The Bookweaver's Daughter

by Malavika Kannan

I picked up the manuscript Sharati and I had written last night.

  Naveen was shouting something at me, but I couldn’t hear him. All I could hear were the words inside my head.

  And I began to read aloud.

  He was immortal. His glory threw the rays of the sun into despair. Entire empires fell to his iron-handed grasp as his army conquered, seemingly without end. All were at his mercy. King Jahan Zakir had the entire world at his feet.

  The sight of my friends, helpless and terrified, fueled the energy within me. Jahan, meanwhile, closed his eyes—I knew he could feel the magic, too.

  Farkandh, Kampi, and Indira fell like crushed saplings, one by one. Blood lapped the king’s feet—blood of the enemies—their final tributes to their rightful master. Piled by the thousands into dungeons, every man who whispered words against his king paid the price.

  And I continued, the Ancient Kasmiri as familiar as my breath itself, sliding off my tongue like I’d been speaking it for years. I could feel the magic building up, reaching its crescendo, leaving me shivering with anticipation.

  For the first time in my life, I was in the Yogi state.

  Fear clung to hearts when the soldiers galloped through the streets. They were bloody, victorious soldiers, heaped with looted riches, showering it upon the kingdom. Upon the poor, who would rise up from the crevices of poverty; upon the children, who would rule the new nation in their wake.

  It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I felt the words hitting me in waves of unmatched magnitude, cresting and breaking. It was the same power I had felt the night I first unlocked my magic, but a thousand times stronger. For this time, I was every part of the raging whole. I was the master of my magic, in all of its unexpected beauty. I was my own infinity.

  Then the king himself rode through, and their fear was assuaged.

  I paused, and Lady Sharati handed me a quill to shape the runes to change Kasmira’s destiny. The court around me, hushed in anticipation, seemed to be a million miles away.

  For the immortal man riding past was their ruler, Jahan Zakir, who would lead Kasmira into a golden age that the bards would sing about for eons to come.

  “REYA!”

  When his lips formed my name, the sound was almost involuntary.

  It pierced through the chaos and hit me with staggering acuteness. Even from fifty feet away, even through the haze of magic, I knew it was Naveen. I turned around, searching wildly for the source of his voice. For a moment, our eyes met. My mouth called his name back, but faintly.

  “Reya! You can’t do this!”

  Jahan leapt to his feet. “Make him shut up!” he screeched in a voice that was so unlike his musical one.

  But Naveen, struggling and scratching, wouldn’t stop. “You are the Bookweaver!” he shouted, panting. “Don’t you understand? You are the only master of your power! You’re the only one who can weave your destiny!”

  His hand fumbled for something in his pocket. I stared in frozen awe as he tossed it in slow motion. The war around him faded into senseless shapes. I couldn’t feel the rush of the magic or the beat of my heart.

  I could only see his eyes: his determined, polychromatic eyes.

  The guards surrounding him leaped to grab it, but it slipped between their fingers. Naveen collapsed, blood trickling from his brow. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

  I caught it in midair, and Ink Soul was warm with Naveen’s heat. I opened the first page to see a forest of my own handwriting—except this time, my words weren’t alone. Neatly inscribed beneath every page was Naveen’s Ancient Kasmiri translation, familiar and powerful as my own breaths.

  The problem with weaving stories is that you can never quite know when yours will begin.

  And once your story has started, there is no turning back.

  In the kingdom over blue waters, a dream vibrated through the land.

  My voice was strong and clear, imbued with Ancient Kasmiri: the language of power and mystery of time immemorial. People lunged at me—guards, Sharati, Jahan alike—but I twisted aside, fighting them off with my free hand.

  Jahan was still howling at me, but it all sounded muffled, as if from a dream. Maybe this was, indeed, just a dream.

  It shone with the sun when it rose, and stayed gleaming in the people’s hearts in the dark. It was a girl’s dream that her kingdom would be free.

  I used to wonder what death would feel like. If it was a sudden burst of flame, a spark, a single cry in muted lips. Or if it was a shadowy, steady heat, rattling and buzzing, a flurry of ash sifting into oblivion.

  The girl was powerful, but she was terrified. Fear clung to her heart like mold, and the sun never warmed the darkest corners of her mind.

  I’d always wondered what death would feel like. But now, as my voice rang through the hall, I knew. It was a bright blaze, a surge of power, the creation of a legacy. It was about reaching high, even as you fell down. I finally understood the honor that my father had sought to instill in me.

  And so the girl set out on a journey. It was not a journey to flee the king whose evil knew no bounds, nor was it one to avenge the father she had lost. It was a quest to discover herself.

  My name is Reya Kandhari. I am the Bookweaver’s daughter. My legacy was always mine to weave.

  She endured. She survived. She kept fighting for an abstract idea of freedom she had never known, yet strove to define. She put everything, including a city, on the line.

  But then she lost.

  The words that had danced through her spirit and soared through her soul died.

  There were small glimmers of hope. She found friendship and solace. A few words were revived.

  Then it darkened once more. The girl knew she would succumb to the king. She swayed to his evil tunes— and she went to his side. It was dark. She was alone.

  I was frantically writing to finish the story that I finally knew to be mine. My pen flew over the paper, the ink and parchment bonding together, shining and gleaming.

  Then a candle flared up.

  For the first time, I saw them all with clear eyes—Nina, frightened but unconquerable as she tore free from her captor’s grip. Naveen, his eyes blazing as he struggled against those who beat him with iron fists. The brown-haired woman’s eyes, shining with pride.

  The words returned—they ebbed and flowed, danced and soared about the girl, and she knew who she was: she was the Bookweaver’s daughter, and she carried his legacy with pride. The pen flowed across the paper, weaving her legacy until all was still—the king was dead, and Kasmira was free.

  I dropped the quill. For a moment, all was indeed still.

  And then fire erupted from my core.

  The mahal exploded, sparks flying like fireworks. The marble ceiling above me cracked with unstoppable power—huge shards of fresco fell freely like rain, sending plumes of dust soaring back into the air.

  I closed my eyes, willing the walls to cave in, forcing the sun to rise—the room erupted with light, a portrait of fiery ecstasy from the heavens themselves—

  I was an avenging angel. I was Death herself.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a metallic streak—the Spider himself was soaring at me, silver arms alight with deadly magic. I stomped my foot and a fissure burst along the marble floor, but it simply flew over with inhuman agility. Its metal eyes were bright with fury as it reached for my throat—

  It happened so fast.

  I managed to dodge the object that whizzed over my head, but the Spider wasn’t so quick.

  I whirled around to see Nina, one arm still raised in mid-swing, as her shoe connected with the Spider’s head, knocking it over with a satisfying clunk. Just before it disappeared into the smoke, the Spider’s eyes met mine, forming three last words: “It’s not over—”

  Its words were cut short by a heart-stopping thud—the mighty oak doors had burst free, their hinges snapping under pressure.

  I clutched Ink Soul to my heart, protecting it from the rubble that pou
red freely overhead. We had minutes, if not seconds, before the entire mahal came crashing down—

  For a moment, everything seemed to slow down as the building caved in around us.

  I watched in mingled awe and horror as the nearest column upended with a crash that sent dust billowing over the throne, and Jahan disappeared into the wreckage—

  “NO!”

  Devendra dove towards his father’s body, even as sharp rocks rained down, narrowly missing him. For a moment, our eyes met, and I could see his terrified face, indistinguishable from my own on the day my cottage burned down.

  His lips parted in a scream, which I later recognized to be words: “You killed my father!”

  “Devendra—”

  He launched himself at me, and I felt the Spider’s curse rip itself free from my skin.

  Black flames coiled from my hands like whips, and I struck at Devendra. For a moment, the Spider’s curse pierced him, burning his cheek. I barely had time to register that I was cursing someone before he flailed backwards, right into the path of a collapsing staircase.

  I closed my eyes, but it still didn’t drown out the crash—

  Then I heard her.

  “Reya!”

  It was my mother’s voice.

  I crawled desperately towards the sound, beyond caring whether or not it was a hallucination. All I knew was that I was clawing towards the light.

  I made it to her arms just before I blacked out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Mother?”

  There was a violent rustling and a clatter of footsteps.

  “She’s finally awake. Naveen, get over here quick!”

  My eyelids felt a thousand pounds heavier, but I forced them open.

  Nina, Kira, and Naveen were kneeling over me, their faces etched with concern. As the world came into focus around us, I realized that was lying on a burned mattress in the middle of a street.

  Stabs of pain shot up my chest as Nina placed her weight on the mattress.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, helping me up.

  “I ache all over,” I grunted, wincing as Nina lifted me into an upright position. “What just happened?”

  I turned to see the hill in the distance behind me, and above it—my heart stopped. Because where the mahal had once stood was a pile of smoking ruins—a shattered tower here, a collapsed wall there. The bricks that remained on the hillside grinned like smashed-in teeth.

  Naveen nodded grimly beside me. “You happened.”

  I turned around in alarm, but Nina took my hand, as if to stabilize me. “It’s been a week,” she said. “You’ve been out for a whole week.”

  Everything came rushing back at once.

  “Where is everyone? Jahan, Devendra, Sharati—”

  Kira shook her head. “They’re all gone,” she said quietly. “Your vayati took out the entire mahal, sparing only the servants and the Renegades imprisoned inside. All the refugees set up camp in the streets outside the palace.”

  I took a deep breath, still struggling to process. “You’re saying that I managed to destroy the palace and end nearly a decade of tyranny with one spell.”

  Nina took my hand. “You did it,” she murmured. “You took back your magic, and you took back the kingdom. Things can only get better from here.”

  I turned to Naveen, who smiled at me. Bruises darkened his entire face, but he looked happier than I’d ever seen him. “Not bad, Bookweaver,” he said.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight of the palace. “Devendra?” I asked again. “You’re sure he’s dead—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Nina nodded. “I’m sure. Your curse blasted him backwards, and he was crushed by the debris. There’s no way he could have survived that.”

  She couldn’t quite hide the satisfaction from her voice. I knew I should share her glee that the prince who had tortured us was dead, but I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret, because he had seemed more human than his father.

  “What about the Spider?” Naveen was asking. Nina shrugged. “It disappeared, or maybe it died, I don’t know—”

  I remembered the Spider’s metallic hands reaching for my throat, and I couldn’t help but shiver.

  “You hit the phantom lord of death in the head with a shoe,” I said wonderingly. Nina grinned, and I stared at her with a whole new awe.

  “There’s something else,” she said, and this time she didn’t even try to hide the emotion from her voice. “Someone escaped when you blew up the palace. Your mother, Lady Kamala. She’s alive.”

  My head whirled around to face her. “My mother?” I started, but I stopped mid-sentence, because all of a sudden, I saw her.

  She was standing at the edge of the street, one hand on her hip, talking animatedly to Niam and Aisha. For a moment, I simply watched her. Then she turned and saw me.

  I had forgotten her hair. I had forgotten her eyes. Years of pain and grief had blurred her features from my mind. But all of a sudden, they were back, and I saw her more clearly than I ever had in my life.

  And then I was running towards her, all aches forgotten. She was saying something—I later realized it was my name.

  “Mother!” I gasped, and we collided.

  She was thin, wisp-like in my arms, and her brown hair was filled with more gray than I remembered. But in spite of everything, she was still warm. And she still smelled like lily perfume.

  Lady Kamala was crying when she released me. “I don’t understand,” I heard myself whisper. “I thought you had died—”

  My voice broke off, because a wonderful possibility had just occurred to me. If my mother had come back to life, then maybe, just maybe, Amar might be alive too …

  But she was shaking her head. “No, Reya,” she said quietly. “I never died. I’ve been here in the mahal all this time. You set me free.”

  The enormity of what she was saying hit me, and I felt my knees turn to water. “All this time?” I repeated slowly.

  “All this time,” she confirmed, and between her words, I felt the vastness of all we had lost, staggering and painful: seven years of memories, birthdays, jokes, conversations, and a thousand other things that a mother was supposed to share with her daughter, but we never did.

  “But how did you survive?”

  She sighed. “It’s a long story,” she said. “One, hopefully, that I have years to tell you.”

  Her voice sounded the same as I remembered, but not quite—there was a new note in it I couldn’t identify.

  “I pledged my loyalty to Jahan so that I could try to get on the inside. I tried help the Renegades save your father’s life. But I failed.”

  And now I recognized what was missing in her voice, because when she spoke, her eyes mirrored my own grief. She’d been taken away from Kasmira for seven years and returned a widow. I realized, all of a sudden, that when I had lost my father, she had lost her husband.

  “The note was from you, wasn’t it?” I asked.

  Suddenly I was desperate for answers, desperate to fill in the missing years of my mother. She looked grateful for the change in subject.

  “It was,” she said. “After Bharata, Jahan decided he could no longer trust me. He was going to have me killed along with the Renegades. I knew that I had to save you.”

  Her eyes crinkled. “But you saved yourself. And I’m so proud of you, Reya.”

  There was so much to say, so much to ask. But Mother was right: we had years ahead of us to replace the ones we had lost. For now, I decided on the most pressing question.

  I took a deep breath. “What do we do now?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Now we heal,” she said.

  “I’ll be here for you,” I said. I took her hand, and together, we walked into the glorious sunshine.

  EPILOGUE

  It rained the day I finally said goodbye to my father.

  The darkening sky unleashed its grief upon us, bleak and pure as winter. Gazing out at the icy deluge, it occu
rred to me that the rain pelting our cabin window might be the same rain that had once lashed against the mango tree, evaporated and repooled a thousand times over. It was almost as if we had come full circle.

  Of course, so much had changed since that summer rainstorm.

  I heard a knock on the door, and my mother stepped into the cabin, shaking droplets from her long white shawl. There was something ethereal about the snowy flowers she had threaded through her graying hair. When she smiled at me, I understood for the first time why Kasmiris wear white to our funerals.

  “Are you ready, Reya?”

  “Of course, Mother,” I said, offering her my hand. I was never going to get used to saying that.

  She took my hand and together, we stepped out into the gloom, huddling together against the slanting rain. Her hand was slender but warm; only her wedding ring stamped an icy band against my skin.

  The streets were empty except for the two of us. I watched our reflections in the continuous line of storefront windows, appearing and disappearing between panes of missing glass. We only vaguely resembled each other; I was the color of deep chai, petite against her pale, willowy frame.

  Her eyes met mine briefly in the reflection.

  “Reya, over here.”

  I turned and followed my mother’s gaze. Without meaning to, I gasped.

  I was looking at my childhood home.

  It was as grand as I remembered it, despite its state of utter ruin. Half of the bungalow had crumbled; only the east wing stayed intact, and even its walls were sagging after seven years of neglect. But somehow, it was there. It had survived.

  All these years I had lived in the Raj, and it had never occurred to me that our old home was still standing.

  “Here?” was all I could say.

  Mother nodded. “Home again,” she said simply. “I think it’s where your father would have liked to rest.”

  I followed her through the remains of the garden. The weeds were knee-deep; all of the little clay tigers and garden ornaments I remembered from childhood were gone, likely pillaged long ago. In the distance, I saw our fountain, cracked and overgrown with mildew. And above it, miraculously still aloft, hung the swing my father had once built for me.