“Esha,” he repeated. The corners of his eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure and Esha couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m Kunal.”
A violent wind ran through, causing the quiver of arrows slung across his back to rattle against his bronze cuirass, tangling with the uttariya thrown across his shoulders. He wore no turban to signify his status as many Jansan men did, but the bronze cuirass and gold cuffs were enough. In his armor, he was an arresting picture of strength, but Esha was drawn to his smile. It transformed his face from cold to surprisingly warm.
“Perhaps I’ll see you around here again.” There was a hopeful lift to his words. “Maybe I can convince our cook that we need to add poppy seeds to all of our bread,” he said with a small grin.
“Well, your fellow soldiers might blame you when they find themselves with horrible stomachaches.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
Esha shook her head solemnly. “No, we wouldn’t want to start a riot over a few extra poppy seeds.” She squinted at him. “Think about it. ‘The Poppy Seed Rebellion.’ What a horrible name.”
“At the very least, it would be an interesting tale. That is, if I managed to keep my head in said rebellion.”
She was doing her best to defeat her own traitorous smile. “It would be the first thing to go. Your head for the extra barrel of poppy seeds.”
“Pity. I do have such a nice head.” He grinned at her and she grinned back.
Despite herself, she liked him.
Too bad she would have to betray him.
Chapter 3
She pulled her hand away first, turning to follow the path. But something stilled her steps and she looked back, shivering in the cool sea breeze of night.
The soldier unwrapped his own uttariya in one swift movement and had it around her shoulders in the next. With that he put four fingers to his chest in salute and turned around, marching up the rocky path toward the Red Fortress.
Or the Blood Fort, as it was called by everyone on her side of the water. One of the many names Dharkans had for the regime of the Pretender King of Jansa.
Esha could feel her heart beating in her chest as she fingered the thick silk of his uttariya over her own, drawing it tighter around her body. The faint remnants of a smile flitted on her lips as she saw him draw near the door—until a jeweled armband on his upper arm caught the moonlight and she realized what he was.
She scowled at his back. Only a Senap guard wore those armbands, the worst sort of Fort soldier. They offered warmth with one hand and ripped lives apart with the other. She knew the latter firsthand.
Esha took a deep breath and continued down the path, turning near the large boulder for a better look at the side door to the Fort. She ducked behind, sliding into a low crouch and patting the knife strapped to her thigh.
Esha pushed aside the old, painful memories that threatened to resurface, making space for the clarity she would need to accomplish her mission. There was a reason she had asked for this one, even demanded it be assigned to her.
If she could pull this off, it would be a great win for the Crescent Blades and her rebel team at home.
And for the girl she used to be.
She’d spent too many nights haunted by nightmares—the image of a soldier in bronze armor holding a curved blade, and Setu Hotha, the general of the Fort, behind him. His lips were always set in a pleased slant. She would never be free of that nightmare, never be able to wipe away those memories of the night Vardaan Himyad took control of Jansa by coup.
Vardaan Himyad, a former prince of Dharka, the younger brother of Dharka’s reigning monarch, King Mahir. That night marked an unbelievable betrayal of both countries.
It was also the night her parents had been murdered in front of her eyes.
Setting up this mission after the cease-fire had been a masterful idea by Harun, the current crown prince of Dharka, giving her the distraction she needed to slip in. She welcomed the cease-fire, as it allowed Dharka’s smaller military to recuperate and gave both nations’ people a respite from the war. The conflict had started off as a simple border issue after the coup ten years ago, when the Pretender King pushed past the Ghanta Mountains, the natural border between Jansa and Dharka, to claim Dharkan land.
But both country’s futures had always been closely tied—they both relied on the Bhagya River’s tributaries and were bound to the land by the janma bond, the pact of blood and magic that Jansa’s and Dharka’s founders had made with the gods to keep the Southern Lands thriving and alive for all future generations. After the Pretender King had broken the janma bond by killing the queen and the royals, it had become an all-out fight for the future of Jansa—and the Southern Lands.
Ten years of on-and-off war and countless failed cease-fires later, she had a chance to claim a great win for Dharka, to take a step toward toppling the Pretender King. It was even more vital now, after what the scholars had told her about the janma bond—time was running out for Jansa and soon Dharka would be engulfed in drought as well.
The next ritual would be the last.
Her mission? Assassinate the brutal General Hotha and intercept a stolen report, one a fellow rebel had died protecting and that contained new information about the janma bond.
Two birds, one stone. The Blades would deliver a great blow to the Pretender King, eliminate his trusted adviser, and recover valuable intel. Tonight’s celebration of the cease-fire, when the Fort’s guard was down, would be their best, and only, chance.
Esha tilted her head around the boulder, watching the soldier slip inside the fort door. In a few seconds he disappeared behind the heavy stone.
The maid’s entrance.
Or it used to be the maid’s entrance, when the Fort had been a palace.
When Esha had last been here, the Fortress was alive with people and color. The land surrounding it had been healthy, and when moonlight struck the cliffs, they glimmered like hardened rubies.
Now the land was dying and the Fort stood on the top of the hill, bleak and ominous, its heart ripped out ten years ago on the night of the coup. The inner residence had been destroyed, according to their rebel reports, to make way for training grounds.
She remembered the vivid paintings on those walls, of the origins of Dharka and Jansa. The twin demigods of boy and girl, Naran and Naria, who had built their nations side by side on the peninsular Southern Lands.
She had spent so many afternoons as a child tracing them, listening to stories from her father, learning about the two royal lineages who had descended from the twins—the Samyads of Jansa and the Himyads of Dharka. Even now, she could picture how her father’s long handlebar mustache had shaken as he took on different voices to tell the stories, making her erupt in peals of laughter.
Esha sprinted up the path, desperate to avoid any watching eyes. She grabbed the edges of her sari, bunching the fabric of the dress together and pulling it through her legs to create a dhoti. She tucked the long length of fabric over one of her shoulders into her waist sash, freeing up her arms.
Esha tugged at the door. After steadying her breath, she reached out to hold the large gold lock in her shaking hands.
How had the soldier done it?
A twist to the right, a tug forward. Had the next step been clockwise or counterclockwise? She chose the latter but the lock didn’t budge.
She suppressed a curse.