The Scarlet Throne by Amy Leow – Exclusive Extended Excerpt

A dark, heart-thumping political epic fantasy by debut author Amy Leow—full of scheming demons, morally grey heroines, talking cats, and cut-throat priests, this delicious tale of power and corruption will captivate from beginning to end.

Read the first two chapters of The Scarlet Throne, on sale September 10, below!

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PART I

THE BLOODSTAINED GODDESS

—The Prophecy of Geerkha, transcribed by Ghushtar Abhijat Rijal, circa Year 13 of the Age of Steel

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1

THE FALSE DEVOTEE

A woman had been crushed by a goat that fell from the sky. Her husband, Uruvin Vashmaralim, humble spice merchant, now kneels before me, haggard bags underlining his eyes and tear stains slashing down his cheeks. He laments the loss of his wife and the suspicious circumstances hanging over her death. She was a pious woman, he claims, who always set the mangoes and wine before the family shrine and prayed to them three times a day. One day, however, a terrible illness befell her. She didn’t place her offerings before the family shrine. She died the next week, not from illness, but from a goat falling on her while she was drawing water from the well.

Lies, a childlike voice hisses in my head.

The man bursts into sobs at the end of his tale. I observe him with my back straight and hands folded demurely on my lap. My lips are pressed into a thin line, but my brows are soft and relaxed. My brother has told me that this is my best regal pose, assuring everyone that the spirit of the goddess Rashmatun lives in me, with every muscle, every limb perfectly poised.

Even if Rashmatun never possessed me. Even if Rashmatun doesn’t exist.

“My goddess!” the man wails. “Please, have mercy. I know not what my wife has done wrong, save for the one day she forgot to placate our ancestors’ spirits. Her death has grieved me so. Rashmatun, what can I do to rectify the calamity that has fallen upon me?”

I stay silent, contemplating the situation. A goat dropped on an unsuspecting woman. It would have sounded ridiculous if not for Uruvin’s solemnity as he delivered the tale. In fact, I am still in disbelief, even though I allow him to continue wailing.

Meanwhile, Ilam, the demon inside me, trails slow, taunting circles in my mind. His presence is as unnerving as a monster lying beneath still waters.

“Uruvin, how long has it been since your wife’s demise?” I say, my reedy voice amplified with deeper, overlapping echoes. The acoustics of the concave niche carved into the wall behind my throne creates an incandescent quality to my tone. My brother did it himself, claiming that the sculpture of Anas, the ten-headed snake god, would protect the living goddess from any harm. What the temple dwellers do not know about is the hollow that lies beyond the niche, large enough for a grown man to squeeze into and eavesdrop on my daily audiences.

“Two weeks already, Your Grace,” Uruvin replies. He wipes a tear away from the corner of his eye. “I miss her terribly.”

Two weeks. Snivelling Sartas. They’d have cremated the body by now. “Pray tell,” I resume smoothly, “was she a good woman?”

“Why, of course, Rashmatun! She was everything a man could ask for.” He waves his arms in a vigorous manner, as if it can convince me of his sincerity. “A wonderful cook, a meticulous cleaner, a patient listener. Oh, my dear Dirka!”
He falls into another round of incoherent sobbing, forehead planted onto the fiery red carpet beneath him.

I narrow my eyes at Uruvin, studying him intently. The hems of his suruwal are suspiciously clean, neither a trace of ash nor dust on them. He probably never visited his wife’s remains after the funeral. The Holy Mound is where we keep the ashes of our dead, open to the public and frequently flooded with visitors. If he were truly mourning her, he’d have spent plenty of time there.

Or perhaps he is so overwhelmed with grief that he cannot bear to step into the Mound.

Lies, lies, lies, Ilam chants with sadistic glee.

Where is the lie? I ask.

Open your eyes, girl. Open your eyes and see.

I draw in a breath, and Ilam gets to work. He worms his way to the front of my mind, shoving me aside and suffocating my thoughts. After nearly ten years of communing with a demon, you’d think I’d have become accustomed to the constant crawling up my spine.

But I endure it to have this power.

The demon burrows straight into Uruvin’s mind; the man himself is unaware of the intrusion. A rush of resounding truths pours into me, and a brief flash of pain splits my skull before fading into a dull pulse. My senses sharpen, so sensitive that I can hear Uruvin’s erratic heartbeat and catch the faint scent of perfume on his smooth, creaseless clothes. Ilam’s magic amplifies the truths such details carry. Each of them pierces through my mind like a fire-tipped arrow streaking across a moonless night

Throughout this, I maintain my tall, unflappable posture. Then Ilam is done. He slowly retreats, and the world fades into its usual palette, the saturation of sounds and scents ebbing into the background. I inhale deeply. Using blood magic always leaves me with a discomfort that carves deep into my bones. After all these years, I still cannot tell if it’s an inherent side effect of blood magic, or if it’s my own revulsion towards the practice.

Meanwhile, Uruvin is still choking on melodramatic sobs.

I wait for him to swallow his tears. Now I see where the lie reveals itself. If not for Ilam, I would not have caught the subtle yet alluring fragrance of frangipani on him, commonly used as a perfume by Aritsyan women to usher good luck in love and life. I would not have seen the shrewd gleam in his eyes.

The part about the falling goat must be true— as absurd as it is— since Ilam did not say it was a lie. A mystery to be dealt with later. But Uruvin is no honest, grieving husband.

He hopes to earn some sort of compensation for his unprecedented losses. Just like many of the insufferable fools who walk in here. Some devotees are genuine, but plenty are out to take a bite out of the goddess Rashmatun’s bursting coffers.

Fortunately, I’m not as gullible as these people would like me to be.

“You live by the banks of the Nurleni, Uruvin?” I ask after the man wrests his sobs under control.

“Yes, my goddess. I’m sure that the chief priest would have told you all you needed to know.” He sniffs loudly. Perhaps he’s wondering why the great Rashmatun is asking such menial questions.

“Is it Harun who will relieve you of your plight?” I say, allowing an edge of irritation to coat my tone. “No. It is I. So answer my questions without hesitation nor falsehood.”

Uruvin’s fingers drum against his thigh. “Yes, Your Grace. My humblest apologies, Rashmatun.”

“Excellent.” I tilt my head. “Is your business doing well, Uruvin?” “Why, of course! The demand for spices is always there, no matter how poor the economy. And the river always brings good business.” His fingers continue to tap, tap, tap.

Interesting. It hasn’t been raining for the past few months; the waters of the river have receded so much that large boats can barely sail down without their bottoms scraping against rocks. Does the merchant think that I am ignorant to the workings of the world at large because I don’t step foot outside temple grounds?

I stay silent for a while, tempering my anger.

“Do you think me a fool, my child?” I finally say, voice dangerously soft.

His eyes spark with alarm. “Your Grace?”

“I have given you a chance to speak the truth, and yet you have lied to me.” I lean forward ever so slightly, careful to not let the weight of my headdress topple me forward. My shadow, cast by the braziers above my head and distorted by Anas’s ten snake heads, stretches towards Uruvin. “You call yourself a follower of Rashmatun, yet you dare to let falsehoods fall from your tongue in my presence? Why must you use your wife, even in her death, to compensate for your failing business?”

Ilam cackles in delight. He loves it when I truly become a goddess, when none can defy me and all must bow to me.

Even I have to admit I enjoy the feeling.

The rhythm the merchant taps out grows even more erratic. “Your Grace. I assure you that I have been speaking nothing but the truth. My wife—”

“Is dead. That much is certain.” I pitch my voice low; the echoes induce trembles in the man’s limbs. “But for all her wifely qualities, you never did love her, did you?”
Uruvin’s lips part dumbly. “I—I — Rashmatun, no,” he stammers. “I loved her, with all my heart!”

“You are lying again.” I slowly adjust my arm so that my elbow is propped atop the armrest encrusted with yellow sapphires, my temple resting against my fingers. “If you did love your wife so, why have you found yourself another lover already?”

His eyes widen in shock and guilt; his expression is stripped bare of pretence.

I cannot tell if the satisfaction welling in me is mine or Ilam’s.

Uruvin sinks into a panicked bow. “Oh, Rashmatun!” he cries. “Your eyes see all. It was foolish of me to even think of deceiving you. Please, my goddess, I beg for your forgiveness! Please grant your servant mercy!”

I close my eyes, exasperated. Sweat trickles down my neck; the back of my jama is uncomfortably soaked. I am eager to peel off the four gold chains weighing down my neck, and my rump is sore from sitting the entire morning. I’ve given this man more than enough time to redeem himself.

“For your transgressions, you shall be prohibited from entering the temple for the next five years,” I declare, opening my eyes languidly. “And you will pay a twenty percent increment of yearly taxes, since according to you, your business is bustling. My priests will ensure that the necessary paperwork is filled out.”

His face takes on a sickly pallor. “My Rashmatun has been merciful,” he murmurs.

“Get out,” I say, quiet.

Uruvin ducks his head and rises to his feet. He scuttles backwards until he is out of the worship hall. Ilam’s amused laughter continues ringing somewhere at the back of my mind.

With a tired sigh, I sink into my throne. “Harun.” A portly man whose eyes resemble a bulging frog’s steps into my direct line of sight. I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to the chief priest’s permanent expression of gross surprise.

“Anyone else?”

“No, my goddess,” Harun replies. He adjusts the orange sash thrown over his left shoulder. “That was the last worshipper for today.”

“The maximum number of devotees is twelve.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That was the twentieth.”

“The land is in a dire state now, Rashmatun. We did transport a sizeable portion of our grain stores to the armies’ supply centres before the drought hit us.” He stares at me with his frog eyes. “Your people are growing desperate. Many are flooding your temples, and more still wish to have an audience with you.”

“I see.”

Clever, clever goddess, Ilam laughs. How your people love you so.

I try not to bristle in reflex. No use getting furious at a demon you cannot control.

Harun clutches the length of prayer beads around his neck; his eyes slide towards the priests lining up behind him, their mouths shut in an eerie, complete silence. “My goddess, perhaps if you actually do something about the drought—”

“The Forebears bide their time, Harun,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “Is Hyrlvat thriving? Are the cornfields of Vintya lush and abundant? The gods are staying our hands for reasons that will be clear in a time to come.”

Harun presses his lips into a thin line. I’ve been using that same vague reason for the past two months now. Even as most of our supplies are being given to the Aritsyan army, which has been battling the Dennarese Empire for decades, leaving precious little in our silos. Even as our crops wither and the prospects of a hungry winter grow exponentially with every passing day.

Do I have a choice? No. The only reason why the people of the city of Bakhtin have not rioted against me is because the rest of the country is suffering as well. Anyway, this is not the first time such a drought has occurred, and certainly not the first time Bakhtin’s goddess abstained from bringing food to her people.

The chief priest still doesn’t look convinced, though.

“Why do you not use your own magic to enchant the clouds, then?” I suggest scathingly. “If you’re so worried about the drought?”

“My goddess, you know that our power has greatly weakened over the years. Besides, we can only cast enchantment—”

“When I’m around. Yes, I am well aware,” I cut him off. Excuses, I think, but don’t say out loud. The priests have no problem coaxing trees to bear fruit and casting needles to mend their elaborate garments when they think I’m out of sight. Minor spells, but ones that speak volumes about the temple’s priorities. “Enough,” I continue, vexation growing in me the longer this topic drags out. “I will only admit twelve devotees per day. At most. Am I clear?”

He dips his head in deference. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good. And see to it that the necessary compensations and punishments are dispensed.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

I dip my head. “Till tomorrow, Harun.”

“Till tomorrow.”

I stand up and step off the elevated dais. My bare foot touches the carpeted floor. Immediately my posture is not as straight, my head not held as high. I let my knees buckle, as if they were not accustomed to the weight of the ornaments I wear. Harun reaches forward to steady me, a fatherly smile on his face.

In a split second, I am no longer Rashmatun. I am Binsa, vessel of the goddess of wisdom, an ordinary girl whose life was touched by the extraordinary.

“What did she do today?” I ask Harun. My routine question after I’ve broken out of my “trance.”

“Many things. Many great things.” His routine answer.

“Will she bring rain soon?”

“She . . .” His grip on my shoulders tightens ever so slightly. He shakes his head and presses a hand against my back, guiding me out of the Paruvatar, the worship hall. “Come, child. You should rest.”

I follow his lead without another word. We exit into a courtyard shadowed by long, straggling branches and lush emerald leaves. The rhododendron bushes planted all around the space are at full bloom, the vibrant red of the flowers resembling cloaks woven out of fresh blood. The sun overhead blazes bright, yet its full heat is lost on me with the mountain winds cocooning the temple, which lies high atop blustering cliffs. All enchantments by the hands of the priests; while the rest of the city withers, the sanctity of the temple must be maintained, which includes tending to its environment.

Harun claps his hands. Muscular palanquin bearers materialize before us. I step into the litter; the chief priest walks alongside.

The palanquin sways with a rhythmic lull as the bearers walk in perfect synchrony, marching through the various temples in Ghanatukh’s complex at a languorous pace. They let me down before a two-tiered building, its red walls basking in the glow of the sun. I enter the Bakhal, the goddess’s place of residence. A tall, imposing woman appears from behind one of the pillars, her generous girth clad in white. Jirtash claps her palms together and bows her head. Harun nods, leaving me to her care.

We wind our way through the sprawling maze of the pillars and shrines in the Bakhal’s lowest floor, the scent of sandalwood drifting lazily through the air. We cut through another courtyard—a dry fountain in the middle, a luxury the priests didn’t bother with— before arriving at my chambers. The furnishings hardly match the grandiosity of Rashmatun’s power; while they are not falling into decay, they are as plain as a commoner’s taste in fashion. The size of the room makes up for the lackluster decorations, though.

Any room is better than where I used to live, back when I was a child.

Jirtash tugs me towards a full-length mirror. I follow her like the obedient girl I’m supposed to be. She’s the chief of the handmaidens and the oldest, having attended to four other vessels of Rashmatun before me. She carefully lifts the headdress away and places it on a finely embroidered cushion; the absence of its weight is liberating.
Meanwhile, Ilam has curled into a comfortable ball at the back of my mind. The demon rarely emerges during my day-to-day activities, only coming to life when something catches his interest or offends him, or when he wants to taunt me. Typical of a demon, only giving attention to matters that involve them, and remaining apathetic towards everything else.

More handmaidens scuttle towards me, peeling away the layers of my uniform with reverent efficiency. The four gold chains, each with a different design, representing the four cardinal directions. The bhota and jama, both fiery red and embroidered with golden flowers, catch the brilliant rays of sunlight streaming in through tall, narrow windows. My earrings and bangles are removed. Jirtash wipes my forehead with a cloth soaked in coconut oil, removing the seven-pronged star painted onto it. She whispers a quick prayer, a plea for forgiveness, as she temporarily breaks Rashmatun’s connection to her chosen vessel. With the star gone, she moves on to the rest of my face—the thick lines of kohl around my eyes, my bloodred lips.

Soon I am left naked, save for a pendant of yellow sapphire hung from a crude length of woven threads. Its uneven surface rests comfortingly against my chest, where my ribs protrude beneath my skin. My arms and legs are as thin as sticks, and my breasts are pitifully small. Not that it matters, since no one dares to comment much about my appearance.

The handmaidens unwind the thick coils of hair piled atop my head. It falls almost to my knees, thick and luxuriant, a soft sheen running down its trails. The only physical trait I am proud of.

Jirtash takes my hand and leads me towards the bathtub. I sink into its waters, contentedly allowing the handmaidens to lift my arms and legs and scrub them clean. A layer of grime gathers and floats on the water.

When I’m done, Jirtash towels me down and outfits me in a red kurta—I must always wear a hint of red somewhere—and a loose-fitting suruwal. I sit before the vanity table, and she braids my hair as her helpers tidy up the place.

“Oh child, what a woman wouldn’t give to have hair as gorgeous as yours.” Jirtash sighs in admiration.

Ice seems to gather at the nape of my neck. The ghost of a rough hand yanks the ends of my hair and sets it aflame.

I play with a near-empty bottle of perfume on the table, pushing the memory away. Jirtash has combed my hair almost the past ten years. This is just another day, another routine. She has no ill intentions. She has nothing to do with my past, I remind myself.

A past that she can never learn about.

I hope she doesn’t notice the tremor in my fingers as I run them over the perfume bottle. “Thank you,” I murmur.

She doesn’t say anything else. I know what is on her mind: If only the rest of me were as gorgeous as my hair. I am close to sixteen now. Other girls my age have developed bosoms and swelling hips already. Me? I might as well be a withering tree trunk.

It’s unusual for a girl to not have menstruated already, she told me two weeks ago, and what is even more unusual is that I have not shown signs of puberty. She once suspected that I was malnourished, but quickly dismissed the notion when I pointed out that I ate three full meals a day.

I did not tell her that I always dispose of two of those meals. She finishes braiding my hair and claps her hands over my shoulders. “All done,” she says. “There now, don’t you look pretty?”

I don’t agree with the sentiment. My nose is too large for my pointed chin and thin lips, my cheeks are as hollow as empty bowls of alms, and my eyes are too large, too fierce. But she is trying to be kind, so I muster a smile. “Thank you.”

She nods, then releases me from her grip. A platter of food has been served, placed on a table by the window. I polish off the meal thoroughly; it’s my only one every day.

When no one is watching, I retrieve a vial from under my table and pour a drop of its contents into the clay cup of water, turning it into a murky solution. I drain the cup, trying not to wince at the foul taste. This is forbidden medicine that poisons my ovaries— another one of my methods to delay my bleeding for as long as possible. A small price to remain a goddess for a little while longer.

But my medicine is running dangerously low.

I haven’t heard from my supplier in weeks. I grit my teeth, suppressing the anxiety rising up my throat.

When I’m done, I head towards the exit. I sense a hint of grim disapproval from Jirtash. “Off to your lessons, now?” she asks, more out of courtesy than genuine interest. She does not think that I should be paying so much attention to books and education. I should be more concerned about growing into a woman and finding a good husband, like the many girls who came before me. The latter won’t be too hard, considering that everyone wants to receive some form of blessing from a former living goddess. Assuming that I choose to marry.

However, that means that I have to give up my status as the vessel of Rashmatun. The thought hollows out my stomach, as if someone carved my skin open and emptied my insides.

Who am I, if I am Rashmatun no longer? A scrawny girl with no inherent title or wealth to her name. A nothing, someone whose face will fade from the memories of all who have seen her.

I shake the notion out of my mind. I am still a living goddess, I remind myself. “Of course, Jirtash!” I chirp innocently. “Lessons won’t wait!”

I traipse out of the room.

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2

RUMOURS

I climb the stairs leading to the second floor and enter the library, the ancient stone beneath my feet sanded smooth over time. The area stretches across the entire length of the Bakhal’s second floor, gas lamps dimly illuminating the books and scrolls on their mahogany shelves, the musty scent of yellowing pages filling the air.

My brother is already waiting at one of the tables placed before the shelves, tinkering with one of his automatons. Ykta’s eyes are bright and eager, and a silly grin splits his face as he winds up the little bird and releases the catch. The bird gives a few valiant flaps of its wings before plummeting onto the table with a crash. He frowns at his failed experiment.

“It’s too heavy because it’s made out of metal,” I point out, closing the door behind me.

“I’ve hollowed out the wires. The structure is as close as it gets to the real thing.”

“Have you considered using magic to fuel your funny little hobby?”

“And concede to using shortcuts? Never!” His cheeks puff in protest. “Besides, I’d have to grovel in front of yet another priest only for them to mutter some inane charms and wave their arms about like a fake shaman. No, thank you. I suck up to them on a daily basis already.”

“Poor brother,” I chuckle, ignoring Ilam’s ruffled protest. The demon has a grudge against Ykta and his ardent disapproval of magic. “Sorry for loading you with the unpleasant work.”

“You’d better appreciate me more. The goat you forced me to build cost me nearly three months of my sanity—even if it’s just a head.” He considers his automaton for another moment, then releases a defeated sigh. He turns his attention towards me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Speaking of which, I heard from the maidservants that there was a case with a falling goat today?”

I plunk myself onto a seat beside him, huffing. He wasn’t hiding in the secret hollow behind my throne today, then, if he wants more details about the case. “I quickly settled that one. His grief over his wife’s death was a lie. He was describing his ‘dear Dirka’ in too clinical a manner.”

He quirks a curious brow. “What about the goat? Did it actually happen?”

“Of course not,” I mutter, irritated. Ilam stays silent, refusing to clarify the truth.

“I could help you check if it actually happened,” Ykta says, stretching his arms. He is the paragon of physical perfection that Jirtash would praise to the high heavens, with his lean, sturdy build and the dark, thick lashes framing his eyes. “The maid-servants would be more than happy to share such outlandish gossip with me.”

“No need. I’m a busy person, and I’ve no energy to waste with folktales of falling goats.”

“For all you know, it might be a new pandemic plaguing Bakhtin. First the drought, now this. Rumours of the Prophecy of Geerkha are spreading among the common folk, you know? I heard from a few nosy uncles and aunties at the marketplace this morning: Red and bright the skies will burn, our offerings mourn—”

“Yes, yes. I know how it goes,” I snap, waving a dismissive hand. I can’t do much to control the tongues of my citizens. “Forget it. Let’s begin the lesson.”Ykta shrugs. “What’s your chosen reading for today?”

“Theories and Principles of Aritsyan Magic for Beginners by Vharla Privindu.”

My brother stares at me. “Vharla Privindu? The blood shaman? Again? Are you trying to get yourself thrown out of Ghanatukh Temple before you abdicate the throne?”

“A few other scholars cited him in their works,” I say. “I can’t simply ignore him because of his reputation.”

“A reputation that killed him and many other government officials.” Ykta sighs. “How does the library here even have Privindu’s book?”

“You could inform Harun about this, if you’re that concerned.”

“Fine, whatever. Don’t blame me if someone catches you reading this.” Ykta throws his hands up. Then his eyes widen and sparkle. “You know what, I have a better idea. Instead of keeping you cooped up in this stuffy place, why don’t you come down to my workshop to take a look at the goat you commissioned? I can test it for you too.”

I purse my lips. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to persuade me to escape enclosed grounds. Ykta has done enough skulking about the temple to be familiar with its inner arteries and hidden passageways, as evidenced by the subtle hand- and footholds he carved into the wall outside my room. I admit that I am tempted by his offer. He’s described his goat head as a monstrous nightmare made out of brass and steel that can spit fire and roll its eyes backwards, and I am curious to see how it works.

However, he doesn’t understand the full gravity of my position. A Rakhti is never allowed outside of temple grounds until she has retired, one of the many rules she must adhere to throughout her tenure. With my sanctity currently in question, considering my age and the issue of the drought, it is crucial, now more than ever, that I play the part of the perfect Rakhti.

After all, my position here was built on a falsehood: I do not hold a goddess, but I pretend to be one. I claim to be pure and virtuous, yet a demon lives within me.

Not even Ykta knows about Ilam, though he is aware I do not hold Rashmatun.

It’s during moments like these that the gap between us shows. It’s been almost ten years since we were first separated, and four since he returned to my side. So many things have happened during the six years in between. So many things happened during the years before, when our mother forced me to become Rakhti and abandoned Ykta to fend for himself. No one in the temple is even aware that we are siblings.

I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves. No. I cannot blame Ykta for thinking that I should be more light-hearted, more playful. I am younger than him by seven years. It is what anyone would expect. He had been fortunate to have been taken in by an eminent professor, who sent him to a university even though only the blood sons of kisharis are permitted to receive higher education. He had loved and been loved. He wouldn’t be able to comprehend why I am so cautious.

“No, thank you,” I reply at last, grabbing an ancient book from the stack on the table, its bindings barely keeping its pages together. “I’d much rather focus on the works of a controversial scholar.”

My brother’s face falls. He goes back to tinkering with his automatons in silence.

The mind is an ocean of limitless power—reality is limited only by your imagination. When does a falsehood become truth? Very simply, when you believe it to be true.

Only the opening of Privindu’s book arrests my attention. The rest are dreary facts about how Aritsyan magic works— most of them already known to the general public. Like how shamans are descended from the Forebears themselves, which is why the kisharis’ blood is regarded as sacred; and how the purity of a bloodline indicates the strength of a shaman. I’ve read this book plenty of times. I keep persisting, though, in hopes that I might find something new about blood magic when I read it with fresh eyes.

Today is not the day.

But of course. All books that explicitly contain information on blood magic have been banned from common circles and are kept under strict surveillance in university libraries. Privindu’s book was my best hope; I had been overjoyed when I dug it out of a forgotten corner of the library the first time. Now it is another dead end.

“Your nose in yet another book, Little Mantis?” a voice abruptly rings out from behind. I whip my head around, startled, then relax at the sight of the lithe, sinewy silhouette emerging from the shadows of the racks. Keran must have taken one of the many hidden passageways he’d discovered. “Don’t you have anything better to do than stuffing your head with formulas and dates and folktales?”

Ilam emits a low hiss.

The silhouette steps into the light, wearing a cocksure grin. Keran’s pale skin contrasts against his dark clothing, and the scar slashing from his nose to his left ear adds a feral quality to his otherwise boyish face. Even without his unusual complexion, his eyes immediately single him out as a Dennarese—no one in Aritsya has eyes shaped like that, which curve into half moons when he grins wide enough. Half the time they are sharp as knives, and the other half they are unfocused, as though he were stuck in a dream.

Usually, it is easy to tell one’s thoughts through their eyes; with his, I cannot gauge his mood, his mind. Every time I think he is unaware of something I do, he catches it and calls me out.

In short, I do not like him because I cannot control him. He is, however, a necessary part of my ongoing sham as a “goddess.”

“You’re three days late,” I say.

“Mercy.” He fishes out a small pouch from the satchel; the glass bottles inside clink as he sets it on the table. I nearly heave a sigh of relief. “Here you go. One month’s worth.”

I raise my brow. “I asked for two.”

He bares a toothy smile; I detect the faintest undercurrent of unease from him.

Surprising, considering that it’s Keran, and Keran never gets uneasy. “Times are hard, Little Mantis. Your gods and goddesses are answering none of your prayers, and you haven’t done anything to ease the situation.”

I press my lips at the accusation. He’s right, though. What can one girl do in the face of nature’s wrath? Nothing. Not when I don’t have a lick of the magic that the Rakhtas and their priests are supposed to have. Not when there are limits to the power one demon can provide.

“What news have you for me?” I ask, diverting the topic.

“Same old, same old,” Keran says, going along with me. “The king is at his wit’s end, constantly begging your fellow Rakhtas for some sign from the gods. Meanwhile, said Rakhtas are doing absolutely nothing to address the drought, and Rakhta Asahar’s battles against the Dennarese Empire are still going terribly, for all his bluster. As for your city, rumours of falling goats are spreading, slowly but surely. Soon the entire country will know that your district is plagued by goats. Has anybody brought that case to you yet?”

Has there been more than one incident? Ykta casts me a side glance as my fingernails scrape against my palm. Keran is probably exaggerating the extent of the rumours; he just wants to see my nerves on edge. “None of your business,” I say stiffly.

“Word spreads fast, you know. You should be more careful about your reputation.”

I wait a while for him to speak more. He maintains his grin. “You really have nothing else to report?” I ask.

“Not really. News, I’m afraid, like the current state of your country, is rather stale.”

Judging from the gleam in his dark eyes, there is something more that requires a lot more prodding— preferably with money.

“Ykta,” I say. My brother takes out a heavy pouch from his suruwal and counts out payment for Keran. I reach over and pluck the pouch out of his hands, retrieving two more gurisi. I give the total sum to Keran, ignoring the dismay painted over my brother’s features.

“A bonus,” I say. “For all your troubles.”

“Ah, I knew there was a reason you’re one of my favourites.” He tucks the gurisi away shamelessly. “I overheard an interesting conversation while I was sneaking my way here. It sounded like your chief priest and his sullen successor.”

“Harun and Nudin,” I supply the names. “What of them?”

“They are going to hold a Selection for the new Rakhti of Bakhtin, regardless of whether Rashmatun grants them permission. ‘It is high time,’ they were saying, ‘for a new vessel to be chosen. The current one has been in power for too long—Rashmatun is no longer blessing the city with the full spectrum of her abilities, a sure sign of the current vessel’s decline in purity.’ ”

He pauses. I refuse to give him a reaction until he finishes talking, keeping my breaths long and even. Beside me, Ykta trembles with rage.

“Candidate nominations will open up in three days’ time,” he continues, quirking his brows. “They expect to have a new Rakhti by the next month.”

I bob my head. My fingers idly play with the yellow sapphire around my neck. My stomach churns, even though I expected this to happen sooner or later.

“Oh, and your chief priest—Harun?—i s currently exchanging correspondence with Rakhta Asahar.”

Now that information gives me pause. My eyes sidle to meet Keran’s. Bastard. Why didn’t he mention that upfront? “What are those letters about?”

“Unfortunately, even my network isn’t so extensive that I know everything that goes on in Aritsya. How on earth do you expect me to peek at letters written by Rakhtas and chief priests?”

I raise a brow at him. “Yet you managed to learn that Asahar often wastes his province’s funds away in gambling dens? What a strange fellow you are, Keran.”

“Scandalous information and confidential information are two different matters, Little Mantis.” He wags a patronising finger at me; I still refuse to show my vexation. “It’s up to you to decide what you wish to do with the information. My job is to supply it to you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I fold my arms and consider everything he’s presented to me so far. The more immediate issue is the fact that Harun and Nudin are arranging for my removal sooner than I expected. Which means that I have to either give in to their plans or fight back.

“How ready is the goat automaton?” I ask Ykta.
My brother jumps at the abrupt question. “Eighty . . . ninety percent?

There’s still some fine-tuning I need to do, but honestly it’s functioning—”

“Can you move it by yourself ?”

“Er— of course I could, in theory, but it depends on where I need to carry it to—”

“That will do.” I turn back to Keran. “How willing are you to perform physical labour?”

The Dennarese’s grin grows wider. “Depends on the price, as always.”

“Another two gurisi.”

Keran hums. “Quite a generous sum— for a regular labourer.” “Two gurisi and five hundred sharus, then.”

“That sounds more like it,” Keran says, stretching his hand towards Ykta. My brother gives me a hapless look before counting out the money. “What do I need to do?”

“Help Ykta move the goat automaton into Shiratukh Temple the night before the next Selection. He’ll tell you how to do it.”

Ykta glowers at Keran, who slaps Ykta on the back. “I’ll be under your care. Make sure you treat me well, eh?”

My brother’s scowl deepens.

Keran’s peal of laughter is as light as the high, clear notes of cicadas. “I’ll see you soon, and I’ll see you next month.” He directs the former phrase to Ykta, and the latter to me. He disappears beyond the racks, as soundlessly as he came in. The furious flap of wings startles me; I look towards the window to see the shadow of an eagle vanishing into the sky. This particular eagle always seems to accompany Keran wherever he goes, matching the Dennarese’s stealth despite its size.

“I swear nearly a quarter of our yearly income goes to that pretentious, good-for-nothing swine,” Ykta mutters.

“Come now, dear brother. He’s a valuable asset— and valuable assets are not cheap to maintain.” I replace the two glass vials into their pouch and shove them into my pocket.

“Little blood-leeching louse,” he grumbles.

“Ykta,” I groan. Honestly, I do not understand why my brother holds Keran in such low regard when he was the one who recruited the Dennarese in the first place. Apparently Keran had taken a liking to Ykta about three years ago, after witnessing how my brother exposed a swindler in the city, whose playing cards were marked by fingernail scratches. The Dennarese approached Ykta after that, and the two formed a strange bond—s trong enough to convince Keran to help me, at least.

Still, I’ve never figured out why Ykta seems to despise Keran’s presence, when I’m sure he’s closer to the Dennarese than I am. He’s even gone out of Ghanatukh Temple to meet Keran a few times for drinks and games. I could use blood magic to untangle the mystery, but—no. As much as I rely on Ilam to maintain my ruse as a goddess, it does not change the fact that I abhor blood magic.
All because of my mother.

Ykta releases a long exhale. “Fine. We need Keran. As much as I dislike him.” He folds his arms across his chest. “And you! What were you thinking, dragging me into your Selection business? Are you actually trying to sabotage—”

“Dear brother”— I knit my fingers on my lap— “I am the current Rakhti. Of course I want to make sure the next vessel of Rashmatun is resilient and sharp of mind.”

“But trying to scare the girls to death?”

“Are you here to help me or question me?”

“Binsa, I’m just concerned.” Ykta runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “Haven’t you thought about the consequences of re-electing yourself as Rakhti? You heard Keran just now. Asahar and Harun must be working together to remove you. Why would Harun pull off such a bold move otherwise? You know Asahar is not one to provoke. And your idea for the Selection . . . I hate to say this, but it sounds a lot like something Kavi—”

“Are you done lecturing me?” I interrupt him, just before he crosses the line. I pick my fingers. “As if I care about Asahar. None of the other Rakhtas liked me anyway ever since my Selection. But what do you know?”

His expression drops. Dismay lines the curve of his lips. My Rakhti Selection has always been a touchy subject for us—a haunting that perpetually scrapes at our backs, one that we desperately seek to banish.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I . . . I’m just worried about you.”

I release a small breath. “I know.”

He levels a stare at me. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to be Rakhti forever?”

“This is the only life I’ve ever known, Ykta,” I reply, tone low. My eyelids shutter to a close; I cannot imagine a life beyond the temple walls, a life where I laugh and mingle carelessly with others, where I live out the rest of my days as a regular human being.

I left that life a long time ago, the constant worrying if I would get to eat the next day, the clothes that have been patched up so many times that scarcely a shred of their original fabric remains.

The temple walls guarantee comfort and power; a life outside does not.

That’s what my mother told me. As much as I hated her, she was right.

“Whatever you say.”

My fingers still. Whatever happens, I cannot have Ykta lose faith in me.

“Ykta, please. You’re the only person I trust in this world.” I place my hand over his and give it a reassuring squeeze. “If you won’t help me, who will? You came back for me, even after . . . everything. Don’t tell me you’ll abandon me now?”

His countenance cracks. “Binsa . . .”

Then he doesn’t say anything, simply places another hand atop mine. He clings on so tightly, afraid that if he let go I would disappear, like the fleeting light of a setting sun.

A grim determination settles over me. I have to protect Ykta, protect myself—and the only way I know how is by being Rakhti. If I don’t hold my position as Rashmatun’s chosen, I will be cast back into the streets with nothing but a handful of gurisi to my name, only enough to serve as my dowry. I’ll be expected to fade into the background, to marry anyone who comes along—never mind that I have no more family on official records—and spend the rest of my life as a dutiful wife and mother. Ykta, the only blood family I have left, will have to leave me, and he will eventually forget all about my existence.

I recall today’s audience with Uruvin, how he took advantage of his wife’s death to plead for money. How her life was a mere tool, to be discarded and forgotten afterwards. Will that be my fate as well, if I return to a “normal” life?

No. I will continue to be Rashmatun’s Rakhti.

And I will not let anybody dictate otherwise.