The earth shuddered. She’d done too much. Already, too much, as the chariot rolled, the horses screamed.
Fell, fell, fell—
Back into cosmic waters. Back into waiting arms.
“Sapling,” the yaksa whispered. “Your debt has come due.”
RAO
The sun had faded, the sky white-gray with the falling night, when they finally stopped to rest. Prince Kunal was untied, on Rao’s orders. Kunal rubbed his wrists, flexed his fingers to get the blood moving. He considered running—Rao could tell, from the back-and-forth flick of his gaze and the tension in his shoulders—but he clearly thought better of it. Rao’s men were, after all, watching him in return.
Rao helped to settle the horses and start the campfire, then kneeled down in front of him. He placed food and water in front of Kunal, and watched the prince frown and lower his head.
“Drink,” said Rao. “You must be thirsty. If you won’t eat, at least do that.” He waited. Kunal did not move. “It’s only water,” Rao told him then. “I’ll drink first, if it’ll put your mind at ease.”
“I don’t know what you hope to do with me,” the prince rasped, still not touching the flask. “But I’m no use to you. I have nothing for you.”
Not true, and surely they both knew it. There was a hunted look in Prince Kunal’s eyes. The light of the campfire flickered over his face in golden scars.
“I heard of your sister’s marriage,” Rao said eventually. “Congratulations.” He watched Kunal’s mouth tighten. “Perhaps you don’t want my congratulations,” Rao added carefully, and watched that mouth tighten an increment further.
“I have nothing useful to tell you,” Kunal said again through gritted teeth.
“Emperor Chandra is a difficult man,” Rao said. “He always has been.”
Silence.
“I’ve only met you once before,” Rao continued. “You won’t remember it. You’re a few years younger than me, I think. How old were you when your father took you to Harsinghar as a child? Five? Six?”
“Tell me your name,” Prince Kunal demanded.
“Prince Rao. A son of the King of Alor.”
Kunal gave a jerky laugh.
“A nameless prince,” he said. “Thenameless prince.”
“Not nameless,” Rao said quietly. “Everyone knows my name now. But Rao will do.”
“Then Rao. Prince Rao, I beg you: Let me go. I have no army with me. You’ve killed the few men I had. I am no danger to you.”
Rao swallowed the guilt that burned at the back of his throat. He had no reason for guilt, he knew: Prince Kunal’s men had not been willing to surrender, and Rao’s purpose was far too important for him to allow them to live. He had killed before, and he would kill again. That was necessary in war. It didn’t stop him from feeling as he did.
“I can’t allow you to return to your father,” Rao said gently. “And I can’t simply allow you to run off into the distance. Where would you go?”
“I have nowhere to go,” said Kunal. “And that is why—that is why you have no reason to keep me.”
“We’re both highborn. Both royal. So I know very well that we were not raised to survive with nothing and rebuild ourselves, Prince Kunal. If I let you run, I’m condemning you. And I would rather not.”Not unless I have to, he thought grimly.And not without getting something of worth out of you before I do.“I would rather make you my ally.”
“You said yourself. My sister is wed to the emperor.” His voice was flat. “My father is loyal to him. And I am loyal to my father.”
But not, Rao noted, loyal directly to Chandra. Good.
“There are many Saketan highborn who have allied themselves to Empress Malini,” Rao told him. “And many of them once fought our empress on the battlefield. There is no shame in changing your allegiance to the true heir to the Parijatdvipan crown. No shame in ensuring that you inherit your father’s throne—”
A hand gripped sharply at Rao’s wrist. He heard the hiss of steel as his men drew their daggers.
“You have news about my father,” Kunal said. His voice was tight, eyes wide. “You have news about Saketa—the city. Tell me, please.”
