Shall I make him light up again, General? an unfamiliar voice asked.
That’s enough, Captain. It was General Alizeh. Tell me, dirt licker, where did you get the green swarna—a classified contraband item? You, who are not allowed to communicate with specters? Also, since when do half magi glow with unexplained magic?
Do you know what we do to traitors here?
Hang me, then.
The last three words—spoken by Cavas—made me cry out. My voice lifted the darkness, revealing a lightorb hung suspended between stone walls, a red-eyed man wearing Sky Warrior blue and silver, and General Alizeh, her uniform so white it hurt my eyes. They were standing over a figure lying on the ground, blood covering his face and soaking the front of his clothes.
I think I must have said something, must have shouted his name, because suddenly Cavas’s eyes widened, and I was thrown back out of the vision, as if by an invisible hand.
I close my eyes briefly. The cost of my wish being granted doesn’t come with surprise but a heavy dose of guilt.
Once again, I’ve put someone I love in terrible danger.
“I need to see Subodh and Amar,” I tell Falak. “Where are they?”
We find them at the temple, talking to Sarpanch Parvez and Councilor Maya. Neither Subodh nor Amar seems surprised by what I tell them.
“I wish that Cavas had waited,” Subodh says. “Roda delivered his message to us a few moments earlier.”
“Can you blame him?” I demand. “Roda shouldn’t be allowed in here anymore!”
“Could you give us a moment?” Subodh asks the two non-magi, who nod before exiting the temple.
Subodh turns to me. “Listen, Gul. I understand your anger, but you need to remember that Roda is a living specter now, bound to this world with the sort of restlessness we, the living, can’t imagine. She doesn’t have to remain loyal to us, but for some reason she is.”
“Why didn’t Cavas send the message through his mother, though? Isn’t she looking out for him at the palace?”
“Not now,” Subodh says. “At the moment, Harkha is in Jwala.”
“Jwala?” I ask, surprised. “But why?”
“To deliver our message to the queen there,” Amar replies. “The tenement councilors pointed out to us that shvetpanchhi are too noticeable—and easier to kill off. Unlike Ambar, the Jwaliyan queen still keeps half magi and non-magi courtiers. The Jwaliyans are not overtly fond of living specters, but they will accept them as messengers.”
“You really believe Jwala is on our side?” I ask skeptically. “Especially when the queen is still publicly allied with Shayla?”
“I can’t be sure,” Amar admits. “My mother always called Jwala a vessel with a round base, tilting whichever way suits it most. But I also got this letter a week earlier.”
I frown at the scroll, unable to decipher the curving script of the unfamiliar language. I’m about to ask Amar what it means when I notice the emblem at the bottom: crafted from green strands of mermaid hair intertwined with gold, a sword that splits into four blades when unleashed on an enemy.
“Is this from Samudra?” I look up from the split-whip, astonished. “Or am I dreaming?”
“It is from Samudra,” Amar says, looking happier than I’ve ever seen him. “Written in the hand of Queen Yashodhara herself. Until now, I’ve been communicating with only her first minister.”
Queen Yashodhara. Juhi’s own sister, who gave Juhi up as collateral to King Lohar during Samudra’s bitter cease-fire and treaty with Ambar more than twenty-two years ago. When Juhi staged her own death to escape Ambar Fort, she never got back in touch with her family in Samudra. Though she had spoken only once to me about her experience at Ambar Fort, I know Juhi had felt betrayed by her sister, anguished in ways she’d never revealed to the rest of us.
“You told her Juhi’s alive,” I say, feeling furious. “Didn’t you?”
“I had to, Gul. There was no other way she would have agreed to help us. Now that my father is dead, Samudra’s old treaty with Ambar is defunct. Samudra can send us troops—can help us in other ways, too, if we so wish.”
“How do you know help is what she’ll give you?” I challenge. “The Samudra queen might have been waiting for years to exact revenge.” According to the history scrolls published by the Ministry of Truth, the southern kingdom suffered more casualties in the Three-Year War between Ambar and Samudra.
“She might,” Amar agrees. “Then again, she might not. I would like to give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“I have to agree with Gul on this,” Subodh says. “You can’t be so trusting, Raja Amar. They’re queens who rule other kingdoms. Their help will not come without a cost.”
“No,” Amar says grimly. “Which is why I’ve given them both a test.”
We both fall silent.
“What sort of test?” I finally ask.
“I’ve asked each queen to send me a promise in writing, magically signed and sealed, asserting that they will support my claim in the event of a war and that they will accept me as the next ruler of Ambar, without attempting to annex my kingdom. In return, I will release Jwala from its debt to us—which, when I was last informed, was in the range of a hundred thousand swarnas. And I will ensure that Juhi, the princess of Samudra, is rescued from the prison at Ambar Fort. Alive.”
It’s a tall order. A risk that could backfire on him completely. Also—
“I thought you wanted to avoid a civil war,” I say. “What made you change your mind?”
“That’s what I did want,” Amar says. “If I had a choice, there would be no bloodshed whatsoever. But now that Shayla’s hiring Brimmish mercenaries, I can’t take any more chances. It’s one thing to fight with Ambari troops. But the mercenaries fight without a conscience. The king of the Brimlands pays an annual tribute to keep them at bay. Shayla is a fool if she thinks that she can control them or that they will leave Ambar in anything except ruins. Cavas’s imprisonment also changes things. I can’t let people continue to think he’s a traitor when he was really helping us. And the only way I can do it is by coming out of hiding. Ambar needs to see that its king is still alive. And that he supports Cavas.”
My skin prickles—probably because it’s the first time I’ve heard Amar refer to himself as a king. His eyes flash now, harder than firestones. His face, hollowed by the sparse diet of the tenements, holds no trace of the helpless prince I once saw at Ambar Fort.
Quietly, he settles cross-legged on the floor before unfolding a bit of parchment and laying it flat across the stones. It’s a map of Ambar, with the kingdom’s various towns and villages, the capital city of Ambarvadi and Ambar Fort marked with glowing green stars. Next, he pulls out a sheaf of blank parchment and a pen, dipping the nib into a jar of muddy ink that glows green every time he scribbles a word.
I watch him write out the first couple of lines, my eyes widening. “Amar … what in Svapnalok are you doing?”
“Writing another letter,” he says, without looking up. “It’s time to reintroduce myself to the one who usurped my throne.”
THE WRATH OF A QUEEN
3rd day of the Month of Birds 7 months into Queen Shayla’s reign
36
SHAYLA
Having to imprison Xerxes-putra Cavas in the kalkothri again does not surprise me. Neither does the fact that he’s still loyal to the girl. What does surprise me is the odd ache in my ribs, a feeling I last experienced before killing my father—one that I’ve since identified as disappointment. So I do what I did that day. I shrink the ache into something insignificant and bury it deep. The hollow that it leaves behind, I fill with rage, inflicting that on everyone who comes to see me in the morning.
The serving boy who brings me chai far too hot to drink.
The Minister of Treasure, who tells me our firestone mines are depleting so quickly that they will run out by the end of this year.
Acharya Damak, who advises me against dismembering the dirt-licking half magus�
�s body and displaying a part of it in every corner of the city.
Unlike the others, though, the high priest does not cower.
“Use the half magus, Ambar Sikandar,” he urges. “Find out where his magic comes from. Perhaps there’s a connection to the alleged Star Warrior.”
“With your immense knowledge, it amazes me that you aren’t aware of where his magic comes from, Acharya,” I say. “Don’t make me bring Amba up here and unravel your silky tongue for a single fiber of truth.”
Acharya Damak pauses. “I can think of only one thing … though it’s too foolish to be considered.”
“Nothing is too foolish when it comes to the so-called Star Warrior.”
I have not forgotten the way the awful girl’s magic repelled mine seven months ago—nor forgiven myself for underestimating her the way the usurper Lohar did.
“They could be complements,” the acharya says.
“Complements?” I ask, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, Ambar Sikandar.”
“You do realize, Acharya, that the only complements anyone has ever heard of are the two moon goddesses. And they don’t exist.”
“I said it would sound foolish, Ambar Sikandar.”
“And I’d rather you focus on reality instead of myths.” The acid in my voice makes Acharya Damak wince. “What other news? Has Amba been sending out any more birds?”
The high priest looks relieved by my sudden change of subject. “None that I or my servants know of, Ambar Sikandar. The dead shvetpanchhi we placed in her bed has scared her for the time being.”
I nod. If I had a choice, I would toss Amba, her daughter, and Lohar’s two other former queens in prison, too. But Amba and her child are still well loved by the people of Ambar. And imprisoning Janavi and Farishta would likely have the Brimmish king launch an attack on us.
“Very well. You may go, Acharya Damak. You have been surprisingly useful today.”
In the afternoon, there’s another knock on my door.
“Enter.”
“Ambar Sikandar.”
I force a smile when I see Alizeh. As angry as she’s made me with her past incompetence, I don’t want to alienate my old friend completely.
“What news?” I ask.
Alizeh does not smile back. Instead, there is a worried expression on her face, one that makes me snap, “Go on. Spit it out.”
“There have been … birds, Ambar Sikandar.”
Shvetpanchhi and crows, hawks and pigeons. Hundreds of birds—according to Alizeh’s sources—flying over the capital, swooping through windows, dropping scrolls across desks, into buckets of milk, onto unsuspecting heads.
“This one came into my office at Ambar Fort this morning,” Alizeh says, holding out a scroll.
Instead of snatching it from her the way I normally would, I stare at it for a moment, my insides crawling with bloodworms. The shadow of a tree on an island hovers at the back of my mind.
Slowly, I take the scroll and begin to read:
I, Amar, son of Amba and Lohar, hereby declare that I am the rightful king of Ambar. I challenge the usurper, Shayla, daughter of Megha and Afrasiab, for the throne. I also demand the immediate release of Balram-putri Juhi, Shiamax-putri Amira, and Xerxes-putra Cavas—Ambari citizens who have risked their lives to remain loyal to their true king and are being held by the usurper in captivity.
Ambaris, our history isn’t without its flaws. We are no longer the kingdom established by the First Queen Asha: a place where all were treated equally, regardless of class, gender, or magical ability. But where there is sorrow and loss, there is also hope in the form of the Star Warrior, born with the sky goddess’s own blessing, and in the form of our Pashu friends, who have always fought with honor. Rise with me, Ambaris, if you, too, hope for a better future.
The more I read, the more I smirk. By the time I reach the end of this so-called proclamation, I’m laughing out loud.
“He expects people to believe this pompous garbage?” I toss the scroll aside. “What does he plan to do about an empty treasury and our depleting firestone mines? Is he going to conjure his way out of trouble?”
Alizeh takes a deep breath. “Ambar Sikandar, you’d be surprised how many people believe him. During patrol today, I passed a group of people outside the Ministry of War in the city, shouting slogans in his favor. They’ve set that stupid prophecy to song. I had to shoot my atashban twice in the air before they dispersed.”
“Any arrests?”
“If I’d arrested them, it would have led to a riot.”
A tick goes off in the side of my cheek. As angry as her words make me, I know she’s right. “Did you have this tested?” I ask, tapping the scroll.
“I did. The parchment is conjured from the branches of a dhulvriksh. Likely from the south of Ambar. Perhaps Dhanbad. Perhaps Sur. I’ve asked our soldiers to comb through the area, check every hut and haveli.”
“The conjurer won’t hide where our soldiers have strongholds, Alizeh. He’ll hide where no one will think to look and put up magical barriers to protect himself.” The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. “Consider this. Who in Ambar remains completely invisible to the rest of us? And, no, I’m not talking about living specters.”
Alizeh’s eyes widen. “Non-magi. But they hated old Lohar more than we did. Why would they harbor his son?”
“For the promise of more than what they have now. For rights and freedoms that no monarch in their right mind would give such people. They’re desperate enough to believe him.”
“Perhaps,” Alizeh says, her skeptical tone annoying me.
“Have someone check the area,” I say. “If we attack them now and capture the conjurer king, his supposed revolution will end before it begins.”
Alizeh clears her throat. “What if you changed tactics?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could hold a janata darbar in Ambarvadi. Hear the people’s grievances like the ranis and rajas of old.”
A public court? I bite back my laugh when I see the expression on Alizeh’s face.
“You’re serious,” I say. “You really want me to hold a janata darbar.”
“Why not?” Alizeh’s eyes grow bright with excitement. “You shut down the labor camps, didn’t you? Remind the people of that. Listen to their grievances—or at least pretend to.”
“The usurper Lohar didn’t keep a hold over his kingdom by coddling dissenters!”
“Yes, but times are different now. The people of Ambar are angry and the conjurer is acting like he’s their only savior. You need to beat him at his own game.”
I frown. Alizeh’s points do have merit. What harm could there be to hold court? To play magnanimous queen for a while?
“Very well, then,” I say. “I’ll tell the high priest to make arrangements.”
Which I do, calling him back the moment Alizeh leaves the room.
Acharya Damak frowns. “Are you sure you want to do that, Ambar Sikandar?”
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t, Acharya?” I ask pleasantly, though I’m feeling anything but pleasant.
He pauses. “Ambar Sikandar, there have been letters—”
“—from the conjurer,” I cut in. “I know. General Alizeh told me.”
“Did she also tell you about how high the janata’s emotions are running right now?” he demands. “After what happened outside the Walled City—it’s too much of a risk, my queen.”
“What do you mean?” I demand. “What happened outside the Walled City?”
His silver eyebrows go up. “You mean, the general didn’t tell you?”
“Stop playing the question game, Acharya,” I snarl.
Quietly, the high priest pulls out a scroll from his robes. It’s a portrait. A nearly perfect drawing of me atop an elephant, crushing the heads and bodies of men, women, and children. Three words title the portrait: SIKANDAR YA SITAMGAR?
Victor or Oppressor?
“When did this
go up?” I ask.
“Two days ago,” the high priest says. “The entire southern wall of the Walled City was covered. General Alizeh ordered the guards to remove them. I grabbed a copy … in case.”
In case General Alizeh didn’t tell you. In case I needed it later to curry favor.
Yet, as much as I long to throttle Damak, I can’t help but wonder why Alizeh didn’t come to me first. Why she suggested a public court when there are so many angry emotions running against me.
“Did you know, Ambar Sikandar,” the acharya says, his quiet voice barely breaking the silence, “that Rani Megha stopped the tradition of a janata darbar in Ambar because a group of non-magi tried to assassinate her? They nearly succeeded, too.”
My blood runs cold. I study the portrait again, the bright colors, the sheen of gold on the parchment, which unlike the conjurer Amar’s letter is of fine quality, the faint buzz of magic on its surface. A non-magus didn’t make this poster. A magus did. Which means that I am hated even more than my mother. Possibly more than the usurper Lohar.
Aware of the acharya studying my every move, I look up again.
“The conjurer Amar’s letter suggests origins from the south of Ambar. I wondered if he might be hiding in the tenements there.”
The acharya frowns the smallest of frowns. “It’s possible, my rani. There were traces of sand on the last bird that visited Rani Amba—the one we shot down.”
“General Alizeh does not think it wise to attack the southern tenements.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you really trust her, my queen?”
I don’t, I think. I barely trust you.
Then again, I am not the first monarch to feel that way about the people surrounding them—and I will not be the last.
“Mistrust is good, Acharya,” I say. “It keeps us ranis on our toes.”
Once he leaves, I call for Alizeh again.
“I want you to take your strongest cavalry to the southern tenements. I also want speed. Immense speed. Good thing I trusted my instincts and ordered several cartloads of fresh tez from Meghapur’s governor last month. The crop arrived earlier this week and is ready for use in the palace cellars.”
Rising Like a Storm Page 27
