I settled back into my chair and, after a long breath, turned to Jayant. The man had been waiting, shoulders rigid, eyes darting from me to the others. His fingers twisted the hem of his tunic beneath the table as though seeking refuge in the cloth.
"Nayaka Jayant," I said at last, letting my voice carry, "you are well versed in matters of currency, are you not?"
He straightened sharply, the chair legs scraping against the stone. "Yes, sire. I am prepared for your questions. It will be an honor to aid a b…man such as you."
The word he nearly spoke hung between us like smoke. My lips curved faintly. None at that table, save Mother, would dare call me boy.
I leaned forward. "Then let us begin plainly. I seek a clear depiction of our economy. From what I have seen with my own eyes, it fares poorly."
Jayant shifted, throat bobbing. "My lord, I regret to say the truth is grim indeed. While I cannot speak with certainty of the royal treasury, I know the marketplace bleeds. Each week fewer coins change hands. Traders depart earlier, merchants, save the ones from Tamak, shutter their stalls. Grain sells at twice its worth, and still farmers cannot cover their dues. The lifeblood of commerce runs thin, and with it the patience of our people."
He licked his lips, adding more softly, "Many speak of flight. To Tamak. To Matsyanagara. To anywhere coin still moves."
His words were no surprise. I felt my jaw clench, as though bracing for a blow I had long seen coming.
In my mind I recalled the empty market lanes, the hollow ring of copper, the hushed voices of hawkers whose baskets grew lighter not from sales but from desperation.
"As expected," I murmured, fingers drumming once on the carved wood of the table. "And our coinage? Do we continue to rely on assorted metals—silver, copper, tin, or have we issued a crown currency to bind the market?"
I knew the answer already. Among the nations of the mandala, only Aranyavarta and Kharidasa had never minted their own crown coin. That fact had irked me since boyhood.
Jayant bowed his head, voice hushed as though fearing the echo of his own words. "Forgive me, my lord. Our economy is far too frail to uphold such a currency. To issue one now, without foundation, would hurl our people into ruin. A crown coin requires faith, and faith is the very thing the market lacks. W—what faith can men have, when a maund of rice costs three times what it did a season ago?"
The air in my chest grew heavier. I forced myself to speak, though each syllable tasted like ash. "I agree. Fear not, Jayant. Your Samanta will not act so rashly."
Relief flooded his features, and he lowered his gaze. "I d—dare not doubt it, my lord."
I turned to Mother. The faint glint in her eyes told me she had been waiting for that moment.
"Then tell me, Mother, what of the royal treasury? Are we in any condition to invest in works of scale?"
She inclined her head. "The treasury is precarious, my lord. Expenditures have outpaced our income for years. If we are to build anew, every project must yield revenue in time, else we risk collapse." She paused, gaze lingering on mine, as though weighing whether to reveal more.
At last she spoke, voice even but carrying like thunder, "The royal treasury holds one million gold coins."
The crackle of a torch was suddenly the only sound in the hall.
It was as though the very air solidified. Servants along the walls stopped mid-step, trays trembling in their hands.
Jayant's lips moved soundlessly, his eyes wide with the terror of a man who had just glimpsed a demon. His hand clutched the table, knuckles bone-white.
Pranvi's eyes blazed; she half-rose from her chair, words poised on her tongue, only to bite them back so fiercely I thought she might draw blood.
Varanth lowered his head, but not in shame. His crooked smile said plainly: So this is the secret.
Vatsal fumbled for a kerchief, dabbing furiously at his brow. "Gold enough to rival a rajya… impossible," he whispered, though his gaze begged for someone to contradict him.
And Jayak—the ever inscrutable Jayak, stood still, the corners of his mouth turning upward as if nothing had surprised him in his life.
"S—Samanti," Vatsal stammered at last, "surely you jest?"
I said, my voice low, trembling with disbelief. "Mother, what is the meaning of this?"
She bowed her head with a grace that carried both pride and sorrow.
"Forgive me, my lord. In your father's reign, the treasury bled beneath the hands of nayakas such as Indivara. I had no sanction to change policy, yet I persuaded Samanta Prathiraj to entrust the treasury to my keeping. Many requests came—relief works, grand halls, bridges over rivers swollen with monsoon. Yet beneath every plea, I saw the glint of greed. They sought to line their coffers, not serve the people. I denied them, time and again."
Her eyes clouded with memory, and for a moment I saw the younger woman, standing in council halls, her voice calm yet unyielding, turning aside Indivara's silken words.
"Once he came to me," she continued softly, "with plans for a fortress upon the northern cliffs. He spoke of protecting trade routes, of shielding villages from raiders. But I knew. I knew he sought only to carve his name into stone and bleed the treasury dry. I told him the cliffs were too treacherous, that no builder would risk such heights. His face burned red with rage, but I did not yield."
The hall fell silent. Even Jayant leaned forward, as if he were hearing the tale of a dandanayaka outmaneuvering an enemy.
I looked at her in awe. As she spoke, I found myself shrinking in my chair.
A child beside a maharani.
Her voice dropped, almost breaking. "I am well aware of my sins, my lord. The people suffered, yes, while I hoarded wealth from their false guardians. For that, I submit myself to your judgment."
She rose, her fingers tightened on the edge of the table, bowing deeply before us all.
For a heartbeat, I could not breathe. Heat flushed my face, pride swelling, only to wither into a cold weight of shame in my gut—pride for her foresight, shame that my own rule had begun in her shadow.
I straightened, my voice steady as steel. "Mother, your intentions were untainted. You carried a burden none else could. As long as I am the Samanta of Aranyavarta, no hand shall dare fall upon you."
The words rang with such finality that none dared interject.
I let my gaze wander across the table. Vatsal's eyes brimmed with relief, Jayant lowered his head in humbled awe, Pranvi's loyalty wrestled with indignation, Varanth's smile spoke of quiet pride, Jayak, calm and knowing, watched it all unfold as though it had been written long before.
Mother eased back into her seat. Her lips curved in the faintest smile, though her eyes stayed shuttered, as if the words she had spoken were only the surface of what she carried.