My heart constricts. Nausea threatens to overtake me.
Balavan takes my elbow and leads me out of the cell. I resist the urge to cast a final glance over my shoulder.
The man will live, I tell myself. Though he’ll have a few broken teeth, he won’t suffer the same fate as all the other men I’ve kissed.
But we haven’t even reached the bottom of the stairs when I hear the labored sound of the prisoner’s breath. I tell myself that it means nothing—the man is just in pain from Balavan’s boot connecting with his face. Of course his breathing would be heavy and strained. But I’ve heard that sound a thousand times before—it’s the way Mani used to breathe every day before I realized that Gopal was giving him poison and not medicine. If the prisoner isn’t immune, in a few hours his labored breathing will turn to high-pitched wailing, and pain will rip through his body. My blood turns to ice.
And by the slow smile that spreads across Balavan’s face, I can see that history is repeating itself.
The man will die tonight. But not until he’s suffered for hours.
Balavan puts an arm around my shoulders. “Good work, Marinda.”
Despite the cold wave of horror rolling through my chest, when his gaze finds mine, I give him my sincerest smile.
Balavan doesn’t say another word until we’re out of the dungeon. At the top of the stairs, he clears his throat. “I planned to kill you tonight, you know.” He says it evenly, as if he were ordering dinner. My pulse spikes, but I keep walking.
“Oh?” I say, equally serene. “And why is that?”
“I had this silly idea that the Raja had turned you. That you were only coming back to gather information for him.”
I laugh, and it comes out harsh and brittle. “You don’t know me very well if you think I would serve someone who is holding my brother hostage.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. In time I hope to earn your loyalty. Perhaps even your love. But for now it doesn’t really matter why you came back.” His smile is calculating. Greedy. “Only that you’re here. And that you’re staying.”
My step falters for just a moment. My mouth goes dry. I haven’t earned his trust at all—this was only a test, a game to try to compel me to show my hand.
The realization pierces me—like the swipe of a paring knife held too close. Or wielded too carelessly. For a moment I am paralyzed, just as I was the first time I cut myself slicing onions. I still remember the sharp gasp of surprise, the blood welling at the wound even before the pain set in, the throbbing for hours afterward. But most of all I remember Gita’s gentle warning: Use the tools, Marinda. Don’t let them use you.
I take a deep breath and forcefully press the panic down, make it so small that I can’t even find it anymore. And then a wave of tranquility washes over me and I let it take all of my worry along with it. Because the people I love are safe, and playing games is exactly what I came to do. At least I’m not playing blind anymore. I’ve glimpsed my opponent. I understand the rules.
Now I just need to figure out how to force Balavan to reveal his strategy. Not only how to play, but how to win.
With someone so proud, flattery seems like a good starting point.
“Isn’t it unwise to work with me if you really think I’ll betray you?” I ask. “You seem far too cunning for that.”
He stops walking and turns his liquid gaze on me. “I don’t think I told you how lovely you look tonight, Marinda,” he says. He reaches for me, twirls a lock of my hair around his finger and inhales deeply before letting it go. “You’re a vision.”
Prickles race up the back of my neck. I can almost see the machinations behind his eyes. A gentle deflection of my flattery and a shot across the bow in the form of a compliment of his own. If the proud like to feel powerful, surely the beautiful want to be praised for their appearance. But if that’s what he thinks, he’s got the wrong girl.
“Don’t change the subject,” I say. “Why let me live if you don’t believe you can trust me? I’m no danger to you if I’m dead.” I want him to say the words out loud. I want to know why I’m here if he doesn’t trust me.
Balavan laughs and rubs his palms together. “Simple,” he says. “A traitor willing to kill for me is still a traitor I can use.”
My stomach is as tight as a clenched fist, but I force the muscles in my face to stay relaxed.
“So I’m nothing but a weapon to you, is that it?”
“Would you wish to be more?”
I leave the question unanswered, let it vibrate between us for several long seconds before I start walking again. Balavan hesitates for a beat, then falls in step beside me, and I smile to myself. I managed to fluster him, and the feeling of power that surges through me is intoxicating. But the victory lasts only a moment. We turn the corner and see Amoli standing stiffly at Balavan’s door. And she’s not alone.
Iyla is here.
Marinda is so focused on her conversation that she doesn’t see me right away. Her face is a mask of studied compliance. She’s more gifted at playing this role than I thought she would be. I might even believe it myself—that her loyalty to the Naga is sincere—if I didn’t know her so well. If I couldn’t see the way she pulls her stomach in tight like she’s bracing for a punch, if her shoulders weren’t creeping ever so slightly toward her ears.
Her whole body is a held breath.
Then she turns her head toward me, and her eyes go wide. The disappointment that darkens her expression hits me like a slap. But she quickly composes herself and gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Iyla,” she says coolly. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.” She kisses the air around my cheek, her lips never landing.
“Where else would I be?” But we both know what she expected. That I would stay tucked away in the Widows’ Village, learning how to mend saris from Vara. That I would live a small life tending to my vegetable garden. That I would stay far away from the Naga.
I touch Marinda’s arm, and her skin is on fire. A sheen of sweat has appeared on her upper lip. She’s coming unraveled. I find her fingers and squeeze them, and when she meets my gaze, I give her a hard look.
I can see the question in her eyes, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. She wouldn’t have to wonder why I’m here if she’d thought about me before this moment, if she’d worried about securing my safety along with Mani’s. But there’s only room in her heart for him. I would willingly stand back to back with her, blade in hand, and help her fight her battles if she weren’t always leaving me.
My stony stare must work, because Marinda takes a deep breath and stands up straighter.
Balavan gives me a wide smile. “Iyla,” he says. “I’m glad you were able to get away.”
“It took me a few days, but I managed.” I resist the urge to look at Marinda. To study her expression.
“Were you able to get the information we needed?”
“Some of it,” I tell him. “I’ll need to go back again before I have a target ready.”
“Excellent,” Balavan says. He rests a palm between Marinda’s shoulder blades and she stiffens. It’s such a possessive gesture that it takes some work to keep a neutral expression on my own face.
“You should get some rest, my rajakumari,” he says. “Iyla and I have business to discuss.”
Marinda presses her lips together, and I’m not sure if she’s reacting to Balavan calling her his princess or the suggestion that I’m still working for the Naga. But she covers her discomfort with an easy smile. “Of course,” she says. And then, turning toward Balavan’s handmaiden, “Amoli, could you show me back to my room? I’m afraid I’ve gotten turned around.”
She’s lying.
I have no doubt that she’s counted every step since she arrived, memorized every turn. She gives me a final glance, and I’m expecting to find a raw expression of pain on her face, one I didn’t realize I wanted to see until it was missing. Instead her eyes are weary and full of res
ignation. She can’t even muster up enough affection for me to feel betrayed.
“Certainly,” Amoli says. “I’d be happy to escort you back.” Marinda threads her arm through Amoli’s and lets herself be led away. And just like every other time she’s left me, she doesn’t look back.
Balavan’s rooms are sumptuous. The walls of the sitting room are covered in glazed-tile motifs of blue, yellow and green. Two identical sofas face each other, swathed in turquoise silk. Red velvet drapes hang from tall windows and fall in puddles on the glossy hardwood.
And he displays food like some people display flowers. It covers every surface—golden bowls of fruit, plates heaped with soft cheeses and flatbread, silver goblets overflowing with figs. It’s as if Balavan has an appetite that can never be satisfied.
“Please,” he says with a sweep of his arm. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I kick off my sandals and sit on one of the sofas, curling my feet underneath me. Balavan remains standing. “Where would you like me to start?” I ask. I’m ready to fill him in on my mission. The last one Gopal gave me before Marinda put a knife through his heart. The one I ignored until two weeks ago, when it became clear that I had to come back if I hoped to survive. I’m ready with my excuses for why it took so long to make contact, but I doubt I’ll need them. My assignments often require me to be gone for extended periods of time.
“We can talk about the boy later,” Balavan says. “I want to discuss Marinda.”
My pulse jumps, and a thread of worry curls in my stomach. She’s the last thing I want to talk about.
“What would you like to know?” I ask.
Balavan smiles, but there’s nothing warm in his expression. “Tell me what she cares about.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
He gives me an icy stare. “Your place is to answer questions,” he says, “not ask them.”
I swallow hard. He has me cornered. There’s no way I can refuse to speak. “She cares about her brother,” I say.
“And what else?”
I laugh sharply, surprised at how the question stings. “She only cares about her brother.”
He doesn’t speak for a full minute, and the weight of his stare makes it difficult for me to breathe. But I hold his gaze.
“Are you certain?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I want you to make sure.”
This pulls me up short. I square my shoulders, put both feet on the floor, lean forward. “What do you mean?”
“Your next mission is to gather intelligence on Marinda. I want to know where she goes, who she speaks to.” He pauses and searches my face. “I want to know everything she cares about.”
“You want me to spy on her?”
His voice gets dangerously quiet. “Is that a problem?”
I pull my feet back onto the sofa and tuck them underneath me. “Not if you make it worth my while.”
His face thaws and he laughs. “Gita was right about you.”
“Oh? What did she say?”
“That you are heartless. That you would give away your own mother if you could be convinced that it would benefit you.”
The swift flood of emotion is a shock. The sting behind my eyes, the choking sensation in my throat that makes it impossible to swallow. Did she really say that? Does she think I’m so easily bought? But I learned a long time ago that tears are the thieves of power. Instead I shrug. “True,” I say. “But there’s still the matter of the convincing.”
Balavan’s gaze skips to my hands, to the small age mark that I only noticed a few weeks ago. “I could give you back your youth.”
I go very still. The past unspools in my mind like a bundle of dropped thread—the visits to Kadru year after year, the pain as she extracted bits of my life in exchange for the poison that would make Marinda deadly. I lift my head and meet his eyes.
“How many years did Kadru take from you so that Marinda could become a visha kanya?” he asks. “Twenty? Thirty?”
My mouth is dry. “Fifty.”
His triumphant expression tells me that he already knew this number. And I wonder who sat in this very spot and answered the question What does Iyla care about? Who told him that all I really wanted was my life back? Who betrayed me by giving him the one thing that would make it easy for me to betray Marinda?
“I could restore every one of those years,” Balavan says. “You don’t need to die young just to protect Marinda. You’ve sacrificed enough for her.”
I curl my fingers around the edge of the cushion and squeeze. “What are you hoping to find?”
“I need to know if she’s lying to me.”
I shake my head. “Marinda isn’t a gifted liar.”
“No? And what about you?”
I ignore the ache in my throat. Disregard the sensation of being pressed against the soft silk of a spiderweb, of being slowly wrapped in delicate strands until it’s too late to escape. I try to seem as cold as Gita said I am. “Only time will tell.”
“But don’t you see, priya? Time is the one thing you don’t have.”
From my bedchamber, I can hear the anguished screams of the prisoner. It’s been three hours since I brushed my lips against his, since I saw the fear in his eyes that will forever haunt me. Maybe it’s the reason Balavan chose this particular room—so that he would be sure I heard the fruits of my labor.
Hitesh promised me I wouldn’t have to kill anyone to take the Naga down. Even when I protested that he couldn’t possibly protect them all. “Believe me, Marinda,” he said. “Anyone the Naga would target on our side is immune.”
He was either lying or wrong, and neither possibility brings any comfort. I should have known to expect the worst when he warned me that the game of espionage is a game you always play alone.
I sit on the floor with my head in my hands and wait until the sounds of suffering finally fade and the only thing I hear is my own racing heartbeat. I thought I could do this, thought I could carefully bury my humanity so deep that even I wouldn’t be able to find it—at least until the Nagaraja was dead and his followers destroyed. But Iyla’s sudden appearance is a stark reminder that I still have something to lose.
What is she doing here? Why would she choose to return when she worked so hard to escape? When she’d finally found safety?
The questions are an unrelenting drumbeat in my mind, a serpentine unease twisting through my gut. And the way she looked at me. Coldly. Like the last few weeks we spent in the Widows’ Village stitching together the tattered remnants of our friendship never even happened.
How will I ever bring the Naga down with her so close, reminding me that there’s more at stake than my own life? And why is she still working for them?
I have a sudden, aching desire to talk to Deven. It crashes over me like a wave—the need to have his arms wrapped around me, the longing to feel anchored to him. I think of the last time we spoke, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, the familiar smell of him enveloping me like a warm blanket.
“Don’t go,” he said. But his voice was flat and hopeless. It was a request that had been made and denied a dozen times. So I gave him a kiss instead of a reply and hoped it would be enough.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless, his eyes were shiny. “Don’t let them change you,” he said.
The plea jangled inside me like a dropped sword. The Naga had created me—fashioned me from flesh and poison—and I could see the worry etched across Deven’s expression that my loyalty might shift back toward them, the people who’d made me what I was.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t.”
But then I thought of Kadru—about her promise that I would one day become her—and I shivered. Deven rubbed his palms up and down my arms. Then he pulled me to his chest, and my doubts flew away like startled birds. I would never be like Kadru.
But now I’m not so sure. I’ve been with the Naga for less than a full day, and already I’ve killed someone for them. What if I l
ied? What if they do change me?
I pull my fingers through my hair and release a groan. I can’t just sit here marinating in guilt, obsessing about Iyla and missing Deven. I have to do something, anything, not to feel like I’ve just given up one prison for another.
I search through the drawers in my room until I find a stack of creamy parchment, a slender bamboo reed sharpened to a fine tip and a pot of ink. I write an impassioned letter to the Raja begging for Mani’s release. It is precisely what Gita and Balavan would expect from me if everything I’ve told them were true. But embedded in the letter is my real message. A cipher where only every seventh word has meaning. Arrived. Safely. Adviser. Dead. Nagaraja. Hunting. Something. Unknown.
I read the letter over several times and make sure that it sounds authentic, that it is exactly what I would say if I were serving the Snake King and if Mani really were being held prisoner at the Raja’s palace. When I’m satisfied it’s perfect, I leave it on the corner of the desk, partially covered, but where I’m sure Amoli will find it and report back to Balavan that I’m doing everything I can to secure the release of my brother.
I change out of my sari and scrub my face until I recognize my reflection again. The mehndi designs will take weeks to fade, but at least I don’t look like a stranger anymore. I climb under the silky covers and sink into the mattress, where it takes me hours to fall asleep. And even when I do, I’m startled awake by tortured screams. I lurch into a sitting position, gasping. I stuff a fist into my mouth and strain to hear, but several minutes pass before I realize that the sounds were only coming from my nightmares.
Gita is standing at the foot of my bed when I wake up the next morning. “Thank the ancestors he didn’t kill you,” she says the moment I open my eyes. Her hand is pressed to her chest like she’s holding her heart in place.
“Iyla is here,” I say before I can think better of it.
But Gita only shrugs. “Of course she is. We’re all here. Now tell me everything. What did Balavan say? Did he punish you?”
Poison's Cage Page 3
