“But, Ambar Sikandar!” The acharya’s sweat sours the study’s perfumed air. “The sky goddess—”
“Enough of your quibbling! Do you think me a fool? Your sky goddess and other gods are nothing except a clever construct by priests such as yourself to wield power—to hold the naive and gullible at bay. The gods never have existed and they never will.”
My words ring in the silence. There’s an ominous quality to them, much like my nightmare about the Tree of Sins. I shake off the feeling and focus once more on the scandalized high priest. “Don’t stand here gawking. Go prepare yourself for the ceremony.”
I ignore the acharya’s mutterings as he leaves the room; the old fool is likely worried about being reborn as a dung beetle in another life. Instead, I call for General Alizeh and Major Emil.
“Have you been readying for battle?” I ask them.
“Yes, Ambar Sikandar,” Alizeh says at once, the eagerness in her voice far too evident. “I’ve realigned our battle plans here.”
A scroll unfurls before me, revealing the order of battle, positioning me, Alizeh, and the Sky Warriors at the command center, and various troops ahead in columns: infantry from Dhanbad, Amirgarh, Havanpur, and Rajgarh.
I tap the marking for the Amirgarh infantry, watch it fade from black to gray. “Replace the advance troops here with Surya of the Brim and his soldiers. Emil, you have been in talks with the Butcher. You will now work in coordination with him to attack the first round of skirmishers.”
“Wait—are you talking about the Brimmish Butcher?” Alizeh asks sharply. “Since when did…?” Her voice trails off as realization sinks in. I tamp down the guilt I feel when she turns to face me. “You trust those tez-addled mercenaries over your own army? Shayla, have you truly lost it?”
“General Alizeh—” Major Emil begins, sending a nervous glance my way.
“What is she going to do? Kill me?” Alizeh snaps. “Shayla, I’m your general. I need to speak my mind here. The mercenaries fight for their own agenda. You are mad if you think you can control them!”
“I think I still have a better hope of controlling them than controlling possible mutineers from within my own army,” I say coldly. “Isn’t it so, Alizeh?”
Alizeh frowns. “Shayla, I have been loyal to you from the very beginning—”
“Then prove your loyalty, General. Fight alongside our mercenary allies.”
There’s a long silence. Alizeh says nothing, but I can feel her hostility from here.
“Rani Shayla,” Major Emil says finally, a worried look on his face. “Perhaps we should consider what General Alizeh said. Surya of the Brim and his mercenaries can be a little … unpredictable. Would it not be wise to use them later, when our options are exhausted? The new brigadier you appointed in Moolchand’s place says he has the army well under control by now.”
I can feel them watching me, hear the words they don’t speak out loud:
How close is she to shattering?
I release a breath. Perhaps Emil is right. Perhaps the mutineers are under control by now.
Yet when I speak again, my voice is brittle. “My order stands, Major Emil. There is no room for argument.”
I tap on the scroll, replacing the Amirgarh infantry with mercenaries under the title Advance Troops.
“Prepare the maha-atashbans.” More drawings appear as I speak—illustrations of two enormous atashbans next to the command center, under Elite Troops. Twenty feet long and nearly as wide, maha-atashbans were used by Lohar against the Pashu and Tavani rebels during the Battle of the Desert. Each maha-atashban needed an elephant to move it anywhere and at least ten Sky Warriors to power it. Though mobility is a pain as far as maha-atashbans are concerned, the weapons were the only reason Pashu forces—including peri—were nearly exterminated or captured. Tavan itself would have been wiped off the map if not for the Pashu king and those blasted living specters.
“Announce a curfew tomorrow, starting from dawn,” I continue. “Civilians must bar themselves indoors until the curfew ends. If they are caught outside, it will be at their own peril.”
“Yes, Ambar Sikandar,” Major Emil says.
“Did you hear me, Alizeh?” I ask, when my general continues to remain silent.
“Yes, Ambar Sikandar,” she says. “Is there anything else?”
I ignore the sly voice in my head that twists her words around—turning sikandar to sitamgar—a voice that has haunted me every night ever since I’ve taken over the throne.
“Yes,” I say, my mouth turning dry. “Prepare the forces to fight in the dark. There is going to be an eclipse.”
45
CAVAS
After weeks inside a torture cell, it’s strange getting accustomed to life in the safe house. Thirteen days have passed, but I’m still liable to startle awake, chest heaving, my fingers aching as if they’ve been broken and reset in quick succession.
They can’t get to you here, I tell myself each time. This house is shielded from external magical attacks. You are safe. For now.
Ramnik, the owner of the safe house and a high-ranking official at the Ministry of Truth, put up the house’s magical barrier himself. Not only does the barrier prevent magic from coming in, but it also stops magic going out. This, in effect, has reduced my meditation sessions to mere breathing exercises. The first time I found out that I couldn’t communicate with Gul, my anxiety spiked so high that they had to give me a calming draft. It smelled like lavender and honeyweed, its bitter aftertaste lingering long after I woke.
“Gul is fine,” my mother told me soothingly. “I saw her myself.”
Unlike the crowded center of the capital, Ramnik’s three-story haveli is on one of the quieter back roads, the trunk of a thick neem breaking ground in front of his doorway, shielding it from prying eyes.
Moments after we crossed the threshold, two sobbing women threw themselves at Juhi and Amira. Today I look down from the house’s open rooftop and spot them sitting in the courtyard—a younger woman from the Sisterhood named Prerna, and an older woman, whom everyone calls Cook, though she hasn’t entered the kitchen once in the time she has been here.
“None of the other Sisters survived the Javeribad attack,” Prerna told us—a fact that made me feel so guilty I could barely eat that day despite my hunger. Amira hasn’t spoken to or looked at me once since learning the news, though she has been quieter in general, plagued with more nightmares and panic attacks than the rest of us.
Now, as the women talk to Juhi, Amira stands off to the side, contemplating the sky goddess’s small shrine in the yard. The only people she talks to are Juhi and the brigadier, and their conversations seem to revolve only around Amar’s attack plans.
I take a deep breath. I hardly expected Amar to include me in those very plans, but for some reason he has. Last week, Ambar’s future king sent me a letter through my mother:
Dear Cavas,
As you are aware, the war has begun. It would be my honor if you would lead the living specters and non-magi from the northern tenements in any future battles. I do not wish to impose on you, of course. But you and Gul are the two pillars on whom Ambar’s hopes rest. Without you, I certainly cannot hope to become king. Please let me know your reply at the earliest.
Yours sincerely,
Amar
“You don’t need to answer right away. When you make a decision, call for me by speaking into your green swarna,” Ma told me after I sat stunned on my bed for several moments. “You can let Latif or any of the other specters know, too. That green swarna is so powerful that you can contact all the specters in Ambar at once, if you wished. Get into the practice of being commander,” she joked gently.
I smiled only weakly then. Now, on the roof of the safe house, my head still continues to spin. Me? A commander? I shudder. I still don’t know what to tell Amar. And time is running out.
“Are you all right over there?” a voice asks.
I turn to find Brigadier Moolchand watching me c
uriously. In new clothing, with food in his belly, and our daily meetings about the upcoming rebellion, the brigadier nearly glows with health. I barely notice his missing sword arm.
“I’m fine,” I say. A little cold, perhaps, but that’s only because of the pair of living specters that linger beside me, day and night, at my mother’s insistence.
“Shubhsaver,” the brigadier cheerfully addresses the empty air around me. He does this every morning, without fail, hoping to strike a conversation with the specters, though they have yet to take him up on his offer.
“They’re up there.” I point at the floating pair over my head—a man and his son, who barely speak, even when they are alone with me. The brigadier looks up, repeating himself. Surprisingly, I hear the specters echo the greeting back.
Moolchand gives me a crooked smile when he catches me staring. “My mother used to say that kind words opened more doors than swords ever could.”
“That’s odd, coming from a man in your profession.”
“Isn’t it? My mother wouldn’t have approved of my choices anyway. She died when I was a boy.” He pauses. “Now that I can’t wield a sword anymore, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Not to the soldiers from Amirgarh,” I tell him.
Over a week ago, someone showed up at Ramnik’s house from the Amirgarh cantonment—an army lieutenant, who, upon seeing Moolchand alive, sobbed nearly as much as the Sisters did for Juhi and Amira. The lieutenant went as far as to promise to serve Moolchand on behalf of the entire army when the time came for a war—a vow that Ramnik’s mate, a truth seeker, affirmed.
“Truths can change as human minds do,” Brigadier Moolchand tells me now with a shrug. “I cannot vouch for every soldier in the Amirgarh infantry, even if they did want to mutiny before I was imprisoned.”
“Well, you’re still better off than me. Those soldiers trust you,” I say, my stomach a pit of seething nerves. “I have no experience in leading an army. Juhi or Amira would have been better choices. I don’t know what Raja Amar is thinking.”
“Juhi and Amira can’t see living specters,” the brigadier reminds me. “Neither do they have any influence over non-magi.”
“And I do?”
Over the past two weeks, whenever I’ve attended meetings with the sarpanch and Councilor Cama, the latter still glares at me in a way that could eviscerate, though he says nothing about Bahar or my mother.
“They listen to you, Cavas,” Moolchand tells me. “Whenever magi leaders propose a plan, it’s you non-magi look toward. Don’t discount your heritage. People may call you a half magus, but that’s a misnomer, isn’t it? You are both magus and non-magus, and that gives you a unique advantage over everyone else.”
I say nothing, surprised for a moment. “Have you been talking to my mother?”
Moolchand smiles. “No, but she sounds like a smart woman. I knew a man once who was both magus and non-magus. He was my squire at Amirgarh’s fort. For the longest time, he hid his heritage from me, pretending to simply possess no magic. It’s only when we became friends that he told me his secret.”
There’s an expression on Moolchand’s face that piques my curiosity—a sense that I had when Subodh talked about Rani Amba. “What happened to him? Is he still…” My voice trails off as the brigadier turns away, showing me his back. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have … It was none of my business.”
The brigadier takes a deep breath, still not looking at me. “Things were different twenty years ago for magi and non-magi. Perhaps, with Raja Amar in power, things will be different again.”
King Amar, who has promised magi, non-magi, and in-betweeners like myself equal status after the war, signing a magical contract to effect the same.
“Do you really believe they will?” I ask Moolchand. “I mean … don’t you think it’s a bit idealistic to believe everyone will simply change under Raja Amar’s rule?”
I see hints of dissent even now. While Ramnik is cordial with me, I don’t miss the way his mate quietly snaps her fingers in my presence, or how she ushers her four-year-old son out whenever I enter a room. It will take a lot more than new leadership to change magi prejudice or for non-magi to forget the wounds inflicted by magi in recent history.
“By believing in the impossible, idealists can change their own fortunes. Sometimes they can also change the world,” Moolchand says, confidence reentering his voice. “But you are right, of course. Not every war is won in a short while.”
Beyond the high wall of the courtyard, my attention is drawn to a pair of thanedars hammering their lathis against doors. They pause before Ramnik’s house, staring at it in a way that makes me take a few steps back and disappear from view, though the enchantments are supposed to render anyone on the roof invisible to outsiders.
“Wonder what they’re up to,” Moolchand says, his voice low. “Perhaps Ramnik will know once he returns from work today.”
Later that evening, Ramnik escorts us and Juhi and Amira to an underground chamber in the haveli. There, seated cross-legged on cushions across the floor, are a group of magi wearing colorful turbans. Merchants, I guess, by the elaborate style of the wraps, the turbans’ pleated edges fanning out from the top left. Sarpanch Alok and Councilor Cama are there as well, the latter studiously ignoring my presence. As Juhi and Amira settle down, I note that the only empty seat is next to Bahar’s father.
I force myself to take it, aware of everyone’s curious gazes. The merchants must have been there for some time already. The small table in front of me is clustered with a fruit bowl piled with mango skins, and a paring knife, its blade still sticky with juices. Copper dishes lie heaped in one corner, dangerously close to tipping over. From another corner, a polished silver kettle rises into the air, filling four small, steaming cups of chai, a blade of green lemongrass jutting from its spout. Ramnik snaps a finger, and, to my surprise, one of the cups floats quietly toward me, hovering in the air until I take it. I’ve never seen anyone perform levitation magic before, and I’m tempted to ask Ramnik to repeat the performance.
Conversation starts the moment Ramnik closes the door.
“I’ve been hearing things at the Ministry of Trade,” says a merchant wearing a red turban. “Rumors that Raja Amar and his armies are close. Might reach here as early as tomorrow. Thanedars have been marching through the streets, announcing that a curfew will begin at dawn.”
“What about weapons?” the sarpanch asks. “Are there enough to equip everyone?”
“Not everyone, but enough to equip many,” another merchant says. “My contact at the armory diverted a couple of cartloads off their regular track. They should reach the northern tenements by midnight.”
My spine tingles. I am not sure if the chill comes from the continued presence of the specters or the plans that have been laid in place, plans that have been burgeoning for who knows how long.
“We will need weapons, as well,” Juhi adds. “Spears, lathis, an atashban would be useful, too.”
“Is there anyone among you capable of firing an atashban?” asks one of the merchants, his eyebrows raised.
“I am,” Amira says.
The men stare at her and laugh. “An atashban isn’t a toy, young lady,” the merchant in the red turban says. “It requires power. More than any of us in this room possess.”
“Like this, you mean?”
Amira retrieves the sticky paring knife off the table. Shouts rise from the merchants as red fire spreads over the wood. Red Turban spills his tea over his clothes, while the others press against the wall, terror blanching their faces. Amira flips the paring knife. Sand pours from the knife in a jet of white light, diffusing the flames, leaving behind a heap of smoking ashes and molten silver.
“An atashban, then?” Juhi asks Red Turban, her voice bland.
“Gods, woman!” he sputters at Amira. “You could have killed us!”
“Oho. So now I’m ‘woman’ instead of ‘young lady’?” Amira mocks. “What did I do to
deserve such an honor?”
“Come now, friend,” Brigadier Moolchand interjects before the furious merchant can respond. “You challenged Amira Behen and she showed you what she could do with only a paring knife. My most seasoned soldiers are incapable of doing such magic—especially after being subjected to torture and imprisonment.”
“Also, if I did want to kill you, you wouldn’t be standing here before me,” Amira adds, her hard voice belying the visible tremors going through her limbs.
“We believe you!” Ramnik says, hastily raising his hands in supplication. “Please, Amira Behen. That was my grandfather’s antique tea table and our second-best tea set. My mate will not be pleased if we ruin any more items in this room.”
Amira lowers the knife, looking somewhat abashed. “My apologies, Ramnik ji.”
“Accepted.” Ramnik turns to frown at the merchant. “And, Faramroz Bhai. You should know better than to challenge the Sisters of the Golden Lotus. Surely you’ve heard the stories about them!”
“I’m sorry.” Red Turban certainly looks it—though I’m not sure if it’s because he doubted Amira or because of his ruined silk tunic. “We’ll make sure Amira Behen gets an atashban.”
“Sau aabhaar, Faramroz Bhai,” Juhi says. “We must remember that we are fighting for the same cause, which is to put Ambar in the hands of a good ruler. We cannot discount our warriors based on gender or age or magical capability. That’s what Lohar did with Shayla and what Shayla did with non-magi during the battle near the southern tenements.”
Heads nod around the room, along with exclamations of “Hear! Hear!” from the non-magi councilors.
“The enemy has its weaknesses, of course, as do we,” Juhi continues. “Our strength lies in unity. To fight as one against those who sow seeds of discord, who have done this in many ways since before the Great War. We fight for Ambar. For a monarch who will unite us—hopefully for good, this time.”
“For Ambar!” Ramnik cries out.
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