The door hinged back with a screech, and Maya stood in the entryway. Behind her, Jaya spotted the bank of panels, the glass wall, and her heart trembled at the thought of what lay beyond.
“I trust you weren’t followed,” Maya said.
Jaya shook her head as she took the offered towel. “No. I spent four fucking hours wandering around this stinking city, bored out of my mind. The Yumi are depressed on the ship, the Black Scales too drunk in the city to care.”
“Good. Elena and Samson are still in the palace, so we have a few hours before they notice you missing.” Maya turned as the door to the adjoining glass chamber slid open, and a thin, dark-haired man entered. “Taran has command.”
Jaya and Akaros snapped to salute, their fists slamming against their chests. “Master Taran.”
The leader of the Arohassin fixed them with red eyes and smiled. “I have waited a long time to see you three.”
“Everything is in place, sir,” Maya said.
“Our agents have secured the Jantari ships, sir,” Akaros added with an earnestness Jaya had never heard from him before. Gone was his carefully relaxed composure. He stood ramrod straight, arm stiff and angled like a tanker wing.
“And you, Jaya?” Taran asked. His accent was Ravani, western Rani to be specific, where sandscrapers gave way to the wide, rolling dunes. It sounded like a soft desert wind, the one that lulled you into the basins before the sands shifted and a sandstorm erupted. Even after all these suns, his voice still prickled her skin. She had never heard him raise his voice, never seen him without his hair tied back in a neat ponytail or his black velvet jacket without a gulmohar flower, crimson like his eyes, in its third button.
“I—I am ready for whatever task you have for me, sir,” she said.
Taran studied her. “Show me what you’ve collected so far.”
Jaya nodded vigorously, jamming her hand into her pocket. Shewithdrew her holopod, only she gripped it so tightly that her dry skin stretched over her knuckles, cracking. “It’s in here. All—most—whatever I could manage.” She stopped suddenly, frustrated at her sudden anxiety. Her lack of control. Taran always made her feel just outside of her depth, though through no fault of his own. It was just that she had seen his game designs, his battle flows, drawn so exquisitely—soingeniously—that she felt a choking cry of jealousy, not of him, but to belike him. Poised, perfect—flawless. Taran Arya was the most gifted and creative gamemaster she had ever come across, and no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she wrung herself to find creative gasps of genius, her talent paled in comparison to his. It had annoyed her—until Taran used those same designs to help her brother.
He smiled kindly and took the pod. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got.”
He placed it on the panel, and the holos decoded, then sprang up around them. Footage of Elena’s and Samson’s Agni, their temperature readings, the flashpoints of their fire, the pattern of their flames, the speed at which they traveled—it was all there. Taran studied the holos, and she studied him, her heart thumping so loud it was a miracle they all did not hear it.
“Jaya,” Taran began, and she thought suddenly, despairingly,I fucked it up. He hates it, he hates—
“This is marvelous work. Did you get this all from your lotuses?”
She blinked. Her throat had run awfully dry. “Y-yes?”
A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes wide with wonder. “Ingenious.”
Pride—warm, fierce—bloomed in the pit of her stomach. She did not need Taran Arya’s validation to know the worth of her work, but still.
But still.
Div would joke that she had a professional crush, but it wasn’t like that. She did not crave Taran. She did not crave anyone, except maybe the alarmingly beautiful, devious vishkanya with eyes so sharp, so intelligent, she put the masters to shame— Jaya shook her head. Her cheeks had suddenly gone hot, and Taran had noticed.
“No, truly,” he said. “This is splendid, Jaya. You should be proud of your work.”
Akaros rolled his eyes, and Maya smirked, but Jaya knew they hung on to every word, as if, just by osmosis, they could be touched by his benediction.
She smiled, despite herself. Taran continued studying the holos, the blue light washing over his face, making the shadows under his eyes deeper, starker. She began to point out how she had used the Janani Game Theory to capture Elena’s signature heat flare when Taran said, softly, “Then we are ready.”
At this, Jaya froze. Akaros had heard, and she saw him stiffen, saw Maya realize the truth behind Taran’s quiet exclamation. He never raised his voice. But they heard his excitement, so rare these days, and the fact sobered them.
He turned to her. “I want it to be you.”
Her hand trembled. “M-me?”
“Out of the four of us, it must be you to play the game.”
“B-but why not you?” Jaya said, her voice hitching. She could stage the field, draft game designs, stun her fighters. But play the game herself? No. There was a reason it was Samson’s blade that cut through Afira and Rhumia, not hers. She looked to Akaros for help, then Maya. “You were on the ship with Elena, Maya. You fought those Jantari bastards alongside her. Surely, you could—”
“There’s still Samson, Jaya,” Akaros said. “He would never play with Maya in the field. She fucked that up a long time ago.”
