“Nina,” I interrupted. “Do you believe me?”
She hesitated. “Of course I do, but—” She squinted at something behind me. “Reya, what is that?”
I whirled around to see something black and shapeless flowing across the street, thick and inscrutable as the marrow in my bones. Even from thirty feet away, even in the darkness, I picked up on its unmistakable scent.
“Smoke,” I said, and I was startled by how high-pitched my voice sounded. “Nina—”
And then my pearl started to burn.
Without waiting for a response, my legs started running out of their own accord, sending me tumbling down the street. Nina gasped, struggling to keep up with me. “What are you doing?”
Her eyes locked on mine, wide and wild, and something shifted in her expression. Her face had morphed into a mirror, reflecting my panic a thousand times over.
“My father. He’s in danger,” I choked out. “Something’s happened. We need to find him. Hurry—” I pulled at her wrist, unable to prevent the sob that escaped me. “Hurry—”
I turned the corner, and the ashes hit me face-first, sending me reeling back.
Smoke was pouring down the street, thick and scented with decay. Its lusty fingers attacked us with vengeance: clawing our eyes, our throats, anywhere it found vulnerability. Coughing, Nina tugged me forward—and then, as the smoke parted, I saw it.
It was my father’s workshop—the cottage that had stood firm against war and death and everything in between—except it was no longer our home. It had been razed to the ground. It was a burnt-out torch, a funeral pyre, a vision of Hell itself. It was a pile of ash and smoke-drowned brick, an impossible magic trick—senseless, empty, gone.
And here’s the thing.
You can live a whole life, filled with millions of moments that twist and blur like layers of paint.
But no matter how many layers, minutes, seconds, years you put before it, there will be the Moment after which all bets are off. You can divide your entire existence neatly into pre-Moment and post-Moment. Because that Moment will never really leave you.
My throat closed up as I reached for the pearl. My fingers struggled for a moment, then closed. The pearl was shattered, confirming what I knew deep down but simply could not accept: that this was my Moment, that the Bookweaver was dead.
I lurched towards the wreckage, only to feel Nina’s grip tighten on my wrist. “Reya—” She was pleading with me, pulling me towards safety, but I wrenched myself free.
“Don’t just stand there!” I snarled. “Do something! Dig! It’s not too late. It’s not too late. We can save him. It’s not too late—”
The light in Nina’s eyes was more than a reflection of the embers before us—it was its own conflagration, the kind of fire that melted my fury and brought my resolve crashing down.
“Nina, come on, please don’t be stupid, don’t give up—he’s somewhere in there, we need to get him out, we need to rescue him—”
“Reya,” she said despairingly, and something in her voice finally broke through the haze of panic.
I raised my hands in surrender, as though my hands could protect me, as though they could block out her words, but they couldn’t—they couldn’t—
Nina took my hands in hers, and when she next spoke, her voice was soft. “Reya. There’s nothing you can do. There's nobody left in that house. We’re on our own.”
CHAPTER THREE
For a moment, all I could do was stare at her, thoughtless, breathless, useless. “But—”
Her grip on me was gentle but firm. “Reya, you’re in shock right now. You need to breathe. Come on, breathe with me. Breathe.”
In spite of everything, I obeyed. I inhaled a great draft of smoky air. I exhaled. I inhaled. I exhaled again. And then, as the ashes settled, I cried.
Ever since he’d gotten sick, I’d prepared for this moment. I’d lived in its shadow, challenged it, made my peace with it—but still, I cried. I think it’s strange that we shed tears in grief, because my grief is a burning fire, blackening my heart, roaring to be fed with regret.
We burn our dead in Kasmira. In that dark and endless moment, I finally understood why.
“Reya,” Nina was saying urgently. “How did this happen? Who did this to him?”
“I don’t know,” I said, but my stomach was sinking. Because I did know who had done this. There was only one man capable of it: Jahan Zakir. He had been hunting the Bookweaver for seven years. And now that my father was gone, I had finally become the new Bookweaver.
And his new target.
“It was Jahan,” I managed. “The king got to him. There’s nowhere safe anymore—” I staggered to my feet, sickened and disoriented. Out of habit, I rubbed my father’s pearl for reassurance, but it was cracked.
Nina was panicking. “I believe you. I believe you,” she said. “But we need to find someone. We need to tell someone what happened—”
I whirled on her. “Who are we going to tell, Nina? The king? The king who killed him? There’s nothing to do. I need to leave, now.”
“What?”
I took a deep breath, and when I spoke next, my voice sounded like it belonged to someone else: cold, emotionless, matter-of-fact. “Nina, listen very carefully,” I said. “I am the Bookweaver’s daughter, which means that it’s up to me to protect my father’s legacy. You have to let me go.”
There was an agonizing silence, and at last Nina spoke.
"If we have a kingdom to escape," she said quietly, "we have to leave right away."
In spite of everything, I stopped and stared at her.
"We don’t have a kingdom to escape,” I said. “I do. You’re going to stay here in the Raj."
She frowned. "What are you talking about? You don’t actually expect me to sit around, waiting for you to get killed—"
I let out a mad little laugh of frustration. Of all the scenarios I had imagined, I was not prepared for this.
"Don't be ridiculous. Nobody knows that you were here. You can’t be hurt. There’s no way I’m letting you risk all that to come with me."
She shook her head. "Reya, I can't let you leave alone. It's too dangerous—"
“Aren’t you listening? That's exactly why you can't come," I interrupted. "If they catch me, they will kill me like they killed my father. But you—you don't deserve any of this! I'm giving you a chance to live your own life. Why won't you take it?"
Nina stared back at me, her lip curled with a stubbornness I knew too well. "This isn’t your choice to make," she said. “You’d do the same for me.”
I looked up to see a glowing moon: night had already fallen. Time was running out.
"Fine," I said tersely. "You can come. But we need to get going."
I felt the guilt of my words pulling me down, as if I was sentencing her to a life on the run. I wanted to take back the words, but my tongue wouldn't move. Somehow, I felt like I couldn't bear my burden alone.
“All right,” she said. “If there’s anything we can salvage from the house, we need to find it. Come on—”
Together, we sifted through the wreckage. There wasn’t much left: a few bronze rupam coins. A handful of half-scorched dresses. An old knife and waterskin. And buried beneath his desk, miraculously unscathed amidst the ashes, was my father’s book of Kasmiri mythology.
Seemingly of their own accord, my hands opened the book. The pages were a little singed, but the ink remained legible. I thumbed through until I found what I was looking for: the legend of the Yogis. The last story my father had woven for me. I turned to the last page, the one that had been empty—
Except it was no longer unfinished.
The End of the Story
And so it was that the Yogis began to spin their threads, threads that became ensnarled and tangled as the years went by, warping in their looms. Weaving. Waiting.
Reya, you are the final thread in the fabric that your ancestors have unspooled over eons, and now you must take up the loom. I
t is time for you to discover your place in the tapestry and find your own pattern to follow. And that will be the greatest challenge of all.
I regret that I cannot be here to steady your hand, as my forefathers did for me. But I take comfort in the belief that you will finally be able to weave your own legacy, define your own truth, and tell your own story. You’ll meet life head-on, overcome it, and master whatever comes next. For me, that’s enough.
It has to be.
Amar
For a moment, I took shallow breaths, struggling to keep a lid on my rising tears. My fingers traced his signature, familiar as my own breath, as if I could somehow absorb his leftover warmth. Because his living hands had once traced this paper, shaping out his dying wish. He had left me no cliffhangers. No unfinished stories. No loose ends.
I slipped my father’s book in my cloak and tucked the broken pearl back beneath my shirt. I could always use a piece of him with me.
“Nina,” I said, as evenly as I could. “I think I’m ready.”
She took my hand, and together we jogged down the ashy street. This time, I didn't look back when I ran, leaving all but the most persistent memories in my wake.
—
One of my earliest memories of the Bookweaver is from the day he almost lost me.
When I was four, he’d built me a swing, dangling invitingly from the veranda of our bungalow. I remember squealing when he helped me into the seat, clutching the rope as tightly as I could. "You're not made of fine china," he'd reassured me. "You won't break."
He pushed me high into the air, and for a moment, all I could see was the sky, sprawling around me, embracing me, swallowing me. I could see the royal mahal, the Endless Jungle and the Fields—unable to contain myself, I leaned forward and crowed, my cries mixing with my father's cheers behind me.
In that moment, I knew what it felt like to fly. I was still afraid, but not that I would fall. I was afraid that if I could, I would take off and never look back.
I had twisted towards my father, hoping he could anchor me to my home, and somehow, the swing left my feet. I crashed into the garden pond, the reflected sky claiming me once more.
Somehow, I have since forgotten the exhilarating swoop of soaring like a bird. All I can remember is my father's tear-stained face as he bandaged my bruises. His words are woven into my memory forever: "Reya, you almost broke. I almost broke you."
I reached for him through the haze of numbing tinctures. "I can't break,” I said drowsily. “I'm not made of fine china."
He laughed, despite the tears. "No, you're certainly not. You're my unsinkable, unbreakable little girl."
But he was wrong, for now I was surely breaking, surely sinking. Perhaps it was best he was dead, because I could not bear the thought of him seeing me now, terrified to face the life that he’d sacrificed everything to build for me.
I could see it now: the dark lane that led out of the Fringes. Nina and I had been careful to avoid the turbaned soldiers that were standing guard along the streets. Still, by the time the main city came into view, the sun was starting to rise.
“This is going to be the hardest part,” I warned her quietly. “We’re going to have to make it across the heart of the city in broad daylight. If you want to back out, now’s the time.”
Nina merely smiled. “Not a chance,” she said. “Now, are we leaving or not?”
I took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, and together, we plunged into the bustling crowd.
We made it to the corner of the street before I realized that something was horribly wrong.
Enormous crowds of people were crammed into the main road, jostling to form a rowdy queue. I craned my neck to see what was happening, but I couldn’t see over the head of an irate man in front of me. Instead, I caught sight of the unmistakable gleam of swords—soldiers.
Immediately, I shrank back, fear surging through my veins. People closed in around us, protesting and shoving angrily to see what was happening. Nina stared at me, her face rigid, but there was nowhere for us to go. We were trapped.
"They're inspecting every person who leaves this street," Nina hissed. She didn’t need to say anything else—we both knew exactly who they were looking for.
No sooner had she said this than someone started screaming. Thirty feet ahead of us in the line, the soldiers had seized a girl—about my age and size—with short hair the same color as mine. She was struggling and arguing. "I don't know what you’re talking about! I'm not her, I swear!"
The nearest soldier grabbed her by the chin and turned her towards his commander, who scrutinized her carefully. "Our description is of a fifteen-year-old girl with long brown hair," I heard him mutter to his comrade. "This isn’t our fugitive. Let her go."
Horrified, I turned to Nina. The crowd was slowly shuffling us closer to the checkpoint. It was too late to turn back without arousing suspicion.
Nina's brow was furrowed, thinking fast. "Come here," she whispered. I obeyed, and she pulled the knife out.
"Wait, what are you—"
She looked around frantically. "You saw that. They're looking for a girl who matches that description," she said, lowering her voice—a gesture that was wasted, due to the clamor. "Stay still, Reya."
Nina pulled back my hood and seized my braid. I heard the swish of the knife, felt a tug at my lower scalp, and turned just in time to see my severed braid fall to the ground, where it quickly disappeared under the onslaught of crowded feet.
"What the—" I touched the back of my neck, now tickled by short, frayed hair ends. I was just feet from the nearest soldier now. There was no time to think: I simply closed my eyes.
An impatient hand pushed the back of my bare neck forward—I turned to see Nina stumbling along behind me, and the street was open before us, we surged ahead—and just like that, we were free.
We were halfway through the bazaar before either of us could muster the courage to speak again.
Nina looked apologetically at me. "I'm really sorry I had to cut your hair, Reya," she said.
I tugged at the ends of my hair, which was barely long enough to reach my chin—and that was the least of my worries.
"Are you joking, Nina? That was brilliant. You just saved my life."
She still looked worried. "We're not safe yet. It's only a matter of time before they realize they missed you, and then there will be soldiers everywhere.”
Nina was right. By the time we got there, the main gate was swarmed with soldiers, so we doubled back to a side exit, relying on the bustle of people through the Raj to disguise us.
The side alleys were silent. Nina kept jumping at small noises, from the crunch of late summer leaves to the slosh of water in sewage pipes. I reached out and took her hand. I could feel her pulse racing and knew that mine was, too.
"It's less than a mile now," Nina whispered an hour later. The buildings, which had grown progressively shabbier, were giving way to broken dirt roads and abandoned fields. I could see the Endless Jungle in the distance, sprawled wide and empty before us.
“Almost there,” I murmured. Behind us, something rustled, and Nina jumped, clutching my arm. "For God's sake, Reya, you're giving me anxiety—"
"That wasn't me," I hissed. "And why are we whispering? We haven't seen any soldiers for miles—"
"But we definitely will if you keep up this racket—"
She fell silent so quickly, it was like she’d been struck mute.
I turned around, mouth still open in retort, to see the soldiers looming above us. Their horses whinnied threateningly, and I felt my skin go cold.
Their commander pulled off his helmet, and with a jolt of shock, I realized that he was barely older than Nina. The fury in his purple eyes terrified me even more than the sword at his belt.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
We said nothing, and he bared his teeth in rage. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“No,” I whispered, barely daring to meet his eyes.
>
The young commander disembarked, and I noticed what I hadn’t before: the seal on his lapel. It was an ornate Z, carved with a royal insignia.
Z for Zakir.
“I’m Prince Devendra Zakir,” the boy said coldly. “Heir to the throne and imperial commander of Kasmira. So I will ask you one more time, and you’d better answer: what is your name?”
Nina cleared her throat nervously. "Deepa," she lied, but she was completely betrayed by the tremor in her voice.
Behind us, there was a clattering of horse hooves. I turned to see a veiled female figure riding towards us, a silver whip dangling from her fingers. Through a slit in her veil, her eyes landed on mine. They were golden and round, like a cat’s.
"Well, Lady Sharati?" Devendra barked. I recoiled as the woman approached me, bending so close that her whip quivered with my breaths. I swore I heard her whisper something to me—words that were alien and eerie, but strangely familiar.
I couldn't explain what happened next, but I felt an unearthly tingle beneath my skin, as if something within my blood was stirring. Instinctively, unequivocally, I knew what it was. Magic.
Lady Sharati was a Mage.
"Amar Kandhari’s blood runs in her veins," she said harshly. "My magic does not lie, Prince Devendra. This is the Bookweaver."
Next to me, Nina stiffened. I had no idea what this Mage had done, but we had no time to dwell on it. I looked around wildly—there was nowhere to run—
The soldiers dismounted, and I heard the scrapes of swords leaving sheaths. "Nina Nadeer and Reya Kandhari," Devendra said, and I felt a shock at hearing my true name used at last. "You are wanted by my father, our glorious ruler Jahan, for treachery against the Zakir crown."
I was dimly aware of my heartbeat in my own ears.
Beside me, Nina’s eyes had lost their characteristic defiance. She wasn't even afraid—she looked empty. The sight of her eyes sparked something deep within me.
Before I realized what I was doing, I had shoved Prince Devendra into Sharati, sending them both stumbling back. The soldiers pulled out their swords and lunged at me, but I was invincible. There was a roaring, rushing heat in my blood—a white-hot power that I had never felt before. And the magic erupted at once in a terrible scream, wrenching the flames from within my blood—
The Bookweaver's Daughter Page 3