“Yes . . .” After Indah’s persistent silence, I add, “I—I think so.”
My actions may have confused more than just me. In all fairness to Ashwin, I have acted erratically lately. I must dissolve this strange bond between us. Yet even as I resolve to speak with him, like a rabbit scurrying into a cozy burrow to escape winter, I want to bundle myself in his arms.
Datu Bulan strolls down the corridor, sporting a knee-length night tunic and oversized sandals. He carries a water cup, sipping from it every so often. “Blessed be Enki’s sea, ladies.” He does not let on if he finds it peculiar that we are seated in his corridor. Staring down into his cup, he says, “I once traded ten coconuts for an icicle frozen by a northern Aquifier. It melted by the time I brought it home, but that water was the freshest drink I ever had.”
I cast an inquisitive glance at Indah. Northern Aquifiers dwell in the arctic tundra and are rumored to manipulate ice and snow. How the datu came upon one or why he thought an icicle would last in the Southern Isles is beyond me.
He strides away, his sandals slapping against the floor, and then halts. “Indah, I do believe Pons is looking for you.”
She shifts to a kneeling position. “He’s returned?”
“He and the others.”
“What others?” I ask.
“Come on.” Indah stands and hoists me up. I hurry down the corridor with her.
“He’s in the prince’s chamber,” Datu Bulan calls after us.
Indah pulls ahead of me and reaches Ashwin’s open door first. Pons stands outside the threshold. They saw each other just yesterday, yet Indah clutches him close. Pons’s arms come around her slowly; he is taken aback by her open affection.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” she says.
Rarely have I seen Indah fret over Pons. They are usually together, but they were not always. Pons was born in the sultanate, while Indah is a native Lestarian.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Pons says, then sees me from over Indah’s shoulder, and they shuffle out of the doorway.
Within the chamber, Ashwin is seated at a desk with piles of books before him. His hair and tunic are rumpled from a sleepless night. I am within his sight, but he pays me no heed. I lock my knees to stop myself from rushing to him and alleviating my inner cold at his side. He must be hurt that I ran after Deven last night instead of staying. Offending those I care about has become a terrible habit of mine. How will I make this right?
I am so preoccupied with Ashwin, I overlook the other people in the room.
A middle-aged woman drags me into her arms. “You’re even skinnier than I recall.”
“Mathura!” I hug her back, inhaling her jasmine scent. Her dark-brown hair is tied back in a braid, the customary style for an imperial courtesan. Her sari is travel worn, but she still appears stately.
Rohan sits off to the side on the terrace. Dishes of food are set before the young Galer, who is known for his big appetite, but Rohan slumps in his chair and touches none of it. His older sister, Opal, is not here. I do not see Brac either . . .
Deven races into the room, halts abruptly while surveying the chamber, and then flies at his mother. They embrace as tight as they can.
“You’re thinner too.” Mathura pats her son’s cheek. “And you need a shave.”
He chuckles—one of my favorite sounds. “I’ve missed you too, Mother.” His scarlet uniform jacket hangs open, and a day’s worth of facial hair covers his jawline. I love him this way best, when he is in between a smooth face and a full beard, neither done up nor undone.
Ambassador Chitt barges into the chamber, his chest heaving as though he has run the length of the island. He walks to Mathura, never taking his sight off her. “I was preparing to embark when I heard of your arrival.”
Mathura extends her hand, and he cups it in his. “It’s been a long time,” she says.
They know each other? I watch Deven for an explanation, but he is unreadable.
“You’re even more beautiful than I remember,” Chitt murmurs, and Mathura’s cheeks pinken. I cannot recall if I have ever seen her blush. “Where’s your other son?”
Deven snaps his chin sideways and scans the room. His gaze catches mine momentarily and then barrels onward as though I were a stone he kicked out of his way. “Mother, where’s Brac?”
Mathura tenses in anticipation of his reaction. “I meant to tell you as soon as you walked in. Brac isn’t here.”
“Where is he?” Deven’s low question slices, an order that must be met.
Rohan answers, his voice abysmal. “Brac and Opal were flying near the Tarachand border when their wing flyer was shot down. We tried to circle back, but the demon rajah’s army was upon them. Opal sent a message on the wind for us to go. We lost sight of her, and I haven’t heard anything since.”
Deven freezes. The same dread locks me in place. I fear for Deven and his family, but even more so for Rohan. He and Opal were orphaned after their Galer mother was executed in a bhuta raid. They have only each other. My chest squeezes in empathy. His dependence on his sister reminds me how much I relied on Jaya.
Ashwin pushes up from his desk. “The imperial army is at the border? We were told the demon rajah is still in Iresh.”
“Our informants were misled,” Pons replies, coming into the chamber with Indah. “I flew over Iresh. The city has been abandoned. Only the Tarachandian civilians and a few soldiers remain. The imperial army will cross into the empire soon.”
“How is that possible?” Ashwin sputters out. “Your scouts said—”
“They were listening at a good distance,” Pons explains. “They heard travelers leaving Iresh and assumed they were Janardanians fleeing.”
“Was my brother captured by the demon rajah?” Deven asks, still motionless.
Mathura flourishes her hands in chagrin. “We don’t know.”
The navy is useless now. Their ships cannot reach a landlocked army. “Pons, how long until the army reaches Vanhi?” I ask.
“At the rate they’re marching, six days.”
Ashwin pounds his fists against the desk and hunches over, startling Rohan. “I need to speak with the general and the kindred alone. Everyone else is dismissed.”
Indah and Pons leave without a word. Rohan slogs out after them, his breakfast gone cold.
Deven embraces his mother again. “Brac will be all right.”
Mathura lays her cheek against his shoulder. “I lost him once. I cannot lose him again.”
Brac was presumed dead until a few moons ago, a cover-up for his real mission of joining the rebels. He worked with Hastin to unseat Rajah Tarek but gave up that life when he reunited with his family.
Deven holds Mathura for a long moment. “I’ll find him, Mother. I swear it.”
She releases him, and I fight back the urge to take her place in his arms. I do not need his comfort; I want to comfort him.