Lata swept in first. Lata’s hair was bound back in its usual tight knot of braids, woven into a corona around her head. But she wore a rich sari of fine silk, its dark fabric patterned with deep blue lotus flowers.
She had protested when Malini had first gifted the clothing to her. “This isn’t the way of sages,” she’d said. But Malini had insisted. “You’re a reflection of me. Consider it a responsibility of your new role.”
“I am only a sage, still,” Lata had said levelly.
“As my advisor, you know that isn’t true,” Malini had replied, and that had been the end of that.
A moment after Lata, Rao entered and made a brief, courteous greeting. His turban was neat, his sash properly tied, his brace of knives glittering and well-oiled at his belt. But Malini had a strong sense that he had not slept. It was something about the way he held himself: shoulders too tight, eyes pinched and shadowed, his head craned forward as if he couldn’t manage its weight.
“Drink some tea,” she told him, and he managed a wan smile. “And you too, Lata. I know you haven’t rested.”
“I had to consider every aspect of your intended pact with the High Prince, Empress,” Lata said, even as she obediently took up a cup. “I’ll sleep once the work is done.” A slight, sidelong glance at Rao. “We both will.”
“We have bad news,” Rao said. “But not entirely unexpected.” He took his tea; drank fast, as if he didn’t even taste it. “Our food supplies are decreasing fast.”
Malini bit back a curse. Rao was right. She had known this was a possibility. The army was vast, and had to be fed, and supplies from loyal city-states arrived at best unevenly. Her men had begun taking food from Saketan villages and fields by awful necessity. But more often than not, the villages they passed were starving, the fields… wrong.
“Do we have enough food to see us to Parijat?”
It was Lata who answered.
“It’s possible,” she said. “But we will have to be—careful. And we will have to move on Parijat as swiftly as we can.”
Malini left her tent to join the morning war council with her women arrayed around her. She wore her own saber, a gleaming scar of a blade, lightweight enough for her to carry comfortably upon her hip. Lady Raziya and two of her favorite guards, Manvi and Sahar, carried heavier bows at their backs, their gait proud. Together, they walked beneath tasseled parasols held up by attentive Parijati guards, the soldiers going silent or bowing their heads as they passed.
Malini had seen her father walk as she did now, many times, through the halls of the imperial mahal with his sword at his side and his advisors around him, servants and soldiers alike falling into worshipful stillness at the sight. There was satisfaction in following in his footsteps, at least in this.
An emperor’s power lay in the wisdom, loyalty, and clout of his closest confidants—in maintaining ties with highborn men from across the empire. A princess’s power was demonstrated through her adornment: the weight and shine of her jewels, the flowers in her hair, the beauty of her attendants.
And an empress’s power? Well. There had been no empresses before Malini. So she had carved out the rules and requirements of empresshood herself, and hoped that throwing together the authority of one role and the visage of another would be enough.
The war council took place in a vast, circular tent. Near her own seat stood Lord Mahesh, his expression severe. There was no sign of Rao. He had left her, as he often did, long before the war council took place, on his own business.
When Malini entered the space, the men bowed. She arranged herself on the makeshift dais of gold brocade cushions that stood in place of her throne; straightened her spine, and raised her head.
Before Lord Mahesh could rise to his own feet and delve into the minutiae of the negotiation with Saketa’s High Prince that lay ahead of them, another lord stood abruptly. He was from Srugna, but Malini was only vaguely familiar with his face, which was not young but still relatively lineless, and twisted in defiant anger.
“I speak for Srugna,” he announced.
Malini let her gaze linger, momentarily, on the old, familiar lords who sat behind him. By the uneasy—but unsurprised—looks on their faces, he didnotspeak for Srugna. But he was not acting entirely out of turn either. Lord Prakash, seated behind him, watched with shrewd, thoughtful eyes. Waiting to see what she would do in the face of a challenge to her power, no doubt.
Malini said nothing. She let her gaze fix on the lord once more, as he clenched and unclenched his hands, waiting for her to respond. As if he had the right to her ear. He had already erred, by standing out of turn, by demanding to be heard, by showing her and her council disrespect. Let him continue to lay the wood for his own pyre, if he liked.
Everything about him was clean and polished, the fabric of his tunic new and cut in the latest court style set by the king of Srugna himself, with a narrow sash and angular darts of bright fabric at the shoulder. His skin was pale brown. She glanced at his collar and at his wrists, but no lighter strip of skin was visible.
He was new. Fresh to the war for Parijatdvipa, and full of his own self-importance. Even the highborn who zealously protected their skin had turned sun-brown at the face and hands, after long enough traveling in the open.
The Srugani had sent supplies a mere half month ago. This man must have come with them. Who knew what poison had been poured into his ear, in the Srugani court, before he had come to join Malini, fresh coin and fresh soldiers at his command?
It would be interesting to find out.
“We cannot afford to be generous to the High Prince,” the Srugani lord said, when Malini merely stared at him. “If you insist on forgiving a traitor, Empress, Srugna may insist on retreating from a foolish war.”
The Srugani lords shifted anxiously. Lord Prakash was the only one who did not squirm. He watched intently, unmoving. But his brow was furrowed.
This threat, then, had not been expected. By him, at least. She was glad he had not condoned it, even if he had not done her the favor of silencing his fellow lord.
To her left, Lord Mahesh was clearing his throat, demanding attention. “You are unfamiliar with war, I think, Lord Rohit. When I have spoken of strategy, you may express your… concerns. But you should not threaten us.” His tone was courteous, but there was a warning in his eyes that the Srugani lord would have been a fool to miss.
