by Sasha Nanua
Amara knew. She was watching me. I can’t even tell the raja what Amara’s done, or she’ll reveal my secret. It’s my word against hers. And I am the liar.
I’m overtaken by fury, by grief. For the first time since I’ve been in this palace, I heave a sob. A catalyst. The sobs rack my body, and shame and foolishness burn the wound on my cheek. My head pounds.
Thief. Princess. Thief. Princess.
I sit in the bath, losing track of time, letting the water warm the stinging bruise on my face. I’m unsure of where Amir is, if he’s safe. I’m unsure of what I’m doing, trying to be Rani and always failing. And I’m not sure where my tears end and the water in my bath begins.
26
Rani
The morning air is crisp and sings of tales whispered on the wind. Tales of girls whose stories shall be told forevermore.
Tales of girls like me.
“Grab your things,” Irfan tells me. “We’re loading the horses.”
I nod firmly. My passport—no, Ria’s passport—burns a hole in my pocket. We’re leaving the Foothills now, headed toward the Glass Temple. A place I never thought I would see with my own eyes. But any excitement is drowned by the fact that this journey is a race: the Charts are looking for the stone, too. We have little time to waste.
At the entrance of the Foothills, Amir pauses and turns back to admire the world we’ve come to know, a land of people who believe in freedom and truth and equality. But last night’s conversation comes flooding back: about whose side I’m on, about where my loyalties lie. He won’t quite look me in the eye, and I have yet to find my answer for him.
I step out of the Foothills first, the air shifting before me as I escape the strange bubble. Behind us there appears only desert plains and warm winds. Sanya, Amir, Irfan, and Jas emerge seemingly out of nothingness as they exit, and the Foothills magically seals itself away from us. Jas holds Tutor’s book close to her, the route to the Temple sketched out next to Tutor’s pristine code. I help her onto the horse, then mount mine.
Traveling with Amir while we are on rocky terms is harder than I thought. His hands on my waist feel different now, his grip looser, as if he cannot stand to be so close to me. Whose side are you on? The words pound through my skull.
Three days of travel through the jungle later, we reach a clearing. Exhaustion settles in my bones like a heavy blanket.
“Let’s set up a fire for dinner here and refuel,” Irfan says. “We’re not far from the next village. We’ll sleep here and leave at first light.”
I dismount and untie the packs strapped to the mare. Across from me, Amir does the same for the other horses, eyes flickering up to me as he undoes the ropes. Our conversation has been short, businesslike. Nothing more than what we must communicate to complete our tasks.
I glance away and focus on my steed, getting her tied up and watered down. But all I can think of is Amir. I yearn to speak with him, but I’m not about to blurt an apology so easily. Was it so wrong to express a different viewpoint?
After my horse drinks the water, I brush her mane and tail. The movements are so instinctual to me I nearly grow sleepy from the rhythm. Father always used to let me into the royal stables as a child.
“May I?” Amir appears next to me.
I start. “May you what?”
He points at the brush I have for the horses.
“Oh.” I hand over the comb, hiding my rouged cheeks, and his fingers gently touch mine as he retrieves it. He brushes another horse in silence. All I can think of is my fingertips, burning from where he touched me.
You’re supposed to be mad at him.
I turn away. Jas sets up a hearth of flames with ease, and soon enough, she’s offering us bowls of chole. She canned chickpeas before we left, prepared for the journey and the hunger it would bring. It’s clear Jas is skilled with herbs—both for healing and for cooking. The chole warms my stomach, my chest, in a way the Abai sun never could.
“Stories are sacred things in Abai,” Jas says once we’re settled. “We used to host campfire nights all the time in the Foothills. I have many stories that Sanya used to love to hear.” She glances at Sanya with the loving care of a mother, placing a hand over top hers. “The first step to healing our wounds is to speak of them. That’s what stories do. They teach us to remember, and to overcome.”
“I don’t have a story.” Sanya kicks at the ground. Silence falls over the camp.
“I’ll volunteer, I guess,” Amir says. He fidgets as he rubs knuckle against knuckle. His eyes flick up to mine, as if by accident, but he holds my gaze. My cheeks heat.
Amir breathes deeply. “I’ve never told anyone the story of how I got my scar. It happened years ago, but I remember it fresh as yesterday.”
Why does it sound like he’s speaking only to me? My gaze flutters up to the scar. He thumbs his lips, staring at the ground. Stubble forms a prickly veil on his chin, and his visage is half shadowed.
“I was in one of those fabric shops. It isn’t hard to steal jewels off chunnis The jewels don’t sell for much, but they’re something. Before I could get away, I saw a child hiding a couple of chunnis behind their back. They were so thin—hunched over like a dog someone forgot to feed. They didn’t know I’d seen them, but when the owner turned back, I—I knocked over a display of goods. It was enough time for the kid to get away. They left with the chunnis and a few other things—earrings, necklaces, the works. When the owner figured out what was missing, he thought the kid and I were working together. . . .” Amir fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “I took the blame.”
He doesn’t have to say the rest for me to fill in the blanks. He steals a look at me, and I don’t glance away. I can practically feel the tender raised flesh where his wound sits.
“I don’t even think the owner wanted to hurt me this bad,” Amir adds softly. “But I guess I deserved the whipping.”
“You didn’t. You never did.” It doesn’t matter that I’m not supposed to be talking. The words slip out of me, steely and harsh. I imagine the swaths of fabric, oranges and hot pinks and fire reds, saris and suits peppered with luscious jewels. Amir, a boy who only wanted to pluck them like ripe fruit, his only chance at food, at something to sell for spare change.
The whole camp is silent. I’m aware of every eye on me and Amir.
“I guess it’s proof,” Amir says. He glances around the fire. “If I ever loved someone, it would feel like that.”
“Like what?” I say, though the words come out in a whisper.
“I dunno,” he says, with a laugh meant to deflect. “Like sacrifice.”
Sacrifice. That was not what I imagined with Saeed. Love was stolen kisses, silken lips. I thought I loved Saeed once. Could I love him again? If I tried? If I went back?
I’m not sure I want to.
Irfan, silent as stone as he sits across from me, cuts into my thoughts. “Who’s next?”
I turn away from Amir, who’s still staring at me, and my stomach twists. Inconspicuously, I cover my face with a few strands of hair, praying for my too-hot cheeks to cool down.
Across from me, Jas shifts in her spot. “There was a story my husband always told. A story of two people from opposite sides of life, a stonebringer and a currentspinner, and their impossible task.”
I know this story. Under Tutor’s tutelage, I learned stories aimed at teaching about all kinds of magic. Currentspinners, descendants of the Master of Sky. Stonebringers, who could move the earth with their fingertips.
I don’t listen as Jas finishes the story. I already know how it ends. With the characters forever at odds. Never finding a way to make peace. I begged Tutor to tell me another ending, to tell me there was hope.
I tug my chunni closer to me, despite the stifling air and the fire billowing right in front of me. Next to Jas, Irfan fidgets with his hands.
“And what’s your story?” I ask him.
His silver eyes pin mine. “I’ve got nothing to tell.”
“Yo
u said you trained in child-soldier camps?”
This spikes Irfan right where it hurts. “I don’t like to talk about the past. What’s done can’t be undone.”
“That’s not always true. The past—”
“Will haunt you,” he says, just like he told me days ago, eyes alight. I catch his fingers tightening at his sides. “We all hide something.”
My heart thuds as I speak my next words. “And what are you hiding?”
Irfan’s eyes burn. “Most people know I come from Amratstan. What they don’t know is how one day, I went home and found our house empty, wrecked, in shambles. My parents were dead because of bandits. They raided my village and spared only the children.”
The group is silent.
“I came to Abai, tried to make a home for myself.” Irfan hesitates here, as though he has to force the next words out—but when he speaks, it’s a shorter story than I expect. “I worked for a while, but I didn’t love my post, so I left, started stealing food for those who needed it. I only took for the good of others.”
Irfan, perhaps subconsciously, touches his shoulder. He glances at me, and I can barely see an old wound under his collarbone peeking out from his shirt. After our training, he’d been clutching his shoulder in pain—was the wound flaring up?
With that, Irfan is standing up. “We should get some sleep. I’ll take first watch, just in case.”
With the whoosh of a match striking, Irfan changes. He’s no longer Irfan-with-the-deep-secret, Irfan-with-no-family. Just the Irfan I’ve come to know: a rebel who wants more for his kingdom.
Does that make him any different from me?
I know I cannot sleep tonight. During my watch, I sit on the outer edge of the encampment, observing the swaying trees. When I look back, Sanya is snoring softly, Irfan sleeping a few paces away. Not far from me is his pack.
I narrow my eyes. An idea comes to mind—I might not get secrets out of Irfan himself, but I can find out something about what he is hiding.
Like a true thief, I crouch near Irfan’s pack and tug it toward me. I breathe shallowly as I move the pack closer, closer, and pull it open. Besides a few stray arrows and a notebook with barely decipherable handwriting, I find nothing.
Then I notice something glinting deep inside, burnished a reddish gold. I loosen it from the bottom of his pack.
And suppress a gasp.
It’s Abai’s crest, stamped on a burnished coin. Only one kind of person has that sort of coin—official palace employees.
How can this be? Did he steal this coin? No—he said he only takes for the good of others.
Which means Irfan is—or was—employed by my father.
Irfan rustles. I put the coin back and quietly smooth his pack closed. Whatever Irfan’s hiding, I don’t like it. I can’t sit here any longer.
I step back, watching the group return to a soft slumber. When I turn away, I find myself at the precipice of the woods, the jungle air thick and cloying. I enter.
Through the trees I can make out the nearby village, smokestacks leaning into the skies. My mind is ablaze with questions. Irfan and Father. Never would I have thought the two could be connected.
I step deeper into the jungle, newly aware of how tired my limbs are. Of how they ache for sweet relief . . .
Ten steps later, something feels wrong. The jungle fades away into blotches of inky black. I pinch myself—not a dream.
An ominous snap resounds in the distance, and I whirl just as a dark shape rushes toward me.
27
Ria
The throne room is alight and full of color: curtains of royal red swath every corner; pillars are wrapped in silks and matching fabrics. Servants dress in shades of cerulean and mauve instead of green, and each carries a pillow with nuts and dried fruit, like nests holding eggs.
It’s Rani’s engagement party. Probably one of the most important nights of her life.
I can’t screw this up.
Luckily I’ve already made my entrance, sporting a red lehenga dusted in stars.
The maids Jasmin and Neela stay at my back as aunties from the women’s room come to me in floods, fawning over my outfit. Saeed is due to arrive any moment with his mother, so all the attention’s on me. But all I can think of is Saeed’s mother. I press my fingers to my faintly aching cheek, Amara’s slap still jarring me days later. Her words flash through me: What name shall I call you?
One wrong move and all of this is over.
Gold-painted elephant statues, three of them, lead up to two pillows where Saeed and I will sit. Scarlet drapes and bright lamps hang from all corners, bathing the room in light. Two of the aunties rush me over to the pillows, and I sit reluctantly. Beads from my lehenga dig into my flesh. Skies, who designed this? I adjust the skirt and examine my hands, covered in a deep-red mehendi design that the aunties applied yesterday. The last time I had mehendi on, I was ten summers old. I’d stolen some of Mama Anita’s stash and piped a flower on my palm, though it turned into a misshapen blob. It didn’t come off for days.
A dhol provides the background music, rhythmic and entrancing as people mingle. When Saeed walks in, his mother at his side, his eyes find mine, and something about them makes my heart skip. My gaze flits to his lips, and it’s like the music and even the sight of Amara fall away. He eases onto the pillow next to me and smiles. “Evening, Princess.”
Sensations bloom in my head. Lips touching; the feeling of his soft skin on the corner of my mouth. Skies, get a hold of yourself, Ria. This is your sister’s betrothed. I try to smile, but my mouth tugs to the side awkwardly, and I twist away before I can embarrass myself further.
A servant approaches and offers us sweets—whole laddoos (gross), jalebis (too sticky), and chum chums (just right). I stuff my face before realizing Saeed is watching me curiously. So much for being ladylike.
I chew, swallow, and pluck up the courage to say hello properly. But he cuts to the chase, placing a finger beneath my chin and tipping my face to greet his.
“Do you want to . . . talk?”
“Now?” I pitch my voice to a whisper. I watch as the guests form a line and the official greetings and money offerings commence. It’s custom to offer gifts, money, to the couple, or at least that’s what Mama Anita said when I was young. I’ve never actually been to an engagement party. “Is this about the dreams?”
He frowns slightly. “I left you alone with my mother. You are still alive, which is an excellent sign, but, Rani, what did she say?”
Before I can speak, the line begins to move, and a silvery voice claims, “Here they are!”
A chill dances down my back. I stiffen, but from the sweet tone I know it can’t be Amara. It’s one of the gossiping aunties from the women’s room—Parvati.
Internally, I groan. Externally, I smile.
“You look positively gorgeous, Rani. Just like your mother on her engagement night!” she croons, offering a pile of rupees into the fabric on our laps.
More women approach, each one as curious as the last, and with no regard for my personal space. One of them comes up to me and squeezes my cheeks. “Unhhh,” I say, though what I really want to say is, Get your hands off me.
“Amara, come here!” Parvati says to Saeed’s mother, who’s making idle chatter with a few nobles. A few breaths pass before she stalks over, her mouth painted into a crimson smile. “What did you want, Parvati?” Condescension slips from Amara’s lips like spiced wine. “The line is growing—”
“It’s Saeed and Rani. Their engagement announcement on Diwali night was so . . . pure! Don’t you think it’s time we saw a kiss?”
“Now, now, Parvati,” Amara says. “You know Kumal . . .” She chokes on her words. “You know my husband and I were never ones to show signs of affection in public. Why should Saeed and Rani be any different?”
I glare at Amara. She doesn’t want a stranger’s lips on her son’s, that’s for sure.
“Kiss!” the aunties encourage us. “Kiss, kiss!”<
br />
I avoid Saeed’s crisp stare. Ignore the heat blooming up my neck.
Before we can succumb to the women’s wishes, more nobles shove forward and the aunties lose their chance. I bite my cheek to stop myself from grinning at their enraged looks. Nobles flood forth, praying for a prosperous engagement.
All I’m praying for is that the rest of this night goes smoothly.
Finally the raja and queen approach, and the line abruptly ends. The queen gives me a gold band—a ring—and tells me, “It’s time.”
My stomach knots.
Saeed takes me by the hand, and we rise. The crowd holds a collective gasp. I want to be sick. The country is preparing for war and death and this family is having a lavish party over a sham of a marriage. It’s all too much to bear.
I slip the ring onto his finger, and then he slips one onto mine. The studded diamond on my ring gleams up at me. A rock of this size doesn’t belong on my hand—it belongs in my pocket, like everything else I’ve ever taken.
Applause sounds from every corner of the room. As the crowd disperses, the queen steps before me, eclipsing my view of Saeed. “I wanted to speak to you tonight, Rani, to discuss how you’ve been behaving of late.”
My tongue goes numb. “F-for what?”
“I’ve been watching you and your snake familiar closely,” the queen begins. My mind races. Did Shima rat me out about my sneaking around?
“It seems you have taken a greater hand in your magic lately. Shima’s newfound obedience has not gone unnoticed. You’ve been spending more time together.” Her smile beams.
My tongue is limp. Something else swells inside me. The queen, my mother, proud? It’s true, Shima and I have been spending time together since the moment she helped me open the Pit. But Rani had been studying her snake magic for years, hadn’t she? I thought my own abilities would be pitiful compared to hers.
Skies, I’d better thank that snake.
“Your father and I believe you should be allowed more freedom outside the palace. I expect you agree?”