The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(81)

The cuts had been sealed with salve, Kunal could tell that much.

It had to have been Esha. Anyone else, and he would be back in the dungeons. She had kept this secret of his, healed his wounds. A warmth spread through him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been tended to that way, not since he had arrived at the Fort.

A surge of affection rose in his heart for Esha, for the kindness behind the mask, the girl behind the Viper. He would have to find a way to thank her for saving him—many times over at this point.

Kunal still struggled to wrap his head around it. Being in Mathur, discovering he was descended from one of the two royal shape-shifting bloodlines.

His mother had been a princess. He was a Samyad. He had never known—he had truly believed that his mother had been a lady-in-waiting. His bedroom hadn’t been draped in gold and jewels befitting a prince; he had lived a simple life following his mother and nurse around.

How could he have known as a child?

And his uncle? Kunal remembered what Esha had said, that he must have lied to protect him. Despite everything else he had done, he had hid Kunal, given him a new life. But he had also lied to Kunal about the wildness in his blood, broken him down over needing control. It would take him time to unravel his tangled feelings toward his uncle.

But for the first time in years, he felt free.

Until he realized he was on foreign soil and in the royal palace of Mathur. Control would be needed more than ever. Kunal wasn’t ready to give up his identity when he was just beginning to understand it.

And what had happened to Rakesh? The boy had said he was in the dungeons, but he didn’t know more than that. He needed to be careful here. A deep breath helped him refocus his mind, and he looked around to get the layout of the room he was in.

He tried to get up again, leaning heavily against the golden bedpost. Slowly, he felt enough strength to walk, and a package on the chaise at the foot of the bed caught his eye.

It was covered in drab brown packaging with dark red ribbons. A note fluttered onto the bed when he touched the package.

Soldier, the clothes are for you. The guards will show you where to go when you’ve bathed and changed.

It was signed by the crown prince of Dharka.

The prince of Dharka. In the barracks, they talked of him as clever, sly, and wholly dedicated to his country. His father had kept him away from the army, as he was his only heir, but it was whispered he had the entire court at Mathur in his palm.

Kunal wasn’t keen on figuring out what he wanted with him.

Guards, tall and proud, lined the door down the corridor. Each had a longbow at his side and a more immediate short sword hanging from his waist sash. Not one but three valayas were stacked on their wrists and forearms, the sign of the warrior class in Dharka.

He sighed. He was barely strong enough to shuffle across the floor, let alone think of any sort of escape route. And now he knew he was being watched.

Shame swallowed him, defeat not far behind. He had allowed himself to be captured and it prickled at him like a splinter. A novice mistake and one Kunal wouldn’t forgive himself for, for some time.

What soldier allowed himself to be so distracted by a girl that he couldn’t hear the arrival of a group of rebels?

Now he was in the most beautiful of prisons with people whose soldiers he had killed on the battlefield.

Kunal was expected by the prince of Dharka.

Bath and clothes it was, then.

The guards were stony-faced to him but jovial, warm, and joking with each other.

Kunal felt queasy. He was in a place where he would always be “other,” where he had no chance of blending in. It felt like it had when he had been six years old and was thrown into the world of the Fort.

Except this was leagues apart, the soldiers joking with their superior officer, with each other. The only person they had a rude look for was Kunal. It was clear these people respected one another, even cared for each other.

Kunal remembered what the boy had said, that Esha’s words had saved him, but he couldn’t help the rise of resentment against the back of his throat.

This was her home.

She had a home, one that held warm people and fond memories.

He didn’t remember much from the past week, but there were flashes—a team had come to get her. There had been jokes and laughter and real affection. It made him miss Alok and Laksh fiercely.

Except for those two, Kunal didn’t think anyone at the Fort would care to come after him, unless it was on orders. The Fort leadership didn’t believe in one for many—if you were lost or captured as a soldier, you were on your own.

There would be no rescue mission for him and Rakesh.

He felt angry at Esha and himself in turns, resentful and yet grateful to even be here, to be alive. He was once again indebted to Esha for saving him, taking care of him when he had been wild. Protecting his secret. He both longed to thank her and wanted to shout in anger that he even had a secret to protect.

It was a confusing mix of feelings, to say the least.

He and the guards shuffled in and out of taller, marble-capped rooms of various colors—coral and indigo and fuchsia—resplendent with vividly textured tapestries and brightly jeweled walls. Everything in this palace was majestic and opulent. Yet it held a warmth, as if inviting a person to fall asleep in its jeweled bosom with sweet stories of the past.

Each tapestry illustrated a different tale from Dharkan history and myth—the churning of the ocean to create the Southern Lands, the crowning of Dharka’s first king, Naran. His teachings of compassion, his founding of natak, the art form that blended story and dance and the birth of the five noble houses of Dharka. It was all illustrated across the walls, the palace a living, breathing story in itself.