by Sasha Nanua
My heart skips a beat.
“The man . . . was his name Samar?” I ask, my voice more desperate than I’d like. I think back to the ring he gave me. “Was he—or the stone—connected in any way to the Mailan Foothills?”
Merchant Man huffs. “If you want to know more”—he glares pointedly at the pouch—“I’ll need another coin.”
One less coin. If that’s what it takes to find more information on Tutor and the stone, then I shall offer him so.
I pluck the shiniest coin from the pouch and hold it before his eyes. He licks his lips greedily, and before he can swipe for it, I pull back.
The man narrows his eyes. “I didn’t know the man’s name. All I knew was he had a wife living in the Foothills, her home. Now gimme.”
My eyes widen, and I withhold a breath as I offer the coin.
If Merchant Man is discussing Tutor, then could this man be telling me about Tutor’s wife? What if Tutor didn’t give me the ring just to lead me to the stone? What if he gave it to me to find not only something but someone.
His wife. Tutor had told me she has a matching ring. Perhaps he wanted me to find the stone . . . by finding her first.
While the man inspects the money, my gaze shoots back to the stables. Two horses gone. Almost there—
“If I didn’t know any better,” the man says, “I wouldn’t think a wealthy girl like you, with those earrings and so many coins to spare, would be interested in an old man chasing fairy tales.”
My cheeks burn. “I told you, I am a humble girl.”
Three horses gone. I turn to leave, but the man grabs my wrist, shackling me to him. His grip is like iron. That quicksand pools beneath me, and Amir’s words flash through my head. If you panic, you’ll drown.
A sea of fears eclipses the confidence I once felt. That sand inches higher, threatening to swallow me whole.
“Hey!” Merchant Man spins, noticing something amiss, his two beady eyes drilled to the open stables. “My horses are gone! Thief!”
I snatch the coin back from his grimy fingers. “I prefer the term purloiner.” Without a moment to spare, I break for the jungle, where Amir is waiting.
I glance left and right, legs still pumping, and just as my eyes lock on Amir, two roughened hands clamp onto my leg.
“Give it back, girl!” the man says, and I tumble into the dirt face-first. Merchant Man wears a hungry grin as he grapples for the pouch in my cloak. On instinct, I kick up between his legs and he curls inward with a pained yell. I scramble upward and sprint in the opposite direction, stopping once to look back only when I’m a few paces away from my destination.
Merchant Man is still doubled over. Something makes me pause. I might be pretending to be Ria, but I’m no thief. I brush off my sari, reminding myself of the poise I have always known, and step toward him.
“Here,” I say, pulling off my earrings and letting them fall to the ground next to the merchant. “Payment for the horses.” In my head, I chant the words Tutor instilled in me: My voice is power, my voice is strength.
“You shall not speak of this to anyone. Forget me,” I say.
The man only stares at the earrings, perplexed. “What—” He gathers his thoughts. “What was your name again, girl?”
I gather air into my lungs. Feel my power running through my veins. I shake my head. “I’m no one.”
Without a second to spare, I run as fast as my legs will carry me, into the nearest brush. I rest against a tree, praying Merchant Man hasn’t come to look for me again. I loosen a breath just as a hand grips my arm.
It is Amir: eyes lit, scar pronounced against his flushed skin. The look on his face nearly makes me sigh in relief.
“You got the horses?”
“Yeah, thanks to you,” Amir says. He leads me farther into the trees to where Irfan and Sanya are waiting. “Those horses are damn hard to tie down,” he continues, “but three will be enough.”
Irfan brings his gaze to mine. “You really are the best thieves in Abai.”
“But still strangers,” Sanya finishes, gaze flinty. Her voice is rough, unflinching, but I pay no mind.
“A deal is a deal,” I reply. “We’ve got the horses, now you need to get us to the Foothills.” Where Tutor’s wife might still live.
Irfan nods, looking to the group for confirmation. Though Sanya’s face looks cut from stone, he and Amir seem content with the plan.
“Let’s move our tails, then,” Sanya says. “I’ll lead the way to our material supplier, then we’ll head to the Foothills.”
Sanya spins and mounts her horse, Irfan just steps behind her, heading for another steed. I mount the third horse, and reluctantly, Amir follows. The feeling of his hands on my waist—so unlike Saeed’s—unsettles me. They are warm, too warm. I like the feeling of cold in the air, ice against my skin. I like knowing no one, nothing, can break through that.
The horses spur, then kick off. Amir grips onto me tightly. “How’d you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Stop that merchant from chasing after you,” Amir replies. “I heard you. You didn’t run like usual—you spoke to him, stood your ground. What’d you say?”
I stiffen, but despite myself I enjoy the spark of admiration in his voice. I keep my eyes focused on the trail ahead, adjusting the reins as needed. “Nothing of import. Besides, you can’t run from everything.” The words burn my tongue. How hypocritical of me; here I am, running—from Father, from the palace, from destiny.
Still, Amir looks at me like I’m the sun and he’s a planet locked in my orbit, steadfast and true. In the palace, I am simply moon dust: cold, untouched. Out here, I am not bound to the fate of a princess. And, for at least a little while, I’d like to keep it that way.
17
Ria
The dining room is stifling hot, and it doesn’t help that it’s full to the brim for tonight’s dinner. I brush my braid away from my sweaty neck and touch a finger to the threads of gold that snake through my hair. They look like a trail of tiny, radiant stars. Jasmin, one of the maids, dressed me in a plum lehenga for tonight with matching jewelry. I make a mental note to pocket the gems I’m wearing; who knows how much it’s all worth?
But right now I’m not here to be a thief. Quit fantasizing. Look like you’re in command. I repeat the words in my head, and to my surprise, they feel as natural as my heartbeat.
A servant pulls out a seat for me, the second-nearest chair to the raja. He sits at the head of the table and chats over something with an adviser. A few of their words stick to the air, reaching me: “Weapon . . . searching . . . Irfan . . .”
My brows arch in interest. That name—Irfan—is so familiar . . . yes! It was the name Samar had said back in Nabh, moments before he was taken away. “You won’t find Irfan.” So why is the raja talking about an old naan merchant?
The back of my neck prickles, like someone’s watching me. It’s a thief thing, a sixth sense, feeling someone’s gaze on you. I know I’m right when I spot Amara’s eyes on mine, her lips painted a shade so bright red, I’m afraid it’s blood. She’s busy at the table making fruitless gossip with aunties from the women’s room and some other nobles I don’t recognize—but her eyes are fastened on mine.
“Princess,” Amara says, interjecting my thoughts. “Please sit. Everyone has been patiently waiting for you!”
I’m sure they have, I think, but grin tightly instead and sit, pretending I didn’t just steal a bunch of keys from her in the women’s room. I need to stay quiet, smile and nod. Play my cards right. Wait for my moment to slip into the king’s study.
What feels like a hundred gazes ruffle my demeanor, but I smile through it. I notice an empty seat across from me. Saeed isn’t here tonight. Clinking sounds fill the air. Servants bustle in, handing out bowls of red onion steeped in vinegar and sprinkled with pepper. Minutes later, a tray of fish pakoras is laid out before us. My stomach rumbles. Fish isn’t common for villagers to eat in Abai, with the kingdo
m’s few bodies of water. Must be something the royals don’t think about twice. I devour my food, almost moaning at the taste. I won’t be able to figure everything out on an empty stomach, I reason.
By the third course, the table has settled into rhythmic conversation. When Rani said the palace has feasts instead of meals, she wasn’t kidding. I cool my palate with spiced dahi. The yogurt was one of my favorite foods from back in the orphanage.
Abruptly, someone arrives in the dining room, dressed in a crisp ivory shirt paired with silver bands on either arm. Saeed quietly shuffles toward an empty seat across from me, eyes downcast. I notice how tired he looks. For some reason, I thought he wouldn’t show up to tonight’s dinner, that maybe he was avoiding me. But then his warm eyes find mine, and I can’t help the blush rising to my cheeks. He glances away.
I can tell there’s something bothering him. He clenches his fingers around his fork, the creases between his brows deepening.
He’s definitely not over yesterday’s conversation.
Servants come around with mango lassi to wash down the meal. Hastily, I take two cups, placing them in front of me. Saeed’s voice resonates in my mind. No more apologies, Princess. What went wrong? And what about those weird dreams he was talking about? And Amara’s obvious lie about his tonic?
I sneak a glance at him, his golden eyes honey-drenched. Honey—food—right. I reroute my focus, turn back to my plate, but I suddenly feel the need to down this cold lassi to soothe the heat in my cheeks.
I eye the unused golden fork next to my plate, thinking on instinct of how I can slip my hand around the utensil and tuck it away. Just as I’m reaching for the fork, keeping my hand out of plain sight like Amir taught me, Saeed clears his throat. My fingers freeze. I stiffen for a moment before returning my hand to my side, his eyes settling on mine.
“Good evening,” he says, jaw clenched.
“Evening,” I reply lightly, wondering why he’s suddenly making conversation with me.
“Enjoying your food?” He gestures at my plate, practically licked clean, then eyes my dirty silk napkins. Definitely not proper etiquette.
I stuff the napkin in my palm and press it to my lehenga. Just a second ago the raja was eyeing me with approval. Now, after I’ve gulped down my food, he looks at me warily, like he’s confused to see his daughter so unrefined.
“Rani, dear,” he laughs, and his voice booms so loud the entire room quiets. “Playing villager, are we?”
I glance down. The dirty napkin has left a trail of haldi on my clothes. The turmeric stain means nothing to me but everything to a royal.
My eyes snap up to the raja’s, and I can’t stop the irritation that sparks through me. “Villagers aren’t dirty, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
A trio of gasps. Had Rani ever spoken back like that to her parents? I’ve been beaten and scarred before and never been able to use my voice. Now that I’m a princess, how can I be silent?
The raja is quiet before he forces out a good-natured chuckle. “That’s enough, Rani.”
“It’s not,” I say before I can stop myself. Whispers grip the table. “Those so-called peasants work themselves to the bone. If they’re covered in dirt, it’s because you made it so.” I stare right at the raja.
He forces a smile. “Yes, everyone must do their part in our great kingdom. How about we enjoy the next course?” He claps, and servants warily bring teapots and desserts. A nervous chatter resumes.
“I think I’ll pass.” I shoot up and push the chair back with my legs, flinging the haldi-stained napkin on the table before I turn on my heel and stride out. The queen looks like she wants to call after me but doesn’t want to cause a scene.
Serves the raja right. He should be listening to his people, not berating them. He’ll have to listen once he knows who I really am. I finger Amara’s keys in the band of my lehenga, letting that anger simmer into my familiar thief instincts. The raja will know better than to come after me, prissy princess that I am. Which means now’s the perfect time to find his office.
But I still don’t know my way around these halls. And it’s not like I’ve got some handy map to help me. I scour the corridors, looking for the familiar shape of the raja’s office door, and end up stumbling into a foreign part of the palace. The smell of simmering onions draws me in, and I walk in a sort of trance until I’m at the kitchens.
Inside, steam rises as the cook works on her meal. Servants, all merely children, carry trays of chai and fennel seeds. Aha! Maybe one of them can lead me to the raja’s office. An older servant passes on orders and requests from the nobles, while a different girl is staring so deeply at the tray in her hands, she seems hypnotized.
She looks familiar. Of course—it’s Aditi, Amara’s servant, with two braids hanging from either side of her head.
She’s still looking down as she clasps the tray, laden with a pot of tea, empty cups, and a fresh rose, heading for the exit.
“Excuse me?” I say at the door.
“Oh!” she cries, wobbling, just as I say, “Sorry, er, Aditi,” steadying her.
“That’s the first time you’ve apologized to me,” Aditi mumbles, awestruck.
How little did my sister apologize for her actions? It’s clear the servants don’t dislike her—they fear her. Which means they fear me, too.
“I’m sorry, miss. I should have been paying attention. Is something the matter?” She doesn’t quite look me in the eye, instead focusing on the odd smear of turmeric on my outfit. “You don’t normally enter the servants’ quarters.”
How would Rani respond to the girl? Aditi looks nervous, like I’m about to dole out some punishment.
“I was just a bit lost, I’m afraid.” I keep my voice low but rigid, like Rani’s. “Could you escort me to the raja’s office? I have business there.”
“O-of course.” Aditi, tray in hand, scuttles off into the corridor. The halls are like a maze as we make our way out of the cramped servant quarters and into the polished, marbled halls. “Here we are,” she says when we’re ten feet away from the room I saw earlier. I was right, this is his office.
“Thank you, Aditi. I can take it from here.”
Aditi nods fast, then scurries away. Finally alone, I reach into the band of my skirt, finding the keys I stole from Amara. Last night I tried picking a few locks in different palace doors, but they were all duds. Thank the skies I was able to get Amara’s keys today.
With these, I can crack open the truth of my birth.
At the doorknob, I wiggle one of Amara’s keys a touch to the left, then the right, feeling for the latch. I pretend I’m just a girl back in Nabh stealing naan. A thief in princess’s clothing is no less of a thief. A girl in disguise is no different from one blending into the shadows.
But the key isn’t listening. I move on to the next key on the ring, then the next. I turn the key once more, and when I hear the telltale click, I hide a smile. I’m in.
The raja’s office unfurls before me. Inside sits a velvet chair and a wooden table covered in parchment. Velvet drapes line the room from floor to ceiling, and the whole room stinks of royalty.
My gaze roams around until I catch sight of a piece of parchment lying on the ground, covered in hooked lettering and fancy scribbles. With furrowed brows, I lean down and pick up the top sheet carefully. Words leap off the page, capturing my attention.
This weapon will be the finale of peace, the bringer of war. It shall change the tide of Abai’s future. The fate of our world . . .
I freeze. What weapon could this be about? My stomach turns when I see the word war. I’m supposed to be a soldier, a bloodcoat, as Amir would say. I drop the sheet quickly, as if these war plans will stain my fingers with ink. Mark me as a thief.
Something else on the page catches my attention.
Kaamans want to break the truce . . . more soldiers are necessary.
I shake my head. The handwriting is odd, loopy and spaced out, and way different from the capti
on at the top of the page. Who wrote this? And why would the Kaamans want to break the truce early? It makes no sense.
I move on from the sheet and head for a different corner of the room filled with drawers and bins, each holding papers with official wax seals. I begin to ruffle through the raja’s cabinets, careful to keep quiet. Most of the files are unreadable legal documents and the like, war and taxes and crop productions. Any other time, I would pick through them and learn more about this damned Hundred-Year Truce, about the future of this kingdom, but I’m not here for that. I have one mission, and I need to fulfill it while I’ve still got the chance.
The cabinets turn out to be a bust. Of course there wouldn’t be important information about a princess’s birth just lying around in unlocked wooden cabinets. There’s barely anything on Rani here at all.
I push myself away from the cabinets and spot something ahead of me, tucked into the corner of the office. A glass case enveloping a long, golden staff—a scepter with a carved snake head.
When I’m just a breath away, its eyes flash like rubies.
I leap back, but I can’t pull my eyes away from the serpent’s. Because they’re no longer stone; they’re flashing, inviting. In them are moving images: tears streaming down bruised faces; snakes’ jaws gaping; faces blanching in horror. I feel their terror, feel the snakes’ thirst for blood. I reel back.
I don’t know much about snake magic—don’t even know how to use it—but I know the rumors Amir told me about snakes feasting on villagers . . . it isn’t a lie. The Snake Pit’s real.
My skin crawls.
Overwhelmed by everything I’ve seen in the snake scepter’s eyes, I tear away from the glass case. I spin and tumble past the raja’s desk, past the door, and shut it closed with a thud. I’m done here.
“Find anything interesting?”
I jump. Behind me, Saeed looks like he’s hiding a laugh, hands clasped behind his back. Strange to see him wearing a genuine smile instead of his recent scowl.