Another ancient memory rose in Shishupal’s mind, as if tied with a silver thread to the happy memories of Jarasandh. The two Magadhan Princesses had never borne him any kindness, treating him as nothing more than a prisoner with privileges. Yet Shishupal could not forget the icy hand that had gripped his heart when he’d seen them return from Mathura after the Usurper’s coup, stripped of all their finery, their heads shaved bald. Draped in widow’s white, they had been but ghosts of their former arrogant selves. It was then that the Emperor’s laughter had left him, replaced by something that was in equal parts sorrowful and sinister.

The cheers of the crowd brought Shishupal back from his wandering reflections. Among the High Lords on his tier, he recognized Lord Hiranyavarman, as sombre as ever since the humiliation he had suffered when his daughter had ended up wedding a Prince of Panchal who turned out to be more of a Princess. Beside him sat Lord Visharada of Kaunti. Shishupal was amused to find him here, but not surprised. The chains are invisible but he is imprisoned alright. The Kauntis had sided with Mathura when the War began. After his crushing defeat two winters ago, Visharada was now the biggest supplier of the Empire’s soldiers. Such was the way of war.

Saham Dev, called the Young Cub, the haughty, undeserving and imbecile son of the Emperor, and Crown Prince, was seated to one side, his mud-stained sword propped against the back of his chair. The Prince, noticing Shishupal’s gaze upon him, gave him a curt nod. It was no court secret that Jarasandh abhorred his son as much he had loved his daughters. Saham was no Lion, that was plain to see, with his limp eye, his fits, his hunched shoulders. Jarasandh could not believe the Crown Prince had been sired from his seed. Why else would he have chosen Shishupal, a man once wed, son of a vassal, to compete for the hand of Draupadi, when his own son sat unfettered at the age of nineteen? Shishupal might have nurtured a lamp of sympathy for the Crown Prince if he had not done everything in his power to deserve his father’s scorn. Weakness was one thing, cruelty another.

On the field, yet another combatant had lost to Dantavakra. The first tier roared its approval. Chedi! the gallery cheered. Dantavakra! Chedi! Only two men were left in the fight now, and there was no doubt who the gallery favoured. The smallfolk love showoffs, thought Shishupal. Dantavakra, now mounted on an abandoned white steed draped in silver mail, bearing the sigil of a lion on its saddle, spurred his mount toward the last man standing. Who was a rather petite knight in green armour, his emblem too faint for Shishupal to see.