She could well imagine it: Aditya at her side in battle, wreathed in glory on a white horse. Aditya racing his chariot into battle, every inch the noble crown prince. Every inch the man her highborn lords would want to see on the throne.
He was a danger. Mahesh had soundly proved that. And yet. And yet…
She said nothing, and nothing again. There was, after all, nothing to be said.
He smiled, his eyes sad but knowing.
“No,” he said. “You won’t ask. You’re glad I’ll remain here. So don’t berate me, sister, for choosing a path that protects you. From Saketa, and an army at your back, and from—me.”
“I did not ask for you to sacrifice for my sake,” Malini said in a low voice.
“An act of love does not require asking,” said Aditya. “But I promise you. I act for the nameless, as I do all things. It’s my god’s voice that guides me to remain here. I will remain. And who knows,” he said. “Perhaps I shall survive this war. Perhaps fate will see fit to release me.”
“And then? What of you then?”
“I’ll find a new monastery to take me in,” he said. “I’ll live out my days there. I will go to Alor itself, and seek the heart of the faith. A life of peace.” His smile deepened, a soft, wistful thing. “Your crown is your own, Malini. Sister. I will never seek to take it from you.”
She could not speak to him any longer. She’d hoped for… well. She did not know what she had hoped for, and that was her error. She did not want the return of her brother as he’d once been, and yet some part of her did. Or… no.
She wanted her brother as he had never been. A brother who had seen how she had been hurt and had shielded her when she had been unable to shield herself. She wanted a love from him he’d never been able to give and never could, because it was a love she had needed long ago.
She did not want him to die. There was no possibility, in death. Only an end.
She turned to go. But she paused at the exit of the tent. If she could not put that tangle of love and anger and resentment into words, she could at least tell him this.
“After your monastery burned,” she began. “After, I dreamt of Alori and Narina. They told me I would kill both my brothers. And they forgave me. But I have never planned to harm you.” She paused. “Your existence has been a thorn in my side. But I have not ever wanted to hurt you. I did nothing to guide you to this point, Aditya. I did not ask you to remain here in Saketa or tell you to volunteer for this. I have held no blade to your throat. And I have made no prisoner of you. I know what imprisonment is.” Her voice wavered, then—fury and hurt giving it a fine edge. “I love you, brother. Though, perhaps, it would be easier if I did not.”
A silence. Then, Aditya’s voice behind her. “Safe travels, Malini.”
“Safe siege, Aditya,” she said in return.
CHANDRA
The news arrived during the deep quiet of the night, when Chandra was bedding his wife. One of his guards interrupted reluctantly, bowing and keeping his eyes resolutely lowered, for all that a painted screen and heavy curtains of silk protected Chandra and his new wife’s modesty.
“Messengers bring news of the war, Emperor,” the guard said. “News of your sister.”
He emerged from his bed and listened to the messenger, through the screen, as his servants dressed him: a turban of stiff brocade, pinned in place with a moonstone the size of a child’s fist; a necklace of prayer stones, each stone wrought from gold and silver intertwined, and carved with the name of a mother of flame. An achkan in white silk, and a dhoti of pale gold.
His father, he remembered, had never dressed so formally and lavishly in his own bedroom. The advisors allowed in his inner chambers often saw him more at ease, in simple cotton and silks, rich and subtle. Chandra had always despised that informality. It was the place of the emperor to be more than the men who had vowed to serve him: in nature, in purpose. In clothing. Ever since his rise to the throne he had made a point of not following his father’s lackluster example.
He was glad of his choice now. The armor of it reminded him of who he was; of the life that the mothers had ensured for him, the crown his righteousness and purpose had granted him. His armor allowed him to rein in his own fury, when the messenger stammered through his news, gathered from Chandra’s own spies, and soldiers at outposts, and a loyal priest who had fled Saketa and imprisonment in Malini’s camp to bring Chandra dire tidings.
His sister still lived. His sister still ruled her horde of traitors and dishonorable vow breakers. His sister had not been killed by his holy fire. The High Prince’s fort lay under siege. The High Prince would not have the easy victory Chandra had promised him.
Even when blessed fire had been sent to kill her—even when her followers should have finally turned on her and recognized Chandra’s true and only claim to power—his sister had survived. His sister still led her fool men.
His sister was coming to Parijat.
He ordered one guard to summon Hemanth, and dismissed the rest. In the silence that followed, he strode over to his balcony, pushing aside the gauze that kept insects at bay, and stepped out into the cool night air.
From here, he could see the same vista his father once had, and all the emperors that came before them: the vastness of the mahal itself, with smaller manses nestled within it, and dozens of intimate courtyards full of needle-flower and jasmine, growing in lush profusion. The gardens of his mother, now nothing but blackness and the faint pulsing glow of dying embers, starlight in soil beneath him. The mahal’s walls, a gleaming length of white. And the city of Harsinghar beyond it, its white marble and sandstone both golden and blue-tinged beneath the light of the moon. He stared out fixedly, unblinking, until his eyes burned from the gentle nighttime wind, and the sting of ash it carried.
There were no winds without ash. Not in his mahal.
The guard returned.
“Join me on the balcony, priest,” Chandra called. After a moment, Hemanth did. “You have had ill news,” the High Priest said cautiously.
