“There is another crossing,” said Malini.
The men looked at her.
“There must be another crossing,” she corrected. “Shallower waters or a bridge. There are two villages, further along the Veri, beyond the ford. Both trade in crops and in fish.” Malini leaned over the map. The men stepped back, allowing her to touch a finger to the place where the villages lay. They were marked on the map by nothing but two knots of thread. Swati had knotted those in herself, on Malini’s guidance, after she had found those villages in the records carried by her officials and realized she had her answer. “In many ways, they consider themselves one village. They share a name. But they lie on opposite sides of the Veri.” She raised her head. “To travel across the ford without access to horses—access I am sure they lack—would take them far too long. There is a crossing.”
Many of the men looked puzzled. But Khalil’s eyes brightened.
“I think, Lord Khalil, you understand my intent,” Malini said.
Lord Khalil picked up one of the stones holding down the map.
“You believe if your brother’s army comes for you, it will come here,” he said, placing the stone on one side of the river. “At the ford, where the crossing is easiest, and where their superior numbers and fire may attack us directly. In such a scenario, they would win.” He pressed a finger to the other side of the ford, where Malini’s army would stand—where Malini’s army would surely be defeated.
“But you intend to send a contingent of your army toward a crossing that your brother’s men are unlikely to be aware of. You intend them to cross unnoticed, send them toward the flank of your brother’s army, unseen, unexpected, and then…” He touched a fingertip to the cloth behind the stone; drew both fingers together, neatly folding the cloth around the stone. “A pincer,” he said. “Chandra’s army crushed in the grip of our own. We have used similar methods, when facing the Jagatay at Dwarali’s borders.” Khalil’s mouth faintly upticked into a smile.
“Indeed,” said Malini. She knew. It was the tactics used in Dwarali—relayed to her, over feasts, in the first weeks of her campaign against her brother—that had influenced her decision.
She had thought, at first, that Chandra intended to use something similar to trap Malini’s forces: the High Prince’s men pinning her army from one side, and his from the other. But he had not, it seemed, left the safety and fortification of Harsinghar. Pitiful.
That did not mean there would be no Parijati warriors lying in wait on the journey, of course. This was Chandra’s territory. He knew it. He knew, as she knew, every route, every path, every inch of high ground that would give him the advantage over her.
But Chandra would not have thought of the villages, linked by a shared name, and the opportunity they offered. Chandra had never had to look for home and power in the smallest things, in the dregs that were barely worth marking by eye, by record, by map, by memory.
“It would be a risky path,” another lord murmured. “If there’s no crossing to be found.”
“If there is no crossing, we may fail,” Malini acknowledged. “If Chandra has forces prepared and waiting, blocking both sides of the ford, we may fail. There is always a possibility. You are seasoned warriors. I cannot, and will not, lie to you. But my lords, I have the will of the mothers on my side. I have the best of Parijatdvipa’s royalty on my side. Fate is on our side. We willnotfail.”
They continued their journey—days and nights of desperately swift travel, lumbering across Parijat, through fields and villages, past watchful villagers. Night fell, and though they were close enough to the Veri to hear the rumble of its waters, they took advantage of defensible terrain—high ground, ringed by trees—to set up camp and rest.
A scouting party relayed to Malini and her council exactly what Malini had expected to hear: There was an armed force watching the ford. Smaller than what would surely have faced them on the main road to Harsinghar, but still nothing to be scoffed at.
Her gambit would have to work.
While Malini waited for her tent to be erected, she met with Lady Raziya under the star-flecked sky. Malini was wrapped tightly in a shawl, but Raziya was dressed only lightly, too used to Dwarali cold to be disturbed by Parijat’s mild nighttime cool.
“My husband and I will accompany you to the ford,” Lady Raziya said, by way of greeting.
“I will gladly face what comes next with you at my side,” said Malini. “You and your archers.”
“Do you have faith that my guardswomen will protect you? Die for you, if need be?” Raziya’s gaze was fixed on Malini, assessing. “Because if you do not, Empress, you must train your own. You must have people you can trust.”
“I trustyou,” Malini said. She did not saynot wholly, not completely. But wasn’t it enough that she had learned to admire and rely upon Raziya’s strength, just as she relied on Lata’s clever mind, or Rao’s faith, or the small, flickering light of Deepa’s ambition? “I am grateful for the friendship you’ve given me.”
Raziya nodded.
“When your throne is won,” she said, “I look forward to seeing the vows that formed our friendship fulfilled.”
Later, in her tent, Malini went through her evening rituals, preparing for bed, forcing her racing mind to calm.
When all was complete, she sat on her bed and waited in the darkness.
She heard Priya’s voice long before she heard a single footstep.
“Sima’s gone somewhere with Lady Raziya’s women again.” Voice pitched low. Now, Malini could hear Priya’s footsteps, each one a scuff of noise against the tent floor, marking her path. “No one saw me come here.”
“You’re very good at being invisible when you choose to be,” Malini said, fondness bleeding into her voice.
Priya kneeled by Malini’s cot. The light was so muted here that Malini could barely see her. But she was keenly aware of the presence of Priya beside her: the dark shadow of her hair; the breadth of her shoulders; one strong, callused hand, pressed to her bedding, fingers curled.
