by Sasha Nanua
I’m running through the halls, my head pounding. Everyone around me swims in and out of view. You’re the one who stole my face, she said.
I roll her name over in my mind. Ria. Ria. My twin. But how? My parents could not have kept a secret this big. Not from me. But they did. They have.
Every artery within me feels like it’s about to burst with questions. Who is older? Where did she go? Where has she been her whole life? From her clothes, she looks like she’s come straight from Nabh. Maybe, if I had actually been attentive, I would have known. I would have felt her in my bones, the blood thrumming through my body, missing its other half.
A part of me feels like Amran has answered my prayers. This turn of events has given me an opportunity—to escape this palace, to find what Tutor wanted me to find.
Perhaps to head off this bloody war.
To prove I can be more than a princess.
I could be like Queen Amrita. I could make change.
My veins are hot and fiery as I pull up the hood of my cloak and hurry through the palace. The last time I had need for a cloak was when I first secretly met up with Saeed after my fifteenth birthday. I once fantasized leaving the palace with him, even put a few coins in the pouch hidden in my cloak in case. Thankfully, they are still there now.
I take the narrow halls I once walked for solitude on nights when I felt Mother was ignoring me, or when Father was gone on diplomatic missions. I find the place I am looking for: a sleek, wide hall I’ve heard servants nickname the Hall of Eyes. For a hundred eyes are staring at me now, portraits of rulers past. Their gazes latch onto me, following as I rush down the hall.
At the very end is a portrait of Queen Amrita, one of Abai’s few female rulers, who reigned over five hundred years ago. I remember the lullaby Tutor sang to me: They called her the Gem of Abai, the queen who passed so young . . .
She died young from an unknown disease, and her portrait depicts a youthful glow.
There must have been a reason Tutor told me all those stories, whispered her name in his last breaths. Speaking to Ria, I finally understood why.
Sitting in her curls is a silver tiara with a ruby embedded in the center. A gem.
She was called the Gem of Abai, both for her gentle nature, and for the ruby in her crown. The Bloodstone. How could I have forgotten what Tutor taught me? Queen Amrita was rumored to be the last royal to have the stone, after it had been passed down for centuries.
People believe Amran’s own blood exists in the stone—and that it could grant a single wish. I close my eyes, seeing the ruby-red stone flash behind my eyelids, dark as crimson nightmares.
It could end wars altogether, Tutor told me.
The Bloodstone. The Bloodstone. The Bloodstone.
Is this what Tutor wanted me to find? A stone to grant wishes? A stone to stop this war? Renewed energy sparks through me. “I’ll find it,” I say to her, though it is a promise to myself, too.
Soldiers’ boots echo from afar. I rush away, finding the nearest exit. This is what I’ve always wanted—to abandon the palace. But not only that. This is my first true act of defiance against Father. If I fulfill my plan, might I, too, fulfill Tutor’s wish? He gave me my first clue: the symbol on the ring, a stalk of leaves. Now I know that the plant refers to the Mailan Foothills, wherever that may be.
In seconds, I’m through the main entrance and outside. It is quiet out here, cool, though the heat in my body is unchecked. In the distance, stars are stitched in the night sky’s fabric. The air is clement compared to the castle. I relish it.
I love it.
A gust of wind hits me as soon as I register where I’m standing: before the Fountain of Fortunes. Water laps in lazy circles. There are no Charts in sight except for two stationed far outside the main gate, backs facing me. The others must be in the Western Courtyard, acting as security for the celebration.
I step closer to the fountain as the burnt candles bob along the water. All I see is my reflection.
No—Ria’s reflection.
Before I can turn away, the water swirls, rippling out into rings. An image blooms to life: Me, standing in the jungle next to a teenage boy with shorn hair and a slim scar cutting through his face. The boy disappears and is replaced by a girl with bright hair and a strange star-shaped birthmark on her cheek. She is standing in a bazaar.
I lean in deeper, but the images shatter like glass. A voice like burnt honey permeates my mind. Hard on the edges, curved around a mouthful of sweet riddles.
Seek the place of stone and glass
Where emptiness hides and fire flames.
A lurking magic you will find
Through the ancient guards’ lost ways.
Smoke swirls around the images until they disappear into thin air. I blink rapidly, breathe protractedly. All too soon, the smoke, the scene, the voice—everything vanishes.
Like a warning bell, footsteps drum along the concrete, quick and sharp.
The march of Father’s soldiers.
I nearly trip over the hem of the cloak as I rush away. I barrel forward, headed for the nearest courtyard, and hide myself in the brush with bated breath, concealing myself with the cloak. Blood rushes to my temples, and my head pounds with fear. The Charts skirt in opposite directions, shouting and securing the perimeter.
Reality seeps in. I need a plan. I peek through the hedges into the crowded Western Courtyard. A certain dead end. I gnaw at my lip until my eyes fall on Father’s stables. Within seconds, everything slips into place.
I rush into Father’s stables and make out the gleaming silver coats of his stallions. They each wear a royal-red headpiece to signify that they belong to the king. A memory of an old horse-riding lesson surfaces: I was nine summers old, and I’d lost control of Father’s horse. Even worse, I had accidentally let all the stallions free of their stalls. Father had punished me to a week alone in my rooms but let me go four days early out of guilt. Where did that guilt—that sympathy—go? When did he become so hardened?
I reach out, feeling the horses’ soft manes beneath the pads of my fingers. With quick hands, I unlock three latches and pull the gate wide open. Hooves fall, horses neigh, and with two fingers to my mouth, I let out a piercing whistle.
Go.
A trio of horses floods out, stirring up dust as they pummel past the Charts and through the main gate. A few of Father’s soldiers run after them, but it’s no use; the diversion has worked perfectly. I suppress the mix of thrill and dread in my stomach. Thrill, from being outside, from finally doing this—and dread from everything else that has happened tonight.
From seeing those visions. From finding Ria.
From uncovering an unknowable past.
Could I forge a new future?
I mount the nearest steed and urge the stallion forward. Dust collects behind us, a veil between what is ahead and what lies in our wake.
I ride out of the stables and past befuddled Charts, my hood masking me. More soldiers have already rushed to close the gate, so I press my knees into the stallion and snap the reins. Before me is a gargantuan gate with menacing pointed tips, sharp as a viper’s fangs. If I don’t get out now, the gates will close, and Father’s soldiers will catch up to me.
Three. The air turns thick, difficult to breathe.
Two. My heartbeat echoes like clanging swords.
One.
We leap into the jungle without a second to spare, and I nearly slide off the horse from the impact. I peer back. No red coats in sight. For the first time in ages, I laugh. It’s high and joyous, a sound I almost don’t recognize. I’m out. I’m finally out.
I let my eyes shutter closed for an infinitesimal moment, savoring every sound sharp and clear. Tigers pacing with quicksilver tails; snakes traveling along too-high branches.
Without warning, the stallion jerks to a stop just as someone rolls into view. I nearly fall as the horse raises its hooves, its neigh reverberating against the trees’ thick bark.
“Down!”
I shout. I catch sight of the boy: long limbs, dirt staining his cheeks. He’s shrouded by the jungle and wears dirt like armor.
He coughs as the dust settles. I try to relax my heartbeat, but it only shoots up when he stays right where he is. “Out of the way,” I command.
“Hello to you, too,” the boy says. “I thought you’d never get back.” He returns to his bout of coughs, and I dismount, clutching the stallion’s reins still.
The boy examines me. “Raja’s beard,” he says in a husky voice, “what’re you wearing? And where’d you get that thing?”
Raja’s beard? Some sort of peasant slang. And certainly no way to speak to a princess.
“That thing is a stallion,” I retort, unable to adjust my high royal voice to match his.
“I thought you never learned to ride.”
My cheeks redden. “It’s not as hard as it looks. And . . .” I touch my earrings. “I had a little time for dress-up.”
The boy chuckles. “Well, you could’ve told me you’d be awhile! I had to knock a soldier out with a melon. I was freaked out after you left me, but now that you’re back . . .”
“You did what?”
“There was a spare melon on the ground! I had to escape the bloodcoats after I made that diversion.” He eyes my necklace.
“Bloodcoats?” I wonder.
Amir raises a brow dubiously. “Y’know. Charts.”
“Oh.” I cannot comprehend who in the raja’s right mind this peasant boy thinks I am. Then Ria’s voice floods back to me. Her friend, who would be waiting for her at the edge of the Moga Jungle.
Amir.
“Prince?”
“Yes, me, Amir.” He steps into the moonlight and points to his face, but my eyes are drawn to the scar across it. I hadn’t seen it before, but it divides his face into two halves, diagonally down the length of his visage. “Now tell me what happened in the palace! Did you get the jewels from the queen’s chamber?” His words crash into one another with excitement.
“Yes,” I lie breathily, nerves tingling all over. From his relaxed stature, I know he hasn’t realized I’m not who he believes me to be. My fingers settle on the necklace at my throat. “I only managed to take this.”
To Amir, it is a simple thing. Sold for a pile of rupees and freedom. To me, it’s the encapsulation of my life. Trapped forever, silenced by a bejeweled object that has done nothing more than choke me into submission.
“Here,” I say, practically ripping the necklace from my throat. Once it is gone, my shoulders lift, as if relieved of a fate filled with unconceived fortunes and untold stories.
“Only? You took a whole necklace fit for a queen!” He laughs and closes his arms around my shoulders in a hug. I still at first, unsure what to do with my hands, but then relax my shoulders, letting myself be wrapped in the cocoon of this strange warmth.
He pulls away. “Think it’ll be enough to get us fake passports?”
I recall Tutor’s final words. “Actually, I managed to take one other thing.” I show him the ring. “It has a special symbol.”
Amir cocks a brow. “Looks like a bunch of crops. What d’you think that means?” He eyes it like a hawk ready to swoop down and sell it for a cool coin and, hopefully, a steady future.
“I’ve seen it before.” I attempt to look not too knowledgeable, slouching down and tossing the ring over and over in my palm. “In some books at the orphanage. It’s the symbol of some sort of territory. The Mailan Foothills.”
Amir stiffens. His gaze shoots sideways.
“You’ve heard of it?” At his reluctance to answer, I add, “You have, haven’t you?”
Amir sighs. “It’s in the Hidden Lands.”
“I’ve never heard of those,” I respond. Surely a princess would know the geography of her own kingdom. Then again, I’d never known about the Foothills.
“That’s because they’re hidden. Wouldn’t even know how to get there, honestly.”
I can sense he’s holding something back. “But you know someone who could?”
“Well . . .” He sighs. “There’s this girl. I think she works at a bazaar, or nearby one. . . .”
“A girl?” Ria never told me Amir knew others out in the jungle, but he must have some kind of past, a family he left—or that left him—behind. My mind turns back to the fountain, to the girl with hair bright as the Abaian sun, standing in a bustling market. “Light-brown hair? Star-shaped birthmark?”
Amir’s gaze shoots to mine. “How’d you know that?” He looks at me as if I am a stranger, a foreign entity.
“I saw her,” I say carefully. “In the . . . fountain.” How much does Amir know of the Fountain of Fortunes?
Ria’s friend raises both brows before loosing a staccato laugh. “Yeah, the Fountain of Lies. Seriously, Ria, how could you know that—”
“Because it is the truth,” I cut in, voice haughty. It’s how I speak to my servants, to Saeed, when I want to be sure they’ll listen, but I try to swallow my tone. I cannot let Amir spot the differences between Ria and me.
I say the only thing I can think of. “I overheard servants in the palace who wanted passports, too. They dropped this ring . . . I think perhaps they wished to go to the Foothills themselves. If we find the girl you know, and she can help us get to the Foothills, we might find someone who can help us escape, perhaps even make our passports.” Bitterness sits on my tongue, but us snakespeakers have a way with lies. A natural affinity in our bones for spinning tales and telling stories, thanks to the Snake Master. It’s helped me get what I want more than once.
My powers might not work against Father—but could they work with Amir?
The boy still looks skeptical, but I gaze deeper into his eyes and prepare to channel my words, my mind, against his.
“Trust me,” I say. I dig into the snake magic in my veins and tug, pulling him in, closer, closer . . .
As if a cloud has lifted from his face, a hopeful look spreads over his features, and he slowly nods. Amir’s eyes light up, as if this is another one of his and Ria’s heists. A game.
It works. I’ve never used my snake magic with a commoner before. Excitement threads through me.
“Fine. We’ll go to her. But once we’re in the Foothills, we’ll only stay as long as we need to find a passport maker.”
I agree quickly. I must find information on this stone if I want to show Father I am worthy of things greater than an idle figurehead. The fountain’s riddle wasn’t simply a fortune, but a prophecy. This boy, that other girl . . . Something greater is at work, and only I can set it into motion.
“How’d you get into the palace, anyway?” Amir eyes the horse. “See any of those bloodcoats in there?”
“No,” I lie. He speaks of them the way one says the word rubbish. It’s a cacophony of hate, of disgust. To me, they’ve hardly been more than servants, carrying out orders, protecting our family.
“Hmm,” Amir responds, leaning in closer. His scent rubs off on me: tree bark and melon—an interesting combination. I examine him, his slim body, his shorn hair. I curl my toes, welcoming the dirt underneath my sandals into the crevices of my feet. I feel like each of my senses have come alive after being suffocated for so long in the palace.
“We should get going if we want to get to that market,” Amir says finally, pocketing the jewels, though I hear a drop of dread in his tone. Whoever we’re meeting, the two of them must not have left off on good footing.
I mount the horse, and the boy gets on behind me. His lanky arms are a foreign feeling around my waist; I’m used to Saeed’s—the roped strength of his muscles.
We take off, the horse’s hooves beating like a drum along the forest floor. The star-flecked sky cloaks me, like a warm blanket on a chilled winter night. Amir’s arms tighten around my waist, his breath warm against my back.
Fireworks light in the distance. The signal is a reminder: back home, I am a prisoner.
Here, I’m overflowing with everything I never thought I wo
uld feel. Because in this moment, I am not Rani. I am free.
11
Ria
I peer over the ledge of Rani’s window. It’s a far drop, but nothing I can’t handle. I could run out of here if I wanted to, pretend none of this happened. But I can’t betray my promise.
I can’t leave until I get the truth.
Something hard and deep pangs in my chest. Want. A desire to know who I am. To know what happened to make me—Ria, a nameless girl—turn into Rani, a girl whose name is rich with history. But wanting to know means searching for answers. And searching for answers means staying here.
“Rani!” a voice snaps.
I spin. A woman stomps into the room, heels furiously grinding into the floor. She takes in my dirty garments, picks up my chunni. “What are you doing in those clothes?” Her cheeks flush.
I unhook myself from the windowsill, a thousand questions locked in my throat. Behind me, the curtains flutter from the warm Abai breeze, taunting me, telling me, Get through palace life for a few weeks, and you’ll get that ticket to freedom just like Rani promised.
The woman makes the rip bigger, pulling the threads apart. I yelp. My chunni!
“Tasteless,” she scoffs. “What are the maids giving you?” Her expression is one of disgust. “How many times have I had to tell you to stop running to your room? We’ve been looking all over for you, Rani.”
I let out a grunt of apology. I need to get away from this riled-up woman, whose familiar face holds nothing but disdain.
Disappointment.
It’s only then that her voice comes back to me. The woman from my and Rani’s vision.
“Ria . . .”
“Rani . . .”
This lady is the same one from the portrait on Rani’s wall. Could she be . . .
My mother?
No—Mama Anita was my mother. Mama Anita cared for me when no one else had. She was the only mother I’d known, even if she didn’t have my blood. But if the queen is also my mother, which one of them is my real family? The one who shares my blood or the one who shaped my life?
I should feel thrilled at the possibility that my real mother is standing right here. It’s what I always wanted, to find my real family, yet right now, I only feel more lost.