But there was one thing she was sure of, from her time in the field of rot; from her sleepless nights after Ashok’s death; from the whispers that flickered through her, sometimes, in a voice as sweet and rich as a flowering rose.
Oh, sapling.
The waters remembered her.
MALINI
Malini arrived back to the camp with her lungs full of smoke and her body crawling with sense memory: the smell of burning flesh and hair and cloth. The sweetness of ghee and perfume mingling with the char of living women burning. Alori and Narina, on fire before her, the scent of them and the sound of their screams filling her and hollowing her. She nearly fell from the war chariot—would have, if Raziya had not caught her.
Strong hands. Living flesh. At least this woman lived.
“Empress,” Raziya said, holding up Malini so firmly that her hands would surely leave bruises. “The soldiers are watching. Remember yourself.”
They were the words of an elder to a younger woman who had failed herself.Don’t let them see you weak, that voice said, and the strength of it gave Malini the push to remember herself and the person she had to be.
Malini forced herself to nod and straighten, throwing her shoulders back, holding her head high. Guards were running toward her. The battle had not lasted long. The High Prince’s riders had drawn back into the walls of the maze fort swiftly, taking their fire with them—coiling, she’d heard soldiers say frantically, back onto swords and arrows, ready to be used again.
She could see the forces of her army milling about, at loose ends, now that the threat was gone. Whispers of the wordsmothers’ firedrifted into her ears. Seeped like poison into her blood.
She stepped down from the chariot. “Take me to Lord Mahesh,” she said to the nearest guard.
“Yes, Empress,” he said, and turned, clearing a path before her, his companions moving to guide her.
She expected Raziya to follow. But there was nothing but silence behind her, and when she turned, she saw that Raziya had lowered herself to the floor of the chariot, pale, clutching her skull. Malini began to walk to her—and was stopped by a hand on her arm.
“I’ll take her to Lord Khalil, Empress,” a male Dwarali archer said. His eyes were bloodshot from smoke. “She’ll be seen to. I vow it.”
“Don’t take her to her husband,” Malini said. “Take her to a physician.”
“Empress,” he said again, and bowed. Then he walked to Raziya and climbed into the chariot with her.
Malini watched for one heartbeat, then sucked in a breath and forced herself to turn away.
This was a political crisis in the making. There was no time to indulge her own finer feelings—to allow herself to worry, or wait, or feel the clawing voice at the back of her skull that howledfire, fire, fire, fire. Like ghosts, her heart sisters flickered before her eyes. So she thought instead of what must be done, here and now, to shore up her defenses. She thought of what actions she could take, in order to see her continue on her journey toward the throne. She pressed the thoughts into her own skin like a mask, like something that could stop her from flying apart.
She found herself in Lord Mahesh’s own tent.
She wanted to tell him to summon Rao for her. To find Lata, and her military officials, and any Parijatdvipan lords who could be swiftly gathered up. She needed Lord Khalil, and Lord Narayan, and beady-eyed Lord Prakash. She needed to draw her council around herself and plan and strategize and weigh up resources and count the dead. She needed to carve a pathforward.
One look at Lord Mahesh’s grimly furious face as he shouldered through the tent’s curtain told her that none of that would be possible. Not yet.
“Empress,” he said, voice rough with smoke. “We must speak alone.”
“Wearealone, Lord Mahesh,” she said.
His gaze flicked to the guards.
“Leave us,” she announced, waving a hand at her guards. They hesitated for a moment, but Malini gestured once more, and said evenly, “Lord Mahesh will ensure I am safe. Go. Stand beyond the door.”
It was only when they were gone—taking up posts outside the tent as ordered, of that Malini had no doubt—that Malini allowed herself to inspect Mahesh more closely. His face was cut—a long line of blood snaked across his cheek. His clothing was torn. Ash had stained the Parijati white of his tunic a dull gray.
Mahesh stared back at her, his eyes narrowed, red from the miasma of smoke.
Lord Mahesh had served her ably since his appointment. But now she looked at him and thought of how he had not sounded the conch on the battlefield—how she had, in all her helpless panic, been forced to risk her own life to do it.
As if hearing her thoughts, he spoke.
“You should not have sounded retreat, Empress,” he said. “That was a grave error.”
