Page 36 of Her Soul for a Crown
Reeri paused. He should not dwell on her beauty. Hers was not the soul with whom his would commune but the soul he would cleave in two.
It was the only way. The Yakkas deserved their freedom.
His skin itched suddenly, and a strain pinched at his chest. Reeri scoffed at himself.Hisskin,hischest.
A small bulbul chirped on the edge of the gilt mirror. Its gold wings flittered as it moved along the branches of the frame. Reeri gazed into the reflection. His shadow writhed beneath. It had been centuries since he had seen with eyes, since he consisted of anything to be seen.
Chora Naga was a portrait of strength, a usurper of the highest caliber. The mark on his chest stood vibrant against a plane of dark, thick muscle. Scars crisscrossed his shoulders and biceps; one ran along his neck and collarbone. Reeri had never had scars before, nor curls that bounced on his forehead, nor a mouth that turned down on the sides.
“This is not me,” Reeri said to the bulbul. It chirped in agreement.
Temporary, he reminded himself. This body would not be his next prison. Before long, he would have his own body. Until then—
Gripping the sides of the frame, Reeri bent forward, focused on the stranger’s face. The bird squawked, ruffling its feathers. Wading through his memories felt like trudging through a rice paddy field. Jaw tight, he sifted for the familiar features. The face he had used to call his shimmered beneath. Part ghost, part shadow. A phantom of the cosmos. Reeri grasped it and pulled.
A square jaw bloomed, followed by a long rounded nose, and wide, full lips. Deep red eyes were curtained by thick lashes and heavy brows.
Hisface.
Sweat trickled down Chora Naga’s skin. Reeri did not blink.The bird whistled and flapped blessed wings in encouragement. He held fast to the image in his mind, dragged it to the surface. Chora Naga’s shoulders shook, muscles aching, and—
The ghost emerged.
It seeped out of Chora Naga’s skin, layered itself like a sheet.
Hewas there. In the lips, the chin, the cheeks.
The phantom of his life.
Betwixt the heartbeats that were not his, the memory snapped away. Chora Naga’s face returned. The enchantment gone.
The bulbul chirped at him. Reeri closed his eyes. It was pointless to waste time on a memory anyway. The thrum of the tether sang within him. The etching of a mehendhi elephant on his chest shivered. Its edges cracked his dark skin.
It reminded him of why he had come and what was at stake.
He could not allow Anula to venture too far, else the tether would mar her soul before he had the chance to use it. To perform the ritual that would bring to life all his brethren’s souls, which remained shackled in the cosmos.
Rejection or not, Anula must spend the night in his chamber and every night after. Until he cleaved her soul.
The tether pulled taut, yearning to snap each point together, as once upon a time his body had done to his shrines. Yet Anula was no Yakka, and he was no shrine. If they did not stay within a certain distance, the effect would be…uncomfortable. More than a little gruesome.
It was a warning Reeri had meant to levy on Anula, if she had only listened and waited in the chamber. Now he found himself hurrying through the palace, the tether dragging him around corner after corner—
A snore rippled down the empty hall. The tether flared towardan open door—the prophet’s door, marked by the same rubies inlaid in his pendant. One peek around the frame and the tether fell calm. For inside, drenched in moonlight, crept the raejina consort, footsteps as lithe and soundless as a mouse. Grimacing at the old man in the bed, Anula bent over a low table and unstoppered a small blue vial. She tipped the contents into a bottle of palm wine and—
Reeri grasped her wrist.
Bronze eyes flashed up, not a hint of a scream on her lips.
He tore the vial from her fingers, snatched up the bottle, and pulled her silently out of the room. If humans had vapor edges, his would be flickering. She wrenched free as soon as the door clicked closed behind them and marched away.
“Wait,” Reeri demanded, catching hold of her arm again. He glanced at the prophet’s door. “Has he wronged you?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Raja. I was only out for a stroll. Thoughts of you kept me awake.” Derision fluttered along with her lashes. “I was simply shivering with anxiety.”
“Do you always deflect with jests?” He dropped her arm, then sniffed at the vial he had confiscated. It smelled of flowers and early-morning heat. Where had she learned poisoncraft? Better yet, why?
Anula pursed her lips and tugged at a seam near her hip. A small bulge shifted. “Calling you was a mistake.”
