“As you said, Empress,” he said finally. “I and my wife can flee. As can you. And your hope seems false.” A quirk of his mouth, mirthless. “As a man who has used this very gambit, I know you’ve failed.”
“Lord Khalil,” she said. “I have long considered you one of my strongest allies. You have come this far. You waited against all hope for Aditya to rise to his fate in Srugna. You have accompanied me, every step of the way, as I have striven to meet my own. And my fate—my purpose—has not failed me yet. Will you be my ally here now, too? Will you trust in my fate?”
“I am no worshipper of the nameless, to place my hands in prophecy,” he said.
“But you are a worshipper of the mothers, andIam their hands,” she replied.
“I have long thought,” he said eventually, “that loyal allies must receive loyal rewards.”
“An empress fulfills all her debts, Lord Khalil,” she replied, hoping the look on her face, the weight of her words, mirrored his own. “But an empress must gain her throne in order to give her words the weight of action.”
“I will hold you to that, Empress.” He tugged the reins of his mount; turned. “I’ll prepare the cavalry. We’ll throw all our might at them, and see what comes of it. Apart from too many dead horses.” He patted his own mount’s neck. “Survive, Empress.”
“I will,” she promised, with utter surety. She had no room for doubt. Either the miracle she’d asked Priya for would manifest, or Malini would soon be dead. And the dead had no capacity for regret anyway.
“Lord Prakash,” Malini said, when the orders had been given. “Neither of us are great warriors, fit for wielding weapons in battle, I think.”
He inclined his head in agreement.
“But I will be glad to stand beside you and shape this battle together,” she went on. “I will be honored to have your guidance, as my elder, and to hear the wisdom my father once placed great trust in.”
Some of the wariness, the flint her harsh words had brought out in him, softened. She saw it in his eyes.
“And I will be honored to guide you,” he replied.
On one side of the ford stood Chandra’s army. Archers and riders; chariots gleaming and flags flying, all imperial white and gold. On Malini’s side of the ford stood her foot soldiers; her archers, higher up the bank, poised and ready to fire. Her Dwarali horsemen, holding their mounts still. Waiting for her orders.
She raised a hand. A conch was sounded.
Both sides moved forward like two clashing waves. Foot soldiers racing forward—Chandra’s army outfitted with sabers, her own with maces and whips and daggers and swords, and then nothing but bodies crashing into one another—and arrows flying thick and dark from both sides of the water.
Her Dwarali riders surged forward with a cry, white mounts racing into the gleaming water.
And Malini stood tall in her chariot, bearing witness. She breathed through the scent of blood and water, as the water’s edge turned to a froth of unending mud under hundreds of feet and hooves.
One thing was in her favor: Chandra’s men clearly had less familiarity with the fighting styles of Srugna or Dwarali. They were struck down by maces—skulls abruptly reduced to meat, bones broken through their armor. Arrows caught them with brutal speed, Dwarali soldiers crouching on the backs of their steeds with their bows drawn for attack. As Khalil had told her, Dwarali horses were not used to warfare on water, no matter how shallow, but their riders were confident, holding them steady.
They’re not seasoned, Malini observed, watching her brother’s Parijatdvipan soldiers with a critical eye. They were clearly well trained. They fought fiercely. But there was an edge of cruelty and cleverness to a battle-hardened man—to her own men—that these did not have.
Slowly she began to realize that these were men reared and trained in the imperial city of Harsinghar or surrounding Parijati estates. They should have been Harsinghar’s last line of defense, not the first.
What are you doing, Chandra?Malini thought, frustration and dread worming through her—she could not understand his scheme, his intent.
And then abruptly, she stopped thinking of Chandra entirely.
Malini felt the rattle of her chariot around her—gold and steel and gilded wood trembling. The horse reared uneasily, barely calmed by the charioteer’s practiced hand. She steadied herself, widening her stance, and Raziya grasped her shoulder tightly—remembering, perhaps, the chariot that fell when they first faced Chandra’s fire outside the High Prince’s fort. Then together they looked to the Veri, to the distance, where the arrows had fallen.
At first, Malini saw nothing.
And then, the water was rising. Not like any natural wave that Malini had ever seen but like a wall, a shield. It was bright, huge. A shining mirror, reflecting death.
It fell with a roar, crashing onto the far bank, moving with terrible fury, into the flank of Chandra’s army.
Too far. They were too far to see everything in perfect detail, but the explosive howl of the water was undeniable; the sheer size of the wave, and the power with which it swept over the bank. It swept over people, dark shapes running, running—then abruptly swallowed them. Malini’s mind could barely comprehend it. She was frozen. Her men around her were frozen.
A noise split the air—almost inhuman, a wail of grief and horror from one of Chandra’s men.
All the men in the distance were dead.
