CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Suryanagar smelled of turmeric, river mud, and jasmine.

The scent hit Meera before the city did — carried on a warm wind that rolled up from the valley floor as Takshak descended toward the golden walls. After three days of mountain cold and pine resin and the clean, thin air of Devgarh, the warmth was almost obscene. It wrapped around her like a shawl pulled from a dryer, soft and heavy and fragrant.

Takshak landed in a clearing outside the city gates, and the transformation from Naga to man drew a crowd of traders and children who scattered the moment his gold eyes swept across them.

"They fear you," Meera said.

They are wise to fear me. I have not visited Suryanagar in many years, and the last time, I burned a grain storehouse.

"You what?"

It was an accident. Mostly.

Aisha straightened her travelling cloak and stepped forward, her chin lifted in the particular way that Meera was learning meant I am about to perform a role I hate. "I'll announce us. Remember — we are here as family. Nothing more."

"I remember."

The gates of Suryanagar were carved from honey-coloured sandstone, and every surface was covered in relief carvings — battle scenes, harvests, river goddesses with wide hips and flowing hair, and at the very centre of the arch, a sun disc with twelve rays, each ending in a different animal head.

Guards in gold-and-white livery stepped forward. One of them — a young man with a thin moustache and worried eyes — recognised Aisha immediately.

"Lady Aisha!" He bowed deeply. "We were not expecting—"

"I know." Aisha's voice was warm but carried the crisp authority of someone who'd grown up in courts. "I bring Meera of Prakash Lok, Tara's Chhaya-Bandhu, who wishes to pay her respects to Queen Regan and Raja Devendra's household." She paused. "And the Naga Takshak, who accompanies his Bandhu."

The guard's eyes went very wide. He looked at Takshak. Takshak looked back.

The guard bowed again, much more deeply this time, and waved them through.

---

The palace of Suryanagar was nothing like the grey stone fortress of Devgarh. Where Devgarh was mountain and muscle — thick walls, narrow windows, cold stone — Suryanagar was river and silk. The corridors were wide and airy, with carved jali screens that let in diamond-shaped patterns of light. The floors were polished marble veined with gold, and the walls were covered in frescoes — not the dark, dramatic battle scenes of Devgarh, but lush garden scenes, women bathing in lotus ponds, musicians playing under flowering trees.

Meera's bare feet — she'd left her shoes at the entrance, as was the custom — made soft sounds on the cool marble as they were led through a series of increasingly beautiful rooms.

"This place looks like a Mughal miniature painting came to life," she murmured.

Aisha glanced at her. "What's a Mughal?"

"Never mind."

They were brought to a receiving room that opened onto a balcony overlooking the river. The Narmada — or whatever its Chhaya Lok name was — gleamed like hammered silver in the diffused light, and on the far bank, rice paddies stretched in emerald steps toward distant hills.

And in the centre of the room, on a low divan covered in silk cushions, sat Queen Regan.

Meera had built an image in her mind based on Aisha's descriptions — a cold, calculating woman, sharp-featured, wielding power like a weapon. The reality was both more and less than that.

Regan was beautiful. Not the soft, maternal beauty of Queen Padmini in Devgarh, but something sharper — a face like cut glass, high cheekbones, dark eyes that reflected light without absorbing it. Her hair was black and oiled and pulled back in an elaborate knot studded with gold pins. She wore a deep red silk sari with a gold border so fine it looked like it had been woven by spiders, and at her throat, a necklace of rubies caught the lamplight like drops of blood.

She looked ageless. She could have been thirty-five or fifty-five. Her skin was smooth, her posture regal, and her smile — when it came — was the smile of a woman who had already decided what she thought of you before you entered the room.

"Aisha." The smile widened. "My dear niece."

"Mausi." Aisha touched her aunt's feet in a gesture of respect, and Regan's hand settled on her head in a benediction that looked practised rather than felt.

Then those dark eyes turned to Meera.

"So," Regan said. "Tara's ghost."

The room went still.

"I'm Meera," she said. "Tara's Prakash-Bandhu. Not her ghost."

"Of course." Regan's smile didn't waver. "Forgive an old woman her superstitions. You look so very much like her." She gestured to the divan across from her. "Please, sit. You must be exhausted from the journey."

Meera sat. The silk cushions were absurdly comfortable — the kind of comfort that was itself a weapon, designed to make you relax your guard.

She didn't.

"And the Naga." Regan's eyes found Takshak, who stood behind Meera like a leather-clad mountain. "Takshak. It has been many years."

"Not long enough," Takshak said aloud.

The smile flickered. "Still carrying grudges, I see."

"Nagas do not carry grudges. We carry memories. And my memories of you, Regan, are not pleasant."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Aisha shifted uncomfortably. Regan's smile returned, harder now, more brittle.

"You must be hungry," she said, and clapped her hands twice. Servants appeared — silent, efficient, carrying trays of food that smelled of cardamom, ghee, saffron, and the deep, sweet warmth of jaggery.

"We should eat," Aisha whispered.

"Is it safe?"

"Regan won't poison us in her own receiving room with a Naga standing behind us." Aisha paused. "Probably."

---

Meera ate carefully — tasting everything, watching Regan's face for the micro-expressions that might betray something. But the queen was a fortress. Her smile never wavered, her composure never cracked, and her conversation was a masterclass in saying absolutely nothing while appearing to say everything.

She asked about Meera's journey. About her life in Prakash Lok. About her work at Fergusson College.

"A professor of mythology," Regan murmured. "How fitting."

"How so?"

"You study the stories humans tell themselves to make sense of the world. And now you find yourself inside one." Regan tilted her head. "Does reality match the stories?"

"The stories never mention how much everything hurts."

Regan laughed — a genuine laugh, brief and sharp. "No. They never do."

A servant entered and whispered something in Regan's ear. Her expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes — a calculation, a decision made.

"Your rooms are prepared," she said. "I'll have Kamini show you to the guest wing. We'll dine together tonight — properly. Raja Vikramaditya will want to meet you."

"And your daughter?" Meera asked. "Nisha?"

Regan's smile tightened imperceptibly. "Nisha is away. She'll return in a few days."

She's lying,* Takshak said in Meera's mind. *The daughter is here. I can smell her.

Meera filed that away.

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