“I do not suppose we can consider a peace offering?” Himanshu of the clan of Maniakkhika said, delicately selecting a piece of spicy dhokla from a silver tray and popping it into his mouth. A scribe perched on a stool to the right of the great table, her arm forming huge, looping motions as she recorded every word with the zeal of someone hoping for a promotion. Never mind, thought Venkat, drumming his hand on his knee, that the council had been having the same argument for the past hour.

From the dignitaries and diplomats of each of the Eightfold Clans to Asha and Chintu to Nayan and the nagaraja and nagarani themselves, the wide rectangular conference table represented nearly every major court official Venkat had seen at events. They looked completely at ease in their onyx-and-emerald chairs, which had been artfully carved to resemble miniature versions of the royal thrones.

Venkat, however, still wasn’t sure what he was doing here in the council chamber, the lone human surrounded by paintings of ancient naga-and-garuda clashes interspersed with deadly curved talwaars and heavy round shields salvaged from those same skirmishes. He’d never swung a sword in his life, and so far, he hadn’t even persuaded Nayan to spare Tanvi. The only thing he could really offer was his dreamsmithing, and that was a secret.

If all that wasn’t enough, two life-sized portraits of the nagaraja and nagarani gazed imperiously down from the golden walls. No matter which way he turned, their critical green-gold eyes drilled into him.

He shifted yet again, feeling like a little kid in the too-large chair with its grandiose cobra-hood corona. Nayan shot him a sidelong glance full of reproach. Show no weakness, it said.

Venkat pushed himself upright and tried his best to look solemn.

Trishala of the clan of Kauravya made a miffed noise. “How many times must we re-tread this same ground? Garuda already enjoyed his victory. He robbed our people of the amrit. If that is not enough to appease his bloodlust, what is?”

“The last breach cost eleven lives,” Sunaina of the clan of Virupaksha called out.

Eleven lives? Venkat hadn’t known that. He stared at the velvet table runner, tailored to create the effect of a serpent slithering through grass, and felt ill. Had the victims been children? Somebody’s parents? Husbands and wives? His heart ached for the people they’d left behind.

Nayan’s project had to work.

“Eleven lives,” Sunaina repeated. “And I sense they were merely toying with us.”

“I also sense that,” Nayan agreed. He pointed to a painting in which Garuda, monstrous and shrieking, gouged a scimitarlike talon into the broad chest of a mace-bearing naga soldier. Blood sprayed liberally across the soil. “From all we have seen, it is clear Garuda has no interest in peace offerings.”