This one had taken Sarita fast.
She had drunk two vials, or three, in the time she’d served the rebellion, always struggling to hold at bay the death it brought. She had fought with ferocity in the old lord’s haveli—broken a neck or four with nothing but the sheer force of her own strength holding those men still under her hands. And now she was dying. But a little more water would give her time. A little more—
A hand closed around his wrist. Kritika stood at his side.
“You have barely any left,” she said in a low voice, so as not to be heard by the others around them. “Three or four vials at most, and who knows when you’ll next be able to replenish your supplies? Please, Ashok. Don’t do this.”
He paused, his hand still on the vial in his pocket, ready to pull it free. Then he released it and kneeled down, placing that same palm gently against Sarita’s forehead.
“Sarita,” he said gently. “Brave woman. You’ve done so well.”
Her eyes opened, just a little. All whites, the pupils a pinprick of dark, like two bloodied wounds welling up beneath the point of a needle.
“Sarita. Sarita.” He repeated her name like a lullaby. His heart bled inside him at the sight of her. What a waste. “Does it hurt?”
Her mouth shaped a word, soundless.Yes.
“Kritika,” he said. “Will you…”
“Yes,” she told him, sadly. She gripped his shoulders, urging him up. “It will be done.”
He stood and walked away.
He heard the scythe being lifted. A snap. Then nothing.
In the silence of the moment, with nothing to disturb him but the sounds of mortal breaths around him, the hum of insects and the call of birds among the trees, he finally understood what had disturbed him so. What called in his blood.
There was a voice in the sangam crying out his name.
He walked a little farther, until he found a tree old enough and large enough to lean against. It cradled him.
The follower closest to him saw him sit and nodded gravely. Ashok knew, without further confirmation, that no one would disturb him now, unless the general’s soldiers found them. And that he considered unlikely.
He closed his eyes. Breathed. Breathed.
His sister had howled for him in the sangam, and he had come. She was a shadow kneeling in swift running water. She raised her head the moment he appeared.
“What did you do?” she asked him instantly.
“You saw the flames, then.”
“Of course I did. Ashok. Why?”
“Justice,” he said simply. “You think there shouldn’t be consequences for burning women alive and crushing men’s skulls? Come on now, Priya.”
“Did you kill General Vikram?”
That question stopped him short.
“Do you really care?”
“I care because of what his death would mean,” she bit out.
“I see. You care because of Bhumika.” He drew closer to her. “No. I didn’t kill him. I did consider it,” he confessed, thinking of the regent’s terrified face with no small pleasure. “But some things are not meant to be. I settled for Lord Iskar and his family instead.”
“Ashok.”
“The deaths of our people had to be repaid,” he said calmly. She was still so naïve. She didn’t understand the way the world worked, or the price power demanded. Not as he did. “And now they have been. Lord Iskar served the regent ably, didn’t he? A great financial mind. Without him, Vikram will never be able to bring the other lords to heel. No one will know how to get anything done. Maybe when they’re all bickering as their revenue streams crumble around them, they will remember that the Ahiranyi spirit isn’t to be trifled with.”
