She gave him a quick look. Then lowered her gaze and said, “Sleep well, husband,” and swiftly departed.
He did not sleep after that. He summoned his military officials, who arrived tired-eyed and disheveled but obediently set to work discussing what must be done next. In the vast hall of the imperial mahal, where his priests and priestly warriors kept a pit of blessed fire—mothers’ fire—burning, his loyal officials and lords advised him.
Once, this hall had been full of lords and princes and kings from across Parijatdvipa: Alorans, Srugani, Saketans, Dwarali. All of them full of hubris. All of them, leading the empire—and his father—astray. Now nearly all the faces before him were Parijati. The Parijatdvipans from other city-states who remained were clever enough to recognize their correct place: in service to him, in obedience to him. They knew better than to consider themselves his equal.
He had thought, briefly, of adding Prince Kunal to that number. The man would bow, he knew; lower his head, show obedience. But there was something about the High Prince’s son that he did not trust—a kind of flinty, hunted anger in the man’s eyes that told him Prince Kunal did not deserve the privilege of belonging to Chandra’s inner circle.
Besides, Prince Kunal’s loyalty was contingent on the success of his father against Malini; on the protection of the flames Chandra had gifted him. The power. On the lifeline, too, that Chandra had extended: food from Parijat, from its safe and fertile fields, untouched by the blight that had ruined both Ahiranya and Saketa. Contingent loyalty did not interest Chandra. He wanted men of faith. He wanted men who placed their faith inhim.
The High Priest had taught Chandra that the mothers of flame loved him; that they spoke to him above all else, guiding him toward his fate. And he heard a loving whisper of them—in the arch and flicker of the pit of fire, which bloomed blue for a moment, against feathers of gold—as an old and seasoned lord explained to Chandra, in a gruff but respectful tone, that the princess would surely not follow the vast main road to Harsinghar.
“Her forces are depleted, Emperor,” he said, as two priestly warriors quietly entered the room with a cask—opened it, and lowered more magical flame into the pit, which flared and brightened. “She will use caution. If your loyal men locate her, destroy her forces en route…”
“The High Prince’s forces will attack her own from behind,” said another lord. “He will not simply allow the traitor princess to march on Parijat—”
“His fort remains under siege,” a quiet voice interrupted. A military advisor. “He cannot follow easily, or immediately.”
Chandra listened as they debated, his priestly warriors now arrayed around him. One leaned forward. Said, in a low voice, “Lord Sushant wishes to speak with you, emperor. In privacy.”
“He can wait,” Chandra said dismissively.
“Emperor,” the man said. “He insists that he cannot. He was greatly distressed.”
“Fine,” Chandra snapped. “Continue,” he told his advisors, who had paused when he raised his voice. “I’ll return in a moment.”
If Sushant had summoned him on a fool’s errand, he’d simply have the man’s throat cut. That was a fitting price, surely, for wasting an emperor’s time.
Sushant was from an ancient Parijati family that lost its glory and wealth long ago. It was Chandra who had raised him and his kin up; who had granted him the wealth of executed traitor highborn and allowed him access to the inner court. Sushant was, as a result, an adoring and faultlessly loyal follower, who had brought his lifetime of experience tending to the family rural estate to the task of overseeing Parijat’s agriculture.
Despite the coolness of the dawn air, he was sweating, his mustache visibly damp. He bowed deeply when Chandra approached, then raised his head. “Emperor,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me alone.”
“You must think yourself valuable to me, Sushant,” Chandra said, voice low, “to demand my time in this manner, as if I amyourservant.”
Sushant bowed hurriedly. “Forgive me, forgive me,” he babbled. “But my men—farmers on a nearby estate—you mustsee…”
The lord opened a sack that lay at his feet. Drew it wide open. And Chandra looked within—and abruptly recoiled.
“What,” he said sharply, “is that?”
Sushant’s hands trembled as he drew the sack abruptly shut.
“Rot, emperor,” he said. “The rot from Ahiranya, the rot that blights Saketa—it is in Parijat. I… I do not know how far it has spread.”
A greater danger to Parijatdvipa than mortal men alone, Hemanth had said. And here it was before him. Rot in his own fields. His own country.
He felt abruptly sick. This was not meant to happen to Parijat. Not the land of the mothers. Not the land blessed by his rule.
“And what must I do?” he asked.
“E-Emperor,” Sushant said. “I… I do not know. I do not know.”
“Come with me,” he said roughly.
He returned to his advisors. They bowed as he entered. Waited until he gave them permission to rise.
“Speak,” he said sharply. One of them flinched visibly. “Tell me what you’ve planned.”
“We believe she may cross the Veri river,” said one of his advisors. “There is a ford. If we meet her there, we may be able to thin her forces.”
