Chapter 32 Chandra #2
Once, this hall had been full of lords and princes and kings from across Parijatdvipa: Alorans, Srugani, Saketans, Dwarali.
All of them full of hubris. All of them, leading the empire—and his father—astray.
Now nearly all the faces before him were Parijati.
The Parijatdvipans from other city-states who remained were clever enough to recognize their correct place: in service to him, in obedience to him.
They knew better than to consider themselves his equal.
He had thought, briefly, of adding Prince Kunal to that number.
The man would bow, he knew; lower his head, show obedience.
But there was something about the High Prince’s son that he did not trust—a kind of flinty, hunted anger in the man’s eyes that told him Prince Kunal did not deserve the privilege of belonging to Chandra’s inner circle.
Besides, Prince Kunal’s loyalty was contingent on the success of his father against Malini; on the protection of the flames Chandra had gifted him.
The power. On the lifeline, too, that Chandra had extended: food from Parijat, from its safe and fertile fields, untouched by the blight that had ruined both Ahiranya and Saketa.
Contingent loyalty did not interest Chandra.
He wanted men of faith. He wanted men who placed their faith in him.
The High Priest had taught Chandra that the mothers of flame loved him; that they spoke to him above all else, guiding him toward his fate.
And he heard a loving whisper of them—in the arch and flicker of the pit of fire, which bloomed blue for a moment, against feathers of gold—as an old and seasoned lord explained to Chandra, in a gruff but respectful tone, that the princess would surely not follow the vast main road to Harsinghar.
“Her forces are depleted, Emperor,” he said, as two priestly warriors quietly entered the room with a cask—opened it, and lowered more magical flame into the pit, which flared and brightened. “She will use caution. If your loyal men locate her, destroy her forces en route…”
“The High Prince’s forces will attack her own from behind,” said another lord. “He will not simply allow the traitor princess to march on Parijat—”
“His fort remains under siege,” a quiet voice interrupted. A military advisor. “He cannot follow easily, or immediately.”
Chandra listened as they debated, his priestly warriors now arrayed around him. One leaned forward. Said, in a low voice, “Lord Sushant wishes to speak with you, emperor. In privacy.”
“He can wait,” Chandra said dismissively.
“Emperor,” the man said. “He insists that he cannot. He was greatly distressed.”
“Fine,” Chandra snapped. “Continue,” he told his advisors, who had paused when he raised his voice. “I’ll return in a moment.”
If Sushant had summoned him on a fool’s errand, he’d simply have the man’s throat cut. That was a fitting price, surely, for wasting an emperor’s time.
Sushant was from an ancient Parijati family that lost its glory and wealth long ago.
It was Chandra who had raised him and his kin up; who had granted him the wealth of executed traitor highborn and allowed him access to the inner court.
Sushant was, as a result, an adoring and faultlessly loyal follower, who had brought his lifetime of experience tending to the family rural estate to the task of overseeing Parijat’s agriculture.
Despite the coolness of the dawn air, he was sweating, his mustache visibly damp. He bowed deeply when Chandra approached, then raised his head. “Emperor,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me alone.”
“You must think yourself valuable to me, Sushant,” Chandra said, voice low, “to demand my time in this manner, as if I am your servant.”
Sushant bowed hurriedly. “Forgive me, forgive me,” he babbled. “But my men—farmers on a nearby estate—you must see…”
The lord opened a sack that lay at his feet. Drew it wide open. And Chandra looked within—and abruptly recoiled.
“What,” he said sharply, “is that?”
Sushant’s hands trembled as he drew the sack abruptly shut.
“Rot, emperor,” he said. “The rot from Ahiranya, the rot that blights Saketa—it is in Parijat. I… I do not know how far it has spread.”
A greater danger to Parijatdvipa than mortal men alone, Hemanth had said. And here it was before him. Rot in his own fields. His own country.
He felt abruptly sick. This was not meant to happen to Parijat. Not the land of the mothers. Not the land blessed by his rule.
“And what must I do?” he asked.
“E-Emperor,” Sushant said. “I… I do not know. I do not know.”
“Come with me,” he said roughly.
He returned to his advisors. They bowed as he entered. Waited until he gave them permission to rise.
“Speak,” he said sharply. One of them flinched visibly. “Tell me what you’ve planned.”
“We believe she may cross the Veri river,” said one of his advisors. “There is a ford. If we meet her there, we may be able to thin her forces.”
“Thin,” Chandra repeated. “I do not want her forces thinned. I want them destroyed. Do you understand?”
Silence from his advisors. They did not seem to want to look at him.
Somehow this was his sister’s fault. Somehow the curse of her had cursed his land in turn. She did not deserve to burn. She did not deserve to rise. She only deserved pain. Only deserved nothing. To be nothing.
“Emperor,” said Sushant. All eyes turned on him. “My people are from the land surrounding the Veri. And I… I may be able to suggest a way to meet her. And defeat her.”
Sushant began to speak. And Chandra—pain a lance behind his eyes and through his heart—listened with clenched fists.
He wished he could place his hands around his sister’s throat.
The sick fear that had coursed through him at the sight of the rot-riven crops had alchemized into a rage so encompassing that his only choice was to unleash it.
It was what his sister deserved.
Tomorrow, he would let Hemanth talk to him. He would let Hemanth tell him of the rot in Parijat—for surely, that was what the High Priest wanted to speak of.
And then he would trust the knowledge the mothers had surely placed directly in his heart.
I am the answer, not my sister.
Never my sister.
He would send his men to the Veri. All the men he could afford. And he would crush her. Obliterate her.
She did not deserve to burn—to rise. No, the only thing Malini deserved was to die.
Chandra went to the temple long after dawn. He went, and saw Hemanth approach, smiling, to greet him.
He watched as Hemanth’s smile faded at the sight of Chandra’s face. “Emperor,” he said.
“High Priest,” Chandra said in response. “Tell me what threat faces me beyond mortal men. Tell me what you’ve been hiding from me.”
Chandra flung the sack to the ground. Rot-riven flowers tumbled out, the stench of flesh and decay filling the air.
The High Priest did not flinch back. He looked at the flowers, then raised his face to meet Chandra’s eyes. He looked like he had always known this would come.
“Ah, Emperor,” he said sorrowfully. “This is not even the smallest part of what I fear.”