Her ladies‑in‑waiting stood on either side of her.
Only the king of Alor and his brood of nameless sons were notably, pointedly, silent.Įmperor Chandra’s sister was brought into the court. As he recited, his courtiers-the kings of Parijatdvipa’s city-states, their princely sons, their bravest warriors-recited along with him. In his hands, he held a string of prayer stones, each an acorn seeded with the name of a mother of flame: Divyanshi, Ahamara, Nanvishi, Suhana, Meenakshi. On his throne, Emperor Chandra murmured along with his priests. The priests flung petals on the pyre, murmuring prayers as the servants carried in wood and arranged it carefully, applying camphor and ghee, scattering drops of perfumed oil. The fragrance of the gardens drifted in through the high windows-sweet roses, and even sweeter imperial needle-flower, pale and fragile, growing in such thick profusion that it poured in through the lattice, its white petals unfurled against the sandstone walls. In the court of the imperial mahal, the pyre was being built.
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