Chapter 26 Malini
MALINI
“Father.” Deepa’s voice from beyond the tent walls was pitched high enough that it could be heard even through the drumlike billow of the canvas in the fire-feeding winds. “Please. You must see her.”
“Her men must see her, not I,” Mahesh replied.
His voice was gruffer than ever, made hoarse by smoke.
Malini did not need to see him in the flesh to know he wore ash residue on his hair and his armor, or that his face was set into grim lines that ran from his jaw to his furrowed brow.
“Bid her to emerge, and I’ll accompany her to the war council. ”
“Would you have them see her weep?” Deepa asked.
Malini was impressed by the waver in her voice.
She sounded convincingly overwrought. “Please. Father, I don’t know what else to do.
I told you—all the women are afraid. If you could only advise the empress to be calm, perhaps… oh, that would surely help.”
“There is no time for this,” he said impatiently.
“I’m sorry, Father.”
Heavy footsteps followed her words. Mahesh drew the curtain back and strode into the tent. He began to bow, then paused midmovement when he caught sight of Malini, who was quite clearly not weeping. Dry-eyed, seated neatly upon the floor cushions, she met his gaze and said, “Lord Mahesh.”
Her voice seemed to remind him of himself. He finished his bow, then straightened to his full height. “Empress,” he replied.
“I respected your guidance and did not leave the safety of my tent when I heard battle begin,” she remarked mildly, as Deepa entered the tent behind her father and silently drew the curtain shut. “Your daughter kindly kept me company.”
Mahesh did not turn to face his daughter, but his gaze did flicker to and fro, taking in the empty expanse of the tent. Deepa had spoken to him of women, but only the three of them were present. Malini had made sure of that.
“Now that you have no need to calm me, Lord Mahesh,” she said, “do you wish to advise me on the state of our forces? How many men did the fire kill this time?”
“The dead and wounded are still being counted, Empress.”
She nodded, acknowledging his words.
“A great number, then,” she said. “As Lata warned when you insisted upon the siege. Perhaps you remember.”
He watched as Malini rose to her feet; as she mirrored him, standing tall and sure, with her shoulders back and her head high.
“Did we decimate the High Prince’s forces in return?” Malini asked, already knowing what answer she would receive.
He shook his head, the lines of tension at his forehead growing deeper.
“They retreated swiftly behind their walls,” he replied. “They used the layers of defense the fort possesses to their advantage. One strike at us, and they were gone.”
One strike. And so many of her men dead, for the sake of Mahesh’s beliefs, and Malini’s own designs. She would regret none of it. She could not allow herself such tenderness.
“I believed they could be contained,” he said. “The fortress was surrounded from all sides—watched by a constant arrangement of cavalry and archers. They should have withered within the walls.” He clenched his jaw, seeking control of his emotions or his words.
She watched patiently, waiting to see how he would splinter.
“The fort must possess hidden exits. The maze fort is known for its impenetrability. But it must be more—complex—than any of us knew. And the fire.” He stopped.
Then said, with a roughness that was almost pleading, “I have fought many sieges, Empress. This was the right choice. We could not have known this would come to pass.”
“It was not the right choice, Lord Mahesh.” Her voice was sharp.
“It was the wrong choice. And it was not our choice. It was your own. You chose this path, despite my concern, despite my sage’s cautions.
Every lord and prince of Parijatdvipa in my army heard you claim this path as your own, and they will know that the deaths of their men are your responsibility. ”
Cruel words. But she had shaped them to be so.
“You acted to exert your own power,” she said deliberately. “To prove yourself wiser than me, and greater. You have been whittling at my power, Lord Mahesh. Did you think I failed to mark your slights against me?”
“Empress,” Mahesh said. “I have nothing but respect for you.”
“I knew you did not slight me from a lack of respect,” she said.
“I know the unnatural fire from the fort shook your faith in me. I know you simply sought to pry me gently from my throne, and set Aditya in my place.” He said nothing.
“You can admit it,” she said. “Or not, as you wish. I am already sure.”
He did not argue, or beg, or even fall into anger. He merely stood before her with the battle’s ash on him and continued to say nothing at all. She allowed the silence to stretch unimpeded. Then she nodded, accepting his wordlessness as the choice it was.
“I did not ask your daughter to summon you here simply so that I could berate you,” she said finally.
“I asked you here out of courtesy. By this evening you will no longer be the general of my army. For the sake of your honorable service to me and to the empire, I have chosen to warn you of your coming disgrace, so you may prepare yourself. But I cannot save you from what may be said by others, and what may be guessed.” She gentled her voice.
“I could have given you no warning. I could simply have humiliated you, stripping you of your titles before all your fellow lords. But I have chosen not to, for the sake of that bond that lies between us. You have led my men, and I do not discount that.”
“Empress.” Mahesh’s voice broke from him, sudden and jagged. “You cannot.”
“I can,” Malini said calmly, even as something sweetly dark coiled in her chest. Power was a pleasure with many forms. To see a powerful man—a man who had betrayed her—brought low was one of its headiest. She did not let it touch her face or her voice.
She was like ice. “I am Empress of Parijatdvipa.”
“As long as Prince Aditya lives,” Mahesh said swiftly, “there will be those who believe he must be the one on the throne. And now I have seen mothers’ fire—Empress. Princess Malini. They are not wrong to believe it. I am not wrong to believe it.”
“Do you, who loves my brother, counsel me to murder him, then? To end his life?”
“No,” he said, recoiling. “I counsel you to trust what the mothers have told you through their fire and accept that a male scion of Divyanshi must take the throne.”
“You will see, tomorrow, that you should have kept your faith in me.” She let her tone grow gentler still. Pitying.
She wanted to tell him that she was disappointed; that he had spent a year in her company and yet he clearly knew nothing of her.
He had followed her for the prophecy she had garbed herself in, then immediately sought to abandon her when the gold shell of it had cracked.
He had failed to take the opportunity his closeness to her had offered to actually learn her worth.
But it did not matter if he knew her. She knew him.
“I am not Chandra,” she said. “Your family will not suffer for your crimes. I admire your daughter’s intelligence, her wisdom. She is a credit to your family.”
Did he understand what was unsaid—that Deepa had proved herself an ally to Malini? That she had betrayed him, raising herself even as his downfall came for him? From the way he looked at his daughter as she walked forward, her own expression calm, Malini thought perhaps he did.
“Will I be exiled?” There was a deep exhaustion in his voice. And perhaps a fury, too. “Or will my throat be slit in the night?”
“Father,” Deepa said. He looked away from her.
“I am disgraced,” he said. “I am a traitor, in your eyes. Do not treat me cruelly, Empress. Tell me my fate.”
“Your daughter has spoken for you,” Malini replied.
“And her love for you moved me. You will not be killed.” She paused, as if considering her words.
Then: “There is an opportunity to serve Parijatdvipa. To save us all. This evening, before the council… I would ask you to listen. And consider your future. It would be a chance to serve Parijatdvipa with your whole heart and soul and earn back my respect. I encourage you to take it.”
After his departure, Malini’s court gathered around her once more. All of them wore grim expressions, but Lata’s was the most serious of all. She strode straight to Malini, close enough that her words would not be overheard.
“Empress,” Lata murmured. “I’ve found her.”
Relief coursed through Malini. “Where is she?” she breathed. She looked toward the entrance of the tent. Began to rise to her feet.
Priya entered, and froze as their gazes met. She was whole and alive, and Malini was walking to her, reaching for her before her good sense could stop her.
“Empress,” Priya said swiftly. She sketched a bow, and Malini stopped—hand upraised, not yet touching. Priya raised her head. “Empress,” she said again, softer now. “I’m well.”
“Elder Priya,” Malini said, remembering herself. She took a step back. Another. Lowered herself into her seat. She was surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. “I was told your encampment burned.”
“We lost a few men,” Priya said, nodding. “But not all, and well—not ourselves.” She gestured at Sima, who had slipped into the tent behind her. Sima looked more than a little gray, though her expression was resolute. Her face was speckled with motes of ash. “We’re unharmed.”
“I am glad of it,” Malini said. “I would never want any of my women to be hurt.”
Priya looked into her eyes and smiled. The ash had streaked across her face like misapplied kajal.
Her hair was wild darkness all around her shoulders, unspooled.
You are like ink, Malini thought helplessly.
Ink, and all I want is to make poetry of you.
“Your women feel the same of you, Empress,” she said.
“Empress,” Lata said, clearing her throat. “The council are waiting.”