The Bookweaver's Daughter

by Malavika Kannan

  “Are you ready?” Naveen murmured. I nodded, and he said, “On three, then?”

  “One,” I whispered. I felt the heat releasing me. It felt like peeling off dirty clothes and stepping into a cool bath.

  “Two.” His powers, deep and serene, seemed to bend the room around him. He didn’t extinguish my fire—he harnessed it. He kept the rage at bay.

  “Three,” he finished, and I said, “Rev.”

  It was like there was another force—another world, another dimension—in the tiny space between our hands. I could feel my magic, fiery and turbulent, layering against Naveen’s, steady and constant, like deep ocean currents.

  I opened my eyes as all around us, the pillows bobbed into the air, floating like clouds. Even the mattress beneath us had risen a foot above the ground. In that moment, we were suspended in midair. We were floating.

  Naveen released my hand, and the bed fell back down with a thump.

  “How did it feel?” he asked.

  I couldn’t contain the grin that had spread across the face. “That was amazing,” I said. “I didn’t know magic could feel that way.”

  His lip turned up again in that inscrutable half-grin. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” he said. “Your magic isn’t supposed to be driven by rage or hate or fear. It’s pure.”

  He was right. For the first time, my magic belonged to me. I felt it like a dormant seed within me, finally allowed to germinate, and I realized, all of a sudden, that I’d had power over it this whole time.

  “All right, guru,” I said. “What’s next?”

  —

  From up in the mahal, the Fields were a faraway blur of grass, an embroidered rug flung onto the horizon. Wrapped in a shawl against the recent chill, I wondered which girl was gathering mangoes in my place.

  Even as summer waned, melting and cooling into autumn, I felt my own magic reshaping itself each day. It was almost laughable to think that once upon a time, raising a leaf had been a challenge. Because with Naveen as a friend, I finally gained control over my magic. From levitation I progressed to locomotion, summoning, and conjuring with an ease that even Sharati had a hard time criticizing.

  Still, as I gazed out of my window, I grappled with the realization that there was nowhere else to run, nobody left to be. I would remain cloistered in the mahal, even as a thousand summers turned into a thousand falls, facing the terrible truth that I belonged to someone else.

  I could see my desperation reflected in Ink Soul. Although I had poured out chapters of stories, poems, and vignettes, the opening story eluded me. Every night when I sat down to write, I reread those first lines about the kingdom over blue waters, hoping for the rest of the words to come. But inevitably, I turned the page away.

  It was on a clear golden morning when leaves fell like rain that Lady Sharati finally broached the subject of vayati.

  Instead of the library, our party of four had convened in a vast hall. Devendra glowered at me as I ran through my warm-ups.

  Sharati wasn't watching me with her usual haughty sneer—she seemed almost nervous. When I was finished, she pulled out a piece of purple parchment.

  “This is an order from his Majesty,” she told me. “He’s been reviewing your progress and thinks it is time that you prepare to perform vayati.”

  I frowned. “Why haven’t I seen him yet?”

  There had been no sign of Jahan since he had stood me up before the Council. It was like the king was invisible.

  Devendra looked annoyed. “My father is a busy man. He has a kingdom to run.”

  “And what about you?” I taunted. “You’re the imperial commander of Kasmira. Don’t you have anything better to do than babysit me?”

  He scowled. “Shut up.”

  I smiled at him. “You sound bitter. Has your father been giving you the cold shoulder, too?”

  I stretched my arms behind me. “It seems to me like we’re both getting the same amount of attention from our daddies. And mine’s dead.”

  Naveen sucked in his breath nervously as Devendra’s eyes narrowed, but Sharati cut across. “Quit bickering,” she said. “We’re running out of time. You need to be prepared to perform vayati.”

  “And how exactly do I do that?” I asked. “All you’ve told me is that I need to unlock my Yogi state.”

  “You’ll be able to unlock it during the actual ceremony,” said Naveen. “Lady Sharati can’t simulate it beforehand. That’s too much power to subject you to without actually performing vayati.”

  “In other words, we don’t want to kill you too soon,” said Sharati cheerlessly.

  “I feel valued,” I said, and Naveen grinned furtively into his notebook.

  “In the meantime,” Sharati said, ignoring my comment, “there’s another spell you can practice that will prepare you for how exhausting vayati feels. The technique is simple, but it’s the most taxing spell there is.”

  “You’ll be raising a Shield,” said Devendra.

  “A Shield?”

  “It’s a magical protection,” explained Naveen, sounding, as usual, like he’d swallowed a spellbook. “It causes your opponent’s spell to rebound against them. It’s very hard, because you have to control your own power in addition to theirs.”

  “Also, there’s no incantation,” said Sharati. “It’s a spontaneous expression of power. You have to be ready at any moment.”

  At her command, I started toward the opposite side of the room to practice.

  I felt Sharati’s magic before I heard it. Without warning, she raised her arms. “Aquine!” she screamed.

  I whirled around to see a bolt of freezing water spiraling from her palms, moving so fast that it looked like a blur. I ducked just in time, but the next jet hit me squarely in the face, sending me reeling back.

  “What was that for?” I said angrily—Devendra sneered. “You didn’t Shield,” said Sharati accusingly. “I told you that you had to be ready.”

  “I’m sorry,” I snarled. “It’s a little hard to focus when you keep trying to drown me.” I bit my lip to contain its shiver.

  “Quit complaining. Try again,” commanded Sharati.

  She reared back, and I waited on tenterhooks as the water hurtled towards me. But this time, I was ready.

  I felt the power building up inside me, swirling in my hands. As the first hints of water splashed me, I released it all at once. And then Sharati’s magic collided with mine.

  “Taxing” was an understatement.

  The pressure made me feel like I was trapped between two hard and unyielding jaws, slowly being crushed. I clenched my fists and watched the water splay against my invisible Shield—it rocketed back towards Sharati.

  Quick as lightning, she raised her arms and the water changed directions. It bounced off her own Shield so rapidly that I barely had time to react before I was hit for a second time. I fell flat on my back.

  “Not quick enough!” I heard Sharati saying. “Again!”

  I rolled out of the way and onto my feet as the fourth bolt of water struck the ground next to me. She waved her hands and the water rose up into a column, just like Naveen had once done. Except while Naveen’s magic felt gentle and capricious, the water racing towards me looked like it was ready to flatten me—

  I was exhausted, but I forced my magic to rise up like the water. I imagined an actual shield, hard as rock, expanding from my fingertips, just as the water collided with me.

  The Shield blossomed forth with surprising strength, but nobody seemed more surprised than Lady Sharati herself. The water rebounded with unconquerable force, catching her in the chest. For a moment, she was suspended in the air. Then she collapsed onto the floor.

  “Lady Sharati!”

  Naveen scurried towards her, looking terrified. I dropped the Shield and rushed to her side, ignoring Devendra’s derisive laughter.

  On second thought, I should have kept my Shield, because when she staggered to her feet, Sharati looked murderous.

  “
I’m sorry,” I started. “That was too powerful—”

  I had misread her expression. She wasn’t angry. She looked nervous.

  “Quiet, Bookweaver,” Sharati said, not looking at me. She was making eye contact with Devendra, who had stopped laughing and was nodding grimly.

  “Contact your father,” she told him. “Let him know it’s time.”

  “Time for what?” I interrupted, but she ignored me. “Chadav, accompany the Bookweaver to her chambers,” she said. “The lesson is dismissed.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ink Soul: Chapter VII

  It was during another autumn of crisp sunshine and golden leaves that Father stepped out of our cottage for the first time in months. Summer had passed without a single raid on the Fringes, and Father decided it was time to rejoice.

  “What are we celebrating?” I’d asked, almost suspiciously. He’d laughed. “Life,” he told me, tweaking my nose. He limped up and hoisted himself to the Firebreath Tavern.

  At first, I hated the Firebreath—the raucous bartenders, the filthy glasses, the loaded smoke that sent my skin crawling. But Father was happy, so I could overlook the smelly cigars, the uproarious laughter, the pounding music—at least for one night.

  Father ordered me persimmon cider—the only non-alcoholic drink the Firebreath served. I soon discovered the source of the bar’s name. Fire-dancers leaped and barreled through flames, swallowing its flickering fingers before belching them up again. The crowd guffawed as one, their faces illuminated by the ebbing firelight.

  I sipped through the dirty glass, but once I got used to the bitter filth, I realized the cider wasn’t bad. It was tangy and smoke-flavored, but the persimmon tasted sweet. And I realized, all of a sudden, that this was everything I had ever wanted—my father and I, safe and happy. In that fleeting, persimmon-flavored moment, I had found it. In that moment, my father and I had defeated Jahan Zakir.

  The drunken band struck up a lively tune—rich and flowing, snake pipes and dhol drums, far from the flavorless music they played for the privileged. I’d never paid much attention to music before, except for the occasional work chant at the Fields—it was something that belonged to people who were safer than me. But out of their own volition, my feet began to tap to the flamboyant tune.

  “My fiery girl,” crooned the minstrel. “You be the flower. You be the flaming flower that sets my poor heart ablaze …”

  And then the Bookweaver began to dance.

  He danced with none of the grace he’d had long ago, but he danced with all of the fire. He jerked up and down, his leg trailing funnily, arms whirling like watermills.

  Dancing unexpectedly—that’s how he’d used to be. Cracking random jokes, laughing wildly, making everyone smile—for a moment, it was as though Jahan had never taken power.

  Around him, people nodded appreciatively. The air was filled with clinks as people set down their glasses and made their way to the dance floor: some excitedly, others dragged by more intoxicated partners. The night wore on and a group chain formed—round and round went the dancers, my father flying between them. Suddenly his feet were in perfect alignment, his gait not quite so awkward.

  He didn’t look like the broken Bookweaver. He looked like a man.

  Inexplicably, my face was burning. In a rush of fury, I strode through the dance circle, sending people tripping indignantly out of the way.

  “What’s wrong, Reya?” he began, but I tugged him out the door.

  “Who are you, Father?” I snarled, tears tugging at my eyes. “Are you this brave, laughing man, or are you the crippled peasant in the Fringes? Are you a strong leader, or are you a helpless victim?”

  He looked aghast, but I wouldn’t let him get a word in.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, before I started to cry. “You made all of those people dance. You gave them hope. Why couldn’t you do that when it actually counted?”

  I saw that I had hurt him, and it gave me satisfaction, in spite of my guilt.

  That’s when I first learned about the cosmic laws of karma. The universe has a way of repaying cruelty, because the day after I screamed at him, Father came down with a fever, and I stayed up for four nights taking his temperature. During those sleepless nights, all I could think about was my guilt.

  We didn’t speak about the incident after that, but I don’t think he ever stopped thinking about it either.

  I set down the pen, hands shaking slightly. Ink stained the inside of my fingers, but nevertheless, I felt steadier than I had all day. I was determined to get my father’s story onto paper. It was a joyless but necessary task, one that kept me awake for hours at night.

  Still, the opening of Ink Soul eluded me. Over and over I read the first line.

  In the kingdom over blue waters…

  A distraction arrived in the shape of Naveen. I quickly stuffed the manuscript into my desk drawer.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked, flopping onto my bed.

  “Me? I’m fine,” I said. “I think the question is, how is Sharati holding up?”

  Naveen chuckled. “Not well. The expression on her face when you blasted her was priceless.”

  “Well, she’s had it coming for a while,” I said. “I would’ve loved to accidentally soak Devendra, too.”

  “He’s been on edge,” Naveen said darkly. “His father still hasn’t granted him an audience since Bharata. Devendra’s taking it really hard.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Devendra is already the military commander of Kasmira. Why is he so obsessed with his father’s honor?”

  Naveen gave me a searching look. “You’re the Bookweaver’s daughter,” he said. “Is that really so hard to understand?”

  I dropped my gaze. “I guess not,” I said. “But he’s still a psychopathic maniac.”

  “Look who’s talking,” said Naveen, and I threw a pillow at him.

  The door burst open, and Lady Sharati and Devendra appeared in the room. The crown prince, as usual, looked bored, but Sharati was almost frenzied.

  “Good. You’ve finished the report,” she told Naveen, who nodded hastily. Sharati turned to me. “It’s time.”

  I stood up. “You keep saying that,” I said. “Time for what?”

  Devendra smiled, and his expression sent a trickle of foreboding down my spine. Lady Sharati frowned slightly. “It’s time to have you housebroken, as it were,” she said. “We’re going to meet the Spider.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Naveen stiffen. He caught me looking at him and tried to feign casualness. “In that case, you’d better not be late,” he said.

  I followed them out of the room, but to my surprise, Devendra didn’t lead me down any hallway I recognized. Instead, he turned a corner into a dirty, sunless chamber, marked only by a door. Sharati strode ahead and placed her palm against the knob. I heard the telltale sizzle of magic as the knob turned and sprung open.

  Beyond the door, a twisting staircase tunneled deep into the earth. It smelled dank and foul, as though a creature had recently died down below. When Lady Sharati whispered “Temperus,” her voice echoed through the dark hall, illuminating torch brackets in a never-ending spiral downwards.

  “After you,” I told Devendra, who scowled. He shuffled down the staircase, and with a heightened sense of trepidation, I followed him into the bowels of the palace.

  Despite myself, sweat accumulated on my palms as we walked through the pitch-black hallway. I was acutely aware of the sound of my breathing and the click of Sharati’s heels on the floor; Devendra alone moved noiselessly. Dark shadows stood sentry along the corridor—I couldn’t tell if they were men or statues until one blinked, his white eyes glinting like pearls. Startled, I scuttled straight into Devendra.

  A servant, clearly as shaken as I was, struck a match and lit the torches in the room. Greasy light ebbed around us.

  “It has been a month since the his Majesty has started your education. Now, he deems it necessary to take cer
tain precautions,” said Lady Sharati. The torches cast shadows on her eyes, making her look like a phantom.

  Phantoms weren’t real, I told myself nervously: this was just my claustrophobia working on overdrive. The next thing I knew, I would be seeing ghosts.

  I saw a ghost.

  It was tall and slender, glinting with metallic fervor. As it passed by, the lanterns flickered, and I felt the temperature drop. Its face was serene as death itself behind a skull-like silver mask, shrouded beneath a black robe. Metal hands extended from its sleeves, but its form rippled, giving the impression that there were six more limbs, coiled tentacle-like beneath its robes.

  “Leave that to me, Lady Sharati,” it said, its voice like knives against stone. She obeyed immediately, shutting up with uncharacteristic reverence. My flesh crawled as it advanced, but I stood my ground.

  “The king’s greatest potential enemy … and ally,” murmured the creature. It sounded almost humanoid, but not quite; the cruelty in its voice was alien. “So insubstantial … like a wisp of smoke, easily wavering in loyalty.”

  I could only stare at the darkness beneath its hood. Somehow, I found my voice.

  “What are you?”

  “I am the Spider,” it whispered. “I am the emperor's chief Mage.”

  Its mouth curved into a ghostly smile.

  “You shudder, Bookweaver? I was once human like you. But I sought more than the fragile confines of human life. I may be immortalized into metal, but my spirit lives within. I carry the power of a thousand lives and a thousand deaths.”

  There was a pregnant silence, broken by Prince Devendra. “My father fears the Bookweaver’s disloyalty, now that’s she’s gotten more powerful,” he told the Spider. “He wants you to curse her magic. Like you cursed her father.”

  The mention of my father’s name was enough to overcome my fear.

  “What are you talking about?” I demanded. “What did you do to my father?”