We are in the study adjoining my bedroom in Raj Mahal—a room where Lohar used to gather classified reports when he was alive. Unlike the rest of the palace, this room isn’t built for spectacle. A large mahogany table and three comfortable chairs are its only furniture, along with a small wooden cabinet holding enameled boxes of paan and an ornate, rock crystal hookah. Today, like every other day, the table is piled with scrolls: briefs about what’s happening in the kingdom, but most overwhelmingly, about what happened in Javeribad.
Perspiration coats Alizeh’s forehead, her throat bobbing as she swallows. While a part of me wants to throttle her, another part knows that I can’t. Not yet. I force myself to breathe deeply.
“Tell me what happened,” I say. “From the very beginning.”
Alizeh’s words emerge in a rush: “We went there on the dirt licker’s information yesterday, as you know. After making inquiries, we discovered that a group of women and girls lived in the village orphanage. We went in for questioning. We did it the usual way.”
With threats, instead of treats.
“We put down most of them, but the cook slipped away. Another girl escaped into the shrine in Javeribad. Captain Shekhar followed. He demanded that the priest hand her over. The priest refused. Some of the villagers began protesting as well.” Alizeh licks her lips, and I know this story isn’t going anywhere good. “Captain Shekhar says someone threw a rock at him. So he shot his atashban, setting the priest and a few others on fire. The shrine caught fire, too, but the captain says that was entirely an accident. I’ve punished him, Ambar Sikandar. Twenty lashes.”
I say nothing, though I’m certain that my eyes reveal my fury. It is one thing to punish zamindars and farmers who do not pay the increased land tithes. But destroying religious shrines is another matter altogether. People get sensitive about their gods and saints. Incensed enough to wage war against their queen.
“If this happens again, Alizeh, I will lash you myself and replace you with another, more effective general,” I warn. “Your subordinates should be under your control at all times.”
Alizeh’s only response is to swallow once, audibly, and say, “Yes, Ambar Sikandar.”
“What happened next?” I ask. “How did the girl escape you again?”
“She was flying a bloody simurgh! They never landed, the cowards. I shot the simurgh, though,” Alizeh says viciously. “Hit it right in the wing. I sent out a couple of trackers to follow it. They lost its trail east of Dhanbad.”
Alizeh winces when I raise my hands, but I use them only to clap twice. The guard outside comes running into my study.
“Fetch Damak and Amba,” I say. “At once.”
“Yes, my queen.”
Acharya Damak is the first to arrive, all silk and slippery smiles, his eyes nearly as cold as mine. Amba takes a little longer to come, wearing a sari of deep pink and gold. The serving girl I’ve assigned to watch the former queen day and night enters my study quietly behind her and nods once at me.
Nothing out of the ordinary to report, then.
I lean back in my chair. For once, Amba hasn’t been sending out unsanctioned shvetpanchhi or hatching another escape plan. Her hands tremble slightly as I watch her—hands that I once broke before having the vaid fix them again. As the old Vani saying goes: Spare a snake and it might still prove useful.
“Now that we’re all here,” I say. “I am going to put forth a plan. You will advise me to the best of your ability, Acharya. And you, Amba, will make sure he isn’t lying.”
Amba’s mouth stiffens. She doesn’t argue the way she did the first time I made her use her powers. With her broken hands.
“Yes,” she says now. A pause before adding: “Ambar Sikandar.”
I nod, satisfied.
The acharya holds out a hand. Amba places her left hand on his arm and raises her right hand, the palm glowing gold.
“I am planning to let the dirt licker out of prison and transfer him to a room in Raj Mahal, guarded around the clock,” I say. “I want to use him as an informant. Tell me, Acharya. Is it a good idea?”
The acharya frowns, saying nothing for a long while. Then: “It could be a good idea. If executed properly.”
“Truth,” Amba says.
“Explain,” I tell him.
“Don’t limit his role to a mere informant. Use him as leverage instead. There are some political advantages to be seen out in public with the half magus.” Silk knits itself into Damak’s voice, the way it always does when making dangerous propositions. I’d heard that voice several times before at court, whenever the acharya advised Lohar.
“What kind of political advantage?” I ask, my voice equally silky.
The acharya’s unctuous smile does not slip. “Think about this, Rani Shayla. Shrines are sprouting across the kingdom, dedicated to the girl and her dirt-licking lover. If you show the people that the girl’s lover is now on your side, his loyalties completely bound to you, there will be confusion among magi and non-magi. As the old Ambari saying goes, To stop a sand dune, you must build a barrier. Xerxes-putra Cavas can be your barrier and protect you from much of your subjects’ wrath.”
“Truth,” Amba says.
I grow silent, alternating between watching Damak and Amba, wondering if they’re both conspiring to hatch a plot together. But Amba simply looks as if a pile of dung is under her nose—she must be gagging at the thought of a dirt licker living inside the king’s palace—and the acharya’s pale-green eyes are clear of any deception.
“You may have a point,” I say after a pause. “It will be dangerous, bringing him out of the dungeons.”
“When has danger ever stopped you, my rani?” the high priest questions.
True. When has it?
“You may leave,” I say, which instantly makes Amba drop her hand back to her side.
“I will arrange for his security,” Alizeh says once they’re both gone, almost tripping over herself in her eagerness. “Watch him myself, if needed.”
“There’s no need, General.” My cold voice makes Alizeh wince. “Your job is to keep the city and your troops under control. Do it well. And bring me daily reports.”
If Ambarvadi falls, we are done for, I think. And Alizeh, despite her faults, has the cunning and cold brutality necessary to keep invaders away.
“Captain Emil can watch the dirt licker, along with two others,” I say after a pause.
“Yes, Ambar Sikandar.”
It will be risky, bringing Xerxes-putra Cavas out in the open. Riskier than anything I’ve ever done. The boy may not have any magical powers apart from seeing living specters, but he was born with the cunning that every dirt licker possesses. The sort that can keep mothers apart from their daughters. The sort that can kill queens if underestimated.
“Ask Emil to bring me the dirt licker now,” I tell Alizeh. “And make sure he doesn’t smell like sewage.”
25
CAVAS
When I wake up again, it’s to the sound of screaming.
Gul! I think instinctively before realizing that it isn’t Gul’s voice I hear but someone else’s—someone whose cell lies farther away from mine.
Amira.
I sneak toward the wall, despite the stinging shackles, and place my mouth close to the thin opening there.
“Juhi ji?” I whisper, the sound almost drowned out by another gut-wrenching cry of pain. “Are you there?”
There’s a long pause before I see those black eyes again, a flash of bright-blue hair. “I’m still alive,” she says hoarsely. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Why are they torturing Amira? Is it the same reason they tortured you yesterday?” Juhi had fallen silent for so long after the torture session that I worried the guards had killed her.
“I suppose,” she replies. “A group of masked figures broke into the Ministry of War in Dhanbad, tied up its employees, and trashed it. They defaced the door with curses for the new queen and the s
ymbol of a golden lotus.”
The same lotus etched onto Juhi’s and Amira’s palms.
“But you didn’t…” I hesitate. “Did you?”
“Of course not!” Juhi says, her voice rough. “Secrecy was paramount to the Sisterhood’s survival. Whenever we attacked, it was with purpose, with a goal in mind.”
“You mean other women attacked the ministry?”
“I don’t know who they were—if they were even women. The Sisters I know would never engage in such attacks. The last I knew, they were still in Javeribad. But perhaps I’m wrong.” Her voice turns bitter. “I’ve been wrong about so many things in the past—”
Her voice cuts off abruptly as a pair of footsteps clatter in the hallway. A lightorb glows over Vaid Roshan, who rushes past without looking into our cells. Amira’s screams soften to a whimper that fades as voices rise in argument, clear and distinct in the silence of the dungeons.
“You must cease the consecutives at once.” Vaid Roshan’s voice is as tight as wire. “You will kill her at this rate!”
“We’re only doing our job,” a guard snaps back. “Hey! You can’t touch her without permission!”
“I am doing my job, which is ensuring she remains alive,” the vaid says in a cold voice. “You don’t want me to have to tell Rani Shayla that a Level One died because the guards got carried away during interrogations. Do you?”
There’s a long silence, broken only by an occasional moan. The vaid’s threat seems to have worked. Shortly afterward, the guards march past our cells, running their lathis across the bars, spewing filthy, unimaginative curses, most of them involving women.
“A Level One?” I whisper to Juhi.
“From what I can gather, it means a prisoner they can torture but not kill yet without the rani’s permission. I must be a Level One for now. So must you.”
At the end of the hallway, Vaid Roshan takes on the dulcet tones of a healer’s reassurances, and despite everything, I find myself collapsing against the wall with relief. For now, at least, Amira will face no cruelty.
“That vaid is a miracle,” Juhi says. “It’s a wonder he’s still alive.”
“The Scorpion can’t kill every human with a conscience.”
“Yes, but she can mold them to suit her purposes. Force them into doing her bidding even if they don’t want to. Promise me you’ll be careful once you get out of here, Cavas. That you’ll do your best to stay alive.”
“If I get out, you mean.”
I don’t know if Gul heard my message. If my attempt at meditation had simply passed her by like a fevered dream.
“You will,” Juhi says quietly. Something rattles like marbles across the floor in her cell. “Sometimes, I scry the future by using pits from the dates they give us to eat. They don’t work as well as my cowrie shells, but they’re adequate. You won’t be here much longer.”
My insides tighten. I’m about to ask how she can be so sure when I hear footsteps again. This time, they aren’t hurried, but quick and efficient. A lightorb pauses outside my cell, revealing two figures: a prison guard in gray and the Sky Warrior who held me back in Raj Mahal as my father died. I recognize him by his silver hair and soldierly features, by the single red atashban on his uniform that marks him as a captain.
“Xerxes-putra Cavas,” he says. “The rani has sent for you. Get up. Hurry, now.”
I get up as quickly as I possibly can without triggering the shackles. To my surprise and relief, the captain points his atashban at my ankles, removing the shackles there in a warm spiral of golden light. He also waits for me to move forward, not shocking me the way the prison guards or General Alizeh would have to make me go faster.
“The shadowlynx needs feeding,” the captain tells the guard. “Make sure that’s taken care of.”
“Y-yes, Captain Emil.” The guard’s leering face loses color. He’s probably remembering how the shadowlynx took a piece out of another guard’s leg three days ago.
“What are you looking at, dirt licker?” the guard snarls suddenly.
A glob of spit lands on my cheek, dribbling down to my chin. Now that I’m getting out of prison, it barely registers.
“Stand back,” Captain Emil says before raising a hand to the bars, turning them blue. Cool air wafts into the cell, filling my lungs.
“Careful when you step out,” the captain says, his voice drawn tight with the caution of someone more worried for himself than those around him. “I’ve lifted the spell that triggers the agnijal, but don’t touch it in any case.”
I lower my gaze, noticing the thin channel of liquid at the threshold of my cell—agnijal, gleaming like oil under the lightorb. Ten times more flammable than grass-oil, agnijal is a substance that is said to light up at the slightest touch. I notice it flanking the sides of the hallway, a design that effectively blocks in—and kills—the prisoners if someone tries to escape, while still allowing the guards to leave unscathed.
A few feet from the staircase leading out of the kalkothri, I’m struck with a sudden bout of dizziness, one that would have made me collapse if not for Captain Emil’s tight grip on my arm.
“Easy, boy,” he mutters. “We’re passing through a patch of Prithvi Stone. Slowly, slowly—that’s it.”
I force myself forward, one step at a time, my vision refusing to clear until I reach the very top of the staircase, daylight flooding the corridor, pinching my eyes into a squint. I raise my shackled hands without thinking and nearly tumble back down from the shock on my wrists. A lathi pokes me between the shoulder blades—the guard has followed us out.
“That will be all,” Captain Emil tells him. Two burly Sky Warriors emerge from the shadows, their atashbans raised. “His guard is here. Keep walking, boy. The effects of the Prithvi Stone will wear off soon.”
They lead me to a small room at the side, to a bucket of water and soap, and a shaving blade small enough to be useless as a weapon. A folded pile of clothes has been placed nearby: a clean, navy-blue angrakha and narrow white trousers. My convoy does not leave the room even when I pause.
“Hurry up.” Captain Emil’s tone is brisk. “You can’t present yourself to the rani looking like that.”
That’s when I see the mirror and the creature reflected within. Emaciated, bearded, with hollows for cheeks and eyes. The only things that look familiar are the blue bands glowing at my wrists.
“My shackles,” I say. “I can’t…”
Annoyed, the captain presses a hand against my wrists. The shackles disappear.
There are no marks on my body thanks to Vaid Roshan’s handiwork. To my interrogators, the marks don’t matter, though. The healer doesn’t modify memory, and the brain remembers every scar.
The guards do not flinch or wrinkle their noses when I toss aside ragged clothes that smell of urine, feces, and blood, or when I wash my body, which smells much the same. My new clothes hang loose on my frame. I pull the trousers’ drawstrings tight and tuck my cracked soles into a pair of new leather jootis.
Captain Emil nods. “Shall we go, then?”
The shackles reappear on my wrists.
My security convoy leads me down a long stone corridor, then up a set of glass stairs. Strange marble palm trees form the pillars of another hallway, this one with glass on both sides, revealing the lawn and garden outside Raj Mahal. The floor sparkles in the sunlight, appearing to shift like sand when I move. The lobby with the sword chandelier has been restored, no evidence of the battle that took place there several months ago.
What date is it now? I wonder. I’ve lost count of the number of meals I received in prison—the only way I used to keep track of time. How long have I been locked up?
I get my answer upstairs, in an enormous room, its glass walls shimmering with rainbow hues, its marble floors furnished with plush, paisley-patterned rugs. The number twenty-three glows gold on a chart at the back, next to an illustration of a tree repeatedly growing and shedding its leaves. Day twenty-three, Sloughing. Which means I
was in prison for twelve days.
I pause a few feet from the Scorpion, who sits at a mahogany desk, writing with an ink-stained sangemarmar pen. Queen Amba stands beside her, almost sentinel-like in her posture.
“Ambar Sikandar,” the Sky Warriors chorus.
Shayla looks up, her cold eyes landing squarely on mine, and I suddenly remember why I feared her as a stable boy. Why the sour smell of sweat rises from my armpits now as she gestures us over and then asks me to sit in a chair.
“Xerxes-putra Cavas. Classified as a dirt licker in our official records, though you are really a half magus thanks to your rapist sire’s blood. Tell me now. Can you see living specters?”
I swallow. It would be foolish to lie about something so obvious. “Yes. I can.”
“Amba,” the Scorpion says.
Queen Amba’s anklets are the only indication of her movement. She places a hand on my arm.
“Are there any living specters around me now?” the Scorpion asks.
I turn around, looking, praying my mother hasn’t followed us here. “No, Rani Shayla.”
“Truth,” Amba says.
“Will you be loyal to me as you told General Alizeh?”
Until it no longer suits my purposes. “Yes.”
A pause. The barest score of nails against my flesh. “Truth,” Amba says.
The Scorpion smiles with one side of her mouth, a strange look in her eyes. “Yes, you will be loyal to me,” she murmurs before her voice shifts, turns to honey. “But are you mine, Xerxes-putra Cavas? Mine and mine alone?”
Bound to the palace. Shackled to her whims.
“Whom else can I belong to?” I ask quietly, before adding, “My queen.”
I don’t need to prick my ears to know that Amba will verify this truth in her bland voice.
I force myself into stillness as the Scorpion rises from her chair and walks around the table. She pauses right in front of me and then bends her head before tilting my face upward. Her fingers lightly brush my newly shaven cheek, gently tug on my lobe. The other side of her mouth lifts, gold dust gleaming on the apples of her cheeks.
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