“I—I cannot,” Rao said. “Aditya. You know that.”
“Then you will have to trust me,” Aditya said simply. He shrugged the shawl from his arm. Began to fold it with care before placing it upon his sleeping mat. “You have to trust I am obeying the will of the nameless. In this, as in all things I do.”
A memory skittered through Rao’s mind. Prem’s skin, whorled with rot. The shawl knotted at his throat.
Rao swallowed, and swallowed again.
“Muscles long unused atrophy,” said Rao, finally. “And Aditya—it’s been a long, long time since you’ve held a sword with any intent to use it. Or led men to war. Aditya… what are youdoing?”
“Putting on my training garb,” Aditya said, drawing on a tunic. “If you want to see that my proficiency with a sword is still intact…”
“I don’t want to spar.”
“Don’t you?”
There was a ghost of a smile on Aditya’s usually passive face. Not a priestly smile—all compassion and knowing and soft edges—but something a little more barbed. As if all that had passed before the war council had woken some part of the old Aditya up.
“I’ll beat you,” Rao said, after a beat of fumbling silence.
“With a saber? I don’t think so. With your daggers, perhaps. But in this, I have the advantage.”
“Atrophy,” Rao said again. “You’re not as you once were.”
For a second, Aditya held his gaze. Then he turned to the exit.
“Come,” he said, striding out. “I’ll prove it to you.”
“I don’t want an audience,” said Rao, instead of sayingYou shouldn’t be doing this.That kind of sentence never went down well.
“Then we’ll go somewhere quiet.” A pause. “Do you know somewhere quiet?”
The area of land they walked to—that Rao led them to—had been cordoned off from the rest by walls of tents. It was private enough for training away from prying eyes, and was often used for exactly that purpose. Rao grasped one of the sabers used for practice. It was clean and oiled, its edge sharp—soldiers were punished for allowing blades to dull—but its weight was unfamiliar in Rao’s hand. Hewasmore comfortable with his daggers. And when he used a saber, it was usually one of his own, crafted for his own hand. He hefted the borrowed weapon, adjusting to the feel of it.
Aditya was also reaching for a training blade.
“What are you doing?” Rao asked.
“Ensuring we have a fair fight,” Aditya replied.
“You’re not my equal in battle any longer, Aditya,” said Rao. “Use your own saber. It won’t be enough for you to win.”
Something flashed in Aditya’s eyes. Maybe some of his old pride resurfacing. Maybe joy in the face of a challenge. Either way, the sight of it made Rao feel giddy.
“We’ll both use shields,” Aditya said, determined.
Rao nodded sharply. Picked up one of the small shields and strapped it to his left hand. Aditya did the same.
They moved to the center of the cordoned space. And Rao… hesitated.
He didn’t know how to begin attacking Aditya. When they were boys, they’d sparred all the time under the watchful eyes of their mentors and sages. So often that Rao had known every move Aditya would make, just by the motion of his hand on the sword, the look on his face.
He didn’t know how Aditya fought anymore. Aditya stood before him, feet planted solidly to the ground, with his saber square before him and his shield raised. He gave Rao a steady look. Waiting.
“You expect me to make the first move?” Rao asked. He moved into a lighter stance, ready for movement—better suited for dagger fighting, he knew. But he couldn’t change his nature. “This is your chance to prove your strength—won’t you take it?”
Aditya’s eyes narrowed.
“Fine,” he said. And punched forward with his shield.
