They would not be kind to Varsha if she stood against them.
They are all the same, she thought bitterly.Those who wield power.And not for the first time she hungered for what she did not have. Power of her own.
She met him the next day. Bowed her head, worshipful. She knew how to play at subservience.
“Priest,” she said. “Tell me what I must do.”
He smiled at her, a kind, gentle smile.
“My name is Mitul, Lady Varsha,” he said. “And all the High Priest asks of you, my lady, is information.”
RAO
Lady Asma took the task of caring for Rao far too seriously. She and her crowd of maidservants and guards were like a swarm of mosquitoes, ever-present. Would Prince Rao like to rest? He wanted towalk? Surely not. A walk on the ramparts sounded rather dangerous. Would Prince Rao like some gentler entertainment instead? Perhaps he would like to see the library—in fact, she needed help with the library, and had he not assisted the empress’s favored scribe? Yes, the library was certainly ideal!
At one point, when he protested, Asma steered him herself with a hand clamped to his arm. She was a head shorter than him but moved with the determination of a mother cat holding a kitten in her jaws.
“Come now, Prince Rao,” she said, cheerily determined. “Books will provide you good comfort.”
He’d seen the like of this before: young lords new to power wielding their authority clumsily, without any of the subtlety or restraint their elders had cultivated. Asma’s manipulations in her position as lady of the Lal Qila were unsubtle. Inexperience was her greatest flaw.
If Lady Raziya had been here, she would have walked with him along the corridors of the fort and arranged meals with visiting lords; she would have cajoled him into helping with some laborious but somewhat interesting task, better suited to histalents than organizing ancient Dwarali tomes, with the household scholars hovering anxiously over him for fear he would ruin their hard work.
If Lady Raziya had been here, it would have taken him days, or even weeks, to realize he was being carefully watched and managed. As it was, he’d realized on the first day. It hadn’t made it easier to slip Asma’s notice, though.
And besides, what point was there trying? She did not act out of any malice. There was genuine concern in her eyes when she looked at him. Her mother had clearly sent messages strongly advising her of his worth to the empress, impressing the need to keep him safe. She’d practically panicked when he walked along the paths carved into the fortress roof and walls.
Rao had no purpose here. He made a desultory attempt to ask about a ruby—and received a frown in response and then a lengthy explanation of what could be found in the mines beneath the mountains, so dull his eyes practically crossed.
So he gave up and allowed himself to be set down in the library to read and nap over pages. In the evenings, after awkward dinners with the household, he spent time with Sima.
He asked her again if she’d go, and she refused.
“Not yet,” she said. “I’m not done with this adventure.”
“We’ve been trapped in this fort,” he pointed out.
“Exactly,” she said, grinning at him. “I won’t consent to run until we’ve done something worthwhile.”
Change came suddenly, in the smallest form: a shared silver platter of fruit and sherbet glasses. Lady Asma chattering mildly to him, as she instructed a servant to carve some new delicacy and place it on the platter before them. He watched as the servant peeled the rind from a pale segment of fruit and lightly scattered salt on its surface.
“What kind of fruit is this?” Rao asked.
“A rare kind,” she said. “Grown from a gourd. Enjoy it.”
She nudged the tray toward him, urging him to eat.
He did. It was mild and sweet, unfamiliar. There was an edge of rind to one that she warned him not to eat.
“Where does this grow?” he asked out of no particular curiosity, simply to make conversation. “I have not seen it before.”
“Many things grow here that do not easily in the rest of Parijatdvipa.”
“Your mother and father should offer them in trade,” he said, to compliment her.
A thin-lipped smile. “I don’t think so. They’re an unreliable crop, my lord. Very hard to cultivate.”
A spark of a memory ran through—of ink on scraps of paper he’d dully riffled through, in the hours he’d been trapped among books.
