“Lord Narayan,” she said, finding his face among the lords present. “I am so sorry for your loss. Prince Prem was a great friend to my brother Aditya. I greatly admired him.”
“Thank you, princess,” the young man said, suddenly somber. “It is a great sorrow to us to lose him.”
“I grieve with you,” Malini murmured. She crossed the room toward him, each step slow and deliberate.
As she did, she looked at each of them in turn. “You seem ill at ease, my lords.”
The Dwarali lord was the one who spoke first. “We thought Emperor Aditya would return with an army.” His mouth was unsmiling. “But it is not to be, I see.”
Malini shook her head. “I could not bring him an army,” she said. “Only myself. But I will do all I can, my lords, to see him upon his throne.”
“Perhaps now,” one of the Srugani lords murmured, ire in his voice, “he’ll consider giving us the war we came for.”
She exhaled a breath. Turn of the neck, just so, to emphasize the flowers of lac bound in her hair. She was an imperial princess of Parijat. That carried weight.
“Believe me, good lords,” Malini said, with a demure lowering of her lashes, even as she kept her spine straight, her shoulders a firm line. “My brother Aditya will see your old glory restored. You will have what you once had. Control of your own kingdoms. Places of authority and respect in the imperial court. The glory of the empire, molded by loyalty, will be as it once was.”
And that was why they were here, wasn’t it? They were bound to belong to Chandra’s remade, twisted Parijatdvipa—bound by the same oaths their ancestors had taken to repay the bloody, terrible sacrifice of the mothers who had formed Parijatdvipa in the first place. The sacredness of that promise still echoed through Parijatdvipa from those ancient deaths. They wanted only what they had always had—equality, clout, and prosperity—and Malini could ensure that Aditya provided that.
Better a weak emperor, they no doubt thought. Better a reticent emperor who wishes to be a priest than a zealot who will take what is ours and make it his own.
“And when,” said the same Srugani lord, “will we have all we’ve been promised?”
“The hour is late,” said the Dwarali lord who had first spoken, rising to his feet. “May I guide you back to your room, Princess Malini?”
“I’m not sure that would be wise,” murmured Lata.
But Malini only smiled, and said, “By all means, my lord. Accompany me.”
“You are Lord Khalil,” she said, as they stepped out into the velvet dark, Lata trailing after them. “Lord of the Lal Qila, are you not?”
“I am,” the lord acknowledged.
“Your wife thinks very highly of you, Lord Khalil,” said Malini. “She described your defense of your fortress against the Jagatay with great admiration.”
“And great detail, no doubt. That woman has an unhealthy interest in military strategy.” He gave her a sidelong look. “I know you wrote to Raziya, Princess Malini. She shared many of your letters with me. I was—intrigued.”
“I thought perhaps you had been,” she said. “You’re here, after all.”
Lord Khalil gave a rumbling laugh that was not entirely full of good humor.
“A choice I am beginning to strongly regret. I miss my home. My horses. And this place…” He looked around with distaste. “I would not allow my best horsemen to enter this place,” he said. “We’re hemmed in on all sides. What good are horses on terrain like this?” He waved a hand, in obvious disgust at the profusion of glossy flowers hanging from the rockery. “I wait here at the emperor’s pleasure. But I fear his pleasure is to remain here and meditate.”
“He was kind to wait for me,” said Malini. “Kind and noble, like a highborn of old.”
The lord snorted derisively. “I have little patience for his form of nobility.”
“I appreciate your frankness,” said Malini.
“My apologies. We do not have time for flowery words in Dwarali.”
Malini, who had read his wife’s elegant missives and had once enjoyed Dwarali poetry, refrained from commenting upon this claim.
“How many advisors from Dwarali have been sent home in disgrace?” Malini asked mildly. “And how many executed? To be frank in return, Lord Khalil: Chandra’s form of highborn honor will not favor you. Not as Aditya’s will.”
“Or as yours will,” the lord said. “But you have a point. The burning of women—that was not well liked, I’ll tell you that, princess. But raising your fire priests above the kings and lords who’ve given Parijatdvipa its greatness…” He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “That was ill thought-out.”