Hollow Palace (Wattpad Exclusive)

Chapter Twelve

Twelve

Eli sat, alone, staring into the fire. She considered summoning Naga again. Although a part of her dreaded the thought and hated herself beyond words for having done it the first time, let alone considering doing it again, another part of her was cold and empty. All that could warm and fill her was magic.

She was no fool. She knew that this was how the gods worked. They were like the madu. They wanted her to feel as though she couldn’t live without them. That was how they lured their priests into murdering innocents. She could resist the yearning for magic. What she couldn’t bear was Jena’s enslavement.

Even if Jena was a willing servant now, she’d not chosen to be. And though it seemed that if she was freed, she’d still serve Kiran, maybe she wouldn’t. As long as that was a possibility, Eli was determined that Jena would have the choice that Eli had never been given.

She ran her fingers over the band around her neck. All those years ago, when her grandfather had died and named his youngest daughter (Eli’s mother) vami, Eli had been there. Uma was seven at the time and Eli five, Tara still a baby. The hall had been filled with family and potential heirs, as well as the other vamins and their families, anxiety and expectation building around them like steam in a covered pot.

The padaka, a frail old distant cousin, had taken the kosha in his hands and whispered inaudibly, his thin lips seeming to kiss the ornate rosewood box. Eli’s awe at the grandeur of the palace had quickly turned to terror as the kosha opened and her grandfather’s booming voice echoed through the gilded and glittering hall. Her mother’s name had rattled painfully in her ears. Uma, in her gold-threaded tunic and bangles had jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Others in the room had turned dark and hateful gazes on her mother as she approached the padaka to take the kosha from him. With the savoring proud gait of a newly named vami, her mother, tall and severe, had taken her time. The poor old padaka had stood there, his hands shaking and the spotty folds of his skin turning grayer by the second, until finally, her mother stood before him bowing her head to him as she received the kosha. The moment the box had left his hands, he collapsed and died. Not from the magic, rather it seemed that the magic had kept him alive all that time, waiting for the vami to die so the padaka could perform his duty.

No one had seemed disturbed by the padaka’s death. But Eli had been horror-stricken. She had never seen anyone die before. The padaka had fallen on his side upon the wide marble stairs, facing the audience, his eyes still open, but already vacant. The glazed emptiness had startled and terrified her. Tears had pricked at her eyes and she’d wrung her hands, her lip quivering.

“He’s happier now,” Jena had said over Eli’s shoulder. Eli had looked up at Jena, who’d been tall even at eight and choked back her tears, because she knew that if Uma saw them, she’d be tormented forever. Jena had given Eli an impish grin, taken Eli’s hand and squeezed it. “See him smiling?” Jena had pointed back towards the steps as the guards came to take the old man away. Eli had glimpsed the old man’s face right before the guards lifted him up and it had seemed like he was smiling, at least she told herself he had been. Just as her fear had been abating, her mother spoke.

“I name my second daughter, Eli, to be my padaka.”

Everyone had turned to look at her. Padaka? Her? No. She hadn’t heard right. Her mother would never have named her padaka. The padaka was a slave, an outcast, someone no one had any other use for.

Uma had grinned at Eli then, her hard blue eyes glinting like the edge of a knife.

“Mother’s named you padaka,” she’d said. “Get up there.” She’d given Eli a shove forward, breaking Jena’s hold on Eli’s hand.