KEWRI PACED THE HALLS of her chamber, waiting anxiously for Vasurava to return. Under the new martial law imposed on Arrgodi, women were not permitted to travel unaccompanied by a man outside their homes. Even when they did travel with their menfolk, they were compelled to be clothed from head to toe in garb that must not be found provocative in any way, and their faces veiled. A woman found violating any of these conditions would be regarded as chattel and thrown into one of the many detention centers that had been built for this purpose, there to be suitably punished by Tyrak’s soldiers for as long as they saw fit.
There were stories, fearfully whispered, of Generals Bane and Uaraj deliberately lifting the veils of women they passed by, and, if the faces they saw pleased them, accusing the women in question of violating the law by having “enticed” them through provocative gestures, words, or simply the way they walked; it was straight to the detention centers for those poor unfortunates. The lucky ones were too ugly, too old, disease-stricken, or otherwise unappealing. Naturally, to avoid falling prey to this gross injustice and misogyny, virtually all women had stopped traveling outside at all, and even Kewri had no choice but to stay indoors.
She heaved a sigh of relief as she saw Vasurava’s familiar neatly combed hair as he passed across the courtyard of their house, disappearing below the balcony on which she stood. She spun around as his footsteps sounded on the stairway, and the instant he appeared at the top of the stairs, she went to him eagerly. The sight of his face, pale and drained of all strength, shocked her. She glanced behind him, then over her shoulder at the courtyard once more, fully expecting to see Tyrak’s soldiers—the New Army, they called themselves—come with him to bear them both away for immediate execution. Every day since their ill-fated wedding had been spent in expectation of that moment. Seeing Vasurava’s face, she feared it had arrived at last.
But there were no soldiers, only Vasurava sinking down into a seat, holding his head in one hand, eyes wet with emotion.
“What is it, my lord?” she asked, “Pray, tell me. Is it execution for both of us? Has he condemned us at last? He has condemned and executed almost everyone else by now. Why not us as well? Tell me, Vasurava, is it execution?”
He looked at her at last, his hand finding her hand and stroking it passionately. “No, my beloved. It is worse. Far worse.”
She stared at him, wondering what he meant. What could be worse than execution?
He told her.
And it was so. There were things far worse than merely having one’s head crushed to death or being put to death in any fashion, however slow or quick. Her young life and limited experiences had never allowed for such possibilities, but that did not mean they did not exist.
By the time he finished explaining the terms of Tyrak’s “solution,” she was shaking. Her head turned from side to side, trying to deny it all, to pretend she had never heard it. But the tears that fell from her eyes to splash hotly upon her own hands contradicted that gesture. Finally, she broke down, sobbing bitterly, chest heaving, as he put his arm around her, comforting her; even in her deep distress, she could feel his own pain, as his eyes shed tears too. Together, they held one another and wept.
“It is a nightmare,” he said at last, “and like all nightmares, it will end. But for now, we must live through it. Do you understand, my love? We must live through it.”
She nodded, then shook her head stubbornly. “Why? Why not just—” She could not complete the thought.
He shook his head firmly. “Someday, his time will come to an end. And if we end our lives, then how can we stand up to him when that time comes?”
“What if his time never ends? What if he really does rule forever as he says he will? King Eternal!” She spoke the phrase scornfully, directing her emotion at the cause of her misery.
“No living thing is forever. Anything that is born must die. Tyrak was born of mortal woman. He is half urrkh and possessed of great power. But someday, he too will end. Or be ended. And we shall be the instruments of that ending.”
She looked up at him, wondering at his conviction. “We shall kill him? Is that your plan?”
He nodded. “Perhaps. I shall certainly try. Although I fear he may be grown too strong for any mortal man to kill. Still, I intend to make an attempt.”
Her heart clenched at the thought of losing him. “When?”
“When I go to him with our first . . .” He swallowed, looking down, unable to say the word. “Until that time, I shall do exactly as he says, hoping that perhaps, against all odds, he shall relent, perhaps even set us free to go home to my people. If he will not, if he dares to try to harm our first . . .” Again he seemed unable to say the word. “Then I shall kill him.”
She was silent. She recalled their conversation in Harvanya when she had urged him to kill Tyrak and he had refused. She did not begrudge him that refusal, nor his refusal to see that Tyrak was no mortal man but urrkh. She respected the fact that Vasurava was his own man, made his own judgment and choices. But she feared that the time had passed for that mode of action. She feared that things would be different this time. Quite different. She was not sure how, or even how she knew they would be, but she felt they would.
But she said nothing. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Vasurava would succeed. Perhaps he would not need to try that last, desperate step. Perhaps . . .
She shook her head, trying to clear it. As she did so, she felt her belly stir. She put a hand to her stomach instinctively.
Vasurava looked at her, concerned. “Are you well? Do you require anything?”
She shook her head. “No. We are quite well. Healthy. All is as it should be.”
He was silent for a moment, contemplating the irony of that. “How long?”
She had made the mental calculations already and was prepared with the answer. “Late summer, no later, probably during the month of Bhaadra.”
Less than six months from now.
They were silent then, contemplating the future, the possibilities, the ifs and the buts, and everything in between.
Darkness fell as they sat there. Tyrak had denied them servants or aides, allowing them only this one house, guarded by his sentries day and night. Nobody else could enter or leave apart from Tyrak or his emissaries, and they themselves could leave only when summoned by Tyrak. It was home imprisonment, no doubt about it, but it was a far cry from the miserable incarceration to which he had condemned Ugraksh and Kensura. Vasurava kissed his wife’s forehead and thanked the stone gods that Tyrak had not treated them as he had his own parents. The thought of Kewri suffering thus through the term of her pregnancy was unbearable. This way, at least she could bring the child to term safely and hygienically.
And then?
Vasurava had said he would kill Tyrak if he attempted to harm their firstborn. He had meant it. But he did not think that this Tyrak was subject to the same limitations as the Tyrak who had faced him on those three previous occasions. Besides which, Tyrak had been unable to harm or kill Vasurava those three times, but Vasurava had never attacked him yet. What would happen when he tried? There was only one way to find out.
Six months. He would find out in six months.
They sat together in the gathering gloom of dusk and waited.