‘Why can I not wed Mati first?’

‘You know that does not solve the problem,’ the Queen said. ‘Mati is betrothed to you. Draupadi has a swayamvar. You need to win her, and it would be best if you were untethered when you present yourself to her.’

‘You speak as if it is given I would win.’

‘Don’t be a defeatist, Duryodhan,’ Bheeshma said. ‘It is unbecoming of a Prince.’

Duryodhan looked away, his face pale. He left without a word.

Shakuni smiled as he limped towards Karna, and slowly patted his back. ‘You did the right thing, Lord Karna.’

‘But will he agree?’

‘Aye, he will. It will take a little nudging from us, but there is nothing Duryodhan places above his duty to the Union.’

Karna nodded slowly, having not the faintest notion that he had just been used as bait by Duryodhan’s family to ambush him.

I

‘Are you ready, Nala?’ Parshuram asked for what seemed the hundredth time. The air whistled with fearsome swipes as he stalked towards her, wooden sword in hand, though it felt like Assyrian steel every time he inflicted it on her.

Clearly not but do I have a choice? The girl who wanted vengeance against Bheem had perforce to be an ardent student of the world of pain, however ill-suited she might be to it. She had to learn to fight with intent to kill, though that was the life she had escaped from. Thus far she had failed miserably. Every time she fell, fainted, or retched, she thought it was the final straw and Parshuram would give up on her. But he didn’t, and she forced herself to rise on her feeble feet, swear a curse and hang on for dear life. Fortunately for her, Parshuram seemed to enjoy beating the shit out of a crippled girl and bending her into submission. Unfortunately for him, there was something fierce in Nala that would break before it bent.

It was not that Nala expected herself to become a master of the sword in a month. In her time at Meru, she had scarcely touched a weapon, spending most of her hours studying Chakras, the uses of alchemy, and the systems of government in far-off places. Yes, she had learnt the basic art of self-defence from Craw but none of that had prepared her for a swinging sword wielded by a Master. Though in all fairness, going up against someone called the Bane of Ksharjas did not make for an accurate assessment of her skills.

‘Strike me, Nala! And controlled breaths. You are panting like a dying airavat! Remember, this time I have made it easy. It is not the first to be bloodied or the first to fall. This time, the first to get wet, loses.’