“Everything,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
According to Lata, the large bulk of the forces seeking to overthrow Chandra were based in Srugna and upon the road to Dwarali. There was no place for them in the monastery, confined and dangerous as it was. Only lords and princes interested in politicking, or who sought the measure of Aditya, had chosen to come to the lacquer gardens.
“Well,” murmured Malini, when Lata was done. “If the highborn men want politicking…” She stood. “You’ll have to act as chaperone and as one of my ladies,” she said. “Can you do so?”
“I’m sure I can manage,” Lata said.
“Then first,” said Malini, “I need to bathe.”
She bathed in cold water, and tried not to think of Priya offering her a ladle of cold water in the Hirana; Priya kneeling, gazing at her. Her hair was combed as best as it could be, after its long mistreatment. Lata gave Malini one of her own saris. The blouse was so loose that it gaped—but it would be hidden beneath cloth, so would have to do. Malini had no jewels. No marks of status. Nothing to signify her worth.
Then she looked up, at the window.
Of course.
With Lata’s help, she bound her hair into a knot, and carefully pinned in place a crescent of freshly plucked lacquer flowers.
The men quieted abruptly when she entered the rooms. There was no sign of Aditya, and no sign of Rao either.
She’d interrupted a game of catur. But she understood that games of dice and strategy were not simply an amusement to highborn men. She inclined her head—a graceful motion she knew emphasized the vulnerability of her neck and the regality of her bearing—and said, “I fear I’m interrupting.”
“Princess.” The men did not stand, but they inclined their heads in equal respect. It was enough. “No apologies are necessary. Are you searching for someone?”
“Lord Narayan,” she said, finding his face among the lords present. “I am so sorry for your loss. Prince Prem was a great friend to my brother Aditya. I greatly admired him.”
“Thank you, princess,” the young man said, suddenly somber. “It is a great sorrow to us to lose him.”
“I grieve with you,” Malini murmured. She crossed the room toward him, each step slow and deliberate.
As she did, she looked at each of them in turn. “You seem ill at ease, my lords.”
The Dwarali lord was the one who spoke first. “We thought Emperor Aditya would return with an army.” His mouth was unsmiling. “But it is not to be, I see.”
Malini shook her head. “I could not bring him an army,” she said. “Only myself. But I will do all I can, my lords, to see him upon his throne.”
“Perhaps now,” one of the Srugani lords murmured, ire in his voice, “he’ll consider giving us the war we came for.”
She exhaled a breath. Turn of the neck, just so, to emphasize the flowers of lac bound in her hair. She was an imperial princess of Parijat. That carried weight.
“Believe me, good lords,” Malini said, with a demure lowering of her lashes, even as she kept her spine straight, her shoulders a firm line. “My brother Aditya will see your old glory restored. You will have what you once had. Control of your own kingdoms. Places of authority and respect in the imperial court. The glory of the empire, molded by loyalty, will be as it once was.”
And that was why they were here, wasn’t it? They were bound to belong to Chandra’s remade, twisted Parijatdvipa—bound by the same oaths their ancestors had taken to repay the bloody, terrible sacrifice of the mothers who had formed Parijatdvipa in the first place. The sacredness of that promise still echoed through Parijatdvipa from those ancient deaths. They wanted only what they had always had—equality, clout, and prosperity—and Malini could ensure that Aditya provided that.
Better a weak emperor, they no doubt thought.Better a reticent emperor who wishes to be a priest than a zealot who will take what is ours and make it his own.
“And when,” said the same Srugani lord, “will we have all we’ve been promised?”
“The hour is late,” said the Dwarali lord who had first spoken, rising to his feet. “May I guide you back to your room, Princess Malini?”
“I’m not sure that would be wise,” murmured Lata.
But Malini only smiled, and said, “By all means, my lord. Accompany me.”
“You are Lord Khalil,” she said, as they stepped out into the velvet dark, Lata trailing after them. “Lord of the Lal Qila, are you not?”
“I am,” the lord acknowledged.
“Your wife thinks very highly of you, Lord Khalil,” said Malini. “She described your defense of your fortress against the Jagatay with great admiration.”
