Rising Like a Storm

by Tanaz Bhathena

  The deeper we go in, the denser the crowd seems to grow. Outside the sky goddess’s temple, the main square is packed with bodies, their disjointed voices pouring in through a crack in the carriage window:

  “… not the rani, no. Only more Sky Warriors.”

  “Are they planning to shoot someone here, too?”

  “Hold on! There’s someone else in the carriage!”

  “Is it him? The half magus?”

  Before I realize what’s happening, a number of people begin calling my name. There are several instances, however, where I see people, mostly older men and women, snapping their fingers twice in the air over their heads as the carriage passes by—an act meant to ward off any living specters that I may attract.

  “Look at them, dirt licker,” Captain Shekhar sneers. “Look how scared they are of you and your half magus blood.”

  Captain Emil raises a hand, and the carriage’s windows snap shut, turning their shouts into a faint buzz.

  “Not every Ambari is as superstitious, Xerxes-putra Cavas,” he counters. “In fact, you have grown quite popular recently. You and the so-called Star Warrior.”

  I say nothing, avoiding his shrewd gaze. I’ve heard about this, of course. Sarayu’s birds brought us information in Tavan about shrines popping up across Ambar for Gul and me. But back then, cut off as we were from the rest of the kingdom, it was hard to believe any of those stories. It’s a shock to see how much things have changed. How—despite the finger-snappers—people who would have once spit on my face for crossing their path are now chanting my name like a prayer.

  A moment later, the faint sound of Ambari bugles penetrates the carriage. The crowd gasps, its many heads bobbing like fish, struggling to see over one another and catch a glimpse of the Scorpion making a public appearance.

  And what an appearance.

  Seated on a howdah, atop an enormous Ambari elephant, the Scorpion wears her crown and black armor, her black atashban strapped to her back. There is no mahout guiding her steed. The Scorpion guides the elephant herself with a whip and goad, once making it trumpet loudly from behind a cavalry of armed Sky Warriors. The closer she gets, the more imposing she looks, and groups of people begin calling for her:

  “Rani Shayla! Rani Shayla!”

  “Ambar Sikandar, grace us with a look!”

  She turns to face her supporters, the sun hitting her angular, gold-tinted cheeks, her full red lips curling into a wide smile. As the procession moves farther, passing us, Emil opens a small window in the roof.

  “Follow them,” he tells our driver.

  Our carriage falls behind the trumpeting elephant, the driver slow, carefully keeping his distance. Guards flank us from every side, keeping the crowd from jostling the vehicle as we make our way to the main square, where a small stage has been set up in front of a sea of buzzing spectators.

  “It’s like attending a spectacle at Raj Mahal,” Captain Shekhar mutters.

  As Shayla descends from the elephant, the crowd strains at the rope cordoning them into a rectangle, forcing the armed guards stationed every few yards to push them back. An onyx throne emerges from the center of the stage. Next to it stands Acharya Damak. Even in this heat, the high priest of Ambar Fort looks cool, his skin and white robes unmarked by sweat.

  “Rise as one for Megha-putri Shayla, rani and sikandar of Ambar,” the acharya says, his voice magnified by magic. “Rise as one, for Ambar. For the true queen.”

  “For Ambar!” the crowd chants. “For the true queen!”

  Not everyone speaks up, though. In pockets here and there, many remain stubbornly silent. The Scorpion notices, her smile growing more fixed, her eyes dangerously narrow. She raises a hand to silence the crowd.

  “Ambaris,” she says, her magnified voice gentle, almost motherly. “I thank you for your love. Yet I can also see the distrust on some of your faces, which is understandable. You do not know me well, thanks to the usurper who killed my mother, Rani Megha, and later imprisoned thousands of women—magi and non-magi—simply for the birthmarks on their bodies.”

  Applause rings from a few sections within the crowd.

  “The time has come now to take back what was stolen from us,” Shayla continues. “To restore Ambar to its former glory. The time has come to weed out dissent and rebellion, to uproot everything that would lead to bloodshed and war. Restraint will be required on your part. Moderation, where none was before. There will be those who call me harsh for my measures—evil, even. However, there are those who have come to their senses. Who now understand what is true and what isn’t. Let me introduce you to the throne’s newest friend, Xerxes-putra Cavas.”

  The crowd’s many heads turn as I get out of the carriage and walk up the stage, Captain Emil a few steps behind me. Acharya Damak gestures me forward and then, with a neutral expression, lightly taps my throat with a finger. The magic tingles, coats the inside of my mouth like mint. When I speak, my voice emerges ten times louder than normal.

  “I begin by thanking Rani Shayla,” I recite. “If not for her kindness and magnanimity, I would not be standing here today. I would still be supporting the alleged Star Warrior, a witch who first drew me in with jantar-mantar and evil magic and then bent me to her will.”

  I hear several emotions in the whispers that break out among the audience: shock, disbelief, triumph, anger. Swallowing the hot bile rising to my throat, I plow forward:

  “She claims to be the prophesied savior of magi and non-magi, and of women falsely persecuted for accidents of birth. It took me a long time to understand that her end goal wasn’t to free Ambar of tyranny but to simply fill the shoes of a tyrant herself. For this, she committed regicide and murder. And I let her, bewitched fool that I was.”

  Silence fills the air, a single moment of hushed anticipation.

  “It’s Rani Shayla who freed me,” I say, turning to the Scorpion seated on her throne. “Rani Shayla, to whom I now pledge my allegiance and loyalty forevermore.”

  An invisible hand pushes me forward, the magic forcing me to bow first and then prostrate at the Scorpion’s feet.

  “Rise, Xerxes-putra Cavas.” The Scorpion’s voice sounds like a caress. She reaches for me as the magic forces me to stand. A hand curls around my cheek, tilts my chin up ever so slightly. “I will always reward loyalty.”

  I try to brace myself, but I’m still unprepared for the kiss, the hard mash of her teeth and mouth against mine. Shouts emerge from the crowd, swarming my ears in a low buzz. Two weeks ago, before I got captured, I might have considered how I could use this moment to my advantage. Like the Jwaliyan seer, I, too, might have imagined pulling out the pin decorating my turban and sinking it into a vein climbing the Scorpion’s neck. Right now, though, with the Scorpion’s hand cupping my cheek and the other curling my throat in a near choke hold, I’m struggling to breathe.

  Stay alive, Cavas.

  Something clatters over the platform, finally breaking the kiss and forcing us apart. As air fills my lungs again, the hand at the back of my neck tightens, holding me in place. The tingling in my throat subsides.

  “Don’t move, dirt licker,” the Scorpion says under her breath.

  And that’s when I notice the shoe—a dusty, old jooti lying upside down, barely a foot away from where we stand. I watch as the guards drag forward someone—a man with graying hair and a mustache, his mouth open in a snarl.

  “Traitor!” he shouts at me. “You’ve betrayed Ambar and non-magi! You’ve—”

  Red light flashes past me, silencing him. A Sky Warrior next to the Scorpion’s throne lowers his atashban, watches expressionlessly as blood gurgles from the man’s mouth, pours dark and red from the hole in his chest. Seconds later, the guards drop his body to the ground.

  “Any other comments from the audience?” the Scorpion asks.

  There are none. No chants, no murmurs, not a sound except for the gentle tapping of the high priest’s sandals on the wooden platform.

  “Let it be written
that on this twenty-fourth day of the Month of Sloughing, Xerxes-putra Cavas pledged his unflinching loyalty to Rani Shayla,” Acharya Damak says, his voice holding the barest trace of a quiver. “Let it also be known herewith that anyone showing allegiance to the so-called Star Warrior and her supporters will be condemned for treason against the crown.”

  As he speaks, a pair of Sky Warriors raise the dead man in the air with magic and impale his body through a spike emerging from the ground near the sky goddess’s temple.

  “This man’s body will remain here as an example of what happens in the event of treason,” the acharya continues, his face as expressionless as always. “Long live Rani Shayla!”

  “Long live Rani Shayla!” the crowd chants, though their faces tell a different story. Many turn away when their gazes meet mine, and many others stare back, defiant and angry. But no one makes further attempts at challenging the usurper queen in this moment, and I know that no one will.

  In the distance, I catch General Alizeh staring at both me and the Scorpion, her mouth curled with disgust. Is her contempt for the Scorpion, now reduced to keeping me—the Star Warrior’s half magus lover—at her side? Or was it our kiss that repulsed the general? I think back to all the times I’d seen Alizeh watching the Scorpion. The expression on her face I’d always chalked up to frenzied devotion. But it wasn’t just that, I realize now. General Alizeh was in love with the queen. And the Scorpion did not love her back.

  Revenge has many forms, child, and not all of them involve killing people.

  Triumph flares in my belly, followed by a dizzying bout of nausea, the horrible urge to throw up right on the stage.

  Who am I? I wonder. What am I turning into?

  “Looks like you’ve done a good job, dirt licker,” the Scorpion tells me softly. Her hand is still warm on my neck. “They believe you completely.”

  Of course they do.

  They don’t see the atashban Captain Shekhar points between my shoulder blades as we march to the carriage, or the shackles Captain Emil places me in once I sit down. They don’t, for one moment, realize that behind my closed mouth, a bit of skin has come loose from biting the inside of my cheek. A carved silver cup appears in my hands, the madira within it a deep, bloody garnet.

  “Long live the queen!” Captain Shekhar empties his cup in his mouth, alcohol dribbling down his chin.

  Distaste flickers across Captain Emil’s face—though I’m not sure if it’s directed at Captain Shekhar or his words. I turn away before his gaze meets mine and raise my own cup to wash away the taste of the Scorpion’s kiss.

  * * *

  I doze intermittently on the way back to Ambar Fort. When we get to my room, Captain Shekhar barely settles in his chair before sleep hits him like a pile of rocks. I would have fallen asleep as well if not for Ma, who floats in through the door seconds later, making me glance up, surprised.

  Ma? I mouth. What in Svapnalok—

  “Don’t worry,” she says in a soft voice. “I mixed a bit of sleeping draft into his cup of madira on the way here. He’ll be out for now.”

  I wait for a long time, watching the captain. But when he shows no signs of moving, I allow myself to relax.

  “What is it?” I whisper. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at the moment, no,” Ma floats over to my bed, settling down next to me. “But I came to warn you—you need to stop communicating with Gul.”

  “Wha—” I begin, but Ma presses a cold hand over my lips, encasing my shout within.

  “Hush, child. It’s only temporary. Right now, Pashuraj Subodh believes it’s the most prudent thing to do. I agree with him. Now, do you promise you won’t yell?”

  I nod. Warmth pricks over my mouth and jaw again, and I release a ragged breath. I want to scream at my mother. To slam my head against the wall.

  “I don’t understand,” I say instead, through gritted teeth. “Why stop? It’s our bond that got me out of prison in the first place.”

  “It’s also your bond that puts you both in danger. When you meditate, you emit a glow, son. If someone catches you, it would be disastrous—not only for you, but also for Gul.”

  Pain pricks the center of my palm. For a second, I feel exactly the way I did when General Alizeh impaled my hands with her daggers. I unclench my fingers, observe the crescents imprinted into my newly healed skin.

  “What do I do?” I ask tonelessly.

  “If you have messages, send them through me or one of the other specters. It’s for your own safety, Cavas. Cavas? Are you listening to me?”

  I don’t push off the hand she uses to shake my shoulder, don’t wrench my forehead away from the brush of her cold kiss. I remain silent, as still as a temple god, unresponsive to her questions and her sad “Shubhraat.”

  It’s how she finally leaves me: cold, brittle, and alone, anger spooled tight around my heart.

  29

  GUL

  When morning arrives, Kali and I head out for a quick wash and breakfast by the reservoir.

  “I can’t believe Subodh told you to stop communicating with Cavas!” she exclaims, nearly spitting out the date she was chewing. “Isn’t it dangerous for complements to be kept away from each other like that? What is he thinking?”

  “Because it’s more dangerous for Cavas right now to enter a meditative state than to talk to a living specter,” I say, unable to curb my bitterness.

  Kali sighs. “I don’t know what to say, my girl. I’m so sorry.”

  “It can’t be helped.” I force myself to change the subject. “Tell me about you. How are things with Sami?”

  She shrugs, raising a cup of tea to her lips. “Good.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  But Kali merely smiles in response, and I decide to leave her alone for now. I much prefer this Kali to the sulking figure I’d seen over the past month. As if sensing the topic of our conversation, Sami looks over in our direction and gives Kali a dazzling grin. I turn away, envy spiking my heart. A moment later, Kali’s pale hand covers mine.

  “Cavas is smart,” she says gently. “He knows how to cover his tracks.”

  “I guess. I feel so helpless right now.”

  “Don’t be negative,” Kali chides. “Let’s see how today’s meeting goes before we lose hope.”

  Mention of the meeting reminds me of someone else, and I finally do what I’ve been avoiding for the past three days.

  “Raja Amar,” I begin, waiting until he looks up from his tea. “I want to apologize for my behavior three days ago. I behaved like an a—atrocious donkey,” I amend quickly. “I’m willing to accept any punishment you give me.”

  Amar raises his brows. “Any punishment?”

  “Uh…” Queen’s curses. What have I gotten myself into?

  Then Amar’s mouth twitches, and he bursts out laughing.

  “Atrocious donkey—Gods!” he exclaims. “What happened to plain old ass?”

  I can’t help it. I laugh as well, the knot in my chest unraveling.

  “You’re forgiven,” Amar says. “Provided you attend our meetings and train with the Legion.”

  “Thank you, Raja Amar. You won’t have to force me to do either of those things,” I tell him sincerely.

  “Call me Amar. I know I’m supposed to be king of Ambar and many terrible things in the future, but I, too, would like a friend.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” I smile. “Amar.”

  The meeting takes place after breakfast in a small temple at the heart of the southern tenements, squeezed between a ramshackle building teeming with people and the ruins of an old haveli. Sunlight pours in from a hole in the roof, but apart from that, the temple is well-maintained, its bells hung with new ropes and oil lamps surrounding the statues of the sky goddess and Sant Javer in the temple’s inner chamber.

  Before the inner chamber sit the tenements’ five councilors, Sarpanch Parvez at their center. He presses his hands together in greeti
ng. “Anandpranam.”

  “Anandpranam,” we chorus.

  “Please have a seat.”

  I settle gingerly on the hard floor, expecting the sun’s heat to have penetrated the stone, but it’s surprisingly cool to the touch.

  “You wanted to speak to us, Raja Amar,” Sarpanch Parvez says. “You said you have a plan.”

  “Yes,” Amar says. “The plan, as you may have guessed, is to launch an attack on Ambarvadi. The Pashu queen has been kind enough to offer her birds as messengers and food and water to our armies—once we have them.”

  “You have no plan, then,” a female councilor—the one named Maya—says bluntly. “Unless you intend to conjure an army out of thin air.”

  “I could do that, but it would only be a temporary solution,” Amar says calmly. “We would still need human forces. Over the past few months, I have been writing letters and sending my mother’s shvetpanchhi to various places in the hopes of gathering some aid.” He holds up a scroll. “My negotiations with the queen of Jwala have gone well so far. She has offered to support us in any way she can.”

  “And you believe her?” Councilor Maya’s skeptical tone makes me bristle. “How do you know she isn’t already allied with Rani Shayla?”

  “The Jwaliyan queen has known me since I was a boy,” Amar replies. “She allied with my father, yes, but she never really liked him. My mother, however, made sure that she liked me and my two brothers during her earlier visits to Ambar. I wrote to her on a hunch. She says she was forced to send a messenger to Ambar at Rani Shayla’s request. He hasn’t returned yet, which makes her fear he has been killed.

  “Jwala’s relationship with Ambar is, naturally, complicated because of the many rigorous contracts that my father forced the queen to sign. Now, with my father no longer here, it’s possible she may be able to help more than she might have when he was still alive.”