by Alina Boyden
“Ah.” That made sense. He saw an advantage in being nice to me. I was good for the empire now.
“But that wasn’t what really got to me,” he admitted, and his voice had gone quieter than I’d ever heard it.
“Oh?” I asked, wondering what else Sikander had put in that letter.
“He said that the fact that you looked just like your mother should have made me cherish you more, not less. And he told me about a man named Viputeshwar, your new governor of Mahisagar. He told me about a conversation the pair of them had. And he said that my wife was gone, but her daughter was still here, her spitting image, so like her in mind and body, and that if I didn’t stop punishing her for being a daughter instead of a son I would lose her forever. In fact, he said, I nearly had. He told me what Karim did to you on the beach.”
I shrugged with one shoulder, so as not to tug at the stitches in my right arm, but my throat was tight. My mind was going in a thousand different places, and the only question I had was such a stupid one, but I had to ask it anyway. “Do I really look like my mother?”
“So much so that it hurts sometimes,” he admitted.
“Is that why you’ve always hated me so much?” I wondered, tears spilling down my cheeks.
“I’ve never hated you,” he said, and when it was plain that I didn’t believe him, he sighed. “I was angry with you, because you were my heir, the product of the union of myself and the only woman I ever loved. And I thought you were a broken, foolish deviant, and it killed me inside to see it. I thought that you had stolen from me the one chance I’d been given on this earth to have a son and an heir I could be truly proud of.”
That just made me cry harder. I’d always known I was a disappointment, an embarrassment, a black mark of shame on my father’s otherwise spotless record, but I’d never heard it put so damningly. And he wasn’t wrong. I had stolen from him the chance at having the son and heir of his dreams by being born the way I had been. No wonder he could hardly stand to look at me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“You’re sorry?” he asked, his confusion plain on his face. “For what?”
“For being this way, obviously,” I answered, gesturing to my pretty peshwaz and my dupatta and all of it. “God knows I tried so hard not to be. I wanted to be someone you could love. I wanted to be someone you could be proud of. I prayed every night that God would remake me so that I would be, but he never did.”
“I’m glad he didn’t,” my father said.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m glad he didn’t answer your foolish prayers,” he told me. “I’ve seen how your cousins turned out. I’ve seen my own brothers, whose avarice and ambition outstripped their abilities time and again. They could never have accomplished what you have. They will never accomplish what you will accomplish. You will bring greatness to this family and this empire that will be spoken of for generations to come. My name will be a footnote when set beside yours, I see that now. You may be a girl instead of a boy, but you’re the heiress I always dreamed of and more. And Sikander was right, I should have seen that from the first, but I was too certain that I knew best, too fixed in my eyes, too closed-minded to understand. But now I understand. You are my wife’s daughter, and you will go on to do great things in this world if I get out of your way and let you.”
“I never wanted you out of the way . . .” I protested. “Just the opposite.”
“Another reason to value daughters more highly than sons, then,” he said, and it took me a moment to realize he was making a joke. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d joked around me. Maybe he never had.
He put his arm around my shoulders, and I flinched away from the sudden touch, which sent shooting pains through my spine. I choked back a cry of agony and fought to catch my breath.
“Are you all right? Do you need the doctor?”
My father was holding me close, keeping my back carefully supported so the pain would subside. I didn’t know what to think about that. Maybe it was best I didn’t think at all. The last thing I wanted was to question this beautiful dream until I woke from it.
“I’m all right,” I said, though I knew I didn’t sound very convincing.
“You’re tired and you’re hurt; we’ll keep this brief,” he said, still holding me in a way he hadn’t since I was small enough to ride in his zahhak saddle with him. “I intend that Hina will be recognized as a subahdar in her own right, as will Viputeshwar. She will rule Zindh, he will rule Mahisagar.”
“You’re taking my provinces?” I couldn’t believe that he would do that to me. It didn’t make any sense at all.
“You’ll be too busy to govern them,” he said. “As the crown princess, you will be my coruler of the empire, because one day you will be its sultana. The first reigning sultana since the last time a Razia took the throne.”
“And Arjun?” I asked.
“He will be your husband, but you will rule Nizam,” he replied. “And your sisters, they will be elevated to princesses of the blood. I will acknowledge them as my own children.”
“Because of a letter from Sikander?” I asked, still scarcely believing that such a small thing could have changed so much.
“Because of a letter from Sikander,” he agreed. “Now you should rest.” He reached up and stroked my hair. “You need to heal if you’re going to be ready for the wedding. I want to hold it in Nizam, and you’ll need to be able to ride for that.”
A wedding to Arjun. Coruler of Nizam. I shook my head in disbelief. After everything I’d been through, it felt like a dream come true.
CHAPTER 35
The wedding had been like something out of a dream. My sisters, Tamara, Hina, and all of her celas had come the day before to do my mehendi, and though Hina and Tamara had tried to make me blush with their ribald advice, they’d forgotten that I had been a courtesan for longer than I’d been a princess and that I knew a thing or two about how to please my man. Then we’d signed the marriage contract, just Arjun and me, my father and his father, and Sakshi and Lakshmi because they’d insisted. It was witnessed by my father’s chief cleric, and we’d signed it in the temple beside the great marble mausoleum that my father had built for my mother while I’d been away in Bikampur. The sight of it had robbed me of breath.
But none of that had compared to the wedding itself. Arjun had come riding in on Padmini, the poor thing totally covered in golden-embroidered scarlet cloth. His father had arranged for a procession of dancers, shenai players, and drummers to march chorus alongside Padmini’s somber march through Nizam’s streets and my father’s fortress. Thunder zahhaks had flown overhead, shooting bolts of lightning to commemorate the occasion, and Sikander had led me to the tent to complete our public wedding vows to one another—a concession to Arjun’s family. After that, there had been so much drinking and dancing and eating that it had all become a bit of a blur.
Now my eyes were clear, because Arjun and I were alone at last, back home in Bikampur. I’d symbolically flown home with him like a proper bride, and his mother and his sister had led me into our bedroom and sat me on a mattress festooned with flower petals, my dupatta draped over me so that Arjun could unwrap me when he arrived. He’d taken his time, which was traditional, if a bit annoying. But he was here, right in front of me, his strong hand brushing aside the gauze-thin scarlet silk of my dupatta, just like in all those storybooks I’d been so fond of as a child.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he told me, his palm cupping my cheek as he stared into my eyes. “All day, in fact. It took every ounce of my self-control not to ravish you in the temple.”
“I don’t think that would have gone over well with my father’s clerics,” I murmured, but I loved the idea, because I hated my father’s clerics. They’d preached against me for years, though I supposed there was some small revenge in forcing them to attend to my wedding ceremony.
“No,” he agreed, leaning forward and planting his lips against mine for a moment. “I don’t think it would have.”
I reached up and twined my arms around his strong neck, pulling his body against mine, grateful that I didn’t wrench my back in the process, but I thought my injuries had finally healed. It had taken a month. I kissed his neck, and then his jaw, working my way to his mouth. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”
“Oh, is this your first time?” he teased as he eased me back against the mattress, the hard muscles of his arms supporting my back with a tenderness that had come from watching me whimper and grimace for weeks on end.
“My first time not having to worry about Lakshmi barging in on us with a nightmare, or Shiv telling us that he’s taking the bed, or Father showing up with a new suitor? Yes,” I answered.
He grinned and started working loose the loops and knots holding my peshwaz shut. “Well, we should enjoy tonight, then, because it’s only going to get worse.”
“Worse?” I raised a quizzical eyebrow, wondering what on earth he meant by that.
“You’ve got three Mahisagari girls coming to you to learn how to fly zahhaks. You’ll have Lakshmi back in no time to ‘help.’ And I know you, you’ll want children of your own someday too. I’m not sure how we’ll get them, but they’ll be along eventually, even if they’re just more girls like you in need of rescue.”
“You’re right, my prince,” I agreed, stroking his hair with my fingers, using my nails to send little shivers of pleasure into his scalp that I could sense in my fingertips.
“And you’ll be the coruler of Nizam,” he added. “Your father will want you enlarging the empire against its enemies. And your uncle will try to have us both killed, as will your cousins, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” I agreed, but I was smiling, because they were the furthest thing from my mind.
Arjun pressed his forehead against mine. “But in spite of all that, I want you to make me a promise.”
“Oh?” I asked, still massaging his scalp in the way I knew he liked best. “And what promise might that be?”
“No more adventures for a little while?” he suggested.
“I’m afraid I can’t make that promise, my prince,” I replied.
“No?” he asked.
I shook my head, biting my lower lip to suppress a big grin.
“And why is that?” he demanded, with a mock sternness that reminded me of a sweet puppy trying to learn to bark.
“Because I had planned to take you on quite a grand adventure this evening,” I said. “But, if you’d rather we didn’t . . .” I shrugged my shoulders and started wriggling my way out from beneath him.
I had scarcely moved an inch before his arms came down on either side of my shoulders, hemming me in. He leaned low over me, his voice husky. “All right,” he said. “I suppose one more adventure couldn’t hurt.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If first books are surreal, unexpected successes, then second books are definitely heart-wrenching slogs. I’ve heard many authors say that the second book is the hardest, and I feel like that was true with Gifting Fire. But I was lucky to have so much support in bringing this project to fruition.
To my parents, especially my mom, who reads every word I ever write—thanks. You’re the best.
To Maya Deane, thank you for letting me copy and paste random pieces of this book to you over Facebook Messenger so that I would feel like I was on the right track. I really needed a sounding board on this one and you delivered.
To Hallie Funk, Jeremy Van Mill, Sara Vega, and Nathan Eckberg, thanks so much for your support at a time when I really needed it. Without you, I definitely would never have managed to get this book in on time. Your inspiration and assistance are so appreciated.
To my friends Amrita Chowdhury, Ujaan Ghosh, Aarzu Maknojia, and Sneha Bolisetty, thank you so much for your advice, suggestions, and continued support.
To Katherine Pucciariello, I so appreciate your beta read on this book. Your excitement for it was infectious.
To Peter Brett, thank you for believing in Stealing Thunder enough to blurb it, and thank you for the countless hours of hand-holding and advice sharing over the last eighteen months. You have made the transition from first-time author to second-time author so much less painful than it would have been otherwise.
To Brigid Kemmerer, Kerry Kletter, Rob Hart, E. E. Knight, Myke Cole, Anita Kushwaha, and so many others in the literary community who helped to signal boost Stealing Thunder in the midst of a pandemic, I can’t thank you enough for your retweets and your enthusiasm. It really meant the world to me.
To my incredible editor, Kristine Swartz, thank you for bearing with me on rewriting the entire novel in the edits phase. I know that must have been a lot of extra reading for you, but I’m really grateful you gave me the freedom to do that.
To my brilliant publicist, Alexis Nixon, from meeting me on a street corner for New York Comic Con to arranging appearances online during COVID-19, you have given me so many opportunities that I never imagined I would get. Thanks so much!
To Jessica Plummer and the rest of my marketing team, I can’t thank you enough for handling the advertising side of things, which I’m definitely not the best at. It has been a huge stress relief to have you working with me, and I really appreciate all that you have done for Stealing Thunder, and all that you will do for Gifting Fire.
To my agent, Andrea Somberg—you are the best! I really appreciate your always having the time for me when I need you, giving me fabulous career advice, and giving me this opportunity to put these books out in the world.
To Deepti Gupta, thank you for being Razia’s voice in Stealing Thunder. Your support for my work has been so tremendous and so appreciated.
Lastly, thank you to everyone at Penguin Random House for believing in this project and helping put it out in the world. It’s been an incredible opportunity to actually see my own books on store shelves for the first time in my life, and I’m so grateful to have experienced it because of your belief in my work.
GLOSSARY
PEOPLE
Ahmed Shah (Ah-med Shah) [starting off easy]—sultan of Mahisagar
Ammi (Uh-me)—name for Varsha; it’s a word literally meaning “mom,” sometimes used by hijras when addressing their gurus
Arjun Agnivansha (Ahr-joon Ugh-nee-vuhn-shuh)—devastatingly handsome prince of Bikampur, and Razia’s chief love interest
Arvind Singh (Ahr-vind Seeng)—son of Govind Singh, a noble of Bikampur, and a skilled zahhak rider
Asma (Uss-muh)—wife of Ahmed Shah and sultana of Mahisagar
Disha (Dee-shuh)—Razia’s sister from the dera
Firangi (Fih-rung-ee)—a foreigner from the west
Gayatri Agnivansha (Gai-ah-tree Ugh-nee-vuhn-shuh)—Arjun’s mother and the maharani of Bikampur
Govind Singh (Go-vihnd Seeng)—a noble of Bikampur who possesses an overly large golden peacock statue
Haider (Hay-dur)—crown prince of Safavia
Hina Talpur (Hee-nuh Tahl-poor)—rightful jama of Zindh
Humayun (Hoo-mah-yoon)—Razia’s father, and the sultan of Nizam
Jai (Jive without the v)—a eunuch servitor at the palace in Bikampur
Jaskaur (Jahs-kohr)—Razia’s sister from the dera
Javed Khorasani (Jah-vayd Kor-ah-sah-nee)—subahdar of Zindh, and an enemy of Udai Agnivansha
Karim Shah (Kuh-reem [but roll your r a bit] Shah)—son of Ahmed Shah, prince of Mahisagar, and all-around jerk
Lakshmi (Luck-shmee)—Razia’s little sister in the dera, a former prince of Kolikota, and a brilliant zahhak rider
Nuri (Nur-ree)—one of Hina’s celas
Pir Tahir (Peer Tuh-heer)—a local religious cleric in Shikarpur
Rashid (Ruh-sheed)—the younger of Razia�
��s two cousins, and son of her uncle Shahrukh
Razia Khan (Rah-zee-uh Khan)—former crown prince of the sultanate of Nizam, now the subahdar of Zindh
Sakina (Suh-kee-nuh)—a famous jama of Zindh, for whom Hina’s zahhak is named
Sakshi (Sahk-shee)—Razia’s older sister in the dera, and the finest sitar player in the world
Salim (Suh-leem)—Razia’s deadname, used by jerks
Shahrukh (Shah-rookh)—Razia’s uncle, and a powerful subahdar
Shiv (Shihv)—a eunuch servitor at the palace in Bikampur (the nice one)
Sikander (Sick-under)—the master-at-arms of Nizam, and one of Razia’s least favorite people
Sunil Kalani (Su-neel Kuh-lah-nee)—a local emir of Zindh
Tamara (Tah-muh-ruh)—crown princess of Khevsuria
Tariq (Tah-rick)—the older of Razia’s two cousins, and the subahdar of Lahanur
Udai Agnivansha (Oo-day Ugh-nee-vuhn-shuh)—maharaja of Bikampur, and father of Arjun
Varsha (Vahr-shuh)—Razia’s guru, a mother-like figure who runs the Bikampur dera; often called Ammi by her celas
Vikram Sharma (Vih-kruhm Sher-mah)—Bikampuri noble who possesses a lovely khanda
Viputeshwar (Vih-poo-t(h)esh-wahr)—grandfatherly courtier in Rajkot fort
PLACES
Bikampur (Bee-kahm-poor)—a city in Registan ruled by the Maharaja Udai Agnivansha
Daryastan (Duh-ree-ah-stahn)—the subcontinent on which the story’s principal action takes place
Kadiro (Kuh-dee-roh)—chief port city and historic capital of Zindh
Kolikota (Koh-lee-koh-tah)—the coastal city where Lakshmi was born, currently part of the Virajendra empire
Lahanur (Lah-huh-noor)—a Nizami subah to the north of Zindh, ruled by Razia’s cousin Tariq
Mahisagar (Muh-hee-sa-grr)—a sultanate on the west coast of Daryastan, ruled by Ahmed Shah and home to Prince Karim