Kesari had to do something, and fast.
“You’re the one in control,” Lucian said, his voice soothing amidst the tumult. “Not the fear.”
Kesari channeled her altma again. This time, she knelt and put both hands on the tiles beneath her. There was only a moment of hesitation, and then a rumbling echoed up from the floor. She directed all her altma down into her fingertips, through the tiles, across the foundation beneath it, and back up into the room.
Stone burst up through the tiles, scattering chunks of rock and ceramic everywhere. The very earth itself wrapped around the legs of both stone guards. With another twist of Kesari’s palms, they were dragged to the ground, where more stone morphed to lock their hands and weapons against the floor.
Saya, Amar, and Mitul all froze in place, but Kesari didn’t look at their faces. She couldn’t—not yet. Instead, she stood on trembling limbs and strode to where the two guards were already attempting to pull free. In a few more seconds, they’d succeed, but she wasn’t going to give them the chance.
She took another deep breath, closed her eyes, and thought of destruction—fire burning, wood crackling, an entire building collapsing in ash and smoke. She placed a hand against each of the guard’s helmeted heads and channeled her altma again. Cracks began to spread across the stone, emitting an orange glow that seemed to emanate from within. After a few seconds, the fissures split open wide, and the guards crumbled to the floor in pieces.
She let out a breath and slowly turned around to face her friends. They stared at her with wide eyes. Something squirmed in her gut, but then a wide grin broke across Saya’s face, and Kesari’s fears dissipated.
“That was incredible!” Mitul said, stepping closer to examine the pile of rubble at her feet. “You were amazing. How did you do that?”
She blushed. “Magic?”
Lucian laughed. “That it was. You were exceptional.”
“I’m glad you stepped in,” Saya said. “We couldn’t have won that fight without your help.”
She started to smile, but it turned into a frown when she saw the blood running down Saya’s leg. A long gash cut across her thigh under the torn fabric of her pants.
“You’re hurt!” she said, rushing to her friend’s side. She knelt to examine the jagged wound. A dizzying cold washed over her as she remembered the tiles and rock that had shot through the air when she used her magic. “Was that me?”
“You didn’t mean to.”
Her heart caved in on itself. “You all could have been hurt because of me. You could have died.”
Saya put a hand against Kesari’s jaw. “No. We all lived because of you. You saved us, Kes. And now you’re going to use your magic to fix my leg. Right?”
Kesari squared her shoulders and nodded. “Yes, of course.” She looked around and spotted a set of stairs down the hall. “Come on. Let’s go sit down.”
The way Saya limped suggested the injury was worse than she had let on, and when Amar and Mitul placed themselves on either side of her for support, she didn’t protest. They made it to the stairs, and she gingerly lowered herself onto them with Kesari sitting beside her and Lucian hovering above to illuminate the injury.
Kesari poured water over the wound to wash away some of the blood, but more kept pouring from it in a steady flow. She tried to offer reassurance in what she hoped was a steady tone. “You’re going to be all right.”
“I know,” Saya replied calmly.
She sounded so sure, like there was no doubt in her mind that Kesari was capable of healing her. Somehow, that gave her all the confidence she needed. She gently placed her fingers beside the jagged edges of the wound and channeled her altma with careful, determined focus. Little by little, she sent the energy to all the places where there was damage, repairing it from the inside out, just as she’d done with the injured sailors on the Vindicator. When she was finished, there was only a thin red line of raised red scar tissue that would hopefully fade with time.
“How does that feel?” she asked.
“Much better.” Saya pushed herself up and tested her weight on the injured leg.
“Shall we keep going?” Mitul asked. He glanced at Amar, who was already pacing the hall anxiously, looking at each tapestry with a concentrated frown before moving onto the next.
Saya eyed the remaining stone chunks that had once been their attackers. “Yes, but let’s try to avoid running into any more of those things.”
“I can fly around first,” Lucian suggested. “Take a look and make sure there aren’t any more surprises lurking in the corners.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mitul replied. “Amar, what do you think?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to have heard them. He’d stopped pacing now and was staring up at a painting on the opposite wall, which depicted an armored man sitting on a horse. He had a regal look about him, sharp features composed in a proud and dignified expression. Red banners bearing the white lotus symbol streamed behind him.
From where Kesari and the others sat, they couldn’t see Amar’s face, but his entire body had gone rigid. His hands were clasped tight behind his back.
Mitul took a few steps toward him. “Amar?”
He turned around, but his eyes slid past them, up the stairs that led to the next level of the palace. Without saying anything, he made his way to them and began to ascend.
“Amar, wait!” Mitul called out, already following him. “You don’t know what’s up there.”
If Amar heard him at all, he gave no indication. Instead, he broke into a sprint, taking the steps two and three at a time while the others scrambled to catch up.
42
Amar
Amar ran.
He ran even as his friends continued to call his name, pleading with him to stop. He ran up the steps so fast his foot missed one, and he slipped and cracked his elbow against a sharp edge. He picked himself up and kept running, around the balustrade and down the hall. He ran past five more pairs of stone guards identical to the ones below and didn’t stop to see if these came to life as well. He ran past familiar doors and the memories that flitted across his mind with each one, until at last he came to the most familiar door of all—the one his feet had known their way to even as his consciousness was still trying to puzzle out new pieces of information.
The tapestries, the sound of his feet against the tiled floor, the painting of the man on the horse, the texture of the worn handle against his palm—it was all starting to fit together. So many of the answers he’d been seeking lay behind this door.
He turned the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped into his old bedroom.
It looked the same as when Jameson had gone through his memories—a wide bed covered in luxurious pillows and blankets, crimson curtains hung over a window that would offer a perfect view of the sunset, an ornately carved chest beside a painted armoire.
He approached the chest. The tumultuous sounds of a new skirmish breaking out echoed from the hall behind him. He should go back to help his friends, but he didn’t. They had Kes, and he couldn’t bring himself to turn around now. His feet carried him closer and closer to the chest until he was kneeling beside it. He opened the clasp and reached inside.
His fingers closed around something thick and rectangular. He pulled the object out—a book—and began to flip through its pages.
The memory he’d been grasping for came back to him in a rush.
Darshak stood atop the tallest tower of the palace and watched his father’s silhouette disappear into the trees. An army of three thousand men trailed behind him in an impressively disciplined block. The red banners streaming above them seemed to glow in the fiery light of sunset. They looked glorious and noble and already victorious, and there was no doubt in Darshak’s mind that they would return triumphant.
An ache filled his heart as he watched them, and he couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped with his next breath. His mother reached out and ruffled his shaggy black hair, like he
was still a little boy and not a nearly grown man. It was embarrassing, but since there was no one else around to see, he resisted the urge to pull away from her.
“You’ll be riding off in your own battles soon enough,” she said. “For now, I’m happy to keep you here where I can look after you.”
Rather than pointing out that he was far past needing to be looked after, he forced a smile. She worried too much, but it would have been useless to tell her she shouldn’t. She’d already lost one son in her husband’s wars, leaving Darshak the sole remaining heir to the Shavhallan throne. At seventeen, he was old enough to ride into battle at King Kairav’s side, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it.
He watched the soldiers until the last one had disappeared from view, then turned and put a hand on his mother’s arm. “I’m going to bed.”
“Goodnight, little tiger,” she said, patting his hand before he went inside.
He headed down two flights of stairs to the second floor of the palace. A guard opened the door to his bedchamber, and a servant came in a few minutes later with a basin of hot water and a clean towel for washing. Darshak shed his heavy royal robes and the tunic underneath, washed his face and hands, and lit a few of the lamps and candles around the room. He selected a book from one of his shelves and climbed into bed.
It was a dull read containing a history of some of Shavhalla’s greatest battles and conquests over the last two centuries. His father had given it to him months ago and expected him to be finished with it by the time he returned from battle. He wanted a report on what he’d learned—some kind of test, no doubt, and one Darshak was already failing. The book was thick, and he wasn’t even halfway through it yet. He was going to have to read much faster if he wanted to finish by the time the king returned.
He started to skim through a chapter about one of his great-grandfather’s conquests, in which he’d raided a wealthy city in the mountains. According to the record, he’d fought valiantly against the defending army, laying waste to their entire city and defeating even their most powerful warriors. Those who surrendered were sold to northern slavers, as was Shavhalla’s customary practice. Those who refused were simply cut down.
From there the text went on to dissect in detail the various tactics which had led to such a victory, and Darshak’s eyes started to glaze over. This was probably one of the more important parts of the book and something his father would ask him about later, but he couldn’t seem to focus. The words all started to blend and jumble together in his head, and after a few minutes, he drifted off to sleep with the book still open in his lap.
He woke with a start some time later and looked around the room with bleary eyes. The candles had burned low, and there were heavy footsteps outside his door. “She went this way,” said a muffled voice. The footsteps quickened their pace.
Whoever had spoken seemed troubled, almost frantic, and only the palace guards had any reason to be up at this hour. Darshak started to get up to see what was going on, but there was thump on the other side of his door, and he froze.
He glanced at the opposite corner, where his sword leaned against the armoire. It was too far away to reach, but if he needed to, he could make a run for it.
His door opened, and a shadow cloaked in black glided inside. The figure shut the door quickly and whirled to face him. A pair of striking brown eyes under thick lashes met his gaze. The rest of the girl’s face was gaunt and dirty, but her eyes were so captivating that it took Darshak a moment to notice the tension in the rest of her body.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She only glowered back at him, hatred exuding from her entire being. Though she stood between him and his sword, she didn’t look dangerous. She was much smaller than him and at least a couple of years younger. He kept a close eye on her, but if she meant him any harm, he’d have no trouble taking her down.
He tried a different question. “What are you doing here?”
She raised her hands and pulled back the hood of her cloak. Her hair was cropped short, all jagged edges, as if it had recently been hacked away with a knife. A heavy metal collar encircled her neck—a slave’s collar.
What was a slave doing in the palace? What was a slave doing in Shavhalla at all? Shavhallans didn’t keep slaves themselves, and it was only north of the mountains that the practice was common. Had this girl come all the way here on her own?
“My name is Mahati,” she said. Her voice was strong in a way Darshak hadn’t expected and carried an accent he didn’t recognize. “You don’t know me, and I didn’t come here looking for you, but since King Kairav isn’t here, you’ll have to do.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” She stretched out her hands, and her palms began to glow with crimson light.
Magic. Darshak’s heartbeat quickened, and he made a dash for his sword. Mahati shot a hand toward him, and he flew back, knocked down by an invisible force. The light in the girl’s hands grew, and the very air around her seemed alive. It swirled through her hair and tugged at the fabric of her cloak. Beneath it, her thin frame was clad in clothing even the poorest of peasants would have considered rags.
Voices came from the hall—the guards, looking for this girl, no doubt. Darshak called to them. “Here! She’s in here!”
Bodies pounded against the other side of the door, but no one came in, and Mahati made no move to escape. She’d likely sealed it shut with magic, and the guards would need a few minutes to break through.
The girl’s lips twitched as she drew a knife from the makeshift belt around her waist. Darshak scrambled backward on the floor, but she didn’t turn the blade on him. Instead, she sliced into one of her own palms. Her blood spilled out, dark against the bright red glow still emanating from her hands.
She took a few steps closer to him. Darshak tried to go for his sword again, but he couldn’t make his body obey him. He sat there on the floor, frozen, staring up in horror at this waif of a girl and the ferocious hatred burning in her eyes.
“Your father took everything from me,” she said in a low growl. “I wanted him to suffer like I have, to live in endless loneliness after everything he cares about is gone. I wanted him to experience my pain, not just for one lifetime, but for eternity. That is what I would have cursed your father with, but since he’s not here…”
She raised her hands. The red glow grew tendrils that wrapped around Darshak until it engulfed him. Warmth seeped into his skin, intensifying to a searing heat. He held back a cry as Mahati began to speak.
“Prince Darshak Kaur, son of King Kairav Kaur, with the blood of my own body and the life within me, I curse you with immortality. You will watch all you hold dear wither and die while you linger on, unbroken by time, illness, or death itself. Your soul shall be bound to the physical world for as many lifetimes as it takes you to atone for the atrocities of war. Only then will you find peace.”
Everything inside Darshak burned. His body was nothing but fire and pain. A scream burst from his lips, but the sensation ceased abruptly, and the red glow of Mahati’s magic disappeared.
She fell onto her hands and knees, shoulders trembling as she pulled in weak, rasping breaths. There was more blood under her palm than there should have been from the small cut she’d made there.
Before Darshak could say anything, seven guards burst into the room, and together they pinned the girl’s bedraggled form to the floor with a violence that was undeniably excessive. Through the mass of armored bodies, he caught a glimpse of her face. She looked pale and drawn, but her eyes were wild, and she gave him a smirk as the guards hauled her to her feet and dragged her away.
“Amar? Where are you?”
He shut the book, blinking back the moisture that had sprung to his eyes with the sudden rush of understanding. Outside the door, his friends called him again.
Amar. That was his name now. The boy Darshak had been erased by centuries of lost time, and the name no longer fit. He was Amar to his friends now, an
d that was the name he would keep.
“Amar!”
“I’m in here,” he responded, and a few seconds later, they entered the room, breathless and disheveled. They must have had to fight their way through several guards. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have run off like that. Is everyone all right?”
“We’re fine,” Mitul said. “What about you?”
He nodded and stood up, still clutching the book in his hand—the same one he’d been reading the night he’d been cursed.
“This is the room we saw in your memories,” Kesari said. “You were cursed right here.”
He nodded. “I remember now. Not everything, but I remember the curse.” He told them about his father, a king of conquests and brutality, and about Mahati and the night she’d made her way to his room. He could see her so clearly in his mind now that he wasn’t sure how he’d ever managed to forget the proud defiance in her stance, the hatred in her eyes, or the sheer force of her power as she’d spoken the curse.
“It wasn’t even about you, then,” Mitul said when he had finished. “Your father should have been the one cursed, not you. That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It's not," Amar said. "But what happened to her wasn’t fair, either.” He surprised even himself with the defensiveness in his voice. A part of him was angry at the girl for condemning him to this fate, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. He’d seen enough wars in his many lifetimes to know the pain and suffering they brought. “She wanted revenge, and if she couldn’t inflict it on my father directly, I was the next best option.”
“But the curse is still about your father, right?” Mitul said. “Atoning for whatever atrocities his wars caused. How?”
How indeed? The misery wrought by King Kairav’s wars was surely endless. Did atonement include every act of violence that had caused suffering, or was it limited to the specific acts that had impacted Mahati? How was Amar supposed to know? How was he supposed to atone for any of it when so much time had passed and when he wasn’t even the person directly responsible for those atrocities?
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