Sword of the Deceiver by Sarah Zettel Page B

right. That he had been ready to toss aside the requirements the Mothers themselves laid down for the sake of his anger … if that was not the sign of pollution he could not have said what was. But his anger would not ease, nor would his urgency. He had to see his brother, now. But he could not. Walls of stone and law barred his way. His anger turned inward and it felt as if he would choke on it.
    The practice yard stood outside the walls because no violence was permitted within the sanctum of the Throne. It was a broad bowl of grassy ground with a few stone outbuildings for its border. Beneath the green turf waited a maze of tunnels and storerooms for the soldiers’ use. One of them even ended in the vast stables. Samudra could have used that to get back into the palace, but the idea of sneaking like a thief back into his own home, and possibly being thrown out again, was more than pride could bear.
    At the center of the exercise arena, men drilled closely with their spears, responding to the brusque shouts of their officers and instructors. On the far side of the rim, archers took aim at straw targets of men, or tried to shoot over false wooden walls. On the near side, Captain Pravan
dai
Vanash Itorapad, proud and splendid on his black-maned roan, watched over them all surrounded by a crowd of captains and high officers.
    Samudra’s hands began to shake. Rapuk whickered and danced, and the prince climbed down from the saddle. He was distantly aware that a man ran to take the reins from him, and that Hamsa slipped down from her horse to join him.
    A member of Samudra’s entourage ran up to Pravan, who leaned down from his horse to listen closely. Then, slowly, with great dignity, Pravan turned and looked down at Samudra. He was a magnificent sight, his armor gleaming and each detail of him just as it ought to be. No one would know that just recently he had returned in defeat, and that today he reviewed a decimated corps.
    Anger, boiling and unreasoning, poured through Samudra’s veins as he saw Pravan’s thin, dry mouth spread into a smile.
    “My prince …” Pravan began.
    Before he could say more, Samudra crossed the distance between them, jerked Pravan from the saddle, and threw him into the dust.
    “Coward!” he shouted. “How many are dead because of you! How many!”
    Pravan began to struggle to his feet. Samudra lunged forward to knock him down again, but Pravan caught Samudra’s wrist, pulled him off balance, and sent Samudra rolling over his own shoulder.
    Samudra came up on his feet to see Pravan crouched low before him. “You are my prince,” Pravan hissed. “I owe you all honor, but no one calls me coward.”
    “I say you are a coward,” Samudra answered, his voice steady and sharp.
And a dead man
. Pravan had struck him, the First Prince of the Pearl Throne. Pravan was dead, no matter what happened next. He was dead and he deserved to be, and Samudra would carry out the sentence with his own hands. “I call you a coward and a fool who led his men to death and saved his own skin at the cost of defeat.”
    Pravan charged, and Samudra, ready, dodged. The other man pivoted quickly and Samudra had time to see what a fool he was to attack in anger. For Pravan charged again, this time with his knife in his hand. Samudra stepped sideways and kicked at Pravan’s ankle, sending Pravan sprawling on the grass. He leapt, rolling the other man over, until he came up kneeling on his armored chest, holding his own knife at Pravan’s throat.
    “You are a coward and unfit to lead men,” Samudra said through gritted teeth even as he panted for air. “I should kill you here and now, and deny the emperor the chance to make that mistake again.”
    “Now, Prince Samudra.” Pravan smiled despite the steel against his flesh. “Do you say the Father of the Pearl Throne made a mistake in appointing me to command? Do you think you could have made a better choice?”
    Samudra froze and Pravan continued to smile.