We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Kritika H. Rao’s The Legend of Meneka, a new romantic fantasy inspired by Hindu mythology—out from Harper Voyager on January 21st.
Across the mortal and immortal realms, celestial dancers known as apsaras are revered for their beauty, allure, and enchanting magic. But Meneka knows that is not all they are. Trained as a weapon—a warrior—Meneka despises leaving each of her marks in thrall to her potent illusions. With every seduction Lord Indra, king of heaven, demands of her for his political gain, she craves her freedom more and more.
When a mortal sage’s growing powers threaten Indra’s supremacy in his own realm, Meneka seizes a rare opportunity. She strikes a deal—if she can seduce this dangerous man, Indra will allow her to forgo future missions. But upon meeting the sage, Kaushika, Meneka finds herself captivated by his energy, ignited by his empathy and passion, even though he challenges everything she’s ever known. Can she overthrow the man who is—little by little—stealing her heart, or is Kaushika seducing her instead? As war looms in the skies, Meneka must choose between her duty to protect her home, and the sage who is showing her what true love can mean.
CHAPTER 1
Seduction is all I’ve ever known.
I am made for it. I have destroyed lives with it.
I never wanted to.
* * *
I close my eyes so I don’t have to see the hunger in Queen Tara’s face. Instead, I focus on my dance.
My body sways to the music of her singers. The beats of the drum mimic the beating of my heart. Flute strains whisper through my hair, entwining around my thick, coiling braid. The melody makes its way into my body and pulls gently, drawing my movements forward. I bend my arms to beckon to an imaginary lover.
Queen Tara’s sharp intake of breath echoes in my ears.
Amaravati’s magic fills me from head to toe.
The City of Immortals is my home. It is the cord connecting me to all of heaven’s magic. I am in the mortal realm, far from Amaravati now, but the city’s power builds behind my navel. It grows over my head like a shimmering halo, expanding around my body in gleams of gold dust. The magic of heaven comes to me in amorphous waves, then in deeper currents. Power pours into and out of me.
My aura starts to pulse. The sari wrapped around me tightens, emphasizing my curves. The necklaces against my collarbone start to tingle. My bangles clink, making music of their own, and the diamond belt around my waist glints brightly, throwing shafts of light across the room. Goosebumps erupt along my skin.
Slowly, languorously, I spin my wrist into a mudra, a dance sigil. The fingers of my right hand touch at the tips, then open into First Blush. A wild red rose blossoms out of thin air onto my palm.
The flower settles its weightless petals on my skin. To Queen Tara, who is avidly watching from her cushioned bed, it will look real. Rambha once told me that the true power of my dance lay not in my beauty but in the strength of my illusions. A smile forms on my lips as I think of her.
First a rose, then a garden, then the stormy cascade of a furious waterfall—the illusion forms rapidly, transforming Queen Tara’s bedchamber, burying it in a lush, untamed meadow. My hands move from one mudra into another. Lover’s Caress. Dew on Golden Skin. Heart fire.
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The Legend of Meneka
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My hips undulate. My feet spin in small circles, arms thrown out in release. The music lifts in a crescendo, lilting, teasing, wrapping itself all over me.
Dark grey rocks form on the walls, enclosing us in a private recess. Vines twine over the rocks, delicate buds unfurling. The thick perfume of a thousand passionflowers envelops us, heat and spice and musk. Moisture sprays my skin from the waterfall pouring from the high ceiling. In minutes, the illusion is so deep, even I am lost to it.
I know the meadow is not real. That I am still in Queen Tara’s private quarters. But it is hard to remember when the scents of flowers tickle my nose and sun-warmed moss cushions my bare feet. Sweat beads my forehead, trickles down my throat, pools between my collarbones, before evaporating in mists of heat.
Happiness fills my heart. I am beautiful. Intoxicating. This gushing waterfall is evidence—I am a creature of joy. Of love.
A creature of lust, Indra’s voice corrects me in my mind.
I stumble. The joy inside me withers, the honey sweetness curdling to bitterness in my mouth. My eyes snap open, and because I have stopped dancing, the illusion wobbles.
The vines on the walls tremble. The flowers stutter. The fragrance which had overtaken the room softens, then starts to dissipate.
Queen Tara is still staring at me, slack-jawed and heavy-eyed from her bed, but around us the magical meadow distorts. Rocks liquify into grey sludge. Silver glistens in loud, discordant flashes as the waterfall blinks in and out of existence, reacting to my darkening mood. Slowly the wild garden melts, returning us to her mortal bedchamber. Behind the privacy curtain, I see the shapes of Tara’s musicians. I did not cast my illusion for them, and they are not enchanted by my magic, but they will not interrupt us. Tara saw to that. I did, with my command of her.
The queen blinks. Concern bleeds through the lust still clouding her eyes. She rises from her gold-threaded cushions.
“My sweet?” she asks, and her voice is throaty, heavy, akin to one speaking through viscous sleep.
It is a timbre I recognize only too well. I have come to associate it with success. With shame.
I say nothing, trying to shake the memory of Lord Indra’s voice from my head and sort through my growing turmoil. A frown tightens my face, and I attempt to school it, hoping to retain some measure of peace that I felt through my dance. Tara pulls me into her arms. She strokes my hair, tugging at the strands. Her thumb traces the outline of my lips, pulling at my mouth. Her fingers splay on my neck, holding me captive. My own shallow pulse echoes beneath her touch. An ironic laugh builds behind my mouth, that she—a mark—is trying to smooth away my despair, even if it is in a manner she desires, not one I need.
“Come,” she whispers. “I know what will please you.” She tries to lead me, but I shake my head, resisting the movement.
Tara has wanted me in her bed for months, but it is not to please me. It is to please herself. I know this because I have created these thoughts in her. Reveal your lust, I command silently, and an image blossoms in my mind. Tara seizing my hair, bending me down to her. I am on my knees, naked except for my jewellery. My riches, my body, my mind—all of it belongs to her. Vulnerable and weak, I am to be her greatest jewel.
The image flares, then subsides. I hold my turmoil at bay, watching her and the deep hunger for me that she now feels.
This is the last stage of my seduction. When I first created this spell to discern her lust, I saw her ultimate supremacy over her nation, wrought through fire and sword. It took months to alter that desire. In discreet glances and poisonous whispers, I consolidated it, molding her to want me and me alone. My illusions were subtle and glorious, for her eyes alone. Convinced by them, she imprisoned her brother, exiled her cabinet, shattered age-old rules. Once she was confident, her gaze imperious, her posture straight. Now she is a ghost of her former self—enraptured with me to the point of forgetting everything else, even food and drink. Her brown skin is waxy, the healthy glow gone.
It is over.
I am the only thing that matters to Queen Tara anymore.
She tugs me again, this time harder. Her eyes dart between me and the cushioned bed. Vaguely, I wonder if I should consummate her desire. Others of my ilk have done so. Tumbled with their marks without regret after those marks have been seduced. Some have done it even before—simply another step in their missions. It would even be a kind of reparation—to fulfill the very desire I have created in Tara. I would not be leaving her undone. The corners of her mouth quiver as she notices my contemplation. I lean in—a kiss, what would it hurt? Tara’s breathing grows ragged in the space between us.
No, I think. Shame grips me, locking my muscles.Self-disgust sinks its nails into my heart, at what I’d been about to justify. Tara does not know her mind. Whatever she thinks she wants, it is not her want, not truly. She is in a thrall. She is seduced.
My face hardens.
I pull her hands away from me.
I step back.
Tara’s eyes grow larger, confused, and my shoulders sag, heavy with guilt. I open my mouth, wanting to say something. An apology. An explanation. Something.
Yet what is there to say? I’ve danced for her many times, and my spell will not wear off easily. When I am gone, she will be bereft for years. She will waste away, waiting for me to return. Nothing—not even sleeping with her now—will ever be enough. Even if I were to stay, to live with her as her mate, it would not matter. The lust has taken a life of its own. Tara will never truly recover from it. My mission has been too successful.
And is any of that wrong? Surely, my guilt now is misplaced. Tara deserved this. Lord Indra needed this. I am his agent, and my missions are a sign of my devotion to him. If I had not done this, what would have happened then? Before I arrived, Tara had already abolished the public worship of Indra—an act of challenge to heaven itself. Eventually, she would have prohibited private prayers too. Once, her dynasty had been defined by its devotion to Indra, but Tara and her ministers had begun travelling a path that would eventually lead to the burning of the lord’s temples, the desecration of his rituals, the slaughtering of his devotees. Everything I did now was to prevent that terrible future.
I know all of this, yet I wish I could explain that I never meant to hurt her. Never meant to destroy her so completely. The yearning to absolve myself is so acute that I realize I have lingered in her court too long.What does it make me that I am sympathizing with someone as undevout as Tara?
My eyes slide away from her face. I turn to leave the bedchamber. Though I hear a quiet cry of despair from her, I don’t look back.
This is my job. My destiny.
My name is Meneka.
And I am an apsara of Indra’s heaven.
* * *
The doors to the bedchamber shut behind me, silencing the music. I can no longer hear Tara, but I move faster as though to distance myself from the anguish of my own heart.
Apsaras have a reputation. Mortal poets whisper we are mistresses of illusion and ultimate control. Lord Indra calls us his snakeskins, ready to shed and birth anew. I think we are cobra venom. Our magical dance is lethal. It has felled kingdoms and tempted saints. It has changed the course of history, and taken loved ones away.
Yet when I perform, the world makes sense. I am coated in utter heavenly bliss, my very dance a devotion to Indra and a blessing from him. In some ways, my dance is even more than what Indra allows it to be. It is a secret joy of my own, the very essence of me. The way my performance is used, however…
I am only twenty-three, my time at this early age still measured in mortal years, but I feel older. I have lost count of the number of missions I have gone on, the ways in which I have proved my devotion to my lord. Tara was one of my most sacrilegious marks. One of the hardest. I’m going to make sure she is my last.
I hurry down the palace corridors, turning corners and entering passageways blindly. When I can see no longer see palace guards, I pause. Closing my eyes again, I touch my enchanted necklaces. I invoke Indra’s name and request my return to swarga, the lord’s heaven.
Permission is granted as a prize for my devotion. The tug behind my navel tightens as Amaravati responds to my call. A gust of wind whistles through the corridors of the palace, bringing with it scents of cinnamon and ghee. My form becomes airy. The wind of the celestial city carries me away from the mortal realm.
When I open my eyes next, I am at the gates of the City of Immortals, back home in the heavenly realm. Stars twinkle overhead and under me. Even though it is nighttime, my city is bright and alive, its magical golden dust sparkling on the giant marble gates that form the city’s entrance. Darkness itself shimmers with an undertone of luminosity.
No guards prowl here. It is peacetime, and the magic of Amaravati acts as a shield. The gates open on their own, and the underlying rhythms and music of Amaravati greet me as I walk in.
My body immediately relaxes, a sigh escaping me. The worries of the mortal world shed themselves from my shoulders as the city welcomes me. The magical tether that connects me to Amaravati blooms like a chord struck. In the mortal realm, it was a fragile thing, flat and limp, a faded painting. Here it is a flower. Alive, beautiful, golden. I breathe in, and Amaravati’s loveliness strikes me like I’m seeing it for the first time. It has been so long since I’ve been here.
The city hums under my feet as I walk. Every manse I glimpse is more beautiful than all of Queen Tara’s palace. The rock-paved pathways glisten under the golden light. Somewhere a bird sings sweetly, holding a single warbling note that thrums through my heart. Laughter echoes here and there, though I see no one. The citizens are hidden within glorious buildings, ensconced in fragrant night gardens. The same gentle breeze that brought me back home rustles through the city, this time with scents of lightning and storm, scents that belong to Lord Indra. His magic spirals lazily through the city, tiny sparks that flicker and flash.
I transform as I breathe in the quiet streets. In the mortal realm, I had begun to question my devotion to Lord Indra. Tara’s seduction should have given me joy, each evolution of her lust a testament to my faith, but the mission only pierced my own belief in myself. My very despair was treasonous, and through all the days of my mission, I clutched my reverence for Indra like a beggar clutches alms.Now, with my return to Amaravati, those doubts about my own dedication evaporate like dreams on wakefulness. I am reminded once again that I am an apsara, a creature of the lord’s city—yet this time the acknowledgement straightens my spine. My devotion is untainted by turmoil; it is scented with confidence. I am returned to a reality that has burned through a feverish glamour.
The change in me is so sudden, so familiar, that I am shocked. Images burst in my head of Indra studying me when I first began my training as an apsara at seven. Of when I knelt at his feet at fifteen before I embarked on my first mission. Of his kindness and pride as he blessed me before I left the city. His magnanimity, his love, his heroism, all gleam through Amaravati, as though the city itself is singing his praise. Indra is the father of heaven, and though he is no true relation of mine, the same golden blood of swarga runs through our veins. Immortal and celestial, we are one family, all of us beholden to him to succour us.
Slowly, I make my way towards his palace, to report on my latest conquest. Rambha waits for me there; I sent a message to her a few hours ago when I knew I had succeeded with Tara, and I can sense her calling to me, her face blossoming behind my eyes. I cannot wait to see her, but still my steps grow slower, contemplating what I am about to do.
Every apsara at the end of asuccessful mission is granted a boon, whatever her heart desires. All apsaras ask for a chance to continue to serve the lord more faithfully—a blessing that is granted through magical jewellery from his own collection. To wear a jewel that belongs to Indra is akin to carrying a piece of the lord with us. His presence allows us to pull more of Amaravati’s magic than we otherwise can, essential to creating the most unwavering illusions, critical to our success in future missions.
Yet my sari belt constricts around my waist. The necklaces tighten, and my hand rises to skim against my collarbone, trying to loosen their leash. What will Rambha say if I tell her this is how the jewels have felt for so long? That wearing them has been no blessing but a prison sentence? The boon I intend to ask the lord today will surely catch her unaware—but the lord himself will see that it comes from a desire to be more pious. The jewels are wondrous, but they take me away from him each time I leave Amaravati. All I want is to be untainted in my devotion, close to him, worshipping him. Surely he will agree?
He will rage, my mind whispers. You are not asking to be devoted. You are asking for freedom.
I surge away from the thought. “No,” I say aloud, forcefully. “No, I only want to be unsullied. Indra will listen. He is generous and life-giving. He understands true devotion.”
There is no reply from my conscience, merely a quiet worry that worms its way into my heart. Only Rambha has dared ask for freedom from future missions, and though Indra granted it to her, her request still shook the kingdom. Time and again, I have thought to ask her why he made such an exception, but it would be a foolish question. Rambha’s love for the lord is well known. Heaven’s immortal musicians, the gandharvas, sing of her piety at every festival, reminding us of her purity, her virtue, her total dedication.
Will she be shocked that I dare to follow in her footsteps so brazenly? All my life I have wanted to be like her, as unblemished as her, as free. I have performed all my missions without complaint. I took no joy in them, but I did them regardless—and isn’t that the greatest devotion, to be selfless, believing, compliant? I walked away from Queen Tara without a word of regret. I am Indra’s soldier, and—despite the misgivings infesting my mind in the mortal realm—I humbled to be one. If I only show this to him, he will relent. Amaravati is sustained through service and prayers to Indra, and Indra will agree that my performance within the City will serve him better than my missions in the mortal realm. As for Rambha herself… though she might be shocked, she will be proud. She will see that I do this for her, as much as I do this for myself. They will both be proud. They have to be.
I repeat this litany to myself the entire way to the palace, corralling my courage. Before I know it, I am at the crescent-shaped gates.
The guards let me enter unchallenged. Everyone in Amaravati knows what an apsara looks like. We are some of the most beautiful creatures in paradise—we have to be. The guards simply nod at me, usher me into the alcove just off Indra’s main courtroom, where I see Rambha pacing impatiently.
She is stunning. Her long luscious hair is tied in an intricate braid in the manner of the most elite apsaras. Her skin is a richer brown than mine, nearly onyx in the dim light. Thick shapely brows arch over large doe-like eyes, and her ears resemble delicate shells. Over her gold-threaded green sari, she wears nearly a hundred necklaces studded with emeralds and diamonds. A tiny pin glints on her nose, and even her bindi glows with power. All of these jewels are from the lord’s own collection, a sign of her devotion and his favor. My breath hitches as her power descends over me. Her aura is a luminous gold rising behind her head, so potent I can taste its texture, delicate dewdrops after a sizzling storm. I wet my lips to trap the sensation on my tongue.
A smile breaks across Rambha’s worried face as she sees me. She hurries forward to envelop me in her arms.
“Praise Indra,” she says, pulling back so her eyes can search mine. “You’re here.”
My chest rises in a deep breath and the scent of her sweet star-anise flows into me, hot and seductive. I smile back despite my nervousness.
She is much older than me, but even I don’t know by how much. Like any other immortal, time will never show on her features. Besides, neither of us is a child, anymore. What does it matter how old we are? Even as I hug her, I can’t help but lightly twist the end of her braid around my fingers.Rambha is my home. Her wisdom is my security. Once she was my mentor, but now she is my handler, one of the best apsaras I know, my closest friend.
In the depths of my foolish heart, I have always wished for more.
The longing must surely show on my features, for she pulls back and brushes her cool hands over my face to examine me in concern. Her fingers hum like butterfly wings, and I can’t help but imagine her touch in other places. My cheeks warm. I swallow, trying to ignore the heat pooling in me—but her caress, this intimacy… It is simply another strand of evidence that what I intend to do is right.
I catch her fluttering, feather-light fingers in my own and take a deep breath. “Another successful mission, Rambha. Queen Tara is deterred from her path of impiety. She won’t be a threat to Indra anymore.”
“Good, that’s good,” Rambha replies. “The lord is sorely in need of some good news. Do you know what jewel you will ask of him?” Her smile grows wider, and she touches the crown of my head. A skittering sensation floods through me and I shiver. “I have always loved ornaments in your hair. Perhaps the lord’s golden diadem? It changes shape based on the wearer. I would like to see what shape it takes for you.”
Her smile is curious. Her fingers move down the length my hair down to my shoulders. They flicker over my chest, brushing strands away as though to examine my necklaces—but the motion is too slow, too deliberate. I am not imagining it. It is desire. Desire for me. Her thumbs skate lightly over the points of my nipples before skimming away.
“I have something else in mind,” I say quietly. “Something that will allow me to be closer to you. So we can… So you and I can finally…”
Her hands still and she tilts her head. Rambha holds my gaze between gold-dusted lashes. Her lips part, perhaps to ask what I mean—and I want to lean in, how badly I want to speak the sweet words that would bring us closer. They burn in me, but my nervousness at Indra’s refusal of my boon holds me back. Rambha and I have orbited around each other, our touches suggestive, our glances flirtatious, but I have never dared to say anything, not when I have felt so unworthy. How could I come to her—this beauty who is famed for her complete devotion to Indra when every one of my own missions has drowned me in doubts? The boon I will ask of the lord is my only way out, both to wrench out any seeds of impiety I may have collected, and to be with her forever more.
Rambha tips my chin with a hand. “You look so serious. What are you thinking?”
Now would be the time to speak, to tell her about the boon I want, but explanations form and die in my throat. What if she tells me I am mistaken in my path? It would not merely be a rejection of my dream. It would be a rejection of any future for us. I cannot risk it, not when I am so close. I shake my head wordlessly.
A frown mars her lovely face. “You won’t ask him for anything indelicate, will you?” She waits for me to answer, but when I still say nothing, she sighs. “It is your blessing to ask, whatever it is, but do not ask him to part with his favorite jewels. Indra is moody and restless these days. He is in conference, even now.”
My brows rise at that, curiosity replacing my worry. The lord of the devas is not known to take midnight meetings. If anything, Indra famously spends his nights with his most sensual concubines, engaging in licentious behaviour which warms even my apsara ears to think about.
“What has happened?” I say. “What is worrying the lord?”
“A mortal. A man called Kaushika.”
The name is familiar. In Queen Tara’s court, whispers came of a prince who deserted his kingdom to practise magic. Rumours said the prince became so powerful that kings and queens began paying homage to him, to ask for him to train their scion. I did not pay attention then, but my interest piques now.
“Another mortal too big for himself?” I ask dryly. “That isn’t new.”
Rambha’s aura darkens, her star-anise scent growing saccharine. “He’s not just any mortal. He calls himself a sage. Already his influence against Indra has caused royals and nobles to forget the lord in their rituals. Amaravati is not the same as it used to be. Didn’t you notice? The buildings have lost much of their sheen. Our magic is depleting without enough prayers from the mortals to replenish it. It’s harder to grasp Amaravati’s magic even when I dance with all my jewellery. My own tether lies limp within me when I compare it to the years past.”
I nod slowly. My dance took more effort than usual to create illusions when I was with Queen Tara, but I assumed it was because my heart wasn’t in the mission. Perhaps it was because the city was in danger. If all this is true, then wouldn’t the lord want me here, to sustain Amaravati through my dance from within his court?
“The lord has sent one apsara after another to seduce this sage,” Rambha continues. “Nanda first, and then Sundari and Magadhi. But…” Her voice breaks slightly, the names opening a wound.
These three apsaras are so famed for their prowess that even devas, the deities of heaven, are hypnotized by their dance. Only Indra is immune to them. “What happened to them?” I ask, frowning.
“They haven’t returned. I fear Kaushika has killed them.”
My curiosity turns to horror. Killing an apsara is nearly impossible. We are immortals. Only desperate hate and powerful magic can annihilate us. How has Kaushika done this? Why?
Rambha hugs me again. “I am glad to see you safe.”
This time I notice how her body shakes. Sundari and Magadhi were Rambha’s friends, part of her own cohort. Nanda used to train me, her laughter often raucous when I created a particularly titillating illusion. Was Rambha their handler too, on those fateful missions? What must it have been like for her to wait and wait for a message, and then finally report to Indra she lost his most prized weapons? No wonder my delay has disconcerted her. A sharp guilt pangs through me. Her worry radiates toward me like a flame’s heat.
I straighten and squeeze her hand.
I will make the delay worth it. For her, and for Amaravati.
“Take me to the lord, Rambha. Perhaps news of my success will cheer him up.” My voice is more confident than I am, but I don’t back down. “It is time for my boon.”
Excerpted from The Legend of Meneka, copyright © 2024 by Kritika H. Rao.
