The corridor leading to Varsha’s chambers was deathly silent. Malini could hear the rustle of the flowers at her throat. Even her own breath seemed as noisy as a drumbeat. She was not nervous, she reminded herself. There was nothing to be nervous of.
She had all the power here.
Guards opened the doors, announcing Malini’s arrival. No voice greeted her from within. But she was empress, and this was her mahal. It was her right to enter, so she did.
Varsha’s rooms were not a prison. They were the same chambers that had been granted to her when she had wed Chandra: wide, expansive rooms with warm ivory-tiled floors and silk-knot rugs, basins of water to cool the air, and curtains of gauze studded with embroidered flowers. They were comfortable chambers, well-suited to the wife of an emperor. But now that Chandra was dead and disgraced, the walls of her chambers had become a shroud.
Varsha had refused to attend both Chandra’s ignoble funeral, and Aditya’s grander one. Her maidservants—who reported directly to Deepa and Lata—claimed she did not even explore the garden that had been granted to her for her private use.
She’s quiet, apparently, Lata had told her.Deep in her grief. She barely speaks to anyone. They worry about her. She won’t cause trouble.
But she did not have to try to cause trouble. She carried trouble—and possibility—within her.
Varsha was dressed in clothes as blindingly white as Malini’s, as was appropriate and expected for a recent widow. Even though Malini had been announced, Varsha had not risen to bow to her. She was seated, watching the birds outside the window. She had shredded a little of her roti and scattered it on the ledge, drawing the birds in, and was watching as their small bodies flitted back and forth, pecking through the lattice for bread, their shadows flickering against the stone like lamplight in a breeze. Her hair was in a long, loose braid, visible beneath her gauzy white dupatta.
“Sister,” Malini said, and watched as Varsha turned her head and made a desultory effort to rise to her feet. “There’s no need. Sit.”
“Thank you, Empress,” Varsha said thinly, settling back.
The swell of her belly was very visible, now.
Chandra’s child. An heir, perhaps, for the empire.
An opportunity. Or a threat.
“You must forgive me for disturbing your mourning,” Malini said, sweeping closer to her. She did not attempt to sit across from Varsha. She stood, instead. Hands clasped neatly behind her, her back straight. “I will be leaving for battle in Ahiranya.”
A beat of silence.
Malini did not know how much Varsha knew of the political sea changes that had roiled over Parijatdvipa. She would have told Varsha, if Varsha had asked.
“I pray you will be well,” Varsha said instead.
“The High Priest and I prayed this morning,” said Malini. “Heand I made offerings to the mothers of flame. We asked for them to guide me in the coming war. I feel them close to me. I know I will return safely.”
How practiced she had become at telling lies about her own faith and the fervor in her own heart. She spoke the words without guilt—with utter conviction—and watched Varsha’s face carefully as she did so.
“I am glad, Empress,” Varsha said, her voice small but steady. Her eyes were lowered. She had her hands clasped over the swell of her belly—not exactly protectively, but as if she could create a circle with her hands and her body that was inviolate, a line that Malini could not cross.
Malini did not want Varsha to fear or hate her.
There were things she could do, perhaps, to win Varsha’s trust and even her friendship. But the thought of doing them made bitterness coat her tongue. She knew what it was like to be imprisoned. She knew the dignity of anger.
And worse still, Varsha was right to fear her. Malini knew what she was capable of.
“I’ve arranged a female physician for you,” she said. “Midwives, also. No matter how long this campaign may last, no matter how long I am away—you will be protected.” She softened her voice. “There are women,” she said, “who would counsel and comfort you if you allowed it. Many have joined my court in the last weeks. Not all of them will travel to war with me. Seek them out.”
If you will not talk to me honestly, talk to them.
Perhaps Varsha understood.
“You are kind, Empress,” she replied, bowing her head. “I am sorry to trouble you so.”
“It’s no trouble,” Malini said softly. “We are kin. Your child will be my heir.”
Varsha’s gaze flickered. Perhaps she had not realized.
You’re safe now, Malini thought of saying. In another time, another life, they would have been truly akin to sisters to oneanother—bound into family by marriage. But Malini stood beyond that now. Empresshood had made something new of her, and widowhood had done the same to Varsha. They were strangers to one another, at best.
