The Library of Fates(45)
“I don’t want to put him in danger,” I told her. “He helped us.”
“He wanted to,” Thala said.
“He’s just a boy, our age. How would he sneak into the palace? We’re under siege.”
Thala pointed to Saaras. “That’s how,” she said. “Tell Varun you’re headed to the Janaka Caves and stopping at the temple on the way. Tell him to communicate with Arjun through Saaras, and that Arjun can do the same.”
It was so brilliant, I threw my arms around Thala. Then I turned my attention back to the note, scribbling my plea and a set of instructions. I finished and tied it to the bird’s foot, instructing him to get it to Varun.
He nuzzled my hand before we watched him fly back toward Ananta, and I couldn’t help but feel a little wistful at his departure. I turned to Thala.
“Ready?” she asked me.
“You’re sure you can make it?”
“I’ve never been more certain in my life.”
It was clear now, what we needed to do: take the path to Mount Moutza, warn the Sybillines, find the Library of All Things.
Twenty-One
CUT OUT OF THE RED MOUNTAIN ROCKS, it stood, majestic and stately against the bluest sky I had ever seen. Pillared colonnades buttressed a high roof that curved like a rust-colored sail over the lofty complex. The entry to the temple was a square opening in the rock.
Across the hilltop, lines of prayer flags flapped in the wind. And in between the crevices in the rocks, small bits of parchment, each carrying a long-held wish, a plea, a prayer. Millions of appeals and entreaties, carefully placed into walls of the temple. I wondered if Maya the Diviner could see them, hear them, feel them. I wondered if she really had the capacity to make wishes come true.
“It’s . . . amazing,” I said. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.” I wandered toward the entrance, past a steady stream of crowds strolling in and out of the massive structure.
I looked at the elaborate carvings across the edifice of the temple, relaying a story as old as the temple itself. They reminded me of the carvings inside the Temple of Rain, etched by a skilled hand, someone who sought to record and relay old truths. I wondered if those truths had any bearing on our lives.
I understood, as I stood there, that I would petition her too, with all my prayers, all my pleas, just as people had done for hundreds of years before me, just as my father had done. I wondered what he had come here to ask for.
Varun was right. Mount Moutza wasn’t just beautiful. It was otherworldy. It was befitting that we were celebrating Thala’s return to us on the Mountain of Miracles. I swallowed hard at the thought that I might have lost her. I smiled at her, grateful for her company.
“Can you imagine that this place was once home for the vetalas?” I asked.
Thala glanced at me, a surprised look on her face. “Since when did you start believing in all that?”
I blushed, thinking of Varun. I didn’t know what to say, so I just shrugged. “There’s no way to know they aren’t real,” I said.
Shree had taught Arjun and me to be critical, discerning, to never take anything literally. Mala had offered us a string of myths and stories, intertwined together. What these two women had given me were two separate and distinct parts of my life: practicality, strategy, and logic from Shree. Magic from Mala. But I had always kept them separate, and yet, after Varun told me the story of Maya the Diviner, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe that there was magic woven into the world in which we lived, something underneath the surface of what we could see, an entire universe we didn’t quite understand, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t exist.
I also wanted to believe in something. I had lost everything I had ever known. All I had now were stories, words, and hope. Those were the things I needed to hold on to tightly, or I would feel adrift in an ocean that I didn’t have the skills or wherewithal to navigate.
I glanced around, making sure Sikander’s men weren’t following us, but I felt safe here. Besides, we continued to be well-disguised with our scarves covering our faces. We looked like Bedouins, Thala and I. Not like what we really were. A princess. An oracle.
“Let’s rest here a moment,” I said, glancing at Thala’s tired eyes. “I’ll get us something to eat.” With a handful of sikkas, I bought us two fists full of bright purple figs, speckled green oranges, and some walnuts roasted with sugarcane from a friendly-faced vendor who threw a strand of marigolds into my hands.
I thanked him before I returned to Thala, handing her a fig. She inspected it carefully, and even though I couldn’t see all of her face, I could tell from her eyes that she was smiling, delighted.
She looked up at me. “For years, they fed me slop,” she said. “Look at this, how pretty it is. The perfect fruit.” She took a bite of it, closing her eyes, savoring the taste.
She turned, looking out into the distance. I followed her gaze. I could see Lake Chanakya, the palace, the entire city of Ananta. The kingdom was vast, and I could make out every part of it from this vantage point—the city, a major metropolis bustling with activity and trade, tiny carriages and horses winding up and down the lanes, but also the tea plantations built like concentric amphitheaters, the purple mountains to the east, and the Silk Road, a long stone avenue cutting through it all.