* * *
Kungas did not wait for the protest to emerge. Kushans were a folk of the steppes, and swift horses.
“Finally!”
He was standing in the center of the room, before anyone saw him rise.
“Finally.”
He let the word settle, ringing, as that word does. Then, crossing muscle-thick arms over barrel chest, he turned his head to the empress.
“Do as she says, girl. It is obvious. Obvious.”
The first mutters began to arise from the crowd of notables. Kungas swung his head toward them, like a swiveling cannon.
“Be silent.” The command, though spoken softly, brought instant obedience. The mask was pitiless, now. As pitiless, and as uncaring, as steppe winter.
“I do not wish to hear from you.” The mask twisted, just slightly. But Satan, with his goat lips, would have been awed by that sneer.
“You? You would dare?” The snort which followed matched the sneer. Pure, unalloyed contempt.
Kungas swiveled his head back to Shakuntala. “I will tell you something, girl. Listen to me, and listen well. I was your captor, once, before I was your guardian. I knew the truth, then, just as surely as I know it now. The thing is obvious—obvious—to any but fools blinded by custom.”
Again, he snorted. Contempt remained, augmented by cold humor.
“All those months in the Vile One’s palace, while I held you captive. Do you remember? Do you remember how carefully I set the guards? How strictly I maintained discipline? You had eyes to see, girl, and a mind which was trained for combat. Did you see?”
He stared at the empress. After a moment, Shakuntala nodded. Nodded, not imperiously, but like a schoolgirl nods, when she is beginning to follow the lesson.
Kungas jerked his head at the notables.
“Against whom was I setting that iron guard, girl? Them?”
He barked a laugh so savage it was almost frightening.
“Them? Those purebred pets?”
The laugh came again, baying like a wolf.
“I did not fear them, girl. I did not watch so carefully because I was worried about Chola. Or Tamraparni, or Kerala, or—”
He broke off, waving a thick hand.
“I was your enemy then, Shakuntala. And as good an enemy, as I have been a friend since. I knew the truth. I always knew. I knew who would come for you. I knew, and I feared the coming.”
For a moment, his eyes moved to Dadaji. The peshwa’s face was still hidden. Kungas made a little nod toward that bowed head, as if acknowledging defeat in an old argument. “My soul knew he was there. I could sense his own, lurking in the woods beyond the palace. I never spotted him, not once, but I knew. That is why I set the guards, and held the discipline, and never wavered for a second in alertness. I never feared anything, except the coming of the panther. One thing only, I knew, could threaten my purpose. The Wind of the Great Country—that, and that alone, could sweep you out of Malwa’s grasp.”
His eyes returned to the empress. Clear, bright almond eyes, in a face like bronze. “And that Wind alone, girl, is what can keep you from the asura’s claws.”
He uncrossed his arms, and dropped his hands to the side. “Do as the Roman woman tells you, Shakuntala. Do that and no other. Hers is the advice of an empire which, for a thousand years, has never lost sight of the truth. While these—”
Again, the stiff, contemptuous fingers. “These are nothing but envoys from kingdoms long lost to illusion.”
And now he too took his seat. And silence reigned again. The envoys did not even murmur. The lapdogs had been cowed.
Irene held her breath. One voice, alone, remained to be heard. One voice, alone in that room, which could still sway the empress to folly. She dreaded that voice, and found herself praying that the man she had come to love had read another man’s soul correctly. For perhaps the first time in her life, Irene prayed she was in error.
Shakuntala’s face was as stiff as a statue’s. But the exterior rigidity could not disguise—not from Irene; not from anyone in the room—the turmoil roiling beneath.