The Library of Fates(55)

“Kill it, Amrita!” Thala yelled. My wrist free, I reached for the tentacle that held me, pressing a blade against it. But something stopped me.

“I can’t,” I said.

“What do you mean, you can’t? This thing is going to eat us alive!”

I turned my head and looked at the face of the creature. He was inspecting us, rotating us in his strong, cord-like limbs, but something told me he didn’t want to hurt us.

Slowly, tentatively, I reached for the spider’s face, placing a hand just above his eye. He closed it for a minute, and as he did, I heard something, a voice.

I just want to play, it said.

“Did you . . . did you hear that?” I asked.

Thala raised an eyebrow. “Hear what?”

“I can . . . hear him. He’s not going to hurt us,” I said.

“Really? Because those teeth look as though they were made expressly for that purpose,” Thala said.

“He’s . . . curious,” I said, watching as the creature flipped us right side up and back upside down in delight. “He probably hasn’t had visitors in a long time.”

The creature tugged at Thala’s feet and let out a sound that was a mixture of a purr and a hiss. He was chuckling.

“See? He’s friendly,” I said. “His body houses so many living creatures. He’s an entire ecosystem. If we hurt him, we hurt everything that depends on him. And if he really is Makara the Spider, if we destroy him . . .”

“I get it,” Thala said, “but we have to convince this thing to let us pass.” He swept her up and swung her toward him, pressing her toward his eye.

I placed a hand back above his other eye. Please let us go, I thought.

No, it replied.

I felt disappointment, urgency, frustration.

All right, I thought. How much longer do you want to play?

The creature smiled again, his fangs so huge that we both gasped.

To me, a short time. To you, forever.

Panic filled my lungs. I looked at Thala, and she could sense my terror.

“What?” she asked. “What is he saying?”

I didn’t answer her. I remembered the story. He sustains the world while he’s awake. He creates while he dreams.

I needed to get him to fall asleep. I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure whether it would work.

Makara, I called after the creature. I’ll play with you. I thought the words instead of saying them, and he grinned that terrifying grin again.

Do you know how to play catch? I’ll throw you something, and you catch it in your mouth.

Play! Play! I heard in response.

I reached into my satchel, pulling out the diamond shoe, throwing it into the air. Makara lunged for it, catching it between his fangs, swallowing it whole.

How about this? I threw him the skin of water, and once again, Makara darted toward it.

I reached back into my satchel for the thing I was looking for, holding it in my fingers. It was the leftover bark from the silver tree. I had saved it. Varun had told me it was a potent drug, that it would help Thala sleep. I didn’t know if it was potent enough to work on Makara the Spider. But I had no other option.

How about this? Can you get this?

I aimed the piece of bark the best I could, throwing it at Makara’s head. It struck him right between the eyes before he caught it in his mouth.

I watched as his eyelids got heavy, then closed. The tentacles loosened around my waist, and we both fell to the floor.

I let out a slow breath of relief before I turned to Thala’s stunned face.

“Quick, before he wakes up!” I whispered.

We stepped over his body and squeezed together before the silver door. I placed the dagger in the crevice, turning it on its side.

The rubies lit up and the door flew open, and I breathed a sigh of relief as we crossed the threshold.

On the other side at last, the door closed behind us with a click, and hundreds of eyes turned to look at us.





Twenty-Seven



THE JANAKA CAVES were an ancient city built into the interior of a mountain. Cave dwellings embedded in the rock swirled up in an interminable spiral that touched the clouds. On every surface were reliefs that bore a striking resemblance to those in the Temple of Rain, except this was no abandoned site. It was alive with color. Murals stretched from the ground far beyond where my eyes could see. Paintings of multiarmed gods, creatures that were half-man, half-tiger, white birds with wingspans the size of elephants against bold blue backdrops.

And directly before us, a crumbling, ancient-looking mural of a young woman: Maya. I looked down at my tunic. It was the very same one Maya was wearing in the mural. And in her hand, a dagger with three rubies.

A trail of goose bumps climbed up my arm.

The mural was not only of Maya—it was of me.

The Sybillines halted their activities. A man carving a bowl out of wood put down his tools. An elderly woman in a white sari trimming and collecting flowers set down her basket and the shears in her hand. Men and women playing games on wooden boards glanced in our direction.

“They’re here,” some of them whispered.

“She’s returned!”

Finally, the woman in the white sari approached. Her face was creased with lines, but her smile was youthful. “We’ve been waiting for you,” she said.