“Sounds like a family trait,” I mutter, turning to the sound of new footsteps. “Alizeh. Good, you’re here.”
“Ambar Sikandar.” Alizeh bows smartly.
“There’s a brigadier named Moolchand in the Amirgarh cantonment,” I say. “Bring me his head on a pike.”
To my surprise, Alizeh hesitates. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What do you mean? Do you know him?”
“I haven’t met him. But I’m aware of his threats of a mutiny,” she admits. “He wrote to me two weeks ago. I wrote back to assure him that our rani always has the army’s best interests at heart. In the meantime, I dug a little more into his background and found that he has fought in nearly every war Ambar has been involved in. He’s well respected in army circles.” Alizeh’s voice falters when she sees the furious expression on my face, but she goes on. “Killing him may not be wise.”
“The general’s words hold merit,” Acharya Damak says, his shifty eyes sliding between me and Alizeh. “Imprisonment perhaps would be better. And only as a last resort.”
“Imprisoning the snake only defers the problem,” I point out. “Cutting off its head is more effective.”
Yet who is the real snake here?
I continue watching Alizeh, whose face has frozen into an expressionless mask.
“My rani, the move will be taken badly by the soldiers,” the high priest says. “They aren’t civilians threatened easily by a fear of death. They will walk to the scaffold with their heads held high. We should invite the brigadier to Ambarvadi. Placate him with a gift or two.”
Selective bribery. As much as I hate the idea, I have to admit that Acharya Damak makes sense.
“Fine, then.” I lean back. “Since you’re so eager to gift the brigadier, perhaps you could contribute that jade necklace, Acharya.”
I try not to sneer when the high priest’s hands flutter protectively over the string of beads circling his neck. “Ambar Sikandar, this necklace is priceless! A gift from Rani Megha herself for my services to the kingdom!”
“And now Rani Megha’s daughter asks you to give up that gift as a further service.” My smile sharpens. “What will it be, Acharya Damak?”
Slowly, almost as if it physically pains him to do so, the high priest removes the necklace and places it on my desk. Priceless and unblemished. The exact shade of Damak’s watchful green eyes.
“You may go now,” I tell him. “You have been of great service to Us.”
The royal Us. One I haven’t used before. It feels good to deploy it now, to watch Acharya Damak’s stiff bow and hasty departure.
“He’s probably off to hide his matching earrings,” I jab. “What do you think?”
“Shayla, what are you doing?” Alizeh demands. “I know you don’t like the acharya, but is it wise to make him an enemy?”
It’s been a long time—years, really—since Alizeh has called me by my name. Far too long since two lonely girls held each other after a long, terrible day of practice at the Sky Warrior academy.
“I should be asking you what you’re doing, Alizeh,” I respond, my jaw tightening. “You knew about the threat of a mutiny in Amirgarh and didn’t tell me. It makes me wonder where your loyalties truly lie.”
Alizeh’s pale skin mottles red. “I am loyal to you, of course. I’ve always been loyal to you!”
“Because if you want, Alizeh, I can take away your house in the city,” I snarl. “Cut your pay and distribute it among the soldiers, if you wish.”
“I don’t fight for you because I want those things! But I am commander of Ambar’s armies, Shayla. That’s the position you gave me! What kind of leader would I be if I kept running to you every time a problem arose?”
The kind that cautions her queen about a situation that might cost her the throne, I think. But I hold in my words. I did not like the look on Alizeh’s face when I asked her to bring me Moolchand’s head. There was resistance there. Resistance I’ve never seen before when it comes to me. Instead, I employ an old interrogation tactic. One that involves long periods of silence, flustering a subject enough to confess more than they initially intended.
“I’m worried,” Alizeh says. “I’ve never seen so much … anger from the public before.”
“The dirt licker has done well to keep the anger at bay.”
Xerxes-putra Cavas has surprised me in that sense. He speaks with an eloquence that fails most ministers and has convinced every town and village we have gone to that he’s on my side. Everywhere we go now, people watch him with suspicion, snap their fingers to ward off specters when his carriage passes by. Sometimes, I find myself believing the boy, too. Until I see the hint of fear in his eyes. The revulsion that never really goes away.
The boy is merely doing what he can to save his own hide. He holds loyalty to no one—not even the so-called Star Warrior.
It’s only this last thought that keeps me from slitting his throat whenever he gives his speeches.
“Write to the brigadier,” I tell Alizeh. “Invite him to Ambarvadi as a guest of the queen. We will see if the acharya’s precious jade beads shut him up. Also, send Captain Emil here.”
“Yes, Ambar Sikandar. Of course.” I note the relief that overcomes Alizeh, the increased energy in her stride on exiting the study.
Captain Emil arrives shortly, his Sky Warrior uniform as crisp as his bow, his hammered gray hair reflecting silver in the glow of the lightorb.
“Ambar Sikandar.”
“Have a seat, Captain.”
I ignore the discomfort on his face. Emil has always been more at home on a battlefield than in a stuffy sitting room.
“I want you to look into recruiting mercenaries from the Brimmish desert.” I get directly to the point. “About a thousand. Perhaps two thousand if you can. Let me know how much they cost.”
Ruthless and bloodthirsty, Brimmish mercenaries are loyal to no one except those who pay them in full. Even the usurper Lohar had refrained from using them during the Three-Year War against Samudra, preferring Jwala’s less brutal, more controllable army instead. But, after my last interaction with the Jwaliyan queen’s copper-haired messenger, I can no longer count on her as an ally. Moreover, if Brigadier Moolchand turns out to be one of those honorable bastards who refuses bribes—and if a mutiny does happen—then I will need backup.
A small frown appears on Emil’s face. “I don’t mind, Ambar Sikandar. But recruitment usually falls under the purview of a major or General Alizeh.”
“The general is to know nothing about this,” I say. “I will make you a major if that makes things easier.”
I raise my atashban and point it at Emil’s chest, noting the swallow bobbing his throat. The tip of my weapon glows orange instead of red, light spiraling to the single atashban embroidered on Emil’s chest, replicating it thrice.
Emil stares at me. “You’re serious. You’re making me a major.”
“When am I ever not serious?”
Emil’s stern mouth trembles. “S-sau aabhaar, Ambar Sikandar.”
I feel my shoulders relax. Emil may be as stolid as the wood that makes up my desk, but he’s loyal to whoever sits on the throne. “You’re welcome. Any updates on the dirt licker?”
“No suspicious activity as of yet or communications with living specters as far as we can tell. I have someone watching him around the clock.”
I nod once. “You may go. And remember our need for secrecy … Major Emil.”
“I’ll remember, Ambar Sikandar.”
A sharp knock sounds on the door, making Emil pause midbow.
I frown at the Sky Warrior who barges in, pausing short of a scold when I note the fear etched over his young face.
“Ambar Sikandar, sorry for the intrusion,” he begins. “But a terrible thing has happened.”
My gut clenches: a pathetic reaction I thought I buried along with my tormentors at the Sky Warrior academy.
“Tell me,” I say, my voice hard.
; “There was a disturbance at the Ministry of War office in Ambarvadi. A group of non-magi loadbearers barged in with lathis and sickles, demanding payment for their services.”
First Dhanbad, now Ambarvadi. “Go on.”
“Captain Farid and I were called in to stop them.” He swallows. “There were too many, so the captain sent me to get reinforcements. By the time we returned, though, it was too late. We found Captain Farid’s corpse nailed to the wall outside the ministry.”
I stay very still, aware of the two Sky Warriors and their too-watchful eyes. “Where are the dirt-licking loadbearers now?” I ask.
“Fourteen of them have been arrested. General Alizeh wants to know what you want us to do with them.”
I give him a smile that feels cold, even to me. “Doesn’t the general remember? There is only one punishment for murder.”
* * *
The burning happens in the heat of the afternoon, in the city’s main square, the loadbearers tied to their pyres, screaming curses at me as the red flames of the Sky Warriors’ atashbans eat away at their clothes, skin, and flesh, eventually leaving nothing behind except for ash and bone.
I sit astride my horse, watching the crowd that has come to see the mass execution, evaluating the terror on every face.
It should be satisfying, I think, to have them understand what the consequences are for crossing their queen.
But somehow, it isn’t, the smell of burning flesh lingering in my senses long after I’ve returned to Ambar Fort and changed my clothes. I know I’ll dream of the Tree of Sins again tonight—though that’s the least of my worries.
I ask an attendant to send Xerxes-putra Cavas to my study. When he arrives, he’s wearing a clean black angrakha and dhoti, my emblem embroidered over his chest in a red that perfectly matches his turban.
“Rani Shayla.” The boy bows in the servile way of his kind.
“Sit.”
He sits, barely batting an eye. Whatever public perception may be of us outside Ambar Fort, he still remains a valuable and dangerous prisoner.
“It’s been two months since the incident at Javeribad,” I tell him now. “And you have not yet told me what you anticipate the alleged Star Warrior’s next move to be.”
He hesitates. Being outside the kalkothri has done little to improve his pallor, though he looks less emaciated than before. “I assume she will come to Ambarvadi, Rani Shayla. Perhaps to Ambar Fort.”
He has never called me Ambar Sikandar. Not once.
“An obvious assumption that a small child could have made,” I sneer. “It’s a good thing you’re useful to me in other ways, or I would have rid myself of you long ago.”
He says nothing in response, keeping his gaze focused somewhere along my chin.
I should dismiss him now, but something within me hesitates.
“Tell me,” I say. “What do the people think of me?”
I pretend not to notice the way his head snaps up or the tightening of his jaw.
“Do you want the truth?” he asks.
This time, I am the one who is surprised, though I hide it with a raised eyebrow and a silent nod to speak further.
“People fear you,” he says. “They know that any rebellion on their part will be crushed.”
“And rightfully so.”
The boy says nothing at first. Then: “My father said once that terror does not inspire love.”
No. Of course it doesn’t. But terror wins thrones. Terror keeps kingdoms in check.
“Well, it’s a good thing, then, that I don’t need their love, isn’t it?”
I hate the tremor that has entered my voice, the way my fingers have curled into fists. The boy’s throat bobs. For a moment, I think I see an emotion other than revulsion flicker across his handsome features. Pity.
“Get out,” I snap, making him jump. Rising to his feet, he bows again before hastening from the room.
A wasted opportunity, a small voice says in my head. You should have used that pity of his, tried to get him on your side.
But I no longer have the patience to play coy or to hide behind false tears. Tyrant though I may be, I know this: Victors write the final story.
And I have never been good at losing.
31
GUL
“Saavdhaan!” Falak hollers. “Left! Now right!”
Twenty women from the Legion and eighty non-magi swing in unison, their lathis swiping left and then right. A hundred bodies in perfect sync.
“Form the simurgh!” Falak commands for a battle formation mimicking the wingspan of a simurgh in flight. A haphazard, but passable, V takes shape. Yet the moment Falak asks them to charge forward with their lathis, the trouble begins; many of the new recruits stumble into one another or accidentally hit someone with their staffs.
I bite back a groan. If Kali and I use magic on them right now, it’d be ten times worse. Pasting a smile on my face, I approach a non-magus boy and girl of my age, carefully spacing them apart, before moving on to an elderly man with a giant mustache.
“Kaka, are you all right?” I ask gently.
“I poked myself,” he admits, revealing an inflamed left eye.
I nod. He’s not the only one. Many non-magi who signed up initially dropped out of lathi training once they realized how difficult—and injurious—it could be to spin around a six-foot wooden stick, even during non-magical combat. To my surprise, though, many more stayed and showcased good fighting skills with time and practice. They’re strongest when fighting in pairs or threes, dodging most of the spells Kali and I send their way.
“Gul!” a voice shouts.
“Make sure you get that eye looked at, Kaka,” I tell him before heading to the back of the formation, where Kali and Falak are standing.
“What is it?” I ask.
“This isn’t working,” Falak says, her voice low, clipped.
I blink. “What do you mean it isn’t working? The last practice round may not have been that great, but they’ve progressed significantly in two months.”
“During exercises, yes. But these people won’t be able to fight in a battle! Not the way we want them to. Half will be wiped out by Ambari forces, the other half will likely throw down their weapons and desert.”
“You can’t know that!” It’s an effort to keep my voice contained to the three of us.
“Gul, Falak is right when she says it will be difficult to teach them the intricacies of lathi during an actual fight,” Kali says. “If we had more time, say a year or two, maybe things would be different.”
I feel myself deflate. I know she’s right. Time is a luxury we don’t have. It is miraculous enough that we’ve had these two months and that we’ve found a place to practice within the southern tenements itself—a long strip of land that curves along their outskirts, protected by another one of Amar’s clever magical boundaries. Everyone who is non-magus can cross the boundary without problems, making it easy for them to go to work every day. Magi and half magi, on the other hand, can cross the boundary using only the little wooden, disc-shaped charms that Amar provided us shortly after he secured this patch of land.
Now, after the trouble we went through, my two generals—the only women I can count on to lead us to victory in this war—are telling me the whole exercise is pointless.
“Excuse me,” Sami says, interrupting my dismal train of thought. She gives us a sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to bother you. But you were talking for such a long time, we were wondering if practice was dismissed for today.”
I raise my eyebrows at Kali and Falak, who studiously avoid my gaze.
“Also,” Sami continues. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you said. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to offer an opinion. An alternative, if you will.”
“Go ahead, Sami,” I say.
“Instead of complicated battle drills that take years to get right, how about focusing on the basics? Apart from training, in a real battle, soldiers need grit: a willingness to keep fighting
, through pain and hardship. And an ability to duck those nasty spells Gul and Kali send our way, of course.”
For the first time today, the smile stretching across my lips feels genuine. Falak looks thoughtful, as if considering Sami’s words.
Kali, however, frowns. “I worry that the basic drills will turn boring soon. Not everyone will be satisfied with simple advance and retreat exercises.”
“Then someone should coach those people separately,” Sami says patiently. “The way you coached us to access our magic in Tavan.”
“That does make sense,” Kali admits. “But who will do the extra coaching?”
“I will,” I say at once. “I have plenty of time in the evening after our council meetings.”
“And working with Raja Amar in the vegetable garden. And helping out at our campsite by the reservoir,” Kali adds with a scowl. “Do you want to wear yourself out?”
When I say nothing, Kali mutters something that sounds like “hopeless.”
I don’t care. Working myself to the bone is the only way I can distract myself from brooding over what is happening right now across Ambar, with Cavas and Shayla visiting every town and village, presenting a united front.
The nights, on the other hand, remain interminably long, leaving me clawing at the air, restless despite the long hours of work and training. One time, I gave into temptation, breaking the rules despite what Subodh told me, and meditated, calling out for Cavas in the darkened temple.
But there was no answer. Nothing except the sort of void that comes from being depressingly alone. My sole source of information about Cavas now is the living specters—more specifically Roda, who seems to relish relaying any moment of intimacy between Shayla and Cavas.
Tonight, she appears right in the middle of dinner, announcing her presence with a thunderous cracking sound over the reservoir.
“What news, Roda?” Subodh asks, his gaze focused on an invisible point in the sky.
“Rani Shayla met with the leader of the Amirgarh army this morning,” Roda reports in a bored voice. “He talked about a mutiny. She offered a bribe. He refused, so she got annoyed and had him thrown into the dungeon—after feeding his sword arm to a shadowlynx.”
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