The Library of Fates

by Aditi Khorana

  I was still entranced by my surroundings when I answered her. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, but we’re in trouble, and I think you know my friend . . .”

  She glanced at me, confused. “And what friend would that be?” she said, putting on her glasses and looking me up and down.

  “Mala,” I said, tugging at the scarf that covered my face.

  She started. “How do you know Mala?”

  “She’s my lady-in-waiting . . . she was my lady-in-waiting.” I hesitated a minute, thinking about the last time I had seen Mala and trying not to cry. “She told us to come find you.”

  “This is Amrita, princess of Shalingar,” Thala interjected, “and my name is Thala. This is going to sound unusual, but the palace is under siege—”

  But the woman stood up. “I don’t know who you are or what kind of joke this is, but you must leave now.”

  “Please,” I said, glancing down at my filthy clothes, the half moons of my fingernails filled with dirt, my hair crusted with sand. No wonder she didn’t believe me. “I know what you must think. Two girls looking lost and disheveled arrive at your doorstep claiming to be royalty. But I really am Princess Amrita. I have no place to go, and the kingdom is in grave danger. Mala mentioned a cartographer, and—how many cartographers are there in the kingdom anyway?”

  “I’m the only cartographer in Shalingar,” she said.

  “What can I say to you that would make you believe me?”

  “I need proof.”

  I thought for a moment before I showed her the ring Arjun had given me. “My friend Arjun gave me this. He’s the son of Bandaka and Shree, my father’s advisors. He used to come into Shalingar quite a bit. You must have met him.”

  She looked at me with suspicion in her eyes, and I sensed that she knew Arjun, but she eventually shook her head. “You could have stolen that.”

  I took a deep breath. “What about this?” I pulled a diamond-studded shoe from my satchel, and even though her eyes widened, she shook her head again, this time vehemently.

  “I don’t even want to know where that came from, but I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

  I felt a wave of resignation and stood up, brushing myself off. “Come on,” I said to Thala.

  “You’re sure you want to leave?” she asked, her eyes downcast with worry.

  “We’ll figure it out.” I turned on my heel and walked to the door, pulling the golden dagger out of my satchel as I reached for the doorknob with my other hand.

  “Wait,” Meena said, her voice trembling.

  I turned around to look at her. She was eyeing the golden dagger in my hand. “Where did you get that from?” she asked, pointing at it.

  I stood up straight. “Mala gave it to me.”

  She hesitated for a moment before she quickly turned and cleared the maps from a chair. “Please,” she said, gesturing at me. “You must sit down. And you too.” She nodded at Thala before she removed an armload of maps from an old trunk. She walked gracefully toward the windows of the shop and pulled the drapes. She lifted a steel carafe and poured two tumblers of water before she placed them before us. “Your Majesty. Forgive me. I simply never believed this moment would come, but if you’re here, we must be in grave danger. I should introduce myself. I’m Meena Amba, the royal cartographer.” She reached out her hand to shake mine. It was an unusual greeting, one I wasn’t used to, but it put me at ease. “I’m acquainted with your father. May he live a long and healthy—” She stopped herself before she could finish the sentence, sensing that her words came too late.

  It was what people said, what they were supposed to say. I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t speak. Tears pierced my eyes. I forced myself to pull it together. “Meena, we need help. The palace is under siege. Arjun has been taken prisoner. Bandaka and Shree too. My father and Mala are . . . gone. And Emperor Sikander’s men are after us.”

  “They chased us into your shop, practically,” Thala said.

  “We don’t know where to go, but Mala mentioned that I should warn someone. Would you know what she was—”

  But before I could finish, Meena got up and went to a desk. She opened the top drawer and took out a small key. She then walked to the wall behind us and very carefully slid the key into a small keyhole in the tree.

  “We’ve been in the map business for generations. Everyone in my family learns the trade—how to draw maps, care for them, preserve them, how to read them, how to let them speak to us.” She turned to me. “I’ve worked with your father, Bandaka, and Shree, even Arjun. I know them all well. Many, many years ago, my family was approached by . . . an associate of the Sybillines.”

  Thala and I glanced at each other as Meena carefully turned the key.

  “He asked us to draw this map . . . based on his descriptions. And so we did. And then he asked us to keep it safely.”

  She tugged at the key, and the wall opened like a door. I gasped as Meena stepped aside to reveal an iron box—a safe.

  “He handed my ancestors a dagger. Not just any dagger—a golden dagger with three rubies on the handle. We were told to give the dagger to the royal family with careful instructions: If any member of the royals was ever in danger, they needed to find a way to come here with the dagger in hand. He told us to be on the lookout.” She bowed before me. “This part, I can’t do without you,” she said.

  I stared at the dagger and then back at her. Slowly, I stood up and walked toward the safe, inspecting it carefully. On the side of the box were three large rubies in a triangle, identical to the arrangement of rubies on the dagger.

  “Go ahead, Your Majesty,” Meena said.

  I noticed a small crevice on the side of the safe and slipped the blade of the dagger into it. It moved easily into the fold, then the rubies lit up and something clicked. I glanced at Meena, who simply nodded. Slowly, I turned the dagger to the right, and as I did, the safe opened.

  “It’s a key,” I said.

  Meena reached inside and pulled out a piece of parchment with her long fingers.

  “This map—it’s been kept here for you,” she said, unfolding it.

  “For me?”

  “We’ve safeguarded this map under lock and key for generations. It’ll take you to the Janaka Caves.”

  “Where the Sybillines are?” I was stunned. “I thought there was no way to access the Janaka Caves.”

  “There is one way. And this is the only map in the world that can get you there. You must warn them that Shalingar has been attacked. They’ll offer you protection.”

  I glanced at the complex ancient calligraphy before me.

  “It’s very old, but well-preserved. It’s been kept in this safe for hundreds of years. You have a small window of time to get to the Janaka Caves and warn the Sybillines that their way of life is in peril.”

  “But what about the Library?” Thala muttered under her breath as she nudged me.

  I shook my head. “This is my duty. And this is something we can actually do. Where’s your map to the Library of All Things?” It came out a taunt, and I regretted it the moment I saw a flash of hurt in Thala’s eyes. She recovered quickly, turning away from me.

  Meena traced her fingers along the map. “Can I offer you a piece of advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mount Moutza is on the way to the Janaka Caves. You’ll want to make a pilgrimage to the temple there.”

  “What for? There are men out there who want to capture us . . .”

  “It can never hurt to please the spirits.” She hesitated. “I think you’ll understand when you get there.”

  “A superstition, then?” I asked.

  She watched me for a moment before she turned her attention back to the map. “From there, you can buy yourselves horses and ride through the desert all the way to the cav
es. Three fortnights to the edge of the desert.”

  “That’s a long journey.”

  “It is. But all you have to do is follow the map,” she said. “I can give you some clean clothes, refill your skin . . . I only wish there were more I could do to help you. But the Sybillines will know what to do. There must be a reason they had an intermediary leave the map with instructions, and the dagger too—it’s a key to many things. Make sure you keep it safe.”

  She got up and opened a drawer in the wall, pulling out simple salvars and kurtas. “You’ll be relatively inconspicuous wearing these. People will think you’re pilgrims. Be careful to keep your identities hidden.”

  I nodded, collecting the clothes from her. Thala and I took turns cleaning up and changing in her dressing room.

  “It should be safe to head out by now, I think,” I said, peeking out the window. “I’m guessing it’s been enough time for Nico and his men to scour the area and head back.”

  Meena nodded wistfully. I could tell she was worried about us.

  “Can you hold on to this for me?” I asked her, removing the ring Arjun had given me and handing it to her. “In case Arjun ever comes looking for me. You can tell him where I went.” It pained me to part with it, but I wanted to make sure that if he was ever able to escape Sikander’s clutches, Meena could give him evidence that I had come here and that I was headed to the caves.

  “I have one more question.” I turned to Meena.

  “Of course.”

  “The intermediary . . . who was he?”

  Meena cocked her head to one side. “It was many, many years ago, but we have a story about it in my family. My great-great-great-great-grandmother opened the door to the map store one day, and there he was, this young handsome man with a satchel in his hand. He had her draw the map, paid her, and left the dagger with clear instructions.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He told her that one day a young woman would come. She would bring with her an oracle. It was her fate to find the Sybillines and warn them.”

  “She?”

  “Yes. He also told her that it was her duty to keep all this in confidence. To tell her daughter and have her tell her daughter and so on. She was intrigued, as you can imagine.”

  “And so she agreed?”

  “She did . . . but there’s a part of the story that I always thought had been made up, inflated and exaggerated with time the way myths are.” Meena took a deep breath and looked at me. “You see, just as he turned to leave, my great-great-great-great-grandmother asked the man, ‘Who are you?’ and he replied, ‘I am the Keeper of the Library of All Things. And I will wait for her as long as I have to.’”

  At this, Thala’s eyes widened. She squeezed my wrist so hard that I had to turn and look at her, vindication on her face.

  “Then he stepped out the door, and my grandmother watched him fly away.”

  “Fly away?”

  “He was a vetala. Vetalas can fly,” Thala whispered.

  “Not was,” Meena corrected her. “If he was a vetala, and if the story is true, then he’s still out there somewhere. He still is a vetala, an immortal. And he left the map behind for you,” she said, looking at me.

  Fifteen

  “IT’S REAL. Why aren’t her words proof enough for you?”

  I glanced around the empty cobblestone alley, small yellow and pink cottages on either side of us. We were on the quiet side of the hill outside Meena Amba’s store. The air was still and the street devoid of human traffic, but I wondered if we would ever truly be safe again. I turned to Thala. “She said herself she thought the story had been exaggerated.”

  “But she doesn’t believe that now!”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “We have to find him! I could change my history. It could be like I was never separated from my family. And you could undo what just happened. Don’t you want your father back?”

  I felt a pang in my chest that was so painful, I could barely breathe. “Of course I do! But I just don’t believe people can go back in time and change all the horrible things that ever happened to them! Don’t you think if that was the case, everyone would be seeking this Library? Everyone would be changing their fate?”

  “But they don’t, because they don’t know how to find the Keeper of the Library . . .”

  “Thala, do you know how ridiculous you sound?” I could hear the edge in my voice. “Even if I did believe you, and I don’t . . . how would we ever locate this vetala of yours?”

  “Based on what Meena said, it sounds like the vetala is looking for you. We may not even have to find him—he could come to us.”

  “Let’s get clear here.” I stopped in the middle of the road to make sure what I was going to say next registered. “You tricked me so I would release you from that cell. I don’t blame you. You wanted to be free. You’re free now, so there’s no need to carry on this charade about the Library of All Things and some magical vetala who can change the past.” Even as I said the words, I wondered if it was just a coincidence that both she and Meena had mentioned the Keeper of the Library. But I pressed on: “I have a duty to warn the Sybillines, and I won’t be distracted from it.”

  Thala narrowed her eyes at me. “I didn’t trick you, and I didn’t lie. Oracles don’t lie, I told you that. I know you’re upset because you lost your father and Mala and Arjun, but I’m not the reason all of that happened.”

  I angrily tugged at the scarf that covered my face, making sure it was secure. “Actually, you are the reason Arjun isn’t with me right now.” My voice was sharp. I couldn’t help it; the cruel words simply tumbled out of my mouth without any thought. I just missed Arjun, horribly. The truth was, I didn’t blame Thala for his capture. I blamed myself. I hoped he was all right.

  Meena Amba’s words had given me some comfort, but more than that, they had given me direction, a mission. Thala’s obsession was clouding her judgment, and I couldn’t rely on her help. But I needed to take the matter of my kingdom into my own hands. The only thing that mattered to me right now was getting to the Sybillines. Once I got there, I could figure out a plan, maybe even find a way to communicate with Arjun and rescue him from Sikander. And then the two of us would devise a plan to take the throne back. After everything that had happened, I couldn’t let Sikander simply seize what he wanted.

  If Thala was right about one thing, it was this: As long as I was alive, there was a chance that my people would remain safe.

  I looked away from Thala’s piercing eyes, too angry to say anything.

  “Fine, don’t believe me then.” She simply turned on her heel and walked ahead of me.

  “I don’t,” I scoffed, but I made sure I was a few paces behind her so I didn’t lose her.

  I felt a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow. What if she was right? The idea of never seeing my father again was unthinkable, and it made every ounce of my heart ache. Every time I thought about what had happened, the way I had simply left him, I had to fight the urge to stop in my tracks, get down on my hands and knees, curl myself up into a ball, and cry.

  But I willed my feet to keep walking. I thought about the way Thala had cleaned them for me by the well, the way she had carefully reached her hands down into the tunnel to retrieve me, the things that she had confided in me.

  I thought about how she must have felt when she was ripped away from her family and taken into slavery. I wondered again about the cuts and bruises on her body, and my heart ached for her too, for an entire world of suffering I had never before encountered or experienced. Before today, I hadn’t even known this kind of pain could exist.

  I walked faster till I was just behind Thala. She turned to me, her face a mask of stone. “I’ll go to the temple with you, but we’re going to the Library of All Things,” she insisted. She hesitated before she added, without emotion in her
voice, “Otherwise, we should consider parting ways.” She quickly cut ahead of me again.

  I was too hurt to respond. The prospect of a lone three-fortnight expedition on horseback through the desert to a place that no one had been able to access for centuries terrified me, but I would simply have to find a way to do it. I wondered about my own will. Thala had pushed me past my own limit in that tunnel. What would happen when there was no one there to tell me I had to go on when I didn’t have it in me?

  ¤

  The stone road to Mount Moutza was filled with people from all walks of life. There was the occasional procession of monks, some of them with shaved heads, others with long hair and beards, all of them draped in red and orange robes. They walked quietly, wordlessly, carrying nothing but the wooden bowls in their hands, with which they begged for their morning rice.

  Every now and then, a merchant caravan traveled down the road too, drawn by horses and camels, large burlap satchels hanging off their flanks. The ones leaving Ananta carried bags of tea, indigo, spices. Those coming in toward Ananta held reams of colorful silk shining in the sun—reds and indigos, oranges and greens. The men and women on these caravans wore beautiful robes made of the same silk.

  Bedouins carrying all of their belongings on mules marched past us, their faces weathered and creased like stories told again and again. In their hands, they held mirrored patchwork bindles.

  Entire families walked together on foot—children chasing one another down the road, their carefree voices pitched into the air above us like kites, fathers holding babies in their arms, speaking to them in soft voices, coaxing them to sleep.

  They were headed east toward the sunrise, toward lands that my father had told me about, places that Mala had woven into the fairy tales she recited to me and Arjun when we were children.