Khalida brought the shawl over. It was plain, but well made from very fine and sturdy wool. It would keep him warm without showing stains easily. She placed it over his shoulders, telling him so.
She realized he was shaking.
“Rukh,” she said, and he startled. “There is no need to fear,” she told him gently. “We are at the heart of the mahal, and well protected. All will be well. You will be well.”
The boy nodded slowly, not meeting her eyes. He wrapped the shawl tighter around himself, touching the cloth as if it were precious, priceless. More worthy than his own skin.
A guard rapped on the doors and strode in.
“My lady,” he said. “He’s here.”
Bhumika rose as swiftly as she could, which was not half as swiftly as she would have liked.
“Take me to him,” she said.
Vikram was lying on the bed in his private chambers, his tunic removed. A physician was rebandaging a fresh wound in his side, a cut that was deep and bloody. He looked up at her and Bhumika exhaled, a wordless noise of relief and of horror. “Husband,” she said, and moved to sit by his side. Vikram took her hand in his own. He smelled of smoke and blood.
“I am glad,” he said brokenly, “so glad you were not there.”
He told her everything. Lord Iskar had been celebrating the birth of his son. It had been a beautiful event. Then the rebels had attacked.
“And Lord Santosh?” she asked.
“Unharmed,” he said. “He insisted on leading a force into the city to search for the rebels.” His jaw tightened visibly with frustration and pain. “I tried to stop him, but my wound hindered me.”
“Were the rebels found?” she asked. But that was not what she really wanted to know. What had Santosh done in the city, with no oversight from her husband? How many innocent bystanders had he injured? How many homes and businesses had he damaged? How much destruction had followed in his wake? Frustration and anger gripped her at the reality that her injured husband could not lead the charge; that Santosh was accordingly gaining power more swiftly than she had even expected he would.
“I don’t know. I have sent men to follow him. I’ll have news of the damage soon enough,” Vikram said grimly. “But for now, I remain in ignorance. I could not leave. I could not follow him. I remained with Lord Iskar’s body after—his wife…” He swallowed spasmodically. “There was so much blood.” His voice was choked. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t speak of this to you.”
“Lord Iskar is dead?” Bhumika knew her horror had bled into her voice once more.
“Yes.”
“And his wife?”
“Yes. Among others. Yes.”
She made appropriately soothing sounds of comfort, brushing her thumb over his hand, even as her mind raced.
She thought of Ashok with fury.
“What happens now?” She kept her voice low. She tried to sound as if she feared for Vikram specifically, and not for anyone or anything else.
“Lord Santosh is already using this tragedy as an opportunity to increase his influence,” said Vikram. “And the emperor… the emperor will want what he always wants.”
“I see,” Bhumika said. “If that is the way of things… what must you do, husband?”
“I will remind Santosh that he is not the regent of Ahiranya. Until the emperor names him as such, that title is mine.” His voice was hard. “I will maintain my rule. I will kill the rebels. Every masked one of them. And if the emperor demands that women be burned…” An exhale, pained. “I will do what I must. We will have peace.”
This is not how you quell conflict, thought Bhumika. But she did not say so. She stayed silent.
“I am tired,” he said, his knuckles against his forehead, his face a picture of exhaustion. “Tired of killing. Tired of trying to make something of this forsaken place. But it is the only throne I have, and I shall seek to keep it. I have done my best by Ahiranya and I will continue to do so.”
“The rebels killed Lord Iskar, mothers ease him, because of the poet and his women who were put to death,” Bhumika said gently. So gently, as if her voice were a footstep on the most fragile, spun-sugar ground. “Perhaps more death will only worsen this business.”
“Be glad you were not there,” said Vikram. “Or you wouldn’t say such foolish things.” He smoothed her hair. He believed he was comforting her. “There will be more death, one way or another. But I promise you, my path will be far less bloody than the one Santosh would carve.”