The moon hung low over the Mighty Tapti, its silver light dancing on the river's surface, guiding a flotilla of boats toward Swarnchandrapura. Abhilasha sat with Mitrabhanu and Chandramukha, their vessel a small haven amid the current's pull, a far cry from haunted forest. For days, voices had plagued her—not one, but three. Her own, Abhilasha's, spoke of curiosity and defiance. Another, the former queen's—Alokika, unnamed by choice—whispered duty. The third, new and elusive, emerged only on water, its tone neither cruel nor kind, but persistent, like a mother's call from dreams.
She couldn't place it, its source as murky as Tapti's depths. It began when they boarded, mid-river, after trek—a voice tied to the ocean, not the forest's shamans or Suriratna's gaze. She glanced at Chandramukha, his eyes fixed on the horizon, unreadable as ever. What drives him? she wondered, his calm unshaken by triumph or ruin, unlike her own turmoil in storm. "Read yourself first," he'd told her once, sensing her scrutiny. "Others come harder."
His words, sparse and weighty, stuck with her, unlike Mitrabhanu's easy banter. Chandramukha hoarded words like rare coins, each gesture deliberate—a lesson from poet-warrior. She'd cataloged his ways: a smiling exit when he disagreed, a furrowed brow when brooding, or a sudden walk, devouring details to quiet his mind. His hands, too, spoke—fingers grazing his ear to dismiss empty talk. Why did she study him so? It began as need, to know his mind, but now habit bound her, a queen seeking allies in a world of secrets.
Mitrabhanu broke the silence, his voice cutting the river's hush. "When we reach Swarnchandrapura, we find my sister first, yes?"
Abhilasha met his gaze, fear flickering. Their habit, born in tavern, surfaced—she looked to him when dread stirred, he to her, expecting it. Usually, he'd ask, "What's wrong?" and she'd shrug, "Nothing," hiding the voice's weight, the ocean's mist whispering danger. Tonight, he spared her, turning to Chandramukha with an obvious question, seeking stability.
Chandramukha's eyes shifted, not to them but to the water, as if hearing something. "Alert," he said, voice low.
A cry pierced the night—the same from shore, sharp, siren-like. Abhilasha froze, the third voice swelling, sweet yet probing. What bothers you, child? it cooed, maternal, urging her to speak.
She opened her mouth, but Mitrabhanu and the butcher boy, snapped, "Don't answer."
She nodded, lips sealed. The voice hissed, venom clear. Is he fit to order Tarish's queen?
Chandramukha scanned the water, currents still despite the tide's pull—an unnatural calm. His gaze met hers, then Mitrabhanu's, stern, almost furious. Before she could question, his dagger flashed, not at her but behind, a shadow stirring. Darkness swallowed her.
She woke, head throbbing, body aching as if Tapti herself had wrung her dry. Two days had passed, not minutes, her collapse a mystery. No ocean mist greeted her, only a room lit by a lantern, Krishna's image painted on its glass—a second observation after the absence of waves. A woman sat reading, her silhouette familiar. Radha, Mitrabhanu's sister-in-law, looked up, unchanged since hurried flight, when they'd left her in Swarnpura's tavern, poisoned by her husband's wrath.
Her devotion to Krishna, a secret marriage to the divine, had sparked his ego—snake venom her punishment, yet she survived, radiant as a rosebud, innocence intact. "You look healthy," she said, approaching. "How do you feel?"
Abhilasha hesitated, joy at Radha's safety clashing with questions. Did Chandramukha attack me? Why? She pushed them aside. "Where are the others?"
"Downstairs," Radha said, smile gentle.
"What happened to me?" Abhilasha pressed.
Radha's face blanked. "They said you were drained—exhausted."
"Drained…" Abhilasha echoed, unconvinced, the voice's hiss lingering.
"Can I go down?" she asked, glancing at her rumpled clothes, knowing the answer. Radha's tender refusal confirmed it—no queen could appear unready. "Your actions prove your intent," Radha said. "A stain on reputation lasts."
Reputation, a Tapti obsession, baffled her. Why did it bind her, even now? The third voice mocked, When did you hold yourself as queen? Alokika's echo joined, Power over you!—a mantra, urging control Abhilasha couldn't grasp. Stop smiling? Silence her voice? Follow Alokika's rigid code? Rage flared, memories of Tarish's king humiliating her in. Was it my fault? she thought. He feared her heir, but she hadn't chosen that destiny.
Mitrabhanu, rightful king, refused the throne, his words: "Thrones steal poetry. This land gives me words." She admired his heroes—revolutionaries, not rulers—fighting for freedom, not power. Yet he denied being a warrior, claiming moral flaws she'd never seen, his honor steadfast.
Radha summoned maidens, their cheer a contrast to Abhilasha's dread. Warm water, flecked with petals, soothed her, but her hands—roughened by travel—betrayed her toil. Would they hate me if they knew? she wondered, blood haunting her. Whispers accused her of murdering the third queen's child, blood on her hands under moonlight. I didn't kill him, she insisted, yet the image lingered—white cloth, red stains, a castle mob crying, Exile the evil queen.
She'd buried it, but doubt crept in. Whose blood? A maiden spoke, "My lady, you can step out." Wrapped in white, tulips clinging to the damp cloth, Abhilasha froze, the red petals mirroring that night's stain. Her hands trembled, vision blurring—blood under moonlight, screams echoing.
Dressed alone, shunning aid in secrecy, she heard whispers—not the maidens', but the voices, relentless. You'll never be queen. Fear gripped her; the bath chamber felt alive, shadows shifting. She moved to flee, but a force yanked her hair, hard, laughter pooling around her. Heart pounding, she steadied, Alokika's voice cutting through: Never show them your back.
She faced the dark, queen or not, refusing to break.