu is the most prominent male subject I have ever sketched. I am enthralled by the hard, angled lines of his rugged facial features, so like the formidable Alpana Mountains. In my drawing, a sarong covers his thighs. His hairless, bare chest is flat and wide, like a valley, and his lean legs are strong, like a river. He wields a shard of sunlight in one hand, his other hand outstretched in invitation to follow him. Anu is the majesty of the world; his large eyes are the doorway to the sky, his fierce expression a warning of his omnipotent power.
Jaya traces a finger down Anu’s nose. “What if you’re claimed?”
“What if Natesa starts being kind to me?”
Jaya’s lips tauten. “The benefactor could see your worth and claim you, Kali.”
I shake my head. I will be passed over. My best physical attribute, according to Jaya, is my long hair, but hair is not enough to draw the eye of a benefactor.
Jaya’s shoulders curl over her chest, and her voice drops to a whisper. “What if I am claimed?”
I open my mouth to tell her not to worry, but Jaya is not gawky and whip-thin like me. She is petite and lovely. Looking at her, I understand her anxiety. I cannot imagine anyone passing her over.
Her voice becomes even more scraggly. “What if the benefactor is like my—”
“Do not think about it. No matter who he is, it does not change our plans.”
Jaya and I plan to swear fealty to the Sisterhood and live out our days here, but we can do so only if we are passed over during the rite. “They will not separate us. We will make certain of it.”
“How? You may not even pass inspection.”
I tamp down a groan; I forgot about inspection. Healer Baka examines each recipient before the Claiming to weed out those who are not in prime condition for the benefactor. She has not said if my illness will impede my chances, but taking a daily tonic may be grounds to fail me.
“We will worry about inspection later,” I say. “First, we have to discuss skill trials. The benefactor must want to judge how well we are trained as sister warriors.”
Jaya nods solemnly. Sister warriors are prized among men. The most desirable girls are pretty and skilled at battle.
“You have to lose your duel,” I say. “The benefactor won’t want you if you’re defeated.”
Jaya’s eyebrows slant together. “What about you?”
“Me?” I scoff. “Even if I somehow won, the benefactor would still prefer a pretty face.”
“And if we’re chosen to fight each other?”
I laugh. “Then I will best you, even though all the girls will know we cheated.”
Jaya rests her head on my shoulder and takes my hand. We weave our fingers together, clamping our palms close. “All right, but we cannot get caught, or Priestess Mita will put us on refuse duty for the rest of the year. Our losses must be believable.”
“That will be easy for me.” I lean my head against hers and stare down at our linked hands. “We will be careful.”
“Can you sleep?” Jaya asks, sitting up.
“Of course.” I feign a smile. “I will dream of besting you.”
Jaya snorts a laugh. She squeezes my hand, our way of saying I love you, and then kisses my forehead and goes to her bed.
Despite my attempt at humor, the reality of the next day saws at my nerves. Regardless of our plan for skill trials, Healer Baka could fail me during inspection, and Jaya would face the Claiming without me. I want to be seen by this benefactor and be done with the rite. Then, once passed over, Jaya and I can join the Sisterhood. Most girls opt to be shown again for a chance to leave. A recipient who is not claimed by age twenty-one is automatically sworn in as a sister, but few wards last that long. Benefactors are always in need of more servants.
Amber candlelight warms my sketchbook. I open to a fresh page and slide my charcoal stick over the ivory paper, leaving smooth, dark lines. I hope that putting my thoughts on paper will relieve my mind. I waited for Jaya to go to bed to draw this; I cannot get it out of my head.
Finished, I lift my hand. The lead soldier looks exactly how I remember him—with shoulders a mountain could rest upon and arms powerful enough to soar with the clouds. But his face remains blank, as is true of all of the male faces I have attempted to draw.
As an infant, I was abandoned on the steps of the Vanhi Brotherhood’s temple, run by the men of the Parijana faith. I cannot remember the brethren who cared for me until I was old enough to transfer here. In fact, I do not remember ever seeing a man. Jaya has told me about her older brothers, warning of what will await us should we be claimed. I believe her, but the brethren are proof that not all men are terrible, and the sisters teach that men are our masters and protectors.
Staring at my sketch of the faceless soldier, I do not know what is true. Did the gods create everything about us? They gave me fevers and gave certain plants poison, but did they give people their power? Was Natesa born a tormentor? Was Jaya always cautious? Where is the line between the gods’ will and ours?
I set aside my sketchbook, still wondering if all men are fashioned like Jaya’s cruel older brothers and if I really am better off without them.
A white satin robe is draped across the end of my bed when I awake. Someone left an identical robe at the foot of Jaya’s cot, where she still sleeps. They are our clothes for the Claiming.
I slip out of my rumpled bed, achy with restlessness. I did not dream of skill trials. I did not dream at all. Fretting about Healer Baka not passing me during inspection drove sleep away. I cannot speculate any longer. I have to speak with her.
Flinging a shawl over my shoulders, I tiptoe down the hushed corridors, through incense smoke and pools of lamplight. Though I have no way to see the dawn, a chill emanates through the stone walls, whispering of the early hour.
The familiar pathway to the infirmary sets me on edge. I have spent more time with Healer Baka than any other sister. I do not wish to argue, but if she uses my chronic fevers as an excuse to exclude me from being shown in the Claiming, I will oppose her.
I pass a stairwell opening, and murmurs carry up from below. The rumbles are so faint that I nearly miss them. I back up to listen, sharpening my hearing. The voices are low, lower than I have ever heard. I silence my breaths, but my pulse drums a quickening tempo. I think that these voices are the voices of men.
Priestess Mita’s reprimand from yesterday pricks at me. I should return to my bedchamber and be obedient. The lower floors are forbidden to daughters. But, gods’ virtue, I want to see who is down there.
I descend into shadows, all light skittering away from the skulking darkness. I feel my way along the wall, my fingertips chafing against rough stone. Each step drops me farther into bone-drenching cold. I lose track of the number of stairs and the number of times I carefully survey for the bottom with my bare toes.
The floor smooths out, and the wall I was trailing disappears. The low voice barely thrums above my thundering heart. I chase the sound down an unlit corridor toward a gaunt glow at the far end. The temple is the only shelter on this secluded mountaintop. I had not given any thought to where the benefactors lodge, but it must be here, on this level.
The corridor juts into a lit alcove. Two deep voices steal out from behind a tall door, their exact words broken by the barrier. I eye the way out. I know that I could be caught, but their conversation may tell me who has come. I creep up to the entry and lean in to listen.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
I spin around at the muted voice, no louder than those through the door, and alarm pushes me back a step. A young soldier blocks my escape path. I must have passed him in the dark.
He grips the hilt of a sword slung at his side. “Does anyone know you’re down here?”
My tongue thickens to a useless lump in my mouth. From the drawings I have studied of the gods, I wager that the soldier is two or three years older than I am. He is also taller. A rarity. I have towered over everyone since I was thirteen.
Despite the soldier’s daunting stature, I do not sense aggression from him, merely suspicion.
I pull my shawl closer around me. “I—I heard voices,” I say. “And . . .” I have no reasonable excuse. I doubt that he would believe that above all else, I wanted to see a man’s face.
His face is not what I expected. He looks more god than mortal. Though the angular shape of his jaw is the image of Anu’s, the smooth sweep of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips, and the straight slope of his nose resemble Enlil, who takes after his mother, Ki, the land-goddess. His arrangement of delicate yet sturdy features is striking.
“You need to go.” The soldier glances at the closed door. He must be guarding whoever is inside. “It isn’t safe here.”
My palms turn clammy, but I cannot leave without the answer that I came for. “Who has come for the Claiming?”
His gaze and voice flatten. “You must leave.”
Beyond the door, the talking ceases. My ears explode with the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Go!” The soldier sweeps me out of the alcove.
I flee down the dim corridor, pursued by the creak of an opening door and the annoyed voice of a man.
“Captain Naik?”
My lungs burn from short, shallow breaths. Something wet squishes through my toes. My teeth lock down on a squeak. A little farther. Almost to the stairwell.
“I relieved Manas of his post,” says the captain. “I apologize for disturbing you, Your Majesty.”
I trip forward on the lowest stair and scrape my hands on the stone. Your Majesty.
Tremors rack my body. I cover my mouth, locking in a gasp. Rajah Tarek is here. The ruler of the Tarachand Empire has come to Samiya. I hold still, my flesh shivering.
“Where is Manas?” challenges another voice, the second stranger to speak.
“He has gone to bed, General,” replies the captain.
I frown, my only movement. Why is Captain Naik protecting me? Why does he not tell the rajah that a girl listened at his door?
“Come in, Captain,” the rajah says. “I wish to discuss our plans for after I claim—” The door creaks closed.
An icy finger slithers down my spine. Rajah Tarek has come for the Claiming.
I rest my forehead against a stair. Heat blazes down my face. In seconds, I burn all over. Gods, I forgot to take my tonic.
The sudden fever drives a hot mallet through the top of my head. I rise on shaky limbs and push myself up the dark stairwell to the main floor. Daughters pass me on the way to the dining hall for breakfast. I weave down the corridor and stagger into my bedchamber.
Jaya is awake and dressed. Her arms and legs are marked with hives—red, raised, and furious. The room reeks of chamomile.
“Healer Baka says they will go away,” Jaya says, slathering ointment on her legs.
I eye the angry dots on her skin. “Where did they come from?”
“I’m having a reaction.”
“To one of your plants?”
“To the Claiming.” She rubs ointment into her arms with trembling hands, her countenance pale. “Healer Baka says I need to calm down, but . . . Where were you?”
“On a walk.” I stumble to my cot and sit, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. Breathe.
Jaya hurries over and tests my forehead. “You’re burning up. You didn’t take your tonic this morning.”
Groaning, I lie back. “Get it for me, would you?”
Jaya finds it on the bedside table and pushes it into my hand. I uncork the thin vial and draw a swig. The fermented tang sours my mouth, but I swallow. A rush of coolness accompanies the remedy to my belly, clearing my mind.
My fever came on fast. Usually it takes a day before I reach that height of illness.
Jaya hovers over me, tugging her braid nervously. Dark circles stain the skin under her bloodshot eyes. “Do I need to fetch Healer Baka?”
“I’m fine.” I grab Jaya’s hand and lay it against my forehead. “See? I’m cooling off.” Her tepid skin soothes my flaring face, and my temperature adjusts to hers. I sniff loudly and smile. “You smell like Healer Baka’s herb garden.”
She laughs and looks at her rash. “We’re quite the pair. If only the benefactor could see us now.”
My smile stiffens. I cannot tell her that Rajah Tarek is the benefactor. She is already sick with worry. Furthermore, his identity does not change our strategy for skill trials. But the immensity of his presence weighs me down. I cannot understand why the rajah wants to watch us duel before the Claiming. Skill trials are a rite of passage—proof of womanhood and the exercise of moral maturity, proof that we deserve our inherited birthright from Ki. A true sister warrior is well trained and physically strong, but she is also dedicated to practicing the five godly virtues—obedience, service, sisterhood, humility, and tolerance. The rajah wishes to view a test of our inner and outer strength, but for what purpose? All I am certain of is that Rajah Tarek has come to claim a girl, and, by midday, I will know what for.