The Oleander Sword (The Burning Kingdoms, #2)

by Tasha Suri

“Empress.” Mahesh’s voice broke from him, sudden and jagged. “You cannot.” “I can,” Malini said calmly, even as something sweetly dark coiled in her chest. Power was a pleasure with many forms. To see a powerful man—a man who had betrayed her—brought low was one of its headiest. She did not let it touch her face or her voice. She was like ice. “I am Empress of Parijatdvipa.”

“Rao,” Aditya called out. “I dreamt of you.” “What did you dream?” Rao asked. “A dream from the nameless god, I think.” “Surely you know, priest,” Rao said, but there was nothing cutting in his voice. Only curiosity. Aditya hesitated. “I saw your eyes, shining like stars.” “Stars?” Aditya nodded. “What had happened, to make them shine?” “I don’t know,” Aditya said. “But Rao—perhaps one day we’ll meet again, on the other side of this war, and you will be able to tell me.”

Gaaaaaayyyyyyyy

In the pink lantern district, where there had once been nothing but pleasure houses, was a library. Nestled between rows of lantern-strung buildings, it was a modest building with pale walls and narrow windows, its interior pleasantly cool, and filled with the noise of rustling paper, distant strains of song and laughter from the pleasure houses, and the hum of voices reciting the Birch Bark Mantras. Ever since she and Priya had taken over leadership of Ahiranya, Bhumika had made a point of investing in the arts in a way she had never been able to do as the regent’s wife. Even when there had been precious little coin to spare, she had arranged for a library to be built, where sages and poets could study, and share their work, and keep their creations safely stored. Under Parijatdvipan rule, it was the scholars and artists who had kept the memory of Ahiranyi faith and culture alive. The Birch Bark Mantras had survived in their recitations—in handwritten copies, hidden by household after household. Bhumika understood very well that to build a new Ahiranya would require strong foundations. A nation could not survive without food—but it could not survive without a soul either. Kritika may have believed the Hirana was where the soul of Ahiranya lay. But in Bhumika’s eyes, it was here.

Ganam had never thought he’d end up being a spy for the widow of the regent of Ahiranya. But that was life, he supposed. Unpredictable. You could spend most of it fighting to see your country free, and actually live to see the day come to pass. And then, by chance, you could also live to see your gods return, and the man you used to follow rise from the dead, and learn that the world you’d dreamed of was just more of the same. Rot, and tyrants, and keeping your eyes open for danger. So it goes.

Mothers torn from their children. Love being used like a weapon. Ganam had joined a rebellion to save his country from this. And here it was. So it went. That was life. More of the same, in an endless, grinding cycle. But he felt the same anger hardening inside him that he’d felt years ago, when he’d vowed to risk his life for a better world. He wasn’t going to allow this. “We’ll get her back, Khalida,” he promised her. “We’ll get the little one safe. You wait and see. That’s my promise. No matter how long it takes, we’ll see it done.”

Someone has to be the first to scream NO GODS NO MASTERS on this world

Ganam stood near the dangerous edge of the triveni, where it was open to the sky and the sheer cliff face surrounding the Hirana. But he didn’t look afraid. Ostensibly he was Ashok’s guard, but his hands were clasped behind him, weaponless. His expression was grave. “There are going to be more tomorrow,” he said. “And more worshippers the day after that. The rot’s growing worse. Spreading faster than fire.” His gaze flickered over Ashok, in a way that was somehow both dismissive and respectful. “Something’s changed for the worse in Ahiranya,” Ganam went on, as if he couldn’t help himself. “And no one knows what. Strange, isn’t it.”

“I will remember what we are,” she said. “I will keep the thought alight in my heart, like a candle. And when our lives darken, I will use it to guide me through. I will remember that we are not what is done to us. We are, and always have been, more than that.” Her voice softened as they stared back at her—grief and rage and something like hope in their faces. “That is what I will do. “We will not die bravely and needlessly,” she said. “But we will not lose hope. That is what it means to be Ahiranyi, whether the yaksa know it or not. When they destroy us, somehow we will always grow anew. Have faith in that.”