“The council wants you to announce the execution. It would be your first royal decree, and it would be the start of a treaty with Ujijain.”
“I would’ve thought they’d try a bloodless alliance first.”
Another lesson of ruling he’d gathered was this: If you cannot win against them, marry them. The Emperor flushed.
“We offered that, but … they’d prefer her dead.”
“That’s one version of mercy, I suppose.”
The words took hold. It would be your first royal decree. His heart sank. Only his father and the council knew he was not the biological son of Pururavas. Everyone else in the kingdom believed that he had been a sickly child, too weak for royal events until he was seven years old. His father believed that blood made no difference. But the council believed otherwise. To them, he would always be an illusion of power, with the real strings held tightly in meetings he was not allowed to attend.
“You want me to announce the execution of the Princess as my first royal edict. But what about you?”
“I will take a more advisory role.”
“No. You will be the reinforcement should things sour.”
“Vikram, I—”
“The council is unsure of this decision so they will have a new face announce the plan. And if the plan is not well met, they can formally renounce my claim to the throne and reinstate you as sovereign.”
“That is a worst-case scenario, my child,” he said. To his credit, he did not lie. Still, a light tremor shook his voice.
“Careful, Father. Someone might hear you claim me as your own,” said Vikram coolly. “But how can this play out in a way they want? The council does not want war.”
And then the idea made sense.
Vikram waited for rage to grip his heart, but he felt nothing. For a moment, the world constricted to the menagerie and there was nothing in it but ruined silk, crippled beasts and bird droppings.
“Of course,” he said softly. “The council does not want war. They just seek to rid themselves of two errors at once. Remove Bharata’s folk heroine, and accept the outrage if Bharata falls through on its promises. As a show of goodwill, they will force me out of ‘power’ and probably make me live in an ashram for the rest of my life. And if all goes as planned, Bharata’s folk heroine is still removed and I will remain on the throne as a puppet king. Clever. I am almost tempted to congratulate them.”
Pururavas’s shoulders fell, and Vikram softened. His father could coax a wild leopard to rest its head on his lap, but he could never persuade the council to make Vikram a true king. Decades of complacency had sucked the marrow from the Emperor’s voice. The throne room should have been a seat of power, but in his father’s reign, it had become a playpen of wounded animals.
“I received the council’s word that you would always be well provided for, and that you would receive a pardon within the next year should things sour,” he said, his voice wavering. “You would maintain status, be granted land. And I hoped that perhaps we might take advantage of your role as king to find an advantageous marriage—”
“No.”
Vikram’s hand fell to his side, hitting his pant leg. Something sharp met his palm. The ruby. Play the game and you may yet win your kingdom, not just the husk of its name. He’d stayed here long enough. Fire ran through his veins. He could change this life.
“I will do as you ask, Father.”
Pururavas raised an eyebrow. “What do you want in exchange?”
“Am I so predictable? Do I never give without getting?” asked Vikram, grinning. “Now that you mention what I’d like, that does remind me that I would like to leave for a month before taking the throne. In the empire’s history, it is customary for the heir to spend a month away in meditation. You did the same yourself, Father. Puppet king or no, the council should at least want me to maintain an illusion of decorum.”
His father eyed him shrewdly, and then he sighed.
“For someone so decidedly against tradition, what has brought this on?”
“Patriotism?” tried Vikram.
Pururavas folded his arms. “Patriotism is not the reason. Where will you go?”
“I know where to go. I need to figure out how to get there.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“I always did have a way with words.”
“One month,” said the Emperor, his eyes glassy with tears. “I cannot buy you more time than that. But tell the Princess. The council needs to know you spoke with her.”
Vikram grimaced. “On the eve before I leave, you want me to condemn a girl to death?”
“You wish to be a king, do you not?”
Vikram left his father’s menagerie. The guards led him down a hall painted a bright and vivid red. He twisted his hands. The last thing he wanted before he left was some inconsolable princess begging for her life. He’d never met her. What would he say? “A pleasure to meet you. Also, my kingdom is going to execute you at dawn. Goodbye.”
He bit back a groan, swung open the door and plopped into the first chair. The Princess Gauri stood near the windows, her body blocking out the light. She was tall. Nearly as tall as a man. But it was her eyes that stopped him. They were as black as winter nights. Black as sleep. For a second, they transfixed him.
Before he could speak, she ran toward him. Her mouth was smeared blood-like. And if she looked like a dream, it was only to distract his mind from realizing that she was a nightmare.
Something glittered dangerously in her hands. Vikram rolled out of the chair. Behind him, he heard a series of curses and then a snapping sound. The Jewel of Bharata had broken the chair leg and was now holding it over her head. He looked up, ready to reason with this mad princess, and his breath caught. Glittering motes clung to the air around her. She glowed.
Find the one who glows, with blood on the lips and fangs in the heart.
And then she spoke:
“Come near me, and I will kill you so swiftly you will have no time to cry for help.”
4
THE FOX PRINCE
GAURI
My plan with the pearl dust hadn’t worked. Never mind. I had something sharp in my hands, and that’s all that mattered. I cast a quick glance over the Prince. No weapons belt. Only a person who’d never supped at the table of fear would refuse to carry a knife. Coddled, pampered prince. He’d probably never fought for anything in his life. I cast a quick glance at the door. No sounds. No one was coming for him. If I needed to, I could end him right now and still slip out of the halls before the drunk guard woke up from the end of his shift. But the Prince might still have something useful on his person, maybe an heirloom of a brooch or decorative scabbard that I could sell in a market for at least a dozen mercenaries.
Candlelight shone behind him, sending his features into an inscrutable blur. He was a gathering of lean limbs. Young, beardless, broad-shouldered and slender. He didn’t even bother rising to his feet after he’d rolled out of his chair. Instead he sat up, leaned forward and steepled his fingers. His fingers were long and slim, tapered and clean. He had the hands of a scholar. Not a soldier.