The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(82)

He could’ve gotten lost walking through the rooms, drinking in the splendor of each. One of the guards had let it slip that they were going to meet the prince—and now they were moving faster, Kunal struggling behind them, and he didn’t want to know what would happen if he fell behind.

Right now, he was being treated like a guest. It worried him more than if he had been in chains. Then he would know where he stood.

Kunal hated being on unknown ground, with no clear plan of action, nothing to assess.

They veered sharply away from the towering height of the halls and into a wing that was even more lavish, jewels encrusted into the very floors. Kunal wouldn’t have ever thought it possible.

A memory hit him, of a pink and gold granite room in the old palace. His mother would sing to him there, tell him stories of the bravest warriors of Jansa.

Every inch of this wing was covered in detailed stonework and mosaics. One of the guards whirled around, crooking an annoyed finger at him. Kunal hadn’t even realized his feet had slowed, his gaze distracted. He quickened his pace, tugging at his uttariya around his shoulders.

The outfit that had been left for him was grand—a gold-and-white-threaded uttariya, of the finest-cut silk with a jeweled waist sash and a silk dhoti of the most brilliant cerulean blue. He fidgeted, picking at the golden hem of the uttariya as they entered a new room.

Kunal no longer felt out of place with his outfit.

The hall they had entered was resplendent with color. Bright swaths of silk and gold gauze hung from the ceiling, jewels dripping from where the fabrics met. Throughout the room were men and women in the most spectacular outfits, rivaling his own.

Silks of the deepest purple and red, pearls from the Far Isles, emeralds from Dharka’s caves, dripping gold jewelry, all were on display. Some of the women wore peacock feathers in their hair; others had exquisite braided or curled hair. Even the men shimmered, from their shining, gold-threaded uttariyas to the thick jewels that sat on top of their sandals and knife hilts.

The courtiers were chattering among themselves, parrots in a brightly colored enclosure. Their eyes darted to the door at the right corner of the hall, plain compared to the rest of the space.

Rows of seats lined the hall and Kunal gnawed at his lip, wondering what was going to happen next. He didn’t think it was normal to be welcomed this way.

No, he was being sent a clear message.

Kunal understood this—he doubted that the prince of Dharka did anything without a reason. What Kunal really wanted to know was how the prince even knew who he was.

He had been dragged out of the dungeons and placed in a splendid room in the palace—which meant Esha and the rebels were not unknown to the prince. He hadn’t seen any of them, except for the burly boy, since the jungle.

Kunal moved into the room, blending into the left row of chairs as much as he could. He stayed close to the door, the only obvious exit in the hall, a habit from years of training. The guards who were flanking the door eyed his movements but didn’t stop him.

A hush fell over the crowd so that the barest movement of a silken slipper could be heard.

As if breathing together, the room sighed as a figure entered from the left. It took him a second, but even when Kunal refocused his eyes, he saw the same thing.

That boy—no, a young man, the one who had been in the clearing with him and Esha—he was entering the room, and immediately, the room fell into bows. His outfit was similar to Kunal’s but more ornate, each inch of his clothing woven with gold threads, and he was dripping with gold jewelry.

Kunal caught on, mimicking the bow and making his palms meet as he bent, like the others did. Inside, his mind was a whirl.

This young man was the prince? The rebel who had poisoned him? This news could change their relations with the Crescent Blades. He understood why it had been kept a secret. If word got out that the crown prince of Dharka, King Mahir’s only heir and surviving child, was behind the infamous rebels—it would put the prince’s life at risk. It would also make a truce impossible.

It would be invaluable, strategic information for the Jansan army.

And he wasn’t sure he’d give it up.

The Dharkans weren’t a faceless enemy anymore. Before, he had lived in a perfect hypocrisy—he had loved Dharkan food, culture, music secretly, but had plotted against and killed them publicly. He could no longer reconcile that person with who he was becoming now.

A shudder of whispers drew him out of his thoughts. From a door to his right, a woman emerged, wearing a short emerald blouse that was encrusted in gold beads, a long, layered gold belt draped over her hips to emphasize their curves. Her armbands glittered with emeralds and diamonds, matching her choker.

Her pants caught his attention. The banded cuffs of her dhoti came halfway up her calf and had some sort of embroidery on them—he couldn’t tell what. Her dhoti billowed out as she moved, and she was a song of sensual movement.

She wore a mask of golden filigree edged with green, her hair braided tightly back into a crown and covered with a long, gauzy uttariya trimmed in gold.

When she moved forward, the room held its breath, and she held its gaze with a smile. And as she slid down the room, she threw whispers to the nobles like kisses to a lover.

Whoever she was, she knew how to capture a room.

If this was how Dharkans welcomed their guests, no wonder there was such a crowd. But Kunal knew to look deeper. Why was he here, why now? The pretty courtiers around him were here for a reason. Why was he being allowed to witness this?