The oath bowl was older than the throne. It sat on a bronze tripod at the foot of the dais, wide as a man's shoulders and green with age, and it held clear water drawn that morning from the spring in the royal hills. Every sworn captain of Swarnabhumi had cut a palm over it for three hundred years.
Rama stood in front of it in borrowed court dress and wished for his sword belt. The sleeves ended an inch short of his wrists. He had pulled the left one down twice to hide the mark, and twice a courtier's eyes had followed the movement.
The audience hall smelled of sandalwood and hot lamp oil. Bells hung from the roof beams and stirred when the doors opened, so that every arrival came with a thin silver shiver. Nearly two hundred people had packed the floor. Rama had not expected an audience. Ardhana, he understood now, had meant for him to expect none.
Sekar leaned in as the last of the courtiers settled. "You're gripping your sleeve again," she murmured.
"It's too short."
