Page 152 of Her Soul for a Crown
“Our walk ends.” Fate regarded them once more. “Who goes first?”
Together they decided on Premala and her Kattadiya.
The women emerged into a half burning stupa, linking arms and escaping before it crumpled to dust and ash. Offerings became mere memories. They raced to the center of the city, the clank of the water tank beckoning them forth.
Next went Bithul and his men, out of a painting of war-seasoned commanders, only to land in the halls of the administration building with strangled ministers at their feet. They sneaked to the doors and burst into the inner city. Three contingents parsed off, Bithul’s heading for the palace stairs.
Last, Anula stepped from the painting, fingers plugging her ears as the contents of the blessed gift climaxed.
Fate had smirked when she gave Anula the signal that it was her turn. Apparently, the portrait of Raja Mahakuli Mahatissa’s harem was the only one available. She hadn’t dared search the faces to find her own from last year. She wasn’t that girl anymore.
Anula landed in a ransacked bedchamber—the raja’s ransacked bedchamber. A voice broke around a song, not inside her head but within her bones. Anula shivered, stepping lightly over the glass and stone littering the floor. Vases and mirrors lay shattered, pillows and divans and paintings shredded.
Usurpers didn’t tend to plunder their newly acquired palaces, unless they didn’t intend to rule from there, or they planned to burn it and rebuild—or just burn it to send a message. Anula’s skin crawled.
“Help!” A cry sounded.
Anula bolted toward it, thinking of maids and servants and guards who might have been caught in the middle of the chaos. She flung sheets in the air and found not a maid but a gift.
“Cursed blessings.”
“Help!” the blessed gift raejina cried. The headboard was cracked in two. A chasm of air hung between the raejina’s and raja’s outstretched hands, unable to breach the edge of the wood.
The image sank in Anula’s heart, filling the space of her soul. “Hold on.”
She pushed the two pieces as closely together as she could. It would have to be enough for now. She was there for a different purpose. Anula swept a hand under the bed, grabbed the hidden treasure beneath, and flipped Uncle Manoj’s journal to the final page. The one where he’d scrawled,Skin-to-skin contact without self-poisoning?
The recipe was quick and easy, the delivery merely a sultrysurprise. It didn’t matter that she no longer had her necklace. There was no need for a remedy.
***
Dark clouds roiled over the palace, heat sticking Anula’s sari to every curve of her body as she flew through the halls. Past room after room, doors unhinged, and gifts stolen or shattered. Flames flickered in the windows, her eyes latching to each as she passed, hope lodged in her throat.
The flood came first, soaking the ground with water from the irrigation reservoirs, the waves rising from soldiers’ feet to ankles, and drowned out the flames. The banners of Polonnaruwa dropped next. Soldiers fell in great numbers, as a swell of guards and ministers and concubines and wives gathered in fight. Bithul was in the last window, climbing the palace stairs. His sword aimed for a man in a feathered helmet, like the one Commander Dilshan used to wear. But Bithul was not stealthy; the Polonnaruwan commander watched his advance, settled on the higher ground, and arced his own sword. Bithul ducked, rolled across the lower stair, and swiped at the commander’s ankles.
With a scream, he plunged to his knees, then his hands. Bithul stood and swung once more, ending his command.
Pride swelled within Anula. They were doing it. They were ending the Age of Usurpers, taking back what was theirs, and declaring a new start, a new Age, a new beginning, together. She skidded to a halt in front of a set of carved wooden doors inset with silver and brass ornamentation. Now it was her turn.
For poison could stop many hearts.
But Anula yearned for just one.
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Two carved lions faced her, mouths open in warning.
Do you dare?they seemed to ask.
Anula straightened her sari, realigned her bent gold head chain, her one bell-drop earring, what was left of her bangles.
Yes, she answered, then stepped inside the throne room.
Ten swords flew to her throat. The Polonnaruwan guards were tense and bloodthirsty, hunting dogs waiting for the signal to let loose.
“Down boys,” Anula said. “I’m only a woman.”
They took her in, shoulders relaxing, suspicion clearing. Indeed, she spoke the truth.
