The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(13)

On the longest night of the year, as soon as the Jansan royal family had returned from their trip to the mountains to renew the janma bond, Vardaan and Hotha struck. Vardaan and the general took control of the capital while the army, loyal to Hotha, captured two military garrisons and the Blood Fort, murdering the royal family, their personal court, and anyone who fought back.

All the Samyads, the ruling royal family for centuries, wiped out in one night.

The story was that the royals had been plotting treason against Jansa, allying with the Yavar clansmen up north to take over the Southern Lands. But most knew the truth—that the Pretender King had taken the throne for his own power and benefit.

The day after the solstice, what was once a day to celebrate the Sun Maiden’s return to the land was now known as the Night of Tears for the families that woke up to death and grief. It was whispered that the gods themselves shed tears that night, their anger turning the sky stormy, providing the wild monsoon that hid Princess Reha’s path away from the palace as she escaped her aunt’s murderer.

The murderer who now sat on the throne.

And the land had suffered ever since, growing more and more unpredictable. The renewal ritual for the janma bond was a topic ancient and arcane enough to be studied by scholars in Gwali and Mathur, but every Southern Lander knew the basics. It required a blood sacrifice from both a Samyad woman and a Himyad man, echoing the first offering to the gods from Naran and Naria.

As the direct descendants of Naran and Naria, only the Himyads and Samyads had the shape-shifting blood necessary to renew the janma bond. Queen Shilpa, her daughters and her sisters—they had been the last of the Samyad queens.

Now, with one half of the necessary blood wiped out, Jansa hadn’t seen a monsoon in years. Without the natural, life-giving rains of the monsoon, the dry heat and winds of the summer season had turned the Jansan land barren.

Seeing the effects of the drought in person was heartbreaking. She should have been overjoyed to be heading back, eager to see her team in Mathur, the capital of Dharka. Arpiya, Harun, Bhandu, the twins. But instead a cloud hung over her head.

Esha turned a corner and almost ran into a small child and the mother running after him. She caught the little boy by his shoulders as his mother caught up, wheezing. The woman gave Esha a grateful look before admonishing the boy. Esha chuckled as she walked away.

It reminded her of Arpiya, the way she’d toss her head back and let out a long sigh at something Esha had done or said. Arpiya was two years her elder, and never one to pass up lording it over her. She didn’t mind. She had always wanted a sibling. Esha missed Arpiya the most of her team, but more than anything, she missed the companionship, feeling known by someone.

Maybe that was the reason she couldn’t get the chivalrous soldier out of her thoughts. It was the longest, most comfortable conversation she’d had in weeks, and she couldn’t seem to stop replaying it over and over.

She shook her head. At least she would never see him again.

Esha passed the small door Jiten used for his clientele; the one she wanted was the second door, which he had hidden behind a thick jute throw.

She made short work of the throw, tossing it to the side in a heap. She eased the door open, taking care not to make a creak. Esha took up a spot in the shadows with her knife drawn, a wraith of darkness.

She would get her answers, that was for sure.





Chapter 6


The Hall of Generals was one of Kunal’s favorite places in the Fort.

As an eight-year-old, newly arrived and adrift, he had come here often to stare at the tall statues of fabled generals. He’d marvel at the way the statues almost came to life despite being carved into the marble walls, at the paintings that hung next to each general, depicting their greatest victory. He would spend hours under the hall’s gold etched ceilings.

Somehow he thought the more he studied these generals, men who his uncle had deemed “great,” the more he could be like them. Mimic their poses, echo their dutiful behavior, and he’d become the soldier his uncle wanted, the nephew he wanted. Orphaned and alone, he had longed to fit in at the Fort and gain his uncle’s approval.

Kunal brushed his hand against the golden mace of General Vasu, the first general of Jansa and Naria’s trusted adviser. Now the Hall of Generals was just a reminder of another family member he had lost.

Would the depiction of his uncle be accurate, conveying the contradictions of the man? His fierce commitment to duty, his cunning, his callousness, his moments of kindness, his ambition—would any of that be shown? Or would he be depicted as another “great” man, leaving aside the complicated human be had been?

The main door to the hall opened and the commander strode in, his dark hair askew. Three soldiers—Laksh, Amir, and Rakesh—trailed into the room behind him. Together, they made up the different regiments that stayed at the Fort: charioteer, elephanteer, and cavalry.

Two servants followed, carrying a bundle wrapped in the traditional white cloth, his uncle’s body cleaned. It was then that he knew he couldn’t escape the reality.

Uncle Setu was dead.

The stillness, the absence of a soul. Witnessing it was never easy, but he couldn’t believe his uncle’s fierce presence was lost forever. Without him, Kunal was . . . alone again.

Commander Panak hadn’t let him carry the body down, as was custom for family, saying it wasn’t part of the rules. Things were different when a general died, no matter if Kunal was his only living relative. Still, he’d been one of the first to know, instead of being told in the mess hall as usual. It made him feel the tiniest bit better.