There were barely any travelers on the roads. Combined with the homes and villages emptied by rot, Rao found the roads eerily empty. The only large groups he saw were refugees from the edges of Ahiranya, many of them rot-riven—and they scattered at the sight of his men. He couldn’t blame them for that.
Even the caravanserais had been abandoned. There was some grumbling from his soldiers at that. Trading posts were good for fresh, warm food and an excellent place for stocking up on liquor.
The ground would have been unpleasant at best to pitch tents on, so he decided to take advantage of his princely status and descend on the lands of a local landowner. The man welcomed him effusively, arranging accommodation for his men.
They shared a meal and a hookah pipe.
“Will you be heading to your father’s mahal, prince?” the man asked.
Rao shook his head. “No, I am seeking the priesthood. There is a great monastery near here, in the forest. Nimisa.”
The man clucked his tongue.
“You will struggle to move through the forest in the aftermath of flooding,” he said. “A river bisects the woods.”
“Nonetheless I have to try,” said Rao, smiling.
The man hesitated. “And those priests… ah, it will not impact you.”
“I would still like to know,” Rao said earnestly, sensing a story there.
“They are not welcoming as other monasteries. Too ancient, too powerful. Even your father goes to them, they do not go to him.” He chuckled. “They feel the weight of their history, Prince Rao. We do not go there to pray or seek prophecy—though I send fine offerings regularly,” he added hastily. “But you are a prince. They will see you.”
“Yes,” said Rao. “I hope so.” Internally, silently, he hoped they would be willing to ally with the greater power of an empress and support Malini’s claim to the throne. Or his journey would be worth nothing.
As they reached Nimisa’s border, they passed another empty village.
“There’s rot around,” said a soldier nervously. “If we turn back, my lord…”
“We know it’s spreading across the empire,” Rao said calmly. “This is all the more reason to make this trip swiftly.”
A bigger problem immediately faced them. The flooding had turned the forest floor to such thick mud that their horses struggled to move forward; worse still, the horses resisted, eyes rolling wildly, legs rearing.
“They fear the rot,” one soldier muttered, not meeting Rao’s eyes. But he was right.
Rao bit back a curse.
“You,” he said, gesturing at the closest group of soldiers. “With me. We’ll walk. Make sure you carry heart’s shell with you.”
The monastery was as grand as he expected, and he felt a thud of his old faith—a reflexive, instinctual love—in his chest, as good as a heartbeat at the sight of it.
The faith was short-lived.
Guards swarmed out of the monastery at his arrival, holding bows and spears. “No one is allowed to enter!” one yelled from the stairs, his spear held threateningly in front of him.
“I am Prince Rao of Alor. Is this the greeting Nimisa Monastery offers a son of Alor’s king?” Rao called out.
One guard hesitated, but another yelled back, “How do we know you’re a prince?”
“Lower your spear, you fool,” a tired voice said. A figure emerged from the monastery and strode down the stairs, bowing low to Rao. “Apologies, my prince,” the head priest said. “Forgive my men. We have been facing unforeseen danger. It has made children of us.” He straightened, meeting Rao’s eyes. “I met you once when you were a young boy—before you were sent to Harsinghar to be raised alongside Prince Aditya. You have the look of your father.”
Rao had not seen his father in years. “My thanks,” he said.
“Come,” said the head priest. “We will talk alone.”
He took Rao to a private chamber, poured him a clear cup of water, and offered him dried fruit, a pleasingly sweet fare to welcome him to the monastery. Rao ate a little out of politeness, but even his mouthful tasted more and more like ash as the priest talked.
The head priest—Sunder—told Rao that rot had grown virulently across the forest ever since floods had drowned the woods. One of his priests had stumbled onto a strange path of flowers and never returned. Another became ill, growing flowers from his skull.
