by Sasha Nanua
It all hits me at once. Is this where Tutor ran away to? The Mailan Foothills? He’d spoken to me of the life he’d left behind, of the fields where he’d first fallen in love.
He gave me his ring for a reason—did he mean for me to find this page? This writing? This place?
Clearly he was hiding something, but I can’t quite figure out what these symbols, this code, means. Father says he was a traitor. If that is true, shouldn’t we know his secrets?
Tutor’s wish has spurred something within me. A longing to prove myself to Father. I could show the interest and the aptitude to help him in his endeavors. I could be more than idle Princess Rani.
I decide. I will follow Tutor’s greatest wish, not just for him, not just for my kingdom—but for me.
I push the rest of the books back into the closet. With my plan firmly set in place and Tutor’s notebook in hand, I rush to the throne room and search for Father. It’s full to the brim with people wearing saris and lehengas, tunics and kurtas. When it’s clear Father is not inside, I head for the Western Courtyard, where Father will make tonight’s speech to his guests. Manicured shrubs and flowers greet me, followed by a cascading waterfall to my left. Candles and diyas, holding fistfuls of flames, are laid out across the grounds. More servants rush past me and bow, wearing verdant clothes to signify their devotion and subservience to the king and queen.
I head deeper into the courtyard. But before I can find Father, whispers strike the air like a slap.
“Is that . . .”
“It cannot be . . .”
“The princess . . .”
Women with too-big earrings and ostentatious necklaces halt me with manicured fingernails. “My dear girl, so pretty . . . Why not show that face of yours more?”
I bristle at a woman’s touch. Only nobles and a few Charts in the palace have seen my face, which makes me tonight’s biggest attraction.
“I have the perfect boy for you!” another says.
“No, no, I have the perfect one. Just you see.”
More aunties find me, parroting one another like mynah birds.
I reel back in disgust. Don’t these women know what privacy means? I’m the princess, not some farm girl raised for a bride price.
They hiss and chatter more, but their words only rot in my skull. I spin away, rushing deeper into the courtyard, and stop when I catch sight of him.
Father strolls toward me with a false smile. “Your mother is looking for you.”
“I need to speak with you privately.”
“What needs to be said can be done here.” Father’s voice is firm. “I have other matters to—”
“You must listen to me!” Every inch of me is hot, fiery. “You cannot shelter me from the outside world forever.”
Father’s smile is mirthless. “You could not last one night in Abai’s jungles, daughter. It is for your protection.”
I breathe protractedly as Tutor taught me. I speak as though I am Queen Amrita, confident and sure and a rightful Rani:
“Father, I know how deeply this war with Kaama has weighed on you, and I want to help. Let me prove myself. Let me help renew the treaty. The world is not only armor and crimson coats—”
“Rani.” Father chuckles, placing a hand on my shoulder. I bristle at his laughter, and the easy way he shrugs me off. “You must understand something. I am the raja, and my word is final. Renewing the treaty is simply not an option.”
My words pour out like a monsoon of rage and indignation. “Why not? Because you want to be like him? King Amrit? That isn’t what our citizens need. Let me prove myself to you, Father. War will turn our kingdom to ashes.”
“We cannot,” Father booms, all laughter gone. Servants still around him. At the sudden silence, Father puts on his best smile and sweeps into the nearest outdoor alcove. Reluctantly, I follow, barreling forward with newfound confidence and anger. Of course he would deny me. My voice, to him, is nothing unless I utter his favorite word: kill.
In the alcove, Father looks moons—no, years—older. He expels a sharp breath, then speaks. “War is a complicated thing, and something you do not understand.” Father laces his fingers together, and the silence of the alcove turns thick.
“I have been meaning to tell you this, Rani, when you came of age. I cannot wait any longer.”
“What cannot wait?” I am bursting with confusion, a pot overboiled. “Father, tell me.”
Father braces himself. “The treaty was no simple contract—it was a pact forged in magic. The raja of Kaama and King Amrit both made their pact over the Var River.”
“The Var River?” I picture the stretch of rippling water that divides part of Kaama and Abai, blessed by Amran, with waters both holy and magical all at once. “But a pact made over the river would last—”
“A century,” Father finishes, “to the date. Promises made over the Var’s blessed waters are bound to their makers like secrets. It was my father who taught me this when I came of age. And your mother has learned, too. The pact was clear, and a treaty was drawn with an important stipulation: Blood must be spilled on the battlefield in one century’s time. Any discordance of this agreement would result in a consequence. A curse. Should King Amrit have broken this pact, his entire bloodline would be rid of magic, his kin left for dead. This is not a pact to be taken lightly, and neither is the Hundred-Year Truce.”
Father’s words ring in my ears. He is not lying.
“Kaama will not rest. War is inevitable. I cannot change what King Amrit did, and I do not want to. We must fight this war. As king, I trust you to agree with this sentiment.”
I stifle the pang in my chest and shake my head. “You think war is the right thing, but it is not. You don’t want me involved in any of these decisions. You never did!”
“That is not true.” Father’s eyes flare. “And you know of my mantra, Rani.”
I hesitate before whispering the words Father has said over and over. “We move like a king cobra. We strike first.”
He nods, pleased, though the mantra is not truly his. According to Father, the words were first said by King Amrit, then passed on to each king and queen. “One day you will learn, daughter, that war may cost lives, but it also brings victory. They will come for us if we do not seize the moment. They will be ready to fight even if we are not. And I will not let my kingdom fall.”
My heart hammers in my chest. “You never cared about Tutor, did you, Father? I remember you respected him. I even remember you laughing with him on occasion. But you never cared about him. Do you care about anything outside of the kingdom?”
Do you care about me?
“He was a traitor, Rani. One of many against us. Traitors must be rooted out and destroyed.”
“No,” I whisper, stepping back. “Not us. They’re against you.”
I rush back into the throne room, shoving aside gawking onlookers. I skip the steps upstairs, burst into my room, and bang the door behind me.
My head pounds as every painful memory surfaces. I rush over to the vanity and drop Tutor’s book, inspecting myself in the mirror. Tears well in my eyes. Instinctively I combat them with shuttered blinks, a tactic Mother shared with me to keep myself composed—to keep the kajal I wear from running down my face. But right now I want nothing more than to stop being a perfect princess. I want to be a little girl again, curled under the night sky, awaiting Tutor’s astronomy lessons. I want Father and Mother to listen to me. And most of all, I want to feel again.
I let out a sharp sob, the first I’ve allowed myself in weeks. Tutor’s face fills my mind—alive, whole, and healthy. Another sob pours out of me, and I hear a gasp.
I jolt away from the mirror. “Who’s there?” My eyes fly to the closet doorway.
Through its shutters, I see something—someone—shift.
I stalk toward the closet. Closer. Closer.
“Come out!” If it’s one of my servants, I’ll give them double cleaning duties tomorrow. And if not . . .
“I am not going to say it again,” I spit, voice unwavering, but the room is eerily quiet.
Whoever is hiding won’t obey my bidding, and I’m in no mood to be toyed with.
So I wipe my eyes, charge for the closet doors, and thrust them open.
7
Ria
My first step in the palace echoes off every wall. Through the thin soles of my shoes, the ground feels icy, and the jalis around me sift out the hot Abai air. The space around me is cold, too cold. Nothing like any air I’ve breathed before. It’s pure, clean, even. But I want to exhale it all back out, because this is the air the raja breathes.
That’s when I freeze. Across the corridor sits what looks to be a glass terrarium, housing snakes and other reptiles. I shiver, recalling nights at the orphanage when I was twelve. That year, every night, a small garter snake would slip over branches of the trees above the orphanage and rest on my windowsill when I was asleep. It would follow me home when I left the orphanage for scraps. I thought I was a magnet for bad luck, and that the snake was an omen.
I peel my eyes away from the terrarium and begin my search for Queen Maneet’s chamber, climbing the nearest staircase, careful to keep hidden from all angles. My body is alert, always watching, eyes cutting every which way. Life on the street hasn’t left me empty, it’s built me up.
I spot a vase of blossoming flowers and hide behind it, looking around again. The vase tips forward when I rise, and before I can save it, it crashes onto the ground.
“Raja’s beard!” I whisper. I tumble into the nearest room I can find. Jewels are strewn across the bedroom vanity along with makeup, powders and blushes that are all too foreign. I stuff whatever I can into my pockets and sneak out. They’re heavy, but light enough that I can run. If it comes to that.
It’s not long before I spot the back of a Chart. Badges and tassels wink up at me. I freeze and back into the same room, pressing up against the wall. I dig my nails into my palms and shut my eyes.
Breathe. In. Out. In—
“Tell the truth or the raja shall personally see to it that you rot in the Snake Pit.”
I peer out. A girl stands across from the Chart. She’s small, probably half my size, with twin braids on either side of her head. Her gaze finds mine. She sees me. I’m caught. I nearly crumple on the spot. But then she says:
“I did it. I’m sorry. I was—”
“I don’t want to know what you were doing. Clean it up. You’ve got double kitchen duty next week, understand?” The girl nods. With that, the Chart leaves.
I’m crouched in the doorway, but her eyes remain on mine. “Miss? Please come out. I know you didn’t mean to do it.”
Sure as the skies I didn’t mean to do it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to take the blame.
“Please, miss, we have to get ready!”
I laugh inwardly. Oh, I’m ready . . . to leave Abai forever!
I step out of the room. The girl moves toward me—and bows. She’s either knocked her head on a melon, or—
Or something is seriously wrong.
“Food is out for the guests, and your father will make remarks in the Western Courtyard. The queen wanted me to brush you up on the itinerary.”
“What?” I pause. The staircase is far, but I can easily outrun this girl. “D-do you know who I am?”
Fear crumples her face. “I’m sorry, miss. The last thing I wanted to do was sound condescending.”
“You . . .” You’re confused. Clearly she thinks she knows me. My face isn’t special—it can be swapped with anyone’s from Abai. I take in her tiny frame. “How old are you?”
“T-twelve.”
Twelve. When I was her age, I was only just beginning to understand how to steal. I would sneak out of the orphanage after meager dinners and impersonate a girl picking up samosas from the market for her family. Once, I even impersonated an orphanage teen who’d been selected for adoption, just to grab some rupees and run. It was the only way to get by.
And it’s the only way I’ll get to safety now—impersonating whoever this servant girl thinks I am.
I stand a bit taller, puff my chest out, and make my voice hard and demanding. “Lead me.” The words roll off my tongue with ease, like second nature. If she thinks I belong, that I’m a noble, I’ll be that much closer to finding the jewels.
“Of course,” the girl replies, bowing.
I knit my brows. “Thank you. Er . . .”
“Aditi, miss,” she says, as if whoever I’m supposed to be forgets her name all the time.
“Aditi,” I say, sounding the name out on my tongue. She leads me past a wall of gems, and I want to pluck them right off. But there’s no time. The girl walks so quickly, braids flying behind her, it’s hard to keep up.
When the girl leads me to a bedroom, I exhale. There’s an open window I can easily climb out of. Facing the Charts or whoever else comes my way once I do so is another matter entirely.
“I’ll see you downstairs, miss.” With another bow, Aditi heads off.
The girl must believe I’m a guest. Some foreign dignitary. But even that simple explanation makes my stomach knot. Time to grab and go.
The room is drenched in royal purple, a gaudy color compared to the soft pinks of Abai’s sunset. I approach the four-poster canopy and run my fingers across the silken blankets. I wrap them in my hands and find I can’t resist. I sink into the bed. It feels like a dream. The pillowy softness of these cushions, the jewels weighing down my pockets.
If I blink, I might end up in Nabh. If I blink, I’ll wake up.
The bed feels as if it’ll devour me in softness, and I’m tempted to give in. But a sparkle from the corner of the room catches my eye.
Next to the window sits a gold-encrusted table laden with jewelry boxes. Could this be one of the queen’s chambers? If so, I don’t know why that girl brought me here, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the best jewels in all of Abai sitting in front of me, and I plan on using them to pay my and Amir’s way out of this forsaken kingdom.
I rush to the table and pocket as many jewels as I can. I’m reaching out, ready to rearrange the ones left over to look like none are out of place, when I hear the sound of heels clacking down the hall. Getting louder, closer.
Adrenaline spikes through my body.
“Skies be good!” I whisper, my feet tripping over one another in panicked retreat.
A nearby closet offers refuge, and I shove myself as far in as possible, pushing back a pile of books tossed haphazardly on the floor. I watch through the shutters as a girl rushes in and slams the door. Her breathing is ragged, like she’s just made her own escape from . . . somewhere. She flutters her eyelids—for what purpose I can’t begin to understand.
But at that moment, I take her in. This isn’t a servant, or just any noble.
She’s young, and she’s wearing a crown . . .
I peer closer.
Princess Rani.
I gasp without thinking, immediately slapping my hand across my mouth. But it’s too late.
She whirls toward the closet. “Who’s there?”
No. How can I ever escape this place if she finds me? How will I tell Amir to run? To never look back?
He won’t leave without me.
“Come out!” she demands. But I stay still as a boulder in the White Mountains. I lick my lips, praying that I possess the magic to be invisible.
“I’m not going to say it again,” she warns.
She’s close enough that I can make out her night-blue sari, the tiny mirrors laced into the hems. My gaze moves up, up, up . . .
The princess swings open the closet door. “How dare you—” she begins, but when our eyes meet, her words fall flat. She can’t find a way to finish her sentence, and I can’t find a reason to run.
Because it’s not just the princess of Abai before me.
It’s a girl who’s my mirror image.
A girl whose face is the same as mine.
8
Rani
“Who in Raja’s—” the village girl begins, but the words are caught in her throat. She blurts, “Who are you?”
“I am Princess Rani,” I snap. “What are you doing in my closet?”
The girl widens her eyes. “You don’t look like a snake,” she says, avoiding my question.
I raise both plucked brows, but it’s not her comment that’s shocking to me. It’s the fact that this stranger is an exact copy of me, from her face to her skin to her obsidian tresses.
I fumble back, grasping at a pointed corner of my canopy bed. The girl steps out, her face illuminated by moonlight that slips past the gauzy white curtains. A frisson trembles down my back, skittering and skirting around my spine.
I am unable to move my gaze from hers. Is she a trick of the mind?
Abai’s sun. What is happening?
I take in the rest of her. This girl looks plain, a villager in a house of royals, wearing a half-ripped chunni and a suit I would never dare clothe myself in.
The girl lets out a sharp laugh. “I’m dreaming, right? I must’ve hit my head when—”
But I don’t let her finish. In one swoop, I grab this replica girl by her dirty clothes and push her against my armoire. Her chunni falls to the ground. Behind her weight, the dresser rumbles, followed by the telltale sound of bangles tumbling to its wooden base.
“Who are you?” I snarl.
“None of your business.”
“Do you think that’s any way to speak to your future leader?”
The girl’s mouth curls. “You’re not the leader. You’re the Snake Princess.”
“And you are a girl who does not like to listen. Do you want to land in the Pit? I said, who are you?”
“I’m not telling you anything until you release me.” The village girl’s face is stern, her voice sharp, her whole attitude riddled with spikes and barbs.
With reluctance, I release the girl carefully, stepping back. I regard each of her features with attentive eyes: she has a carefully hooked nose; lips that, unlike mine, turn up sneakily; eyes that are both sunken yet alight with mischief.