“We should not be here,” the lord burst out. A fool after all. “We should be in Parijat, dragging that dog from his throne. We did not come here to sacrifice our men and our coin to the squabbles between the High Prince and his low kin.”
The Saketan princes stood abruptly, one sea of buzzing, angry movement.
“The High Prince is a traitor,” one said sharply. “Allied with that dog. We fought for the empress in Dwarali. We fought in Alor. And in return, he seized our lands, our ancestral villages, our taxes. But we would rather win than face unnecessary strife. You thinkSrugnahas a right to demand blood from Saketa’s highborn?”
“Rohit,” one of the Srugani lords murmured, trying to quell him—far too late, in Malini’s opinion.
“You would be starving without Srugna,” Lord Rohit retorted. “You needed the food from my estates. A significant portion of my crop, taken—and what has Srugna had in return? What? We deserve—”
“You jumped-up fool, you deserve nothing!”
“Enough,” Malini said.
The men fell silent. Good. At least she had power enough still for that.
“We cannot enter Parijat with the threat of Saketa at our backs,” she said, calm and even. Let the truth speak for her. It was implacable, inescapable, and they were—nearly all of them—seasoned warriors. Let them recognize it for themselves. “We cannot leave our allies without peace on their own lands.”
She did not say:We bargained for the loyalty of these low princes, when we fought Chandra’s forces in Dwarali, as he threw wave after wave of soldiers against the walls of the Lal Qila, breaking them like waves upon the rocks.She did not say:If I break my word, my bond, our efforts to see Chandra deposed will come to nothing.
This Lord Rohit was owed no explanation from her.
So instead, she said, “Perhaps the Srugani lords wish to inform this lord how he has erred.”
“I,” began Lord Rohit. His words died as Prakash laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, urging him back down to his seat. The Srugani contingent were gray-faced, jaws tight with embarrassment and anger. Whatever they had hoped to achieve by sending forward Lord Rohit with his bluster and righteous rage, they had not achieved it.
“Empress,” said Lord Prakash. He bowed his head. “Lord Rohit meant no harm. If you will show forgiveness…”
The Srugani lord’s speech faded as Aditya entered the room.
Malini’s eldest brother was dressed, as always, like a priest of the nameless, in a pale blue dhoti, his long dark hair uncovered and tied neatly behind his back. But in place of the traditional shawl over a bare torso, he wore a tight tunic, padded with fabric and panels of metal. Clothing for battle.
This was the only concession he had given to the world he had been unwillingly dragged back into. He would not seek to take Chandra’s place upon the throne; would not be the imperial crown prince he had once been, before a vision from the nameless god had led him to a life in the priesthood. But he could not be simply a priest any longer. The saber at his belt, strange against the pale worship blue of his dhoti, clinked as he bowed to Malini, then kneeled at her right.
Malini kept her eyes fixed on the Srugani. Waited, with stony patience, until Lord Prakash remembered himself.
“Our most sincere apologies.” Whatever speech he’d intended to make was reduced to one phrase. He bowed again, and at an unsubtle kick to his knee, Lord Rohit scrambled to his feet and bowed also, before lowering himself once more.
In her position, Chandra would have had Lord Rohit’s tongue torn from his throat, or arranged him a slow and brutal execution. Her brother had never taken kindly to slights to his pride.
But Malini did not have the luxury of such careless cruelty, and her anger burned colder and slower than Chandra’s ever had. She nodded instead, allowing it, and thought,When this is done, and Parijatdvipa is mine, I will remember you.
“Lord Mahesh,” Malini said. “Please continue.”
After a moment, Mahesh began to speak, and laid out the task ahead of them.
As Malini approached her chariot, her army parted around her. Half her forces, arrayed in their armor, kept their eyes on her. She kept her gaze forward and her head high. She could not look afraid.
This was not meant to be a battle. It felt like one. She felt the battle in the pounding of her heart as she climbed into her chariot; in the way her senses sharpened, knife-keen. She heard the creak of the metal beneath her feet, the quiet shudder of her chariot’s canopy in the wind. The clatter of hooves as her armed riders surrounded her: a sea of cavalry, carrying Parijatdvipan banners, painfully white under the beating sun.
Lady Raziya rose up onto the chariot beside her, bow in hand. Her guardswomen, on horseback, arranged themselves smoothly into a sickle formation around the chariot.
To their right, Malini’s general rose onto his own chariot. Lord Mahesh met her eyes. He gave her a grave nod.
She grasped the rail of the chariot. Her charioteer had his ear turned toward her. Waiting.
“Signal the men,” she said to Lord Mahesh.
The chariot shuddered forward. The clatter of armor and hooves filled the air as her army moved across flat, dusty terrain, under a gleaming blue sky, toward the High Prince’s fort.
