Page 24 of The Prince Without Sorrow

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ashoka

‘T HAT’S THE YOUNGEST... ’

‘... looks nothing like Emperor Adil ...’

‘ ... those leopards are magnificent creatures, aren’t they... ’

‘... heard he’s the mayakari sympathizer ...’

The murmurs floated like dandelion seeds in the air, rife with accusation and wariness. As Ashoka had expected, curious heads and tentative whispers fluttered out onto the streets like moths towards a flame. The people of Taksila wanted to see the prince who had come to govern them. Did he share his father’s face? His countenance? His temper? Or was he just a sad counterfeit of a man they associated with power?

Neither , he thought. I am none of those things.

Heartbeat quickening at all the eyes that were placed firmly on him, Ashoka adjusted the reins on Rāga, his leopard. Rāga let out a displeased growl when he tightened her muzzle, and he instantly loosened his grip.

‘My apologies, Rāga,’ he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

Rāga simply huffed.

His small travelling party rode behind him as they passed through the streets of Taksila’s affluent half on their journey to the royal estate. Determined to avoid the confines of a stuffy ship for much of the journey, Ashoka had first elected to ride Sahry from the air. He only chose to return to the boat when she tired and they needed to dock for the night. That, and to ascertain Harini’s mood occasionally. Her nervousness had doubled the day he’d told her of the loss of Sau and Rahil, tripled when she heard of Shakti’s new position.

‘She shouldn’t be alone, Prince Ashoka,’ she’d told him. ‘Once I help you negotiate with the resistance, I want to return to the palace.’

He’d agreed without argument.

Sahry now flew freely above them, an additional marvel for the people to gaze at if she ever descended from the clouds. When he’d first seen Taksila from the air, its inharmonious contrast surprised him. The city lay at the base of a mountain range. Areas close to the wilderness, the north, were nothing but rubble, a muddied wasteland. Further south, where stretches of flat plains met the river, was a bustling metropolis. A clear demarcation was made between the northern and southern areas, the former of which were lined with drab, rundown houses tightly packed together, and the latter with more spacious, multi-storeyed palatial residences and well-maintained courtyards.

The royal estate where he was to reside was built on the affluent side, sticking out like a white peacock among its more colourful counterparts.

Despite knowing that there were a dozen solid bodies behind him, there was an ache, a gaping hole in his chest. The one person he’d wanted in Taksila more than anyone else was on a ship, sailing to Makon, and he’d been rash enough to send him there.

Sau needs Rahil more than I do ; Ashoka repeated the phrase in his head like a mantra. Some part of him had been entirely convinced that he would be fine without Rahil, that he would be perfectly at ease for a few weeks without him.

How foolish.

Ashoka had met Rahil and Sau before they left for Makon with Sachith by his side. Since Rahil would not be with him for his journey to Taksila, his second-in-command had taken his place. It was odd to have anyone else beside him and Ashoka was sure that even Rahil had felt the same.

‘Be smart,’ Ashoka had told Sau before she had departed, ‘and remember – get those soldiers to Taksila if you can.’

If Aarya wanted to ruin his plans, he would ruin hers in return.

Having soldiers without unequivocal loyalty to his brother follow his orders instead was a gamble, but one Ashoka was willing to take. It now rested on Sau to successfully convince Prince Ryu to agree to their plans, and he trusted her like a blind dog trusted its master.

‘Don’t die,’ Rahil had told Ashoka, grabbing onto his arm tightly before he climbed into the leopard-drawn carriage with her. ‘I’d be vexed at having to attend your funeral.’

Ashoka’s smile had been paper-thin. ‘Funny,’ he replied. ‘I was going to say the same thing to you.’

He hadn’t missed the way that Rahil’s sharp gaze had settled onto him. How his brown eyes darkened, and his posture became stiff. ‘Play the prince, Ashoka.’

Ashoka had squeezed Rahil’s arm tightly and let him go. After a moment of hesitation, Rahil climbed into the carriage and then, the two people he trusted most in the world had disappeared from his sight to the Golden City’s port.

Only an hour had passed before Ashoka turned to mutter a joke to someone who wasn’t there. That was all it had taken, and whatever coin-sized piece of misery he’d held in his heart grew exponentially.

No , he berated himself, what sort of prince are you, wallowing like some sad jackal?

‘Your Highness,’ Sachith called out from behind, distracting Ashoka from his ruminations. ‘The royal estate is just ahead of us.’

Glancing up, Ashoka spotted the tall, balconied building with wide archways painted in a milky white. This was where his father had stayed during his brief tenure in the region, and it had remained uninhabited for years. Despite the years of disuse, it was still being maintained by staff who resided in Taksila. Both grandiose and minimalistic, the three-storeyed building featured intricately carved illustrations of nature spirits at the entrance, with the front pillars recounting in the Ridi script his father’s annexation of Taksila and the slaughter of the mayakari.

Upon his arrival into the expansive courtyard, Ashoka spotted a lone figure waiting by the steps of the royal residence.

The governor, Kosala.

After dismounting Rāga and giving her nose a quick rub, Ashoka approached the governor with his soldiers behind him. Tall and burly, the governor bowed low when Ashoka stopped in front of him. He was dressed in fine red garments, black beard neatly trimmed, and thick silver rings adorning his pale brown fingers. ‘Governor Kosala, Prince Ashoka. Welcome to Taksila,’ he greeted. ‘I hope that your journey was pleasant.’

‘Quite, Governor Kosala,’ Ashoka replied. ‘I flew much of the way here.’

The governor’s eyes widened at the mention of the word ‘flew’, his eyes shifting upwards. The moment he did, a dark shadow appeared from a break in the clouds before it vanished again.

‘Yes, my winged serpent is up there. Frolicking, I assume,’ Ashoka said cheerfully. ‘Do try not to pet her after she descends – she’ll bite.’

Kosala’s face contorted, as if the last thing he would do was pet a winged serpent. ‘My condolences on the loss of your father, Prince Ashoka,’ he said instead. ‘It is truly tragic to have lost one of the Ran Empire’s finest monarchs.’

Ashoka was about to dismiss Kosala’s condolences when he was reminded of Rahil’s constant imperative.

‘Thank you, Governor Kosala,’ he replied. ‘It’s been a trying time for my family. But I’m here to govern, not fall into a depression at the mention of my father.’

Kosala looked surprised at his answer but played along. ‘Of course, my prince,’ he said smoothly. ‘I think you will find that Taksila is under control. I fear that you may not have much to govern.’

The undercurrent of condescension made Ashoka smirk. ‘The rioting nature spirits haven’t escaped my attention, governor,’ he replied with a tight-lipped smile. At his pointed glance, the governor flushed a pale red.

‘It’s an unfixable problem, Prince Ashoka,’ Kosala finally found his voice. ‘If a problem cannot be fixed, then it’s best to leave it alone. No amount of money or aid can help the razed lands. Unless... you have any knowledge on how to remove the Great Spirits?’

None, except ask the mayakari for help, which you refuse to do , he thought, frustrated.

‘Unfortunately, I come bearing no information,’ Ashoka said, smiling politely. ‘But rest assured, governor, that I will attempt every possible option.’

‘I see.’

Governor Kosala looked unconvinced, like he knew he would fail. Unconvinced like Aarya, like Arush.

Unimpressed, like his father.

White-hot fury sparked in his chest. Usually, Rahil would sense when his anger overwhelmed him, would place a reassuring hand on his arm to calm him. But Rahil wasn’t here, so Ashoka forced himself to quell his temper, allowing it to simmer beneath the surface like a crocodile waiting silently beneath still water.

He let the governor take him on a tour of the estate, surprised to find that behind it was a large, formal garden with multiple, symmetrical garden beds enclosed with hedges and flower borders of orange jasmine and jungle geranium, oleander, and anthurium. Meticulously maintained, the framework was dotted with topiaries. At the centre was a water feature; the body of a minor spirit from which liquid spouted. It was hard to believe that his father had resided here without ever asking to uproot the garden when he had taken great care to make sure the palace was without.

One area in particular caught his eye: a cobblestone pathway that led to a hedge off to the side. Whatever was inside was closed off by a white wooden door. Wondering what sort of indescribable feature would be behind it, Ashoka opened it and stepped inside.

He found himself staring at a sprig of abnormally sized, glimmering flowers erupting from the ground. It took Ashoka a few moments to realize that they were not real. Rather, these flowers appeared to have been crafted from gold. They were at odds with the natural flora present elsewhere in the formal garden.

Kosala, it seemed, had been tracking him. ‘Ah, that is one of your father’s most ingenious ideas,’ he said appreciatively. ‘He had the flowers made with all of the leftover trinkets.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Ashoka questioned. His father had never been the type to melt down precious family heirlooms.

‘Trinkets,’ Governor Kosala repeated, albeit with mild confusion. ‘I was told that the gold belonging to those in the mayakari resistance here were melted down and resculpted into this. Amazing, isn’t it?’

Bile rose in his throat. Amazing? These pieces of gold were stolen from the dead. Wrenched away from snapped necks, violently torn away from slashed, bloodied wrists – this was a picture of life created from destruction. Of course, his father would have revelled in this sick and twisted form of art. Ashoka couldn’t bring himself to imagine the screams of torture that would have echoed in the months following Taksila’s annexation. Of children weeping, of mayakari burning, of families torn apart by a sadistic monster deluded by dreams of grandeur.

You cannot erase me, son .

The crocodile stirred. It opened its filmy eyes, widened its jaw. Ashoka now saw a different scene in his mind. It was one of a battlefield, littered with the corpses of Ran soldiers, the battered flag of the Ran Empire burning in blue flames while the mayakari and the nature spirits reclaimed their land, his father’s legacy destroyed. An odd little spark ignited in his chest.

Pathetic boy , his father’s harsh voice taunted him. You will amount to nothing.

For a moment, Ashoka wanted nothing more than to see blood staining his hands. No, father , he thought, I will amount to everything you never thought I would be.