Dhritarashtra frowned, unsure what to make of the request. Shakuni on the other hand, could not believe his luck. He felt like Fate had circled the place on the map where he now sat. Pandavas versus Kauravas. Some people said there was little in a name, but he knew better. A name is what defines, and names are what divides. Lines were drawn between names. Hastily, Shakuni chimed in, ‘There is precedent for such a request, Your Grace. The Balkhans are after all Kauravas in truth. A reasonable request, Your Grace.’

Dhritarashtra, relying on Shakuni, nodded awkwardly. ‘Very well. Scribe, note my decision: I, with the Royal power entrusted in me as Head of the Imperial Council and King of the Union, grant the Stronghold of Khandavprastha, with all its attendant lands and earnings, to Yudhistir Kaurava Pandav, Son of Pandu, to make his seat and rule henceforth as King of Khandavprastha, the Brother-Kingdom of Hastinapur. King Yudhistir and his brothers and their legitimate sons and descendants of the male line, shall hold these lands in perpetuity. The Lords of the Western Union will now be known as the Lords of Khandavprastha, from Varnavrat to Vadeh, and shall perform their duty to the House of Pandavas with Yudhistir as their rightful liege. The Eight consents?’

‘Aye!’

‘Case disposed,’ Bheeshma said. ‘Now bring the Queen of Khandavprastha home.’

I

Draupadi warily approached one of the last remaining tents within the Iron Curfew. Most of the other tents were coming down. The noise was overwhelming: squadrons trading curses, captains bellowing commands, horses whickering and blowing, children crying. Mail shirts were tossed into barrels and rolled across the cobblestones of the streets to scour them clean. Women tossed pails of water over cook-fires. Stableboys shoed horses and pack-mules. Men-at-arms straightened swords at smithies and knocked the dents from breastplates. Civilians stood around mules, loading essentials for their journey through the tunnel.

None paid Draupadi any heed. A good thing considering she was sick of the Keep where she had been bunched with the other High Ladies of Mathura. A bard had played bawdy songs to liven the air, only to receive joyless laughter. Even at lunch, she had found every morsel to be flavoured with fear. She had needed to leave that room.

She did not know whether the Wolves would be assigned to her detail in the tunnels, and so she thought of going to meet them one last time. She pulled aside the tent flap and entered. Piety stood nearby, shield strapped to her right arm, sword in her gauntleted left hand, most of her face hidden by the side flaps of her helm. Bleed was flipping her knives, the blades slapping on the leather of her gloves. Calm was drinking ale from a jug. Storm was sprawled against a pile of bedrolls, picking her teeth with a fish bone.