The quiet before a storm.
One of the lords glanced carelessly at me. “That’s not your concern,” he said.
The cold was so deep it burned. It felt like icy fire.
“Like hell it’s not,” I said. “What did you do to my father?”
Raksha frowned. “Your father,” he said, “was an insolent wreck of a man who outlived his purpose to us. As such, we decided to speed up the process of transferring his powers to you. We hoped you would be more reasonable.”
“You murdered my father,” I said, “because you couldn’t break him.” The air was growing painfully hot around me. “And I swear to God, you won’t break me, either.”
I saw the lords’ eyes widen, but I could not focus on anything except my incandescent anger. It was the kind of fury that made your bones ache and lungs split. It set you ablaze, ignited your skin, made you want to burn everything down.
It was a fury that consumed you.
Below me, the mirrored mosaic had begun to tremble, tinkling ominously. There was a rumbling—the room was shivering in time with my pounding heart—then the fury burst free like the conflagration within my veins, and the floor erupted.
Devendra tackled me out of the way, but the mosaic beneath me wasn’t spared. Glass shattered within the massive tiled Z, forming a deep crater that glinted with razored shards.
“Stop fighting!” he shouted as I struggled against his grasp, still reaching wildly for Lord Raksha.
“You will not break me!” I screamed with a mad laugh I didn’t know I had in me. “I will break your mosaics—I will break everything—you will not—”
Lady Sharati and Devendra each seized me by an arm, apparently overcoming their mutual hatred in a joined attempt to subdue me. I kicked my legs fruitlessly, but they dragged me out of the Council.
Right before the wooden doors slammed shut, I caught a glimpse of Sharati raising her arms, causing the mosaic to magically sew itself back together.
It was only when we were nearing my chambers that Sharati gathered herself to speak again.
“What did you do?” she cried. “You are incredibly close to being killed, as it is. You’ll be lucky if your friend Nina survives the night.”
I gaped at her, unable to process. “No,” I said. “No, I didn’t mean for that to happen—”
“Good night, Bookweaver,” she snarled, shutting the chamber doors in my face.
—
There was no point in crying when there was nobody to comfort you. There was no point in crying when guilt unfurled in your chest, reminding you that you didn’t deserve to be comforted, anyways.
In the wardrobe in the bathroom, I found piles of nightclothes—silk gowns, cotton robes. I selected one at random and pulled it on. I noticed that my hair, so elegantly brushed back by Kira, had become disheveled and limp.
That, at least, was a problem I could solve.
There was a pair of paring scissors in the wardrobe. I held it around my hair, relishing the thrill of cold metal against my skin. Then I closed it around the strand, watching dark brown hairs fall like ash. I took another fistful and snipped. Then another. And another.
As I cut my hair, I thought about my guilt. I imagined it as a little worm—a pale, wriggling thing I had adopted in my heart the day my father died. I’d managed to keep the worm at bay, but now it was preying on me, growing juicy and fat. If I didn’t kill it soon, it devour me until there was nothing left.
When I was finished, I was standing on a carpet of my own hair. My hair stuck out at different lengths, tangled around my face. Unkempt. Unrecognizable.
I dropped the scissors and left the bathroom, not bothering to sweep away the hair. My eyes had fallen on the shelf of books that towered over the desk.
The books were bound in leather and velvet, their spines embossed with jewelled hinges. Just looking at them reminded me of my father.
I thought briefly about his book of Kasmiri mythology, lost somewhere in Bharata—probably burned to ashes with the rest of the city. The last memory of him I had left.
I remembered the days my father and I sat in the library, surrounded by castles of books. Candlelight ebbed and flowed as he turned the pages—pages that were yellowed and brittle, but full of words that sang.
“Books are like our friends,” he once told me. “They don’t backstab. They listen. They heal by whispering words that outlive even time.” He’d smiled at me. “And if the book you need doesn’t exist, write it.”
Without realizing it, I had pulled one of the notebooks out of the shelf and found a blank page. My quill moved, almost involuntarily, to print the book’s title.
Ink Soul
I’d never finished anything I started writing. My father had written dozens of books—books that had once filled shelves all over Kasmira before they were burned by the Zakirs. He had promised me that one day, I would weave my own words, and that they’d make him proud.
I dipped my quill in the ink and poised it over the paper, letting a single drop splash onto the edge of the page.
In the kingdom over blue waters, a dream vibrated through the land.
It was time to kill that worm.
It shone with the sun when it rose, and gleamed like candles in the dark. It was a girl’s dream that the kingdom would be free.
As I stared at the text that sprawled across the page, I was overcome by familiarity. This wasn’t just any story.
The girl was powerful, but she was afraid. Fear clung to her heart like mold, and the sun never warmed the darkest corners of her mind. The girl carried a piece of a dead man’s heart inside of her. She was filled with scraps of wisdom gained from the spaces between his words—the moments when he wasn’t trying to teach her anything except how to live. It was a crushing burden.
This story was mine.
And so the girl set out on a journey. It was not just a journey to flee the king whose evil knew no bounds, nor was it one to avenge the father she‘d lost.
Right before sleep overtook me, I scrawled down another line.
It was a quest to discover herself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I woke up with a scream.
For a moment, all I could do was gasp, trying to erase the distorted visions of my nightmare—Nina, standing alone in the mirrored Council, fire raining down overhead. Devendra, pointing at Jahan’s throne, which was no longer empty, but filled by another man—a gruesome corpse with brown hair and green eyes the same shade as mine—
“Reya?”
The door swung open and Kira Chadav burst into the room, balancing a chai tray on her hip. She caught sight of me, shivering at the desk where I had fallen asleep, and I saw her eyes widen in concern. “Are you okay? I heard you screaming from the hallway.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m fine,” I managed. “I just— nightmare, I think.”
Kira set the chai tray on the dresser and poured me a steaming cup. “This was meant for Devendra’s breakfast, but I think he can spare a cupful for the Bookweaver,” she said with a smile. She sat on the side of my bed and waited expectantly as I took a sip.
“This is incredible,” I said at last. And it was. The gingery chai seemed to blossom in my throat, tracing a warm path down to my stomach.
“Anything I can do for you,” said Kira gently. Her expression turned more serious. “Would you like to talk to me about it?”
I tried for a smile.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s just … my best friend, Nina. I don’t know where she is, but I know she’s suffering, and it kills me. She’s all I have.”
Kira’s smile was too understanding. “I heard about her,” she said. “And I can imagine how you’re feeling. I have a brother, Naveen, who works in the library. He’s all I have, too. I know how I’d feel if something happened to him.”
She pushed her bright brown hair out of her eyes and glanced over to the door, as if to check that the hallway was empty. “But between the two of us, from what I’v
e heard, your friend is a lot stronger than you think.”
Kira fell silent as her fellow servants, Trisha and Sita, filed into the room, already bearing fresh linens.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, so only she could hear. “For the chai and for the sympathy.”
She was already clearing away my cup. “Come on,” she said softly, with only a smile to acknowledge what I had said. “If you get up now, I’ll even ask the girls to let you bathe yourself.”
In spite of everything, as I hastened to get dressed, I wondered whether I had actually made my second friend in my life.
Lady Sharati was irate when she came to receive me—Devendra had been sent to accompany her, an arrangement which neither of them seemed pleased with. As we headed through the palace, we made a strange trio—Sharati, veiled and fuming; me, nervously stumbling over my sari; Devendra, his hand clenched moodily around his sword.
The soldiers at the doorway bowed respectfully as we entered a grand room, designated by embossed golden letters to be the library. Despite myself, I felt my pulse quicken with excitement.
The library was warm and musty, rays of dust slanting through the ceiling windows. Mosaics shattered the light overhead into a million prismatic hues, highlighting the towering rows of bookshelves. Past the archways I could see rows of manuscripts, colorful like jewels, spiraling into the light.
Devendra rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “It’s a library,” he said. “Quit ogling. If you’re the Bookweaver, you ought to get used to seeing books.”
I ignored him, watching instead as Sharati raised her arms, causing a table to soar through the air and land neatly in front of me.
“Have a seat, Bookweaver,” she told me. “It’s time to begin your magical training.”
I sat down, and she took a seat across from me, steepling her hands before her.
“As you’re aware by now, the king wants you to weave a spell for him that will strengthen his power over Kasmira,” Sharati said. “In order to awaken your Yogi state, you need to build up your magical stamina by becoming proficient in spell-casting.”
Devendra stared at her. “Speak Kasmiri, will you?” he snapped.
Sharati huffed. “Reya is the Bookweaver,” she explained impatiently. “As such, she has two sets of powers. She has the ability to cast spells, like I do. But as the Bookweaver, she also has the power to perform vayati, or weave her words to life.”
The crown prince looked irritated. “We all get that part,” he interrupted. “But what’s the Yogi state?”
“It’s not a what,” said Sharati haughtily. “It’s a where. It’s a level of magical consciousness and meditation that most Yogis are lucky to achieve even once in their lifetime.”
Devendra looked more confused than ever, so I took the opportunity to cut across. “You’re saying that I have the power to perform vay—whatever you just said—”
“Vayati,” said Sharati irately. “It’s the Ancient Kasmiri term for ‘Bookweaving.’ There are only three rules to perform vayati. The words must be in Ancient Kasmiri, you must be in your Yogi state, and whatever you do, your vayati cannot bring you personal gain.”
“Ancient Kasmiri?” I echoed blankly.
“It’s a nearly extinct tongue that harnesses magic,” someone said from behind me. “It’s the only language on earth that’s strong enough to carry the power of vayati.”
I turned to see a boy appear from behind a shelf. The first thing that struck me was his copper-bright hair. The next thing I noticed were his eyes: they were a thousand colors at once, iridescent like diamonds in the light.
He nodded politely at Lady Sharati. “You called for me, my lady?”
“Sit down, Chadav,” Sharati told him. “You’re fluent in Ancient Kasmiri, aren’t you?”
The boy didn’t respond at first: his eyes had landed on Devendra before moving over to me. I saw the gem-coated pupils widen in shock.
“I’m self-taught,” he said, recovering himself. “I’ve studied every piece of Ancient Kasmiri literature that we have in this library, my lady.”
Lady Sharati nodded. “That’ll do. You’ll be helping me train the Bookweaver, in that case. You can start by documenting her progress for the king.”
His eyebrows rose. “I—wow. The Bookweaver. Okay.”
He offered me a hand. “Naveen Chadav,” he said. “Scribe of the royal library.”
I shook it, realizing with a jolt that he was the brother Kira had mentioned. “Reya Kandhari,” I replied, echoing him. “Bookweaver.”
His lip quirked up in a half-smile.
Devendra scoffed impatiently. “There will be plenty of time for introductions later, Kandhari,” he snapped. “Right now, my father’s got you on a tight schedule.”
I glared at him. “So your daddy wants me to perform vayati for him,” I said. “But I don’t even know how to cast normal spells, let alone awaken my Yogi state.”
Sharati nodded. “Which is why you’ll begin with basic incantations,” she said. “The only way your Yogi state can be unlocked is if you take control of your own magic. And judging by what happened yesterday, you’ve got a long way to go.”
“All right,” I interrupted, ignoring her needling. “What’s the first spell, then?”
“Today, you will be learning the levitation spell,” Sharati said. She pulled a mango leaf from within her robes and placed it on the table.
“Magic can be extremely taxing,” she warned me. “Casting a spell that’s too strong can lead to the death of a Mage. This leaf, however, is easy enough to levitate that we don’t need to worry about that happening.”
Devendra snickered, and I tried my best to tune him out. “I understand,” I said. “Whenever I’ve used magic without meaning to, I’ve nearly passed out from exhaustion afterwards.”
Beside me, Naveen gave a small gasp of awe.
“A rookie mistake,” said Sharati snappishly. “Now, we will begin with the incantation.”
She nodded at Naveen, who opened one of the massive books. “This book is called Bhasa Pratana,” he said, almost reverently. “It translates to An Ancient Language, and it contains all the Ancient Kasmiri spells a Mage—or Bookweaver—could ever need.”
I peered at the yellowed page to see lines of spiky symbols that I couldn’t decipher. The marks were strangely distorted, yet they seemed to whisper. Suddenly, I realized that I was seeing true Ancient Kasmiri—the archaic language that transformed the landscape of Father’s oldest books.
“This is the Runic Code,” Naveen explained. “Ancient Kasmiri is written in pictographs, with each rune representing a spell. The rune you will need today,” he added, running his fingers over the script, “is this one.”
“Rev,” murmured Sharati at the sight of the rune.
“Rise,” Naveen translated for my benefit, already taking notes.
Sharati stretched out her long spidery fingers. “I’m going to demonstrate,” she told me, “and you will perform the spell after me.”
The Mage closed her eyes and raised her hands over the leaf. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Devendra, despite himself, lean in to watch.
“Rev,” Sharati breathed, so softly I nearly missed it.
It all happened simultaneously—a breeze of pure energy washed over the table, sending the pages of Bhasa Pratana rippling. The leaf billowed slightly, then wafted up into the air. Within a moment, it was suspended above our heads, as though the air beneath it had solidified.
Lady Sharati opened her eyes, and the leaf plummeted back down, landing in front of me. She nodded expectantly, and I felt my fingers freeze up.
Remembering what she had done, I took a deep breath and placed my hands over the leaf, hoping I didn’t look as stupid as I felt. I glanced around at my tablemates—Naveen looked excited, Devendra bored, Sharati impatient.
“Rev,” I said clearly.
Nothing happened.
The leaf remained resolutely still—I’d have been better off blowing at it, fo
r all the reaction I got.
I took another deep breath, reached deep into me. I struggled to root into the magic I had once felt entwined into my veins, carved from my marrow and resolute as windfall. But I came up short, because this time, I was empty. I couldn’t find my magic.
“Rev,” I muttered, and this time, I felt a tingle in my lower stomach. The leaf shuddered, but then the power subsided, leaving me angrier than ever—
“It isn’t working. I don’t know what’s wrong—” I started, but Sharati’s face contorted.
“What’s wrong is you, Bookweaver!” she snarled. “You’re not trying hard enough!”
That stung. I felt the heat rising up to my face, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
I knew what magic felt like—the rush, like a shot of sugar in my veins, concentrated at my fingertips, pulsing in my bones. But no matter how hard I concentrated, my fingers felt deadened, my body so tensed that I felt, for all the world, like I was trying to lay an egg. “Rev,” I said. “Rev!”
Devendra banged the table, causing Naveen to jump.
“What’s wrong with her?” he shouted. “I’m responsible to my father if she fails. I know she’s done it before, so why can’t she squeeze any magic out—”
“Let’s see you do it, then,” I countered, but Sharati interrupted.
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