“We no longer worry about such dangers,” says the head councilor of the northern tenements. “We thought the kingdom was bad under Rani Megha and then Raja Lohar. But this rani is much worse than the others. Already, many are starving in villages and towns outside Ambarvadi because of her tithes. If nothing is done, we will die.”
I feel my heart sink at the utter resignation on Sarpanch Alok’s face. The councilor next to him—Cama, I think his name is—looks equally tired.
Amar’s face tightens. “We hope it will not come to that.”
“I suppose that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Councilor Cama’s voice is like gravel: pebbled and prickly, ready to draw blood at the turn of skin. “My own reason for being here is more personal. It has to do with the half magus traitor, Cavas.”
“Call him a traitor again and I’ll slit your throat,” I say. My seaglass dagger glows green in my hand.
“Gul!” Kali admonishes. “Put that down!”
But I don’t. I look right into Councilor Cama’s dark eyes, which are now narrowing with distaste.
“Don’t be foolish, girl. He has moved on from you the way he moved on from my own daughter,” he says with a sneer. “He now warms the queen’s lap as her pet dog.”
I stare at him uneasily. “Was your daughter’s name Bahar?”
The councilor’s face turns ashen. “How do you know that?”
“Cavas told me.” I swallow hard. “He said she was taken away because of her birthmark. It … it bothered him. A lot.”
The councilor doesn’t speak for several moments.
“After Rani Shayla shut down the labor camps, I thought I could find my daughter again,” he says finally. “I thought I could bring her home. We didn’t know where she was initially. After making inquiries, the palace simply sent us a scroll saying that Bahar passed away at the labor camp outside Havanpur. A scrap of parchment with her prisoner number and the day she died. We don’t know where they buried her. If they buried her.”
I close my eyes.
“Rani Shayla had promised us relief for our dead—a compensation for our grief over the past few years,” Bahar’s father continues bitterly. “But when we went to see her at Ambar Fort, they unleashed the makara guards on us. We knew then that there was not going to be any change. Not with her on the throne.”
He looks toward Amar. “We received word from Sarpanch Parvez about your pledge to agree to our demands. If this is true, then we are willing to support you, to fight for you in this war.”
Far from looking pleased at this news, Amar looks grimmer than ever.
Councilor Rayomand notices. “Raja Amar, are you well? You don’t seem happy.”
Amar sighs. “The more I think of it, the less I like this idea of a civil war. Innocent people slaughtered in a battle for ascension. Yet, at the same time, I know Shayla isn’t going to give up the throne without a fight.”
“I … I need to think about this, to see if there is a way to spill as little blood as possible.”
Then, quietly, so that only I can hear, he whispers, “I think you and Cavas should start communicating again.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” I whisper back, even as I tamp down the swelling excitement in my chest.
“It is. But I don’t think we can rely on the specters alone. It’s why I think you should let Cavas initiate the communication and not reach out to him yourself.”
Is there a point to giving me freedom if I’m to be held on a leash? I wonder.
But I don’t ask the question out loud. I see the warning in Subodh’s gaze—he and Amar must have discussed this beforehand—and the avid interest on the faces of the non-magi councilors. Any argument on my part will reflect badly on Amar and could be detrimental to his fragile hold on these new alliances with non-magi.
“All right,” I say quietly. “I’ll wait for Cavas to make the first move.”
For now.
33
CAVAS
At the palace, Ma and I fall into a routine of sorts. She usually comes to see me in the middle of the night, when Captain Shekhar briefly falls asleep, and I tell her anything I’ve overheard the Sky Warriors talk about that day.
“They mentioned a mutiny at the Amirgarh cantonment,” I whisper to my mother. My eyes remain on Captain Shekhar, who sits slumbering a few feet away. “Also talked about a brigadier named Moolchand, who might be leading the mutiny.”
“Yes, we know,” Ma says. “One of the specters found out yesterday and sent the information. Anything else?”
I shake my head.
Instead of disappearing the way she normally does, Ma lingers. “I have some news … good news for you. Raja Amar believes you and Gul should start communicating again.”
“What?” My voice is loud enough to alarm both me and Ma. We glance at Captain Shekhar—staring at him for long moments until he releases a snore.
“Quiet, son. And don’t be hasty.” Ma’s voice is so soft I can barely hear it. “Raja Amar wants you to initiate the communication, not Gul. Use the opportunity wisely. Don’t enter the meditative state unless it’s safe for you to do so.”
Barely a second after she disappears, the dozing Sky Warrior wakes, and I pretend once more to be fast asleep—though inwardly I want to punch something.
It’s been a little over two months since I gave my first speech in Ambarvadi and last saw Gul in a meditative trance. Who knows if I’ll be able to do it again—with no practice whatsoever? How do they expect me to help Gul or fight when the time comes?
What I am doing now is helping the Scorpion.
Giving speeches in whatever village, town, or tenement she takes me to. Deflecting the hate she receives onto myself. Facing bewildered Ambari citizens everywhere. Some days I’m not sure if I’m doing a good enough job. The only thing I’ve been thankful for is that the Scorpion hasn’t tried to kiss me again after the first speech in Ambarvadi. Now, she simply nods once my speech is over, as if impatient to get away, and most of the time, that is exactly what we do. I haven’t forgotten the man who spoke out in protest in the capital, and I can tell that neither has Queen Shayla.
We no longer encounter such people in public.
Instead, I see small signs of dissent. The faces in the crowd who do not cheer for their new queen. Scattered groups of people wearing mourning grays. Broken shrines lying untouched, in heaps of rubble and crushed flowers.
After Ambarvadi, the town of Havanpur made the boldest move yet. As I made my speech, fireworks lit up the sky, forming a giant eight-point star and the words The true king waits.
It was the first time I saw fear—real fear—on the Scorpion’s face. She issued an order to give up the culprit to her or she would shut down the black market—the town’s biggest source of income. No one spoke, and in retaliation, she pulled someone from the crowd and raised an atashban to his head. Havanpur’s governor eventually stepped forward to take the blame and save the man, getting promptly arrested.
When I open my eyes again, it’s morning, and Major Emil is hovering over me, shaking me awake.
“Hurry, boy. We’re late and the rani isn’t in a good temper.”
Is she ever in a good temper?
I rise and wash my face, slipping into the latest costume they’ve laid out for me: another costly silk tunic and dhoti set, this one in pure saffron, with a matching orange-and-white turban. Major Emil turns sideways to give me some privacy to change out of my underclothes and then watches in silence as I wind the turban around my head.
“Where are we headed today?” I ask.
“Amirgarh,” Emil says. He looks grimmer than usual.
I feel my throat tighten, then swell at the sound of the name.
“Isn’t Amirgarh an army cantonment?” I ask Major Emil. “Why go there?”
He gives me a cool look, as if he doesn’t quite believe my ignorance. “The rani wishes to address her subjects there, per usual,” he says.
Yet, as we prepare to leave, I can tel
l this trip is going to be different. Outside, next to the four carriages Govind and his stable boys have brought out, wait four guards normally stationed at the gates of Ambar Fort. With green scales and elongated, crocodile faces, the makara stand nearly a head taller than the tallest Sky Warrior of the group, liquid orange flashing intermittently between their wrinkled brown eyelids.
“Don’t look at them directly and you’ll be fine,” Major Emil mutters.
My skin breaks into goose bumps. The makara, after all, are Pashu, who were captured by Lohar after the Three-Year War, much like the gold-skinned, winged peri. The makara guarding our carriage hisses as we approach. Emil goes in first, fists clenched, entering the carriage as if it were the inside of a lion’s mouth. Despite the major’s warning, I glance up at the makara, who stares right back at me, teeth bared.
“I saw Rani Sarayu,” I whisper, my voice so soft that I barely hear it myself. “And Raja Subodh. They’re still out there. Fighting.”
The makara grows very still, nostrils flaring. Then, an atashban pricks between my shoulder blades—Captain Shekhar nudging me inside.
“Idiot,” he says as he climbs in behind me. “Why in Svapnalok were you staring at that vile thing? Do you want to turn to ash? They’re barely controllable as is.”
I say nothing, fully aware of Major Emil’s gaze.
The makara shuts the carriage door, causing it to rattle slightly, before climbing to sit up front with the driver. Soon we are racing across the barren plains to the west of Ambar Fort. In the distance, I see Prithvi’s wall, the magic from its silvery stones making my skin crawl, even from here. The rocking motion of the carriage has a soporific effect. I’m nearly dozing when Captain Shekhar suddenly opens the window, letting in the hot afternoon air.
“The town of Meghapur is approaching,” he says. “You’re from here, aren’t you, Major Emil?”
“Yes.” Major Emil’s voice, though polite, is curt. Tension radiates from him, more so now than before.
Captain Shekhar doesn’t seem to notice. “Isn’t Meghapur known for its herb and spice market? How they grow here, in this arid climate, baffles me.”
“Meghapur’s main crop is roopbadal—and that grows in any kind of soil,” Emil says. “A bit of rain during the Month of Tears and you have an herb that tastes savory when cooked in oil, sweet when cooked in water, and spicy if left out overnight in brine.”
“Roopbadal, huh? I thought Meghapur was known for other, faster crops,” Captain Shekhar sneers.
Major Emil says nothing in response, his frown deepening.
Meghapur’s agricultural bounty, however, appears to be a thing of the past. We cross field upon fallow field, plows and sickles strewn across the ground, gathering dust. The town appears deserted as well, its streets empty and shops boarded up, the havelis forsaken with nary a horse nor bullock cart in sight.
“What happened here?” Captain Shekhar asks. “Where is everyone?”
“Most are gone,” Major Emil says flatly. “Harvest was poor this year and they couldn’t pay the increased land tithes. I was at the border crossing near the Brimlands over a month ago, and people from Meghapur were leaving in droves. Along with others, of course.”
Silence falls over the carriage.
“Your family,” Captain Shekhar begins. “They—”
“I have no family,” Major Emil cuts in. “Not anymore.”
“Didn’t you have a daughter—”
“That’s enough, Captain.”
Emil’s forbidding expression wipes the smirk off Shekhar’s face.
The major looks out the window, so still that his profile looks like it’s carved from stone. The carriages approach a stone archway covered with white paint, depicting Ambar and Meghapur’s various crops and spices. Up close, I see the peeling and cracks, the rough stone under what once was likely a layer of sangemarmar. A Sky Warrior from the carriage ahead of us steps out, waving an arm for us to halt.
Major Emil leans out the window. “What is it?” he asks.
“Rani Shayla wishes to speak to the governor,” the Sky Warrior says. “He’s uncle to the new brigadier in Amirgarh.”
“Does the rani need anything from us?”
“She requested Captain Shekhar’s presence. The governor claims to be loyal to the rani, but these days you can never be too sure.”
We watch from a few feet away as a small man prostrates before the Scorpion, laying his turban at her feet—a sign of ultimate submission. Shayla nods and raises a hand in blessing. Words like honor and guest float our way as the governor gestures to a haveli nearby that looks relatively inhabited, if not well cared for. The Scorpion’s stiff shoulders belie the giant smile pasted on her face. She doesn’t trust him—and neither do the rest of her guards.
“Go on, Captain Shekhar,” Emil says. “I’ll keep an eye on the half magus.”
After the captain leaves, silence falls over us again. I clear my throat before speaking. “Captain Shekhar said you had a daughter.”
Major Emil says nothing. The space outside the haveli is empty now, the Scorpion and her three Sky Warriors having followed the governor inside. The makara guarding the Scorpion’s carriage patrols the front door.
“I don’t know what happened. But I know what it feels like to lose someone.” As I speak, I sense my mother sit down beside me, her cool gray hand resting next to mine.
Emil’s mouth is pressed thin under his perfectly groomed mustache.
“She was a small thing,” he says slowly. “Hardly bigger than my forearm. She’d barely left the womb when the midwife saw the birthmark on her right shoulder. We were forced to give her up. The grief killed my mate eventually. When I went to look for my daughter a week after her mother died, she wasn’t at the same labor camp anymore. General Tahmasp had her transferred somewhere else. That was around sixteen years ago. I don’t know what happened to her. If she’s still alive.”
Ma’s hand curls around my now tightened fist.
“My papa said that when my ma died, she went to live among the stars,” I say after a pause. “I sometimes gaze into the sky looking for her. For him, too, now. I feel them there.”
Something flickers in Major Emil’s eyes—grief, bitterness, perhaps regret. Then his face grows smooth again, turning once more into the perfect, expressionless mask of one of the Scorpion’s most loyal soldiers.
34
CAVAS
A long time goes by before Captain Shekhar returns—thankfully, with food. I force myself to eat slowly and not inhale the honeyweed pulao and spiced mango preserves. Though I’m no longer starved at the palace the way I was in the kalkothri, during trips like this, food remains scarce, dependent on the Scorpion’s own hunger, which is surprisingly limited. We set off for Amirgarh again at breakneck speed—so fast that my stomach heaves, and I wonder if I’m going to throw up. Major Emil looks equally green around the gills.
“What did you feed the horses?” he demands. “Enhancers?”
“Funny you should mention that.” Captain Shekhar’s eyes are more bloodshot than usual, his broad face flushed with excitement. “See this?”
He holds up a small, oblong fruit akin to a date and thrusts it in my face. “Know what it is, half magus?”
“A ber?” I guess, though the fruit is a strange combination of yellow and purple rather than the usual red.
“A ber he calls this, Major Emil! This isn’t a ber, boy!” Captain Shekhar booms. “This is tez! Grown only in Meghapur, during the Month of Tears, ripening at the end of the Month of Dreams, which is about now.” The captain holds the fruit up to his eye. “Put this in a horse’s mouth and it runs at twice the normal speed. Mix a little in your morning curd, and your magic becomes twice as strong. Better than any amplifier.”
“I hope you remember that tez is banned for human consumption, Captain,” Major Emil says sharply. “Tez shouldn’t be given to horses, either—unless it’s an emergency.”
The captain pockets the tez fruit,
his smile like a blade. “Well, it’s a good thing for us that Rani Shayla plans to lift the ban, isn’t it? Allowing us to fight the way we want to. The way we should during this emergency that will be a civil war.”
Both men glare at each other; clearly the captain is enjoying his one-upmanship on the major right now. Emil says nothing, his face taut. Disapproving though he might be about tez, he knows he can do nothing about it if the Scorpion herself allows the drug.
With tez aiding the horses, we reach Amirgarh in the early evening, lanterns flickering to life on tall poles as our carriages drive down its streets, toward the fortress in the center.
Hundreds of armored men and women march out into the courtyard in perfect unison, their boots thumping the dusty ground, their long sleeves rippling bloodred in the air. Hard faces glare at us, and I pinch the inside of my arm, the pain grounding me enough to stop trembling.
The new brigadier, a broad-shouldered and bull-faced man, gives the Scorpion an oily smile. He is nearly as servile as Meghapur’s governor, bowing deep, stopping short of placing his turbaned helmet at her feet.
“Saavdhaan!” he booms.
The army stands at attention.
“Sena pranam!”
The soldiers point their spears at us, the tips glowing red. My heart balls in my throat. But then they shift positions again, shooting sparks into the air. They follow this up by thumping their breastplates twice—the Ambari royal salute.
“Sena pranam, Ambar Sikandar!” the army shouts.
The Scorpion thumps her own breastplate in return, her smile hard, approving. “I salute you, in turn, soldiers of Amirgarh. As part of our army, you have always been Ambar’s backbone. It’s because of you that we can hold our heads upright, raise them high. However, it has come to my attention that we, the people of Ambar, face a threat from our very own now. You, who took vows to protect the sky, to keep safe Ambar’s head—its queen. You, who pledged your lives to protect the kingdom, which is now going through financial difficulties. Are you truly bothered by a few delays in payment?”
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