“This is his son.”
“His true son—the son of Maya the Queen?”
“His true son, the son of Maya the Queen.”
“Not the younger—the mongrel?”
“The younger—the mongrel died last week of a fever.”
Every moment of delay was precious. Her eyes saw only a monk and a boy fleeing across the wide river.
“Which is Maya the Queen?”
“This,” said Sundari. “She cannot speak. It is her son—the Prince.”
Maya had veiled her face with her hands. Her brain swam, but she understood the noble lie. This woman could love. Their lord would not be left childless. Thought beat like pulses in her—raced along her veins. She held her breath and was dumb.
His doubt was assuaged and the lust of vengeance was on him—a madness seized the man. But even his own wild men shrank back a moment, for to slay a sleeping child in cold blood is no man’s work.