Part of me wanted to make him wait?—to let him sit and feel the weight of his decisions?—but I made myself sit by his side. He didn’t react to my presence. The heavy turban had left his sweaty curls matted against his head, and every part of his face dragged down, from the corners of his mouth to the wrinkles around his eyes.
“I never wanted this throne,” he said. “It belonged to your mother. It is destined to be Ektha’s. I just sit there to keep it safe until she feels ready to take her rightful place.”
“I never wanted a throne either,” I said. “All my life, you’ve told me my duty is to serve Ullal?—to stay by Ektha’s side, to offer her my sword, and to help her in any way I can. And now you want me to go to Banghervari so I can... what? Sit on a throne and look pretty?”
Silence hung between me and my uncle, but a breeze passed through the open windows and carried the aromas of the neglected food. My stomach growled.
The tension between us broke as my uncle fought the smile tickling the edge of his mouth. He glanced at the food-laden table and nudged my side. We went and filled our plates to the brim with bonda. The battered, deep-fried mashed potato balls exploded with the flavors of coriander, mustard, and ground peppercorns in every bite. Our chefs must have accounted for my uncle’s love for spice with this batch, and I was grateful for the cool coconut chutney they served on the side.
We ate in silence, chewing on our thoughts as much as we did the food.
After my uncle cleared his plate?—shockingly quickly given the mountain of bonda he’d served himself?—he spoke again. “Lakshmappa is a valuable ally. But the young raja likes the easy life. If he sees a convenient way out of a problem, he’ll take it. We can’t risk him giving in to the Porcugi. If they are victorious there, it will stabilize their presence, and they will be further emboldened. Eventually, Ullal will fall.”
A few bonda still rolled on my plate, but I put it aside as I countered him. “If the Porcugi are that dangerous, I should stay here. Ektha is no warrior. She will need me to fight and protect Ullal.”
The raja’s expression did not change. “Many people would gladly take up arms and fight for me, for your sister, and for our nation. What we need are more allies who will help us stand up and resist the Porcugi.”
“I’m not arguing about the value of allies.” I looked up at the imposing throne, decorated in all its finery and carrying the weight of a nation on its frame. I had no place on such a perch. “But why not negotiate a different deal with Banghervari? Marriage doesn’t have to be a part of it.”
“No bond, no other arrangement, will be as strong as a marriage. No man of honor would allow his wife’s nation to fight alone if under siege.”
I stared forward without actually looking at anything. I could see my future in front of me, shackled by my vows at the side of an annoyingly handsome but even more irritatingly spineless man. “So you are asking me to marry a coward who loves the easy life in the hope that our union will give him enough of a reason to fight?”
My uncle sat taller, and his shoulders stiffened. “Do not mistake me. I am not asking.”
Goose bumps covered my arms, but I did not cower. I lowered my voice, forcing him to listen carefully to each word. “If you wanted me to be a bauble, you never should have given me a blade.”
Chapter 9
The lavender gray of early dawn lingered in the skies as I tiptoed across the diamond-patterned dhurrie rug at the base of my bed. Nobody had come up yet, so I could get ready in peace. I ignored the sari and blouse that had been laid out for me and went to a zigzagging rosewood screen in the corner of my room. Thankfully, the heavy satinwood trunk I’d kept there was still undisturbed.
My fingers glided over the pine inlays carved into intricate hibiscus blossoms, and I grunted as I lifted the heavy lid. A rainbow of brightly colored embroidered cloth greeted me within. This trunk contained many of my favorite outfits?—the lehenga cholis I had worn until about a year ago. After my sister’s wedding, I became eligible for marriage and was expected to wear saris daily. But no sari could compare to the comfort of the short-cropped tops and long skirts that had been stuffed into this trunk at my uncle’s command.
I dug through the clothes until I found my favorite: a plain, sea green blouse and a billowing skirt in matching fabric with white leaves and gold birds embroidered all over it. The golden dupatta was patterned with small white flowers, and I threw the long piece of cloth over my shoulder as I finished getting dressed.
Instinctively, I reached for my bangles and payal but decided against them. They would make too much noise, and I didn’t want to attract attention. There was only one thing I really needed before I left: my tambura. Dawn’s soft light enhanced its glossy jackwood, giving it a warm luster. I ran my fingers over the four-stringed instrument fondly before picking it up and stepping out into the hall.
Gripping the strings of my tambura to keep the droning instrument silent, I made my way out of the fort and toward the gardens. The servants and guards that scurried through the halls stopped only to bow to me. None asked where I was going or why I was up this early. No doubt they all had enough to do without worrying about the whims of a cranky rajkumari, but I was thankful for their indifference. And their silence.
The morning mist still sprinkled the ground, wetting my feet as I made my way to the fort’s gardens. Green leaves shone with the gloss of dew as the sun peeked over the horizon, and I relished the stillness of the grounds. The gardens ran from the side of the fort all the way to the back wall that abutted the cliff above our port. Gulls squawked as they circled in the skies and then disappeared beyond the wall as they dived into the sea in search of their breakfast.
I passed through the marble archway to the gardens and walked the winding paths to the farthest seaside wall. It was covered in madhumalti vines, and clusters of spiky pink flowers hung in clumps, filling the air with their powdery, sweet scent. Bees buzzed in their desperate search for any remaining nectar in the blossoms, which had opened at dusk. When I reached the far corner of the wall, I checked over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching before I moved a clump of vines to reveal a ringed door handle.
I threw my weight into the hidden door, and it creaked open, leading me into a secluded stepwell. The large rectangular area was hollowed deep into the earth. It had stone walls on all four sides and was filled with water at the bottom, where pink-and-white lotuses bobbed in the reflection of the sky. With one hand gripping the neck of my tambura and another running along the wall, I descended the stairs that zigzagged down to the base.
When I reached the bottom, I inhaled deeply, embracing the cool, moist air that filled me. My favorite platform was just above the water’s edge, and I climbed onto it, making sure not to scratch or jostle my tambura. Here, facing away from the entrance, I could imagine myself sitting in a world of my own. The wind rustled above, but down here it was just me, the water, and the flowers.
And an adaiman.
I chuckled. “How did you find me already? I haven’t even started playing.”
He cocked his head at me, fanning his feathers out behind him, and he waited.
“Fine, keep your secrets.” I sat cross-legged and strummed my tambura, wincing as the twanging strings sang in dissonance. “I’ll get started soon. But you have to let me tune first.”
With a chirp of acknowledgment, the adaiman settled into a spot on the platform, just beyond my lehenga’s hem. Its green feathers barely glowed in the dim light of the emerging dawn. Even now, it would be easy to mistake the luminescence for luster. But I knew better.
After tuning until I was satisfied, I played again. The knots in my shoulders relaxed as the strings reverberated in harmony. More adaiman clustered around me, and the first one pecked angrily when another tried to stand between him and me. The newly landed bird scurried to a place at the side.
