“I understand that things are sensitive right now,” Zeyar said slowly, “but to wait a couple ofmonths? Captain, you assured me that I could bring him home tonight.”
“Plans change.” Montrose examined one shirt cuff. “The best I can do is promise not to have him moved to a high-security prison. So long as he agrees to testify against her, of course.”
“He will,” Zeyar said. “But?—”
“Is there a problem?” Richard locked eyes with him. “Remember, to join the House of Representatives, you need to be sponsored by one of the lords on the Council?—and last I checked, my father is the only offer you have.”
He hesitated, still seething at Richard’s duplicity.As if I have any other choice.“No, Captain.”
Richard beamed, pouring him another ounce of whiskey. “Excellent. I knew I could count on you, Zephyr.”
He smiled painfully. “It’sZeyar, Captain.”
“Zeyar,” Richard drawled, butchering the pronunciation. “When my father formally sponsors you as representative, do you want him to stumble over your name? People in the House will whisper to each other, trying to figure out what he said, and then you’ve lost your chance to make an impression right out of the gate. Your lack of status and legitimate wealth already alienate you from the other representatives. This can’t be helped, but a name is easily replaced. You can either be flexible, and give them a strong, Welkish name that they will remember, or you can continue to be Zeyar. Who are you going to be?”
He balked. As the first-born, his grandfather, Manoj Devar, had been the one to name him. He’d chosenZeyarfor the second-last maharaja of Viryana, a powerful man who had brought the country to its peak.You will be a great man, a leader just like the maharaja,his grandfather had prophesied. Zeyar fought the urge to bite his cheek.Great leaders made sacrifices.That was another one of his grandfather’s maxims.This is a sacrifice,he told himself.He would understand.
“Zephyr,” he said. “But I’m keeping my last name. That, I won’t budge on.” He wouldn’t relinquish his grandfather’s last name, not after the promise he had made to him.
“Suit yourself,” Richard said. “If there’s nothing else you need?”
Zeyar knew a dismissal when he saw one. “That’s all, Captain.” He bowed his head. “If it’s acceptable, I’ll take my leave.”
He walked back to his car, his hand hovering over the handle. Normally, he’d have gone to the apartment that he shared with his brothers. But now that they were estranged, whom did that space belong to? He had a key, and just as much right to the property as the other two, but the thought of returning to that place didn’t sit right.
No. He could go home when he proved the others wrong. He could go home once he’d achieved what he’d set out to achieve: winning back his brother and securing a place of power for his kin in the House of Representatives. He’d spend tonight in a room somewhere. Tomorrow, he’d start looking for a new place for himself.
As he unpacked his bags in the sparsely furnished inn, it occurred to him that he was alone?—truly alone. Paranjay was still incarcerated, he’d broken Ma’s heart, and his only free brother had disowned him. And Harithi... Zeyar wasn’t sure what she would make of his actions when Hasan told her, but he knew she would react with the same indifferent countenance that she usually wore. He wondered if she would pardon him eventually, or if what he’d done was unforgivable to her as well. He shook his head. Her forgiveness didn’t matter.
Hasan, their mother, Harithi?—they didn’t understand. None of them did. Their life of crime would not protect them, though the money had insulated them as much as possible. The only viable move was to join respectable Welkish society. The only other person who’d even come close to understanding had been his grandfather, who had spent most of his last days bemoaning the way he was to go: quietly, without the royal fanfare he believed he was due.
“We are daivyakt! We can trace our ancestry back to the Rais,” he’d raved to Zeyar in one of his final, feverish fits. “The Welks, they’ve stripped this country of its agency. Our forefathers would weep to see it as it is... to see me as I am. Don’t let them strip us of what little dignity we have left. Promise me, boy: You will not let this family fall any lower.”
“I promise,” Zeyar had vowed, clutching his grandfather’s hand until he stilled at last.
As he curled up on the hard mattress, he took comfort in the fact that he was one step closer to fulfilling the promise he’d made to his grandfather. It didn’t matter if his family did not want his help?—he would still use his new position to uplift their name.
Chapter Thirty-Two
An Offering of Anger
Hasan kneeled in front of the pantheon at dawn, his hands empty in front of him. Normally, he’d give the gods coin or food. But for what he was planning, he’d need far more power than what his usual offerings got him.
It was unfortunate, then, that he had nothing left. He’d lost Paranjay. He’d lost Poppy. And now, he’d lost Zeyar.
No, that wasn’t true. Zeyar had betrayed Hasan, and Hasan was the one who was lost.
He burned to go back to the city, find Zeyar, and ruin him. He’d raze his elder brother’s political aspirations until they were nothing more than ash. Zeyar deserved to lose everything, just as he had.
The only thing he had left to offer the gods was his anger.
He pulled out his wallet, removing a creased photograph of himself, Paranjay, and Zeyar as boys, taken at their grandfather’s request. It must have cost the old man a small fortune to hire a photographer, but he had insisted on having a picture of the next generation of Devars.
“Every royal family has a set of portraits,” Manoj Devar had claimed.
“We aren’t royalty, Baba.” Hasan’s father had laughed. “We’re criminals.”
The old man hadn’t found it funny. “We can trace our ancestry back to the Rais,” he said. “Our people ruled this island once, and they will again. Mark my words.”
