CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The river ghat was a series of stone steps descending to the water's edge, worn smooth by centuries of feet and floods. At midnight, it was deserted — the boats pulled up and moored, the washerwomen gone, the temples dark.

Meera descended the steps alone. She'd left Takshak on the roof with instructions to watch but not intervene unless she was in physical danger.

I do not like this, he'd said.

"Noted."

If the girl tries to harm you—

"Then you can eat her. But she's seventeen, Takshak. She's not going to eat me."

Seventeen-year-olds are capable of considerable violence. I have seen it.

"So have I. I taught undergrads."

The river was black and silver in the starlight — Chhaya Lok stars, not Prakash Lok stars, but still beautiful in the way that distant light is always beautiful. The water moved with a low, musical sound, and the air smelled of wet stone and lotus and the faint, persistent sweetness of decomposing flowers from the temple upstream.

Nisha was already there, sitting on the lowest step with her feet in the water. She wore a simple kurta and salwar — no jewellery, no ornament, her hair loose around her shoulders. In the starlight, she looked young and scared.

"You came," she said.

"I said I would."

Meera sat beside her, keeping a careful distance. The stone was cold through her clothes.

"Before I tell you anything," Nisha said, "I need you to understand something. My mother is not a good person. She's not evil — not the way people in Devgarh think — but she's not good. She does what she needs to do to survive, and she doesn't care who gets hurt in the process."

"I've met your mother. I can see that."

"But she didn't kill Tara." Nisha turned to face Meera, and in the starlight, her eyes were bright with something that might have been tears. "She wanted to. She talked about it. She planned it. She even brought a Gandharva healer to the fortress who could have done it. But she didn't go through with it."

"Why not?"

"Because at the last moment, she decided the political cost was too high. Killing a Nag-Bandhu would unite every kingdom against whoever did it. If it was ever traced back to Suryanagar, it would mean war."

"So she backed off."

"She backed off. She sent the Gandharva healer away — or she thought she did." Nisha's voice dropped. "But the healer didn't leave. Someone else gave them new orders."

Meera's pulse quickened. "Who?"

Nisha was silent for a long time. The river whispered against the stones.

"My mother had an apprentice," she said finally. "A young woman from the north who came to study magic under her. She was brilliant — more talented than anyone my mother had ever trained. She learned everything my mother knew about poisons, about bonds, about the magic that connects Nagas to their Bandhu."

"What was her name?"

"You already know her." Nisha's voice was barely audible over the water. "It was Aisha."

The world tilted.

Meera's hand went to the stone step, steadying herself. "No."

"Aisha studied under my mother for three years before she went to Devgarh. She was the most gifted mage my mother had ever taught. And she had access to everything — the Gandharva healer, the knowledge of Naag-Visarjan, the relationship with Tara that gave her access to the cup."

"But Aisha loved Tara. She was Tara's best friend."

"Yes." Nisha's voice cracked. "And she loved Arjun. Desperately. Hopelessly. The kind of love that eats you alive."

The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.

Arjun and Tara. The golden prince and the Nag-Bandhu. Together, they were the most powerful couple in the realm. And Aisha — brilliant, devoted, invisible Aisha — had loved Arjun from the shadows, watching him love another woman, watching him choose Tara every single day.

"You think Aisha poisoned Tara to have Arjun."

"I don't think it. I know it." Nisha reached into her kurta and pulled out a folded paper — old, stained, the ink faded to brown. "I found this in my mother's study two months ago. It's a letter from Aisha to the Gandharva healer. It gives specific instructions about the Naag-Visarjan — the dosage, the timing, the method of delivery through Tara's personal cup."

Meera took the letter. Her hands were shaking.

"Why didn't you show this to someone?"

"To whom?" Nisha's laugh was bitter. "My mother? She'd burn it and deny everything — she doesn't want anyone knowing she trained the person who killed the Nag-Bandhu. The Maharaja? He'd see it as a power play from Suryanagar. Arjun?" Her voice softened. "Arjun would never believe it. He trusts Aisha with his life."

"And Vikram?"

"Vikram is from Prakash Lok. He has no standing here. No one would listen to him." Nisha looked at Meera. "But you — you're the new Nag-Bandhu. You have Takshak. You have the authority to demand a trial. And you're from outside this world, which means you have no political obligations that would stop you from telling the truth."

Meera stared at the letter in her hands. The handwriting was small and precise — a healer's hand. The instructions were clinical, detailed, horrifying.

"She's been with me for days," Meera whispered. "Helping me investigate. Pointing me toward your mother."

"Of course she has. Aisha is brilliant. The best way to control an investigation is to be part of it." Nisha's voice was hard. "She's been steering you away from the truth since the moment you arrived."

The Narmada whispered against the stones. The stars turned overhead. And Meera sat on the ghat with a letter in her hands and the sick, vertiginous feeling of realising that the person she'd trusted most in this world might be the person who'd killed her sister.

Nag-Bandhu.* Takshak's voice was gentle. *Your heart rate has increased significantly.

"I know."

Shall I come down?

"Not yet." She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her clothes. "Nisha, why are you telling me this? What do you gain?"

Nisha was quiet for a moment. Then: "When I was thirteen, Tara came to Suryanagar for a state visit. She was the most extraordinary person I'd ever met — fierce and kind and powerful and real. She treated me like a person, not a political pawn. She told me that I could be more than my mother's daughter." Nisha's voice broke. "She was the first person who ever said that to me."

"And then she died."

"And I lost the one person in this world who believed in me." Nisha wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I've spent two years being angry. At my mother. At Aisha. At myself for being too young and too scared to do anything about it." She looked at Meera. "I'm not too young anymore. And I'm done being scared."

Meera looked at this fierce, terrified girl and saw something she recognised — the particular kind of courage that comes from having nothing left to lose.

"Thank you, Nisha."

"Don't thank me." Nisha stood, water dripping from her feet. "Prove it. And be careful — Aisha is more dangerous than you know."

She was gone before the water stilled.

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