Chapter 8 Rao
RAO
Rao had arrived at the war council late, and had been greeted by chaos—shouting, yelling, Lord Mahesh leading and claiming the empress was too overwrought to attend.
Rao should have spoken for Malini—had wanted to.
But he had met Lord Khalil’s eyes; seen the lift of an eloquent eyebrow and the faintest shake of a head.
And Rao had kept his calm and his silence, even as his frustration grew.
Malini had to have a plan. Malini always had plans.
He had kept his calm as he saw to his men and made an accounting of the injured and the dead. Had continued to be calm when one of his own Aloran military officials begged to speak to him, and told him that Yogesh had been ordered to carry a message for the empress, and was already gone.
And yet here he was, in Malini’s tent, trying desperately to keep a level head in the face of her quiet amusement. As if his worry entertained her.
Maybe it did.
“You sent a message to Ahiranya,” Rao pressed on. “An imperial missive, placed in a military official’s hand.”
“You’ve found spies of your own, Rao,” she murmured. “That’s good.”
“My men are just loyal,” he said. “What did you say? What orders did you send?”
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t read your letter.”
“Out of loyalty, or because you lacked the opportunity?”
A pause, a breath of silence that he filled by shaking his head and closing his eyes.
“I thought as much,” she said. Oh, she definitely sounded amused. “You’re not quite that moralistic. If you were, you’d never get anything done.” And I’d have no use for you was unsaid but heavily implied. “Though you’ve grown overly fond of lecturing me.”
“I don’t lecture,” he said. “My job is to advise, and that’s exactly what I do, when I’m actually afforded the chance to do so.”
“Advise me, then.”
“The Ahiranyi are still viewed with great suspicion.”
“I am well aware of that,” she replied.
“Then I have to ask why you’re reaching out to them,” he said. “Especially now, when you have…” He paused, and said more quietly, “After the fires—and the war council—you have enough problems to contend with here.”
“How did Mahesh’s war council proceed without me?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m curious. Did anyone outright say that Aditya should have the throne, or did they only imply it?”
“If you want me to be your eyes and ears, then it would be helpful if you could be honest with me in turn,” Rao said, in what was absolutely not an irritated tone of voice.
“I have spies enough,” said Malini. “And until I am able to attend my own war councils without fear that my own men may seek to protect me from the war I am leading, you will have to forgive me for holding some truths close to the chest.”
You don’t have to lie to me, he thought, and did not say. It sounded too pitiful even in his own head to be spoken. Don’t you understand what you are to me?
Like all royals of Alor, his true name had always been a secret—a prophecy waiting to be spoken.
His true name had been the guiding star of his faith and fate, dragging him onward.
Leading him, inevitably, to kneel before her in the sun-drenched dirt on a road toward Dwarali, where he had revealed it to her and given her the right to her throne.
When she is crowned in jasmine, in needle-flower, in smoke and in fire, he will kneel before her and name her.
He will give the princess of Parijat her fate.
He will say: Name who shall sit upon the throne, Princess.
Name the flower of empire. Name the head that shall reign beneath a crown of poison. Name the hand that lit the pyre.
He will name her thus, and she will know.
Didn’t she understand that his fate was still tied to her own? That the nameless god had made him like this, and he could not change his nature, his purpose? He had named her empress, and she…
She did not trust him.
He swallowed back hurt.
“You can’t always assume that people are going to turn on you. That they need to be managed and—and manipulated.” Rao was turned away from her, knowing his face was still painfully open—that she would see right through him, if he allowed her to. “You’re going to have to trust them.”
Silence.
“Rao,” she said after a moment. He looked at her again.
The amusement had drained from her face.
What was left was tired, and shaken, and world-weary.
“I’ve trusted all through this war,” said Malini.
“I trusted those men when we traveled to Dwarali. When we forged new alliances there. When we faced battle after battle. I trusted they would fight and die to see me on the throne. I trusted that I would not find a knife placed against my throat in my sleep. That is plenty of trust, Rao. Any more trust, and I’ll be making my own noose. ”
“I just don’t believe the Ahiranyi will be as much help as you hope they will be,” Rao said. “I worry that this error will cost you.”
“We will see,” Malini said, voice unreadable. “But there’s no worth in sending a messenger to stop a messenger. My message will reach Ahiranya, and Ahiranya’s temple council will respond, and I will deal with the consequences if and when they turn up at my door. That is all.”
Rao knew a dismissal when he heard one. He bowed.
“And Rao?”
He paused.
“Next time put your morals aside,” she said. “You could have chased after Yogesh, if you’d tried. I cannot coddle you. I cannot treat you as my friend, and I don’t ask for friendship in return. I ask for the cunning and canny advisor I know you have the capacity to be. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Empress,” he choked out.
He bowed again, and swiftly left the tent before he could yell at her.
By the nameless, did she want him to be a traitor? Was that what she wanted?
She wants you to be more like her, a voice in his head said. It was his own, but calm, reasonable, devoid of the strength of feeling currently coursing through him.
She wants you do to everything you’re capable of to achieve her ends.
Somehow, without meaning to, he did not walk back to his own sleeping tent. Did not seek out the military officials who served the Aloran branch of the army, who always had need of him for something. Did nothing, in fact, that would make him useful.
Instead, his feet led him to Aditya.
Even in the thick of battle, Aditya’s tent was a tranquil pool, a place of peace carved out on the edges of war. It was untouched. The smoke-darkness roiling around them barely seemed to brush its edges.
One of the guards gave him a nod of respect.
“Shall I announce you, my lord? Arrange refreshments?”
“No need,” said Rao, and entered.
Aditya had clearly been praying. There was a water basin on the ground before him, its surface black and utterly still, as reflective as glass and as dark as night.
His head was lowered over it. When he raised it, his eyes were as dark as the water, his expression unfathomable.
It took a moment for humanity to return to his face—for his eyes to light up with recognition, and his shoulders to soften, the tension leaching away from them. “Rao,” he said softly. “Come in.”
He was sitting cross-legged on a floor mat, in nothing but his plainest blue priestly shawl and dhoti.
The tent was dim, unlit, though Rao could see Aditya reaching automatically for an oil lamp, preparing to set it alight.
His steady hands struck a spark, lit the cotton wick.
Light illuminated his face: his elegant bones, his dark eyes, his serious brows.
Rao relaxed at the sight of him. He could not help it.
“You look surprised to see me,” said Rao.
“You’re not the usual visitor I receive at this hour,” said Aditya. “But you are the most welcome. Besides, the guards usually announce you.”
Rao shook his head.
“I told them not to,” he said. “I wanted it to be just us. I…”
Rao collapsed. It was a controlled fall, as collapses went—his knees jarring the ground, his breath leaving him. He’d been waiting to break. He wouldn’t have another chance.
“Rao,” Aditya said, alarmed. He moved to kneel by Rao’s side. Aditya’s hands clasped Rao’s shoulders, and he said, “Are you well? Breathe with me. Here.”
A hand pressed to Rao’s chest. Rising, falling. After a moment, Rao breathed with the motion of it. He felt sick with relief, and sick with fear both.
“There,” Aditya murmured. “There. Breathe with me. You’re well.”
“Surely you’ve smelled the smoke,” Rao managed to say.
Aditya nodded, almost imperceptibly. But Rao caught the gesture. As his face moved, the light painted it. There were deep shadows under his eyes.
“Has my sister burned the city?” Aditya asked. He said it with resignation, as if he expected it of her.
“No,” Rao said. “No.”
How could he even begin to explain it?
He tried. He told Aditya, haltingly, about what he’d seen during the siege. The men, uneasy, waiting for word, as negotiations took place. The sudden sight of swords and arrows wreathed with flame.
The fire. The strangeness of it. The attempt against Malini’s life.
Aditya nodded, expression grave. He knew, even better than Rao, the significance of magical fire.
“It was a game Chandra and I used to play, you know,” Aditya said finally. “When we were small boys. When we were still training with blunted weapons. The two of us, flinging ourselves into battle with our swords, imagining they were burning with magical fire. That we were mother-blessed.”
A smile flitted across his face—lit his mouth and his eyes—then faded away as swiftly as it had come.
“We were very young then. And I left him soon enough, for my own training and my own lessons.”