A tremor snaked from my head to my toes. Distantly, the clang of the court notary’s bell echoed through the walls. Feet shuffled. Voices, sonorous and hard, yielded and blended into one another until only silence remained in the sanctum. I pulled my knees to my chin, back pressed against the wall. Marriage. All I knew of marriage was what I saw in the harem wives—pettiness and boredom with only the comfort of silk and gossip.
There were times when I saw my betrothed half-sisters lost in thought, their faces aglow with hope and wonder. Maybe they thought they would be leaving Bharata behind for a new city that would welcome them with sweet-smelling arms and a husband waiting with a smile fashioned just for them. But I had listened to the stories of the wives and I saw what lay ahead. Another harem. Another husband. Another woman scurried away behind a lattice of elephant bone, staring out to a scene forever marred by the patterns of a gilded cage.
I glanced below me at the empty sanctum. In every tomorrow I had imagined, this was never one of them. There were never any prospects beyond the life of a scholarly old maid, but that was a fate I had looked forward to—to live among parchments and sink into the compressed universes stitched into lines and lines of writing. To answer to no one.
There was another sorrow, tucked beneath my surprise. Although I had never envisioned marriage, I had thought of love. Not the furtive love I heard muffled in the corners or rooms of some of the harem wives. What I wanted was a connection, a shared heartbeat that kept rhythm across oceans and worlds. Not some alliance cobbled out of war. I didn’t want the prince from the folktales or some milk-skinned, honey-eyed youth who said his greetings and proclaimed his love in the same breath. I wanted a love thick with time, as inscrutable as if a lathe had carved it from night and as familiar as the marrow in my bones. I wanted the impossible, which made it that much easier to push out of my mind.
3
FAVORED DAUGHTERS
Somehow I left behind the rafters and climbed down the rungs and left the honeycombs of Bharata’s archives. I didn’t care if anyone saw me or asked questions. Bharata had already discarded me. I was no more than a guest in my father’s home, whittling away the time until a palanquin bore me away to a different cage.
I was halfway to the harem when I heard feet pounding the walkway behind me.
“Princess Mayavati, the Raja Ramchandra of Bharata requests your immediate presence in the gardens.”
I drew my veil over my head before turning. Why did every guard always say the “Raja Ramchandra”? As if I didn’t know my father’s name. Oh, that Raja. I thought you meant one of the other rulers. Fools.
“Now?”
The guard blinked. He was young and handsome in a vague, unmemorable way. I had half a mind to ask if he was going to throw in his name with the pack of wolves that would come to Bharata and claim my hand in the swayamvara. I must have unknowingly grinned because the young guard masked a flinch. He probably thought I had unleashed some curse on him.
“Yes, Princess. He’s waiting for you in the gardens.”
That was new. My father never waited for anyone.
“And if I say no?”
The guard stepped back. “I—”
“Don’t worry, it was only a question.”
“Does that mean—”
“—which is to say,” I said slowly, “that I will come with you. Lead the way.”
He turned on his heel and, after a moment’s hesitation, began marching back down the path. Guilt twinged inside me. He was only doing his duty. He hadn’t even done anything openly insulting, like some of the harem wives who would spit on my shadow.
I toyed with the idea of apologizing, but thought better of it. My words were out and that was that. Around us, my father’s court shimmered in the early evening. Even though the sun had gone, the sky remained a rich turmeric yellow. A bright vermillion peeled at the edges of the clouds, fading somewhere into the tangle of trees. Around me, the silver reflection pools lapped up the last light and in its waters burned flat flames.
The entrance to the gardens of Bharata was cleverly constructed so that the gates marking it looked like a snarl of roses at first glance. On closer inspection, wrought iron bloomed beneath the petals before snaking upward to bolster the trees—fig and neem, sweet almond and tart lime—into living pergolas. My father’s guards circled the gardens. In their scarlet robes, they looked like vicious trees poised to spear the sun should it fall.
“One moment, Princess,” said the guard quickly. “I believe His Highness is concluding a discussion on matters of state with the crown prince.”
Beneath my veil, I arched an eyebrow. If my father was discussing anything with the crown prince, it would be his extravagant ledger. Without waiting for an answer, the guard bowed awkwardly and left. The moment I knew I was alone, I left the path, following the harsh voice of the Raja to a secluded copse of trees. In the middle of the clearing, my half-brother cowered in the Raja’s shadow, his head bent as he toyed with the sleeves of his jacket.
“How dare you embarrass us?” the Raja thundered.
“It wasn’t my fault, Father, that peasant disrespected me—”
“He sneezed.”
“Yes, but on my jacket.”
Skanda, my half-brother, was a fool. Where the Raja favored wisdom, Skanda favored wealth. Where the Raja listened, Skanda leered.
“Would you like to know the difference between us and everyone else?” demanded the Raja.
“Yes?”
“Nothing whatsoever.”
“But—”
“The worms do not take heed of caste and rank when they feast on our ashes,” the Raja said. “Your subjects will not remember you. They will not remember the shade of your eyes, the colors you favored or the beauty of your wives. They will only remember your impression upon their hearts and whether you filled them with glee or grief. That is your immortality.”
With that, he strode out of the grove. I ran back to the garden’s path, out of breath and hoping he hadn’t noticed my presence. By now, the sun had slipped behind the palace, transforming everything that surrounded it to a rosy gold.
As the Raja approached, I saw him as I always did—illuminated and beyond reproach. But as he came closer, new details leapt forward. There were weary creases at the corners of his eyes and a new slope to his shoulders. It didn’t look right. I felt like I was truly seeing him for the first time and what I saw was a man stooped in age, wearing a thinning pelt of greatness. The moment our eyes met, I averted my gaze. Seeing him like this made me feel as if I had stumbled into something private, something I wasn’t supposed to know. Or, perhaps, just didn’t want to.
I knelt before him, the tips of my fingers brushing against his feet in the customary symbol of respect and deference.
“It is good to see you, daughter,” he said.
I knew my father in his voice, in his words. The moment he spoke, all of the previous strangeness was forgotten. My father was not known for a pleasing, diplomatic tone. His voice had the gravelly lurch of a thunderclap and all the solemnity of sleep, but the sound clung to me in well-worn familiarity. It lulled me into safety and for a moment, I thought he would say that his meeting with the courtiers had been a sham, that he had no intention of marrying me off to strangers, that I would stay here forever. This was no heaven, but it was the hell that I knew, and I preferred it far more than whatever beast of a country awaited me.
All of that half-hope slipped away with his next words.
“In the manner of the old kings, we are holding a swayamvara for you,” he said. “You will get the chance to choose your own husband, Mayavati.”
His voice filled the courtyard. Cold sweat turned my palms clammy and my practiced calm fell away. My mind scrambled for an escape, but everything felt too close, too slippery and, worst of all, hopelessly out of reach.
He stared at me expectantly.
“Yes, Father,” I forced out.
I grimaced, sure he must have heard the curt edge to my speech. I thought he would scold me, but instead he lifted my chin.