His sister murdered his men at the border of Alor.
He built more pyres and watched his flowers bloom.
He sent men to Ahiranya. The two soldiers who returned came to the imperial mahal with hollow expressions and horrified eyes. They spoke of thorns as large as swords that could run a body through, and vines that could choke the life out of a man. They told him temple elders ruled in Ahiranya.Monsters, they said.Monsters with the faces of women.
Chandra gathered ash from his fields. Flowers needed soil, andhisflowers of flame needed the gristle and bone-dust that had made them.
He stood in a room of carefully stored fires, each preserved in its own carved chest of stone on a bed of ashes, and told himself grimly,My sister must die first.
When she is dead and gone, I’ll show the Ahiranyi their place.
Now, he stood in the heart of the imperial temple. He could smell the pyres even from here, the smoke wafting in through the windows, settling a patina of gray on the flowers that lay at the feet of the mothers, wrought in gold.
In an alcove, veiled by a partition curtain, were two more statues. Mothers Alori and Narina, who had burned before Chandra’s eyes. He had visited it today and laid flowers at their feet. Jasmine, for his sister, who had worn it so often in her hair. His sister, who should have burned with them.
It comforted him, being here. Calmed him. He had come to the imperial temple often as a boy—walked through its gardens, his heart and his bones aching with fury at the injustice of the world. To be born a prince of an imperfect empire—to be born second, and never able to change it for the better—had galled him.
His brother Aditya had been a beloved crown prince. Born first, and born perfect: a friendly, smiling creature, good at making allies and fighting with sabers, playing with dice and drinking himself sick. These were the qualities valuable in the heir to Parijatdvipa. Drunkness and frivolous charm. It was no wonder, then, that Chandra had not been admired as his brother had been.
Ill-tempered, Chandra had been called, by his father’s court.Arrogant. Unwilling to bend.
For a time, he had believed it—hadhatedhimself for being unworthy of his blood and his status and power. Whenever his father had offered Aditya praise, or a seat alongside his advisors, and dismissed Chandra without a word or a thought, Chandra had burned with that hate. And still, he had done all in his power to try to improve the world, and received nothing in return for it. When he had punished his sister for ill-bred behavior, she had fled from him in bitter disobedience. When he had reminded his brother’s friends of their place with his words and his fists, Aditya had shoved him so hard he had fallen to the dirt. Chandra had been punished by the sages who educated him after that.This is not how a prince treats his allies, they’d said, as they had taken a rod to his palms.
They are not my allies, Chandra had thought, remembering the way those boys with their flawed Saketan and Aloran blood had laughed and talked with Aditya, as if he were their equal. There was an insurmountable chasm between their actions and the reality that they were lesser, by blood and by nature, than a mother-blessed imperial prince of Parijatdvipa.
When his brother had come later, with salve for his hands, and tried to speak to him, Chandra had turned him away. Aditya was not his ally either. Aditya, who allowed others to debase him.
Chandra’s only comfort had been the High Priest.
You have strength your brother does not. Faith, a righteous heart, obedience to the will of the mothers—these have a value beyond all else.He still remembered the words. Remembered walking around the temple with the priest’s hand at his back. A soothing weight.
You will be a great man one day, Prince Chandra. Wait and see. I see the light of the mothers in you.
And Chandra had learned to recognize his own worth.
Aditya—smiling, perfect Aditya—had no room in his nature for the unyielding, fierce weight of true devotion to the mothers of flame. Aditya was shallow and empty. He had never felt the same writhing anger that Chandra felt constantly in his own heart. It was that anger that made Chandra strong. Chandra’s so-called ill temper and arrogance were fire and pride, honor and vision. His brother was pitiful and weak and saw only goodness in a world that was rotten to the core. But Chandra—Chandra had the mettle to be merciless.
Chandra was better than him in all the ways that mattered. He always had been.
“Emperor.” The voice came from behind him. He turned, and saw the High Priest approaching. Hemanth was a slight, white-haired figure with gentle eyes beneath his ash-marked brow, and an air of serenity about him. His mien of calm never failed to calm Chandra in turn.
“Priest,” Chandra said in return. “You asked to meet with me.”
“Your wedding approaches.” The priest’s tone was neutral. “Have you considered quenching the fires before your bride’s arrival?”
“My bride should understand,” said Chandra. “My fires are burning to save her father, after all. My priests, trained for war, carry it as gifts to his door. Won’t she be glad to know that more will come? That her father’s reign is secure?”
“I do not believe all women consider practicalities on their wedding days,” the High Priest said. A faint smile touched his mouth. “Or so I have been told.”
“Some women,” said Chandra, “do not understand the price of leadership. She’ll learn.”
A breeze wafted through the temple again, scattering garland petals at the feet of the mothers, making the oil lamps flicker. Chandra closed his eyes and tried to force thoughts of the war away. His sister, seizing Alor’s and Srugna’s support. His sister cutting a swathe through Chandra’s allies. His sister in Saketa, turning her avaricious eyes on the High Prince, the one ally who had remained true to Chandra through all the hard months since his sister had taken up a false title and ruined herself all the more.
“Emperor,” the High Priest said. “There is one more thing we must discuss.”
Chandra opened his eyes.
The High Priest’s expression was grave.
