by Nafiza Azad
Two voices outside her room interrupt her reverie, two voices Sunaina recognizes quite well. The women these voices belong to are the Rajmata’s maids. At first, Sunaina is uninterested in their gossip and thinks she will clear her throat to alert them to her presence, but then she hears the content of their whispers, and all such thoughts cease.
“Is your man really going forward with it?” one of the women whispers, her voice threaded with fear.
“Yes! I tried to dissuade him, but he says it is his duty as a Qirati! When the maharajah is at breakfast today with his family, they are going to attack,” the other woman replies.
“They will kill the baby too?” The disbelief in the woman’s voice is stark.
“Rajkumar Aaruv has ordered him to do so,” the woman says, and weeps. “What will happen to my children, didi?”
Sunaina wrenches the door to her workroom open, and the women scream their surprise. Their faces drain of color when they see her, and they flee down the corridor without giving her a chance to ask more questions. Sunaina glances at a clock in the workroom. All she knows is that the royal family has breakfast at eight in the morning and it is now ten minutes to the hour. The only person she can think of who will be able to protect the maharajah and his family is the Emir. Sunaina takes a deep breath and runs, praying that her brother-in-law is home.
The royal family no longer breakfasts together. All pretensions of unity have been abandoned, and Bhavya, for one, is glad she no longer has to countenance Jayanti Bua’s sour face in the mornings. The change was abrupt. The Rajmata sent her excuses via a maid a day ago and has since taken all her meals in her room. Jayanti Bua, of course, goes only where their mother does. Aaruv of late has taken to spending most of his time at Sanchit Goundar’s house. Regardless, he is rarely even awake in time for breakfast.
Bhavya looks over the feast spread out in front of her and sighs her pleasure. Breaking fast away from her mother and aunt has done wonders for her appetite. She tears a piece of a potato paratha and dips it into a little bowl of dahl and pops the morsel into her mouth. Chewing with relish, she looks at her brother, whose face is very grim for a pretty morning.
“Is anything the matter, Bhaiya?” Bhavya asks him. The maharani, too, has a troubled expression and her movements, though competent, are listless. Four of the maharajah’s guards stand behind his chair and four of the maharani’s companions stand behind hers. Bhavya wonders if she should get her own retinue.
“Nothing that you need to worry about, choti,” Aarush says, and Bhavya frowns. Her brother doesn’t use the endearment for her unless he is trying to distract her.
“Something’s going on, isn’t it?” Bhavya says, her appetite suddenly gone. She pushes her plate away. “You just don’t want to tell me.”
“You don’t want to know, trust me,” Aarush says. He, too, pushes his plate away.
“Bhabhi?” Bhavya says uncertainly, her unease deepening when the maharani doesn’t smile and reassure her.
“I believe we are done with breakfast now,” Aarush says decisively. He gets up from his chair, and that is when things fall apart.
Bhavya experiences the next few minutes as if in a dream. As her brother gets up from his chair, one of his guards pulls his sword out of its scabbard and pushes forward. The maharani screams as the sword sinks into the maharajah’s side, and pandemonium breaks loose. The maharani’s companions transform from demure maids into ruthless warriors as all four of the maharajah’s guards attack. Bhavya sits frozen through the clash of the swords, her eyes not moving from her brother, who lies on the ground bleeding. Her bhabhi covers his body with her own while her companions fight to keep the king’s guards from murdering both of them.
The doors burst open, and the Emir of Noor City enters the room, effectively putting an end to the fighting by beheading all four of the maharajah’s guards within half a minute of his arrival. More soldiers pile into the room before the Emir says one sharp word and everyone comes to a standstill.
When Bhavya was a little girl, long before the Shayateen Massacre, she was caught in a storm while traveling in the forests of Asur with her parents. She remembers the ferocity of the storm, the savagery of the wind as it made toys out of trees, whipping them back and forth as their roots clutched at the earth. Her father had wrapped his arms around her and held her close, keeping her safe. Another storm is raging around her right now, but this time no one is around to keep her safe.
The Emir turns and looks at her, his gaze a demand to move, to act. Bhavya gets to her feet, her legs unsteady. She stumbles her way to her brother and drops to her knees beside Aruna, who is stanching the flow of blood from the wound on his side with her hands.
Bhavya takes a deep breath. The scent of the blood, the red of it. The world recedes. A scream builds in her chest. The maharani is weeping.
A healer pushes forth through the Ifrit soldiers stationed in front of the room; she is followed by more. Bhavya moves aside to let them tend to her brother. As her shock wears off, she becomes aware of anger, a blistering anger, that makes her feel more dangerous than she has ever felt before.
“Someone will tell me why my brother is lying on the ground bleeding.” It is not a request.
For a minute, no one speaks. Then Janab Jamshid steps forward. He is old, and fate has been unkind to him. His eyes are wet and his voice is full of whispers, but he speaks and Bhavya listens. She hears the things he doesn’t say. When he is done, Bhavya tastes reality for the second time and finds it just as bitter as she did in Taaj Gul that afternoon with Sunaina.
“Do you have a copy of the report the investigators sent to Bhaiya?” Bhavya asks the old man. He nods and leaves to fetch it.
Bhavya turns to the Emir, who is talking to his soldiers, and waits until his attention falls on her. “Help us,” she says simply. “Please.”
Beyond her, the healers are calling for a stretcher to move the maharajah. They have managed to stop the bleeding.
“I will, of course, help you. The treaty between the Ifrit and Qirat is founded on the agreement of aid given to the maharajah by the Ifrit within reason as specified by Ifrit law,” the Emir says.
Bhavya whispers her thanks, aware that she cannot fall apart at this moment. That no matter how tempting it may be to leave everything to the Emir, she is the one who must pick up the reins—at least until Aruna can start making decisions.
Janab Jamshid returns with the report, and Bhavya reads it slowly. The extent of the conspiracy opens up, and she wonders what Aarush must have felt when confronted with the truth of the people he has been calling his own.
With her face pale and a shimmer in her eyes that no one will mistake for tears, Bhavya hands the report to the Emir. He glances through it but does not seem surprised by its contents.
“Locate Rajkumar Aaruv,” Bhavya says. Her voice has an odd flat quality to it. “As fast as you can.” Janab Jamshid nods and bows. “Is there anyone we can trust in Southern Aftab? Is the army compromised?”
“I do not know, huzoor,” Janab Jamshid says. “There are some soldiers, certainly, whose loyalty is, without question, to the maharajah.”
“Send them to guard the Rajmata’s rooms. Jayanti Bua should be with Amma right now. Make sure neither of them leaves the rooms. They are allowed no visitors, not even maids.” Bhavya pauses and thinks. She looks around but the bodies of the four traitors have been removed from the room. “Parade the heads of the traitors throughout Southern Aftab. Let them be a warning to all servants and workers of the fate that awaits those who betray their king and country.”
The Emir nods approvingly. “Contain the flow of information. No one, apart from those here, must know the extent of the rajah’s injuries. The traitors’ next move depends on whether the assassination attempt was successful. If they try to take over Southern Qirat while the rajah is still alive, the masses will revolt.”
The corridors are cleared, and the maharajah, accompanied by Aruna and a host of healers, is rem
oved to his suite of rooms. When they are gone and only the stain and the scent of blood remains, Bhavya asks Janab Jamshid, “Have you found Rajkumar Aaruv?”
Janab Jamshid apologetically reports that the prince of Qirat appears to be missing; no one has seen him since the previous afternoon.
“What do I do? How do I know whom to trust?” Bhavya asks the Emir, hating the frailty in her voice.
“You pretend that their loyalty is a given. You smile brighter and you laugh harder and you observe who laughs with you and who laughs at you.”
“What if the rebels attack Noor?” she asks in a smaller voice.
“Leave the safety of Noor to the Ifrit. We will defend her.” It is a promise. “I will go arrange for heavier patrol in and out of Southern Aftab. For the meantime, I think it best if Ifrit soldiers relieve human ones of their duties. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes.” The weight of the storm presses down on Bhavya, and the desire to either scream or weep returns.
“Please send me news of any change in the rajah’s condition,” the Emir says, and excuses himself.
Zulfikar leaves the room and comes upon Sunaina standing outside. “Did you see Fatima Ghazala last night?” he asks her, even though he knows her concern lies elsewhere at the moment.
“No. I came straight to the mahal after the funeral,” Sunaina replies. Zulfikar frowns but decides to keep his counsel.
“The rajkumari could do with a friend right about now.” Zulfikar nods at the figure visible through a crack in the door; she is crying in gasping sobs.
Sunaina nods and enters the room, closing the door behind her.
Zulfikar strides away, a niggling sense of worry tormenting him. He reaches for Fatima Ghazala, but she feels distant and the only emotion he can sense through their bond is a determined calm. Zulfikar dispatches a carriage to pick her up from Taaj Gul, wondering how safe the city is and how much longer it will remain that way.
Fatima Ghazala looks around the room she was rudely abandoned in some hours ago. The door is locked, so she is … not a prisoner. Fatima Ghazala breaks the lock more easily than she thought possible. The Shaitan came for her at exactly midnight. Fatima Ghazala retained her equanimity with a determination that impressed even her. Even as they traveled through the forest, a shadow-drenched forest full of smells and noises Fatima Ghazala didn’t have the least intention of decoding, she was calm. Even though the hiss of snakes, and who knows what other horrors live in the greenery that seems to have its own malevolence, plagued her all the way through, she was calm. The mountain path they traveled up was treacherous, but the Shaitan was nimble-footed and went ahead without waiting for Fatima Ghazala, who took her time ascending, as she was not especially inclined to break her neck by falling down. Often she stood and stared at the forest-filled vista shimmering under the sickle moon.
The Shayateen have made their home in an abandoned haveli built at the top of a mountain. The air inside is musty and smells of rot. The atmosphere is hardly like the perfumed halls of Aftab Mahal, but Fatima Ghazala supposes that perfume might be too much to ask from the Shayateen. They reached the hideout after five hours of traveling, because Fatima Ghazala refused to let the Shaitan touch her, as he would need to in order to travel quickly. The only man allowed to touch her is Zulfikar; Fatima Ghazala considers it best that she makes this clear from the very beginning.
Now she is farther from home than she has ever been before with not even a sign of the desert in this overly verdant landscape. Even the air smells green. Fatima Ghazala isn’t exactly afraid of the predicament she is currently in—she has faith in her fire and her blood. But still, she would much rather be at home, where a layer of grime and dust doesn’t cover all surfaces, where mold isn’t growing with glee in the windowsills and what looks like rat droppings doesn’t litter the floor. Fatima Ghazala wonders if the Shayateen intend to feed her and whether, on the off chance they do, she should eat the food prepared for her.
She prayed Fajr in one corner of the room, filthy though it was. Zohr comes and passes. Neither food nor drinks are forthcoming. Fatima Ghazala is tempted to leave but calms herself. Briefly, she feels a probe from Zulfikar through their bond and thinks calming thoughts. He is going to be supremely angry when he finds out what she has done, but Fatima Ghazala didn’t exactly have a choice, no matter what the Shaitan said.
Her stomach issues a complaint that will not be ignored, so she moves to the door. She is nobody’s prisoner.
Zulfikar knocks on the Raees’s door and is given permission to enter. His superior is seated in her chair in the middle of the room, which has been emptied of all furniture except for a coffee table on the side. On this table is a pile of books gathered from the mahal library. Zulfikar looks over the Raees carefully. Her face is more fatigued than it was the day before, and there is a tremble to her movements. She looks up, and Zulfikar takes a deep breath. A thin band of black has appeared around her irises.
“What has happened, Zulfikar?” The Raees’s voice is still sharp.
“There was an attempt to assassinate the maharajah. He is wounded, but the human healers are hopeful he can be saved,” Zulfikar reports.
The Raees sits up at his words. She closes the book she was reading and lays it carefully on the coffee table beside the chair. “Who will take the throne if the rajah dies?”
“I believe there will be a war. The crown prince is but a mere babe, and the landowners won’t tolerate the rani, a foreign female, as their leader. Besides, the rajah’s younger brother is the one colluding against him.”
“This brother is the one allied with those wanting the Ifrit to leave Qirat, no?” the Raees says. Zulfikar nods an affirmation. “Does the new desire for freedom have anything to do with the discovery of gold in the desert city of Sabr?”
“I can’t think of any other reason the humans would suddenly discover their patriotic sides,” Zulfikar replies.
“Hm.” The Raees looks thoughtful. “We will, of course, help keep the peace until such time that our treaty with the humans breaks irrevocably. I trust you will direct the army as necessary?”
“Yes, Raees,” Zulfikar replies.
“Should the rebels win the war, we will fight for our right to remain in Qirat. We have invested too much of our people and our fire in this country to simply leave when the humans decide they no longer need our help. Besides, we must fight the inevitable chaos.” The leader of the Ifrit gives Zulfikar a narrow look. “Anwar told me that there is no progress in the investigation of Firdaus’s death. I expected better from you, Zulfikar.” The castigation is expected, but it still stings.
“My apologies, Raees.” Zulfikar bows his head. “We have hit a dead end, and until we can capture a Shaitan alive, we will not be able to get any new information.”
The leader of the Ifrit sighs, looking weary. “Where is the new Name Giver? Is she still with her family?”
“I sent a carriage to pick her up from Taaj Gul,” Zulfikar replies. His anxiety grows at each passing moment without Fatima Ghazala.
A knock sounds on the door at that moment, and Zulfikar moves to open it. On the other side is the soldier he sent with the carriage to Taaj Gul. He is alone.
“Where is she?” Zulfikar asks, his voice low and calm.
“The family she was supposed to be with gave me this note to pass on to you, sayyid.” The soldier hands over a piece of paper.
The note is mercilessly brief. Fatima Ghazala writes that she has gone to meet with the leader of the Shayateen. She tells Zulfikar to be wary because they speak of an upcoming war in which they are allied with the rebels. She doesn’t promise to return.
Zulfikar grips the note tightly and dismisses the soldier.
“Has something happened to the Name Giver?” the Raees asks from her chair.
“She has gone to meet the leader of the Shayateen,” Zulfikar says flatly. “I need to go after her.”
“You know you cannot do that. You are the Emir of Noor. You have
obligations here.” The Raees’s reprimand is gentle.
“She will die. They will kill her, Khala.” Everything in Zulfikar demands for him to give in to his heart, which wants him to find Fatima Ghazala and keep her close, keep her safe.
“I would like you to calm down and remember that the Name Giver is not a helpless human though she might appear that way. She is far more capable than you give her credit for.” The Raees’s eyes are piercing. “You do her a disservice by wanting to cosset her. She has the full right to act on her decisions. Would you have let her go if she had told you about it?”
“Of course not!” Zulfikar replies immediately.
“Then don’t blame her for not telling you. All you can do right now is fulfill the purpose for which you are present here and trust her to return. Surely that is not too much to ask.”
“It is when there is no guarantee she will be back,” Zulfikar says bitterly.
When Fatima Ghazala steps out of the room, she finds the same Shaitan who brought her to the haveli standing outside with a silver tray in his hands. On the tray is a plate of mithai and a glass of water. The glass is smudged with fingerprints.
“Food?”
“This is all we eat.”
“Where do you get it from?”
“A village at the foot of the mountain. Not on the side we came up.”
“I see.” Fatima Ghazala takes the tray from him. She walks along a corridor, conscious of the following Shaitan. Spotting a chair that doesn’t look like it has a decade’s worth of dust on it, she drags it near a window. The haveli is located at the very top of the mountain, so the views are astounding. Of course, no matter which direction you look in, the only things you can see are trees.
Fatima Ghazala eats the mithai, savoring the almond laddoo in particular, and drinks the water. “Now what?” she asks the Shaitan, who has been waiting silently for her to finish her meal.
“Now we go see the Qayyid.” The Shaitan’s reverence for his leader is obvious.