Malini nodded her head.
One of her officials cleared his throat in response and in a clear voice announced the crimes of the kneeling traitors and their fate.
Loyalty to a false emperor. The murder of Parijati women. Refusal to serve the righteous empress, the chosen of the mothers. Treason. Treachery.
There could only be one punishment.
Malini stared, unblinking, as a warrior stepped forward and—without further ceremony—slit the first traitor’s throat.
It was meant to be a clean death, but death was never clean, and certainly never bloodless. There was a rasping, wet sound as the saber was drawn across the man’s neck. A splatter of blood, as it spurted in gouts from the wound of his throat. His body collapsed with a thud.
The two men kneeling beside him were drenched in his blood, their eyes closed and their faces gray. One leaned forward and heaved against the ground, retching dry. She had not ordered that he be denied food, but perhaps he had denied himself.
Her warrior moved to the next man. Another thud followed. Then the third.
The fourth along was the first to snap. He wrenched forward, heedless of his chains, dragging the other highborn traitors—dead and living—forward with him. “Empress,” he called out, his voice wretched. “Empress, please, spare me. Spare us.”
The warrior stepped toward him. Malini raised her hand.
The executioner paused.
“Lord Sushant,” she said. Her voice was a void—not calm, but serenely empty. “Why do you believe you should be spared?”
“We acted as we thought was right,” he stammered out, trembling, blood a slash of color beneath his sweat and tear-damp eyes. “We were trying to be good highborn men. Empress, please—”
“And yet you acted against the will of the mothers, Lord Sushant,” Malini cut in. “I am their chosen. Do you deny it?”
“N-no, Empress. No, never.”
“My generals and advisors and the warriors who fought on my behalf died because of the false emperor Chandra,” Malini said, with that same terrible calm. “They paid with blood and with coin. Many of their kin paid with their lives. Should they suffer without justice?”
“Mercy,” he whimpered. “E-Empress, you are not Emperor Chandra. Your brother w-was a monster. I admit I feared to gainsay him. But you, Empress, you must have some compassion—”
“Must I?”
Something in her voice finally quieted him. He gasped wetly, silent now, staring at her.
“I am not either of my brothers,” Malini said. “I am what the mothers of flame require me to be. And they do not require the softness of mercy. They do not require compassion. They require a leader who can face the enemy that awaits us, and loyal men to follow her.”
“I can be loyal,” he said. “I—I—”
“You cannot be trusted, Lord Sushant. This, I assure you, is mercy enough.”
She gestured—a twitch of her hand.
The executioner swung his blade, and Sushant was dead.
She left Hemanth to the task of tending to the bodies. She had insisted he do so personally.Once, you knew these men, as you knew my brother Chandra, she had told him.They deserve the honor of your care.
He had agreed. Face pinched. Knowing, no doubt, how much she wished he could be dead beside them.
But Hemanth had too much sway among the priests of the mothers for her to kill without consequences. He had been High Priest since long before her birth. And of course, he had proven useful to her. He had legitimized her claim, after all; he had kneeled before her and called her empress, condemning Chandra.
The brother he’d loved and served, and burned countless women alive for.
Hate and pragmatism warred in her heart. But pragmatism was stronger, in the end. Better to keep Hemanth alive and under watch where he could be useful to her. Better to make all her would-be enemies into weapons she could wield for her own gain.
Lata walked with her into the mahal’s prison cells. They said nothing to each other as they entered dimly lit corridors, but Lata’s expression showed visible relief at the welcome coolness and quiet of the prison, where nothing smelled of blood—only damp, and stone.
