Page 7 of Her Soul for a Crown

Anula’s second life began with a party.

It was not for her. In fact, the house staff nearly forgot about Anula’s arrival until the moment she was on the steps, waiting in line with the others to get inside.

Her first glance at her new home was stolen between pressed bodies.

A short woman in a bright sari spun fast words around her guests.

It didn’t take long for Anula to understand that parties were a weekly ritual at Auntie Nirma’s estate, typically ending with the women disappearing through a hidden door.

“It’s a gathering of like-minded individuals,” she corrected when Anula confronted her about it, after their first year together. “Hidden because one must always keep one’s allies safe.”

A flash of names seared across Anula’s mind. “What about enemies?”

“Those”—her auntie smiled shrewdly—“are handled individually.”

Nirma was Anula’s fourth or fifth cousin on her mother’s side, a widow who mysteriously owned land and a large house in the village center of Kekirawa.

Childless, she’d taken Anula in when Thaththa’s closest male relative wanted to inherit only the estate, not the girl.

But this was as far as their relationship went.

Auntie Nirma was too busy with secret business meetings with her allies, hosting kingdom officials for dinners, and handling her enemies.

Anula had taken to snooping, her goal the hidden door.

The early-morning light broke through the slats on the window coverings as Anula pushed her way into another room of the house she’d yet to explore, her late Uncle Manoj’s office. A layer of dust covered every surface, including the wooden floor. Every step she took would be seen. She didn’t care.

How was it a woman had such power, such influence?

Auntie Nirma merely said a word and sashayed into a room, and every man prayed to the Heavens to be the one to grant her wish.

Male and female suitors lined the street for her favor, yet she held them aloft, close enough to do her bidding, far enough away to receive more than she gave.

There was a table, chair, and small bookshelf in the office.

It was not nearly as grand as Thaththa’s had been.

Then again, Uncle Manoj hadn’t been as important a man.

In the corner sat a tall stand displaying a figurine of a being with saffron eyes, holding a sword in one hand and a human head in the other, blood smeared across his chest. Amma had included the same statue in her shrine.

The Blood Yakka, Reeri, leader of all the Yakkas, the most cruel and powerful.

Anula flicked the statue over.

Only Eppawala was meant to burn.

Commander Dilshan’s words skittered up her arms and burrowed at the base of her spine.

Auntie Nirma might speak of enemies, but it was Anula’s life that had been destroyed by them.

Silence had been the answer to her prayers, and a deep ache that shook her chest every morning she woke alone.

She would not make the same mistake twice.

Shifting her attention, she poked around the shelf, feeling for hidden knobs or handles.

The titles of the books were dry reports on wildlife in the jungles, plants growing around the area and in the Pleasure Gardens of the palace.

Perhaps Uncle Manoj had been a plant farmer.

Anula stepped to the far side of the shelf and paused as the board underfoot creaked.

She leaned her weight and it creaked again.

Finally.

Falling to her hands and knees, she pried it open. Perhaps there was a staircase beneath. Or—

A dusty brown leather journal in the tiniest cubbyhole.

She opened it and frowned.

It was a drawing of a plant with an arrow pointing to the seeds. Thel Endaru was written at the very top. The name of the plant, perhaps. Below it was a set of paragraphs, and beneath them, scrawled in Uncle Manoj’s script, were the words steep in tea for quiet death .

Anula nearly choked. What in the cursed Yakkas’ names was this?

She flipped to the next page and the next, but all had the same format.

At the top was a name—like kaneru—a detailed illustration of the plant or flower, followed by a few paragraphs describing how to forage and brew.

Finally, always in Uncle’s writing, were directions to hide the poison in plain sight.

Mix in palm wine to incapacitate.

Simmer in curry for slow, painful death.

But on the last page was a question: Skin-to-skin contact without self-poisoning?

Anula slammed the book shut and raced out the door with it. The mystery of Auntie Nirma’s allies and enemies, the secret room, her wealth, was solved.

The book landed on her auntie’s table with a bang. Dust mushroomed, settling onto the egg hoppers. “You’re an assassin, aren’t you? Just as Uncle Manoj was.”

Auntie Nirma pursed her lips, shaking off her hopper.

Though she’d stayed up into the late hours of the night with her latest gathering, she looked none the worse for wear.

Her deep-green sari clung softly. Her wide eyes calm.

“What in the Heavens’ names are you on about, girl?

And why aren’t you at the table? Sit. Eat. ”

“No,” Anula snapped. “This is how you have power, why you have allies and enemies, isn’t it?”

Auntie Nirma dropped her food. “And what if it is? What are you going to do about it?”

Anula crossed her arms. “It’s not right, killing people.”

“No, it’s not. Unless they deserve it. Unless the Heavens will it.”

Anula blanched. “You think the Heavens tell you who to kill?”

“Not exactly. But they do allow things to fall into place. Their favor and bargains make pathways for us to walk.”

Anula wrinkled her nose. “Why would they do that?”

“Some call it karma, or the cosmos’s plan—Fate.” Auntie Nirma picked up her tea, blew on the steam. “Do you know why I took you in?”

“Because you have no children.”

Auntie Nirma smirked. “Being childless was my choice, not Fate’s. I chose to bring you here because I believe the Heavens opened a pathway for you.”

“Me?”

“You survived when no one else did.”

A flash of orange flame, of red-soaked earth and rivers of blood down Thaththa’s—

Anula blinked the memory away.

“It was no accident, Anula. You were meant to survive.”

“Why?” The question was soft as a whisper.

“Justice,” Auntie Nirma said, the word bold and strong.

It tingled the back of Anula’s neck. “You were chosen to carry out a further purpose. I’ve spent my whole life cultivating allies.

Together, we must make it count. We can change the kingdom for good, in their name, for their justice and the justice of all others forevermore. ”

Anula sat, slowly.

Auntie Nirma leaned forward. “You’ve asked after my allies and enemies. We are women working for the good of the kingdom, creating change through open pathways and deals struck in the night. Only recently have our sights turned farther than our village borders.”

“So, the secret meetings you have…”

“Are to end the Age of Usurpers and put a true leader on the throne. One whom Anuradhapura deserves. One who will begin a new age, an age of peace and prosperity for all.”

A chill slid down Anula’s spine. “One who cares for more than power?”

Auntie Nirma nodded.

“But…you’re women.”

“Who know how to bide time and bend rules.”

The words were sticky in Anula’s mind. An entire network of women bound to the belief that the Heavens were helping them, guiding them—and the idea that she had a role to play, that she could make something good come from what had happened to her family—made no sense.

Because the Heavens didn’t answer. Auntie Nirma was playing this game alone.

It would never work.

“Anula,” Auntie Nirma said sternly, leveling a sharp gaze. “Why do you think you survived?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was smaller than she expected.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to sulk your entire life, or are you going to ensure that your parents’ deaths weren’t for nothing? Because I am. Will you help me?”

Anula bit her lip, staring at the book. It was a far-fetched scheme, but her auntie was right. What was she going to do with her life now? What would Amma do? No. She couldn’t ask that, because Amma couldn’t do anything. Nor could Thaththa. Nor the entire village.

That was the point.

Prophet Ayaan. Commander Dilshan. Raja Mahakuli Mahatissa.

Anula straightened her shoulders and met Auntie Nirma’s eyes. “Yes. Who have you chosen as the new raja?”

Auntie Nirma smiled. “Who said anything about a raja?”

“Then who—” Anula stood. “Are you wanting to be a raejina?”

“Of course not. My pathway is not clear.”

Auntie Nirma’s eyes twinkled as she led them to the secret door.

It was in the middle of the hallway, a panel that sprang back when leaned on.

Inside was a room with a low table in the center, long enough for a dozen to sit.

Books lined the walls, a library of hidden texts only men penned and men read.

But here, women studied pages on flowers and trees and poisonous animals, learned of all the rajas past, analyzed the most prosperous rice paddy farms and hakuru harvesters, tracked Polonnaruwa’s movements, and honed their knowledge into weapons. Not to kill but to grow.

“Nothing worth wanting is had easily, girl.” Auntie Nirma’s voice cut sharply, pulling Anula’s gaze from the shelves. “Are you committed to your pathway or not?”

Voices buzzed in her ears. The voices of her village. The ones three men deemed unimportant enough to sacrifice. It didn’t matter if Anula believed the Heavens’ hand in it. She believed in Auntie Nirma’s conviction and the justice deserved. She pressed Uncle Manoj’s journal to her chest. “Yes.”

“Good.” Auntie Nirma dropped a stack of books on the table. “If you do this right, songs will be sung about you.”

“And if I do it wrong?”

Auntie Nirma raised a brow. “A pyre will be built instead.”

***