Page 9 of The Prince Without Sorrow

Chapter Eight

Ashoka

A SHOKA LAY ON THE FLOOR OF HIS BALCONY, ALONE.

The world around him was silent but he could not unhear the sound of the giant copper bell that was built in one of the palace’s courtyards ring thrice, stop, and ring thrice again.

It was only ever rung that way to signal death.

In some way, it was hard to believe. His father, the all-powerful figure who loomed over the Ran Empire, who loomed over him. The man he had seen many a time in the throne room and in the war council, dead. Adil felt so omnipresent that his absence seemed like a cosmic joke. In fact, he half-expected his father to startle awake, bloodied but alive.

You dare think these mayakari capable of killing me ?

Rubbing at his dry, itchy eyes, Ashoka allowed himself to observe the sky above him in silence: a pale blue dream marred by tendrils of white clouds. This was the first time he had found himself alone in quite some time. It was Rahil who was always with him, always there as a steadying, calming presence. But he was not here. At Ashoka’s request, he was standing guard outside his chambers. He knew that Rahil would be worried about him, but for now, he did not want to be consoled, only to be left alone with his thoughts.

After the news of his father’s death had been delivered, Ashoka left the room once his mother had been escorted to her chambers. She had tried to stand after the news but had tipped and wobbled on her feet. He and Arush had scrambled to Empress Manali’s side, grabbing her shoulders to placate her shudders while Aarya remained as immobile as a statue, still in shock.

Ashoka shut his eyes. He’d heard his brother’s quiet sniffles as they led their mother down the steps, his mother’s harsh breaths. Admittedly, even he had felt something akin to grief at the news. Perhaps that was the consequence of being blood-related. Even from within the depths of dislike, one could manage to mine a small diamond of... despair? No, that couldn’t be it. Feeling despair meant that love was involved somehow, and it couldn’t be love. How could he feel that way for a man who had judged him for years?

A begrudging acceptance, then. Maybe that was what it was. Maybe that was why he felt this way.

The smell of incense and jasmine coming from inside his quarters corralled together like a lullaby to offer some semblance of comfort. While he was here lying in silence, the rest of the palace was in chaos. Now that his father was dead, his mother had to take his place as the acting regent, if only for a short period of time. It was she who would have to coordinate the funeral arrangements, the ordering of staff, the rallying of her children.

‘Prince Ashoka.’

Ashoka scrambled to his feet at the sound of an airy voice behind him. He turned to see a young woman around his age, her dark hair gathered into a bun. Doe-like eyes stared at him, fear and relief bright like planets in the night sky. Harini – one of his maidservants.

‘Yes?’ he asked. How odd must he have looked, as if he were napping when his father had just died.

Whatever she had come in here to tell him, Harini did not say immediately. ‘Apologies. Did I wake you?’ she asked instead.

‘I was not asleep,’ he replied, ‘only thinking.’

‘Easy to think with the view you have,’ she remarked with a half-smile. His large balcony looked out towards the forestland where he frequently flew Sahry to. It was here he often spent summer nights talking with Rahil or watching the rain pelt down over the greenery in the monsoon season. ‘You don’t seem too upset, Prince Ashoka.’

‘Neither do you,’ he replied.

‘I have no reason to be.’ She did not say anything further. Neither did she have to. Ashoka understood well enough; no mayakari would willingly mourn his father’s death.

There were stray vines growing over the balcony rails. His father would have had them removed if he knew, but Ashoka had not told him. Something in this place needed greenery. At least the lack of it didn’t seem to affect him as much as Harini. She could never stay in the palace for long periods of time, and often travelled to the city’s outskirts where the forests were the densest. ‘Are you here to comfort or to gloat?’

Harini shook her head. ‘Neither, Prince Ashoka. I am here as a messenger,’ she said. ‘You have been summoned.’

He frowned. ‘By whom?’

Harini smiled. ‘Your mother,’ she replied. ‘She would like to meet you in her chambers.’

When Ashoka met his mother in her chambers, he found Sau there with her.

His mother sat on an ornate black chair placed atop a richly woven rug that was painted the colour of saffron, idly tapping her nails along the armrest. Meanwhile, Sau stood away from his mother, hands clasped behind her back. He did not know how long they had been here. At the sound of his footsteps, both glanced his way.

Ashoka had never seen his mother look quite so mundane. Her kohl and rouge were scrubbed clean to reveal a clear brown face with fine wrinkles around her eyes. He remembered this face from his childhood, back when she wore her painted armour less. Her clothes were dusty at the hems and her hair hung loose at her waist. Her glamour was stripped away.

‘My dear,’ she greeted him. She appeared tired. Worn.

‘Mother,’ Ashoka bowed respectfully before approaching her. ‘Sau.’

Sau nodded while his mother appraised him. ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘Have you had something to eat?’

He shook his head. One of his staff had suggested the same, but in their haste had brought him a meal with duck. Likely that they too were rattled enough by his father’s death to forget that he forwent meat. ‘You wished to speak with me?’

‘Indeed,’ his mother replied. Her features morphed into an expression of seriousness and resignation. ‘I am here to speak to you both.’

Ashoka glanced at Sau from the corner of his eye and found that she too was staring at him. Both shared a look of confusion before turning their heads in unison to the empress.

‘In the three days following the funeral, Consul Rangana will read out his last written will,’ his mother said. Her eyes looked defeated. She turned to Sau quickly to elaborate. ‘He amended it a few years after Ashoka was born.’

Every incumbent ruler was required by law to create a will and testament in case of an unforeseen death. The will itself was usually amended around twice in the ruling monarch’s lifetime, so it was not unusual for his father to have revised it following his birth.

‘What of father’s will?’ he asked.

‘I have not been privy to its contents,’ his mother replied. ‘Adil refused to share it with me.’

Ashoka was somewhat surprised by this. His father had the propensity to be enigmatic and untrusting when it came to highly sensitive affairs, but it always seemed as if they were discussed with his mother. Admittedly, he did not understand his mother’s train of thought. Neither it seemed, did Sau.

‘I don’t quite understand what you are insinuating, Your Highness,’ Sau remarked, her tone polite but tinged with confusion.

His mother inhaled deeply. ‘I am worried,’ she confessed, ‘about its contents.’

Ashoka paused. Was his mother speaking in code? She did seem rather distracted.

The empress reclined in the chair and the faintest sigh escaped her mouth as she glanced at her hands, seemingly faraway. ‘With Arush poised to take the throne, there will no longer be a need for me to serve as acting regent now that Aarya and you are also of age to assume temporary rule,’ she said. ‘As such, I will be stepping back from my duties in the council, and I will have no need for the number of political advisors that I have.’

At her confession, Ashoka noticed Sau still. Her fists clenched together reflexively before she uncurled them once more. A pitying smile flashed across his mother’s lips.

‘You will not work for me any more, Saudamini,’ she said. ‘But fear not. You will remain an advisor, but it will not be under my command. I am reinstating you as Ashoka’s main political advisor before the week’s end. He will certainly need you when he eventually leaves to govern, and when he begins attending council meetings. Like minds flourish when working together.’

Well. This was some positive news, at least, given that Ashoka would indeed receive a position within the emperor’s council. Surely his father would have made sure of that. Sau’s stance relaxed, which made him feel better. He was not his mother when it came to the skills of a regent, but he was not a complete idiot either. They could work in tandem better, considering he’d had no political advisors until this point.

‘I am leaving the empire in the hands of my children,’ Manali continued. ‘They will each have to learn for themselves how to work seamlessly in their positions. Ashoka will need a capable, guiding hand, and I believe that to be you.’

Sau gawped. ‘You do?’

Smothering a grin, Ashoka remarked, ‘I think you are the only one who does, mother.’

When Sau pulled a face at him, his mother smiled. ‘Other than Rahil and me, you are one of the few people who know Ashoka well,’ Manali replied. ‘While you have shared ideologies, you very well know that Ashoka can be a little too idealistic. You can help guide him, steer him away from any harm – and trouble.’

‘Ashoka does seem likely to find himself in deep trouble entirely by accident,’ Sau replied in a perfect retaliation.

When Ashoka scoffed, his mother laughed. ‘Would you care to make a bet on that?’ she asked. Even she knew of Sau’s propensity to gamble.

‘I’d rather you don’t—’ Ashoka began, but Sau interrupted.

‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘I will not. Ashoka is almost as unpredictable as Emperor Adil is.’

‘ Was ,’ his mother corrected Sau immediately, a grimace marring her regal features. ‘Adil was unpredictable.’

‘I—’ It appeared that Sau was caught off-guard by the force in his mother’s voice. ‘My apologies, Empress Manali.’

‘No, no – there is no need for apology,’ his mother said with a sigh. The good humour he had seen in her before receded like the high tide. ‘It will take time to associate Adil with the past when his memory still lives on in the present. You may take your leave now, Saudamini. I must speak to my son alone.’

Sau nodded and bowed. Just as she turned away, Ashoka caught her eye, and she winked before exiting the room quietly.

When the doors closed with a painful groan, Empress Manali reached her hands out for Ashoka. He took them, surprised by their coldness.

‘Where are the others?’ he asked. He had not seen his siblings since the news of their father’s death had been delivered hours before.

His mother sighed. ‘Arush is likely drinking his sorrows away, and Aarya... she is in her chambers. All of us process grief differently, my dear.’

Grief , Ashoka thought. Because this was what he was meant to be feeling. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that he was the least likely to grieve their father. But perhaps, she already knew that.

‘The last time that I lost someone, I became a hollow shell,’ his mother said quietly. Ashoka knew that she was referring to her older adopted sister, Subhadrangi. She had travelled with his mother to the Golden City for her politically arranged marriage to his father in exchange for aid after her kingdom had suffered a dreadful earthquake. His mother had always spoken of his aunt fondly, and she had kept her from feeling completely alone in those early years. ‘This loss hurts as badly yet seems less heavy on the heart.’

‘Perhaps the more you accustom yourself to loss, the less pain you inflict on yourself?’ he suggested. It sounded like the sort of comment a fortune-teller would make. Who was he to know such things? Who was he, a sheltered prince who knew no losses, to remark on feelings he had never felt? He’d only had one blow, and it had been today, and he was not so sure if he would label it as one, either.

But his mother appeared to have taken his words to heart. ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed. ‘Do you feel grief, my dear?’

Suddenly, Ashoka was the deer he had seen in the woods that day, his mother the young prince with an arrow drawn and ready to release. How to respond? How to articulate his jumbled thoughts?

Luckily, it seemed as if she knew without Ashoka ever having to utter a word. ‘I understand your reluctance to call it grief,’ she said. ‘Your relationship was complicated, to say the least.’

‘ Complicated is too loose of a word, mother,’ he replied. Strained . Antipathetic . Those were the words he would choose.

‘Given all that, he is still your father,’ Manali reminded him lightly. ‘Blood is blood. It is all right to feel something akin to grief, as distant as it may be.’

Ashoka said nothing. There wasn’t much to say. He could not form the words. At his silence, his mother squeezed his hand gently before letting it go.

‘Rest, my dear,’ she ordered, becoming distracted by the appearance of two maidservants at the entrance of her room. ‘You will need it. These coming days will not be easy – not for me, not for you and your siblings, and not for the empire.’