Jahanara watched him dismiss the bodyguard with a wave.
The jeweled pin in his turban caught the light filtering through the white silk pavilion as Dara turned his head to look at Nadira. His wife was speaking quietly in his ear, every line of her posture hard.
He did not like what she said, or was otherwise so overcome with anger that his face went purple red.
She hadn’t quite made it to the dais when he surged erect, pulling away from his wife’s white-knuckled grip.
His gaze fell on Jahanara as he cast about for something to break. The rage she saw in his eyes made her miss a step and stumble to a stop.
“Did you hear?!” he raged.
“Of course, Sultan Al’Azam,” Jahanara said with practiced calm, hoping the use of his title might recall him to self-control and some semblance of calm.
“I will have the culprits trampled by elephants, their skulls to adorn pillars like those of our ancestors!” he shouted, heedless of her attempt to remind him of listening ears.
He began pacing, balled fists shaking with rage.
“No, trampling will be too good for my brother! He has done this thing, destroyed our one and only hope!”
“It is not so, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“What?!” He rounded on her, pointing an accusing finger. “You claim he is not responsible?” he barked, face going more livid still, something she would not have thought possible.
“I make no such claims, Dara,” Jahanara said, unable to look him in the eyes. She looked at the marble at their feet and swallowed before continuing. “Sultan Al’Azam, I only wish to point out to you that we have other hopes, other chances, other play—”
His sudden collapse likewise brought her careful arguments crashing to dust and ruin. The seizure that followed made her wonder if Dara were not some sort of prophet, predicting their doom even as his damaged brain ensured the prophecy was self-fulfilling.
Somewhere amid the panic, guilt, and fear, she vowed to make the planned hospital still more grand and open to serve everyone, regardless of caste, religion, or privilege, if only God or some version of Heaven would see Dara recovered; vowed further that she would do all she could to improve the lot of the weak, the ill and the lame, the injured and the crippled.
Her vow must have been sufficient to appease, as Dara’s seizure subsided, leaving him exhausted and on the verge of unconsciousness.
Nadira held his larger hand clasped in both of hers, kissing the back of it. If Jahanara had been frightened by the seizure, Nadira was shaken to her very core, and needed every support.
Seeking control of the wild swing of her emotions, Jahanara took a deep, steadying breath. Employing the rest of the mental exercises learned from her mother and Mian Mir, she started to think more clearly.
Snapping her fingers in front of Smidha’s stunned eyes, she commanded the servant to summon, in utmost secrecy, the up-timer physicians.
Once certain that what little physical aid she could offer had been secured, Jahanara knelt beside her brother and his wife, offering both all the love and support her unworthy heart contained.
Chapter 20
Burhanpur
South shore of the Tapti
Aurangzeb glared at the sluggish brown waters of the river as two of his finest subordinates rode up the near bank to join him. Half-remembered tales churned his mind. Tales Smidha—nursemaid and now advisor to Jahanara—sometimes told of the goddess who was the personification of the river. Sister to one of the gods of Death, the river goddess would carry those who died in her arms directly to her brother and a new place on the wheel or some such.
He’d never understood how the Hindu cosmology that so enraptured Dara and the Hindus at court worked, leading him, in moments of youthful weakness, to mock the odd turns their religion took and the actions those who followed it had to take in order to propitiate their false gods.
Now the Tapti mocked him in return. She was shallow in the dry season, but not so shallow that crossing her was without risk, especially for men afoot. Coming south they had used nearly a hundred wide, shallow draft boats to ferry men, horses, and material across, but whomever the general on the other side was, he’d withdrawn them all to points unknown. The elephants had simply waded.
A scouting force of his best light cavalry had made it across after a hard-fought and fast-moving skirmish, but they’d quickly been forced to retreat back across the river.
“Can’t be more than a few thousand,” Shahaji said as he and the other cavalry commander reined in before the prince. Water streamed from both horses and their riders, who’d been forced to hang from their saddles and be towed by their horses on both crossings. Shahaji’s mount was different from that which he’d gone across with. Aurangzeb had watched with awe as horse and rider went down when the man’s original mount took an arrow. Bare instants later and the man was up on another horse as if nothing had happened.
“More than enough to grind down the numbers of any serious attempt at crossing, however,” Sidi Miftah Habash Khan said, his Habshi face shining with fresh sweat under his turban. “We tried to split up and make them chase us away, but we were forced back into the river without gathering more than a general idea of what was on the other side.”
“Chased, my brother?” Shahaji asked with a grin.
Habash Khan returned the smile with a cocked brow.
The Maratha placed a hand on his chest, his thin yet handsome face dressed with a sardonic grin. “I was not chased. I only wished to rejoin our prince here on the overlook. It is a pleasant place from which to watch the goddess sway through
