One by one, the court archivist read the suitors’ names, and one by one, each prince or Raja threw a handful of rice into the fire before him.
“The Prince of Karusha,” announced the court archivist.
An old man with a silvery mustache stepped forward.
“The Raja of Gandhara.”
A boy who looked hardly thirteen years of age stepped nervously into the middle of the two rows and bowed.
“The Emperor of Odra.”
A middle-aged man with a henna-stained beard inclined his head.
The archivist continued rattling off the names of foreign princes and rajas until I counted exactly fifteen. My breath gathered and I held it for as long as I could, not wanting to waste a single exhale.
“Now the time has arrived for the Princess Mayavati to make her choice,” said the archivist, rolling up the parchment. “As tradition dictates, she shall make this choice alone.”
The archivist blew a small horn and I bit back a cry. Sweat beaded along my temples, mingling with the tinny scent of incense and henna. As the suitors and their guards filed out of the room, the Raja gave a tight nod in my direction.
Soon I was alone. Already, the fire in the basins had begun to shrink. I had mere minutes left. Slats of sunshine broke through the gauzy curtains. I walked, dream-like, to stand in the streak of light.
What would the suitors think when they saw my body sprawled on the floor? I imagined their expressions turning from horror to dread, their eyes wild when they realized the deception. Would they fight where I lay? Trample my body like the instrument it was? Or would someone move me aside, my duty done, my life spent?
The horoscope loomed in my thoughts. Perhaps it had been right all this time. A marriage that partnered me with death. My wedding, sham though it was, would bring more than just my end. I breathed deeply and a calm spiraled through me.
This was my final taste: a helix of air, smacking of burnt things and bright leaves. I pulled the vial from my bangles, fingers shaking.
This was my last sight: purling fire and windows that soared out of reach. I raised the vial to my lips. My chest was tight, silk clinging damply to my back, my legs.
This was my last sound: the cadence of a heart still beating.
“May Gauri live a long life,” I mouthed.
The poison trickled thickly from the rim and I tilted my head back, eyes on the verge of shutting—
And then: a shatter.
My eyes opened to empty hands clutching nothing.
Spilled poison seeped into the rug and shards of glass glinted on the floor, but all of that was obscured by the shadow of a stranger.
“There’s no need for that,” said the stranger.
He wiped his hands on the front of his charcoal kurta, his face partially obscured by a sable hood studded with small diamonds. All I could see was his tapered jaw, the serpentine curve of his smile and the straight bridge of his nose. Like the suitors, he wore a garland of red flowers. And yet, all of that I could have forgotten.
Except his voice …
It drilled through the gloaming of my thoughts, pulled at me in the same way the mysterious intruder’s voice had tugged. But where the woman’s voice brought fury, this was different. The hollow inside me shifted, humming a reply in melted song. I could have been verse made flesh or compressed moonlight. Anything other than who I was now.
A second passed before I spoke. By then, the stranger’s lips had bent into a grin.
“Who are you?”
“One of your suitors,” he said, not missing a beat. He adjusted his garland.
I backed away, body tensing. I had never seen him before. I knew that with utmost certainty. Did he mean to harm me?
“That’s not an answer.”
“And that wasn’t a thank you,” he said. “Before you scold me for interrupting your martyrdom, you should look outside. Particularly at the chariots.”
I stole a glance at the door to the antechamber. The suitors and attendants would return at any moment. Keeping my distance from the stranger, I focused on the underside of the chariots and froze. What I had mistaken for wheel spokes were spears covered in gold paint. And hiding beneath the false chariots were soldiers. Hundreds of soldiers. I backed away from the window, heart beating wildly. How many men were hidden beneath the carriages? Worse, how many soldiers had Bharata unwittingly admitted? The neighboring kings could have snuck in half their militias through the open gates. I scanned the chariots. My father’s army easily outnumbered them, but the suitors had the advantage of surprise.
I wheeled around. “Did you plan this attack?”
“No.”
Grabbing a sharp pin from my hair, I held it toward him like a blade.
“Then why won’t you tell me your name?”
He bowed. “I’m the Raja of Akaran. But you may call me Amar.”
Akaran? I had never heard of such a place and I had extensively studied the geography of Bharata’s surrounding kingdoms. Before I could say anything, Amar snatched the pin from my hand.
“You may threaten me later. For now, your concern should be the men outside. They know of your father’s plan for a siege and they’ve come prepared.”
My lips parted. “But how did you know—”
“My own spies informed me.”
“Does the Raja know?” I thought of Gauri playing in her room, completely unaware of danger.
“Yes.”
A flurry of questions rose to my mind. “But—?”
“I sent my messenger to alert him.”
“I have to get to the harem. My sister isn’t safe.”
Picking up the ends of my sari, I turned toward the door, but then a rumble shuddered through the kingdom. The chariots had overturned. I could picture the soldiers beneath the wheels—unfurling from those crouched positions like nightmares made flesh. Thunderous footfall pounded the earth, gates creaked open and screaming ripped through the air.
“I have to go,” I said, my voice rising. “I have to warn them.”
Amar grabbed my arm.
“It’s too late for that,” he said. “They’re already fighting.”
I paused, straining to hear anything other than blood rushing in my ears. Distantly, I heard iron against iron, the sound of clashing shields, and the roar of screams pitted against each other. Outside the window, the chariots lay overturned, split open like hollow shells.
“There’s no time,” he said, releasing his grip on my arm. “The Raja himself asked me to deliver you from this.”
“He did?”
Amar nodded. Outside, the sounds of fighting grew closer and the parapets of the harem gleamed impassively.
“The women will be fine. Those generals only want one war. They won’t attack your sisters. If they do, they’ll have to answer to the kingdoms of their betrothed. As we speak, soldiers are guarding the harem.” His voice cut through my thoughts. “Who will guard you if you stay behind?”
I had no answer, stunned by what was happening outside the window.
“We must go,” he insisted.
If I stayed, I would die anyway. But if I went, at least I could live …
A flutter of hope beat soft wings in my chest. How long had I wanted to escape these walls? And now, on the brink of drowning that hope with poison, it was here. The past seventeen years could have been breath held solely for this moment. Something caught inside me, as sharp as a wound. I almost didn’t recognize the feeling—it was relief. Incandescent and glittering relief. Giddiness swept through me, leaving my hands trembling.
“Well?” pressed Amar. “Are we going or not?”
We? I looked him over. The garland of red carnations hung limply around his neck. He held out his hand like a casual invitation, indifferent to the tumult outside the chambers. How could I trust him? What if he sold me to the enemies? He had no reason to protect me … unless I meant something to him.
Something else guided my hands. Images flashing sideways—a different hand, a samite curtain. I was convinced that we owned this single moment, this sphere of breath, this heartbeat shared like a secret. I don’t know what possessed me, but I took the white garland and threw it around his neck.
I stared at my hands, not quite believing what they’d done: