“Ring the bell and the gods will come,” the priest in the tenements always says. Only no one else—not even the priest—visits this temple, and the bell never rings except on the days when the wind blows. Sometimes I hear it clanging on my way home, and I imagine the dead returning, demanding why the gods left us here in this place.
Today, however, instead of ringing the bell, I call for my mother. “Ma, are you there?” I shout. “I know what you are—what I am now. Papa told me everything. You don’t need to hide from me anymore!”
I say the words over and over, perhaps in a dozen different ways. In desperation, I also pull out the green swarna Latif gave me and rub it hard as I call for her. It’s only when my throat begins to hurt that I realize Ma isn’t coming. That perhaps she never would.
“Well, that was dramatic. It reminded me of the plays put on every year at the moon festival.” Latif’s voice appears before his face does, which would ordinarily startle me.
“I should have known you would come,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Are you here to finally tell me that you’re a living specter?”
“I would have told you sooner. But neither of your parents would let me.”
My parents? “You’ve seen my mother?”
Evading the question, Latif points to the bell hanging precariously over my head. “Maybe you should move out of the way first before that falls and kills you.”
“Why do you care if I live or die?” My own father didn’t.
Latif makes a sound that might be irritation. “Your father cares for you, boy. And no, I’m not talking about the man who sired you, but the one who raised you. Your mother cares for you, too.”
“So she’s still a specter, then.”
Latif nods. “She hasn’t faded yet.”
I frown. “Faded? What does that mean?”
“Living specters remain chained to this earth only until their deepest desire remains unfulfilled,” Latif says simply. “Once that happens, we vanish, never to be seen again—even by half magi.”
While a part of me wonders what still keeps my mother chained to the living world, the thought is superseded by another, bigger question.
“If my mother is a living specter, why didn’t she come see me now?” I ask Latif. “She didn’t answer even when I rubbed the green swarna. Does it work only for you?”
“No, the swarna doesn’t work only for me.” Latif hesitates. “Your mother has her reasons for not coming to see you right now.”
Silence falls between us, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant barking of dogs.
“She doesn’t care about me anymore,” I say.
“Don’t be a fool, boy.”
“But you already think I’m a fool, don’t you? Calling me to the moon festival on unknown pretexts, luring me with false promises so that I bring a strange girl into the palace, sending your ten-year-old minion to me in a fog that nearly gets me killed.”
“Indu isn’t a minion. She would be offended if she heard you call her that. Besides, you wouldn’t have been killed. Gul was with you.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“I mean, why was Gul with me? Why is she so important?”
“She’s not the only one who is important. You both are. It’s why Indu told you to stick together. It’s probably why you’re drawn to each other in other ways, too.”
“Will you answer the question?” I feel my voice growing louder.
“I would if you were ready to know the truth. But I think you’ve had enough truths for one night.”
I take a deep breath that does little to suppress my anger. What does it matter what Gul is to me, anyway? My interactions with Latif have always been about business. Which reminds me …
“You said you’d get us out of the tenements if I got Gul in,” I say. “Well, she’s in the palace now.”
“Change of plans.” His voice is so smooth it’s almost as if he’s expecting this. “Get her out and I’ll make sure you and your father are safely out of the tenements.”
He barely blinks when I throw my jooti at his head—it goes right through without hurting him. “We had a deal!” I shout. “I’ve been trying and trying to contact you, but you kept ignoring me. Why don’t you admit that you lied? That there is no way out of the tenements.”
Except by joining the army. As General Tahmasp said all along.
“I didn’t lie to you,” he says calmly. “I still fully intend to fulfill my promise. But you need to get the girl out of the palace now. There are other forces at work, and she’s in serious danger.”
“She doesn’t need my help! She’s a magus. A powerful one, considering she survived a mammoth in the cage!”
“Exactly. She has drawn too much attention to herself.” Latif’s voice grows dim, the way it always does in the moment before he disappears. “Help her if you can, boy. If that girl dies, nothing else matters.”
That night, I dream of my mother again. I follow her right into the storm, to a valley littered with bones. Beyond the valley, shadows rise: the rooftops of havelis, the spires of temples, a winged creature flying overhead.
“Ma!” I cry out. “Ma, where are you?”
The wind carries her words away before I can hear the answer.
* * *
“Name?”
“Xerxes-putra Cavas.”
“Occupation?”
“I work at the stables in the palace.”
The Ministry of War has several branches across the kingdom, including one right next to the Ministry of Bodies here, in the Walled City. The officer in charge at this branch has a bald head and fleshy lips stained red from chewing on betel leaves. He eyes me beadily from head to toe. “Why the sudden change of profession?” he asks abruptly before reaching out to spit in a small steel pot on his table.
I focus my gaze at a point on his chin. “I could use the coin.” A partial truth. “Also, General Tahmasp suggested that I join.”
“Does your family know you’re here?” the officer asks.
I think of the devastation on Papa’s face when I told him last night about my decision, a look that told me I’d betrayed him in the worst way possible. “Neither I nor your mother wanted this for you,” he told me.
“Yes,” I say now. “My family knows.”
After another long look, during which I do my best not to flinch, the officer reaches for a scroll behind the table, along with a small bottle of ink. “Thumbprint and signature on the line,” he says, voice turning almost indifferent now that I’ve been deemed worthy of enlisting in the army. “Or—in your case—just a thumbprint is fine. You’ll have to go through a medical examination in a week. Make sure you’re up to the task. You’ll get details on that in a letter once you enlist.”
“Do you have a quill I could use?” I ask politely after pressing my thumb to the scroll.
The officer stares at me for a long moment. His teeth, I note with revulsion, are nearly as stained as his lips. “Hey! Hey, Pramod! Get me a quill, will you!”
I quietly sign my name with a quill that Pramod digs out of a drawer. The ink glows green for a brief moment before turning black again.
“Amazing!” The officer is still staring at me. “A dirt licker who can write. I thought you lot didn’t go to school anymore.”
I can feel his gaze as I walk out the way I came in—from the back of the building and into the courtyard, where another non-magus has been quietly waiting his turn under the branches of a wide banyan tree. It’s only when the other man leaves that I realize how hard I’m gritting my teeth. Exhaling, I lean back, my turban resting against the ropy bark.
A year ago—or even a month—I would have seen the officer’s surprise as a triumph of sorts, the rest of his words barely even registering. But when he called me a dirt licker …
I take a deep breath. Am I acting superior? I wonder uncomfortably. Has the knowledge of my true heritage made me feel that I’m bette
r than other non-magi? I think of Papa, forced to give up his job at the Ministry of Treasure twenty years ago. I think of the unnamed non-magi captains General Tahmasp told me about, of the many other non-magi who had built temples and roads, run businesses, advised kings and queens before the Great War.
No. The voice comes from somewhere deep within, fills me with an acute sense of relief. I will never think myself better than them. But after what happened at Chand Mahal, I’m only more aware of things I had seen before but chose to not look at closely, simply because they were too painful. Like the mix of surprise and derision in the officer’s voice. Like the color of my eyes.
General Tahmasp’s grim face flashes through my mind, and I shake my head hard, pushing away the thought. Dark eyes aren’t exactly uncommon in Ambar; nearly half the Sky Warriors have them. As angry as Papa made me by keeping the real story of my birth a secret, he’s the only real father I’ve known. The only man whom I would give my life for.
My body stiffens moments later on hearing the sound of boots and the low murmur of voices behind the tree. Instinctively, I move sideways, where the branches are lower, the shadows deeper. I hold in a breath, praying they don’t notice me.
“He’s gone, then?” Major Shayla’s cold voice is unmistakable. “You’re certain.”
“Decapitated and buried in the Desert of Dreams,” a woman replies in a low voice that I’m certain I wouldn’t have heard if she hadn’t paused by the tree. “The dustwolves did most of the work. I didn’t even need to use magic.”
“The general thought himself so clever.” Major Shayla makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “Evading every question, always on some secret mission. Well, it’s only a matter of time until the raja announces a new commander of the armies.”
“You, you mean.” The other woman’s laughter crawls down my spine. A blister forms in my mouth; I realize I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek.
“Listen. We don’t have much time. I want you to keep an eye on that girl. That Siya. I checked at the Ministry of Bodies and found nothing. No papers, not a single thumbprint.”
“I could take care of her—”
“I don’t want her dead, Alizeh,” the Scorpion snarls. “Not yet, at any rate.” There’s a pause, during which neither speaks. “Now go. Before someone comes and sees us.”
Footsteps crunch against the dried leaves, fade into the distance. A moment later, Major Shayla strides toward the ministry building and disappears around the bend, sunlight beaming off her silver armor. She doesn’t look sideways or back, doesn’t see me standing among the branches of the tree. Neither do four other Sky Warriors who walk by long moments later, the sound of their laughter echoing in my ears.
General Tahmasp—dead. Eaten alive by dustwolves. As for Gul … it seems like Latif’s warning about her wasn’t wrong, either.
If I had any sense, I would ignore Latif, who hasn’t even told me how I can help Gul, let alone explained what his plans are to get me and Papa out of the tenements. Only Papa matters, I remind myself. Papa, who raised me like his own son, even when I wasn’t, the only person for whom I would have ever considered joining the army of a king I detest. That I successfully sneaked Gul in without getting caught is a miracle in itself. I don’t owe her—or Latif—anything else.
So why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?
I fumble through the Walled City, not realizing I’m in the wrong place until I’m nearly at the palace’s front entrance: a pair of large, imposing doors made of sangemarmar and gold that open only to the royals and their entourage of ministers, courtiers, and guards. Today, a crowd of servants gathers outside the gates, as if anticipating a spectacle.
The makara guards hiss and step forward with a swish of their reptilian tails. Within seconds, the crowd parts, making way for a palanquin carrying Lohar’s youngest queen, Farishta, in a ghagra-choli of deep turquoise, her eyes gleaming like agates. Behind the palanquin, human guards escort a pair of women dressed in brown tunics and billowing brown trousers, their bald heads marking them as holy women from the south of Ambar. It’s odd to see outsiders in the Walled City and, on a normal day, I would have also stood with the crowd and watched them march in.
Not today, though.
Today, I make my way to the Moon Door at the palace’s rear, barely registering the guard who checks my turban pin and waves me inside.
I’m careful to keep to the shadows as I make my way to the stables, away from Rani Mahal. I force my mind away from what may be happening there. From Gul, wherever she may be.
29
GUL
The night I win at the cage, I see the sky goddess in my dreams again. Or how I imagine the sky goddess must be, based on the paintings I’ve seen of her and the statues in her temples: a beautiful woman with pale-blue skin, on a throne of cloud and air, her black hair flowing behind her, the locks speckled with stars. She spins a chakra on one finger: a metal discus with serrated edges, so bright it might have held the sun itself.
“It is good to see you, my daughter,” she says. “For years, I wondered how you would turn out.”
“Are you talking to me, Goddess?” I ask, surprised. Or have I been mistaken for someone else?
The goddess smiles. “Many years ago, a woman lost her daughter to an illness. In protest, she came to my temple every day for a month. She fasted; she prayed. She cursed me for taking her daughter away from her and claiming her too early for my own. She surprised me with her dedication, pleased me with her spirit. And so I granted her a boon: a daughter for a daughter. My child for hers.”
I know, without being told directly, that she’s talking about my mother. About me. My hands curl into fists.
“Your daughter, am I?” Sarcasm is probably not the best tone to adopt in front of a goddess, but right now I’m too angry to care. “If I’m really your child, then why didn’t you ever come to see me? Why didn’t you help us when the Sky Warriors came into our home?”
The goddess’s eyes are sad, even though her smile does not falter. “Your mortal heart must think me cruel. For staying away from you all these years. For stoppering your magic since the day you were born.”
“You curbed my magic?” I ask, stunned. I recall the years of insecurity and taunts, the deep shame I’d always felt at not being able to access a power that seemed to hum in my veins. “Why would you do such a thing to me?”
“I had to, my child. So much power in a newborn … you would have drawn attention from the get-go. And then there was your birthmark to contend with. To survive and fulfill the prophecy I revealed to Raja Lohar’s priests, you had to grow up first. You had to remain undetected until your mind matured, capable of distinguishing good from bad, right from wrong. I did not want you to take your power for granted or use it irresponsibly.
“So I forced your magic back inside your body, not allowing it to emerge except when you were in desperate need or felt like you were in danger. Two years ago, you begged me for help in the stable. It was the first time you called on me—not for yourself, but to help a mare in need. I allowed you to open your mind and whisper to Agni, to all other animals.
“Also, you had just lost your parents. I knew that if I didn’t help you then, I would lose you. I needed you to have some hope in magic, to keep going. In Javeribad, I watched you from time to time. As a neighbor, as a beggar, sometimes as an animal. Earlier this year, I turned into a shvetpanchhi and watched the way you kept trying to whisper to me and form a bond, even when I plucked out your hair.”
“That was you?” I recall the red-eyed bird in the schoolroom at the Sisterhood’s house and try to ward off a chill.
The goddess smiles again, which I take as a yes.
“I listened to your talk with Juhi in the schoolroom. I realized that you would go to the palace, regardless of the strength of your magic. That’s when I knew you were ready. Bit by bit, I relaxed my hold on your powers. My real goal was to see you use death magic with care and intention, which you have
learned to do. You can now perform these spells whenever your mind is still, in a perfect state of calm.”
My mind, for now, spins like a top, each revelation more dizzying than the next. “I’m dreaming,” I say. “All this can’t possibly be true.”
“Not all dreams are true,” she accedes. “But not all are false, either. Think back to everything that has happened till now, daughter. Judge for yourself what is true and what isn’t.”
I take a deep breath. Fine, I think. So maybe this isn’t really a dream. Maybe I am really seeing the sky goddess, and what she said is true. But then …
“What about that time in Chand Mahal?” I ask. “When Cavas and I turned invisible? How did that happen?”
The sky goddess’s face lights up, her laughter as brilliant as raindrops. “That wasn’t something I had planned for. That was all you, my girl. And the boy you’ve chosen for your mate.”
My mate? What in Svapnalok … Heat rushes through my cheeks. “Hold on. You didn’t send Cavas to me?”
“Not everything that happens in this world is written by the gods. We meddle at times, of course,” the goddess admits. “But I had nothing to do with Cavas’s entering your life. That happened through chance and circumstance. His fate became inextricably linked with yours when you chose to protect him in Chand Mahal and combine his magic with your own. You must, as that living specter said, stick together if you want to survive.”
Her words do little to ease the torrent of questions in my mind, though I limit myself to one more. For now. “Cavas wants nothing to do with magi. He wants nothing to do with me. What makes you say that we’re mates?”
“You must not judge him too hastily for words spoken out of anger or mistrust. Neither humans nor the gods behave the same at all times. Duality rules the world you live in. Illness walks hand in hand with health, evil hand in hand with the good. Injustice has a similar journey; wherever it goes, justice must follow. It’s a perfect circle, you see? Like this chakra I spin in my hand.
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