“Tell him to wait for my signal,” I say. “I will light the torches on the front gate, and then he may come. Not a second before. We will start the new future of Tarachand with peace.”
“I will tell him.” Brother Shaan studies the fresh henna markings on my hands and feet. “What will you do?”
“My part.” I strategized for this night in the dungeons. Still, regardless of my forethought, my fingers quake with worry.
“You are aware that the rajah’s chambers were built with the same bhuta-repellent poison as the dungeons?”
“I am aware.” I have not forgotten how I lost my abilities when I entered the atrium, but I will not face Tarek defenseless.
Brother Shaan pats my knee for support. “Remember, as soon as you see the Zhaleh, do not delay. The rajah mustn’t begin the ritual.” He glances to the chapel door, which Asha is opening. “Our time is spent,” he says. “I will see you soon at your wedding.”
The next day, after I have spent hours being groomed from crown to foot, Asha tucks an exquisite gold-embroidered red sari around my waist.
“I have never seen a lovelier sari,” I say, touching the stitching.
“The rajah requested that you wear it,” Asha says, pleating the embroidered side. “It was his first wife’s bridal sari.”
I watch my staid reflection in the mirror glass as she finishes pleating, pinning, and draping the sari around me. Before today, hearing that I was to wear Yasmin’s wedding sari would have spoiled the pretty clothes. Now I am grateful to have something that belonged to my mother, to be close to her in some small part.
I lost Yasmin’s daggers and my slingshot the night of my attempted escape. I wish that I had them, but even if I did, I would have nowhere to conceal them. The fitted pleats of her exquisite bridal sari allow no room for weapons.
As a final touch, Asha adds Yasmin’s necklace. I stare into the mirror glass at the living spirit of my mother, wondering how she would kill Tarek if she were in my place.
Another servant enters, bearing a velvet pouch. “The rajah sent this for the viraji.”
She and Asha watch me open the pouch to reveal a jar. I unscrew the top, and the scent of the ginger-lavender lotion escapes.
My insides slope to my knees. Once again, Tarek is pushing Yasmin on me. Is it not enough that I dress like her? I must smell like her too?
I set the gift aside. “Asha, I would like to be alone.”
“Right away, Viraji.” She and the other servant leave.
Kneeling beside my bed, I dig my arm beneath my mattress, up to my shoulder, and pull out my last tonic vial, as well as the ointment Jaya gave me. Poison does not have the same comforting feel in my hand as a blade, but its secretiveness makes it deadlier.
I tuck the tonic vial down the front of my blouse, and then Parisa and Eshana bustle in. I stash away Jaya’s ointment in the pouch with the lotion. A contingency plan, should my other efforts fail.
“Kali, you’re a vision!” says Eshana.
Parisa rubs the hem of my sleeve. “This is the lightest silk I have ever felt. My bridal sari wasn’t half as elegant.”
“You weren’t half as favored either,” says Eshana.
Parisa cuffs her in the side of the head with my flimsy veil.
Asha hurries in, her gaze apologetic for the interruption. I am not annoyed. I have not spoken to the chatty duo in days. Their prattle is welcome.
“Everyone is talking about your performance in the arena,” Eshana says as she preens at herself in the mirror glass. “We all agree you embodied the land-goddess. You were a true sister warrior.”
“No one is sad Lakia is gone,” adds Parisa. “The mood of the wives’ wing is brighter. All of us will get along better without her.”
Eshana abandons her reflection to face me. She places my veil over the lower half of my face, hooking it behind my ears. “The rank tournaments are in the past now. With all of Tarek’s ranis claimed, and you as our kindred, we can live in peace.”
Their outlook is encouraging but leaves a bitter aftertaste. So many died to reach this point. I hope with all my heart that their sacrifice was not in vain.
Shyla sweeps into the room and clasps her hands. “Kalinda, you look breathtaking! Do you have everything you need? You won’t return to your chamber tonight.”
“Yes.” I hand Asha the velvet pouch containing the lotion and Jaya’s ointment. “Can you take this to the rajah’s chamber? He favors the scent.”
Parisa reaches for the pouch. “What is it?”
“Can we smell?” asks Eshana.
Shyla loops her arms around Parisa’s and Eshana’s waists and steers them toward the door. “Let that be Kalinda’s secret, at least for tonight.”
I trail the giggling young women out of my chamber, the smooth tonic vial buried deep in my bodice. I doubt that every secret is deadly, but I fear that those are the only secrets I will ever know.
34
In comparison to the tournament, the wedding is a humble affair. We exchange vows on the terrace at the rear of the palace, overlooking the gardens. Brother Shaan officiates, and Tarek gazes at me adoringly through the nuptials. I look down, lifting my chin as I swear to the gods that I will willingly submit to my husband in all things. That is the only promise that I am required to make. I will break it by day’s end.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, Tarek and I lead his wives and courtesans inside to the throne room. It has been set up to look like the tournament feast, but the tables are absent of the young faces who died trying to see this day as a bride. I should thank the gods I am not one of them, but my heart seeps only grief.
Tarek—I refuse to think of him as my husband—and I kneel at a table on the dais. Lithophone players strike a lively song of celebration. The wives take turns laying tokens at my feet: lip stain, silk, perfumes, but mostly veils. After tonight, I will be obligated to wear a veil in public too.
“Welcome, sister,” the ranis say. As part of their offerings, they kiss my knee to show they bend to my authority as kindred.
Tarek drinks beside me, draining a full chalice of apong. I want to slip my tonic into his cup, but I have to delay until I see the book. I do not like relying solely on poison. I want a weapon with a blade, a defense that cuts. I scan the tables for supper knives, but I see none. My hands curl in on themselves. Tarek must have learned from Gautam’s death.
The rajah twirls a finger in my hair. “Traditionally, the wife dances for her husband.”
I wore my mother’s bridal sari for him, I swore to obey him, but I will not dance for him.
“Perhaps the groom can dance for the bride?”
“Will it bring a smile to your face?” Tarek’s hand creeps up my knee.
My frown deepens in dissention. “Maybe.”
“Then I will try.” Tarek stands and invites his other wives to join him.
Parisa and Eshana rise and spin with him, clapping their hands to the beat. Mathura sits off to the side, with her bad leg resting on a chair, and smokes a hookah pipe. She does not come forward with a gift or to offer congratulations. I do not expect her to.