Esha sprinted over to the open windows, looking out over the thin curtains. It was too high up for a drop and there was no indication of ropes tied to the windows.
“Wait. End it. Please.”
Esha whirled around, fury now overtaking her fear. She moved to his bed, her knife out.
“Why. Why in the name of the sun and the moon should I, after all you’ve done? How can you claim mercy as your right?” Her voice was rough, low, infused with hatred and years of pain.
Recognition alighted in his eyes. “You’re not one of them. You’re one of the Dharkan rebels, those Crescent Blades. What is it you say in your land? We’re all the Mother’s creation. We’re all—”
“How dare you—”
“We’re all flawed. We all deserve mercy. Right?”
“So did hundreds of innocent Dharkans. So did the soldiers you captured and tortured for simply fulfilling their duty. And especially after what you did in Sundara to those civilians . . .”
“Vardaan and I, we had grand dreams. Better dreams.”
Esha recoiled at the name of the Pretender King, Vardaan Himyad, the one who had led the coup and now ruled Jansa. “But it was war—” he continued.
“It was a coup. Why am I even letting you speak? I should cut the tongue from your throat, General,” she said, her voice acid.
She moved to leave but whirled back around, incensed. That this man, even when at Death’s doorstep, could act so righteous. The general tried to sit up but fell back with heavy breaths.
Esha’s fingers clenched into a fist. “You controlled the fabled armies of Jansa. What more could you have wanted? Was your greed worth it?”
“Was it greed? Or conviction? After the War in the North . . .” He seemed to be considering it, a man who realized he had but a short time to think on his life.
Esha had run out of patience. She was pulling closer, ready to slit his throat in the former bedroom of the queen he had murdered, when she spotted it.
Under the bed, to the side, was a replica of one of her whips, identical to the one strapped to her hip. Her mind leaped to action even as her hand froze.
A trap?
She grabbed at the rug underneath the whip and tugged. It rolled over, no wire or weapon tied to it. She bent to examine it, tamping down on the fear that had bubbled back up. The heft was all wrong, and the metal was different, but it looked the same as the weapon in her hand, snakes emblazoned on the handle. It was an exact replica of her whips, the weapons that characterized her as the Viper, the ones she had custom made for her by one of the rebels’ top blacksmiths. Her whips were one of a kind.
Someone was trying to frame her.
“I knew I would never have a peaceful death,” he said, staring at her as if he knew she only moved closer to his bed to guarantee his death. Another shaky breath, a weak tremor in the body of the once-powerful, all-knowing general. He pushed the hand against his wound tighter, screwing his eyes shut.
“You gave that up long ago.” Esha took a shaky breath. “Who was it?”
“Does it matter? Does any of it matter now?”
She wanted to slap him. “You’re leaving this world having ruined the janma bond with the land, our one gift from the gods. Everything matters. You have the chance to save people.”
“Vardaan thought he could maintain the bond by himself. We were wrong, and for that, I am sorry.” He closed his eyes and coughed up blood. He grabbed on to her, his bloody fingers a cuff on her wrist. “The fireplace.”
“What of it?”
“The fireplace. And my nephew . . . ,” he whispered.
Before she could register his words, the general of the Red Fortress, her target and mission, died with one last gasping breath. Her knife was still warm in her hand, had been ready to end his life. But just as he had cheated her in life, he cheated her in death, stealing away the moment she had longed for.
Fury coursed through her veins and she wanted to shake him for taking this from her as well. Instead, she watched as life faded out of him, etching a new memory of the man who had plagued her nightmares, fueled her hatred for years. Her ghosts whispered, and she closed her eyes, letting their insistent voices wash over her.
She should be happy. The general was dead. The first pawn to be toppled as she made her way across the board toward the Pretender King, Vardaan.
It felt hollow.
Esha heard the conch shell blow again and jumped—the soldiers would come in now from their exercises.
She ran to the small fireplace situated in the corner of the room, remembering the general’s words and the report she still had to find. Was it another trap? Even if it was, there was valuable information for the rebels in this room.
A scroll had been tossed into the flames, along with a short note that was mostly burned away. Esha smothered the fire with the bottom of her sandal and picked up the note and then the scroll, hitting it against the stone floor to stop the spread of flames.
Was this the report? She hoped to the Moon Lord it was, as she was running out of time.
Something glinted in the ashes. Pain was shooting up her palm from where she had grasped the hot scroll handle, but Esha reached in to pick up the object. It was a silver pin shaped like a crescent moon, an arrow through the center.
The symbol of the Crescent Blades, the Dharkan rebel group she called her family.
No self-respecting Blade would be careless enough to leave their pin behind, Esha thought immediately.
Which meant whoever had left it had done so on purpose. Esha couldn’t fathom a reason a Blade would do such a thing, unless they had turned traitor and double agent. Or it could have been left by a new foe, someone who wanted to draw the Blades into a conflict that wasn’t theirs.
She might not be the only one being framed—whoever had been here had wanted the soldiers at the Fort to find the pin. And if they found it and tied the general’s assassination back to the Blades, Viper or no Viper, it could be the start of a full-fledged vendetta against the rebels.
Just as the cease-fire had been struck and peace was on the horizon.
It wouldn’t matter that the Blades weren’t representative of Dharka’s army or monarchy—Vardaan was known to end agreements, and lives, for more trivial reasons than the murder of his right-hand general. And right now, Dharka needed peace. If the Fort and Vardaan discovered that the Blades had a connection to the Dharkan throne . . .
A chill crept down her spine.
Esha shook her head. She couldn’t stay here any longer if she wanted to escape and get to the bottom of this. She rushed over to the general’s desk, rattling through trinkets and correspondence for any more reports. Her hand hit scrolls that were hidden in the back, in a secret compartment, and she grabbed them, shoving them into her waist sash.
Time to leave.
At the last minute, Esha took the whip replica and left her real one.
It was rash, reckless, stupid, an action colored by rage and disappointment. But whoever had done this had wanted to frame her, and if she let them think their plan was still working, if she let this story play out, she might get enough clues to find them.
To unravel who was behind this, who had killed the general before her.
Who might know her real identity.
Chapter 4
Kunal woke to a rapping sound outside his door.