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The royal pavilion of the queen of Marang was vast. The way that led to it from the palace wall was laid with smooth stone that was cool beneath the bare soles of Vayatri's feet. And it seemed to take a long, long time to reach it.
She kept her eyes in front of her, and treated each step as a task completed. There, one. And there, another. So many tasks already accomplished, and fewer and fewer that lay yet before her. When she thought of it that way, it didn't seem so bad.
Her own breath was loud in her ears. She tried to pace it to her steps, but it so often ran ahead of her, too fast to catch. Her heart pounded. Her head ached—she had never worn so many ornaments at once before, the headdress with its draping chains wound through her hair, rings in her ears and her nose, a dozen jeweled bracelets on each wrist, rings on her fingers and her ankles and her toes; and every piece of it was gold, soft and impossibly heavy.
At least it gave her a good reason to keep her steps very careful and even. Perhaps she even approximated a look of grace and dignity. Perhaps no one could tell how much she trembled.
All the journey to Batu Prabhang had been like this: too long, and yet not long enough. Never long enough. How could it be?
But now it was almost over. Now they had come to the great palace of the queen of Marang, and Vayatri and all her escort were crossing the huge terraced royal courtyard, and they would ascend the pavilion and present themselves and then there would be no way out.
She closed her eyes, and took another step. Even if there were a way out, she could not take it. She would not. The war had to end, before all was lost; and to end it, she must marry the queen of Marang.
She swallowed hard, and snuck a glance at the pavilion that loomed ahead. The court of Marang was all assembled there, the nobility arrayed and seated in comfort on raised cushions upon the tiled floor. The pavilion itself was hung with embroidered silks, jeweled beads and flowers strung upon cords; and petals were scattered everywhere, jumbled and pushed into drifts by the breeze, the smell of them sweet on the air.
A handful of them crept beneath the rippling embroidered edge of Vayatri's skirts and tumbled over her toes. She was close now. She made herself breathe. Another step. Another.
The handmaids and guards who had formed a procession behind her came to a stop, and lowered themselves to the ground, heads down, obeisant. It was she and she alone who must ascend the broad stone stair and enter.
And the woman who rose from the great golden throne as she did and stepped forward to meet her—this, somehow, was the queen of Marang.
Vayatri lost the rhythm of her steps; she hung suspended between one and the next, staring.
She had known what waited for her here. Or she thought she had.
Ishya, who was queen in Marang, had earned many names in all her years of war with Thiripaya. The war had begun in her father's time, and the king had been no general; Vayatri's mother had pressed him back, had conquered half Marang out from under him. And then he had been slain, and his daughter risen to his place, and—Vayatri could not remember half what she'd heard said. Ishya the Unconquerable, the Sword of Marang; Bright-Bladed, Wolf-Bellied. Ishya who had slain a hundred warriors singlehanded, a thousand, whose sword felled her enemies like fire did a forest, who left the battlefield soaked red in her wake and laughed.
No one knew why she had chosen to permit negotiations to begin. No one knew why she might have allowed the offer of gifts and tribute and a princess to sway her, when she could as easily have fought on. A year, less, and perhaps all Thiripaya would have been crushed beneath her heel.
Vayatri's mother, her advisors, had argued over it all for days. Whether it was a trick, whether Vayatri and all her attendants would be slaughtered; whether there was any purpose in refusing, rescinding agreement, when the only other option was defeat. It was Vayatri who had gone before them, in the end, to say that she would go—that if they could not win this war, then they must take their chance to end it another way, before it was ended for them.
Fine words. But words amounted to so little, in war. And, knowing this, Vayatri had half expected to find the queen of Marang with her sword in her hand, still dripping with blood—that she would point it at Vayatri and laugh her terrible laugh, and cut her in half right there. But—
But it was not so.
Vayatri swallowed.
She could not falter. She was to be given to the queen of Marang, and she had agreed, for the sake of her mother and her land and her people. And what kind of sense would it make to quail now—when she stood at last before Ishya in her royal pavilion, and looked her from head to toe, and saw no blood at all?
The queen of Marang looked—Vayatri did not know how to say it, even to herself. She looked like a queen, that was all. A queen of legend, to be sure, for she was draped with even more gold than Vayatri; her choli glittered with it, and the hems of her skirts were hung with discs of it in rows, so that as she moved they swayed and clinked against one another. Her eyes were not made of fire: they were dark and striking, so intent upon Vayatri's face that she felt her cheeks fill with heat unbidden. Her hair was long, thick and black, plaited back with flowers. Somehow none of the war-songs Vayatri had heard had described her so.
But perhaps the strangest thing of all was that she was scarred.
Her face, a little. One scar sliced down through her brow to her cheek; she must have nearly lost the eye. Another followed the line of her jaw and then jagged suddenly down across the bone—and perhaps it was the same blow that seemed to have caught her collarbone, a knot drawing the skin tight.
As if she had not waded through endless battle untouched after all. It hardly seemed possible, and yet it was so.
"—bid you welcome," said the queen of Marang, as if from somewhere very distant indeed.
Vayatri dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, rings biting into her knuckles, and belatedly forced her eyes to the floor. How long had she been staring that way? Had she been seen? If the queen of Marang thought her disrespectful—surely then the sword would be brought out. At least her attendants might catch her head before it rolled too far, and return it to her mother—
She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, and made herself breathe. Enough. She must do better, that was all. Ishya had not killed her yet, and Vayatri must try hard to make sure there was no reason for her to change her mind, and that was that.
One task at a time. She lowered herself carefully down, and emptied herself of every thought except how to hold her head so the headdress would not topple from it—like a water jug, she told herself, the way she had seen a thousand servants do. That was not so hard. She settled on her knees upon the tile, and kept her eyes cast down, and raised her hands, palm-up: the deepest gesture of respect that she could make, when she couldn't press her forehead to the floor. "Your humble servant," she heard herself say, "is unequal to the task of expressing suitable gratitude," and her voice shook only a little. That was good.
And then—and then the queen of Marang clasped her by the wrists, and said mildly, "Gracious words. Come, Princess—come, stand," and Vayatri stumbled to her feet, trying desperately not to flinch from that grip. As if it mattered if she did; as if she had any hope of pulling free.
She swallowed hard, and could not think what to say next. Her heart pounded, and would not stop.
"I do not know how these things are done among your people," said Ishya, "but in this land, gifts are both given and received, on the day of a wedding." She glanced past Vayatri—toward her escort, and beyond them the rest of the procession that had come with her, waiting in stillness, laden with tribute: gold, silk, iron; fine pottery holding the traditional hundred measures of rice, oil, and sugar; and a dozen tamed elephants, bearing what Vayatri knew to be a great weight of sandalwood, and bound sheaves of dried spices. "The throne of Marang is humbled by your generosity. Tell me what boon I might grant you in turn, Princess."
Please do not kill me, Vayatri could not say.
"I—I am gratified by the benevolence of the throne of Marang," and it was not enough, it was too much, she didn't know what else to do. "I know I will want for nothing; I am—it would be unforgivable greed to ask for more than I am already given."
She dared to risk a glance; and Ishya looked back at her with dark level eyes, her mouth shaped into a flat line. Vayatri would have cowered from her anger, except—except there was none. Vayatri searched for any sign of it, desperate, and could not find it; neither could she name what was there in its place.
But Ishya was displeased, at least. That much was clear enough. Vayatri could only stand there, swallowing, hoping Ishya could not feel her tremble, and pray that displeasure was not enough to make Ishya change her mind.
"Gracious indeed," said Ishya at last, quietly. "As you will," and then she turned away. To address her court, Vayatri thought distantly, but heard none of it; she closed her eyes and breathed, and made herself still.
One task at a time. And there were many more that lay ahead of her, she knew—but in this moment nothing was required of her, and she could pretend that she was safe, and that all would be well.
Even though it surely was not true.
The wedding itself was much like the journey: both too long and too short, far too prompt to arrive and yet at the same time unforgivably leisurely in its approach.
Vayatri and her handmaids were escorted within the palace itself, past grand walls and enclosures and through a great gate, to another pavilion that stood upon the inner grounds—if anything, even larger and finer than the last, and hung around with silks like veils.
Within its shelter, all the finery she had worn to travel here was removed, a piece at a time. She was washed with sacred water, which had also been brought with them in sealed jars; and her hands and feet were painted, and the fine heavy wedding clothes brought out—red, both the paint and the cloth, and the powder that was rubbed into her hair likewise. Then she was dressed again, and laden with what felt like twice the jewelry at least. But all that gold was cool against her hot skin, and the weight of it now was almost steadying.
And Vayatri stood through it all, and was still, and breathed.
And then, all at once, it was—it was time.
She could not remember it all clearly, after. Not the words of the blessings that had been spoken over them; only the sound of voices, the knowledge that it had happened. The flowers, endless chains of them twined everywhere—it had seemed that they were surrounded by them, that the wedding pavilion itself was made out of them. She could remember no faces, either; only the great crowd kneeling before the dais, a single blurred whole through the veil that covered Vayatri.
Or—no faces but one.
Ishya, too, was veiled, as was only right and proper, with red silk picked with threads of gold that glittered in the firelight. It was evening, the sky darkening, and it was as though all the world was contained within the fire before them, the circle where its light fell; as though nothing beyond had ever existed or ever would again. They must sit with their hands clasped, and Ishya's was warm and steady, and Vayatri stared at it so she would not stare at Ishya, would not make the mistake of being so rude again.
And then the blessings were over. They stood, and walked round the fire, hands joined: Ishya before and Vayatri behind, the first six times, and only Ishya must speak the mantras. The ritual agreements required of Vayatri were short and simple; that was not so bad. But then it was—Vayatri led the seventh time round, on trembling legs, and could not bear to look but felt Ishya's dark eyes fixed upon the nape of her neck. Her heart pounded in her ears, she could not think; she was dimly surprised to hear the words of the seventh mantra spilled from her own mouth, and if her voice was quiet, well, at least she did not choke on any of them, or faint, or fall down.
She slowed, when she was done, and Ishya spoke her own final vow in reply but it was—it felt like it was done a very great distance away, and had nothing to do with Vayatri at all. Except for Ishya's hand gripping hers, the way it tightened. Vayatri looked up, slow and mindless, as if in a dream, and Ishya was looking back at her; and Vayatri had had no hope of reading her face even before they were both veiled.
There were more words. Vayatri couldn't remember them, felt she had never known them—Ishya spoke them aloud without hesitating, and Vayatri felt her mouth move and hoped dimly that she was not too far wrong.
And then a great glad murmur arose, and suddenly the air was full of petals, the fire leaping, and they were—it was done.
The queen's chambers in the palace of Batu Prabhang were very large.
Large, and fine, and well-appointed; the stone walls were carved with graceful curling patterns like the petals of flowers, inlaid with gold and bright gleaming stones, and in preparation they too had been hung with flowing silk dyed brilliant scarlet.
Vayatri looked at them so she would not look at the bed, and twisted her hands together, and tried to make herself still inside.
Red was life, passion, fire; sunrise, and beginnings. An auspicious color—and yet Vayatri looked at it, dark in the flickering lamplight, and thought of blood. Of her own helpless imaginings, how she had expected to come here and find the queen of Marang drenched in it; and it should have been a comfort that she had been wrong, except—
Except that then, at least, Vayatri would have known what awaited her. She would have—she would have understood what it was she faced. A thing she feared but had come to expect, she could at least have felt herself ready for. As it was, she could not stop thinking about Ishya's dark eyes, her scarred face, the steady warmth of her hand on Vayatri's; the disorientation of it, the great uncertain surprise, was tangled together with all the bitter apprehension curdled in her chest so that she could not pick them apart, could not tell which was which. And standing here in rooms that were Ishya's helped not at all. She had tried so hard, on the way to Batu Prabhang, not to think of—of what appetites she might be expected to sate, but: Wolf-Bellied, she thought now, and shivered, helplessly conscious of the shape of that vast luxurious bed at her back.
Steps in the corridor. Vayatri turned, dizzy, heart pounding, and thought for a moment it must be an army; but no, her ears deceived her, for it was only Ishya who stepped forward through the archway that led into the room.
She was still in all her wedding finery, of course. But she—she did not look weighed down by it, the way Vayatri was. She looked strong, black eyes intent even from behind her veil; as though she could have strode onto a battlefield in it, and it would have made no difference to her, would have hampered her not at all.
She slowed her steps, stopped a stride away, and Vayatri pressed her palms against each other and desperately willed herself to stop shaking.
"I suppose it will seem like the sort of compliment that is only as much as wives owe each other," said Ishya after a moment, quietly. "But I should have said it earlier: you are—you are very lovely, Princess."
Vayatri wished dimly to be back before their marriage fire—to have words to say that were mantras, ordained, by rote, instead of only what she could manage to spill from her own useless tongue. "I," she said, "you—Your Majesty is too generous."
Ishya's mouth took on a gentle slant, but her face was—Vayatri could not think, could not guess. Disdainful? Amused; thinking to herself that it did not matter much if her new wife was stupid, as long as she was lovely enough to be—to be worth pushing down upon that bed and—
"Not an accusation often aimed in my direction," murmured Ishya, but she—she didn't sound too displeased. She reached up to grasp her own red veil, drew it back and let it settle across her long dark hair. Vayatri was caught for a moment by the sight of her hands: painted, like Vayatri's, and of course they would have been; but it was strange somehow to think of it. Of Ishya the Bright-Bladed, the Sword of Marang, sitting quietly and holding out her hands for the dye just as Vayatri had, spreading her fingers apart so it would not smudge at the knuckles before it dried.
And then Ishya lowered them again, lowered them and then reached out.
"If you like," she was saying, "I do not think it is beneath the dignity of Marang that I should—"
Vayatri did not know what she meant, listened to the words but didn't understand them, for a moment too long. She was—she was staring at those hands, swallowing, unable to push away the half-formed thought of them against her; and then all at once they nearly were. Ishya had grasped Vayatri's veil by its embroidered edge and lifted it, they were face-to-face, and Ishya's hands drifted down and brushed her shoulders.
Only the barest touch, that was all. But Vayatri startled beneath it anyway. Startled and flinched, breath caught in her throat, chest tight, the throb of her heart unbearable.
Ishya did not move, after. She stood just as she had been, arms outstretched, hands open; the edge of Vayatri's veil was still caught between her fingertips, and her expression was empty, unreadable, her gaze flickering back and forth across Vayatri's face.
And then she looked down, and stepped away.
"Or perhaps you would prefer to do it yourself," she said softly.
She turned and crossed the room; there was a chest there, fine polished sandalwood, and Ishya lowered herself to her knees before it and lifted the lid—drew her veil from her hair and folded it, and set it carefully within, and then the rings upon each of her fingers, her thumbs, followed one by one.
Vayatri waited, uncertain, bewildered, but she did not look up again.
If she were angry—surely she would have struck Vayatri or shaken her, demanded to know what it was she thought she was there for, if not to give herself to Ishya. Perhaps she didn't wish to; perhaps she had reconsidered lowering herself in such a way, helping Vayatri out of her clothes and ornaments like a servant. Perhaps "lovely" was not good enough to tempt her.
Vayatri should have been grateful for the reprieve. Whatever the reason, it seemed Ishya would not—would not make use of her tonight, did not intend to insist upon it even though they were wives and it was only as much as she was owed.
But she looked at the line of Ishya's back where she knelt, her long dark hair, those strong steady hands; and she wished—
She didn't even know what she wished. That Ishya had insisted after all, so there would be nothing left to wait for or imagine. That she had not faltered. That she had spoken, said something, though even now she could not imagine what it should have been. Even within herself, it was—the tangled knot remained, all that she had feared and all she did not understand, cold in the heart of her like a stone.
She had wished to do what was needed, for the war to end. She had told herself she must, and had meant to do it well, so the queen of Marang would be pleased. But perhaps even in this she had failed.
Her head ached; her eyes stung. She made herself breathe, and knelt down. She could sleep in the skirt, the anklets and bracelets, the choli; but not the earrings or the nosering, not the gold chains wound through her hair. She had never had the knack.
There was another chest. She did not want to ask whether she was permitted to use it. She caught the trailing end of one of the silken hangings instead, set her jewelry upon it a piece at a time and wrapped it all up safely, and then she rose and went to the bed.
Ishya had not moved. She was still kneeling there—but then she had worn more jewelry even than Vayatri, so little wonder it might take her longer to remove it.
That was how Vayatri fell asleep: without even intending it, waiting there in the silence. She was tired, she lay back with care against the cushions; but surely, she thought dimly, surely it was all too much for her to sleep. Surely it would be impossible, here in a place that was strange to her, in a room with the queen of Marang.
And then the thought slid away, and the flickers of lamplight faded, and all was dark and quiet.
She woke, and did not know why.
The chamber was dim and silent around her; only a single lamp had been left alight, by the high arching way that led out into the corridor, and hanging silks veiled its glow to nearly nothing. Vayatri thought distantly that it was strange, how far away it was, how large the room must be—and then she rubbed her eyes with the backs of her knuckles, and in shifting was reminded of her choli: stiff with embroidery, fine and heavy. Made for a wedding, and—oh.
She went still, and drew a slow breath. It was so quiet. Had Ishya left her here alone? Decided the frustration of her trembling mouse of a wife was not worth the trouble; found another bed to warm tonight that would satisfy her better—
A sound. Vayatri turned her head, unthinking, startled, straining to pick a shape she could understand out of the dark. And then all at once it was clear: she wasn't alone after all.
She had a moment to realize the line of Ishya's back was strange, tense. Then the sound came again, and this time Vayatri knew it for what it was. A word half-formed, caught within a sleeping throat—and as it had struck her to think of Ishya sitting quietly to have her hands painted, so it struck her to think Ishya suffered so ordinary a thing as ungentle dreams.
And yet it must be so.
Ishya moved upon the bed, a sharp mindless jerk of her body. Vayatri thought surely she must wake, but she didn't; she turned where she lay, and for a moment Vayatri saw her face as clearly as the dimness would allow—the way her brow had drawn down, the stern unhappy lines that had carved themselves beside her closed eyes, the twisting of her mouth as though in agony.
And then her arm rose. Vayatri flinched and raised her hands—caught Ishya by the wrist, and then it was—she could not breathe, she was trapped; she was pressed down against the bed, and hands were fixed round her throat. She grasped at them, scrabbling with her fingers, but she could not move them, she was—she could not breathe—
For a single endless instant, she could see nothing but Ishya: braced over her, those dark eyes wide open and yet fixed upon a far-off secret distance. It was only one of those steady strong hands that crushed Vayatri's throat, and the other had fallen back to Ishya's waist. Seeking a weapon, Vayatri thought dimly, that she did not have.
And then, as quickly as it had happened, it was over.
She lay gasping for a moment, bewildered, hands at her throat, and then pushed herself up unsteadily. If she had been the cause of it—had disturbed the queen's sleep so badly as that—and Ishya preferred that she remove herself, sleep on the floor or in the corridor, she would go in a moment.
But Ishya did not ask. She was—she had thrown herself from the bed, stumbled back with her hands curled against her chest as though they were dirty, stained; in the dim light the red wedding paint on her palms looked nearly black. She stood there in silence, and Vayatri could see nothing of her face except that it was there, a paler shadow than all the rest of the shadows behind it, the soft dark smudges of her eyes.
And then she dropped to her knees in a sweep of red silk. Her knees, and then—and then lower, pressing her forehead to the tiled floor.
Vayatri stared.
She became conscious all at once that she was still lying there, lying there and letting the queen of Marang put her face to the floor; she scrambled for the edge of the bed, hasty and ungraceful, and dropped to her knees in turn. She reached out, because surely it was only right that she urge Ishya up—except the last time she had touched Ishya, it had not been the right thing to do at all—
"I—Majesty," she heard herself say, hoarse and uncertain through her aching throat.
And Ishya flinched at the sound, unmistakable and shocking, and pushed herself up—drew sharply away, when her head came up and she saw Vayatri's hand outstretched hesitantly between them.
"Majesty—"
"You are afraid of me," Ishya said quietly. "You are right to be. I should never have—" She stopped, cut short, and shook her head, the back of her wrist pressed across her eyes. "I will go. You will have your own apartments, you will—you will be safe. I swear it," and then she was—she rose, and turned away, pushed between two draping lengths of silk and was gone.
Vayatri knelt there gazing into the dark, listening to the soft pat of Ishya's hurried footsteps fading, and let her useless hand fall.
She did not know what to do.
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, and laughed at herself in a huff through her nose. As if she ever had. She had—she had thought all that would be required of her would be to reach Batu Prabhang, to give herself over to its queen. And then Ishya would kill her, or—take her, satisfy herself with her one way or another, but either way Vayatri's part of it would be finished; there would be nothing left for her to do but survive whatever was done to her, if she could.
She felt like a child, complaining of a chore: she hadn't thought she would have to act. She hadn't thought she would be faced with any more choices.
And yet here was one. And it should have been an easy one. She could crawl back up onto the bed, now hers and hers alone; she could sleep. Tomorrow, perhaps Ishya would be as good as her word. Perhaps Vayatri would be granted quarters, and she could shut herself up in them with whatever handmaids were assigned to her, and live there quietly except on festival days, except when there was need of the queen's wife. Safe. Was that not what she had wanted, even as she'd thought it impossible? Fearing, helplessly, what Ishya might do to her—
She had expected to be struck, before. And now in a sense it had happened. She rubbed absently at her throat, the hot twinging places where Ishya's fingertips had dug in.
Earlier, she had thought to herself that she should have been grateful for the reprieve, had been bewildered to discover she was not. And now—she should have been more afraid than ever. Shouldn't she? Was that not all she had feared most, to be helpless before the assault of the Sword of Marang?
But instead it was—she could not stop thinking of the look on Ishya's face. Wolf-bellied, unconquerable, yes, all right; but also a woman, a woman with a scarred face and steady hands whose dreams were not kind to her.
Vayatri closed her eyes, and set her hot palms against the cool polished tile of the floor, and drew a long slow breath.
What she wished to do was not wise. Ishya had left her here alone, had given no indication she wished Vayatri to follow. Perhaps that would be the thing that pushed her to violence at last, Vayatri defying her unspoken command at the moment she was least willing to overlook it. But—
But they were wives. And beyond the war, the treaty, the arrangements to which they had both agreed, the truth was this: of all the world, Ishya should be able to rely upon her wife for comfort, for care and kindness and understanding. Vayatri did not know whether she could offer such things, did not know whether Ishya would want them from her; but she—she could try. She could at least try.
Because she began to think she had not been the only woman in this room who feared her wife's displeasure or unhappiness—who, perceiving it, did not know what to do about it except pray for unlikely mercy. And of all the uncertain tangle that still lay lodged in her chest, that turned out to be the thing that pressed upon her heart too hard to bear.
It took her some time to discover where Ishya had gone.
The palace was dim and quiet, under a low fat moon; there were still sacred fires burning along each of the terraces of the main courtyard, the distant figures of guards at the walls, but it all seemed very far away and unreal.
She could not bring herself to look for a servant, to ask—if anyone spoke to her at all, asked her what she was doing out here or where she meant to go, she felt she would turn tail and run right there, whatever quavering courage she had scraped together abandoning her entirely.
So she walked, and kept silent, and where she heard voices she steered away.
The night was fine and warm, and the breeze moved through the palace of Batu Prabhang like a whisper, playing with Vayatri's skirt, soothing the nervous heat that had risen into her face. And then, unasked, it brought her a gift: the sound of water in the distance.
Vayatri did not know her way; no one had yet shown her. But the great river that wove its slow lazy way past Batu Prabhang—it flowed to this side of the palace, she knew, and so no doubt the royal baths must be here.
She crossed a terrace, descended half a dozen broad stone stairs, and the sound grew clearer. There, surely: those stone arches ahead of her, hung with cloth that fluttered this way and that—and let flickers of soft light spill, from what must be only a single lamp lit within.
She climbed the stair toward it and then slowed, biting her lip. She could—she could look. Just look. She did not have to speak or draw attention to herself; perhaps it was someone else. Even if it wasn't, even if she had found Ishya after all, she could still turn away before she was seen.
She reached out and caught one of the long tasseled curtains in her hand, and drew it aside a little. Not more than the breeze might have done.
And she had been right after all. The royal baths were arrayed before her, a series of inlaid stone pools, water channeled from the river flowing neatly from one to the next. Beside the largest of them lay a pile, and from here, beneath the faint light of that single lamp, it was colorless and indistinct; but Vayatri knew that it must be red cloth, gold embroidery, fine rich wedding clothes. And the figure within that pool was Ishya.
She had waded in deep, past the waist, bending herself in a soft curve to lower all that thick dark hair into the water. But she was not—she did not wash it. She was only standing there in the water, head tipped to the side, running her fingers gently through it.
Her face was turned away, her back to Vayatri; it did not help. Her bare shoulders, the graceful angled blades of them, were wet, dimly gleaming. The contour of her back was—there had not been any war-songs about that either, Vayatri thought distantly.
And then she turned, heaved the bulk of her hair over her shoulder and around herself to the other side. Vayatri's gaze picked out the line of her arm, the blurred shadowed curve of a bare breast, and then she caught herself and jerked her eyes up, face hot.
And Ishya was looking back at her.
Those black eyes went wide, startled; and Vayatri swallowed and took a step forward, lowered herself belatedly to her knees. "Your Majesty," she ventured, and only after thought to worry for her voice—but it sounded well enough now, and her throat hardly ached at all.
"Princess," said Ishya quietly, after a moment.
"I—I could not rest," said Vayatri, "not knowing whether you were well—"
Something flickered across Ishya's face that Vayatri could not read.
"Well enough," she said, and then stopped and closed her eyes, dipped her hands into the water and brought some up to tip over her head, tilting her face back for it.
She opened her eyes again after, and seemed to gaze at the carved ceiling of the baths for a long time—except Vayatri didn't think she was seeing the ceiling at all when she did.
"I live," she added, and looked at Vayatri again. "That is well, as these things go. There are many who cannot say the same. You know Gunumbul?"
A river valley; the site of a great battle, though Vayatri had never been there herself. "Yes."
"My elephant was cut from beneath me, at Gunumbul," said Ishya, with a softness that did not suit the words at all. "A spear to the eye. I rolled free when she fell. There was a dead woman on the ground—there were many dead warriors on the ground," she corrected herself, "but there was—there was a woman with a sword. It was a beautiful sword. I think about it sometimes, that beautiful sword. I don't know why." She stopped, and pressed the wet heels of her hands to her eyes. "I don't know why I think of that sword so often."
Vayatri swallowed. "Majesty," she said, and could not think what should come after it.
"I am sworn to Marang as its queen," said Ishya. "I promised my father, when I was a girl: all that had been taken from us, I would recover, and it would be ours again. But then—then it would end. I dreamed of it for so long. The day it would all be done at last, the day there would be no more war left to fight."
She looked down at her hands, lifted half out of the water: stained red. It was only wedding dye, the way the silks hanging in the queen's chamber had been only wedding-red. But all at once Vayatri understood what Ishya saw in it—why the slant of Ishya's mouth after was so bitter, nothing like a smile.
"I should have known better," said Ishya, very low. "What do I know of peace? I am a stranger to it. To build a true beginning, new and unstained, no doubt you must have far cleaner hands than I."
She fell silent. She stood there in the dark water looking at her red hands, bare and alone, and abruptly Vayatri could not abide it.
Vayatri rose up off her knees, and came to the edge of the pool. "I was never a warrior," she said.
Ishya looked up at her.
"I suppose to you that means—clean hands," Vayatri added softly. "But to me it means I was left behind. My brothers are tall and strong, my sister likewise; my mother can shoot three arrows at once and strike three targets. I—" She paused, and ducked her head. "I remained. I held audiences, I heard petitions, I was—"
Ishya was looking at her searchingly, head tilted. "You were queen," she said. "You governed your people."
"I—suppose," Vayatri said slowly, though she had not thought of it that way at the time. It had seemed like so little. "It never felt like enough. But you chose to make peace, and you wished to marry one of us, and it was—there was the thing I could do, at last. I was no warrior, I could not fight, but at least I could still help my people in this way."
She bit her lip, because it did not sound right aloud; yes, it had felt at the time like a service, like a sacrifice, but she had not meant to say it that way to Ishya, not now.
But Ishya did not look angry. The line of her mouth had softened, the bitterness had melted away. "Well," she said. "Your mother must be proud. That is its own bravery. There are songs sung of warriors; but there are also songs sung of princesses faced with the slavering jaws of beasts—"
"You are not a beast," said Vayatri, startled.
And Ishya looked at her in that searching way again, and then away, shook her head a little and reached up to begin twisting the water from her hair. "I have tried very hard to make myself one," she said quietly. "I used to fear I would fail; but now I fear I have succeeded."
Vayatri had not meant it to go this way. She had been trying to explain, that was all: that she knew what it was to feel unfit for the thing that was needed of you; that she had been desperate, useless, and that in a way it was Ishya who had given her the chance to prove otherwise, to try to end the war as Mother and all her armies could never have done. And look how well that is going already, she might have said, tentative, and Ishya might have smiled at her—dismissed her, told her to return to her chambers, and Vayatri would have called that victory and been grateful for it.
But that was not enough anymore. It did not feel like enough.
She stood. There were steps all round the edge of the pool; the water was clear and cool—not cold, for it had run in the river all day in the sun, but cool, pleasant, against her sticky feet, her wobbling ankles.
Ishya turned at the sound, the rush of water, and her dark eyes were wide. "Princess, your dress—"
"It will dry," Vayatri said, and waded the rest of the way in, wet red silk billowing around her knees, her thighs, the weight of all its layers lifted around her by the water.
Ishya's hands had gone still upon the half-wrung twist of her hair. Vayatri reached out and caught up the rest of it for her, slid a tentative hand along the line of her shoulder—and she had told herself she was here to provide a wife's comfort, but still half her mind wanted to shout it out: what sort of comfort could the Bright-Bladed ever want of me?
And yet she heard Ishya's breath catch at the touch. Their hands in Ishya's hair crossed over each other, fingers overlapping, and she was—she was close enough now that even in the light of one lamp alone, she could see the gleam of wetness at the hollow of Ishya's throat, trailing over the knot of that scar across her collarbone. She wanted with sudden desperation to skim the taunting curve of Ishya's bare breast; just with the backs of her fingers, just to feel it. But she—she only meant to try to be kind, she hadn't intended to—
"Princess," said Ishya, very low.
She had turned her head to watch Vayatri, and there was something tentative in the look of her then that Vayatri didn't like and wished to chase away.
Vayatri had meant to be careful. To start with a small soothing touch and see whether Ishya would permit it; to encourage her to rinse out that long lovely hair once more, now that Vayatri was here to help her with it, and to stand here with her calmly, so perhaps she would decide her new wife was not too much trouble to bear after all. One step at a time.
But she was—all at once she could not be cautious. She could not bear to try.
She swallowed hard, and ignored the sudden unhelpful pounding of her heart. She tangled her hand with Ishya's with purpose, lifted the other from Ishya's shoulder to her throat, her scarred jaw, to hold her face still; and Ishya let her, though of course Vayatri's grasp was hardly enough to stop a woman such as she from doing as she pleased.
Ishya let her, and held still beneath her touch, and did not move. So it was Vayatri who brought their mouths together at last. Once, and then again, again, daring to be a little bolder; and still, still, Ishya didn't push her away.
But she must not outstay her welcome. She broke off shyly, face hot, and ducked her head—and then Ishya turned beneath her hands with a splash and suddenly they were kissing again, harder, and Vayatri had hooked an arm round Ishya's shoulders and didn't quite remember doing it.
Ishya had a hand on her face, a thumb at the corner of her mouth. But, Vayatri realized dimly, that was all.
She pressed closer, wishing to make it as clear as she could that Ishya might touch her without having to stop kissing her long enough to say it. But it was not enough, only that careful hand on her face and nothing else, even as her skin prickled with heat. She kissed Ishya harder, caught her by the nape of the neck and held her there; half of her could not believe she was so bold already, and half of her wished she had thought to strip out of this skirt, her choli, before she had climbed into the baths.
Ishya made a soft harsh sound into her mouth, and she realized her knee was pressing between Ishya's, that all the length of their thighs pushed together; she could not decide which she wanted more, to hold Ishya there and shove her knees apart or to open her own—for Ishya's thigh? Her hand? Her mouth—
The heat of it had burned all the air from her chest; she had to draw away to breathe, chest heaving. She looked at Ishya's face, her red mouth, and did dare to drop a hand, to drag a thumb along the line of the water where it lapped at Ishya's breasts, and Ishya made another small bitten-off sound and let her eyes fall shut.
"Vayatri—"
"Please," said Vayatri unsteadily, and leaned in to kiss the corner of her mouth, the angle of her jaw, the side of her throat. "Please. Come back to the bed with me."
Ishya looked at her silently for what felt like a long time. And then she bent her head, leaned in and rested her temple against Vayatri's, reached up and slid her wet fingers into Vayatri's hair. "Well," she said against Vayatri's cheek. "If you like, I suppose I could be convinced," and before Vayatri was even able to laugh, surprised, she was kissing Vayatri again.
The sun rose earlier than Vayatri would have liked.
It could not even touch her, for the hangings round Ishya's chamber veiled the bed entirely; but the haze of light grew brighter nevertheless, and Vayatri twisted away from it and turned her face into Ishya's shoulder.
A moment's stillness. And then Ishya's fingertips were in her hair, cautious.
"Princess," said Ishya.
Vayatri skimmed a hand sleepily along the line of Ishya's arm in return. "Majesty," she murmured.
"There is a great deal to be done today," and of course it was only right for her to say so, Vayatri thought regretfully.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, feeling absently for the edge of the coverlet to draw it closer to her; she was—a little cold, suddenly.
"Of course," she said aloud, and kept her head ducked respectfully. "And a great deal to be done by you. My mother's ministers did not come all this way only to see us married. I should not like to keep you—"
"Vayatri," said Ishya, gentle, and she was—she had reached out, caught Vayatri by the chin and tilted her face up. "That is not what I meant."
Vayatri bit her lip.
"You are right," Ishya agreed. "I must meet with your mother's ministers; there are arrangements to be made, terms of peace that will take more time to enact than marriage. And—" She paused. "If—if it would please you, I would like you to come with me."
"To—?"
"You told me last night," said Ishya. "I have been a queen for a long time in name, but in truth I have been a general, and nothing more. You were a princess in name, in your mother's country, but you were—you have ruled."
Vayatri stared at her.
She had never thought of it that way. All the long days in the council chamber with her mother's advisors, or facing a line of petitioners the whole length of the audience hall—she had felt only the sting of the knowledge that Mother did not trust her with a blade, and was right not to; that she was kept safe behind the citadel walls in the capital, because on a battlefield she could hope only for a swift death. But now—
Now, she thought slowly, Ishya faced a battlefield of another kind, that stretched out before her far beyond whatever deliberations would be settled today. One for which she felt herself unarmed, unarmored; but Vayatri, perhaps, held the weapons she needed.
Vayatri reached out and touched Ishya's wrist, the back of her hand. "It was the opinion of my mother's advisors," she said quietly, "that rulership was defined thus: neither securing the safety of the realm alone, nor ministering to the people alone, but—but rather both at once in their share."
She risked a glance up, to see whether she had managed to make her meaning clear; and to judge by the look in Ishya's eyes, she had.
"Gracious words," said Ishya, soft and wry and sweet. "So: say you will. I am queen, and you are my wife now. Be queen with me, Vayatri."
"Well," said Vayatri. "If you like, I suppose I could be convinced," and she strove for a light air and was rewarded with Ishya's startled laugh, before she leaned up over Ishya on the bed and kissed her: once, and then again, again, for nothing but the pleasure of knowing she was welcome.