No greeting. No… nothing.
Aasha’s cheeks burned.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. “There will be a formal hearing with the heads of state and the future monarchs where I will give my official recommendation. I am told there will be a feast to follow.”
“And then what?” asked Aasha. “Will we come back here?”
Zahril hesitated. “You will need more training, of course. Whether they would prefer that is done here or at a tower of your own is not my decision.”
“So it’s my decision?”
“Perhaps.”
Aasha sat up, pulling her blankets around her shoulders.
“Do you want me here?”
Zahril looked up at her then. “I don’t want anything.”
And with that, she left.
As the door closed, Aasha looked to where Zahril had been standing. Her heart fell. The painting of Bharata with the star balancing on a mountain’s peak. Everywhere she looked, she was reminded that Zahril’s heart had belonged to Sazma. Perhaps… perhaps it still did.
***
When the chariots came, Aasha sat at one side, ready to make room for Zahril.
The charioteer turned to her, brows tilted in confusion.
“Lady Aasha, you may take more room than that if you wish. The Spy Mistress always takes a private chariot.”
“Oh,” said Aasha, adjusting in embarrassment. “Does she travel to Bharata often?”
“I would not know, my lady,” said the charioteer. He lifted a vial filled with pale liquid. “Even those of us who see her face quicklyforget. It is part of the policy and part of our duty to Her Majesty, Queen Gauri.”
Aasha sat quietly, her fingers twisting in the silk of her sari. What else had Zahril made other contestants for the position of Spy Mistress or Spy Master forget? Had she kissed them too, and then when she changed their mind, forced them to drink a draught that would cleanse them of the memory? Or worse… had she given it to herself? So that she wouldn’t remember the press and part of Aasha’s lips against her own. Maybe she was trying to rid herself of some guilt.
The days passed in a blur. The two chariots stopped and rested at alternating times, so that Zahril would reach Bharata faster. Aasha tried urging the charioteer to match them for speed, but he shook his head sorrowfully.
“I am under orders, my lady,” he said.
Four days later, they reached Bharata. There was no grand welcoming for Aasha. But then again, no one was supposed to know when she left and when she returned. It was safer for Gauri and Vikram that way.
The moment she got out of the chariot, she made her apologies to the women of the harem who were insisting that she at least take a long, proper bath and change out of her travel clothes before she saw Gauri. Bharata moved in a flurry of activity. Servants carrying silver platters piled high with marigold garlands rushed in and out of the palace. The palace decorators shouted ridiculous orders for glass birds and sword flowers. Aasha frowned. She’d long since stopped questioning what Gauri and Vikram found delightful. It was their home, after all. Or at least, it would soon be their home.
The halls were empty. Not a single diplomat stood milling about, waiting for an audience with Gauri and Vikram. Aasha’s heart raced.
The only way that the outer sanctum of Bharata would be empty was ifeveryonewas inside…
Through the heavy wooden doors, she heard a steely voice. Two armed guards flanking the doorway moved to block her. Before, Aasha would have cowered, not knowing whether she was once more embarrassing Gauri or doing something inappropriate. This time, she fixed them both with a stern stare.
“You know who I am,” she said. “Get out of my way.”
And they did.
She pressed her ear to the door. She recognized Zahril’s voice the way people recognize the hands of loved ones. From contours and texture and memory. In spite of her resolve to stay stoic and cold, Aasha felt her body give… and when she heard Zahril’s words, the emotion gathering inside of her was a storm shaking itself loose from the sky.
