Sita came to see me before she left.
“I am so sorry,” I told her over and over, but she ignored me. Our connection in the Binding Plane still appeared strong, stark against the dearth of bonds. But I wanted to remember her face as it was, not as it looked in the world adjacent, and so I let go of my magic and simply sat by her side. Against her pale and drawn face, her silver strip of hair looked luminescent.
At last, an attendant came to my room to tell Sita it was time to leave. Before she left, the woman gave me a glance filled with pure disgust.
When she was gone, Sita turned to me. “Do you remember our first conversation?” she asked.
“Yes.” How could I forget. I had met a funny, sharp girl and reassured her that her marriage would work out, and that she would be happy. One did not easily forget such sins.
“I asked you what your purpose was, and you said you did not know. I asked you what my purpose was, and you told me that I would know it when it happened.” Sita sat with her back straight as an arrow, arms at her side. There was no inflection in her voice.
“I am so sorry,” I repeated uselessly. “Please know that had I known how things would turn out—”
“I am not interested in your apologies,” she said. “I think your purpose is clear. Helping the women of this kingdom is noble indeed. But I have not yet found mine. If you have any idea what it might be…”
Her purpose, I believed, was to spark all that had already happened. But she could not know that, because she did not know about Ravana—
Ravana. In all of this, I had forgotten about him.
Lakshmana had asked me to pick Panchavati because it was far away from Ayodhya and near to a friendly city that could harbor Sita, if needed. I had gone along with it, swept up in the moment.
But Janasthana held more than a safe haven. The moment Rama left, I needed to send Ravana a missive. I had kept his hawk for that purpose, after all. Because for Ravana, this outcome was the best possible one. He would be close enough to watch over Sita and take matters into his own hands if need be, without ever harming Kosala or Ayodhya.
“So you do know,” Sita said, and I quickly set my expression to something less obvious. Not fast enough, though.
“No, I do not, but…” Sita needed to know at least a bit of the truth. I was tired, so tired, of secrets. “I am sure that with Lakshmana’s presence, you will be well taken care of in Panchavati Forest. But if anything should ever happen, the nearest city is Janasthana. The ruler of that city will give you anything your heart desires, and you can trust him absolutely.”
“You have spoken with him?” she asked, confused. “Did you know Rama would take me along? Is that why you made such an arrangement?”
“No! No. I had no idea. And I have not yet spoken to him, but I will. The ruler of Janasthana and I are old friends. You have met him once. Ravana, raja of Lanka.”
Sita wrinkled her nose. “I remember. But I do not think that an old jealous suitor will help me much.”
“Trust me. He is not a jealous suitor, and he bears you no ill will. He will protect you. So do not hesitate. There is no need to be a martyr.”
“I am already a martyr,” she said. “But thank you. I will go to him, should I have need.” She stood up in a single fluid motion.
“I am sorry,” I repeated, unable to rise to my feet. “I hope that one day you can forgive me for what I have done.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” Sita opened the door slowly, and as she stepped into the hall, she squared her shoulders and lifted her head. I watched each piece of armor settle into place until no weakness could be found, and then she disappeared from view.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THEY SAY THAT DASHARATH’S cries could be heard from the palace to the city gates. They say he pleaded with the gods and cursed my name and made absurd promises if only Rama would remain in Ayodhya. They say he ripped at his clothes and beat the ground and wailed, a sound so primal and intimate that people turned away from their broken king.
The departure, Manthara told me, was like a funeral procession. Crowds lined the streets that Rama would take, and he rode out at a snail’s pace, Sita behind him, Lakshmana at his side, allowing everyone a chance to observe the cheated prince of Ayodhya. He wore an ascetic’s robes and carried only a small pack on the back of his horse. Rama had an excellent sense of drama, if nothing else.
I myself sat in the gardens alone, straining to hear the faint hubbub of the city.
It felt like hours had passed until Kaushalya came and found me. “You must come. It is Dasharath,” she said.
“Is he executing me?” I asked dully, not getting up. “I would like to die here. It is beautiful, and peaceful. He should come to me.”
“What are you talking about?” Kaushalya demanded, grabbing my wrist and dragging me to my feet.
I rolled my eyes. “You said I needed to come and see the raja. I was wondering when he has set the date for my execution.”
Kaushalya slapped me across my left cheek. I reeled back with an audible gasp. “Dasharath had a fit. He collapsed, and the healers do not know if he will wake up. I am bringing you to his room. Not everything is about you.”
I resisted the strong urge to tell her that I had almost definitely caused the fit, and therefore this was about me. Instead, I let her lead me away. But as we navigated the deserted hallways, dread burrowed into its ancestral home in my stomach. By the time we reached the door to Dasharath’s rooms, it was all I could do to bite back the sob building in my throat.
The door swung open to reveal Sumitra, tears running down her face and dripping from her chin.
“Kaushalya! He is—” She broke off when she spotted me. “Why have you brought her here?” The venom in her voice cut straight through me. “Don’t you dare cry now about what you have done,” Sumitra hissed. “How dare you?”
“Peace, Sumitra,” Kaushalya said. “She is still his wife. She loves him just as we do.”
“She is nothing like us.” Sumitra looked me up and down. “She is a rakshasa in the clothes of a radnyi. I never thought I would need to tell you to be more cautious and less forgiving, Kaushalya.”
The sob escaped me. “Sumitra, I beg of you—”
“Do not speak to me,” she said, leaning away as though I was diseased.
That particular act of cruelty brought me back to reality. The events in the throne room had given me hope that perhaps she did not hate me, but sometime between yesterday and now our bond had dissolved into nothingness. She blamed me for Lakshmana’s departure, a near-unforgivable loss, and perhaps I could appeal to that. “Do you not think I grieve to see our sons leave? Please, you have to understand why—”
“You grieve for nothing,” she snapped. “Your son is still here.”
I could tell I would not get another word of explanation, and my heart sank. Was Sumitra to be lost to me forever?
“He is in his room,” Sumitra said to Kaushalya, gesturing her in. I stepped inside after them, although Sumitra scowled at me. “The healers are with him, but they say we should not go in, as it might disturb his rest. He had another fit a few minutes ago, and though it was shorter, they say it may have caused further damage to his mind.”
“Oh, gods.” Kaushalya pressed a hand to her forehead. “Do they know what caused it?”
“Stress, they say. Though they have yet to rule out otherworldly causes—demonic influence, perhaps?” She glared at me pointedly.
“Kaikeyi is not a rakshasa, and she had nothing to do with this,” Kaushalya said firmly. “You might be upset at her, but please, do not push so far. And as you well know, we do not have time for this foolishness. Kaikeyi, do you wish to see him briefly? I am sure we can go in for a moment.”