by Sasha Nanua
The Chart nods as he finds the boy’s name on a scroll. I hold in a gasp. This boy is here for conscription.
I stumble away from the scene, trying to push aside how young the boy looked, how tightly his parents clung to each other, turning to the gates. A long line of women protect their eyes from the sun with chunnis. I shield my own face with my chunni and step out to see a fountain—the fountain. The Fountain of Fortunes.
I called it the Fountain of Lies and Illusions as a child, thinking it to be an old wives’ tale. The story goes that the fountain was forged by Amran and granted a sliver of mindwielding abilities thanks to the Memory Master, before the kingdoms were created and back when the Masters shared their gifts and powers. Now the royals use it as a fortune-teller, offering visions of the future to those who dare look into its waters.
I roll my eyes. As if any of that is true.
I bring my gaze to the fountain. It’s double my size, with gold inscriptions of all-seeing eyes drawn over the marble. I peer inside, expecting to see a waste of coins swimming at the bottom, ones I could pluck as easily as ripe fruit. But instead, there’s only rippling water clear as crystals. I haven’t ever seen water like that: untouched, pure. A woman beside me shudders and rushes off in tears.
Maybe her fortune wasn’t as lucky as she thought.
“Follow the raja’s orders!” A row of gold-sashed Charts bark commands at palace servants. “Only a few hours left until the Diwali celebration!”
I glance down and see that the water has become a rippling mirror. Lit diyas float on the water’s edge, and I grasp the edges of the basin as my reflection shimmers away to reveal a man I’ve never seen in my life. He has curly hair tucked behind his ears and . . . his eyes. They’re hazel-gold, like fresh lemon achaar. I find myself inching closer to the water.
His face vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced with a mysterious voice, penetrating my mind:
Danger lies before you. A switch in the stars’ alignment, a change of fortune, could lead you to great peril.
I nearly jump back. This fountain must be some kind of prank. A trick on us villagers. But then how can I hear this strange voice so clearly, telling prophecies inside my head?
“This fortune is absurd,” I mutter. As absurd as me wearing an elegant sari, or Amir wearing a crown fit for a raja. As absurd as believing Mama Anita could ever come back to me, whole and alive.
A servant boy approaches, sneaking a glance at the fountain.
“Hey!” a Chart shouts, nearing the boy. I freeze, pull my chunni lower to cover my face. I’m reminded of Two Thirteen yesterday, the gleaming pins on his coat, the neatly arranged tassels. The Chart saunters over, grabs the servant boy by the collar, and dumps him on the ground. The boy hits the stone with a thwack, scraping his bony knees. “What were you doing over there? You should be in the palace.”
Then the Chart pulls out a whip.
I don’t think I’m breathing. I’m thrust back to five moons ago, the lash whipping against my leg so hard it broke skin. I blink away the sound, the memories, the blood. The Chart moves to bring his whip down on the boy’s legs—
Until another servant rushes to the boy’s side, apologies tumbling from his cracked lips.
Everyone stares, mouths agape at the servant’s audacity. But the soldier must be in a giving mood, because he returns the whip to his side and jerks his chin to the palace’s front gates. The servants are smart enough to run off, just as the Chart turns to the line of wallowing villagers by the fountain. To me.
I stumble back, rush away from the fountain and into the nearest brush, and remind myself of my mission. Without these jewels, there’s no way we’re getting out of Abai before the treaty ends and war breaks out. All week, vendors in Nabh have been gossiping about the war—about how the treaty will never be renewed because the raja’s a war-hungry animal. But we won’t have to worry about war once we’re gone.
Out of the corner of my eye, Amir appears. “Go,” he mouths.
Quick as lightning, Amir leaps out of the forest brush, cutting through the Charts’ path. He turns to the soldiers, sticking out his tongue and wiggling his fingers next to his head, taunting them. People stumble back, mouths agape.
“Over there!” a Chart yells. The soldier rushes after him. But Amir’s fast, weaving through the trees and taunting the Charts all around the palace gates. For a moment, I break into a smile, until I find Amir again.
Running toward me.
I pull myself away, cover my head with my chunni, and sprint. Past children, past a cluster of gossiping elderly women, until I’m close to the front gates. I grab onto the nearest tree and lift myself up to the lowest branch, then the next, moments before Charts barrel through the brush below me, just an arm’s length away.
I pick up flecks of their conversation: Diwali . . . fountain . . . peasants . . .
My arms grow weak as I struggle to hold the thin branches.
“Oy,” a Chart calls. “What are you doing up there?”
A harsh tug on my leg. I crash to the ground face-first. Pain explodes across my skull, rattling my teeth.
I’m dead. I’m worse than dead.
I cover my face again before the Chart pulls me up, clasping his hand around my wrist like a cuff. Words spill from my mouth. “I—my—s—”
Without a word, the Chart drags me through the gates, up the front steps of the palace. There, his brows narrow, and the Chart releases me, eyes finally finding mine. He does something bewildering.
He bows.
What in the—
My thoughts deflate. I don’t have time to think of the Chart’s idiocy. Or was it mockery? Did he take one look at my clothes and think a bow would be funny?
But then the Chart does something even more astounding. He gestures at the arched front entrance and says, “You should be inside.”
Skies, am I hearing right?
He probably thinks I’m another servant. But if that’s true and the servants aren’t meant to be outside, why hasn’t this Chart pulled a weapon on me like the other soldier did to that boy?
Doesn’t matter, I imagine Amir saying. Use this to your advantage. Get in, get out.
I duck my head low and do as I’m told—run into the one place I’ve always hated, and that’s always hated me.
6
Rani
I rush through the halls, legs burning, craving a moment to relax my strained muscles. I can smell the Pit, worse than ever.
Stop, Shima, I think, though I can taste the bloodlust she feels. Her thirst is my own.
I call upon the Snake Master—every snakespeaker knows invoking the Master’s name helps one connect more strongly to their magic—but it’s no use. I am too late.
Amara is standing outside Saeed’s door. With one hand, she blots a tear from her cheek with the fabric of her sari. Pinned to her blouse is her favorite flower, a rose with razor-like thorns. Her eyeliner is precise, sharp enough to cut. “You did this,” she says.
I push past her into Saeed’s room. My heart thuds, thuds, thuds in my chest.
Shima, what have you done?
Saeed is sitting on his bed, wearing the same outfit I saw him in hours ago. What shocks me is not Shima. She wraps around his throat but does not constrict. What shocks me is my parents, both here, eye bags heavy.
Father growls. “Rani, what is the meaning of—”
“I—I didn’t think Shima was listening—”
“But what? She read your deepest thoughts? It is not enough to say that, daughter.” Mother approaches me in three short strides. She raises her hand as if to slap me but then lowers it, her voice like sugar. “Rani, beta, you have a gift. Shima listens to you. Shima understands you. You must learn to control her.”
“I know.” I glue my eyes to the floor, tears blurring my vision. I detest looking weak in front of my mother. The woman who has always reminded me that magic is a gift, that being born in the royal bloodline is a blessing like no other. That my learni
ng snakespeak has taken long years of practice and hardship.
Mother married into this life. She shall never know what magic tastes like: the coppery tang that hits the back of my cheeks, the iron-salt aftertaste when Shima’s had a bite of a new kill.
Mother will never understand. Magic is not a gift. It is a burden.
Shima, please stop, I tell her. I bring up that wall again in my mind, not to block her out this time but to keep her in. It isn’t until then that Shima slithers back to me. The entire room lets out a sigh of relief, as if the tension were cut with a talwar. Amara dashes over to Saeed, blabbering and clutching his shoulders with more drama than necessary.
My mother and Amara have been friends for nearly twenty-five years; as Mother’s closest confidante, Amara is always present in the palace. Still, she was seen as a black sheep among her husband’s family: half Kaaman, half Abaian, caught between two distant worlds. The last choice for a wife, silt among diamonds. She would routinely leave Kaama to visit Mother, while her husband was on missions in the Kaaman army. It was Amara who prodded Mother into meeting the raja while he first searched for suitors. Father knew Mother would be queen as soon as he met her—a fated fairy tale. A repulsive one, I realize now: I owe Amara my very existence.
She brought my parents together. My parents, who have become cold, distant, merciless.
“This shall not happen again, Amara.” Father spins to me. “There’s always something with you, isn’t there, Rani? If I am in a delegation meeting with Retan, or . . .”
I want to roll my eyes. Father cares for no kingdom but his own and despises Kaama most of all. It doesn’t matter that Kaama is known mostly to be a peaceful kingdom. For the past hundred years, war has stalled but never stopped. It’s been simmering below the surface, and now it is about to burst.
Father stands taller, breathing through his nose the way Mother tells him to when he’s frustrated. He continues, “We have everyone—and everything—under control.”
“Yes,” Amara says after a sniffle. “Except for Rani. A Chart just informed me she was outside the gates. Probably trying to put distance between herself and the scene of the crime.” Her gaze hovers on Shima.
“You were outside?” Mother asks.
“No, I was not.” Another one of Amara’s lies. Mother and Father turn to me. Even Saeed bores his eyes into mine, except they’re not questioning or cold. They’re pitying. Why would Saeed pity me when I almost—accidentally—took his life?
“Look at how Amara pays attention to the world around her,” Father scolds me. “Look at how she notices. And you? Thinking of snake fangs when you should be preparing for tonight.”
My blood boils. “Father, I—”
“Amara has always had a great interest in politics,” he continues. “And so I have named her my new adviser as we begin to prepare for war. She is the only person in this palace who has shown the interest, or aptitude, to aid me in my endeavors.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice as he says it.
“What?” I start. Father’s adviser? “But Amara—”
“As such,” he cuts in, “neither she nor I will have time for this nonsense in the future. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“And you will do as Amara says to make up for this. She is Amara-ji to you. Do you understand?” Mother emphasizes the honorific, eyes leaving no room for remorse. Neither do mine.
“Fine,” I relent. One word. Clipped. Harsh.
“Good,” Mother says. “Now let’s forget this ever happened and enjoy the party.”
Amid the drama of Shima’s near-kill of Saeed, I forgot about the celebrations downstairs. Father and Mother filter out of the room. When they’re gone, I turn to Saeed, ignoring Amara’s piercing stare behind my back, and reach out to him with a hand to his elbow. “I . . . apologize,” I say, though the words are half baked. “I was having a dream. I never meant for things to go this far.”
Though the words are but a whisper, they hold more than one meaning. I never meant for Shima to hurt you. I never meant for us to reach this point in love.
Love. That word does not feel right. It does not feel truthful. Saeed gazes at me now, but even still, his eyes are distant. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen this from him—a gaping hole between us that will never be filled, no matter how sweetly his lips call to mine.
Saeed swallows but does not answer me. He leaves the room like I haven’t said a word.
Heat reaches my cheeks. Amara reaches me in quick strides, tears entirely dried. If there were any to begin with.
She grabs my chin and digs sharp nails into my cheeks. I bristle but stand firm, having dealt with this before. “You mean to hurt my son, but it is not working.”
“I never meant to hurt him,” I retort.
Amara lets go and gently thumbs the decorative rose on her blouse. Roses are a gift in Abai, grown and cultivated in the royal gardens for oils, baths, and of course, love. It is no secret to palace gossips that Amara received a basket of roses from her husband on her wedding eve. She keeps them close to this day.
She puckers her red lips stained with betel nut. “You know, Rani, you’re not much different than I. You have drive. Ambition. Desire.”
A kingdom to rule, I add silently. A flawed destiny. Blood of royalty—a life Amara could never understand.
“You are no princess. Your decisions do not weigh as heavily as mine, or Father’s, or Mother’s,” I sneer. But perhaps her decisions do matter now, as Father’s adviser. How could Father trust the word of Amara more than mine?
“I am the royal adviser now. You will do as I say, Rani.” She says my name as if I’m nothing more than a child, as if my name bears no weight. Sometimes I wish I was named anything other than Queen. That my name did not mark my fate.
“Now,” Amara huffs, “that was quite a feat yesterday, I must admit.” She examines the wealth of rings on her fingers. Her golden cuffed bracelets wink in the streaming moonlight. “The execution. The way you avoided snuffing out that tutor’s life.”
Something cool and sharp stabs at my chest. She’s taunting me, telling me what I already know. I could not kill Tutor. And yet the gravity of Father’s order sits like a weight on my chest. Tutor’s death is as much my fault as it is his.
“It is as you said,” Amara continues. “Your decisions weigh heavier than mine.”
“Stop,” I spit, bile lodged in my throat.
“A princess’s first kill is never easy to forget. And against your own instructor, no less.” A twisted smile spreads over her face. “Shame you couldn’t spare him entirely. But I suppose you spared your conscience.”
I think of Tutor, of his wife filled with grief. Of the ring he gave me after his final words.
Find the stone.
My throat is lined with glass. “Don’t waste another breath, Amara-ji.”
She only grins and saunters out the door to join the party.
I gather the folds of my hem, rush back to my room, and throw on a blue sari. Its threads itch at my skin, but I ignore them, if only for what just happened—Amara’s chat with me, Shima nearly poisoning Saeed.
Do you still love him? Shima says from behind me.
I ignore the question. “I was only looking out for you. What if you killed Saeed, and Amara ordered you to death?”
If I were to die, your soul and body would weaken, Princess Rani. You would not be strong enough to survive it. They wouldn’t harm me, Shima states. The snake slithers closer to the door. Perhaps you should tell Saeed why you left him.
“I left him because we only loved each other on the surface.”
Not entirely, she hisses. You left him because you were afraid he never loved you. And even truer, Rani, is that you want to part from the life being handed to you.
I bite my tongue. Abai’s sun, how I hate Shima’s ability to read my thoughts. No—her ability to read my emotions. The difference is infinitely big.
I dash to my window and breathe in the balmy air, remember
the feeling of warmth drenched on my skin like honey. Outside, the fountain gurgles. The only day the villagers can peer into it and see their futures is on Diwali, the day the fountain’s fortunes are strongest. Father says it is the Memory Master’s voice that imparts these magical predictions.
I don’t need a fountain to tell me what my future will hold.
I turn away. Tutor’s ring sits on my vanity, burnished gold and glaring at me. I take it into my hands, turning it over in my fingers. A symbol—a stalk of leaves—sits in the center. Once again, familiarity flutters in my chest. Where have I seen this symbol before?
I rush into my closet, flipping through an endless stack of books. Their pages are yellow, worn, the titles beginning to fade. Some are dry old history books. Instructions in mathematics.
Some are filled with old fables Tutor read to me before bed.
My eyes well with tears, but I move onward. No distractions. I must pursue Tutor’s last wish. I must learn what he meant when he gave me this ring.
Peering out from the end of the stack is a pocket-sized, jade-colored notebook. Shock floods my veins when I catch sight of the cover.
It’s the same plant on the ring. A stalk of leaves with a burst of sun hidden behind it.
I rush through the pages. It’s a botany journal—a study of plants that Tutor and I kept many years ago. I flip until I find an exact copy of the image, and when I do, I sigh. This is no regular plant. It’s one that grows only in the cooler northern climate. The Mailan Foothills are known for their abundant plant-producing fields, among their grassy backdrop, the book explains in minuscule font. On the side of the page is squished handwriting that I recognize immediately as Tutor’s, along with a strange set of symbols and numbers I cannot decipher.