Page 2 of The Legend of Meneka
It is over.
I am the only thing that matters to Queen Tara anymore.
She tugs me again, this time harder. Her eyes dart between me and the cushioned bed. Vaguely, I wonder if I should consummate her desire. Others of my ilk have done so. Tumbled with their marks without regret after those marks have been seduced. Some have done it even before—simply another step in their missions. It would be a kind of reparation—to fulfill the very desire I have created in Tara. I would not be leaving her undone. The corners of her mouth quiver as she notices my contemplation. I lean in—a kiss, what would it hurt? Tara’s breathing grows ragged in the space between us.
No, I think. Shame grips me, locking my muscles. Self-disgustsinks its nails into my heart, at what I’d been about to justify. Tara does not know her mind. Whatever she thinks she wants, it is notherwant, not truly. She is enthralled. She isseduced.
My face hardens.
I pull her hands away from me.
I step back.
Tara’s eyes grow larger, confused, and my shoulders sag, heavy with guilt. I open my mouth, wanting to say something. An apology. An explanation.Something.
Yet what is there to say? I’ve danced for her many times, and my spell will not wear off easily. When I am gone, she will be bereft for years. She will waste away, waiting for me to return. Nothing—not even sleeping with her now—will ever be enough. Even if I were to stay, to live with her as her mate, it would not matter. The lust has taken on a life of its own. Tara will never truly recover from it. My mission has been too successful.
And is any of that wrong? Surely my guilt now is misplaced. Tara deserved this. Lord Indra demanded this. I am his agent, and my missions are a sign of my devotion to him. If I did not do this, what would happen then? Before my arrival, Tara already abolished the public worship of Indra—an act of challenge to heaven itself. Eventually, she would prohibit private prayers too. Once, her dynasty was defined by its devotion to Indra, but Tara and her ministers began traveling a path that would eventually lead to the burning of the lord’s temples, the desecration of his rituals, the slaughtering of his devotees. Everything I did was to prevent that terrible future.
I know all of this, yet I wish I could explain that I never meant to hurt her. Never meant to destroy her so completely. The yearning to absolve myself is so acute, spilling nearly out of my lips, that I realize I have lingered in her court too long. What does it make me that I am sympathizing with someone as undevout as Tara?
My eyes slide away from her face. I turn to leave the bedchamber. Though I hear a quiet cry of despair from her, I don’t look back.
This is my job. My destiny.
My name is Meneka.
And I am an apsara of Indra’s heaven.
THE DOORS TO THE BEDCHAMBER SHUT BEHIND ME, SILENCINGthe music. I can no longer hear Tara, but I move faster as though to distance myself from the anguish of my own heart.
Apsaras have a reputation. Mortal poets whisper we are mistresses of illusion and ultimate control. Lord Indra calls us his snakeskins, ready to shed and birth anew. I think we are cobra venom. Our magical dance is lethal. It has felled kingdoms and tempted saints. It has changed the course of history and taken loved ones away.
Yet when I perform, the world makes sense. I am coated in utter heavenly bliss, my very dance a devotion to Indra and a blessing from him. In some ways, my dance is even more than what Indra allows it to be. It is a secret joy of my own, unspooling the very essence of me. The way my performance is used, however …
I am only twenty-three, my time at this early age still measured in mortal years, but I feel older. I have lost count of the number of missions I have gone on, the ways in which I have proved my devotion to my lord. Tara was one of my most sacrilegious marks. One of the hardest. I’m going to make sure she is my last.
I hurry down the palace corridors, turning corners and entering passageways blindly. When I can no longer see any palace guards, I pause. Closing my eyes again, I touch my enchanted necklaces. I invoke Indra’s name and request my return to swarga, the lord’s heaven.
Permission is granted as a prize for my devotion. The tug behind my navel tightens as Amaravati responds to my call. A gust of windwhistles through the corridors of the palace, bringing with it scents of cinnamon and ghee. My form becomes airy, light and gossamer weaves tingling on my skin. The wind of the celestial city carries me away from the mortal realm.
When I open my eyes next, I am at the gates of the City of Immortals, back home in the heavenly realm. Stars twinkle overhead and under me. Even though it is nighttime, my city is bright and alive, its magical golden dust sparkling on the giant marble gates that form the city’s entrance. Darkness itself shimmers with an undertone of luminosity.
No guards prowl here. It is peacetime, and the magic of Amaravati acts as a shield. The gates open on their own, and the underlying rhythms and music of Amaravati greet me as I walk in.
My body immediately relaxes, and a sigh escapes me. The worries of the mortal world shed themselves from my shoulders as the city welcomes me. The magical tether that connects me to Amaravati blooms like a chord struck. In the mortal realm, it was a fragile thing, flat and limp, a faded painting. Here it is a flower, alive, beautiful, golden. I breathe in, and Amaravati’s loveliness strikes me like I’m seeing it for the first time. It has been so long since I’ve been here.
The city hums under my feet as I walk. Every manse I glimpse is more beautiful than all of Queen Tara’s palace. The rock-paved pathways glisten under the golden light. Somewhere a bird sings sweetly, holding a single warbling note that strums through my heart. Laughter echoes here and there, though I see no one. The citizens are hidden within glorious buildings, ensconced in fragrant night gardens. The same gentle breeze that brought me back home rustles through the city, this time with scents of lightning and storm, scents that belong to Lord Indra. His magic spirals lazily through the city, tiny sparks that flicker and flash.
I transform as I breathe in the quiet streets. In the mortal realm, Ibegan to question my devotion to Lord Indra. Tara’s seduction should have given me joy, each evolution of her lust a testament to my faith, but the mission only pierced my own belief in myself. My very despair was treasonous, and through all the days of my mission, I clutched my reverence for Indra like a beggar clutches alms.Now, with my return to Amaravati, those doubts about my own dedication evaporate like chimerical dreams on wakefulness. I am reminded once again that I am anapsara, a creature of the lord’s city—yet this time the acknowledgment straightens my spine. My devotion is untainted by turmoil; it is scented with confidence. I am returned to a reality that has burned through a feverish glamour.
The change in me is so sudden, so familiar, that I am shocked. Images burst in my head of Indra studying me when I first began my training as an apsara at seven. Of when I knelt at his feet at fifteen before I embarked on my first mission. Of his kindness and pride as he blessed me before I left the city. His magnanimity, his love, his heroism, all gleam through Amaravati, as though the city itself is singing his praise. Indra is the father of heaven, and though he is no true relation of mine, the same golden blood of swarga runs through our veins. Immortal and celestial, we are one family, all of us beholden to him to succor us.
Slowly, I make my way toward his palace to report on my latest conquest. Rambha waits for me there; I sent a message to her a few hours ago when I knew I had succeeded with Tara, and I can sense her calling to me, her face blossoming behind my eyes. She was the one thing I held on to during my mission, and I ache to see her. Still, my steps grow slower as I contemplate what I am about to do.
Every apsara at the end of a successful mission is granted a boon, whatever her heart desires. All apsaras ask for a chance to continue to serve the lord more faithfully—a blessing that is granted through magical jewelry from his own collection. To wear an ornament thatbelongs to Indra is akin to carrying a piece of the lord with us. His presence allows us to pull more of Amaravati’s magic than we otherwise can, essential to creating the most unwavering illusions, critical to our success in future missions.
Yet my sari belt constricts around my waist. The necklaces tighten, and my hand rises to skim against my collarbone, trying to loosen their leash. What will Rambha say if I tell her this is how the jewels have felt for so long? That wearing them has been no blessing but a prison sentence? The boon I intend to ask of the lord today will surely catch her unaware—but the lord himself will see that it comes from a desire to be more pious. The jewels are wondrous, but they take me away from him each time I leave Amaravati. All I want is to be untainted in my devotion, close to him, worshiping him. Surely he will agree?
