1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 2

Part One

February, 1636

Flame burns it not, waters cannot overwhelm

—The Rig Veda

Chapter 1

Agra

Palace of Amar Singh Rathore

Jahanara stood in the stirrups and gave Azar her lead as they left their own half. The fierce little pony flowed across the turf like the wind. Enjoying the moment, the princess leaned over to strike at the ball. An instant later her mallet sent it spinning across to one of her new guards, Yonca.

“Bad pass,” the princess muttered, seeing she’d sent the ball to where the Turkic warrior woman had been rather than where she was headed.

But Yonca showed great skill as Damla and Roshanara closed on her, coming to a complete stop that would have sent a weaker rider over pommel, mane, and mouth to slap face-first into the turf. Her opponents went by, forced by her sudden stop to move aside or collide with the rump of Yonca’s mount. The talented horsewoman wasn’t done showing her skill, however: she leaned well out of the saddle and clapped her mallet against the ball, sending it in a curving arc that straightened along the boundary line ahead of Jahanara.

Roshanara, the closest rider from the opposite team, snapped her reins against her pony’s flanks and set out in pursuit.

Jahanara lowered her head and again let Azar run. She had the straighter line and the faster horse, but Roshanara was smaller than her sister, and hadn’t been riding her mount all that hard until the last few runs of play.

The other players were out of position, and could only join the shouted encouragement from the gathered women watching from the shade of the gardens. The birthday celebrations for Nadira’s son had gathered nearly every wife, mother, sister, and daughter of Dara’s umara to the gardens of Amar Singh Rathore’s palatial home to participate, most of whom watched the two princesses compete.

The distance between the two players and the ball closed with exhilarating speed, making Jahanara’s lips curve with feral delight.

Then the pair were riding flat out and side by side. The ball had stopped beside the boundary, meaning that Jahanara could only strike at it while riding out of bounds and from the left while Roshanara had it on her right, strong side. Jahanara quickly switched hands and dropped her mallet for the swing.

Roshanara’s quick overhand swing of the mallet clacked against the ball, sending it rocketing back the way they’d come.

Jahanara’s mallet tangled with her sister’s as the momentum of the smaller woman’s swing carried the shafts together. The impact sent a violent shiver up the wood that stung Jahanara’s hands and wrenched her shoulder.

Roshanara was even more affected, as she’d stood in the stirrups and used every bit of strength in her body to make the hit. With her swing stopped so abruptly, Roshanara lost control of her mallet and struck her pony hard on the leg, making it stumble.

She overbalanced and started to topple sideways, away from Jahanara.

Jahanara dropped her mallet and snatched at her sister, hoping to stay her fall. She missed, but Roshanara caught her outstretched arm and used it to lever herself back upright.

As one, they slowed and turned back onto the field.

“My thanks, sister,” Roshanara said, cheeks still flushed from exertion and perhaps, Jahanara reflected, from sudden fear.

Jahanara nodded, feeling the now-familiar surge of shame over the beating she’d given Roshanara the night of Father’s murder. She wanted to apologize, but could not. To do so would be to admit everything that had happened that night, and that would only make her angry once again.

Instead, Jahanara nodded at the far end of the field where Damla and the rest of Roshanara’s team were celebrating the final point and said, “Fine play, sister. You surprised me with that overhand strike, you delivered it so swiftly.”

Roshanara’s cheeks colored more deeply. “It was my only good play for the entirety of the game.”

“Better to properly seize an opportunity once than attempt to seize every chance, however small, and fail.”

Letting their mounts cool, the princesses rode in a slow, silent circle before Roshanara departed for the accolades of the gathered women.

Sadness seized Jahanara as she watched her sister leave. Roshanara had been in virtual hiding since the night Jahanara had attacked her, and only come out for the day’s events at Nadira’s insistence. And if Smidha’s spies and informants were to be believed, Roshanara hadn’t been in contact with anyone outside the harem precincts. Jahanara dismissed as cruel rumor those reports that claimed Roshanara had not cried since that terrible night. Roshanara had never been a favorite sibling, and her younger sister’s part in the events that led to Father’s assassination had sent Jahanara into a killing rage.

Now, though, when her temper had cooled, Jahanara wished desperately for someone to speak to of her concerns, both political and personal.

Atisheh still recovered at Mission House and was not given to easy sentiment or concerted effort to unearth the meaning of life in the first place.

Smidha was an eternal help in most things, but sometimes the elder woman was just that: old-fashioned in her thinking and…she was not inclined to speak of physical passions as anything less than a liability for her princess. And Jahanara had certainly not forgotten the feel of Salim’s muscled flesh under her fingers, the interest in his eyes. The memory—and imagining what might come of his hands exploring her flesh—had kept her awake on more than one occasion in the last weeks.

None should be so well equipped to understand as her sister, and Jahanara was left wishing they had been closer as children