War is coming... Peninsular India, fourteenth century. The Pandyan empire is at its peak, its enemies subdued and its people at peace. Having left behind his step-brother Sundar in the race to the throne, Crown Prince Veera Pandyan is set to rule from Madurai, reputed to be the richest city in the subcontinent. But invisible fractures within the kingdom threaten to destroy it, and a new enemy approaches, swifter than anyone can imagine. In Delhi, Sultan Alauddin Khilji’s trusted general, the eunuch Malik Kafur, has trained his eyes on the distant south, fabled for its riches. A slave captured by the Khiljis, Kafur is renowned for his ambition and cunning. None, not even the mighty Mongols, have defeated him – no empire can withstand the trail of destruction he leaves in his wake. And all he wants is to see Madurai on its knees, its wealth pillaged, its temples destroyed. As an ancient city combusts in flames of treachery, bloodlust and revenge, brother will battle brother, ambition will triumph over love, slaves will rise to rule, cities will be razed to dust, and the victor will be immortalized in history...
Release date:
October 25, 2013
Publisher:
Hachette India
Print pages:
352
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
First published in 2013 by Hachette India (Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd) An Hachette UK company www.hachetteindia.com
This ebook published in 2013
Copyright 2013 R. Venketesh Illustrations 2013 Saurabh Deb
R. Venketesh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be copied, reproduced, downloaded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover or digital format other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Print edition ISBN 978-93-5009-586-7
Ebook edition ISBN 978-93-5009-613-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents (other than those obviously genuine) are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd 4th/5th Floors, Corporate Centre Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurgaon 122003, India
Cover design by Saurabh Deb
Originally typeset in Century MT Std 10.5/13.5 by Saanavi Graphics, Noida
To Lakshmi, who may never read this book, but without whom it would not have been
PROLOGUE
MADURAI
He was born a bastard!
All that he would achieve later in the battlefield would not assuage the anger he felt about his parentage, nor the truth that he was of royal stock remove
the stigma he was condemned to for the rest of history.
Veera was a prince, no doubt, with the royal blood of the Pandyan kings flowing in his veins. But any royalty in his blood came only from his fathers side.
Not all bastards thought about their parentage every day, but today the fact had been rubbed into the three-year-olds mind like salt on an open wound. For
today, the nation was celebrating his fathers wedding.
Veeras mother, Tara, was a concubine of the Pandyan heir apparent Prince Kulasekharan. Scribes would not note that the only woman the Pandyan heir had ever
loved was a dancer beyond her prime. Not when the Pandyans claimed descent from Goddess Meenakshi and ruled from Madurai the city that had risen when a
drop of maduram
, the holy ambrosia, accidentally fell on earth. Kulasekharan had refused to marry for long out of his love for Tara, but even he could not
hold out forever. Being the crown prince meant he had to marry a blue-blooded princess, and the entire empire had rejoiced. Except for Tara and Veera.
Never before had a concubines son ascended the Madurai throne, and Veera, though firstborn, could not be expected to wear the crown of pearls either. The
throne hall of Madurai was sanctified territory. Had not the supreme goddess herself ruled from its portals as Meenakshi? Any stray thoughts on his
prospects would have to end now, especially after his fathers lawful matrimony to a pedigreed princess.
Veera watched the wedding celebrations carefully. Much later, when he would wonder where his stream of memories began from, he would realize it was the
staging of this nuptial, when the entire empire had rejoiced. Veera and his mother had taken so much for granted that it was rather hard to accept
Kulasekharan was marrying someone else. What they thought was as permanent as the sun and moon had been rudely snatched away by reality, the suddenness
mocking the contentment they had felt when it was only the three of them together in this world.
Madurais riches had remained unused and laid buried for too long, and the king needed a celebration to flaunt its wealth and taunt his vassals. It was a
royal wedding after all. The sun never seemed to set on the city when the festivities began. With night came tens of thousands of lamps, glittering like a
million fireflies converging on one selected spot. Almost all the buildings were resplendent with the oil lamps on the windowsills, their flames flickering
in unison with the gentle breeze like golden flags, joining the people in their revelry. Even the street urchins had coir ropes ignited with glowing embers
at their tips. To convert night into day, the Nagarathar merchants, in a show of unbending loyalty to the throne, had distributed mustard oil in huge drums
around the city so that the lamps could be lit. It was not often they got to affirm their loyalty to their rulers.
Many years of peace had passed in the Pandyan lands, with the treasury bulging with revenues from conquered kings. Their enemies were far away, and even the
century-old civil war was now a distant memory. It seemed the Pandyans would rule for eternity, guaranteeing perpetual peace. Peace did not just mean an
absence of war. Peace was when war moved away from homes, when sons were not conscripted into the armies and wealth was not looted by invaders an
even-handed barter the kings gave for the taxes they collected.
The seers and priests predicted that this wedding would change the annals of Tamil history. What they did not realize was that gods heard the prayers of
mortals sometimes and then punished them by granting exactly what they had asked for.
The empire resonated with sounds of glee, yet the harem reverberated with silence: an island of hush amid an ocean of howling humanity. The walls of the
harem had always been constructed to keep out sounds unless the windows were opened. It was a pity no architect could insulate a home from the emotions
beyond its walls.
Veeras mother had barely uttered a word for over a week. Initially, the relationship between Kulasekharan and Tara was like one between a conqueror and the
conquered. Submissive and resigned to her fate as a mere concubine, she had shared his bed, but it was difficult to ignore love for long. She eventually
realized Kulasekharans affection for her went far beyond carnal craving, and responded by falling in love with him too.
The birth of a son cemented their relationship. Veera was a lucky boy. He did not know it, but his mother certainly did. Conceived not only from primal lust
but also from love, he had been allowed to live. Other courtesans who conceived were forced to abort their babies because a royal bastard could create
problems in the future and spoil the womans physical allure. The practice was to force a handful of sesamum seeds into the courtesans mouth, which would
ensure the death of the foetus.
That was Veeras first brush with death. He could have died even before he was born.
Kulasekharan would not hear of it, though. He took great care of Tara during her pregnancy and was overjoyed when a son was born. The prince had doted on
his bastard, given him a name and a childhood befitting royalty. Taras status was now staunchly established. Though marriage with the heir apparent was out
of question, she thought her newfound security would last forever. Three years later, it stood threatened.
Kulasekharan, after years of disagreement with the king, had finally agreed to wed a Chola princess.
Tara hugged her son close and wept, but Veera ran away to the balcony to see the celebrations. No boy could resist the rhythmic beat of the drums made from
an assortment of cured animal skins stretched on a frame. As more wine went into the guts of the musicians there was a cacophony of sounds drums were out
of beat and pipes were blown out of tune. But nobody seemed to mind. To Veera, he and his mother were invisible to the million eyes that watched the
celebrations that day. The country seemed to have snatched the sole rights they had over his father.
Bored after a while, Veera wanted a snack. He went out of his room, but the darkness outside overwhelmed him. Only a few stray lamps in the corridor
flickered. The harem was usually the most well-lit part of the royal enclosure, and the gloom meant there was nobody in the palace, except the two of them.
All other inmates had gone out to see the ceremony. Disoriented by the gloom, the boy felt a deep panic and rushed back to his mother. He hugged her from
behind, but she did not turn. Ignoring his embrace, she gazed vacantly at the wall.
His father had not visited them for a whole week. A royal wedding usually went on for three days in separate palaces belonging to the grooms and the
brides families. On the third day, the prince would ride a lavishly bedecked horse from his palace to marry the princess at the auspicious hour. The usual
custom was that the grooms entourage would go to the brides land, but the Pandyans were too powerful to have a wedding in a vassals land. The princess
had been brought to their territory two weeks before the wedding and lodged in a spacious palace, which housed the wedding hall where most of the
festivities took place.
Veera had seen his mother age ten years in the last three days. Until last week she had been the only woman in the life of the most eligible prince in the
realm. Today, she was a discarded rag. She knew all her privileges would be snatched away one by one and she would fall prey to intrigues within the palace
walls.
When the marriage was fixed, it did not take time for the news to spread and its impact to be felt. Tara was among the last to hear of it the prince had
not broached the subject on his last visit. And then he had stopped coming to their quarter altogether.
Almost immediately, there was a visible change of attitude in the harems inmates. The prince, who had spent all his nights with Tara for three years, had
forsaken her for a woman of royal pedigree. Most of the other courtesans now looked at them with more contempt than pity. There were whispers at first and
then louder taunts, but his mother remained still like a rock. Tara stoically made her sorrow her personal grief, refusing to share it with anybody else
not that there was anyone in the harem to share it with. Veera could not understand the depths of her distress. Tara did not cry not in front of Veera,
but she was weeping within and her son could sense it. Veera had been praying the whole day, wishing some mishap would happen to the princess. Perhaps she
would trip and break her leg or it would rain and spoil the wedding. But even if Varuna, the god of the clouds, did hear his prayers, rain would do nothing
to dampen the wedding of a prince.
Once the wedding was over, the prince rode back in an open chariot with his new bride by his side, waving to the euphoric citizens cheering from the sides
of the road. No one went back home without a patriotic wave at their prince and his shy Chola bride who did not even raise her head.
Veera could hear the voices of the returning harem women. Their loud chatter alerted him, who shut the door and stepped outside. He did not want them to
ridicule his mother. Their jealousy, built up over years of subservience to Taras status as the preferred concubine, was now venomous. The women came
closer and one of them offered him a sweet. Take it. Its your fathers wedding.
He shook his head.
She added solemnly, Take it as a farewell gift from him.
The others burst into laughter while he fled into the sanctuary of his room. His mother had fallen asleep. Veera was determined to stay awake; he would wait
for his father till dawn, if need be. He still harboured a tiny sliver of hope, and Kulasekharan proved him right.
Mortal predictions may often be right in the long run but they fall miserably short when asked to foresee the next few hours. Kulasekharan, with as much
decisiveness as the swing of his sword, silenced all criticism. Veera and his mother were not alone for long.
The prince spent his nuptial night not with his new bride, but with his mistress. He laughed aloud to find her sleeping, for Tara had not expected him to
visit that night. Words failed her as she embraced him and her sobs shook his shoulders shoulders that court poets compared to the peaks of the distant
Himalayas. He gently patted her back and said a few soothing words. Veera knew he was witness to a solemn occasion. He kept quiet, drawing little attention
to himself. Only a while later did the two lovers realize their son was in the room. His mothers expression was strange, he observed, before he was
smothered in her embrace. She was laughing and yet her tears flowed like the Vaigai river. He had never seen anybody do both together.
Kulasekharan spent his wedding night with a woman he could never hope to marry, while his princess-bride slept alone.
The effects of his action, however, would be felt not now, but in the future. Kulasekharans preference for his concubine meant that Veera was back in the
race that led to the throne of Madurai although, when the princess bore him a son, Kulasekharan was as overjoyed as he was at the birth of Veera. As
unvarying as the two eyes on my face, he would proudly declare. But eyes dont always see the same way.
*
GUJARAT
The astrologer Somnath jerked up in shock as if the horoscope in his hand had slapped him. In his sixty years, he had never seen such a chart. He had cast a
thousand horoscopes in his lifetime, but he also had access to several thousands more records so ancient that they had to be copied every ten years on
palm leaves before they crumbled to dust. Having dealt with a science that was infamous for its discordant and unpredictable nature, it was usual to be
daunted by the occasional shocker that cropped up in his charts. But today, he wished he had not stepped out of his house. He should have pleaded sick. He
blinked stupidly at the chart before him. He did not bother about the fifty eyes in the room eagerly looking for clues in his expression. His recoil went
unnoticed and his shivering was covered by his clothing. The sweat that broke out on his face could be attributed to the crowd in the unventilated room.
As an infant, he had watched his father immerse himself in his collection of horoscopes, working feverishly on the innumerable planetary permutations. The
incessant excitement of divinations and prophecies and the inextricable muddle of the unpredictable had hooked him too. And then came a tutorial by his
father that lasted twenty years.
Every horoscope was different and even those of twins differed. The moon changed houses every two and a half days, the sun once a month, Jupiter once a year
and Saturn once in two and a half years. The two snakes, Rahu and Ketu placed opposite each other moved in the diametric direction of the other planets.
The planets were his friends. He spoke to them through the charts and in the skies when he went out on starlit nights, until his eyesight began to fail. He
knew exactly where they were at any given time where to look for Mars in his fiery red and Venus in her bluish silver.
The boy whose horoscope had shocked the astrologer looked up at him. Somnath turned to meet his gaze. It was his first birthday. The cherubic baby smiled
back at him. Perhaps the child liked the splashes of white in Somnaths black beard or the wrinkles on his face amused him, or perhaps he enjoyed the
discomfiture the astrologer was suffering on his account.
The father of the boy, the local bania, trusted him. Somnath had cast the horoscopes for their entire family. He consulted his almanac, which indicated the
change of every planet for the previous fifty and the next fifty years. And it had taken him just a few minutes to know every planets position on the day
the boy had been born. Was this child a symbol of the incessant struggle between good and bad?
And was he destined to be a soldier, but on the wrong side?
The din of the party disturbed the astrologers thoughts. He looked at the crowd. Let them enjoy themselves while they can
, he thought sardonically. If men
knew what the planets held for them, they could never live like they did.
The childs first birthday was being celebrated with all the pomp the father could afford. Hindus considered the first birthday to be of paramount
importance. It was more of a celebration of a hurdle crossed than a count of days lived. Some of the primary duties of being a Hindu were performed on this
day horoscopes were cast, ears were pierced and heads were tonsured. With the Mohammedan waiting at the gates of Gujarat to pounce on their wealth and to
dishonour their women, any occasion to celebrate was a moment to rejoice as if it were the last thing they would commemorate.
It had been a hundred years since the Mohammedans had come. With the invaders so near at hand, and even the Somnath temple ravaged for the fourth time,
people should have emigrated down south. But the new dynasty of the Vaghelas, which had succeeded the weak Solankis, could surely hold out against the
invaders. The defence outpost of Karnavati on the banks of the Sabarmati was impregnable. No Muslim invader had ever crossed it after it had been
strengthened. If it fell, soothsayers said, so would Gujarat and the rest of the south.
The immense loss of life and wealth each invasion brought had a devastating effect on one generation, but the people eventually recovered. Now, rumours were
rife that the enemy had been sighted once again. Some who seemed to have seen the signs of disaster had sold their assets for a song and set out in search
of a place where they could build new futures. They had migrated to the southern tip of the continent, where dark-skinned people worshipped the same gods as
they did. Their warnings were ridiculed by those who stayed. They had prospered and the Mohammedan was yet to come. The stability that the Rajput kings had
provided also added to the opulence of the kingdom, which, they did not realize, would invariably entice the invader again.
The astrologer looked at the boy again. They had dressed him up in a silk tunic embroidered with gold zari strands that glinted in the sun. The silk had
come from China and had found its way up from the south, since the Turks had closed the northern routes of commerce with finality. Yet, the child seemed
unappreciative of its commercial value. He had duly wetted it twice already. For the sake of luck they had not changed his dress and he now stank like an
unwashed cowshed.
The childs father held him on his lap. He was precious, the answer to many prayers and a pilgrimage, suggested by the astrologer himself. Somnath felt a
fleeting guilt for he, too, was responsible for the existence of this boy. He could hardly believe that the parents horoscopes had not augured any event of
this sort. Or had he disregarded the subtle clues?
The astrologers heart heaved. It was customary to make a general prediction as soon as the horoscope was cast. The parents threw a questioning glance,
signalling him to start. Somnath saw the baby through a blur of tears. There was deep anguish welling up within him.
There was no excuse for putting off the prediction. He might as well tell them the few things that were truthful and yet palatable, but he wanted to buy
more time and so he told everyone to go to the temple. Though disappointed, the crowd left in a jolly mood. The boy bobbed with each jolt of his fathers
shoulders and smiled sweetly at those following him. People from the roadside waved at him. The bania was an honest man and had earned tremendous amounts of
goodwill. Even the ruler, Rana Rajasekar, had sent him a present.
The temple became noisier when the crowd reached it. The priests had been tipped off, and prayers in the name of Chand Ram, the boy, had begun. The words
were uttered sonorously, but carried no meaning to onlookers untrained in Sanskrit. They just nodded and exchanged knowing glances whenever the boys name
and caste were mentioned. Then the chanting was over and the prasad offered. The crowd climbed down the steps and went to the temple pond to get the childs
hair shaved off.
The square pond was paved with stones. An old man in soiled clothes took out a rusty knife and needle and washed them in a pot. The child squealed at the
sight of the barber rather than at the prospect of what was going to be done to him. He struggled hard to wriggle out of the barbers hold but to no avail
as deft hands pierced his ears and tonsured his head. The boys bawling made him throw up all the sweets that he had been stuffed with and finally, when
they took him back to the astrologer, he had fallen asleep, exhausted.
While the crowd departed for the temple, Somnath checked the horoscope again. He threw a few cowrie shells on a green cloth and counted those that had
fallen upright. But all recounts and re-chartings meant the same. For the first time he prayed he was wrong. The horoscope reeked of death and destruction.
The astrologer shivered, thinking, the child is a son of Saturn. He will go through pain, but he will also inflict it on others
.
And then he realized he had almost missed something in his interpretation. The arrangement of Saturn and the sun in confluence was strikingly clear. How had
he not discerned it earlier? The boy was born to dominate perhaps even as a king or emperor. He would command millions. But how could all these
contrasting events occur in one persons life, and that too, a banias son?
Somnath often hated his profession because he had to see images that no one else could and suffer the sorrows long before others endured it. The fees fed
him and sustained his body, but his mind was too frequently scarred. He shook his head and prepared himself for the real world. The party was returning. The
entire crowd came and sat before him, as if he was about to relate a tale. Somnath tried to look unconcerned, as if he had mastered the situation.
Dramatically clearing his throat to catch the attention of the crowd, he said, The boy, Chand Ram, has a great future. He could even become the king of
Hindustan! The only truth that he spoke that day elicited some hearty laughter, while at least one guffaw indicated disbelief.
Let the Rai Karan hear of it, somebody commented and the crowd dissolved into mirth, knowing very well that astrologers usually laid out the best possible
outcomes and most of their predictions would never come true.
As Somnath walked out after predicting some more generalities, the sun was at its fullest. Yet, he felt cold. A vision of what was to happen passed across
his eyes. He shuddered as he felt the irony; despite all his lies, the people had laughed at the truth.
BOOK I
CHAPTER 1
A BROTHER TO BEAT
The boys stared each other down with hostility. Suddenly, they charged, and in a jiffy, Veera held the Chola boys neck with his right arm. He began a
vice-like stranglehold, and the boy yelled for mercy, but Veera could only hear the cheers of his mates.
Son of a whore, leave him alone. He is a prince! shouted a girl amid the din of cheering.
The crowd fell silent. The girls remark had hit its mark. Whatever his origins, Veera was the crown princes son and the Cholas were but vassals. Even the
Chola boys remained quiet as the enormity of the words dawned on them. Veera seemed to stiffen. As the boy trapped in his hold squealed, Veera threw him
down, sending him sprawling in the dust several feet away.
Veera turned to the girl. Those standing next to her stepped back, sensing the fury in his eyes. The girl stood her ground; to retreat would mean she was
giving in. She realized that even if he killed her, none from her group would raise a finger in protest, let alone offer a defence. Veera began walking
towards her, but she continued to look him in the eye. As he came nearer, she could hear his breath emerge like a snarl. Just before he reached her, he
stopped. He turned around and a strange light passed over his face.
The moment he turned, the girl lost her nerve and tried to make a dash towards the relative sanctuary of the palace. But Veera knew she would do that. As
she turned, he grabbed her, tearing her blouse. She began to scream and howl. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the filthy pond nearby. The water levels
had dropped after the monsoons and the channel had receded, leaving an isolated puddle in which the water stood slimy and soiled. Veera shifted his hold to
her plaited hair and ducked her into the water. When she came up gasping for air, he ducked her again. Every time she came up with more flotsam on her head.
The group of friends and adversaries had moved towards the pond in a trance and watched the scene, mesmerized.
He gave her a final push and proclaimed, There, you fat toad, stay where you belong. Even her brothers laughed nervously. His wrath diminished, Veera
joined in the laughter.
*
Sibling rivalry, it is said, begins at an early age. A newborn sometimes arrives clenching a clump of hair or flesh the remnants of its immature twin who
lost the battle of survival within the womb. There was no such battle Veera had to fight, but that did not stop him from fighting a war the day his
stepbrother Sundar was born.
Veera could never forget the day he had seen Sundar first. The nation had been euphoric there was great rejoicing that a prince had been born to the heir
apparent. Kulasekharan himself conveyed the news to Veera.
Strangely, Veera felt no resentment at the time. He was just inquisitive. When Kulasekharan instructed Veera to accompany him to the cradle festival where
the newborn would be introduced to everyone Tara had first refused, aware of the controversy it would generate. But Kulasekharan had insisted. They will
recognize him as royalty. He cannot hide behind his mothers sari forever if he wants to rule this empire. His mother had tidied Veera up and dressed him.
Much against his protests, the grime was washed off his face and his ruffled hair was oiled and combed down.
Veeras arrival at the ceremony hall had immediately silenced the joyous audience. He could sense the rancour and huddled closed to his father. Kulasekharan
took Veera to the king, Maravarman Sundara, and both of them prostrated at his feet. The king could no longer resist. After all, the boy was his own flesh
and blood. He beckoned Veera and when the child came close, he placed him on his lap. He gestured for Kulasekharan to take his place on an ornamented throne
to his right.
Veera shivered. At close quarters, the king looked gigantic. He had trouble balancing himself on his lap. The king stretched his hand and a sweet
materialized on it, placed there by an understanding aide. The king gave him the sweet, which Veera started to nibble at almost immediately and soon a
stream of sweetened spittle soiled the royal lap.
There was a tall stranger seated next to his father with a pretty girl on his lap. The man looked leaner than his father, but he could sense the
resemblance. It was, Veera would learn later, his uncle Vikrama, the brother of Kulasekharan and next in line to the throne. He observed the girl on the lap
more keenly. Meena was a girl of six in a silk skirt and blouse. Most noticeable was the dimple on her cheek and a black spot next to it to ward off the
evil eye. The girl smiled at him warmly and he grinned back at her.
Two kids on the laps of their elders built a bridge of intimacy immediately and cemented it with their smiles.
As the function commenced, the king was asked to go over to the cradle. He lowered Veera onto the ground and gave him a gentle pat on his back. As the old
king ambled towards the cradle, Veera continued to nibble at the sweet and sat back on the seat, which happened to be the throne of Madurai the seat of
power which ruled half the continent of Bharatvarsh. Veera would not understand why his father had leapt so unceremoniously to grab him off his
grandfathers chair until much later, but he never forgot the pearls that were strung on the sides and the soft cushion on the seat and how much he loved
sitting on it. But many people in the hall noted Kulasekharans move and the rest would hear of it soon.
When his father was called to the ceremony, Veera was left alone. Then curiosity got the better of him. He walked closer and peeped inside the crib like
everyone else had done. There was an ugly thing there, wrinkled as if it had a fishnet on its face. Veera did not like him at all. As Veera held the frame
of the crib, the pearls that adorned it rattled. The noise woke the baby and he gave out a loud howl. The two brothers had exchanged their mutual animosity,
the first signs of a hatred that would last a lifetime.
The babys squeals made his attendants hurry towards him and in the process they pushed Veera aside. He was examining his bruised elbow when he felt a
friendly hand on his shoulder and turned to find the girl he had noticed earlier. She made place for him on her chair and held him close. The man who looked
like his father patted him on the head and smiled.
When Kulasekharan returned to Taras chambers, he laughed and said, You should have seen Veera ascend the throne. I had to leap forward to prevent him and
avoid an incident. He cant wait to rule the empire. Just like me.
*
Years went by with the Pandyan kingdom living in leisure. The palace was now a huge complex flanked by the channels of the Vaigai river. The central palace
consisted of the kings living rooms and the main assembly hall where he held court. The ancillary buildings housed the rest of the royal family. As the
crown prince, Kulasekharan occupied the palace next to that of the king, while Tara and her son had four rooms and a balcony to call their own in another
wing.
The children had to undergo the drudgery of schooling in the forenoon but they made up for it by tormenting their teachers. No teacher would last out his
entire term of employment the royal brats would cut short the existence of even strong-willed people. A single
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
