Page 138 of Her Soul for a Crown
Lips curling over long, sharp teeth, Wessamony growled, “Then you will be their demise.”
A sharp-nailed finger pointed behind her.
Anula whirled to find Wessamony’s target.
Hashini startled, twisted quickly, and wrenched a girl in front of her.
“Sandani!” Premala grabbed hold of her hand, flung her backward, and took her place. Right in front of the guruthuma.
The snap of fingers came first.
Then everything went white and silent and still. Only a deep anger stirred inside Anula. It burned, rising like heat in a room, until a hatred so red rumbled in her chest. She sneered at the face in front of her, disgusted with their vileness, their presence, their mere existence. They were not worthy of being there; they were not worthy of life. The kingdom shouldn’t have to bear the burden that wasthem. Anula wouldn’t allow it. She picked up a rock andswung, slamming it into their head, again, again, again—
A laugh boomed.
The world returned.
And beneath Anula’s final blow, Premala’s skull shattered.
“No.” Anula’s voice broke. Premala slumped into the pit.
Anula’s stomach lurched. What had she done? What had happened? Acid burned up her throat. It was as though her thoughts had been poisoned against Premala and her will bent to a dark force… Anula dropped the stone, a chill racking her bones, vomit filling her mouth.
“You shall have one chance more.” Wessamony smirked. “Hand over the relic, or kill all you care for.”
She choked back bile—red sky, red hands, red—
“Anula!” Reeri’s voice ripped her back. Cursed blessings, how were they to survive this?
Wessamony’s fingers came together.
“No!” she shouted, fisted the relic, and ran away.
Wessamony laughed again. “You think you can escape me? Fine, let us play. Mayhap after your people have turned on you, you will no longer wish to save them.” He pointed to a group of people on the stairs in front of her. “Bring me the Bone Blade.”
Snap.
Kattadiya and refugees stiffened. Their eyes clouded over, white as cow’s milk. Their heads cracked in her direction, and silently, they lunged. Hands latched on to the hem of Anula’s sari and the clasp of her necklace; they hooked around her legs and thighs, twisted in her hair. They yanked and threw her backward. She slammed into a jagged rock, and the blade flew out of her grip.
It clattered onto Hashini’s foot. She smiled, lifting it to the cave ceiling.
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The Bone Blade bellowed its Heavenly melody.
“Great Divinity of Fate”—Hashini stretched her arm high, as if reaching into the First Heavens—“hear the call of your relic, return and claim what is rightfully yours, protect us from those who wish to use it.”
Bright white light, purer than any Anula had seen, illuminated the amphitheater. Its warmth flashed across her skin. And as its song crescendoed, a fish as large and wide as an elephant burst through the air.
The Makara. The sea dragon.
Stories of old spoke of its existence, of how it lurked along the seashore, hungering for flesh and thirsting for fear. It was a tale told to children, to keep them far from the water’s edge. It had worked on Anula. No one wished to be eaten by a fish. But if the Makara was real and lived so far away, how and why had Hashini summoned it?
Orange and pink scales glinted in the light of the Great Sword as it circled, as its blessed depiction had in the bathing pool—thefirst gift Anula had witnessed. Yet here there was no water, no shore to hunt upon. The Makara flicked its tail and funneled down, erupting in orange light before Wessamony. A Divine form emerged, neither male nor female, but both. Stars twinkled in their eyes.
A knowing skittered up Anula’s arms. This was Fate.
“We meet again,” they said to the Lord, voice melodic and skin sparkling, as if still made of scales.
