According to the text, the under realm is divided by seven gates, each one manned by a guardian. In between the gates lie domains, some listed in the poem. One detail I recall from Ashwin’s recounting of Inanna’s Descent is that Inanna paid each guardian with a piece of her wedding adornment.
One by one, the guardians will request a token in exchange for entrance through their gates and passage through their domains.
At last some truth. This confirms a portion of Ashwin’s recounting. I read in earnest, devouring page after page as I wait for Deven to arrive.
Some time later, when midnight marches into the early hours, a chapter heading nearly flies off the page: “Mortal Wanderers.”
Woe unto the mortal who finds himself imprisoned in the Void. Man was created to turn toward the light, seeking, aspiring, ascending. But no ember lies in the belly of the evernight to warm or enrich the soul of man. He is doomed to wander, driven farther into the Void, while his soul-fire dims from eternal brightness. Once his inner star fades, he will be empty and forfeit his capacity for rebirth. A death eternal, body and soul.
“A death eternal,” I breathe.
Shaken, I glance up from the page. Dawn spreads its golden wings across the horizon. Did I miss Deven? Though distracted by my research, I would not have overlooked his arrival. I hurry out, bringing the text with me.
My footfalls liven the hushed palace corridors. I arrive at the main palace and throw open double doors. The prince’s chambers are vacant. Nor is he in his dusty library, though the oil lamp is warm.
Next I check the atrium where he takes his meals. No one is there. I backtrack to the wives’ wing in the hope that a rani has seen him.
I push through silk curtains billowing in the doorway into the Tigress Pavilion. The daylit training courtyard is not in use. All the weapons racks are stocked: khandas, daggers, haladies, talwars, shields, spears, and, at the far end—an urumi. None of the current wives possess the skill to wield the weapon made of flexible, whiplike blades. Only Kindred Lakia mastered it.
Off the main courtyard, servants set out breakfast. Ranis, sisters of the Parijana faith, temple wards, and courtesans kneel on floor cushions around the packed tables. My servant, Asha, dines between Eshana and Parisa. My friends motion me over.
“Kali!” Eshana calls. “Join us.”
Women bow as I pass. Many of them still consider me their kindred. I have quit correcting them. Priestess Mita ignores me, her usual reaction to my presence. We have not spoken since I stepped down from my throne. She intends her silence as punishment. Her lack of nagging has been paradise.
Eshana tugs me to kneel between her and Parisa. I set the book in my lap, and Asha dishes me a plate of honey-drizzled fried bread. Her facial scars came from Tarek’s mistreatment, but she fits in with the tournament-scarred sister warriors.
“You look tired,” Parisa says, playing with my limp, unwashed hair. “I have a sleeping agent Healer Baka gave me. Take a little, and you’ll be gone from the world for hours.”
“I’m fine.” Except I do need to bathe. Next to my friends, I am an unpolished gem amid rubies. I tear into my bread and chew the doughy sweetness. “Have you seen Ashwin?”
“Him? Here?” Parisa scoffs. “We’re beginning to think he’ll never choose a kindred and we’ll be stuck in this in-between life forever.”
“Give him time,” I say. “He’s trying to make the best decision for the empire.”
Parisa rubs the back of her hand where her rank mark has long since faded. I advised Ashwin to tell them about his betrothal, but he wants to wait until Gemi arrives. It will not be long now, so I let it be.