And as an heir, Gemi will understand Ashwin’s need to place the empire first, above even her.
“You’ve thought through all the advantages,” he says, tossing the flower aside.
“You know I’m right,” I reply in kind. “It’s time for you to marry. The empire needs ranis, and you’re ready.”
Ashwin skims his finger across my cheek. “I wish it could be you.”
“You’ll always place the empire first. That’s how it should be. But I . . . I have a different dream for myself.”
My attention strays to the shadows, to the sandalwood incense in my pocket, to the sketch in my bedchamber that I have been working on for a fortnight.
Ashwin takes my hand in his. “If you ever change your mind . . .”
“Thank you.” I squeeze his fingers lightly.
He releases me without any more provocation. “Are you certain you won’t join us? Yatin’s older sisters are going to recite tales of the gods.”
“That does sound divine, but I really am tired.” This is my customary excuse to reduce his disappointment in my absence or lack of interest about the happenings in the palace. “Please send our guests my regards.”
“I will.” Ashwin tucks his hands in his trouser pockets and strolls off.
I pick up the bloom he dropped and lay it in front of the tomb. “Good night, Mother and Father.”
By the time I return inside, the lamps are lit, and the aroma of rich spices from the feast permeates the corridors. The balcony doors in my bedchamber are closed, the room stifling. Asha has been busy as of late. She is apprenticing to become a healer under Baka. I kick off my sandals and open the exterior doors. A wind ripples the draperies. I remember a time when Deven and I cocooned inside them, tangled up and—
I stop myself before I cannot breathe, and I return to my bedchamber.
Parchment and charcoal sketches are spread out across my table. I light the lamp, casting a glow over the sketch on top. An intriguing portrayal, mostly finished, stares up at me. His angular jaw that I have grazed, sweeping cheekbones that I have cupped, full lips that I have kissed, and kind, resolute eyes.
His nose still is not straight. My left hand struggles with the evenness of the charcoal strokes that my right hand could once perform so deftly. It took me nearly three days to replicate the thickness of his eyelashes. But the effort must be put in.
The sketch will be of no use until his nose is correct.
I sit and try once more. Tiny trembles shake my left hand. The first line is wrong. I rub it clean and try once more. Then again . . . and again . . .
The oil lamp burns low. The moon rises high, and the far-off noises from the feast quiet. Charcoal stains my fingers and nails, and my back aches from hunching over. When I am certain I will never draw a perfect line again, I finally do it. I draw the straight slope of his nose, and there he is, in all his perfection.
My nerves spark, revitalizing my purpose. I have done it. I am ready.
I take out the sandalwood incense I pocketed from the chapel. My fingertip glows with fire, and I ignite the end. A steady flow of smoke rises, hazing the chamber, and treating my senses to a smell I have missed.
The sketch I toiled over for many days is laid on the table. Several moons’ worth of preparation and practice to regain a level of artistry with my weaker hand waits for me. Is it good enough? Does it look like him? Or have I forgotten any details? The thought sets me ill at ease. I pick up the sketch and examine it, racking my memory. Each detail required painstaking care.
No, I haven’t missed anything. This is him.
But if I am wrong. If I fail . . .
My nerves cannot handle another moment of wavering. I blow out the lantern, and shadows fall in around me. Pressing the sketch over my thudding heart, I survey the darkest corner of my chamber. Inhaling the sandalwood scent, I welcome the shadows, for they are the door to the evernight.
Anu, please let this be . . .
Closing my eyes, I go deep into my mind and unlock my chest of treasures. Memories of Deven Naik, alive and whole, fill me. His deep chuckle, satiny kiss, and soft beard. I continue the trail of memories, going back to the first time I saw him atop his horse, riding toward the temple. I hone my senses, seeking for a change in the dark, and open my eyes.
No one is here. I expand my sense of awareness, seeking a presence in my dim room, but grasp on to nothing.
Names hold power.
I call to him, first with my mind and heart, and then with my lips. “Deven Naik.”
The shadows do not stir. I am speaking to myself, to a ghost, to a lost dream.
The tears come, though I scarcely feel them. They are so prevalent as of late, especially at night when I am alone. I set down the sketch and put out the incense.
Moonlight frosts my balcony. I shut the doors, deepening the shadows in my chamber, and trudge to my bed. Tears fill up my nose and throat. I always think they will drown me, but they never do. I drop onto the mound of frivolous pillows, though I have found one use for them. Selecting a square one, I press it over my face and release a sob. Natesa sometimes checks on me at night, and I do not want her to hear me.
I weep into the satin cloth until my head swims with a headache. Tossing it aside, I wipe at my soggy nose, and a sudden awareness passes over me.
Someone is here.
I capture my breath and slowly sit up.
A shadow of a man stands near the empty hearth. I gasp, my lips trembling. I can hardly exhale as he crosses to me. At the side of my bed, I push up and lift my fingers to his profile, the one I sketched this evening and dream of each night.
“Kali,” Deven says at the same moment I touch his cheek.
He is real, not a pillar of dark. He pulses soul-fire.
“You came. You found me.” I leap at him, and his arms lock around me, solid and strong. He is a real man. I grab him close as can be, terrified that if I let go he will disappear. “I knew you were alive. I looked for you in the shadows.”
He buries his face in my hair. “I tried to come before, but the dark made it difficult. There are so many pathways to take. I felt you stronger tonight. You were like a beacon.”
I lean back and cup his bearded chin. His serious eyes are the same rich brown. Though his hair is longer, the shaggy length frames and softens his stern jaw. He smells of his normal sandalwood, tagged on by a hint of mist. “You’re trapped in the evernight?”
“Yes.”
I run my hand down to his chest. His heart thuds regularly against my palm. “Does it hurt? Are you in pain?”
He strokes my hair. “It’s dark, but I’m all right.”
“I have to get you out of there. I know of a tale. Inanna’s . . . Inanna’s Descent. She saved her intended from death. She went down into the Void and found him. I can use my powers to come for you.” I push a glow into my hand, and he starts to fade from view. I pull back on my soul-fire, and a frustrated groan lodges in my throat.
He is confined to shadows, unable to come into the light.