“You’re still reacting from Tarek’s rulership, the warlord’s insurgence, and now the protestors.”
“I inherited a war,” I remind him. “My decisions are not all reactionary. I’m taking a wife on my own accord.”
“A foreigner and stranger,” Brac rejoins, expressing facts instead of his own judgement. He commended me on my selection of kindred when I first proposed. “Tarachandians want to trust your vision for the empire. They’ll follow your example, but if you’re ambivalent, they will be as well. Today’s riot will become a habit.”
My teeth slam together. Granting clemency to the deserting soldiers could be regarded as too lenient. I welcomed home the refugees and started reconstructing their huts and places of work. On reflection, I should have mandated that they contribute more to our city’s rebirth. I reopened our borders to bhutas and ceased the slaughter of their kind, but have I demonstrated equal commitment to those who now reside alongside their former adversaries? Every decision I made has offended someone. I cannot please all my people, yet I will continue to exhort them to treat bhutas fairly. Consistency will prove I am not ambivalent about their equal place in the empire.
“Commander Lokesh will arrive any moment,” I say, weary. My solitude on the dais tires me. “I would appreciate your support.”
The ever-mischievous Burner grips the axes strapped to his back. “Would you like me to intimidate him?”
I trap a sigh. I wish General Naik was here to offer his advice and wrangle his brother. Deven knows conflict strategy and Brac far better than I. “Only if need be.”
Commander Lokesh enters the throne room, Yatin behind him. Brac positions himself on the dais at my left-hand side. The captain did not disarm Lokesh of his pata swords. With Brac present, his weapons are a nominal threat.
Lokesh pauses in the shadows between the pools of sunshine cast from the high casements. He bows, a perfunctory bend of the waist. “Your Majesty.”
“I hear you have grievances. State them here in my presence.”
He still wears a headscarf, his face uncovered but shadowed. Although he stands tall, his shoulders have a brutish downward slope that makes his posture appear offset. Early signs of gray mark his trim beard and wiry mustache. His palms are covered by strips of cloth, a practice of soldiers when they train to prevent callouses.
“You’re welcome to attend my speeches,” he replies.
“Your followers nearly killed one of my soldiers.”
No sign of remorse crosses Lokesh’s expression. “My apologies to the soldier and his family. I have no authority over the rioters.”
Brac scoffs. “You’re like a boy who set two dogs upon a single bone and then backed away from the fight.”
Lokesh snubs him, reserving his attention for me. “This dogfight is older than me, Your Majesty. That bone was thrown long before you or I entered the scene.”
“But we’re here now,” I counter. “Delay your speeches until after my wedding.”
“Or . . . ?” he asks.
I select my response carefully to avoid him misconstruing my remarks. “Consider your temporary cooperation a wedding present to my viraji and me.”
“Then you do intend to wed a bhuta.” Lokesh presses his lips into a slash. “My speech today was unplanned. The people gathered to protest your choice of kindred. I came to listen, and they demanded I explain the flames above the amphitheater yesterday. I told them the truth: you’re letting children dabble with fire. Tarachandians are rightly outraged.”