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“Doma has surrendered to the Garlean Empire. Trade relations will be severely impacted as charters are updated, but Lord Kaien Rijin still sits as her leader.”
Ahewann looks up sharply to his sister. This is the first she’s learned of it, but her voice did not waver. Indumathi’s fingers tighten around the missive she just read from. A short silence falls over the council room, among courtiers and viziers alike. The ones who know of her family dare not look at her. Those who don’t look askance at them. Indumathi presses her lips into a line to keep herself from baring her teeth.
“The satrap’s response?” She asks, coolly. She looks Ahewann in the eye, lets him see her focus and the emotions roiling beneath.
Later.
Ahewann pauses, and inclines his head. His lips twitch, but do not twist in obvious, inappropriate reaction. In the eyes of this council he is satrap, and she, his ambassador. No more, no less.
“… Thavnair remains neutral. So long as Lord Kaien sits the throne, this is but a changing of the guard for the nation. All matters of trade with Doma are sanctioned to continue.”
Indumathi nods and passes the missive in her hands to a waiting steward. The council room begins to breathe again. Another ambassador steps forward to detail the recent events of their charge. Indumathi schools her face into cool indifference, and begins to count the seconds. She resolves not to scream.
___
As soon as the door shuts behind the last advisor Ahewann wheels on her, his voice urgent.
“Have you heard aught from Nobutoshi? From Issei?”
Indumathi shakes her head, biting back what would have been a snap. Only political missives made it out in time from Garlean-controlled territory. That was how the Empire made its might felt.
“No. Their regiment was not among those issued a linkpearl.”
Ahewann covers his face with his hands. He is still so young. Only a bit older than Issei. Indumathi makes herself pick up a cup, instead of throwing it.
“Is there something we can do? Perhaps offer them asylum?” He speaks from behind his fingers, sinking into a chair by Indumathi.
She shakes her head. “We would first have to find them.”
Ahewann puts his hands down, turning to gaze at the curtains lining the far wall. Indumathi follows suit, unsure if she dares to hope.
Forgive me, Indumathi. Ahewann.
Vrtra’s rumbling voice fills their horns, resonant with his grief.
My reach extends far beyond the limits of Thavnair, but they are not in my sight.
But you are still so much more than man. Indumathi turns sharply away and does not say this. With Vrtra alone, the Garleans could be ousted from Doma before nightfall, before they have the chance to establish any lasting footholds. But in so doing, Vrtra would expose himself, a dragon ruling a prosperous nation, and open Thavnair to threat from the larger world. An unconscionable risk.
Besides, this is a fantasy. Vrtra would never leave Thavnair. Indumathi drinks blindly from the cup, to wash out the bitter taste. Recovering quickly, Ahewann continues to plan.
“We cannot send scouts of Thavnair. Perhaps we can hire out some adventurers? Or a covert hunter's mark? Or —”
Frantic knocking interrupts Ahewann before he can continue. Indumathi rises to open the doors, greeted with the face of her personal steward, Enam. His face is creased with worry. No doubt he has heard the news. But his eyes are bright with hope.
“My lady! A parcel has arrived for you, from Doma!”
Indumathi looks to Ahewann. There is no need for words.
He gets to his feet quickly, and together they quickly follow Enam to Indumathi’s chambers.
___
“When and how did this arrive?” Ahewann asks, urgent.
“I called upon the council room as soon as I accepted it. I am told it was delivered by a private courier. They may still be at the docks.” Enam answers quickly, but his words are clear.
“Quickly, we must speak to that courier! They may know who sent this!” Ahewann has already rushed out of the door, Enam hurrying behind him. Indumathi does not look up as the pounding footfalls fade.
Indumathi is silent, her attention arrested by the parcel. A lacquered box marked by a crest with an unpolished pearl at its heart. The crest of the Aogane clan.
Someone kept time with the Empire to deliver this. Perhaps as soon as news of the surrender broke, before the waterways out of Doma could be monitored. Whoever it was went through great and sudden lengths to see this into Indumathi’s hands.
Indumathi lifts the lid. The lacquer is smooth beneath her fingers, and as it rises she breathes in the scent of its contents. Smoke and gunpowder. Dust and blood.
Inside are two lengths of hair, bound separately, but coiled together. The longer length is straight and black, held by red silk ties. The shorter length curls loosely, pale enough to show the blood dried into its ends.
Curling and pale, like Indumathi’s.
Before her hands can start to shake, she reaches for the last of the box’s contents. A piece of mulberry paper, the script written on it is Thavnairian. Its swirls warp strangely, at odds with the calligraphy brush used to pen the message. The letters have bled in places, wet ink smudged with blood at the time of its writing. The paper itself is blotted with grime and water, curving faintly between Indumathi’s fingers.
मुझे माफ़ कर दो, मां होना.
Indumathi slams her palms into the table beside the box, locking her arms to keep from falling. Her legs had gone numb, much like when she gave birth. This was Issei. Issei had written this for her. Had cut the hair from his and Nobutoshi’s heads, to give to her. A burial rite of Doma. Why did he risk capture from the Garleans to send this? What did this message mean? Where was he? Where was Nobutoshi?
Indumathi does not scream. Her mind races on with feverish suppositions. Perhaps a decoy? Perhaps a well-informed threat. Perhaps they are both already dead. She does not fall. Her eyes do not give fruit to tears.
Instead, she stares.
She stares, and stares.
