Chapter 32 Chandra
CHANDRA
The news arrived during the deep quiet of the night, when Chandra was bedding his wife. One of his guards interrupted reluctantly, bowing and keeping his eyes resolutely lowered, for all that a painted screen and heavy curtains of silk protected Chandra and his new wife’s modesty.
“Messengers bring news of the war, Emperor,” the guard said. “News of your sister.”
He emerged from his bed and listened to the messenger, through the screen, as his servants dressed him: a turban of stiff brocade, pinned in place with a moonstone the size of a child’s fist; a necklace of prayer stones, each stone wrought from gold and silver intertwined, and carved with the name of a mother of flame.
An achkan in white silk, and a dhoti of pale gold.
His father, he remembered, had never dressed so formally and lavishly in his own bedroom.
The advisors allowed in his inner chambers often saw him more at ease, in simple cotton and silks, rich and subtle.
Chandra had always despised that informality.
It was the place of the emperor to be more than the men who had vowed to serve him: in nature, in purpose.
In clothing. Ever since his rise to the throne he had made a point of not following his father’s lackluster example.
He was glad of his choice now. The armor of it reminded him of who he was; of the life that the mothers had ensured for him, the crown his righteousness and purpose had granted him.
His armor allowed him to rein in his own fury, when the messenger stammered through his news, gathered from Chandra’s own spies, and soldiers at outposts, and a loyal priest who had fled Saketa and imprisonment in Malini’s camp to bring Chandra dire tidings.
His sister still lived. His sister still ruled her horde of traitors and dishonorable vow breakers. His sister had not been killed by his holy fire. The High Prince’s fort lay under siege. The High Prince would not have the easy victory Chandra had promised him.
Even when blessed fire had been sent to kill her—even when her followers should have finally turned on her and recognized Chandra’s true and only claim to power—his sister had survived. His sister still led her fool men.
His sister was coming to Parijat.
He ordered one guard to summon Hemanth, and dismissed the rest. In the silence that followed, he strode over to his balcony, pushing aside the gauze that kept insects at bay, and stepped out into the cool night air.
From here, he could see the same vista his father once had, and all the emperors that came before them: the vastness of the mahal itself, with smaller manses nestled within it, and dozens of intimate courtyards full of needle-flower and jasmine, growing in lush profusion.
The gardens of his mother, now nothing but blackness and the faint pulsing glow of dying embers, starlight in soil beneath him.
The mahal’s walls, a gleaming length of white.
And the city of Harsinghar beyond it, its white marble and sandstone both golden and blue-tinged beneath the light of the moon.
He stared out fixedly, unblinking, until his eyes burned from the gentle nighttime wind, and the sting of ash it carried.
There were no winds without ash. Not in his mahal.
The guard returned.
“Join me on the balcony, priest,” Chandra called. After a moment, Hemanth did. “You have had ill news,” the High Priest said cautiously.
“Have you heard?” Chandra said. “No. Of course you have not. My sister is coming home, priest. You have your wish after all.”
“My wish,” Hemanth said, “is for your well-being. And Parijatdvipa’s. As it always has been.” He drew closer and placed himself next to Chandra on the edge of the balcony. Chandra could feel Hemanth’s eyes on him, could feel their concern. “She comes with an army?”
“Yes.” Chandra ground his teeth. It made his jaw ache, pulsing with his tension, his anger.
“All those fools who want more than they deserve. Don’t they understand their place?
Their purpose in the world Divyanshi built for them?
Don’t answer me.” He gave a laugh, bitter and frayed.
“I know they do not. Or they would bow to me, serve me, and be glad.”
Hemanth was silent for a long moment. Then he said, comfortingly, “Be glad that she is coming here. Consider it a sign. The mothers are sending her where she must be, so that she may finally fulfill her duty to you, and to us all.”
If the mothers were truly acting in my favor, Chandra thought, then they would have killed her at the High Prince’s fort. They would have ensured that the blessed fire razed her entire army.
He felt instantly ashamed of the thought. The mothers were not at fault. Nor was Chandra. No, it was his sister—her monstrous choices, her utter refusal to accept her fate. His sister was a curse. She always had been.
“Emperor,” Hemanth said, his voice breaking the quiet that had settled over them both. “What will you do? Will you greet her? Speak with her?”
“I would rather drive a dagger through her heart,” said Chandra. “I would rather shoot her with an arrow through the leg, and watch her slowly bleed to death. I would rather strangle her with my own bare hands.”
“She has caused you great pain,” Hemanth said compassionately.
Chandra’s eyes closed. He nodded. Yes. She had. He was glad Hemanth understood; glad that the High Priest had always seen the heart in him that lay under his rage, his unyielding desire for a better world, for better people.
“You know I will request this of you again,” Hemanth said, placing a kindly hand on Chandra’s arm. “Please, Emperor. Think of the power of her willing death.”
“Think of the power I already have,” Chandra retorted.
“Do not hold yourself back from greatness,” Hemanth said. “Do not hold Parijatdvipa back from greatness. I know you have the capacity to help her willingly and gladly meet her own fate.”
But do I have the will to see her meet it? Chandra thought. He was not sure he did. He was not sure she deserved it.
“You are a good man, Chandra,” Hemanth said, finally using Chandra’s name—a thing he did only rarely, in moments when he wanted to speak to Chandra with great intimacy, tenderness.
“The best of men. Guide her. Teach her what she must be. Let your priests help you.” He pressed on.
“The mothers have sent her to you. Listen to them.”
Chandra hated his sister. Hated her. Had he not said enough? Was he not the emperor? This was his decision, as the chosen of the mothers of flame. No one else’s. Not even the High Priest’s.
He turned his face away from Hemanth.
“Emperor,” Hemanth said, voice soft. “Please. Will you not hear me?”
Chandra said nothing.
“I have been reluctant to speak of this, Emperor,” said Hemanth, when Chandra refused to answer. “But there may be a greater danger to Parijatdvipa than the weapons of mortal men alone.”
Chandra laughed abruptly, the noise forcing its way through his teeth. “Men are enough trouble.”
“Emperor,” he said. Sighed. “The hour is late, and your heart is troubled. Come to the temple tomorrow. We will pray together, you and I. A new supply of flowers will be brought to my priests. We will make a garland for Divyanshi together. I will put aside the finest roses and marigolds for you. And then we will speak. And I will tell you what… what fears my priests have brought to me.”
“If you are simply going to attempt to convince me again of my sister’s fate, there’s no need,” Chandra said. Half tiredness, half warning. “I understand your perspective. And you have made clear to me that you believe wholeheartedly in me. That you will follow my will.”
“As a priest, as your priest, it is my duty to tell you all I can to guide you, to light the path before you,” Hemanth said, with the chiding care of a father. “Tomorrow, Emperor. Then do with the information what you will.”
The High Priest departed.
Chandra returned to his chamber.
His wife was standing by the edge of the bed, still adjusting the pleats of her sari.
Her hair was loose over her shoulder. He watched her small fingers tuck the fabric into place; watched the line of concentration etched into her brow.
She slowed, when she saw him looking, and gave him a nervous glance from under her lashes.
She was timid, his wife. Her flinching obedience irritated him, but he could tolerate it.
She was pretty enough, and did not complain or attempt to manipulate when she was called to his bed.
She fulfilled her role. What more could he reasonably ask of her?
Showing her his irritation, by word or violence, would be as satisfying as breaking the wing of a drab-feathered songbird.
And yet, right at that moment, the thought of breaking something beyond repair sounded very pleasant indeed. He thought of the bones of her wrists, and lower arms. He watched her delicate fingers work, then go still.
He banished his thoughts, and his anger. He wouldn’t hurt her. That wasn’t the kind of man he was.
“Go,” he said to her abruptly. “Leave me.”
She gave him a quick look. Then lowered her gaze and said, “Sleep well, husband,” and swiftly departed.
He did not sleep after that. He summoned his military officials, who arrived tired-eyed and disheveled but obediently set to work discussing what must be done next.
In the vast hall of the imperial mahal, where his priests and priestly warriors kept a pit of blessed fire—mothers’ fire—burning, his loyal officials and lords advised him.