Gifting Fire

by Alina Boyden

  My last visit to Shikarpur had come in the dead of night, the pitch darkness of a new moon hiding the splendor of the city from my eyes. Now, by light of day, the glittering cobalt-and-turquoise-glazed tiles of the city’s palaces and temples told me why it had been called the Indigo City by the poets of Zindh. But as beautiful as Shikarpur was, it was the danger that awaited me there that lingered strongest in my mind. As Zindh’s new subahdar, I would soon find myself the target of many jealous rivals, both within the empire and without. And that was if I even survived the coming meeting with my father, which was no sure thing.

  “It’s going to be okay, Razia.”

  Arjun’s voice shook me from my thoughts. He was riding behind Sakshi atop Padmini’s back. The beautiful fire zahhak was soaring almost wingtip-to-wingtip with Sultana, my thunder zahhak, her yellow belly scales and flame-colored wing feathers making her look like the living embodiment of a desert sunset. It was Sakshi doing the flying, her brow furrowed in concentration as she clutched the leather reins in a white-knuckle grip. Arjun had been guiding her, his hands resting on her shoulders, which made my insides twist with longing. I wished I was the one riding in his saddle with him, his strong hands resting on my shoulders. I needed the courage I felt when I was with him, today more than ever.

  “Razia?” Arjun’s concern was so plain in his voice that it was audible even across the fifty-foot gulf of roaring wind that separated us.

  “My prince?” I asked, hoping that I’d covered up my anxiety well enough not to alarm my sisters. I hadn’t yet told them that I suspected my father might just execute me on my arrival to Shikarpur. If he did, they’d never be able to stop it, and if he didn’t, then there was no sense worrying them over it.

  “It’s not too late to go back to Bikampur,” Arjun said, his voice strong and clear and determined, almost like he was speaking directly into my ear and not shouting from one zahhak’s back to another’s. “It will never be too late to go back to Bikampur. Say the word, and we can fly back there right now.”

  “Can we, Akka?” Lakshmi exclaimed, and I felt my resolve crumbling to dust. My younger sister was riding her own thunder zahhak, soaring in the wake left by Sultana’s and Padmini’s wingtips. It was the animal she had stolen from Shikarpur in our desperate bid to save our home from destruction. Hadn’t I vowed after we’d survived all that that I’d never knowingly put her in danger again?

  But turning back would be more dangerous. My father had threatened war if I didn’t take up the post of subahdar of Zindh. So I had to go. And though I was sad to be leaving my home, and worried that my father might have me killed, there was a part of me that wanted to go. For all the danger, for all the fear I held of my father, becoming the subahdar of Zindh and a recognized princess of Nizam gave me my power back. It let me choose my own destiny in a way that I never could as a concubine in Bikampur. And that was what I’d craved more than anything during my years as a courtesan—the power to choose. To choose whom I loved and who shared my bed. The freedom to speak my own mind. I could have lived the rest of my life without palaces and gemstones, but of all the penalties I’d suffered for living as my true self, the loss of my freedom had been the harshest one of all. If I had even the slightest chance of winning it back, then I would fight for it with all my might.

  And maybe that was why my father had made me the subahdar. Perhaps he’d seen it in my eyes, or guessed it, or just knew me better than I gave him credit for. Every other subahdar in the empire could retreat, could fall back on his soldiers and his family connections if things got too difficult. But not me. For me, there could be no retreat, no failure—not if I ever wanted to maintain my freedom.

  “Shikarpur is going to be a wonderful new home for us, little sister,” I told Lakshmi, and I even found myself believing it. “We’re going to have a beautiful palace, and we’ll get to ride our zahhaks together every day—you’ll see.”

  Lakshmi’s tentative smile made my stomach churn. She trusted me with her whole heart. I hoped I knew what I was getting her into.

  “Well, if we’re going, we should go,” Arjun said, without the least hint of judgment. He just nodded to the palace below us, and to the patrol of four thunder zahhaks that were circling warily over the city walls, waiting for us to descend. With Arvind flying Arjun’s wing, our flight of four zahhaks would have been enough to alarm any patrol, and the longer we lingered, the less we would look like guests, and the more like enemy scouts. Better to get down before the patrol decided to investigate.

  I reached forward, just ahead of my saddle’s high front cantle, and gave Sultana’s cerulean neck scales a fond pat. “Ready to see our new home, girl?”

  My thunder zahhak’s beakless snout twisted slightly in my direction, so that one of her jade eyes could look straight at me. She was waiting for an order.

  I gave a sharp tug backward on my top set of reins, and Sultana responded at once by pitching up into a climb. As she went, I leaned my body to the right, pulling a little on the reins in that direction. Sultana responded with perfect grace, rolling smoothly onto her belly before plunging into a sheer, vertical dive.

  I forgot all about my worries as her wings tucked in tightly to either side of her body, like a pair of sickles poised to cut the wind. The air roared across my face, tearing at my flying goggles, sending my silk dupatta streaming out behind me like a lancer’s pennant. The golden domes of Shikarpur’s palace rose up to greet me, and I aimed myself for the ruins of the zahhak stables, still in a shambles thanks to my attack weeks before.

  I put a little gentle back-pressure on the reins, bringing Sultana smoothly out of her dive at the height of the mango trees crowding the palace’s outer gardens. We zipped over the parapets of the yellow sandstone wall before breaking into a hard left turn to slow ourselves down. Sultana back-beat her wings and settled onto the smooth tiles of the polished limestone courtyard with all the grace of a dancer.

  Beside me, Lakshmi’s zahhak alighted easily, but Sakshi, Arjun, and Arvind were slower, their bigger, bulkier fire zahhaks having taken longer to descend. They landed off to my right, just as grooms came rushing forward to take our zahhaks to the parts of the stables that were still in good repair.

  I threw off the straps holding me to the saddle and dropped to the ground beside Sultana. She shoved her snout against my chest before I could so much as adjust my dupatta.

  “It was a very good flight,” I told her, pressing my nose to hers while my hands worked to wrap my dupatta around myself into something approaching appropriate court attire. In other kingdoms, a princess never would have ridden a zahhak, or appeared outside of the zenana without a veil, but we Nizamis hailed from the wild steppes some centuries back, where everyone, man or woman, had to know how to ride, and so we permitted our princesses more freedom than other nations.

  “Can I help you, my lady?” a familiar voice asked. The tone was confused and uncertain, and the language was Court Safavian, a language I hadn’t heard in years.

  I looked up to find Sikander, my father’s old master-at-arms, standing at the head of a group of mail-coated soldiers, their fine steel turban helms covered in golden calligraphy invoking the grace of God. He was peering at me from under the rim of his helmet, without a trace of recognition behind his dark brown eyes.

  “Good morning, Sikander,” I replied, pleasantly surprised to find that my own Court Safavian hadn’t suffered much during my years in Bikampur. I enjoyed too the way that Sikander’s gray-tinged eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he finally realized who I was.

  I couldn’t blame the man too much for not recognizing me. The last time we’d seen one another, I’d been sweaty and exhausted, without makeup or jewelry, wearing only a simple black shalwar kameez. Now, I was dressed in a peshwaz, the proper gown of a Nizami princess. The blue, coat-like garment was covered in golden zardozi embroidery and studded all over with fine crystals, creating patterns of twisting
zahhaks and bolts of deadly lightning that sparkled in the sunlight. I’d paired it with loose cloth-of-gold trousers, embroidered in the same fashion, and a matching golden blouse, which was revealed by the peshwaz’s deep, triangular neckline. With my dupatta arranged neatly on my head, my makeup artfully done, and every inch of exposed skin glittering with gold and sapphire jewelry, I must not have looked anything like my former self—which had been the whole point.

  Sikander’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed as he tried to work out what emotion he was supposed to be feeling. He should have been disgusted with me, furious, just like he always had been when I’d lived in the palace in Nizam, but it was plain that he was having a hard time summoning up the necessary anger when confronted with the image of a beautiful young Nizami princess dressed in perfectly appropriate attire.

  “Your highness?” he ventured, as if he still wasn’t sure that it was really me.

  “Yes, Sikander?” I asked, trying and failing to keep a smile from tugging on the corners of my lips. I couldn’t help it. My whole life, he’d been so fierce and decisive, and now he seemed so completely and utterly disarmed that I wondered how it was that I’d lived in such terror of him for so many years.

  “Your father is waiting for you,” he said, clearing his throat, because the tone had come out gentler than he’d intended. When he spoke again, it was gruffer, more like his old self. “He expected you sooner.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the monsoon. You know how hard that makes it to travel.”

  He grunted at that, unwilling to agree with me, but unable to deny the truth of it.

  “My father is in the diwan-i-khas, I presume?” I asked.

  “He is, your highness,” Sikander affirmed, his voice softening again in spite of his best efforts to the contrary.

  “Then please take me to him. I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Sikander hesitated at my pretty smile and my kind words, his brow deeply furrowed, like he was still trying to work out what trick I was playing on him. In the end, he didn’t manage to figure it out. He just spun on his heel and began marching across the courtyard. I followed a few paces behind him, attended by Lakshmi and Sakshi, my only female companionship these days.

  “That was a brilliant landing,” I told Sakshi as we walked, mostly to keep myself from dwelling on the coming meeting with my father.

  “I think I’m ready to solo, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I’d say so,” Arjun said, laying a hand on Sakshi’s shoulder before I could reply. “You timed that turn into the landing just perfectly. And it wasn’t just me who noticed—Padmini could tell too. That’s why she was so relaxed.”

  Sakshi’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you for trusting me with her.”

  “Anything for my sister-in-law,” he replied.

  “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Are we to be married now, my prince?”

  He answered me with a lopsided grin. “What need has a love as storied as ours for marriage ceremonies?”

  I rolled my eyes at that, but I didn’t press the matter. What his honeyed words hid was a truth I preferred not to dwell upon. I was a hijra, so I could never give any man children. There would be no little Arjuns and Razias running around at our feet, no young princes and princesses to carry on our family lines, to serve as living proof of our love for one another. And the less I let myself think about that, the better.

  “Are you all right?” Arjun asked, his brow knitting with concern. I must have let my thoughts show through on my face. He let go of Sakshi in favor of putting his arm around me and holding me close to him. “Was it something I said?”

  “No, my prince,” I replied, letting my head fall against his chest. His warmth and strength were a comfort, given that I was presently surrounded by my father’s heavily armed guardsmen. They were ostensibly there to protect me, but I knew how easily they could be turned against me if given the order. These men would never see me as a real princess. What would it matter to them if I lived or died?

  I took that cheerful thought with me into the palace’s inner courtyard. It seemed strangely desolate. I was accustomed to Bikampur’s lush gardens of rosebushes and mango trees, its marble fountains, and the channels of water that fed them. But here, the limestone footpaths cut straight lines across bare grass. A few old banyan trees spread their shade over stone-lined pits, which had been partly filled by the monsoon rains. Were those cisterns of some kind? They were unsightly, whatever they were.

  More empty stone pits were connected to one another by means of channels, rather like the ones that had conducted water to the fountains in Bikampur, but there was scarcely a finger’s depth of brown slurry coating the bottoms of these cheap imitations. The channels all met in the middle of the courtyard, their sludge flowing into an enormous square moat that surrounded a white marble pavilion, its round dome covered in fine glazed tiles of cobalt blue, turquoise, and gold.

  “Why is it so ugly, Akka?” Lakshmi asked, her brow furrowing in confusion as she stared at the same empty pits that had attracted my attention.

  “I don’t know, little sister,” I replied, putting my arm around her shoulders, acutely aware of the fact that I’d promised her a beautiful new home, “but we’ll have to work on it together, and make it look nice.”

  “It’s going to take a lot of work,” she observed, and I couldn’t argue with her.

  I’d have said more, but at that moment I caught sight of who was waiting for me in the shade of the baradari’s tiled dome. My father, Humayun, sultan of the greatest empire of Daryastan, sat atop a marble throne that was inlaid with precious gems, lapis lazuli, and obsidian, producing the most remarkable images of zahhaks dancing across its surface. I knew better than to keep him waiting.

  I crossed a small footbridge over an empty stone moat, which must have once been a pond, but as I passed into the shade of the pavilion and my eyes adjusted a little, my stomach gave a lurch. I hadn’t seen my father sitting on a real throne for the better part of five years, and the sight of it took me right back to being a disgrace of a thirteen-year-old prince in a palace filled with servitors who despised me.

  I recovered my composure quickly, plastering a neutral expression across my face, hoping my father hadn’t noticed my discomfiture. No, as my eyes flickered up to scan his face, I saw that his emerald eyes were still wide with surprise. Of course. He’d never seen me in my court finery before either, and like Sikander, it was clear he hadn’t imagined I could ever look so much the part of the Nizami princess.

  I allowed myself the barest trace of a smile, because for all of my anxiety, I had planned my entrance carefully. My clothes marked me as a royal Nizami woman, and my sisters, who trailed behind me, were similarly attired. Lakshmi wore her acid zahhak–inspired sari of emerald and kingfisher blue, and Sakshi was borrowing the fire zahhak lehenga that Arjun had given me for my first trip to the palace of Bikampur, which seemed almost a lifetime ago. The three of us looked like wealthy princesses from three different kingdoms, not a trio of hijras from one of Bikampur’s less savory neighborhoods. And if there was one thing I’d learned in my life, it was that for all of the poets’ talk about inner beauty, people’s judgments were based almost solely on appearance. If you looked the part, people tended to believe you belonged to it, and I definitely looked the part of a princess of Nizam.

  While Sikander went to stand beside my father’s throne, I made my obeisance. I stood before my father, bowed slightly, and raised my palm to my forehead, ceremonially offering him my head. I’d grown familiar with the gesture during my childhood in the palace, but the whole thing seemed so much grislier with Sikander’s gnarled hand resting on his talwar, his grim face staring into mine.

  “Peace be upon you, Father,” I said in Court Safavian, my head still bowed, my palm still raised. I hoped the rest of my entourage were doing the same thing—I’d certainly spent enough of the morning
teaching them how to greet the sultan of Nizam properly.

  “And upon you peace,” my father replied, which was my signal to straighten up and to lower my hand.

  My father gestured to a cushion on a dais beside his throne, the place of honor in the pavilion. “Sit.”

  Now that the greeting was over, he was perfectly willing to dispense with ceremony. I’d always thought the man was more comfortable on the back of a zahhak than in the fine trappings of a palace, and I could see that little had changed in the years since I’d run away from home.

  I took my seat while the rest of my entourage sat on cushions arranged at the base of the throne, under Sikander’s watchful eyes.

  My father grunted with amusement. “I wasn’t sure if you’d have the courage to come, but I suppose you’ve got more ice in your veins than I credited you with.”

  “Not exactly a high bar, Father,” I replied, unable to keep a hint of bitterness out of my voice. He had never recognized my talents.

  “Well, look at you,” he growled, gesturing to my peshwaz, my jewels, the way I was sitting like a proper young lady on my cushion, with my hands folded neatly in my lap.

  I looked around in mock confusion. “Do you not like my peshwaz, Father? I had it made especially for this occasion.”

  “I still have half a mind to kill you,” he replied, and this time there was no anger or bluster in his voice, which made the threat all the more frightening. His lip was curled with scorn, and I’d long ago learned that that was the most dangerous emotion I could see in a man’s face.

  I swallowed against the bile rising up in my throat, and tried my best to keep my face impassive. Showing him fear now would be a mistake. “Well,” I forced myself to ask, my voice far calmer and more collected than I felt, “what are you waiting for, then? This is the best chance you’ve had in years, and Sikander looks desperate to put his sword to work.”

  My father shook his head, but the expression of disgust didn’t leave his face. “No,” he said, “that would be too easy. After what you did, killing my subahdar, slaughtering his army and his zahhaks, humiliating me in front of my enemies, I have something far worse planned for you.”