The beat of hooves, as Khalil rode over to her, flanked by two of his men.
“Blood in the water,” one of the Dwarali managed, panting almost as hard as his horse. “They—I couldn’t get closer, but I saw—soldiers in the water—”
Prakash released an oath.
“Were all our forces in the river?” Malini asked, her voice hollow.
“I—I don’t think so.” Then he swallowed and blinked and said, “No, Empress. I don’t know how many were out of the water and safe, I couldn’t see, but—”
“You’ve done well,” Khalil said roughly. “Go join the rest of the cavalry now. Prepare yourself.”
As the rider departed, Khalil turned his attention on Malini.
“Well, Empress,” he said. “We’ll need to plan fast. How many men are you willing to lose here?”
“We cannot retreat,” Prakash said. “They will… they will chase us, Lord Khalil. We would die hunted, like animals.”
“If the empress survives, there is always hope that battles will be won in the future,” said Khalil. His eyes were fixed on Malini’s own—reading her, judging her. But waiting for her response. “Besides, my lord—Dwarali has the fastest horses. I’d be willing to take the risk.”
“If you say the word,” Raziya said in a low voice, “we will guide you to safety as swiftly as we can.” Her own women on their horses, in their gleaming armor, were listening. Waiting.
There was no time to strategize or think the path ahead through carefully and logically. And yet Malini saw it all—saw it even as she stood on her chariot, and heard conches sound, and heard the noise of animals and dying men and the hiss and clang of weaponry, all of it the rich warning of an oncoming storm of war—the paths that lay before her.
Defeat, slow and inevitable, if she ran.
Defeated, fast and fierce, if she remained.
Unless.
She thought of Priya’s strength—the steadiness and power of her. She touched her knuckles to the black flower bound by a chain to her throat—the black flower made from her own pain by Priya’s hands. She breathed.
“We’re showing a lack of trust,” she said. “There are still men alive at the village crossing. And they are going to make it across.”
“They’ve been slaughtered,” said Prakash. “Trapped—”
“Not all of them,” she said. Metal on her tongue—blood, terror. Whatever her body was trying to tell her, she couldn’t allow herself to feel it. “Lives have been lost, but there are plenty of soldiers still alive. When they cross, we will move, and crush Chandra’s forces, just as we planned.”
“Even if they cross—and theycannot—their appearance will be no surprise, Empress.” Prakash’s voice was oddly subdued, his face grim. “Without surprise, we cannot win. Your brother’s forces know we’re attempting to surround them, they will not leave themselves unprotected—”
“My brother’s forces know that they have rained arrows down on my soldiers, and that my soldiers are dead, or wounded, or trapped on the bank,” Malini said. “My brother’s forces believe, as you do, that the rest of our warriors left on the shore cannot cross. That the only strength I have is what is visible to them right now: the men that surround me. Your men. Let us use their belief against them and fight them with all our strength. Keep their focus on us, so they do not see the enemy they believe they have defeated coming at their backs, until it is too late.”
Silence.
“Empress,” Prakash said awkwardly, just as Khalil said bluntly, “You’re relying on an impossible hope.”
“I know the worth and strength of my men.”
Prakash exhaled shakily. “We would be choosing death.”
“You have no swift Dwarali steeds, Lord Prakash,” she replied bluntly. “Nor do my Parijati soldiers. I may live—and Lord Khalil’s men may live, and his wife may yet live, and her women also—but there is no choice for you but death in flight or death in battle. If you will not trust me, then trust this, at least. And make your choice.”
No time. No time. But Chandra’s soldiers hadn’t yet crossed the ford—were preparing their archers, as Malini’s own arrayed themselves along the bank. The guardswomen were drawing shields, preparing to defend the chariot where Raziya and Malini stood. So she had long enough to watch Prakash’s expression crumble, then grow resolute; for his shoulders to straighten and for him to say, “I will trust in your choice, then. Empress.”
“General,” she said in turn. Inclined her head. “And you, my Dwarali general?”
Khalil was silent, his eyes hooded, thoughtful. He looked, not at Malini, but at the woman next to her. He gave a nod.
Whatever had passed between them was enough.
