And his people were a council of a kind, canny enough to help him maintain his own network of spies and allies, across the highborn households of Parijatdvipa. Even the regent’s household, which was irritatingly difficult to infiltrate.
Speaking of. He did not think Meena had been interrogated. But he could not be sure. Better to be cautious than see more of their number dead. “You should go to the mahal. See if there’s anything more to be learned about her death.”
Kritika swallowed. Inclined her head. She turned to walk away, and Ashok halted her, placing a hand upon her shoulder. “I grieve her too,” he said.
“I know.” Kritika lowered her eyes. “I don’t doubt you,” she added, in a rising tone that denoted respect. “But…”
She trailed off. Ashok looked at her face—how drawn it was, the way even the wrinkles upon it seemed like bands of pain—and said, “Tell me.”
“Sarita is ailing,” Kritika said reluctantly. “And Bhavan is—not long for this world.”
Two more. Two more weapons, trained and lost.
“Then we need to find the deathless waters all the more urgently, for all our sakes.” He pressed his knuckles to his forehead. “Wait a moment, Kritika,” he said. “Let me think for a time.”
Cost and gain. Sacrifice and success. He had lost Meena, lost a mask made of sacred wood, lost a pair of eyes in the general’s mahal and feet upon the Hirana for approximately nothing. This mission had all been sacrifice and cost, with no success or gain to balance its disasters. He had failed.
But as a boy, he’d had truths bred into his bones by loyalty to a higher vision, a vision that was pitiless in its demands. He turned to those truths now. They stared back at him in return, unblinking, all-knowing.
All failure was born from weakness. This was truth. He had known better than to send Meena on a task that required both patience and cunning. She was—she had been—too rash and too fierce, too openhearted. And she had known she was dying. She had known they were all dying. Desperation had undone her. And as her leader, he should have known it would.
But Ashok had wanted her to succeed. He had wanted it because she had reminded him of another girl and another time, of hopes sacrificed, and he had thought, If Meena is even a shadow of her…
He lowered his hand. Kritika waited, quiet and watchful. “I have been a fool,” he said finally.
Sentimentality had its place when it served a function; when it helped achieve the greater ideal of an Ahiranya free and powerful, as it had once been. But his love—no. The blood tenderness of it was nothing but weakness.
Love had led him astray and wasted Meena’s life. Even now, his weak nature quailed at the thought of doing what was necessary. Even now, he thought of a night long ago, when he had kneeled under the wavering light of lanterns, his hands upon bird-bone-thin shoulders. His sister’s shoulders.
He remembered telling her a lie. Wait here, he’d said. And I’ll come back for you. I promise.
She’d looked at him with such trust. He’d never forgotten that look.
“There is a maidservant in the regent’s household. A woman named Priya. Tell our newest addition to bring her to me. The resistance has need of her.”
He had tried to save her once. He had let her go. He had set loyal eyes on her now and again, and through them, he had watched as she had grown up without him. He’d believed he could let her live free of the purpose that held him constantly by the throat. But he could not be weak any longer. He had felt her in the sangam. She had been there when Meena had died. There was strength in her now—so much power, more than she had possessed in all the years he’d kept watch on her—and he could use her.
If only he had made this decision sooner. If only he had told Meena to reach out to her, to ally with her. But no matter. There was still a way forward. He could still turn his sister’s gifts to his own ends.
Ahiranya was worth any price. Even her.
VIKRAM
Late nights were often a requirement of Vikram’s role as regent of Ahiranya, and they were at times a pleasure. Other times they were a burden. Sometimes, like tonight, they were both.
Tonight, Vikram was playing the diplomat, entertaining one of the low princes of Saketa, Prince Prem, who had been merrily holed up in a brothel in a neighborhood of disrepute, drinking and whoring with a few of his men and a handful of disreputable noble cousins. According to the complex rules of Saketan blood lineage, Prem was considered a first cousin of the high prince who ruled his city-state, and was therefore of similar status to Vikram. Despite his role as regent of Ahiranya, Vikram did not possess a jot of highborn blood. Everything he’d earned under the last emperor, Sikander, he had earned in his own right as a general of Parijatdvipa.