“Well, then.” Priya exhaled, long and slow. The thorns around her receded. The vine at Pramila’s throat crumpled. “We need to go. Now.”
BHUMIKA
When the conch sounded, Bhumika was prepared. She sat in her room in the rose palace with the window lattices thrown open. She listened to the bellow of sound, echoing over the Hirana, over the city that flickered already with burning light.
It was difficult to trace the path of fire, but Bhumika tried nonetheless. The strongest light lay close to the mahal itself, in the district that housed the wealthiest of Ahiranya. All her husband’s advisors. Highborn Parijatdvipans. Merchants. The oldest highborn families of Ahiranya.
Her uncle.
She turned and met Khalida’s eyes.
“Summon the servants to my rooms,” she said. “Quietly.”
Now was the perfect time. The guards would be busy ensuring that the mahal was secured. They wouldn’t question a handful of women and children running for safety, especially not when Khalida was so clearly escorting them on her kindhearted mistress’s orders.
She waited. Listened to the distant screaming. In her mind, the sangam flickered, full of Ashok’s fury and pain, wet with blood.
The servants and children were ushered in. They looked at her nervously. Some of the younger ones were weeping.
“The city is burning,” said Bhumika without preamble. “The rebels have attacked those they consider a threat to Ahiranya, and its potential freedom.” And everything and everyone else—the wooden houses of Hiranaprastha, their residents, even the innocent servants of the mahal—were acceptable collateral to her brother. “They will attack the mahal. They will, perhaps, break the perimeter. And they will come for us.” She looked at each one of them. “I promised you when I gave you a place in this household that you would be safe. I will not allow this night to break my vow.”
A breathless silence surrounded her. Even the children had quieted.
“You will have weapons,” she said. “I have bows, for those of you who used to hunt before you came here. Axes for the strongest of you. Daggers for the smallest. Khalida will guide you on preparing boiling water and oil that can be thrown over the walls, if need be. But I hope it will not come to such measures.”
“It will,” a voice said. “Lady Bhumika, I am sorry, but it will. We have a traitor.”
One maid—Gauri—dragged Rukh forward by the arm. Dropped him to the ground. His shawl was gone. His bare, rot-riven arms were encircled with leaves, spines of sap prickling from his shoulders.
“Tell her,” said the maid. “Tell her what you told me.”
“It’s my fault that they’ll breach the mahal,” the boy choked out. “The rebels asked me to spy for them. To watch…” He faltered, mouth failing to work. “To watch… someone. And find a way in.”
To watch someone. Of course.
Oh, Priya.
“And did you find a way in, as they asked?” Bhumika said, keeping her voice calm.
“Sometimes the guards don’t watch the doors properly,” he said. “Sometimes when supplies are brought in… I eat in the kitchens sometimes, and I see… sometimes a person could slip in. I told the rebels that.”
“These rebels will not be slipping in like thieves,” said Bhumika, thinking of the fire, the smoke. The blunt force of Ashok’s rage, rending the city. “Nonetheless, you have betrayed the household that has cared for you, Rukh.”
He flinched. “I’ll accept any punishment you think is right, my lady,” he whispered.
“And what punishment should be given for assisting in the killing of innocent servants in this mahal? For the deaths of my husband’s men and perhaps the regent himself?”
The boy swallowed again. He did not want to say it. But she waited.
“Death,” he said. “My death.”
“Your death is coming for you swiftly, whether I arrange it or not,” observed Bhumika. “That sacred bead around your wrist cannot hold at bay the rot I see in you.”
He bowed his head.
Another maidservant pushed forward. “He’s with us now, my lady,” she said hurriedly, her hand coming to rest on Rukh’s shoulder. “Surely that’s all that matters. He’s—he’s only misguided. He’s just a child.”
Priya had saved this boy. Bhumika knew that. This dying boy, who was young and silly. And the maidservant who was Priya’s friend was standing and watching Bhumika warily, her posture radiating defensiveness.
