Chapter 62 Rao
RAO
The men who had been in the fortress with him—the men who had watched Aditya die—were already spinning tales.
They told everyone that they had won the fortress because of Aditya’s sacrifice.
The fire howled its way through the halls, the men said.
It burned the High Prince and all his men and all those loyal to him to death in agony, cleansing the maze fort, leaving nothing but Prince Aditya’s loyal followers behind.
Rao had no choice but to believe them. He couldn’t remember any of it. Only hands on his arms, guiding him along. Only salt on his own face, as he wept. Only silence, in the aftermath, where his heart had once been.
Prince Aditya was called by the mothers, the men claimed. The flames reached for him with the mothers’ own hands—firm, loving, implacable. There had been no pain for Prince Aditya. The mothers had raised him up, as no man had ever been raised.
He had named his sister empress. Just as Rao had named her empress.
Prince Aditya had died for her, just as a priest in Harsinghar had died for her, protecting her from the vile yaksa that had returned—perhaps they had even died in the very same moment, two holy deaths shielding Empress Malini from harm.
None of it was a lie. None of it was true, either.
Rao had been carried partway back to Harsinghar. Slumped in a chariot, no good to anyone. The severed yaksa arm rattling in its case beside him, a constant reminder of what he’d lost.
And then, somehow, he’d found the strength to sit up. The strength to drink himself into a stupor. The strength, then, to ride on his own horse, head pounding, his body riven with misery.
A day later, he’d learned from Mahesh how—and when—Chandra had died. Once Rao understood that Malini had seized her throne before he and Aditya had sieged the maze fort, before Aditya had turned the flames on himself, sure of his own destiny, his inevitable fate…
Well, Rao drank a great deal more after that. The journey was a blank space for him—a void where grief lived, and nothing else.
He did not even dream anymore.
Alori. Prem. Aditya.
He thought of Prem grinning at him over a bottle of wine. The shawl knotted at his throat. Remember when were boys? Remember the games we played?
Aditya, staring at him with peaceful eyes. Ready to leave him behind.
Alori, her crown of wooden stars burning as her hair ignited, as she screamed—
In the rest of the mahal, the soldiers who had returned with them were no doubt spreading the tale of what Aditya had done, and what he had made them vow to him in turn. In days, the story would be all over the city.
Perhaps they would raise up a statue of gold for Aditya, just as they had for Rao’s sister. Perhaps all his loved ones would be nothing but effigies for Rao to gaze upon, and remember what he had lost.
Once he’d seen Malini he found a corner to be alone in. A veranda overlooking the training grounds where he and Aditya had once sparred. He leaned over the edge. Pressed his head to cool marble.
“Rao.”
Lata’s soft voice. Of course.
He raised his head. Her face was full of compassion.
“Rao,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said reflexively.
“You were with the prince when he passed,” she said, eyes still sorrowful.
He nodded once, silently.
“What did you see when he burned?” Lata asked. “Forgive me. I must ask.”
“Must you?”
Lata stared back at him.
“Is this a sage’s curiosity, Lata? Or something else?” She’d been tending to Malini, he knew. She looked tired.
“What else would it be?” Lata asked.
“A sage’s curiosity, then,” he said bitterly. “Tell me. What will the sages write about Aditya’s death? Will they say now that my sister should not have burned on a pyre? That I should have?” He turned on her, hating how he felt. But he was unable to undo it. “All of this means nothing. Nothing.”
“You don’t mean that,” she said.
“I do. I really do.” The air wavered around her. He swallowed around the dryness of his mouth. “What do you really want from me, Lata?”
A pause. Lata drew closer, standing next to him on the veranda, her hands in the sun, her body in the shade.
“The Ahiranyi woman. Priya. She left someone behind. I… I do not believe she will be safe. With anyone else.”
“Sima,” he said. “You mean Sima. She left her?”
Lata nodded silently.
“Will you protect her, Rao? You liked her, I think.”
“Well enough,” he said. Exhaled. “Well enough.” He tightened his grip on the edge of the veranda. “I don’t want to care about anyone else, Lata. I’m not built for it. I can’t.”
Lata was silent.
“Fine,” he said eventually. “I’ll do it.”
Lata nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
He stared out at the horizon for a moment longer.
Thought of the night when he and Aditya had drunk too much wine, and Aditya had discovered his calling in a monastery of the nameless.
Remembered Aditya laughing as they stumbled drunkenly to the gardens together, naming each star for each mother of flame. Slipping into riddles and poetry.
What is a star, he thought, in Aditya’s slurred, smiling voice, but distant fire, reaching for you across worlds?