“Let’s pray that the Sky Warriors took her, then,” the other woman says. “What now? Shall we clean the house?”
“No, we must wait until tomorrow morning. Allow any spirits to leave the place.”
My fingers curl around three of the silver beads from my mother’s necklace. I hold my breath until the villagers are gone, leaving behind nothing except silence and specks of dust floating in the air. Tomorrow they will return and sweep out the rooms, cleanse the house with soap and water and prayers, readying it for another occupant. I saw it happen once before in another village: the girl gone, her parents and brother laid out dead on the front veranda.
Once they’re gone, I slip out the door, narrowly avoiding the village guard and the light tap of his stick against the gravel. Sunheri and Neel, the yellow and blue moons, glow in the sky like sentinels, their brightness taunting in the face of my grief.
Magic still appears in traces against the bushes nearby: silver-blue, tinged with blood. Ma told me that magic always comes at a cost—the more you use it, the more it will take out of you. When Ma’s hands began glowing green on the roof tonight, I didn’t realize how high the cost would be, how much she was willing to bear.
By the time I reach Zamindar Moolchand’s stable outside the village’s biggest haveli, a mansion twice the size of my former home, my stomach has begun to growl. In the haste of escaping the villagers, I didn’t even think to go to the kitchen first.
The smell of discarded food rises from the garbage heap outside the haveli gates. I scrounge through it, coming across a half-eaten portion of yellow lentils and pulao wrapped in a banana leaf. The food appears fresh—the lentils still warm, the rice made my favorite way, with coriander, spices, and bay leaves, interspersed with tiny honeyweed dumplings. It tastes like ash in my mouth.
I avoid the haveli itself, its sandstone walls painted a bright yellow, and instead press a hand lightly against the stable door. To my surprise, it opens with only a slight creak, and for a moment, I freeze, terrified that I’ll wake the horses. A grunt rises, followed by a whinny.
Cautiously, I step inside.
The stable is clean, the sweet smell of dried hay filling the cavernous space. The paint on the wooden beams is faded, but not entirely gone: the remnants of an old fight scene between the Sky Warriors and the Pashu, a race of part-human, part-animal beings who were mostly extinguished during the Battle of the Desert seventeen years ago. Overhead, the artist has depicted King Lohar bent in supplication before the sky goddess, who is perched on a cloud, her eyes closed, her right hand raised in blessing.
The squat building must have housed several horses at one time, but now there’s only one, a Jwaliyan mare with black eyes, her mane gleaming ruby red in the moonlight pouring in from slats overhead. For a second, I forget myself. Forget everything as the mare and I watch each other, partly awed, partly suspicious.
“You’re a beauty,” I whisper, breaking the silence. I’ve only ever heard about horses like this—the sort that run wild in the plains of Jwala, animals that are so difficult to procure that they sell for no less than a hundred swarnas at the flesh market in Ambarvadi. The mare snorts, ears flattening against her magnificent head.
“I won’t hurt you,” I whisper. “I swear I won’t.”
I take a step closer and pause again, spotting a carrot on a bale of hay. I hold it out to her: an offering. “Hungry?”
The mare’s ears perk up, almost as if she could understand what I said. A wet nose brushes my fingers first, followed by the snap of teeth, which I narrowly avoid. With another snort, the mare turns away, dismissing my presence—I’m clearly not threatening enough to be of any consequence to her. I slip into the stall next to hers and sink into the sweet-smelling hay. For tonight, at least, I have a place to sleep. A place to hide.
As for tomorrow—who knows what will happen? I think of the women who entered our house tonight, the way they talked about my parents. About me. Anger slides through my fear, threads through it like a silver needle. My first instinct is to blame the villagers who tipped off the thanedars about us, who ripped my entire family apart for a bag of coins. But my mind finally settles on two people: the major who killed my parents, and the king who started it all.
Major Shayla. King Lohar.
I repeat their names over and over, memorizing them the way I would a lesson. A prayer.
“Kill Major Shayla,” I whisper. “Kill Raja Lohar.”
The idea is instinctive, ludicrous. Yet, for the first time since my parents died, my shivering hands grow steady. I wipe the tears off my cheeks. Slowly, under the watchful gaze of the mare, I unearth a bit of string lying on the stable floor and push my mother’s beads through it, one by one. Seconds after I tie the cord around my neck, exhaustion creeps up on me, and I fall into an uneasy slumber.
* * *
The wealthiest landowner in Dukal has gray hair, a greasy smile, and teeth that shine yellow in the light of the fanas he holds over his head, flames dancing in the lantern’s clear glass confines. I peer at Zamindar Moolchand through the window next to the Jwaliyan mare’s stall, watching him talk to three traveling women who have asked to spend the night. The mare, whom I’ve named Agni for her fiery coat and mane, nudges my shoulder playfully. Over the past four days, we’ve reached an understanding: I duck out each night to steal food from the zamindar’s kitchen, and Agni is awarded carrots for not giving me away. I don’t know why Agni has taken a liking to me. Or why I instinctively feel safe in her presence.
“Anandpranam.” The happiest of salutations. Even with his palms respectfully joined, Zamindar Moolchand makes the ancient greeting sound perverted. “Be my guests for the night, ladies. Sate your hunger with my bread. My home is your home.”
“Sau aabhaar, zamindar,” says the tallest of the women. A hundred thank-yous. Another woman might have added the Common Tongue honorific ji, perhaps even delivered the greeting flirtatiously. This woman doesn’t, even though she smiles, her deep-brown skin glowing in the moonlight. The pallu of her simple homespun sari slides down her head, revealing streaks of blue in her midnight hair. Ma once told me that it’s the sort of blue that can’t be covered up with soot or the oil from a jatamansi plant or magic. The mark of someone from the seafaring kingdom of Samudra.
The sight of it makes Zamindar Moolchand’s unctuous smile slip. Had the woman been out in daylight with her head uncovered, the very look of her would have raised unspoken questions. The deadly Three-Year War between Samudra and Ambar ended fourteen years ago, but everyone still remembers the bloodshed: the corpses littering Ambari streets, the high screams rising from firepits where soldiers with blue-and-black hair burned Ambari citizens alive.
“My father married a woman from Samudra before the Great War,” the woman says now. “She died when I was a baby.” She speaks our language perfectly, her Vani smooth, the accent crisp and airy. It holds no trace of the sea. “We are headed back from Sur, where one of my daughters had a baby. The zamindar would do us poor women a big favor by offering us a place in his stable for the night.”
The zamindar turns his attention to the other sari-clad figures. One has shielded herself from his gaze, tucking her pallu like a veil over her mouth and nose. The other, a pretty, pale-skinned young woman, looks unperturbed by his leer.
“What’s your name, my dear?” he asks her.
“Kali,” she says.
“Kuh-lee,” he enunciates slowly, as if savoring the sound of the word. “Why don’t I offer you and your friends more comfort? My only brother is in the army and no longer lives here. I have five guest bedrooms. It can get lonely in this big old house.”
If I could speak to any of these women, I would tell them not to do it. Every female in Dukal—old or young—knows how unwise it is to meet Zamindar Moolchand alone or to accept any favors from him.
“We prefer the stable.” A hint of steel cuts through the quiet deference in the older woman’s voice. “Our horses are tired; we need to ensure
they are well rested. And with so much thieving in Ambar these days, one can never be too sure.”
She stares at the zamindar until he averts his head and nods.
“Of course. Of course.”
I duck behind a bale of hay in Agni’s stall as Moolchand opens the door to the stable, letting in the women.
“Come on, Ajib. Gharib.” The women click their tongues gently, guiding their horses into empty stalls on the opposite end.
“What a lech,” a voice says. It’s the veiled woman—no, a girl—who finally uncovers her face, revealing dark surma-lined eyes and skin like fine copper. Like her companions, the girl’s black hair is bound in a braided bun. Unlike the other two, however, she wears a square amulet tied around her upper arm, marking her as a follower of the prophet Zaal. She appears to be a few years older than me. “I thought I’d have to strip him naked and hang him upside down from the roof of his stupid haveli.”
The pale girl—Kali—snorts. “Like what you did to that safflower merchant last year for calling you his little flower bouquet? Seriously, Amira.”
“Don’t give me that look, Kali. You were a few seconds away from slicing that zamindar up like an onion with your daggers.”
A pause before they both burst into giggles.
“Enough, you two,” the older woman cuts in. “I don’t want to have to modify the memories of an entire household again. Sky Warriors were at this village a few days ago; I still see traces of their magic against the trees outside.”
As the girls murmur apologies, I think of the stories I heard growing up. Of women with shadowy faces and daggers glinting in their hands. Women who wear their saris like fisherfolk, who knock down doors and slash into enemies with knives and swords and spells. The Sisterhood of the Golden Lotus.
Witches, some men call them. Thieves.
Fighters, my mother told me. Protectors.
No one is quite sure if the Sisters are legends or common brigands, and no one ever quite remembers what they look like. Appearing and disappearing from villages and towns with a stealth that rivals King Lohar’s Sky Warriors, the Sisters have no permanent home, successfully melding into their surroundings like color-changing lizards. I can’t tell if these women are from the fabled Sisterhood. But I know it isn’t wise to be seen by them before I find out more.
“Look!” one of the girls says, a sound that makes Agni snort angrily, ears flattening again.
I sink into the shadows, the hay behind me pricking my skin like needles.
“How lovely you are.” It’s Kali, reaching out to touch Agni with a hand. Not a chance. Agni snaps her teeth together, forcing Kali to jerk back.
“Strange. Horses usually aren’t this afraid of me.”
“Leave the animal alone.” The other girl—Amira—says with a yawn.
“She’s acting like she’s protecting someone. Is there a foal?”
“Let me see.” It’s the woman again. From the shadows, I can see her face quite clearly: high cheekbones, slender lips, shrewd eyes that are as black as the sky outside the stable window. She must be least forty years old.
She begins murmuring words in an incomprehensible language that makes me think of sand under my feet and wind in my hair. She waves a hand over Agni’s head, snapping her fingers once, releasing fine sparks that glow and smell of sandalwood. I feel the tension in the air dissipate. And sure enough, Agni’s ears emerge from the back of her head. She dips her head into the feeding trough, nibbling a bit of the hay.
The woman wipes her forehead with the edge of her sari. “Amira, get me some light, will you?” There’s a soft sound not unlike marbles rolling across the floor.
“You’re scrying with your shells? Again?” Amira places the lantern on a hook near Agni’s stall, casting light upon the shadows. I hold my breath, doing my best to blend in. If I had a choice, I would turn invisible. But invisibility is a difficult spell for even the most advanced magi, and I can barely produce a spark. My best hope, I know now, is to slide against the wall toward the girl-size gap behind the wooden partition that splits Agni’s stall from the one I normally sleep in. As the woman and Amira argue with one another, I begin inching away from my hiding place.
“Didi, do you think it’s wise to do a reading now?” Amira is saying.
Didi. The Common Tongue word for “elder sister” gives me pause. The Samudra woman and Amira look nothing alike, are perhaps not even related by blood. But you wouldn’t know that from the worry and frustration lacing Amira’s voice.
“You know how those shells affect you,” she tells the woman. “They misled us today, taking us to that awful moneylender all the way near the edge of the desert. He would have turned us in to the thanedars if I hadn’t tied him up!”
“The shells never lie, Amira.” The woman’s voice, barely louder than a breath, is the only indicator of her exhaustion, of the toll her magic took on her. “That there are indications of Sky Warriors being here confirms this. Someone in this village needed our help. Perhaps they still need our help. The only way to know is by doing another reading.”
“But, Didi—”
I’m nearly inside the next stall, so close to freedom that I don’t hear the way Amira’s voice abruptly cuts off or the shift of her feet as she lunges at me in the darkness, her arm winding around my neck.
“By Zaal!” she screams when I sink my teeth into her skin. But she does not let go. Her arm tightens its grip, so hard that for a moment my vision blurs. In the background, I hear Agni’s loud neighs, the sound of her hooves hammering the earth. The stall’s wooden beams shudder.
“Immobilize her!” the woman shouts.
“I can’t!” Amira’s hands are hot with magic. But the birthmark on my arm burns hotter, sends a shock through her body. “Aaah! It … it doesn’t seem to be working.”
I kick backward, the sudden movement nearly making Amira stumble. A hard hand winds through my tangled hair and tugs sharply. It forces me to loosen my teeth and, in the process, feel cold steel pressed sharp against my throat.
“Another sound and you will no longer have a voice.” I only have to look into the Samudra woman’s cold eyes to know she means every word. “Understand?”
As if I didn’t get the point already, the blade at my throat stings. I take a deep breath and force myself to go limp. My unreliable magic may have protected me from Amira’s spell, but it will not shield my throat against a dagger.
From the corner of the stable, a horse whinnies. “Someone’s outside,” Amira mutters.
The blade bites my skin once more: a warning.
Kali is already at the stable door, speaking to someone. “No … no, it’s all right. One of our horses got spooked by something moving outside. Thank you for your concern. Please tell the zamindar that all is well. Anandpranam.”
Once the door is firmly shut, the woman turns to face me again. Her nose wrinkles, and suddenly I’m very aware of the sour smell coming off me. But then her gaze falls on my right arm, bared to the cool night air from my scuffle with Amira. She pushes aside the torn sleeve of my tunic and stares at my birthmark for a long time.
“What’s your name?”
3
GUL
“Havovi!”
I blurt out the first name that comes to mind, belonging to a girl my cousin Pesi was smitten with.
A finger runs lightly down my cheek. “She’s lying. You have both succeeded in terrifying the poor thing.” There’s a hint of sympathy in Kali’s wide gray eyes. Up close, I realize that she’s younger than I first thought—perhaps only sixteen or seventeen years old.
“It’s true! I’m Havovi!”
“Silence.” The woman’s knife does not move from my throat. “Kali’s gift is seeking out truths, scouring them for lies.”
I bite my tongue. So Kali is a truth seeker. I’d seen one before, in a village square, accompanying a thanedar to interrogate a prisoner in the constabulary. But I’d never met one in person.
“Don’t worry,
girl. I will not force you to tell me your real name. It’s not important to me in either case,” the woman continues. “Though I must give you some credit for having the guts to lie with a dagger pressed to your throat. For a girl who has barely seen twelve blue moons in her life, that is impressive.”
“Thirteen!” I spit out. “I will be fourteen in two months!”
Something shifts within the black depths of the woman’s eyes, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve amused her.
“Truth.” Kali laughs softly when I flinch. “She has seen thirteen moons. Still a baby, though. Probably just broke her blood barrier.”
I feel my face grow hot. I am small for my age; it’s something my mother always lamented when she looked at me, worrying over my narrow chest and my narrow hips, wondering if I would ever be strong enough to bear children. “I do not want children,” I told her fiercely back then and never understood the weight that settled over her at my response.
“She’s old enough,” Amira says. Her heart beats like a war drum against my back. Her fingers dig into my shoulders through the cloth of my tunic. I am now beginning to regret the bites I took out of her.
“So you’re going to hand me off to the thanedars, then.”
The woman tilts her head to the side. “What makes you say that, girl? Why would we do such a thing?”
“To get a hundred swarnas. To gain favor with Raja Lohar.” The latter is even more valuable than a hundred gold coins. If Ambar is our world, then King Lohar is its god, able to close shops, burn villages, and drain the most powerful magi of their powers with a snap of his fingers. “Besides, the penalty of hiding someone like me is—”
“We know what the penalty is,” the woman interrupts. “Amira, release her.”
“But, Didi—”
“Do it.”
Amira drops her hand to the side and suddenly, shockingly, I find myself free. I collapse to the ground, air burning my windpipe, and wonder if she was planning to choke me to death.
Hunted by the Sky Page 2