The Bookweaver's Daughter

by Malavika Kannan

  My father opened his mouth to protest, but I couldn’t be stopped, not now.

  “I’m not going to follow your path,” I said. “I’m going to follow Jahan’s path. You know why?” I spat the next words out with a bitterness I didn’t know I could muster. “Because I’m not the Bookweaver’s daughter. Not anymore.”

  My voice rang in the air, burning bridges, building walls between us. He sighed.

  “Well, I hope you can find her within you again,” he said quietly. My father looked at his palm, and the pearl disappeared with a whisper of magic. “And I never wanted you to follow my path, or anyone else’s, for that matter. I always knew you would pave your own.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and walked away into the darkness of deep sleep, leaving a second unsaid goodbye in his wake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It felt like I’d barely closed my eyes before a frantic Sharati was shaking me awake, and Trisha and Sita were herding me in front of the mirror, their fingers trembling as they laced me into a regal purple sari.

  When I closed the chamber door behind me, the lock clicked shut with a sense of finality. I think I knew, then, that I wasn’t coming back.

  The sun still hadn’t risen when we reached the doors that guarded the throne room. There was only the briefest moment to steel my nerves before they swung open.

  Despite myself, I gasped.

  The throne room was so vast that it made the mirrored Council look like a closet. Adorned with tapestries of bloody hunts and purple velvet, giant portraits of ancient royalty lined the hallway. And at the very end of the hall, sitting so still that I nearly mistook him for a portrait himself, was King Jahan Zakir.

  He was reading a book that was bound in leather the color of deep wine, or perhaps blood. He lifted a slender finger, as if to say, “Give me a moment.” Over the top of the book, his eyes brushed mine, and I felt a jolt of electricity pass through me. The room seemed to have started spinning.

  I guess I had been expecting the devil himself on the throne. But somehow, Jahan was even worse, because he was the devil with a beguilingly human face. I could see the resemblance to his son immediately in his eyes. They were clever, sharp purple orbs, gleaming unusually bright for the small man who owned them.

  He set down his book and raised his hand. The lords assembled around the chamber bowed—even the Spider kept a reverent distance. Only Devendra, sulking at his side, continued to gaze resolutely away.

  “Welcome, Bookweaver,” said Jahan. “It’s my pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “If only it was under different circumstances,” I said, before I could stop myself.

  I heard Sharati gasp, but Jahan merely smiled. It was a thin, lipless snake-smile that quite didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I understand,” he said. “Your anger still boils. I know your type, Bookweaver, because I see it in myself. Those of us in power must learn to hide our emotions behind a mask, as I’m sure you’re learning.”

  I barely dared to breathe as he continued.

  “It may surprise you to learn that I admire you,” he said quietly. “You and I have both come from darker beginnings. We’re the underdogs. We had to fight for what we believed in. Nothing was ever handed to us.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” I heard myself say. “Why are you tormenting your citizens and persecuting Mages?”

  Jahan granted me a fleeting smile. “They told me that you like stories,” he said amicably. “Well, this one is mine.”

  Without waiting for my response, he slipped off of his throne and started down the steps.

  “My predecessor, Viraj, was an imbecile. He thought that power could be shared—among the Yogis, among the Mages, among the peasantry. He inherited his power, so he never knew the valor of fighting for glory. I, meanwhile, was powerless, so I could see it all with clear eyes.”

  Everything was silent except for the Spider’s ragged breaths. Jahan lowered his voice, turning his gaze squarely upon me.

  “They say that power should only be given to those with no desire for it,” he said musingly. “But you and I both know that’s untrue. Power belongs to those who take it, not those Mages to whom it’s handed upon birth. That knowledge made me a symbol for those who believed in me.”

  He smiled.

  “And so I, like you, rose up. I took back my throne for what I knew to be true—that power is worthless unless sanctified by honor. And yes, people had to die, but they were a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.”

  There was a theatrical pause before he delivered the punchline.

  “Truly, Bookweaver, what makes me any different than you?”

  In that horrible moment, I realized he was right.

  I had blood on my hands, thick and red as that on Jahan’s. I had single-handedly destroyed the entire city of Bharata, raising fire and bloody hell. I was responsible for unthinkable pain, all in service of a greater ideal I never quite attained. At the end of the day, how was I any better than Jahan?

  King Jahan slowly descended into the hall. His gait was oddly distorted—half-limp, half-glide. As he spoke, his voice rose to a fever pitch.

  “We are one and the same, Bookweaver! Join me, and together we can weave the kingdom that we always dreamed of.”

  I stared into his startling purple eyes, and all of a sudden, I wanted to believe him.

  “But—” I started.

  “But what?” interrupted Jahan. “You will eradicate the remaining rebels and Mages—the weeds that threaten the flowerbed of Kasmira. That is your destiny.”

  “They’re not weeds,” someone muttered.

  Jahan whirled around to face Devendra, his head bowed, standing beside him.

  “What did you say, son?” said the king, his voice deadly soft.

  Devendra’s face had turned white.

  I used to think that Devendra was terrifying, but I suddenly realized that it had always been the other way around. Devendra was the one who was constantly terrified. And his worst fear was his father.

  “Speak up!” Jahan snarled. “If you’re going to interrupt your king’s ceremony, at least be a man about it and raise your voice!”

  Devendra finally looked Jahan in the eye, and when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I said, Mages aren’t weeds.”

  His father gave a sharp bark of laughter, but his eyes were narrowed. “Has your time hunting the Bookweaver caused you to go soft, son?” he asked. “Of course they’re weeds. They ensnarl the foundation of Kasmira, causing all around them to wilt and die.”

  The resemblance between father and son was more pronounced than ever—watching them was like looking into reflected mirrors. But where Jahan was cold and haughty, Devendra looked pale and terrified.

  “They’re not,” he said quietly. “And you can’t let the Bookweaver destroy the Mages with her spell.”

  There was a pause, and the tension in the air made my stomach flutter.

  “Come here, Devendra,” said Jahan suddenly.

  Devendra obeyed, his face etched with apprehension. His father seized his lapel, which glittered with military emblems. “How many medallions have you got?” he asked sharply.

  His son gave a start before answering. “Seven, your Majesty.”

  “Seven,” repeated Jahan. “Seven medallions from seven battles won by crushing seven disgusting rebellions.”

  He smiled terribly at the assembled lords. “Tell me, how does one win seven battles and remain such a coward?”

  There was no answer, so Jahan turned on Devendra. “What do you think, Commander? Why are you such a coward?”

  “Father,” Devendra murmured. His eyes were closed, as though he was holding back tears—or rage.

  “Answer me, son,” the king hissed. “Why do you stand up for filth like the Mages?”

  “Father,” Devendra muttered again, but it didn’t sound like an apology.

  It sounded like a warning.

  “You imbecile,” Jahan was saying. “You s
oft-bellied little boy. Answer the question!”

  Even before Devendra opened his eyes, I knew what was about to happen. It was like everything he’d locked up for years had finally escaped him all at once.

  “I don’t know!” he shouted, and the marble at the base of Jahan’s throne split, sending splinters rocketing everywhere. I could feel the magic reverberating through the room, causing my blood to tingle. It was like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

  And then the whispers started.

  “He’s a Mage!”

  “The king’s own son.”

  “Traitor.”

  Jahan’s face was a mask, but Devendra’s was pleading, expressive.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, and despite how much I hated him and all of the terrible things he had done, I felt a rush of pity towards him. “I didn’t ever mean for this to happen. I just wanted to redeem myself—”

  He flinched at the sight of his father’s expression. It was beyond angry: it was disdainful.

  “I knew you were going to be just like Viraj,” said Jahan coldly. “Pathetic, hopeless, never cut out to wield power. I sent you to hunt the Bookweaver because I hoped it would make a king out of you. But you remain, as always, a disgrace to the Zakir name.”

  “Your Majesty,” Devendra tried again. For the first time, he looked nothing like the brutal military prodigy I’d always believed him to be. “Father—”

  Somehow, I found my voice.

  “Jahan,” I said. “Leave Devendra alone. This is between you and me. I am the Bookweaver.”

  The king smiled indulgently, but there was no mirth in his face. “Look at that, son!” he said. “The Bookweaver herself has come to your rescue. Even she finds you hopeless!”

  Devendra glared at me, but his eyes lacked their characteristic ferocity. “I don’t want your help,” he snarled.

  His father chuckled terribly. “Here I am, dedicating my reign to eradicating Mages, while one of them thrived within my own dynasty! I can’t stand for that, can I?”

  The king stopped laughing, his eyes steely against mine. “Which is why you and Devendra are going to fight to the death. Right here in my throne room.”

  —

  I blinked, feeling as though I was free-falling.

  Across from me, Devendra didn’t look shocked or scared. He just looked angry. In one fluid motion, he had pulled his sword free from his belt.

  The sound of scraping metal jerked me into action.

  “Wait,” I said. “Devendra, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have control over your powers yet, and I’m a fully trained Mage. If you fight me, you are going to lose.”

  His purple eyes narrowed. “Of course I have to do this,” he said. “This is my only chance to ever live up to my father’s legacy. Surely you’d understand that.”

  “No!” I insisted. “Your father clearly doesn’t care about you. You don’t have to prove anything to him! But together, you and I can do great things.”

  Devendra continued pacing, not taking his eyes off of mine. “I can do great things without you, Bookweaver.”

  King Jahan yawned. “Enough with the theatrics,” he said. “You will fight now, or I will kill you both myself!”

  I turned around, distracted, and that’s when Devendra seized his chance.

  Before I could react, his sword had swung out of nowhere, lightning-fast. I staggered back, but my sari tripped me—Devendra’s blade caught the shimmering fabric. I felt my feet leave the ground as I was thrown backwards by the sheer speed of the blow.

  My elbows hit the ground with a painful jar—I looked up just in time to see Devendra coming in for another jab, and I rolled out of the way. The tip of his sword plunged deep into the marble floor.

  In the moment it took for him to pull his blade free, I was back on my feet. I took a deep breath as his sword came slashing at me so fast it whistled. “Temperus!” I screamed, and a white-hot plume of fire erupted from me, arcing towards Devendra.

  Somehow, Devendra managed to parry the flames, but the force of my spell knocked the breath out of him, sending him sailing spectacularly through the air.

  For an instant, I thought I had him, but I’d forgotten that Devendra was still the imperial commander of Kasmira and a warrior to be reckoned with. He landed on his feet with catlike agility, charging with a fury I’d never seen in him before, because his father’s honor—everything he’d ever valued—was at stake.

  He lunged, and I dove out of the way. Before Devendra could change directions, I released a force field.

  A wall of pure energy rolled across the floor, searing the marble in its wake. For a moment, all I could see was Devendra’s face, shiny with perspiration and illuminated by magic. Then the force field hit him, and Devendra collapsed, his sword thrown from his hands.

  My spell should have knocked him out, but Devendra seemed to defy all possibility as he staggered back to his feet. A cut above his eyebrow was bleeding freely, and his eyes were bugging with fury—he actually looked demented.

  I took a step towards him.

  “Devendra, we can stop,” I begged. He glanced around wildly, but his sword was across the hall—he was defenseless. “We don’t have to—”

  Without warning, Devendra threw himself at me.

  He was unarmed, but even so, he took me by surprise. For a horrible moment we struggled, and I could see the desperation in his eyes. Although he was swordless, he was still dangerously strong as he reached for my neck, fully prepared to kill me with his bare hands.

  “Ilumino!” I gasped, and Devendra flew into the air, landing hard on his back. I rushed towards him, fire whirling around me.

  I saw him flinch as he raised his hands to protect himself, but bare flesh was no match for the magic of an infuriated Yogi. And for the third time, I thought I had him.

  The next moments seemed to happen in slow motion.

  A bolt of magic erupted from his hands, jet-black and thrumming, shredding my spell like a razor. Instinctively, I ducked, but Devendra’s powers were so strong that I could a wave of heat pass over me. Somewhere beneath the adrenaline, my heart rate slowed.

  The crown prince had unlocked his magic.

  A collective gasp spread through the court, but I wasn’t listening. All I could see was the afterglow of Devendra’s spell.

  He got to his feet, looking just as surprised as I was. But his initial shock passed quickly, replaced by a determined smile.

  “Looks like I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve, Bookweaver,” he said. As he spoke, he released another burst of white-hot fury.

  I managed to repel him, but just barely. He kept blasting, and I felt myself backed up, foot by foot, until I was pressed against the wall. Time seemed to liquefy as I stared into his eyes.

  For a second, all I could see was myself, six months ago, cornered and scared, my magic seemingly taking a life of its own. I hadn’t been able to control myself then.

  But neither could Devendra. I could take advantage of that.

  Devendra reared back, preparing to blast me for a final time. His spell hurtled at me, and I took a deep breath. I raised my arms, closed my eyes, and reached for my magic, ebbing and flowing with my beating heart.

  And in that moment, I created a Shield.

  I felt the pain of his spell in my nerves, but only for a moment, because the magic had rebounded upon its caster. Devendra looked horrified as he tried to retract the spell, but it catapulted towards him with an unconquerable fury.

  Our eyes met briefly before he was slammed so hard that he skidded across the floor. His head collided with the base of Jahan’s throne.

  The crown prince seemed to shrink as I advanced, almost lazily, coming in for the final blow.

  I had the spell on the tip of my tongue, the magic in my blood. In that moment, I was ready to strike him with the fire of a thousand suns—enough energy to avenge every person who had lost their life in Bharata.

  But somehow, I couldn’t move. I
felt the magic tingling, but I was frozen in place, staring into his purple eyes.

  I couldn’t watch the life fade out of those eyes like it must have faded from my father’s. Because I knew that if I killed Devendra, I’d never really escape his wrath. In the end, he still would have won.

  “What are you waiting for?” snarled Jahan. “He’s a disgrace. Put him out of his misery!”

  Devendra was panting. “Do it,” he said. “My father’s right. Do it, please!”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not going to kill you. You and I are both worth more than that.”

  Devendra’s eyes were shining with furious tears. “What are you doing?” he gasped. “You defeated me. This is the only way I get to die with any honor.”

  My stomach pulsed with mixed emotions—fury, pity.

  “I don’t care about your damn honor,” I said. “This is about mine. We all have a choice, and mine is to never sink to your level. Because I’m the Bookweaver’s daughter.”

  I glanced up at Jahan. “You’re wrong. We’re nothing alike.”

  The king appraised me coldly. “You’ve disappointed me, Bookweaver,” he said quietly. “You’re made of much weaker stuff than I imagined. Now, you will weave my spell, or I will kill the boy myself!”

  I hesitated, and he sighed.

  “It’s not too late,” Jahan said. “It’s not too late to save them, you know.”

  As he spoke, the doors opened, and six people were dragged out by imperial soldiers: Naveen, Kira, Nina, Niam, Aisha, and a brown-haired woman I didn’t recognize. My blood felt cold beneath my skin.

  For a moment, I thought about what it would be like if we died.

  The thing is, it wasn’t just the act of breathing that would have to cease—it was sunsets with Nina, the scent of flowing ink, rainy skies, spring reya blossoms, and laughter. There were a lot of things one had to cease at once. It made leaving infinitely more painful.