Sisters of the Snake

by Sasha Nanua

  “Let’s try again.” Irfan cracks his knuckles and then leans down to retrieve his sword. Before he can stand, I charge. Irfan ducks and I tumble over his back and catch myself on my elbows and knees. Abai’s sun, I think, get up. I spring for him just as Irfan sidesteps me, and my arms whirl, circling for balance.

  “Ria!” Amir rushes over and steadies my arms, his hands oddly warm, but there’s a smirk on his face. “I’ve seen you jump onto the roof of a hut. Lost your balance?”

  Though his voice is teasing, I reply, “I know how to stand my ground.”

  “Well, maybe you forgot one of my thieving lessons: always keep an eye on your enemy.”

  But my memory holds no nights of thieving lessons, of bruised knuckles or alleyway run-ins. Who I am has nothing to do with scraping out an existence on Abai’s streets.

  “I’m training you so that you’re prepared. The Charts will take one look at you, and they’ll snap you in half,” Irfan says.

  A Chart wouldn’t dare hurt a princess. Still, I glance down at my commoner’s clothing; perhaps Irfan’s trouncing is justified. That doesn’t mean I like hearing myself dismissed so easily.

  Another match, then. A lifetime’s worth of survival instinct siphoned into one afternoon. Tomorrow is our departure; I must be ready. Ready with supplies, ready to blend in with the villagers, ready to find the Temple that harbors the ancient guard. I push Amir gently aside, feeling every ache come alive as I move.

  We resume, but our sparring leaves me sore and dizzy, and I’m getting nowhere. I admit defeat. “Enough.”

  Irfan lowers his sword. “You wait too long to strike, Ria. This isn’t a fencing match; it’s real life.”

  “Then what would you have me do?” I ask him, tone biting.

  “Watch your opponents’ feet; it’ll tell you where they’re headed. Dodge, then strike. It’s how I learned to fight: with instinct.”

  I bite my cheeks.

  “We won’t be prepared if we don’t practice, Ria. I’m trying to help you.”

  “You might enjoy fighting,” I state, “but to me, weapons are not an expression of power.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Words, thoughts. Our actions. The Charts aren’t powerful because of their swords. They are powerful because of their leader.”

  Irfan smirks. His irises are startling, two silver coins pressed flat and polished to a shine.

  “The Charts won’t stop their fighting because of words. I’ve been training my whole life, running drills since I was enrolled in Amratstan’s child-soldier practice camps. Facing off with bandits who stole from my family.” He heaves a breath. “Who took my parents’ lives.”

  A stifling silence. “I . . .” The apology won’t reach my throat.

  “I’ve learned my lesson.” Irfan laughs without mirth. “Bad things happen to good people. The world isn’t fair; it’s like this training ground—a little uneven. While the Charts and the raja are on top, we’re at the bottom. And the only way to get to the top is to fight back.”

  I find Amir’s gaze. He gulps, then offers: “We do want to fight back. We . . .” He steels himself. “We want our freedom back. From the raja. From the soldiers.”

  “Me too.” From Father. Mother. Amara. They have always held my freedom in their palms. But not any longer.

  “You have to decide who you want to be in this world. A fighter, or a bystander. Which are you?” Irfan asks.

  He says the question as though I should know the answer. But I have left my old identity behind, shedding her like a snakeskin. And I don’t know who I will be when all of this is over. Perhaps, I will be worthy of being named Queen. Names and power are dangerous things, and in some ways synonymous, like two halves of one stone. Twins.

  “A fighter,” Amir and I answer simultaneously.

  “Then we’ll fight.” Irfan passes a sword to Amir and gestures us to face each other.

  We hold our swords up, circling each other slowly, like fencers in Father’s court. Though our movements are more like those of a doll’s: clumsy and stiff. I dart forward with my sword, nearly knocking aside Amir’s and pressing the blade to his throat. But Amir stumbles back and as I shift closer—

  We both fall to the ground, blades and limbs tangled. We’re nose to nose for an infinitesimal moment, but it feels like a lifetime. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen his features like this before: his brows thick yet framing the rest of his face just right; his deep-brown gaze, an ocean wide; his lips slightly parted. His breath is laced with a hint of clove lingering from this morning’s chai.

  Why can’t I look away?

  I shift off him. “Amir?”

  His eyes flit closed.

  Panic grips my chest. I jump up, shaking Amir’s body.

  A moment passes before he exhales and laughs, eyes crinkling. “Gotcha.”

  “That’s not funny!” But something breaks loose in me as I laugh, and flutters low in my stomach. Perhaps adrenaline from the spar, though Amir’s gaze makes me think of something else. A thrill runs through me that I haven’t felt in ages. Not since I believed in my love for Saeed.

  Stop it, Rani, I berate myself. I help Amir stand and regain my composure.

  Irfan claps twice, jolting me back to reality. “No time to waste. Remember, fight with instinct. Get ready for second position.”

  I inhale deeply as we ready our next spar. This time it’s Amir who moves first, catching me in the side with a dull blade. I stumble back.

  Do not show weakness. You are a princess. I may be a lie parading around as a thief girl, but my blood is more precious than any copper pot or iron coin—a fact that I have almost forgotten.

  I recall Irfan’s advice and watch Amir’s feet intently. I feel wind against my skin, smell the faint scent of rice that perfumes the air, taste a future of freedom, sweeter than nectar.

  And I charge.

  My blade hits Amir’s sword and I swipe left. Amir blocks my last move easily, but it doesn’t feel like defeat. It feels like a step forward into the unknown, thrilling and dangerous. I stop thinking. I fight with instinct.

  Nightfall arrives when we finish our last spar. “We leave at dawn,” Irfan tells us.

  As Amir exits and I’m ready to step away, I catch sight of Irfan packing up. I approach him, watching as nearby torchlight illuminates his rugged features.

  “Thank you for this. For training us,” I clarify.

  “I hope you didn’t take too hard of a fall.” When he’s finished packing, he slings his sheath over his shoulder and grunts. He clutches it and finds me eyeing him. “Just a little sore. You may not hit your target nine times out of ten, Ria, but when you do . . .”

  Irfan’s gaze flickers down. Silver eyes, silver secrets.

  Something niggles at the corner of my mind. The reason why Irfan seems so familiar . . .

  “We’ve met,” I say boldly, “haven’t we?”

  Irfan sucks his cheeks in. “Our pasts haunt us. Always.”

  I step closer. It’s on the tip of my tongue, his secret.

  “Didn’t you wonder why Samar died?” Irfan whispers. His eyes turn hollow. Saddened.

  Burdened.

  “He was a traitor to the king,” I reply, voice shaking.

  “He was hiding a secret,” Irfan amends. “My secret. And secrets are dangerous things. Best you’d stay away from them.”

  Before I can reply, the silver-eyed man salutes his farewell, heading downhill. His retreating form disappears into the folds of the autumn night.

  One thing is certain: Irfan is hiding something. And I must find out what.

  With Sanya and Jas decoding Tutor’s route to the Temple, Amir and I relax our tired muscles by sitting under a mango tree in the Forest of Hearts.

  Under the stars we lie side by side at the trunk, peering up between the leaves.

  “They say one bite of a mango in this forest will make you fall in love. At least, that’s what Ma said,” Amir adds quietly. “We used to sit here
and look up at the stars.”

  He points up at the outline of a circlet. The crown constellation.

  “Ma said she named me for it,” Amir chuckles. “Big joke, right? Me, a prince?”

  I’m quiet as Amir takes my hand in his and traces the faint string of stars beneath the crown. The outline comes into being: a face, eyes, lips. Have those always been there? Or are the stars trying to tell me something?

  “Ma said a prince should always care for his people.” Amir lowers my hand. “But I’ve realized . . . it’s not the royals who care. It’s us. Our friends, our family.”

  Amir might have a reasonable distaste for royalty, but still, I sit up. “Perhaps the royals have changed. Perhaps they’ve learned from the past and want a brighter future.”

  And while I no longer truly believe that of my father and mother, I want Amir to believe in me. I want him to see me here, and what I’m trying to accomplish.

  Amir leans up on his forearm, gazing at me. “Did you hurt yourself during training? What happened to the Ria I met eight moons ago? She would fume at a mention of the raja, or his family.”

  “That Ria doesn’t exist anymore,” I say fiercely. “And I’m not hurt. Except perhaps for my pride, and a few bruises.”

  He scrutinizes me. “You know, I don’t think I’ve so much as heard you say Raja’s beard since we left the palace.”

  “Raja’s beard?” I say weakly.

  “C’mon, Ria. I know when something’s different about you.” Gently, he tilts his head and examines my face.

  He means the way I’ve been acting. Standing my ground when I should have run. How I kissed his cheek in thanks. Suddenly I feel foolish; Ria would’ve never done that.

  “I don’t remember this,” he says, eyes trailing down to where a small nick sits at the base of my chin. A souvenir from a game Saeed and I once played as children on the rooftop of the servants’ quarters. The cut never quite healed.

  I need him to look away, stop him from seeing the minute differences between Ria and me. “Perhaps it was from today’s training. Which reminds me . . . I never knew Irfan trained as a soldier before. Did you?” I’d heard of Amratstan’s rigorous training program for children, having them practice to become soldiers before they’re even of age. Father would never allow such a thing in Abai. A small comfort.

  “I haven’t spoken to him much since we met by the tavern. Honestly, at first, I kind of despised the guy for hanging out with my sister. Like . . .” He looks away.

  I don’t need to be a mindwielder to read his thoughts. “Like he was taking your place.”

  Amir’s gaze swivels up. “I know, it’s stupid. But everything’s just been so sudden. After our parents died, we only had each other. And I wanted that to work, but I couldn’t stay in our village any longer, couldn’t deal with life without them. I left her, and I forgot I ever even had a family. Now I look at Jas and Irfan and Sanya, and . . . they almost look like one.”

  More than he and Sanya ever did, he means. I place my hand on his for comfort. “You never meant to hurt your sister, Amir. But she doesn’t know that. You need to tell her why you left. You need to end this rift between you two.”

  “I don’t even know how to find the words,” Amir admits.

  “Any words will be enough. They don’t have to be the perfect ones. They just have to be from you. All she wants to know is how you really feel.”

  Moonlight washes through the branches, landing on Amir’s cheeks, his brow, the crown of his head. My gaze locks on his; his lingers on mine. He looks like he’s battling something, his body pushing forward and pulling back. As if he’s caught in that fragment of time when day becomes night.

  “Here,” he says after a moment. With haste, he fishes for two identical bands of twine. “Jas told me everyone in the Foothills wears one. The strings symbolize how everyone here is a family. They work together to make the community stronger.”

  I take the twine and, without hesitation, bring my hands to Amir’s bare wrist. His skin is visibly callused, a pattern of strength, of loyalty.

  “This place could be home,” Amir says wonderingly. “You’re safe here. From conscription. From the raja’s army. If we forgot about the Bloodstone, the passports . . .” He leans in closer, and I’m startled by how handsome he looks up close, his rugged grace. For a second, I consider it. Living without care, staying in the Foothills forever.

  I tie the twine and look away. “That’s not possible, Amir,” I say. Home. What does that word mean anymore?

  “Why not?” His voice comes out rough. The heat between us is stifling.

  “Because,” I reason. We don’t belong together. Amir and I, we’re opposite ends of everything. Heat and ice. But here we are, threads unspooling until we are one being under the stars.

  “It’s a fantasy, staying here,” I continue. “This could never be our home. This is the land the raja rules. If we don’t get the Bloodstone and stop the king, we’ll be powerless.” Though the words sting me, I cannot indulge in Amir’s illusions of a better life right now, not until I have the Bloodstone in my hands. And if I achieve my goals, I need to remember where I’ll be at the end of all of this: back in the palace. Not in the Mailan Foothills. Not with Amir.

  Amir pulls back. “Ever since we got here, all you’ve been talking about is that Bloodstone and the Ruthless Raja. All you do is defend the royals! I thought you cared about freedom, not power. I thought . . . I thought you cared about us.” He gulps. “I don’t get it, Ria. Whose side are you on?”

  I flinch. His words aren’t harsh—no, they’re almost gentle in a way I hate, confusion simmering beneath the surface. The heat, palpable just a second ago, has dissipated for an iciness that feels too familiar for comfort. I push myself to my feet. I want to tell Amir our worlds could collide, that I am changing and shifting more than I ever thought I would. But what of my end goal? What happens after the stone? He is not in my future.

  “Perhaps our thoughts are more different than we expected.”

  Hurt flashes in Amir’s eyes. “Or maybe I just never saw the real you.”

  My stomach coils. I haven’t a clue why I care what he thinks, but I do. I storm off.

  Whose side are you on? Amir’s words echo in my ears. I came here for myself, to prove something to Father. But what of my people? Shouldn’t I have been thinking of them, too?

  It seems the world has split into two: rebels and royals. A line has been drawn in the sand, but I am not sure which side I belong to anymore.

  25

  Ria

  “Swing your leg over, like this.” Saeed demonstrates mounting a black mare with ease, like it isn’t a living, breathing beast beneath him. I attempt to climb onto my horse, again, but slide right off with a grunt.

  “Something wrong?” He eyes me as I struggle to position my feet.

  Yeah, I want to huff, I barely got a wink of sleep and I’ve never ridden a horse in my life. The mare lets out a loud snort, and I jump. Saeed looks like he’s biting back a grin. He’s both humored and confused by me, probably still wondering what exactly I’ve been up to these past few days. With all of the engagement preparations, our lessons have been postponed more often than not.

  I spent all of the last two nights in the library, even fell asleep in there trying to learn more about this mysterious prophecy Mama Anita mentioned. That’s what holds the answers to my birth, the answers to why I ended up in the orphanage. Not to mention Aditi still hasn’t gotten back to me about those roses Amara’s so attached to. Despite all my looking, I found nothing.

  Now it’s late afternoon, and I’m still bone-tired and chilled from this morning’s downpour. The cool air calms me when I finally, finally mount this blasted beast, and we leave the stables to head down a trail within the palace gates.

  I’ve never been so close to a mare. Why ride a horse when you can run? And can’t horses smell fear or something? I surreptitiously smell my arm, then lower it once we’re in the thick of a copse of
trees, a lonely plain of land far enough from the palace to feel alone but close enough to remember I haven’t escaped.

  “How’d you get the raja’s permission to get me out of there?”

  “Took some convincing,” Saeed admits, “but with Mother as the raja’s adviser, your father allowed it, so long as I stay close to you. He seemed to think a horseback riding lesson would do us some good, especially since we’re . . . how did you put it? Starting over.”

  “You told the raja that?” I thought after my accusation of his mother, he wouldn’t want to spend another second near me.

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No . . .”

  “I know when you’re lying, Rani.”

  “I’m the snake sniffer! I mean, the snakespeaker.” Saeed softly snorts. My cheeks burn. Why are my words getting all tangled up? Must be from the lack of sleep. I’m supposed to be a cool-headed thief whose hands work faster than her heart, not some lovestruck princess.

  “All right, snake sniffer,” Saeed teases. His eyes flicker to mine. I don’t give him the satisfaction of returning his half glance, nor can I wonder what that glance means.

  “In truth, I wanted to take you on this ride to apologize for my behavior. I’ve been acting out of turn, been overprotective of my mother, who needs no protecting. I hope you’ll allow me the chance to explain.”

  “O-of course,” I eke out.

  Saeed clears his throat. “My mother wasn’t always harsh. She told me stories of her and the queen, how they became friends. Mother was kind. She felt love more than hatred. In Kaama, before my father’s death, she was . . .” He laughs. “She was normal. And then in recent years . . . it was like all she wanted was for me to sit on the throne.”

  My gaze flits downward. “What changed?”

  Saeed toys with a loose thread hanging from his trousers, lost in thought as the horses carry us onward. “I’ve never told you this, but back in Kaama, my mother hoped that someday I would grow up to become a Kaaman Warrior and join their army like Father. Then he died on a routine mission. There was an accident. I was only two summers old.”