Page 64 of Her Soul for a Crown

The Bone Blade bellowed its Heavenly melody.

“Great Divinity of Fate”—Hashini stretched her arm high, as if reaching into the First Heavens—“hear the call of your relic, return and claim what is rightfully yours, protect us from those who wish to use it.”

Bright white light, purer than any Anula had seen, illuminated the amphitheater. Its warmth flashed across her skin. And as its song crescendoed, a fish as large and wide as an elephant burst through the air.

The Makara. The sea dragon.

Stories of old spoke of its existence, of how it lurked along the seashore, hungering for flesh and thirsting for fear.

It was a tale told to children, to keep them far from the water’s edge.

It had worked on Anula. No one wished to be eaten by a fish.

But if the Makara was real and lived so far away, how and why had Hashini summoned it?

Orange and pink scales glinted in the light of the Great Sword as it circled, as its blessed depiction had in the bathing pool—the first gift Anula had witnessed.

Yet here there was no water, no shore to hunt upon.

The Makara flicked its tail and funneled down, erupting in orange light before Wessamony.

A Divine form emerged, neither male nor female, but both. Stars twinkled in their eyes.

A knowing skittered up Anula’s arms. This was Fate.

“We meet again,” they said to the Lord, voice melodic and skin sparkling, as if still made of scales.

Wessamony chuckled low. “The Heavens should have killed you when they had the chance.”

“My thoughts precisely.”

With a snap of Wessamony’s fingers, stones surged from the pit and soared at Fate. They reached out a glistening hand and dissolved them to dust.

“Yes!” Hashini hissed, watching her precious Divinity.

Fate clapped their hands and ripped chunks out of the walls, crashing them against Wessamony.

He snapped and they disintegrated. They fought on, as if only the two of them existed.

Anula glanced at Hashini, the Bone Blade clutched in her fist, her eyes on Fate.

There couldn’t be a better distraction, for her or Wessamony.

A hand landed on Anula’s shoulder and picked her up off the ground. She groaned, clutching her side. “Hurry. We must find a way out.” Bithul angled her toward the stairs, aiming for the door where his guards worked at the edges, scraping off bits of stone and digging swords into crevices.

“No.” She pushed away. “We have to kill Wessamony.”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to get between them.”

Another crash sounded, the floor shaking as the First and Second Heavens dueled. The amphitheater, which had once felt large enough to swallow half the palace courtyard, now felt tight, small, contained. A cage, for either her or Wessamony.

“We have to try. It’s our only chance.”

A crack whistled by them, and Bithul suddenly cried out. He stumbled, taking Anula down with him as the sound came near again.

Sharpened stones kissed Bithul’s heels. Hashini growled, “You will not escape punishment for bringing back the Yakkas.” She let loose another stone, and Anula jumped. “Nor for aiding and abetting the one who wishes to destroy us all.”

The stone caught Bithul on the ankle and ripped across scarred skin. He howled. “Go! I’ll hold her off.”

Anula flinched and dodged again. In one hand Hashini picked stones from the edge of the pit; in the other, she held tight to the Bone Blade. “She has the relic.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

“The sharp end goes into his chest?”

Another stone hit its mark. Bithul hissed.

Hashini snarled and arched back again, as if her pile of rocks would only end when her target died.

Bithul adjusted his stance. “I’ll distract her.

When I lunge, she’ll have no choice but to drop either her weapon or the blade, and I have a feeling she’ll not let herself be weaponless.

Grab the blade and use it as quickly as you can. ”

Golden light flashed, stealing Anula’s concentration. The Great Sword had shifted, reflecting the light thrown by Fate’s scales as they spun around Wessamony. As the beam passed her eyes, she fell rigid. Blood was trickling down Reeri’s throat, the cut deepening as the sword pressed closer.

Her heart skipped a beat. What if she was wrong?

If the blade didn’t kill Wessamony when she sank it into his chest, what would happen to Reeri?

Would he find another body or be taken to Heavenly court, never to be seen again?

Or worse, would he be forced to become the monster he feared, to torture his Yakkas for eternity?

No. That wouldn’t happen. She had promised.

“I have to save Reeri first.”

“What?” Bithul grunted, sweat beading on his forehead. “You can’t stop a blessed sword.”

Anula met his gaze. “I have to try.”

“You know he cannot do this—only a human can. Is he what’s most important right now?”

Another stone soared. He winced and rolled away. Anula ducked. The answer to Bithul’s question sparked on her tongue. Yes.

Life was always most important. Even a Yakka’s.

Especially Reeri’s.

Because he cared.

And so did she.

Anula scrambled, leaping over broken stone and tearing to the other side of the pit. At the same time, Bithul’s men cascaded around him, Shahan brandishing his sword at Hashini until she fled, hiding behind a wall of white-eyed people fighting one another.

“Save them,” Bithul commanded. “They don’t know what they’re doing!”

Trading swords for fists and fabric torn from their clothes, Bithul and the guards separated and bound those under Wessamony’s curse.

Anula pressed on, using the chance he bought her to finally close the distance to Reeri.

His fear welled, not for himself but for her.

An itch started at her fingertips. An urge that wasn’t from the tether.

It was stronger. With every step it grew, the yearning to touch him, hold his hand, cup his face, tear the sword from his neck, and kiss the wound better.

“Anula!” he shouted and winced.

A sharp pain nicked across Anula’s back. She stumbled, turning. Eyes wide and full of anger, Guruthuma Hashini hefted a discarded sword.

“As I said”—she readied to strike again—“I care not who you are, Anula. You will not be the demise of us all.”

She slashed, and Anula shifted, the tip of the blade barely missing her chest.

“Like you were the demise of Premala.”

The words cut Anula’s heart, sharp as any blade. “No. I—I didn’t—”

“Am I mistaken, or is that her blood on your hand?” Hashini thrashed again and missed.

The blood burned on Anula’s skin, evidence of her fault, but she hadn’t meant to. Not Premala, the girl who’d made her desire friendship, not allyship. Her control had been stolen, her mind poisoned by—Anula stilled.

“Premala died because of you ,” she said, dodging another strike. “You threw Sandani in front of you. You were willing to sacrifice another to save yourself! Premala wasn’t.”

“I did no such thing,” Hashini yelled, catching the edge of Anula’s shoulder. “Faith has no place for selfish power.”

“No,” Anula said, grabbing a jagged stone, readying for the next blow. “But this was never about faith.”

Seething, Hashini lunged. Anula let her, feinting to one side as she had seen Bithul do in training. She spun around Hashini, unclasped her necklace, and wrapped it about the guruthuma’s neck. Pulling tight, gold bit flesh, and she slammed the stone into the sapphires.

Every vial shattered. Shards cut into Hashini’s throat, tinctures and poisons seeping out fast. The remedies diluted one another. The poisons did not.

“I don’t care who you are, Hashini,” Anula said, for Uncle Manoj’s journal always said these things were best served with something. Truth, perhaps, this time. “I will not allow your faith to poison any more of my people.”

The woman fell, mouth wide in a gargled scream, the sword clattering to the floor.

The whites of her eyes flared; the veins in her neck popped.

Her skin turned purple, and redness burned the corners of her lips, consuming the puckered pink until they were ripped raw and festering with pustules.

They spread and grew fast, covering mouth and nose and eyes.

Until Hashini choked for air, blind and helpless, crumpling to the ground.

The relic clanged and rolled away, skittering into the midst of the fray.