I had been there before. A rectangular hall, roughly twice as long as it was wide.
At the one end of the hall was the dais, where the high table was situated. The crest of Kula Ashanra—the blazing sun, was etched into a large shield that adorned the wall behind the high table. There were two smaller tables kept perpendicular to the dais, spaced wide enough to leave a path between them, directing attention toward the seat of the janapada.
The ceiling was heavy with tapestries, running the entire length of the room; hunting scenes and victories stitched in threads that still held their stubborn shine despite the wear of a hundred winters. The giant windows along the side wall were thrown open; sunlight poured in, warm and revealing, creeping in bands across the stone and catching on the rims of goblets and the lacquered hilts of men who preferred steel to courtesy.
I could see all of our retainers gathered in the hall. The sabhasad and mantriparishad were seated at the smaller tables; the manor servants hovered at their elbows, proffering wine and food with expressions as blank as carved stone.
Trays of dates and sugared peels went untouched as if the hunger in the hall was not the kind that fruit could quiet.
At the high table, in all her glory, stood my mother, Samanti Yamvitha Ashanra.
She wore white, not the soft ivory of court leisure, but a stark, almost blinding white.
To her right, Pranvi, my sister, sat with her hands folded and her chin slightly raised. Her black curls, reaching her waist, shimmered in the light of day. Her face was an impeccable blend of the innocence of a maiden and the scrupulousness of a girl who was wise beyond her years.
It had been a while since she came out of her room; the sight of her there should have lifted me wholly. Instead, a small trembling took hold of me.
That fire I remembered, the wild spark in her gaze when a blade flashed, was gone or hidden so deep that the sun could not reach it.
She adorned the high table with the still-intact charm of a girl who had long given up on all her aspirations.
That sight of her broke something inside of me. It was heavier than the shield on the wall.
As soon as the servants saw me, they bowed in unison. There was a sudden lull in the air that warranted caution. Chairs scraped softly as the sabhasad stopped eating and rose to their feet. Mother inclined her head without breaking composure, and Pranvi dipped a graceful bow as I began the long walk to the dais.
I didn't need Jayak to murmur it in my ear. The stones knew it. The banners knew it. Whatever would transpire in that hall that day would change our janapada forever.
I stopped beside the largest chair at the high table—the Samanta's seat, and glanced at my mother. She nodded once, as if to reassure me.
"Sabhasad from all over the janapada," I said, my voice carrying farther than I expected, "I, Amogh Ashanra, welcome you to the manor of Kula Ashanra."
I sat, nervous nonetheless.
Following their cue, the sabhasad bowed slightly. It was a bow performed to the seat, not the boy who occupied it.
They took their seats again with the quiet certainty of men who knew that they would one day stand above me.
I also caught a glimpse of Jayak standing by a window at the edge of the hall. His clasped hands and gentle smile would have fooled anyone who didn't know that he could draw a knife in the blink of an eye.
"Sabhasad, I thank you for your presence here. For today, we are to decide our janapada's fate," my mother said, her voice a thread of silk.
Her eyes were unreadable. She wore a blank calm the way my father wore armor. Only I could see the tiny tension at the corner of her mouth. Her grief had sculpted a new line there.
"My lady, we offer our condolences for the untimely demise of your husband," said a man who looked no older than fifty but with an unnerving smirk.
"Let me correct you there, Nayaka Indivara," Mother replied, her fists curling on the table, knuckles whitening just enough to be noticed by those who watched her fingers more than her face.
"To you, it is Samanta Prathiraj."
"Oh, pardon my indiscretion, my lady," Indivara said, laying unnecessary weight on the last two words. He bowed, but the bow was a yawn disguised as courtesy, and a soft smile rose to his lips.
Intentions spilled into the air like wine. A few chuckles, not friendly; a seam of murmurs, not kind.
Indivara sat with his back turned to the dais, as if he found the high table too inconvenient to face. He leaned into the men beside him, whispering with what I could imagine an amused expression.
"I shall always keep Samanta Prathiraj Ashanra in my thoughts," said a younger man in his late twenties, sober and bright-eyed. "Our janapada lost an accomplished warrior. No man among us could say otherwise."
"I served his highness for a decade," said another, older and broad-palmed, raising his glass and pointing at himself as though he were dragging a confession through wine.
"Let me assure everyone present," he swallowed, "that it was the highest honor the gods could bestow upon this wreck of a man." He tipped the goblet back hard and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes clearer than the wine deserved.
My father was entirely a man of the sword, the ways of that sabha beyond him. He was forged for the field, and in that hall he had been iron in a bed of velvet. He cared for our people; he did not charm them.
Men like those two had learned to translate his bluntness into law, his honor into coin. They were not perfect men, but they were not snakes.
"You honor us with your words, Nayaka Jayant and Nayaka Vatsal," Mother said. "I am sure my husband looks on from the halls of the gods and finds comfort in your loyalty."
"Oh, Samanta! Come and drink with us," Vatsal called, brazen enough to smile at grief. "Grace your retainers with your charm yet again."
He raised his cup, and Jayant followed, the gesture unpolished and heartfelt. Their smiles were warm, and for a heartbeat I wanted to walk down the steps and stand beside them in the sunlight instead of under the weight of that seat.
Mother closed her eyes for a moment. Then, with a firm and loud voice, she began, "As you all are aware, my eldest does not yearn for the seat, and my daughter, being a girl, has no right to it."
I felt the air shift. Pranvi's fists tightened so slightly that only the white of her knuckles betrayed it, and sunlight, or tears—I could not tell which, put a gleam in her eyes. I turned my gaze toward the table to keep myself from staring at her.
There was a wrongness in saying it out loud, a wrongness our law demanded we swallow.
"Hence," Mother continued, voice unyielding, "I propose the name of my son, Amogh Ashanra, for the seat of the janapada. All those in favor, please raise your glasses."
"Aye," said Vatsal without looking to either side, his voice suddenly sober. "I shall support the young Samanta with the wisdom and men of my ahara." Glass high.
"I, Jayant Mitra, shall help the Samanta with all the riches of my ahara." Jayant lifted his drink with an undeterred gaze, as if staring a storm into shame.
I nodded to them both, gratitude and unease wrestling in my gut.
Ten more mantris along with several other sabhasad sat among the ranks—men with silk-wrapped daggers and conniving smiles. Yet, not a single glass rose.
I looked to my mother; her lids fell, a slow blink that said she'd expected it before we even entered the hall.
"What are you lot doing?" Vatsal's patience cracked. "The boy is of age, and with our support he can manage the janapada. Unite behind the Samanta. We must aid him in bringing prosperity to Aranyavarta."
"Hold your tongue, old man!" spat a noble seated to Indivara's right.
"Do not presume to command us," another added, not even looking up from his glass.
"My lords," Jayant said, standing despite his height giving him no advantage. His pleading voice was fighting for its place among the chaos.
"This is not the time for infighting. Losing Samanta Prathiraj has impaired our already struggling military. We must consolidate our forces if we are to survive these—"
"Jayant," Indivara interrupted, his hand settling on the hilt at his side, "let wiser men speak. Or shall I draw my sword and demonstrate just how strong our forces truly are?"
He half unsheathed; the shhkt of steel found brothers as the sabhasad around him followed suit, the metal bright and eager.
Jayant's lips parted, but he swallowed what he might have said. He looked aside with a face that held indignation at war with prudence.
Shame flared through me. I wanted to stand, to speak, to make it all stop. My reign felt like a scroll unfurling into flames before it had a date written upon it.
Just as I was about to say something to appease the sabha, Mother spoke. "Nayaka Indivara," she said, "I understand your reservations about Amogh being a boy. But as you can see, we have run out of alternatives."
Indivara smiled and walked to a distance of a few feet from the dais. False humility dripped from him.
"My lady, Samanti Yamvitha, we shall lend our support to the boy under two conditions."
The air in the hall tightened as if a rope had been pulled around it. Indivara's men turned their faces toward the dais with the quiet joy of listeners at the start of a favorite song.
"What do you desire, Sir Indivara?" Mother asked, tone flat as hammered iron. "If it lies within my power, I shall grant it."
Indivara's eyes gleamed like a knife catching the sun.
"I would never ask for anything you cannot give, my lady. First and foremost, my ahara must be exempt from any and all tax levies. Also, my people must not be obligated to serve in the army."
A low murmur rose; shock from servants, calculation from cowards. Vatsal's and Jayant's faces shifted, but the rest remained statues with tongues.
'They planned this! Granting Indivara's wish would peel his ahara from the map and set it in the sky beyond the reach of law. He is asking for a rajya for the price of his words.' I thought and shuddered in realization.
"You must jest, Indivara." Vatsal's voice lost its madhu. "If the Samanti grants that wish, your ahara would effectively become an independent janapada." He looked as if he had bitten a stone.
'Did he just read my mind?' I thought, oddly comforted by not being the only one who saw through Indivara's words.
I looked to Pranvi; concern darkened her eyes. She flicked a glance to me that said, 'This is madness! End it.' I agreed. We both turned to Mother.
Her face was as austere as ever.
'Is there anything in this world that can budge my mother?' I felt a mix of absurd pride and fear all at once.
"I shall agree to your request, Sir Indivara."
Silence broke. The murmurs turned to quick, ugly grins. A few men leaned back in their chairs as if they had just loosened their belts after a heavy meal, satisfied and proud of their appetites.
"But, Sam—" Jayant attempted to object, but Mother raised her hand with authority. He stopped.
The room returned to that strange, vibrating quiet that made me aware of my own breath as if someone were stealing it.
Pranvi and I stared at Mother. It felt like a bowstring stretched too far.
"Mother..." I began, the word leaving me like a prayer, and then she looked at me—the look I had not seen since the pyre, a smile that held warmth like the first ember in an unforgiving winter.
Then, she turned towards Pranvi. Judging from my sister's expression, which was now serene, I imagine that she offered that same smile of reassurance to her.
"Nayaka Indivara," Mother said, the small smile remained in her voice but not on her face, "your second condition."
He did not keep us waiting.
"Forgive me, my lady," he said, deadly gentle, "but the boy's father is dead, and thus his rule demands more legitimacy than a woman can offer, even if she is the Samanti. To help the boy, I shall agree to take you, Samanti Yamvitha, as my wife, thereby granting legitimacy to the most influential lord in all of Aranyavarta..."