When he held court, she did not take his throne, or raise her own throne above his. Instead, when he sat upon the raised platform of his throne, on a silk knotwork cushion with rose-salt incense burning in alcoves behind him, she sat on her own cushion to his far left, surrounded by her personal guard and by her generals.
She was glad she had come here today for his audience withhis courtiers. It allowed her to delve even deeper into the woes of Srugna. The growing panic, and the ever-depleting state of their coffers was on full display. It also helped her understand how they could be helped: the food and weapon supplies that would need to be diverted to them. The soldiers, in great numbers, that would need to be funneled to the border with Ahiranya. The ones she had brought with her would not be enough. She would need to leave Prakash here to organize what was needful.
She was listening closely to a report on Srugna’s eastern farming villages when there were a tumult of noise at the grand arched entrance of the hall. It had no gates or doors to bar shut, and no curtains, so there was nothing to impede Malini’s view. She turned her head and watched as a handful of Srugani warriors—one of them clearly barely a child, for all that he had a mace hefted at his side—demanding entry. Two of the courtiers of King Lakshan were trying to dissuade them. The voices of the warriors rose, but the boy—and only the boy—remained silent. The others were ringed around him in an obviously protective circle.
“If they are not allowed entry, bring the boy to me later,” Malini said quietly, turning just slightly to speak into Prakash’s ear. He murmured his agreement.
The noise was not relenting, only growing. With a darting, near-panicked look at Malini, Lakshan finally raised a hand, palm out. The sound quelled.
“Bring my warriors forward,” he said in his rumbling voice. “They may speak.”
They all walked forward onto the circle of carnelian-flecked marble where petitioners were always bidden to stand.
They bowed together, low to the ground, then stood.
One of the older warriors nudged the boy forward. “Speak, lad,” he urged.
“M-my king,” the boy managed to say, his voice reed thin. His gaze darted about the court and fixed briefly on Malini. He was clearly overwhelmed, unfamiliar with the grandness of a highborn court. “I…”
“This boy,” one of the other warriors said, stepping in when the boy’s voice trailed to overwhelmed silence, “is the only survivor of a patrol along the border with Ahiranya.”
He was young to be a warrior, and young for such a dangerous duty. Circumstances were more dire than Malini had first judged them to be.
“I saw something on the border,” the boy said. At first his voice was a whisper, then stronger, as he clenched his fists, raised his head, and found his courage. “She had others with her. People like her with magic in them. And they… they entered Srugna. We tried to stop them, but we couldn’t. They’re in our country.”
A rising murmur of discontent swelled in the room.
Malini leaned forward. In a voice that was clear and sharp and cut through the swell of noise like a knife, she said, “Describe her.”
The boy looked at her, startled. But he did as she’d asked.
“Not tall,” he said. “Not… I thought she was a child, but she wasn’t. And she—she had flowers on her.”
It was not a lot of information, but Malini did not need more. She knew the truth in her bones.
He’d seen Priya.
“King Lakshan,” Malini said. “I have brought my people to help you. Let my generals speak to your warriors and assist you in facing this terrible threat.”
King Lakshan gave his assent and his thanks.
As Prakash moved forward to gather the warriors, Narayan leaned forward to speak into her ear.
“Low Prince Ashutosh has offered his liegemen,” he said. “Seasoned warriors, well trained. They are trustworthy men. I will send them to test your stone against this threat, Empress, if you allow it.”
“Yes.” As he rose, she continued. “Narayan.”
He stopped and turned to listen to her voice.
“Impress upon them my orders,” she said. “If they capture someone with the magic of Ahiranya—be they yaksa or mortal—Iwant them alive. If the stone works, a knife through an arm or leg should hold a prisoner well enough.”
“Alive,” he repeated. Almost disbelieving. He did not ask her why, but she read the question in his eyes.
“Dead men cannot tell us what lies at Ahiranya’s heart or fuels its strength,” she said softly. “And I find more and more that I must know what the Ahiranyi are capable of and how I can stop them.”
BHUMIKA
The rain stopped abruptly. It left behind a day that cracked the sky yellow. As the flooding began to recede, Bhumika knew it was time to leave and face the monastery again.
