Page 109 of Her Soul for a Crown
“The taboo—”
“Curse the taboo.”
Anula’s breath caught. What he was offering to do…forher…
“My raja,” Bithul interjected. “I don’t think that’s the way.”
“There is no way in vengeance,” Reeri declared.
“But there is in justice.”
Anula tore away from the bed, the words creeping up her arms as she paced.
It was no accident, Anula. You were meant to survive.
Why?
Justice. You were chosen to carry out a further purpose. 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.
Was this justice? A village burned, people murdered—
If you do this right, songs will be sung about you.
And if I do it wrong?
A pyre will be built instead.
Perhaps it should be.
Anula eyed her hands, not the mehendhi, but the blood that stained them. Reeri was right: This wasn’t justice. It was vengeance. She was no better than a usurper, the very thing she had come to end. Death was all she granted the kingdom. Even the Yakkas couldn’t evade her corruption. Where had she gone wrong?
Auntie Nirma had trained her, taught her, honed her. For them—Amma, Thaththa, and all in Eppawala, all in the kingdom. So why were her hands drenched in blood? Why was her name next in the history of the Age of Usurpers? Was this the dream she was meant to chase by the Heavens’ hand, the person Auntie Nirma had wanted her to be?
Was she whoshewanted to be?
“We must send aid to the villages that are now threatened by a Polonnaruwan attack,” Bithul urged. “Evacuate the people. The outer city is full, but we could take them into the inner city, keep them safe.”
“There will not be a threat when the enemy is removed,” Reeri growled.
“We must focus on what’s important,” Bithul argued. “People’s lives.”
Gooseflesh prickled her arms. She’d heard those words before, thought she knew what they meant. She’d been wrong. Up to this point, Anula had focused on death—Amma’s and Thaththa’s, each name on the list—because according to Auntie Nirma, the world was made up of two types of people: allies and enemies.
She was wrong.
It was more complex than that. The good and the bad were one, like a river banked with mud on one side and dried, cracked earth on the other. Anula had seen it in Premala, caring for others while practicing vile traditions. And, of course, she’d seen it in Reeri. She’d judged him to be the Blood Yakka from the stories of old, yet he wore his care on his sleeve unknowingly. Bithul, though, was different. He focused on life, on preserving and protecting no matter the cost to himself.
Auntie Nirma had not trained Anula to be both. She didn’t know how to rule, what diplomacy or governance took. That was a job for allies. She had been honed only as a weapon. But if herpath was not to wield judgment and justice, or vengeance of any kind—if she was not to rid the palace of evil men—had it all been for nothing?
No, she couldn’t believe that. Amma and Thaththa didn’t deserve to be killed; no one did. Justice was always called for. But perhaps not the justice Auntie Nirma had sought. Though her visions for a peaceful Anuradhapura were worthy, the pain of loss had blinded her, pulled her across the river to the bed that was dry and dead.
Perhaps Anula had been blinded, too. She didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to look away any longer.
Anula lifted her gaze, squared her shoulders. “Send help.”
Reeri furrowed his brows. “But I can—”
She placed a firm hand on his arm. “That’s not who I want to be, and we both know that’s not who you are.”
