“Ah,” said Prem again. “I expect his teachings aren’t popular with kings, then? The high prince wouldn’t much approve of that.”
“His books were burned in Parijat,” said Rao. “And in Alor. In Saketa—”
“So, everywhere,” said Prem.
“Not among sages,” said Lata. But of course, Lata was a sage herself, and they would never burn books. It was anathema to their calling.
“Have you read him, then?”
“No,” said Lata. “I don’t care for that brand of philosophy, particularly.”
“I’d hoped that we could use what the rebels have,” said Rao. “I hoped… well. It doesn’t matter now.”
“The rebels are masked brutes,” Prem said. “They want to tear down Parijatdvipan rule, Rao. They want the good old days of the Age of Flowers back.” His lip curled, a little. No scion of a city-state of Parijatdvipa thought of the Age of Flowers, the era before the mothers defeated the yaksa, with anything resembling nostalgia. “Even if the rebels have the support of highborn Ahiranyi in kicking the rest of us out—what did you want to achieve? We’re hardly here to help the Ahiranyi get their freedom from imperial rule.”
“A way to get her out.”
Prem exhaled again. “Always that.”
“Of course,” said Rao. “Of course.”
Prem did not call Rao a fool. Not over this. Perhaps he pitied Rao too much to do it. Instead he said, “I’m sorry. I know how much she means to you.”
As always, embarrassment curdled in Rao’s stomach at the thought that Prem—that anyone—misunderstood the situation.
“But you’ve done all you can,” Prem was saying. “And so have I. The regent won’t see me again.” Another curl of smoke. “A shame, really. Emperor Chandra will replace that one soon enough. And Lord Santosh is a damn idiot. He’ll just be Chandra’s puppet—setting a new bunch of poor girls on fire and harping on about the purity of Parijati culture, as if the rest of us are as low as the Ahiranyi and need to be led.”
But there were other people in Ahiranya who could prove useful, Rao thought. Nobility who were not as likely to lose their positions as the regent. Ahiranyi highborn, who were perhaps funding rebels—rebels who could be utilized to support a coup against Chandra and see Princess Malini freed.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here,” Lata said, the familiar disapproval of her voice almost a balm. “Go outside, Prem.”
“Is he such an invalid?”
“No,” said Lata. “But I don’t like the scent of it. Go.”
“As the sage orders,” Prem said, inclining his head with a smile. He turned to go, wreathed in smoke. He lowered the pipe. Looked back.
“Rao,” he said. “You know Aditya needs us. You know Parijatdvipa needs us to make sure the right brother sits on the throne. Emperor Aditya. Imagine that.”
Rao said nothing. He had imagined it. But it was Aditya’s fault that that vision hadn’t yet come to pass.
“Just…” Prem exhaled. “I’m going to him. As soon as the festival falls. You should come with me. He’ll need you. You’ve done all you can to save her. And so have I.”
“Have we?” Rao said.
“Yes,” Prem said. He smiled again, something sad in the uptick of his mouth. “We have.”
Rao wanted to argue, and he knew Prem was ready to respond in kind, but Lata interjected.
“Prince Prem,” she said. “Let my patient rest.”
Silence. Then, “I’ll be back later, Rao.”
Rao lay back and closed his eyes as Lata moved around the room, murmuring to herself about clean linens and boiled water.
He thought of Malini, up in that prison. So close, but too far for any of them to reach her.
He thought of the letter she’d written to him. A hasty, tear-stained scrawl, not in court Dvipan, not even in the shared common Parijatdvipan tongue of Zaban, but in the modern, city Aloran his sister had taught her. The letter had been delivered by a handmaiden with haunted eyes. She’d been bribed with Malini’s last scrap of gold. Her mother’s wedding bangles.
The letter had ash upon it. Salt and ash.
Chandra is sending me to Ahiranya.
And there, underlined, a quiet desperation in the curve of every letter:
Save me.
Lata kneeled down beside him. He opened his eyes. She looked pinched and tired.
“Will you leave, then?” Lata asked quietly.