He bowed again, and swiftly left the tent before he could yell at her.
By the nameless, did she want him to be a traitor? Was that what she wanted?
She wants you to be more like her, a voice in his head said. It was his own, but calm, reasonable, devoid of the strength of feeling currently coursing through him.
She wants you do to everything you’re capable of to achieve her ends.
Somehow, without meaning to, he did not walk back to his own sleeping tent. Did not seek out the military officials who served the Aloran branch of the army, who always had need of him for something. Did nothing, in fact, that would make him useful.
Instead, his feet led him to Aditya.
Even in the thick of battle, Aditya’s tent was a tranquil pool, a place of peace carved out on the edges of war. It was untouched. The smoke-darkness roiling around them barely seemed to brush its edges.
One of the guards gave him a nod of respect.
“Shall I announce you, my lord? Arrange refreshments?”
“No need,” said Rao, and entered.
Aditya had clearly been praying. There was a water basin on the ground before him, its surface black and utterly still, as reflective as glass and as dark as night. His head was lowered over it. When he raised it, his eyes were as dark as the water, his expression unfathomable. It took a moment for humanity to return to his face—for his eyes to light up with recognition, and his shoulders to soften, the tension leaching away from them. “Rao,” he said softly. “Come in.”
He was sitting cross-legged on a floor mat, in nothing but his plainest blue priestly shawl and dhoti. The tent was dim, unlit, though Rao could see Aditya reaching automatically for an oil lamp, preparing to set it alight. His steady hands struck a spark, lit the cotton wick. Light illuminated his face: his elegant bones, his dark eyes, his serious brows.
Rao relaxed at the sight of him. He could not help it.
“You look surprised to see me,” said Rao.
“You’re not the usual visitor I receive at this hour,” said Aditya. “But you are the most welcome. Besides, the guards usually announce you.”
Rao shook his head.
“I told them not to,” he said. “I wanted it to be just us. I…”
Rao collapsed. It was a controlled fall, as collapses went—his knees jarring the ground, his breath leaving him. He’d been waiting to break. He wouldn’t have another chance.
“Rao,” Aditya said, alarmed. He moved to kneel by Rao’s side. Aditya’s hands clasped Rao’s shoulders, and he said, “Are you well? Breathe with me. Here.”
A hand pressed to Rao’s chest. Rising, falling. After a moment, Rao breathed with the motion of it. He felt sick with relief, and sick with fear both.
“There,” Aditya murmured. “There. Breathe with me. You’re well.”
“Surely you’ve smelled the smoke,” Rao managed to say.
Aditya nodded, almost imperceptibly. But Rao caught the gesture. As his face moved, the light painted it. There were deep shadows under his eyes.
“Has my sister burned the city?” Aditya asked. He said it with resignation, as if he expected it of her.
“No,” Rao said. “No.”
How could he even begin to explain it?
He tried. He told Aditya, haltingly, about what he’d seen during the siege. The men, uneasy, waiting for word, as negotiations took place. The sudden sight of swords and arrows wreathed with flame.
The fire. The strangeness of it. The attempt against Malini’s life.
Aditya nodded, expression grave. He knew, even better than Rao, the significance of magical fire.
“It was a game Chandra and I used to play, you know,” Aditya said finally. “When we were small boys. When we were still training with blunted weapons. The two of us, flinging ourselves into battle with our swords, imagining they were burning with magical fire. That we were mother-blessed.”
