Esha pulled at her horse’s reins, urging him forward to catch up to the front of the crowd. She didn’t trust anyone in this court, certainly not this Pretender King. She readied her knife under her uttariya, just in case this welcoming party grew out of hand.
Vardaan was at the front of the crowd, flanked by a cadre of officials in crisp white uttariyas. He was resplendent in a gold-threaded silk uttariya and dhoti, both the color of fresh blood. Long and short necklaces of gold adorned his neck, ruby-encrusted armbands encircled his upper arms, and he wore a thick gold circlet around his brow.
Understated for his first appearance.
Harun had matched him, though he wore no circlet or crown. As the representative of his father, King Mahir, Harun had chosen to dress down. He was the crown prince, but he was his father’s emissary first.
“Welcome, nephew,” Vardaan said, walking forward. He threw his arms open as Harun descended from the chariot. Harun dropped to his knees, touching his fingertips to his uncle’s feet in reverence. A deft avoidance.
Harun had shown him respect, as was due to his uncle, and taken control of the situation in one move. Vardaan reached down and brought Harun up to his feet, as an elder would do, and Harun bent forward, his palms together in greeting.
“Salutations, Uncle.”
“Ah, none of that, my nephew.”
Vardaan slapped his hands aside and, before Harun could react, pulled him into a hug. Her friend’s face showed an expression of shock before it quickly disappeared. Esha’s fingers tightened over her knife.
Vardaan pulled back but didn’t let go of Harun, beholding him instead, throwing glances out to the crowd of nobles behind them. They gave little gasps of happiness at the warmth from Vardaan. As if they believed his little show.
They both shared the same angular jaws and sharp features, a thick head of hair—Vardaan’s streaked with white—and short beards. Even their eyes held that same deep, penetrating gaze. As if they were constantly sizing you up. She knew they were related, but to see it in person was unnerving. How could two people from the same family turn out so different?
“You’ve grown so much, my boy,” Vardaan said loudly. “I remember when you were just a toddler, running after me with your toy sword, begging me to show you sword fighting.”
He gave a small laugh, and a chorus of titters went up behind him in the crowd of Gwali nobles.
“I remember as well, Uncle. So long ago. What, has it been fifteen years now? A lifetime,” Harun said.
Vardaan didn’t take the bait, instead clapping an arm on his back. “It has been too long, it’s true. I’m sad your father couldn’t make it.” A storm clouded his face. “Is he doing well?”
“Better,” Harun said. “Just a passing illness, but we didn’t think it would be right for him to travel until better.” There was lightness in his tone, but it was clear Dharka was still off-limits. What confused Esha was the look on Vardaan’s face.
“I hope my brother gets better. Looking at you is like looking at a copy of him.” The Pretender King’s face softened. “I have missed so much in your life—your first archery lessons, your first reading of the royal history, your shifting ceremony.”
His voice sounded sincere—and Harun took a second too long to respond. “There will always be more firsts, uncle,” he said. “Maybe now we have a chance to see them.”
No more than a couple sentences and a decade of pain in them. Esha had been the one to sit with Harun, listen to his heartache over his sister, the pain of having his uncle leave and betray them so deeply. Harun had only been eleven when the coup had happened, but he had been old enough to have formed a bond with his uncle.
Esha wanted to believe this was another manipulation, another court move on the larger chessboard. But she’d seen enough pain in people’s eyes, felt it enough herself, that she recognized it in Vardaan’s. Esha knew about Vardaan, had studied his every move, watched his every battle tactic and political ploy. But she had missed a crucial element to the picture she had painted of him—reality.
Reality was usually never the same as stories—as the Viper she should know that better than anyone. And the reality here was that Vardaan was utterly, completely normal in real life. He was charismatic, attractive even.
Esha no longer knew where to put Vardaan, the nightmare from her dreams, the monster they hated.
And that terrified her.
A breeze gusted into the lower courtyard of the Fortress where Kunal, and the other soldiers of the Fort, were arrayed.
His upcoming battle had drawn many soldiers away from their precious free time. There were rumors Kunal had gone up against the Viper and survived, or that he had killed the other soldiers to get the prize for himself.
Kunal finished stretching and rose to his feet, bouncing on his toes to warm his muscles. To his left was a table of weapons. What would be the best to use? They’d get one weapon for the fight, but it would all depend on what his opponent chose. Alok was to his left, his second-in-combat.
“Why is it that I’m always trying to prevent you from getting yourself killed? And that you never listen?” Alok said.
“Maybe you’re getting old,” Kunal replied. Alok’s five years on him meant nothing to him, but he loved to rib him about it. “Losing that sense of danger and fun.”
“You sound like Laksh,” Alok said. He scratched the end of his short beard. “I still can’t believe he ran away. Especially without telling us.”
Kunal shrugged. “Perhaps he was scared of the consequences of failing.”
“You came back, and you failed. Even a demotion is better than certain death from desertion,” he said.
“Some people are scared of failure.”
“But that wasn’t really Laksh. He had things he wanted to do here.”
“Well, maybe we don’t always know people as well as we think,” Kunal snapped.
“Okay, maybe we don’t. I’m beginning to realize that too,” Alok said, raising his hands in defeat.
Kunal sighed, turning to apologize, but the conch shell blew. His opponent walked in, a towering statue of muscle and ferocity.
Kunal took a deep breath and centered himself, focusing on the fight ahead and his goal.
Stay alive. Get his commission as Senap to Gwali, meet with the team, and rescue Reha. Save the country.
But the thing he was looking forward to the most was seeing Esha. Four days at the Fort and he was missing her fiercely. He painted her in his mind, the careless toss of her curls, and the small dimple at the corner of her lips when she smirked.
The conch shell blew again and his opponent, Urvan, grabbed a long-handled mace and swung at him. Kunal immediately ducked out of the way. Alok grabbed a spear and threw it toward Kunal, who caught it handily.
Perfect. Long range enough that he could hit his opponent without getting in range of his mace. He hated maces. They were weapons of brutality, with no finesse.
Kunal lunged low, stabbing his spear into Urvan’s thigh. The soldier cried out but didn’t go down. Kunal spun around, aiming to land a blow on Urvan’s side, but the man moved quicker than he anticipated.
He caught the end of Kunal’s spear and threw him to the ground. Kunal tumbled to the sand of the Fort courtyard, his spear clattering out of his hands.