The Lotus Empire (The Burning Kingdoms #3)

Chapter 56 Varsha

VARSHA

Her son had been washed and fed, wrapped in cotton, and cooed over by his mother and by a maid with a little silver rattle-drum, who shook it over his head as he tried to grasp it with clumsy little hands. “When he is older, he’ll be strong, my lady,” the youngest maid marveled. She was watching with a sweet smile on her face as little Vijay grasped Varsha’s finger. “Look how tight he holds on!”

“He can’t even grab the rattle properly,” Varsha protested, but she was pleased. She wanted her son to be special. She knew her son was special. He had to be worth the trouble she had gone through for him: the physical agony of her changed body, the grief-lash of her marriage, the loneliness of her widowhood.

He had to be worth all her loss.

“He’s far too small yet,” one of the older nursemaids said comfortingly. “You’ll see, my lady. He’ll grow into a fine prince.”

Crown prince , she thought. She held him tighter.

When he refused to sleep, fussing, his nursemaids placed him in his cradle and rocked him to sleep. She watched from her own bed as the older maid placed her foot to the cradle’s lever, making it swing softly; as the younger one, Parul, sang a Parijati lullaby. It was some nonsense about hunting golden deer, and a tiger with a belly full of jewels, slit from throat to tail by a clever hunter with a sharp sword. A good song for her son. Something to daub his sleeping mind in the promise of glory.

She would sing him her own lullabies, she told herself. She closed her eyes, exhausted by the heat and little Vijay’s demands upon her—and, always, the dull shroud of her grief. But the grief was lighter than it had been in all the long months since her brother and father had perished, and through it she grasped that small, shining possibility: Saketan lullabies for her son. Lessons hidden in small tales. The chance to shape him into an heir who would make Parijatdvipa better than the cruel thing it had become under Divyanshi’s scions.

She was woken by the sound of a voice calling her name.

“Varsha,” the voice said. “Sister. Wake up.”

Even in the grip of sleep, Varsha knew that voice was not her brother’s. She woke with her heart pounding, sweat on her skin. That voice belonged to Empress Malini, who had come in unannounced. She was sitting in Varsha’s favorite chair by a low lattice window, where songbirds often came to her, flitting around in bright comfort.

There was no one else in the room. Varsha made a sound—a low, heaving thing she couldn’t restrain—and scrambled up onto her feet.

“Where is my son? Where is—”

“Prince Vijay is with his nursemaids,” Malini said calmly. “Walking the corridors. They are going to take him to the orchid garden, where they will show him the flowers and sit with him in the shade. I’ve instructed a servant to take them sherbet.” The empress was entirely still in her seat, her sari a sweep of ivory and silver around her, the light carving her face into facets of brown and effigy gold. “He won’t be harmed. Sit, Varsha.”

Varsha, trembling, sat. She grasped for a semblance of calm. But she struggled to find it. Something was wrong. She knew something was wrong. What she did not yet know was how much danger she was in.

The empress looked unchanged. Still thin, and hollow beneath the eyes, as if exhaustion had carved itself into her flesh and bones—but also elegant, in her pale silk, her crown of white jasmine, the gleaming weight of gold draped from her ears and throat. Vaguely, Varsha had thought war would make something harsher of her, that she would return to Harsinghar in armor, smelling of blood and smoke.

But blood and smoke could be washed away, of course. And armor could be removed.

What could not be changed was the iron in Malini’s eyes. Her gaze was unflinching, her mouth firm and unsmiling. There had been no softness in her voice when she’d spoken. And there continued to be no softness when she said, “You should have trusted me.”

She clutched her own skirt in her hands. Tight, a tether to hold her to her own flesh.

“I do trust you, Empress,” she said in a small voice. “I… I would like my son. Please.”

“I was my brother Chandra’s prisoner once,” the empress said. “I know his nature. He hurt me. No doubt he also hurt you. I am sure your life as his bride was frightening. Even when he was kind, you feared he would turn to sudden anger. He was a storm, my brother—and he had a taste for cruelty he could not quench. I am sorry you suffered him. I am sorry we both did.” A pause. “And yet you see me as your enemy,” the empress murmured. “And when I visit you, you offer me only lies.”

“I…” Throat dry. Heart pounding. “I have never lied to you, Empress.”

“Pleasantries are lies, Lady Varsha, when they hide ill intent and a honed knife.”

“I hold no ill will toward you, Empress—”

“Now that is a lie,” the empress replied. “You are a traitor, Lady Varsha.”

She knew.

Varsha was sure of it now. Her stomach dropped. Her head was light, a scooped-out void of fear. But like a drowning man opening his mouth for air beneath water, she parted her own lips again and said, “I am not, Empress, I am not. Please!”

She began to cry, and hated herself for it. But she couldn’t help it. Her body was acting without her say-so, heaving out sobs as she twisted her hands back and forth in her lap.

The empress was silent, and as her silence stretched, Varsha found her fear growing into anger. She had never been allowed anger. But she had nothing to lose any longer.

“You think you are different from him,” she said, low. “From Chandra. But, Empress, you are not. I am still beholden to you—still your property. I know my worth to you. I was—I am—a womb, a carrier for your heirs, so you may never have to place yourself under the power of any king or lord who wishes to rule the empire in your stead.” She clenched her trembling hands. “I may be foolish,” she said. “But how could I trust you when I know that? When I know how little I matter? How can I place myself wholeheartedly in your power when I know you will use me as callously as any man for the sake of your empire? It is your power that makes you a monster,” said Varsha. “You cannot change that, and I don’t think you want to.”

The empress sighed and rose gracefully to her feet. A moment later, Varsha felt a hand on her own, and something cool pressed into her palm. Her hand was urged up, and she found a metal cup pressed to her lips. Thoughtlessly, obediently, she drank. Cold lemon water, sweet and sharp enough to shock her into swallowing, and breathing. Her tears petered out.

“Drink again,” the empress said, and Varsha took another gulp.

“Good.” A clink, as the cup was lowered down. The empress turned, returning to her seat. She looked utterly unmoved.

“Letters between you and Lady Raziya were discovered. And you spoke often with a priest, who guided you astray.”

Varsha shook her head, silent.

“I have a witness,” said Empress Malini.

Who could it be? One of her maids, surely. The knowledge hit her with a sickening lurch. Which one? Parul? She’d trusted those women. With her son, her son, how could they—

The empress sighed.

“Don’t weep, Varsha,” she said again. “I won’t take your son from you.”

“Y-you won’t?”

“No,” said the empress. She kneeled by her side. “What will my heir do, in years to come, when he learns that I murdered his mother? He will learn to be cruel. He will learn that power is destruction, and to wield it is monstrous. He will be correct, of course. You see me clearly, Lady Varsha. But I find myself hungry for an alternative.” She stood again. “Either become clever enough to depose me, or teach your son to be worthy of my throne. That is your task. You will have no power in my court beyond what he gives you. Raise him wisely.”

“The priests say you will burn,” Varsha said, her voice thin. She was not sure if it was safe to feel relief yet. If she was safe.

“They’re wrong,” the empress said simply. “Rest well, Lady Varsha. If you betray me again, I will not be so kind.”