Page 83 of Her Soul for a Crown
Vengeance is not important, Anula. Justice is.Auntie Nirma had drilled it every morning and every night. Because what had happened was not Anula’s fault for being unworthy of a blessing or for offering too little. It wasn’t even the Heavens’ fault for abandoning the kingdom and its people, for caring but not enough. She didn’t need the Blood Yakka’s apology. Didn’t need to know that he cared now. And she absolutely didn’t need to know why.
Raja Mahakuli Mahatissa, Commander Dilshan, Prophet Ayaan.
It was their fault.
And the reason she was in the palace. Robe billowing, Anula sped toward the kitchen. It was time. It had to be. The tovil must be performed. But she skidded to a halt. The palace was teeming with courtiers, celebrating with drinks, and lifting thanks to the Heavens.
“News just arrived: Thanks to the ministers’ and Dilshan’s strategy, the army took out a large force of Polonnaruwa’s military yesterday. They saved a village. A host of courtier sons were part of the effort,” Bithul whispered.
Red sky. Red hands. Red water.
Look away.
But she hadn’t.
Her eyes had remained open. Found Amma, battered and bruised, tied to a pyre made from the wood of their home. The baby’s bulge bent to one side. Blood dripped as flame caught.
Her only mother, her only sibling. Never to hold or hug or kiss. Never to wake together, play together, live together.
Never tobewith her again.
“See? They do not need me to be the commander,” Bithul said. “Commander Dilshan is doing good work.”
But what of the red sky? The red hands?
Anula swallowed the last image of her Amma and spun. “Don’t follow me.”
***
Fingers tripped across sapphires, found the vials, and ripped open the largest.
Mahakuli Mahatissa had escaped justice; the rest would not.
Anula slammed open the door. Gauzy, sheer fabrics billowed in the morning breeze. Smoke snaked around figurines of the Heavens.
Prophet Ayaan startled out of his meditation. “Raejina Con—”
Anula lunged, crashing into the man and pinning his arms to the floor with her knees. She pressed one hand against his chest, lifted the vial above his face with the other. Though he was frail, she wasn’t much stronger. But in the Age of Usurpers, one only needed to be intelligent enough to dance around them, dominate them, rule them. Surprise gave her the upper hand; fear did the rest.
“Don’t. Move,” she commanded, low and severe. “See the vial? I shake it and the contents spill, eating your flesh before you can wipe it away.”
The prophet whimpered. “What are you doing?”
“Why did you set fire to Eppawala?”
“I do not know what you speak of.”
“Come now, Prophet, you’re not that old.” She hissed, “Is twelve years long enough for you to forget murdering a village of innocents?”
Prophet Ayaan paled. “I do not know of what you speak.”
Anula shifted. A drop of the poison splashed onto the prophet’s neck. It sizzled.
“Ouch!”
“Oops.” Anula tutted. “My arm is getting tired. Best hurry with the truth.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening.”
