Rukh’s expression, when Bhumika looked at him, was somehow just as brave. His small hands curled up into fists. “I didn’t have to tell you the truth, my lady. I didn’t. No one would have known. But I didn’t want anyone here to suffer. I’ve always… always wanted to do something good, something important.” There was a hunger in his voice too big for his years. “I helped the rebels because I wanted to fight for something. I wanted my life to matter. But here…”
Again, he paused. Sima’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
“No one has ever protected me,” he blurted out. “Or been kind to me. And here—she—you—some people are.”
He had not said Priya’s name. But her name was written in his face and his words regardless.
“Whatever the punishment, I’ll take it,” he said, in his wavering voice. “I’ll—I’ll even die, my lady. But I’d rather do whatever I can to protect the mahal. That’s what I’d like to do.”
“Then this is my punishment to you, boy,” Bhumika said. “If you wish to make a difference, you will do so in my service. You will serve me loyally until death. There will be no more betrayals. You will be my creature until your last breath. Will you swear it, upon your soul and your life?”
Beyond him, in the shadows, figures moved in through the door. She saw a gleam of silver. Thin as a sickle scar.
“I will,” he said.
“Vow it.”
“I vow it, Lady Bhumika.”
“Good. If you betray me or mine again, you will die.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said in a small voice. Sima’s hand finally loosened on his arm, her own shoulders relaxing.
With that resolved, Bhumika looked at the people still surrounding her. They had very little time.
“You’ll be shown your weapons,” she said. “And you’ll be shown what to do. The soldiers will direct you,” she added, inclining her head at the man standing at the door, his arm cuff of command glinting, his white-and-gold armor pristine. He nodded, gestured, and his men fanned out.
Khalida helped Bhumika settle comfortably upon the floor cushions, beneath an open window that allowed in the smoke-tinged breeze.
She was surrounded by roses, growing in profusion in their clay and lacquered jars. Flowers, sweet and delicate, peeking from their thorny vines, twining from the gardens up to her windows. Soft, feather-leafed plants, dripping from the flat roof. Every single one had been grown by her own careful tending. By her hands—and most importantly of all, by her magic. Every time she breathed they moved with her, as if her own rib cage were their soil, the home for their roots.
There is power that is showy and fierce. And there is power grown slowly, and stronger for the time spent braiding its ancient strength.An old lesson from Elder Saroj. Bhumika held it in her mind’s eye as she waited.
“Ashok,” she whispered. “Come for me. And we’ll see who is stronger.”
MITHUNAN
The regent had been shouting for some time, demanding Commander Jeevan be brought to him. But there was no sign of the commander, or of any of the regent’s personal guard. Lord Santosh’s men were gone too, and no one could say exactly where they had gone, though one of the gatekeepers claimed they had left via the stables hours ago, fully armed.
Everything was chaos. Somehow Mithunan—no more than a lowly guard who kept watch on the walls, trained to shoot the occasional arrow and ring the bell for the changing hours, and not much more—had been given a sword and sent to fight.
And somehow, he’d found his neck in the hands of a rebel.
The rebel slammed him to the ground by the throat. Once. Twice. Released him. Above Mithunan, the rebel’s masked face wavered. Behind him, another mask appeared. Two of them.
The sound of a booted foot, striking a body to the ground. Three.
There were a lot more, beyond the mahal’s walls.
“Show us the way to the lady of the house,” said the kneeling rebel. “Or we kill you right now.”
He didn’t want to. It would be wrong. He knew that. But he could hear yelling, and the whistles of arrows falling. The thud and hiss of steel. He could hear the gasp of other guards, wounded and dying, around him.
He did not want to die.
To his left, one of his fellow guards was rising up on his elbows, gasping for breath. “We won’t do it,” the guard choked out. “Won’t—”
His words stopped. A wooden sword had been shoved into his chest. Around the hilt, his skin burned, blistering with heat.
