Page 20 of Her Soul for a Crown

The raja’s bedchamber was filled with many things, mostly blessed gifts, and mirrors in which to revel in his own glory. A raja could demand for anything to be brought inside, permanently or otherwise.

Apparently, a second bed wasn’t one of them.

Anula lay on one side, the Blood Yakka on the other, his arm nearly falling off the edge. A wide gap spread between them, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Sidle closer.”

Anula startled at the female voice cooing over her shoulder. Etched in the wood frame of the colossal bed was a carving of the first raja and raejina. Their love story stretched over a garden, a blanket made of flowers the only thing covering them.

The woman flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder. “Be not afraid of him. Your gentle touch will guide him to you.”

A shudder racked Anula’s bones. Either from the image conjured or from the interaction, she didn’t know. Speaking to a blessed gift was much different than watching fish swim in a bathing pool.

“Caress her hair,” the depicted raja whispered loudly to the Blood Yakka. “See her delicate neckline? Kiss it.”

The Yakka tensed, stolen eyes darting to Anula and away.

“Touch me and—”

“I heard you the first time,” the Blood Yakka said, shifting away from the carving.

“Do not be shy.” The raejina giggled at Anula. “He is your husband. Do you not wonder at his warmth? At his strength?”

“No,” Anula asserted. “I wonder why he twisted my bargain to be here.”

The raejina tsked. “He is here for you. To give you a pleasure from the Heavens. To make you feel the cosmos explode into being between your legs.”

The Blood Yakka choked.

“Cursed Yakkas,” Anula spat, shoving her pillow up against the raejina as she continued her foul advice.

If only the blessed gift knew what truly lay in this marriage bed.

Noticing his wife’s inability to cast advice, the wooden raja rushed across the gap.

Anula pointed a finger at him. “Say another word and I’ll throw you into the fire. ”

He harrumphed and settled back silently. This was what courtiers envied? What the Divinities left the kingdom with, to show and prove their unending love?

“Thank the mighty Heavens,” the Blood Yakka murmured.

His relief drew Anula’s anger. “This is your fault. Why are we even in the same bed?”

“Does your marking itch still?”

Invisible ants crawled over her arms. Anula scraped her nails against them. “Yes.”

“That is why. We were apart for too long. The tether wants proximity.”

“We’re in the same room, Blood Yakka—what more does it want?”

He cut her a glance. “Touch.”

That word again. She growled, “Why would you create a tether that demands touch?”

“I did not create it.” His voice was tight, resentful. “Ask the Divinities or Lord Wessamony.”

Of course. The Heavens created everything with balance. Nothing good could exist without a silver lining of bad. Like the mural she stared at above them, the Heavens were filled with light and dark: Divinities draped in white robes. Yakkas drenched in blood.

“You may call me ‘Reeri.’” The Blood Yakka broke the heavy silence. “If you would like. Mayhap friendlier terms would ease the strain.”

“I would not like.” She pulled the blankets tightly toward her. “I bargained for a throne, Blood Yakka , not a friend.”

The gap between them rippled. “Then you will not get one. Good night, Anula.”

Her eyes flashed to him. Rigid as a rock, he slept, blankets only covering one arm. The marking flared again, her fingers twitching, not to scratch this time but to feel. To inch their way across the expanse of bed that could easily fit two concubines and touch the Blood Yakka’s chest.

Do you not wonder at his warmth? His strength?

Yes , the tether responded, tingling with curiosity. It urged her to trace the outline of the elephant, the pattern of swirls on his stomach, to follow the drip of the line down his torso, along his hips, beneath his sarong. Where did it end?

Anula tore her gaze away and shoved fisted hands behind her back. This was nonsense. A distraction from her purpose. The Yakkas must complete their business. Tomorrow.

She wouldn’t waste another minute thinking about him.

***

Laughter rose high.

Anula opened her eyes to color, to faces, to food steaming on banana leaves. A small gathering surrounded her, the people laughing and eating, children playing a game with rocks.

“We would not have reason to celebrate without you, Reeri, our Blood Yakka,” an old woman said, passing Anula another banana leaf, this one heavy with a mountain of rice. She breathed in the scent—maa-wee rice. The warmth melted her heart, tugged a smile on her lips.

“To the Yakkas who protect us from disease.” A man raised a coconut.

Her smile fell. How did she know the type of rice?

“To the Yakkas who bring us love,” a woman said, beaming down at a young child braiding the hair of a lovely being.

Being. Not woman. Why would she think it like that? Anula eyed her, the one whose hair was twisting into a plait. She was too tall to be a human. Too bony. Too sharp.

And what had they called Anula?

Reeri. Blood Yakka.

Anula glanced at her hands. Dropped the banana leaf.

Where smooth brown skin covered in mehendhi should have been were arms as hairy as any man.

Her eyes flicked back to the other being. It cocked its head. “What’s wrong, Reeri?”

It couldn’t be a Yakka. It had no horns, no fangs, no scales. Only skin a deep cinnamon color, a wolfish grin, and…

Saffron eyes.

The world shifted, rumbled, and a strike of lightning blinded her. When the village reappeared, the people were gone. Silence sounding louder than laughter. Dread curled around her spine.

Thump.

A weight landed in her lap, and she swallowed a scream. A bloody ear, sharpened at the tip, bled out on the banana leaf.

“The fault lies entirely with you.” A voice boomed.

The village disappeared in a blink, and Anula stood in a court she’d only ever seen in a painting hung in Eppawala’s stupa.

Washed white in ivory and marble, it glistened with sunlight and starshine.

But a river of shadows cut through, tall beings with pointed ears and saffron eyes. Her breath rattled.

A serrated whip lashed out, drawing tears and terror and shredded shadow.

Anula squeezed her eyes shut. A hand jerked her chin up, a voice whispered in her ear, “Watch, Reeri. Look and see what you have done.”

A scream pierced the raja’s bedchamber.

“Cursed Yakkas, what was that?” Anula fought off the tangle of blankets.

The Blood Yakka scrambled, reaching a hand toward her. “Are you all right?”

She swatted at it. “Get away from me. What was that?”

“What was what?”

Anula kicked the sheet until she was free and stood. “I saw the Yakkas, only they didn’t look like that.” She pointed to the painting on the ceiling. “And the people called me by your name. And it felt…real. Not like a dream but like—”

“A memory.”

“Yes,” she heaved, heart racing as if she were running from a jungle cat. Perhaps she should be. That wolfish grin, those unnatural eyes…

The Yakka sank back. “O Heavens.”

“What?”

He sighed. “They are soured memories that haunt me when at rest. I call them memory-nightmares.”

Anxiety tripped Anula’s pulse. She shook out her hands. “Are you saying I witnessed your dream?”

The Yakka’s brows knit together. “I suppose it makes sense. Our souls are tethered, and what is a tether if not a connection?”

“Why would you create a tether like that?” Anula seethed. The sound of the ear dropping, wet and heavy, echoed in her mind.

“I did not,” the Yakka said. “A tether is an aspect of the cosmos. Strictly speaking, I never tethered before. The intricacies are a…working theory.”

“Then how do you know that we have to stay close to each other?”

“Another Yakka once tethered. Ratti told me how distance hurt the human. But that is all she mentioned. Had I known about the memories, I would have warned you.”

“Not only must I have permanent mehendhi that itches and threatens me, now I have to share your nightmares, too? Do you even need to sleep?”

“Heavenly bodies must rest. It is similar but not as deep as sleep. However, every earthly body, including mine now, demands true sleep.”

Gritting her teeth, Anula stepped before the nearest mirror. “How is any of this balance?”

For the first time, she allowed herself to examine the design that snaked up her arms. It began at her fingertips.

Nets and spirals led to vines and leaves, lotus flowers bloomed across her hands, and two mirrored mandalas marked her palms, one the face of a lion, the other an elephant.

The same as the one etched on the Blood Yakka’s chest. A chill swept over her neck.

Paisley motifs and florals flowed into tendril patterns up her wrists, her arms, her elbows.

Elements of gems and jewelry and stars hid within.

It didn’t end there. Delicate anklets adorned her feet, netting on her toes.

She shifted to see the pattern more closely, her sleep robe slipping off one side.

A burgundy tendril slithered across her shoulder.

Anula twisted in the mirror and dropped her robe.

She caught the flicker of admiration in the Yakka’s eyes before he had the sense to close them.

It was only a moment, but he still smoldered the way Thaththa had with Amma, the way a husband would a wife, the way she had dreamed of—Anula shook the thought away.

He was not her dream, but her curse. His mark dripped down her spine.

At the top bloomed a water lily, with vines and leaves and florals cascading from her shoulder blades, gems dropping to points like earrings at the middle of her back.

Cursed Yakkas. What would Auntie Nirma have said?

“It all goes away when the bargain is complete,” the Yakka said.

“Which is when?” she seethed, pulling the robe back on.

“Soon,” he urged, eyes still closed.

“Then what? You leave my kingdom with my soul?” She hadn’t meant to ask, hadn’t meant to care, but with every surprise this Yakka had given her, perhaps she should know.

He was quiet for a moment. “All soul offerings ascend to the Second Heavens upon death, for Lord Wessamony to do with as he pleases.”

The coolness of the necklace registered before Anula realized her hand had flown to it.

She didn’t know which was worse, spending the afterlife with the Lord of the Second Heavens or spending the foreseeable future with the Blood Yakka—the one who had stolen her throne, then blocked her from marking off a name from her list, and now forced her to see his nightmares. To see things that didn’t exist.

The answer wasn’t difficult. The Yakkas had been banished, not tortured.

And if the people loved him so, like his memory suggested, then why had they turned on him?

Why call for his Lord’s help if he was saving them?

Because he wasn’t. Like all the usurpers before him, he saw himself as a savior, a hero to the people.

But all he brought was death. All he was, was a slaughterer.

“I did not mean to scare you,” the Yakka said, eyes still closed. “We are in this bargain together, and I will protect you.”

Pink sunlight rose through latticed windows as she leveled an ember gaze. “If you wanted to protect me, you would leave. You’re the only threat here.”

The Yakka’s eyes flashed open. Hurt sparked, but only for a moment, the mask of Chora Naga falling so quickly, Anula questioned whether it had been there at all. “Mayhap you are right. I suppose I should take advantage of the early start today.”

“Music to my ears.”

The Yakka marched past, calling for servants to ready them. The beings from the memory-nightmare flashed in her mind, so unlike the Yakkas depicted in paintings. Was it true?

“You will have to come along,” he said.

If so, which part?

Anula shook off her questions. The answers didn’t matter. What mattered was the throne. What mattered was Auntie Nirma’s list. It was up to her to see it through, to honor her life and her death, along with all those lost before her.

“Just be quick about it,” she snapped.

She had no time to waste on dreams.