I kick off my sandals, lie back against the pillows and close my eyes, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t sleep. My gaze skips to the table of food, and my stomach grumbles. I sit up and pull one of the platters onto my lap, but I’m not sure I dare eat. The food could be laced with poison. It would be an elegant way to get rid of me—to serve me tainted food and let me die by my own hungry fingers. But the more I think about it, the more I doubt it’s true. The Naga won’t waste my death by killing me discreetly. If I’m to die, they’ll want to make a spectacle of it.
I pinch a bit of cheese between my fingers and drop it onto my tongue. The flavors explode in my mouth—the sharp and the sweet both more pronounced when married. Just to be sure the food is safe, I wait a full twenty minutes before I take another bite. Then I eat most of the cheese, a loaf of flatbread and a pear before I finally feel less hollowed out.
The feast has made me sleepy, but before I lie down, I pull the scarf from my hair. The blue silk is printed on one side with deep golden stars, moons and suns. On the other side is what looks, at first glance, like a smattering of constellations. Only on close inspection could a person make out the subtle shape of Sundari and the brighter stars that indicate every dead drop in the kingdom—all the places I can leave whatever information I gather for the Raja. I fold the scarf into a small square and nestle it beneath one of the slats under the bed, examining it from every angle to make sure not even a hint of color is visible. When I’m satisfied the map is safe, I lie back and drift off to sleep.
I’m dreaming of Deven when I feel a hand on my cheek. I nearly say his name—it’s on the tip of my tongue as I sigh into the touch—but then awareness comes rushing back and my eyes fly wide. Amoli takes a startled step backward.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I called your name several times, but you didn’t stir.”
I sit up and pull my fingers through my hair. “It’s okay,” I say. “I must have been more tired than I realized.” My head throbs lightly, and I take a deep breath and try to force the fog of disorientation to dissipate. I have to be more careful. What if I’d said Deven’s name in my sleep? Am I certain I didn’t? If anyone here suspects that I still care about him, both his life and mine will be in danger.
Amoli has a berry-colored sari draped over one arm and a basket full of supplies in the other. “Shall we do a bath first?” she asks, though her tone suggests it’s not a question. And she doesn’t wait for an answer before she unburdens her arms and makes her way through the open door of the bathing chamber at the far side of the room. She starts the water running and then pulls a vial of oil from her pocket. The room fills with the scent of jasmine.
While her back is turned, I close my eyes and steel myself for what’s ahead. Be compliant, I remind myself. Seem eager to please. But the thought of letting Amoli touch me, when she serves the people who tried to sacrifice Mani, makes my skin crawl.
Amoli shuts off the water and I force my face to go slack, like curtains falling closed. By the time she turns toward me, my mind is empty, and I hope my expression is too.
“All set,” she says, motioning toward the tub, where steam curls into the air like warm breath. She shifts away from me to allow at least the illusion of privacy while I disrobe and slip into the bath, but as soon as I’m submerged, she plunges her hands into the water and begins scrubbing at my skin with a rough cloth.
It takes all the self-control I have not to wrench away from her. The pressure on my bare skin is too familiar, too much contact when so few people have ever dared touch me. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
Amoli freezes, the cloth in her hand hovering above my shoulder blade. “Am I hurting you?”
The question knocks something loose inside me, and tears threaten at the corners of my eyes. But I can’t afford to let them fall. Instead I let out a light laugh. “No,” I say. “You just seem to be under the impression that I walked here in a cloud of dust. Am I really so dirty?”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just want you to make a favorable impression on Balavan.” But her hands are gentler when she resumes scrubbing.
When every square inch of my body is red and raw, Amoli pours a handful of thick soap into her palm and lathers it into my hair, kneading my scalp with her fingertips. The motion is so relaxing that my eyes flutter closed and I slump deeper into the water. Cleaning my skin felt like an invasion, but this. This feels like the height of luxury.
I’m almost disappointed when Amoli disentangles her fingers from my hair and pours several pitchers of warm water over my head until all the suds are rinsed away.
She holds out a thick, creamy towel, and I wrap myself in its warmth as I step out of the tub. The scent of jasmine wafts from my skin, clings to my hair.
“Sit here,” Amoli instructs, pulling up a low stool and placing it in front of a mirror. I want to argue with her, want to tell her to stop ordering me around like I’m a child, but I bite my tongue and follow her instructions.
Amoli uses a wooden comb to untangle my hair, leaving it hanging in a dark curtain around my shoulders. Then she wraps a strand tightly around her fingers and holds it there for a full minute before she unwinds it. She continues working one section at a time until my hair falls down my back in loose curls.
Next Amoli fishes a muslin cloth out of her basket, along with a shallow clay oil lamp and several small containers. She fills the lamp with castor oil and holds a match to the wick. Flickering light dances across the mirror. She dips a corner of the cloth in one of the containers and then plunges it into the flame. The scent of sandalwood fills the air, and nostalgia overtakes me. Kajal. When Iyla and I were little girls, Gita would occasionally line her eyes and color her lips. We thought she looked glamorous and begged to try the cosmetics. “No, my loves,” she said. “You are beautiful just as you are.” A pang of sadness shoots through me at who I thought Gita was then. I wonder where she is right now. Probably pacing through the corridors, fretting over my fate, when she should be worrying about her own.
Amoli waits for the cloth to cool and then dips it in a pot of ghee and swipes the kajal over both my upper and my lower eyelids. Next she mixes powdered fruit rind with a splash of milk and applies it to my cheekbones with her fingertips, blending the paste into my skin in steady, sure circles. But when she dips a tiny brush in the mixture and moves toward my lips, I flinch away.
“Don’t worry,” she says softly, holding my chin firmly between two fingers. “I’ll be careful.” The brush is feather soft against my mouth, and the sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant, but as Amoli applies layer after layer, my lips start to feel suffocated and I’m reminded of the poisoned lip balm Gopal used to make me wear when I was small and not yet deadly enough on my own. A shiver dances down my spine and finally Amoli pulls away.
Despite myself, I’m mesmerized by my reflection.
It was always Iyla who looked desirable, who smelled like flowers and had color in her cheeks. Now that it’s me, I’m surprised at how powerful it makes me feel.
But then I wonder why I need to look like this to meet Balavan, and my stomach sours. Is this the treatment of an honored guest or the ritualistic body cleansing before I’m put to death and my ashes are flung into the Kinjal River?
“Rajakumari?”
My gaze flits to Amoli, who is holding out fresh clothes and studying me with knitted brows. The look on her face suggests this isn’t the first time she addressed me.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
I give her a smile. “Of course not,” I say as I wrap the plain end of the sari around my waist and pull the jewel-edged pallu over my shoulder. “I was just lost in thought for a moment.”
“Do you need a break?” she asks. “I can come back later to finish.”
I’m transformed from head to toe. What more could there possibly be left to do? “No,” I tell her. “Really, I’m fine.”
She searches my face without speaking for a f
ew moments and then nods and motions toward the stool. “Let’s start on your hands, then.”
“My hands?”
She pulls a slender tube from her basket. “Yes,” she says. “I’ll be applying mehndi.”
My breath catches. The intricate henna designs are only used for special occasions. Weddings. Funerals.
“Is he going to kill me?”
Amoli frowns, and it takes her a long time to answer. “I don’t know,” she says. “But I hope not.”
She squeezes the henna paste from the tube with careful, practiced fingers, and soon the backs of my hands are covered in delicate, interlacing lines broken up by flowers and teardrops. It’s as if I’ve slipped on a pair of black lace gloves, and the effect is breathtaking. Amoli applies the design all the way from my fingertips to my elbows and then starts on my feet, decorating them from toe to ankle. The designs conceal the dozens of scars left by years and years of snakebites. By the time she’s finished, the sun has slipped beneath the horizon and I’m so captivated by her artistry that I’ve nearly forgotten why I’m here. But the truth comes crashing back when Amoli stands up and stretches. She pulls a final item from her basket, a ruby teardrop dangling from a golden wire. She fastens it around my forehead so that the jewel rests between my eyebrows.
“You’re ready,” she says.
Amoli leads me down a dim corridor lit only by flickering candlelight. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I try to empty my thoughts of anything except service to the Nagaraja. At our last meeting the Snake King forcefully entered my mind, and it was only Mani’s voice that kept me from losing myself. And while I don’t think the Nagaraja’s minions have the same power—Gopal certainly never did—the worry still gnaws at me. Finally we come to a set of golden doors at the end of the corridor, and Amoli gives a sharp knock before she enters. “Master Balavan,” she says, her voice dripping with so much deference that it makes my stomach turn. “I present the rajakumari.” She steps aside, and suddenly I’m face to face with the Nagaraja’s most trusted servant.
And he doesn’t look anything like I thought he would.
I was expecting another version of Gopal—a belly soft with indulgence, graying hair, a cruel face.
But Balavan is young and vital, with flawless copper skin and hard muscles. He has a square jawline, and his eyes are like bottomless pools of black ink, dark and unfathomable. And then he smiles, and for a moment I forget to breathe.
“Marinda,” he says warmly, as if we’ve met a dozen times before. “I’m so happy you’ve chosen to join us.” He takes both of my hands in his and plants a kiss on each of my cheeks.
My mind goes completely blank. I can’t stop staring at the contours of his face, at the way a muscle jumps near his jaw, at the light flickering in his eyes. There’s something so familiar about him that I’m suddenly sure I’ve seen him before. He must have visited Gopal when I was a child.
“Will there be anything else, master?” Amoli asks. Her question breaks the spell.
“You may go,” Balavan says, his voice smooth and even. Amoli slips through the door without another word and closes it behind her with a soft click.
When Balavan turns his gaze on me again, all the warmth has evaporated from his expression.
“Why are you here, Marinda?” He asks the question softly, but it has all the power of an earthquake. I feel unsteady, like the ground might shift beneath me at any moment.
My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, but I need to find a way to speak, a way to erase the suspicion in his tone.
“To serve the Nagaraja,” I say.
He clasps both hands in front of him and tilts back on his heels. “The same Nagaraja you tried to kill just a few months ago?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “He had my brother,” I say softly. “He would have killed him if I hadn’t done something.”
“Ah, your brother,” Balavan says. “Mani, is it?” I nod, speechless. He is the first member of the Naga to refer to Mani by name instead of calling him “the boy” or referring to him as a pet.
Balavan blows a stream of air through pursed lips and then turns to examine his reflection in a large, diamond-shaped object on the wall. It’s made not of glass but of luminescent pearl—the palace is so opulent that even the mirrors are made of gems. He smooths back his hair and plucks a piece of lint from his collar. “Gopal badly mishandled that situation,” he says. He turns toward me. “Your brother, I mean.” His eyes find mine, and again I’m struck by how endless they seem. “There was no need for male assassins. I already had a contingency plan for that.”
I try to ignore the rage that explodes in my chest at the suggestion that Mani was nothing more than a failed experiment. Gopal was secretly poisoning him for years in an attempt to turn him into a weapon. In an attempt to turn him into me.
I can’t let my emotion ruin this opportunity. It’s the first chance for information that could actually help the Raja. “What was the contingency plan?”
He laughs. “All in good time, rajakumari. We have to find out if we can trust you first.”
My pulse jumps. “Of course you can trust me,” I say with as much force as I can muster. “Why would I risk my life and come here otherwise?”
“Oh, I can think of a few reasons,” Balavan says. He presses his lips together and studies me. “Are you sure saving your brother was the only reason you turned on the Nagaraja?”
“Yes,” I say. “Everything I did was for Mani.”
“You didn’t have another, more ideological reason for wanting our leader dead?”
“Of course not.” Balavan doesn’t say anything, but I hold his gaze. I won’t be the first to look away. “What can I do to prove my loyalty?”
The lazy smile that spreads across his face raises the hair on the back of my neck. “My darling Marinda,” he says. “I’m so glad you asked.”
He circles me with the fluid movement of a lion stalking a gazelle. “The Nagaraja has a new target for you,” he says. “We need you to kiss one of the Raja’s advisers.”
I look down at the gorgeous mehndi designs on my hands and feet, and all of a sudden the hours spent in preparation make perfect sense. I’m not dressed to die.
I’m dressed to kill.
The dungeon smells like snake.
A wave of nausea sweeps over me, and I try to close off my mind, just in case the Nagaraja is near. But as I follow Balavan through the winding passageways lit by flickering torches, I’m forcefully reminded of the last time I was in a dungeon, and it gets harder and harder to keep the memories at bay.
Thoughts of Mani flood my mind—the desperate need to get to him, the worry that he’d be sacrificed to the Nagaraja before I found a way to escape. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus. Because this time is different. This time I’m in control, and any games we play will be my games.
I can hear the raspy breathing of the prisoners as we pass each cell, but unlike in the Raja’s dungeon, they don’t cry out or beat against the bars and beg for release. Perhaps they’ve learned there’s no point. We’re enveloped in the eerie silence of the hopeless.
Balavan stops so suddenly that I nearly run into him. He fumbles with a set of keys and slides the bars of the metal cell open.
In the corner, barefoot and chained to the floor by heavy leg-irons, is a man in a dirty Sundarian uniform. His jaw is covered in stubble, and a yellowing bruise discolors his left eye.
I long to kneel next to him and whisper that he will be okay, that Hitesh warned me the Naga might put me to the test but that the Raja would make sure anyone I might be asked to kill was immune. I can’t risk saying anything to him with Balavan so close, though. Instead I give him a shaky smile and hope he will understand.
Balavan moves toward the man and towers over him. “I’ll give you a final chance,” he says. “Tell me where to find it.”
The man shakes his head, sliding his heels across the floor until his back is pressed against the stone wall
. Balavan kicks him in the stomach. I press a palm to my mouth and bite back a scream.
“I’ve brought a visha kanya,” Balavan says. “If you tell me what I want to know, I will slit your throat. It will be a quick death. A merciful one. But if you don’t…” He motions toward me. “A poisoned kiss. Which I assure you will be neither quick nor merciful.”
The man’s gaze darts to me. “Please,” he says. “Don’t do this.”
Worry tugs at me. Is he not immune? Or is he simply playing a role, like I am?
“Don’t speak to her,” Balavan says. “Don’t speak at all unless you’re going to tell me where it is.”
The man drops his head and turns his face toward the wall.
“Marinda,” Balavan says softly, “kiss him.”
My pulse flutters frantically like a moth in a jar. A few months ago, being a visha kanya was what got me thrown in the dungeon. Now it’s the only thing that will get me out.
I kneel in front of the man and take his face in my palms. His eyes are wild, and with a start I realize that I’ve never killed someone who knows what I am. I’ve seen surprise in a target’s eyes before. I’ve even seen desire. But until now I’ve never seen fear.
The expression sends something icy through my veins, and I hesitate, searching his face for an answer to a question I can’t ask out loud.
“Kiss him,” Balavan repeats more sharply than before. And I know there’s no choice. If I refuse, both of us are dead.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth. And then I brush my lips gently across the prisoner’s and hope that Hitesh has kept his end of the bargain.
I start to stand, but the man catches my fingers in his. “Wait,” he says, his voice colored with urgency. “The Nagaraja—”
Balavan shoves me out of the way and steps between us. “I told you not to speak.”
The man cranes his neck to see me. “The Nagaraja is hunting—”
But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Balavan kicks him hard in the teeth. Blood sprays across the man’s face, and he falls silent.
Poison's Cage Page 2
