Page 10 of Her Soul for a Crown
Two carved figures sat at the base of the palace entrance.
One held a conch shell; the other wore a lotus on its head. Mirrored grins spread across the stone, more taunting than inviting. Do you dare? they seemed to ask.
Always , Anula answered, steeling herself and taking the first step inside.
After a night of preparation and a day of soaking in scented oils, she had been deemed ready for the raja. The palace, the in-between, opened for her. As her guards led her through the vast halls, each of the blessed gifts whispered a song.
Listen to the sounds of your heart’s true home , a statue sang silently, the voice not inside her head but within her bones. Gooseflesh rose up Anula’s neck.
“Come see the truth,” a mirror cooed aloud.
Take a walk with ones long past , promised a painting of a group of women. Concubines of the first raja, their hands outstretched to welcome one in.
But Anula wasn’t interested in the blessed gifts, hadn’t been since she was a child. What good did indulging with parting presents do? The Heavens had given them as a consolation prize, a balm to the wound of their leaving.
Raja Mahakuli Mahatissa was the goal. He was the most important link in the chain of Auntie Nirma’s plan.
Anula ran her hand across her necklace, felt the sapphire holding the persuasion tincture.
Tonight was not for justice, but a stepping stone on her pathway. The raja would taste her poison later.
The guards led her through the palace, warm tones of a setting sun casting shadows between the array of sculptures and canvas.
Courtiers milled about, vying for one gift over another, the longest line behind a small bronze statue of a woman.
The guards escorted Anula around them, practically hugging a wall filled with paintings.
Cautiously, she curved her shoulders in.
It was said that merely touching one would transport a person inside.
“Careful!” the guard in front yelled. Anula crashed into her back as she abruptly halted.
An arm emerged from the last painting. Then a leg and a body. A woman laughed as she stepped from the art, as if descending a set of stairs. Pink tinged her cheeks. She’d come from a depiction of a celebration, no doubt with plenty of palm wine.
“Watch yourself,” the guard scolded the courtier. “Lest you jeopardize one of the Raja’s Jewels!”
The woman paused, her face souring as she took in Anula with her tight hatte, bare midriff, and plunging neckline. An outfit chosen to mix perfectly with the tincture at her throat.
“Perhaps you should watch where you’re going,” the courtier chastised the guard. “I am conversing with the Heavens, as is my birthright.” She marched away with chin held high.
The guard scoffed, moving forward once more, checking over her shoulder to ensure Anula was safe. “You’ll get used to it, if called on again. The courtiers are jealous of the concubines.”
“Why?” she asked. “As she said, it’s her birthright to be here, not mine.”
“Exactly. Rumor has it that the raja’s chamber is filled with the best of the blessed gifts. Yet only he and those he invites inside ever have the chance to witness them.”
Anula’s nostrils flared. “How devoted the courtiers are to the Heavens.”
“We both know devotion has nothing to do with it.”
No. Greed was a higher master.
The guard stopped outside a tall wooden door that bore a carving of the moon, sun, and a lion bearing a sword. The banner of the Anuradhapura Kingdom.
The raja’s sentries nodded to the concubine guards, the passing off of goods complete. “Make yourself comfortable,” one said. “The raja will attend to you when he is ready.”
The doors swung open, a finger of smoke curling out and around Anula’s ankles. She clenched a fist, took a breath. This was it. All she had studied for, all Auntie Nirma had planned, culminated tonight. She would leave this room in one of two ways: a success or a failure.
Her path leading to a crown or a pyre.
She grasped the corner of her skirt, straightened her shoulders, and stepped inside.
There were plenty of rumors in the kingdom that had no real teeth, but the one about the raja’s chamber was true.
It was a veneration to the Heavens. Each piece of art was either of a Yakka or a Divinity.
Mirrors were adorned with small ornamental figurines between the leaves and animals; pillows were embroidered with their likenesses.
Every inch was taken by them, even the ceiling.
A mural covered the length of it. Yakkas and Divinities crowded the space, leisurely lounging on beds of clouds, emulating the idea of a peaceful, coexistent cosmos.
The sun and stars beamed upon their smiling and grimacing faces.
No blood marred their relics or hands, no death spoken of, merely caring eyes turned toward Earth.
Whoever painted it must have been blind.
Anula continued her walk through the chamber, each step easing the tension in her muscles.
She could do this. She was ready. The scent of sweets and wine wafted from somewhere deeper within, calling her to the moment it would all happen, promising her success.
And when she was raejina and this was her room, the art would be the first thing to go.
Especially the paintings. They were by far the most talked about, the gift every child dreamed of experiencing.
Who wouldn’t want to leave their reality for something grander?
Just a touch and step, and a courtier could walk along a beach or participate in a celebration that was centuries old.
It was said that when the gifts had first been given, one could even walk between paintings, through a door that connected them all.
The stories of old spoke of how rajas maneuvered through the kingdom this way, entering one painting in the palace shrine and exiting another in a stupa at the edge of a village.
It enabled them to protect Anuradhapura.
But one didn’t step from one painting straight into the next. The cosmos lay between. And at some point, people got lost, never to be seen again. So the Divinities had locked the doors and thrown away the key.
Anula paused at a small depiction of a stupa.
The bulbous white monument crowned with a spire almost paled in comparison to the tall, intricate statues of the Yakkas that lined its courtyard.
She’d heard of the shrine before. It had been one of the venerated places of prayer, until it was destroyed in a battle between usurpers.
Of course, she’d once wished to walk inside a painting, but that was before she’d known the truth of the Heavens. Why would she want to experience an abandoned love?
Eyes transfixed on the traitors within, she leaned in close to better view the one to whom she’d given her last prayer. The Blood Yakka Reeri. Teeth as sharp as a monkey, skin as red as fire. He snarled back at her. No kindness in his eyes, no care. Noth—
Anula tilted off balance, falling forward.
No. She couldn’t let her skin touch any part of the painting. She didn’t want to go inside. Ever. Spinning on her heel, she twirled, using the momentum to fling herself away. Right into a statue.
They tumbled to the floor, but instead of a crash or an echo of broken stone, the statue said, “I’ve never been accosted by one of my Jewels before.”
Anula scoffed. “Don’t call me—”
Her gaze rose, expecting to find a blessed gift. Instead, her eyes met the graying face of the raja.
“Forgive me, my raja,” she said, struggling around her skirt to get off the raja responsible for her parents’ death and let him stand.
Heat flooded her cheeks. She’d known it would be difficult, seeing him alive. But she had taken comfort that he would one day die by her hand, that he would meet justice and answer for the evil he had done.
Watching him breathe now stole any scrap of solace she’d held onto.
Jaw clenched, Anula schooled her features, swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Now was not the time. She must focus.
“There is nothing to forgive. We’ll be in a similar position soon anyway.” His words scraped along her skin. He took her hand. “Come.”
He led her to the center of the chamber, where divans and cushions piled high around a low table. Bottles of palm wine were gracefully set out among incense candles, along with bananas, kiribath, and mangoes. Anula briefly thought of Premala.
“Tell me.” The raja poured them both wine as they sat. “What made you want to serve me?”
“It’s an honor to be a concubine.”
“I was not part of the decision?” He raised a brow and drained his glass. “I’m disappointed.”
Anula’s fingers curled inside the folds of her skirt.
Ego was all that this man was. Rings on every finger, a Jewel for every night, the city’s store of palm wine, and rubbing Polonnaruwa’s nose in their ambush defeat every chance he got.
That was what his reign had been. Even if he were physically attractive, his heart was so withered, not even pigs would eat it. And yet he expected her to want him.
The only thing she wanted from Mahakuli Mahatissa was his slow death, choking on his own blood, his skin burned inch by inch—
The beads bit into her palm. Clarity rushed back. The plan was the plan for a reason. This raja had not yet played his final role: husband.
Fanning her lashes on the tips of her cheeks, she feigned shyness, just as Auntie Nirma had instructed. “It’s not that, my raja. I only didn’t want to shock you with the truth.”
“Which is what?”
Anula touched her necklace, making a show of steeling herself, then scooted closer and drank her wine. She poured them both another glass. “My name is Anula. You took the throne when I was six. Usurpers have long plagued the Kingdom of Anuradhapura, but you are different.”
She recited what she had studied of history, the lines Auntie Nirma had written out. For although the persuasion tincture was strong and lasted for nearly five days, it was most effective when paired with flattery.
“The people call you a savior, a hero who put to death the worst of the rulers. You were a mere boy when you saved us from his horrors, and again when you defeated the Kingdom of Polonnaruwa. I’ve dreamed of you since I was a little girl.”
That part, at least, was true.
The raja held his wineglass, a smirk on his lips, a thirst in his eyes. “What did you dream?”
Anula blushed. “You can’t expect me to tell.”
“I do.”
She whispered into the falling night, “I dreamed of serving you as wife.”
“Ah, you’ve heard Prophet Ayaan foresees my marriage.” The raja finished his wine, and as the cup touched the table, Anula poured more. “Did you also hear that I will have ten sons? My wife must be more than beautiful. She must be strong.”
Anula sidled closer, noting that for the second time, he didn’t notice the change in the wine’s taste. The effects should already be setting in. “Am I not beautiful?”
The blacks of Mahakuli Mahatissa’s eyes expanded, drowning out the brown of his irises. “You are.”
Anula took his hands in hers, bracing herself against the cringe, and placed them on her hips. “Am I weak? Am I frail?”
“No,” he breathed, long and deep. His clammy hands rubbed down to her thighs.
Anula stroked his oily hair. “The fortune tellers told me I would bear many children.”
“Mm,” he grunted as she placed her palm on his leg and drew circles with a finger.
“The Heavens have aligned our paths,” she whispered in his ear.
“The Heavens,” he murmured, breath rank. The dark of his eyes flickered.
This was it. This was her moment.
“The Heavens want for me to be the mother of your line. It is our destiny.”
“It is our destiny,” he repeated, jaw working, breath labored.
“The prophet would agree.”
“The prophet would agree.” Hunger pooled in his eyes as a hardness tented his sarong. He gripped her hips tightly and growled, “You are the mother of my line.”
“I will be.” Hoped bloomed in Anula’s chest. She’d done it—she’d laid the path to a crown, not a pyre. Justice would have its day. She placed a hand over his heart as it sprinted and bucked. “We marry in two days’ time. Now tell the prophet.”
Mahakuli Mahatissa called out, downing the remaining wine as a servant rushed in. “Send a message to Prophet Ayaan and the rest of my court.”
“Sir?” the servant asked.
The raja slammed the cup on the table and stared back at Anula, black eyes flickering with her tincture. “I have chosen a wife.”