Asha brings me a lunch tray. I eat the fruit and leave the rest. She later brings my supper tray, lights the oil lamps, and again departs. In the twilight hour, I sit back and massage my tired hand.
The land-goddess stares up at me from the page. She stands within her misty jungle. A deadly dragon cobra is slung over her neck and shoulders, and she holds its diamond-shaped black head toward me. A crown of poisonous nightshade surrounds her head like a halo. Her straight dark hair falls like vines around her strong, feminine shape, both warrior and goddess. I stare into Ki’s knowing eyes, waiting for her to speak wisdom to my soul.
A warm shudder washes over me. I look across the chamber at the decorative bowl of colorful glass orbs near the hearth. Could it work?
I clutch my sketchbook to my chest and close my eyes. The remembrance of Deven’s full, velvety lips visits me in the dark. Relaxing into my pillow, I invite the memory of his kiss to stay with me through the night.
18
I wake with a start, beads of sweat rolling down my face, thinking that the palace itself is ablaze. First light streams in from the open balcony. My bedchamber is free of smoke and flames. I touch my face and find that I was mistaken. I’m on fire.
My satchel hangs on my bedpost. I reach for my tonic vial in the front pocket and notice radiance in my hands. I stumble to the mirror glass and gape. My face, arms, and chest are glowing. Dizziness grabs the sides of my head and spins me around. I slump forward, resting a hand over the comb on my vanity. The comb’s silver prongs curl and warp. I cringe away, my mind flashing back to the Burner bending the blade of Natesa’s knife.
Gods’ virtue, no.
I stumble back to my bed and lower myself to the floor. Handling my satchel as little as possible, I dig out a tonic vial. The glass heats in my hand. I pop the cork, and it burns to ash in my palm. My pulse thrashes in my ears. I press the vial to my quivering lips and down the last of the tonic.
Panting, I extend my hands in front of me. The radiance slowly fades, and I slump against my bed. Everything I know about myself disintegrates, like the cork did in my hand. No normal person glows or bends silver combs.
I press my fists to my stinging eyes, and tears slip out. Healer Baka must have known. I bite my teeth down on more tears, my chest swelling with anger. Why did she not tell me? I spent years in a sickbed, yet she never uttered a word. She should have done more than send me here with a formula. She must know what the rajah does to bhutas. She must know what will happen if I am caught.
Shoving away my tears, I stare at the ashes on my palm. Great Anu, what do I do? I have one vial left, enough tonic to last me through the tournament, but then what? I rub my palm clean on my skirt. I cannot do this. I cannot win the tournament and be a . . . What am I? Demon or half-god?
My gaze flies across the chamber to Bhuta Origins, stashed on the bookshelf. I push myself to my rickety legs and fetch it. Sitting cross-legged before the empty hearth, I start at the beginning of the book and thumb through the pages. The same phrases shout out at me. Half-gods. Godly powers. Children of Anu.
In the middle, the chapters break down bhuta abilities by name. I skim over each power, certain phrases hooking into me. Aquifiers possess healing waters. Tremblers hold indomitable strength. Galers hear the secrets of the wind.
I pause on the chapter about Burners.
Burners possess Enlil’s mighty fire. Some even share the fire-god’s golden eyes, though not many. Burners raze the good and the bad, clearing a path for new growth and learning. They are the rarest bhutas, and their powers are the most crucial to control and contain. In their early years, Burners’ flare-ups may be mistaken for fevers. Many inaccurately regard Burners as sickly, and if overlooked, their abilities will smolder until self-destruction. As such, many die before they reach maturity.
I slam the book shut, hands and head shaking. Mistaken for fevers. My gaze rests on my last tonic vial. Their abilities will smolder until self-destruction. At the end of my dosage, my bones feel as though they are on fire. I never considered that they actually were.
Questions strike my mind like lightning bolts. I reopen the book and read on, searching for an answer I fear I already know.
Deven comes for me not long afterward. My face and hands are washed, and I have hidden the ruined comb under my mattress. Though I am still, my mind churns like the base of a waterfall.
“Brother Shaan has come to meet with us,” Deven says.
My strained muscles feel fragile, but I am ready. I drop the book into my satchel, and we set out.
The chapel is on the lower floor of the main palace, tucked into a quiet niche. Deven opens the door, and I step inside. Brother Shaan is bent over in prayer before the altar, where dried herbs and flowers burn, a sacrifice to the gods. His white hair mimics his light robes, his reedy frame stooped from decades of kneeling in adulation.
Deven removes his turban, a sign of respect. His freed dark hair curls at the nape of his neck. I have not seen him without his turban. I try not to think of his wavy tresses as I kneel on a cushion near Brother Shaan.
“Let the sky lead me, the land ground me, the fire cleanse me, and the water feed me,” I say.
Deven kneels on Brother Shaan’s other side and recites the same Prayer of Protection.
“Brother Deven,” says Brother Shaan, “it’s a rare man who is suited to kneeling in prayer and hefting a sword.”
“Brother Shaan, you remember the viraji.”
“Congratulations on your Claiming,” says the brother. “Healer Baka and I are old friends. She was a midwife before she became a healer and was working in the palace when we met. She sent a carrier dove with a message that arrived just before you did to inform me of your arrival.” Brother Shaan’s gaze bounces between Deven and me. “I was intrigued by your message. How may I assist you?”
I slide my hand into my satchel and pause. Bhuta Origins is not a book I should possess, but I would not be here if Deven did not trust Brother Shaan. I hand him the book.
His eyes flare open, and he skims his hand over the cover. “Where did you find this?”
“A Burner may have left it for me.”
Deven straightens in my side vision.
“Do you recognize the title?” I say.
“I used to read texts such as this in the temple vestry,” says Brother Shaan. “I thought they had all been destroyed.” He thumbs through the pages, stopping on the drawing of Anu bestowing the bhutas with his light. “But the truth has a way of shining through the dark.”
“You once had books like these in the temple?” Deven says, tilting his head. “Why?”
Before Brother Shaan can answer, I jump to the question foremost in my mind. “Are bhutas half-demon or half-god?”
“We are all half-demon, half-god,” says Brother Shaan. “The demon half being the mortal side that continually errs, and the godly half being the side that strives to improve. In each life, we endeavor to raise our standing and become closer to everlasting perfection.”