The Archer at Dawn

by Swati Teerdhala

  “No,” Laksh said. He held up his hands as if innocent. “I hadn’t planned for that. Kunal, you’re famous around the city. Whispers about you are even filtering up to Faor and beyond. ‘The Archer reborn.’ People are clamoring for legends again, especially in such uncertain times.”

  “I don’t want to be one,” Kunal said automatically. But there was a change this time, a feeling he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Pride? Duty? It didn’t sound like such a horrible idea to be someone his people could look up to. Though if they knew why he had been given that title, the powers that lay hidden in his blood, it might be different.

  Laksh watched him, tapping a finger against his chin. “I have something I want to show you,” he said. “And then I have another request of you.”

  “Is that even allowed?” Kunal said. “I’m already getting you the king’s boon.”

  Laksh smiled at that. “I make up the rules, so it’s allowed.”

  Kunal tensed. Alok and him had never let Laksh make up the rules when they played card games, both convinced that Laksh would somehow trick them.

  “It’s nothing so bad, Kunal. No need to plan how you’re going to escape already,” he said, his voice a little too light for his words. It was enough of a tonal dissonance that Kunal realized something—Laksh wasn’t immune to the crumbling of their friendship. “There’s a report that is in the possession of the king. I’d like it to be in mine.”

  “Why do you need me? Do it yourself, like you did with the general. Murder him and blame it on someone else, a hapless victim,” Kunal said.

  A chuckle, a mild thing, from Laksh. “Calling the Viper a hapless victim. Love really is a funny thing. The Kunal I knew . . .”

  Kunal flushed, worried he had given away something of himself that he shouldn’t have. “Perhaps not a victim, but innocent nonetheless.”

  Laksh seemed unconcerned by such semantics. “No, to answer your question, I have no need of murder and betrayal, not now that I have you.”

  Kunal glowered, feeling some sort of empowerment from the small movement. “And what is this report I’m meant to steal?”

  “A report. With a particular seal—a winged horse with an arrow curving over its back.”

  “Just the report?”

  “That’s all I ask of you.”

  What did it say about the forced shifting of Kunal’s honor that his first thought wasn’t shock but rather of how he could sneak by the Senaps who guarded the king’s chambers? How he’d be able to slip this lie into the many others he had been telling Esha and the team?

  “What was it you wanted to show me?” he asked.

  Laksh took his whiplash change in conversation in stride.

  “This,” Laksh said. “Take some time, talk to a few of your fellow countrymen. Many of them have great theories on how best to defeat the Yavar in the mace competition the day after next. You could learn something. And perhaps they need to hear from the Archer that there is a future better than the present. Weren’t you the one who said you wanted to create a new world?”

  The crowd began to disappear through a pair of tall, metal double doors.

  Laksh beckoned him with a hand, following behind the crowd.

  Kunal couldn’t forget how Laksh had tried to capture him for the Scales. That he had tried to hurt Esha. These people, his people, had done nothing to harm him, but . . .

  It was too much. Kunal turned away.

  Perhaps one day he might walk through those doors, but not today.

  Chapter 24

  Kunal cut through the tangle of wet branches with a swipe of his machete. He tugged at the edges of the branches and pulled them apart, creating a hole in the jungle foliage big enough for two people.

  King Mahir had set up an extra training before the mace-fighting event tomorrow morning. Kunal still didn’t have firm control—or understanding—of all his powers. He had expected a trip to the armory, though, not a journey far outside the city walls.

  King Mahir followed him through the opening he had made, and Kunal looked up, swallowing a gasp at the towering temple they found inside the thicket of jungle vines. It was clearly ancient, ruined in some areas, and was made of the same gold-flecked marble and white sunstone that all the Sun Maiden temples were in Jansa.

  A sliver of rainbow cut through the white sunstone as Kunal stepped closer and began to take the stairs. This temple was unlike any he had seen before. Colored mosaics and carvings spread across every wall of the temple, history brought to life.

  King Mahir ran his hand along a groove in the wall that Kunal couldn’t read until he stepped closer. It was a family tree of the Samyads, and at the bottom, where King Mahir’s hand had been, was a small pearl embedded in the stone with the name Gauri carved under it.

  Even now, a decade after her death, King Mahir’s love hadn’t faded. His eyes were misted over as he traced the edges of her name on the stone.

  He straightened and coughed, pulling his hand away. Kunal caught a glimpse of another name, one he had been thinking of more and more often.

  Payal. His mother.

  Her name was inlaid with a ruby, luminescent in the shifting shadows of the temple.

  “I went back and forth on this, but ultimately you are one of us,” King Mahir said, interrupting his thoughts. “You deserve to know the lore that is passed down to every Samyad. It’s a crucial part of every royal’s training.

  “Do you know of our origins?”

  Kunal nodded, reciting words every Southern Lander knew. “In the beginning, the gods made man and sent three representatives to the earth, tasking them with the duty to help mankind—the Sun Maiden, the Moon Lord, and the Wise Child. They made their home on earth, loving and leading the people for eons. But mankind began to fill the earth, crowding it, and the gods grew tired, desiring to return to their celestial home. And so they sought out the wisest, strongest, and kindest of their children. Three demigods were chosen: the twins, Naran and Naria; and Vasu the Wanderer, who journeyed to the lands of the Sea God, churning them alongside the gods and pulling forth what became the Southern Lands.”

  Mahir patted his shoulder. “Good. That is what they say.” He walked toward the wall, his sandals shuffling against the old stone. Despite its age there was no dust. “And the janma bond?”

  Kunal racked his brain, feeling as if he was with the Fort schoolmaster again. “Each of the demigods chose their home. Naran and Naria split the peninsula, and Vasu the Wanderer went north. We, mankind, learned from the demigods, and they protected and nourished the land with their magic. As long as the demigods touched their feet to it, all was well. Neither man nor animal nor creature wanted for anything. But the God of Death began to claim the land.

  “The demigods, who had come to love their people, knew they wouldn’t be able to live forever to protect them. They decided to call for help from the gods, their parents, performing the first Ayana. In this first Ayana, or ritual, they asked the gods to bring down the celestial river that gave life to all creatures. On the longest night of the year, the demigods forged a connection with the gods, one that needed to be renewed every year by the royals with their blood. Vasu the Wanderer rejected the connection, preferring his freedom. And that is how we got the Bhagya River, the source of all life, anchored onto the land by a droplet of each twin’s blood. Their descendants, the royals, still have their blood and powers to this day.”

  “Ah, so neat and tidy,” King Mahir said. There was a tension in his jaw. “Most of that is true, but there’s so much more. History that has been forgotten but that the Himyads and Samyads have always remembered. It’s our duty to remember.” King Mahir’s voice took on the deep, steady cadence of a recitation. “‘But for such a boon, the gods demanded more—and offered more in return. The gods saw the good in mankind, but they also saw the potential for evil.’”

  “What does it mean?” Kunal didn’t recognize the quote, and he’d read every book at the Fort on the origins of their land.

  “Th
at’s from the text on the Blighted War,” King Mahir said.

  “I thought all texts from the Age of Darkness were burned or lost.”

  “Not all. What those texts reveal is something the royals have kept secret for centuries.” He took a deep breath. “All humans were born with shape-shifting magic in their blood, Kunal. The original Ayana was performed with simple offerings—food, flowers, milk—and artifacts that each god left behind. It required no blood, no sacrifice. Magic was to be shared by all, to help us connect to the land and be one with that which nourishes us.

  “But humanity ravaged the land, our one gift from the gods. And during the Blighted War, men, and one city in particular, sought to control and own the connection to the gods—for power. The gods punished them, claiming the city for the sea, and the original artifacts were lost. Still furious, the gods threatened to sever the janma bond as well. But the ancient royals convinced them to forge a new connection, one that didn’t need the artifacts or rely on the state of the land. The gods accepted, but only if the royals alone controlled the magic and its burdens. They demanded a price for what they saw as betrayal.”

  “‘But for such a boon, the gods demanded more—and offered more in return,’” Kunal repeated, his voice quieting. Magic had once been everyone’s gift, and the people had taken it for granted. What did that mean for the current drought?

  King Mahir nodded. “The ancient royals broke the previous bond, forged a new one. It was the only way the gods agreed to renew the connection, especially after the gods’ own children and creations fled the land during the Blighted War.”

  Even ages ago, mankind couldn’t control its greed for power. Did this never end? Would they always be stuck in this cycle?

  “And the royals have been hiding this from the people?” Kunal asked, anger tingeing his words.

  “What good would it do to tell them?” King Mahir said. “What if some decided they wanted their powers back? Decided to find a way to break the bond? The gods might not forgive a second time.”

  He wanted to be angry at the deception, at the loss of control, but Kunal also understood. You made hard choices to protect those you loved—even if it meant obscuring the truth. Had he not chosen to obey Laksh’s whims to protect Esha, Alok? But it was a burden, one the royals shouldn’t have had to shoulder.

  “It took centuries of learning for the royals to control their new powers, as well as the jealousy and mistrust that followed. Their people didn’t understand why the gods had left them.”

  “And the royals got the blame. That’s a raw deal.”

  “It’s not as if I made the deal, my boy. I share your anger. Do you think I wanted this as a child? I resented it, fought against it. But my brother wasn’t going to be the one to continue the traditions—he hated them. He wanted the title and power I had with none of the struggles,” King Mahir said.

  “It’s not fair,” Kunal said. “To you, to any of the royals. To the people who have been lied to.”

  “No, it’s not. We carry a great burden in our blood. We carry knowledge so that others don’t bear its weight. But our powers are also a gift, and that’s why I’m trying to teach you. It’s our duty to our people. We must always protect them. As the descendants of Naran and Naria, it is our edict, passed down through generations.”

  “Do all the royals feel this way?”

  “No. There are noble houses with royal blood. Pramukh and Manchi. But they’ve never grown up with the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders.”

  “Can they shift, since they have the same blood?”

  King Mahir pointed at a mural that showed humans with animal features. Men with large wings, women with talons. The mural told a story of mankind at its glory where phasing was the norm. As the panels went on, the murals changed. And at the end, the same man and woman were completely human, one wearing a valaya, a metal bracelet, the other wearing an anguli, a ring with a sigil. Kunal blinked, trying to understand what it meant.

  “The valaya and anguli.”

  “They have a purpose. Initially, they were used to prevent any latent powers from surfacing. Now, they’ve become custom. So, no. Only direct children of the queen or king should have powers.”

  Kunal quieted. “But I’m—I’m a bastard.”

  “I have my doubts about that, Kunal. Your father would’ve honored Payal.”

  “You knew my father?” Kunal’s pulse sped up. He had given up hope long ago, remembering only a thick head of hair and scarred hands.

  King Mahir tilted his head. “Yes. A good man. Better than most. He’d be honored to know how you’ve represented the family.”

  “I wish I had known him. All Uncle said of him was that he died recklessly,” Kunal said quietly.

  King Mahir looked at him. “Is that what he told you? Kunal, your father, he wasn’t—”

  A sharp rustle came from outside the temple, and both men looked up, startled. A monkey appeared through the trees and both of them dropped their hands from their weapons.

  Your father, he wasn’t— Wasn’t what? Kunal wanted to ask more, to hear stories, anything about his father, but the moment had vanished, and the words caught in his throat.

  “I think your parents were married, Kunal. In secret. I don’t know why that is, but it’s a suspicion I have. Otherwise your powers wouldn’t have shown. Our powers—the strength, the shifting—those houses will always crave it, without realizing all that you have to give up to shoulder it. I tried my hardest to teach that to Harun, but I think I burdened him too much.”

  “Harun? Burdened?” Kunal’s voice was incredulous.

  “Don’t judge my eldest too harshly,” King Mahir said, chuckling. “He wasn’t always so prickly. He changed—we all changed after the Night of Tears.”

  “How did he change?”

  “He was once the brightest light in our palace. He made everyone smile with his curiosity, and his love for his sister filled the palace with joy. He loved philosophy, history. That changed, though. He’s since become focused, reserved.”

  Kunal wasn’t sure reserved was the word he’d use—but Harun was certainly smart, cunning, charismatic—though the last one pained him to admit.

  “Would there be a way to undo it? So it wasn’t such a burden?” Kunal asked slowly, thinking back to something Esha had said.

  Mahir considered it. “Possibly. If something can be made it can be unmade. Our ancient lore talks as such. But that’s not a path we’ve ever considered. It’s a burden, yes, but it’s also my duty, Kunal. Our duty.”

  Kunal nodded along. They all had their duty, but Kunal was beginning to think that his was to question.

  What if there was another way?

  Chapter 25

  The towering arena was filled to the brim, with Gwali citizens fitted into every nook and cranny of the gleaming pink sandstone seats.

  The sweltering heat mixed with excitement, transforming into a palpable tension. Kunal wiped the sweat from his brow and peeked out into the audience, his heart beating faster at the sight of so many people.

  Three matches and he’d be into the next round.

  Three matches he’d have to win, against fighters who’d been training the whole year-round for this very competition. But it was the only way for them to continue having access to the citadel—and the way to Reha.

  Kunal rolled his shoulders and began to stretch. Mace fighting required strength, but a surprising amount of dexterity as well. The rules stated that if one were to drop their mace, they could pick up one weapon other than a mace, such as a sword or spear, for the remainder of the match. He peeked around at the other fighters. To his right, a man who twirled his mace over his shoulder with ease, lifting a fifty-pound mace like a babe. To his left, a smaller fighter wielded his fifteen-pound mace like a spear. Mace fighting wasn’t Kunal’s strength, despite training with Chand, so his main goal would be to get his opponent to drop his mace. Any other weapon he was confident against.

  Or as confident as o
ne could feel when the weight of the entire mission rested on his shoulders. They still needed to scope out the citadel’s defenses, and he’d worked with Alok to shift patrols around so they’d have a larger window of time—now all he needed to do was get into the next round and keep his access to the citadel.

  The sun pierced the metal grate that separated the training area from the arena, dotting the ground with blocks of shimmering light. Kunal lifted his mace over his shoulder, spinning it around his torso and then his neck. The movements began to come back to him, the careful precision of the turns, which muscles needed to be used to stabilize the weight of the mace.

  He determined that the thirty-pound mace would be best. The perfect balance for him. Kunal took his spot next to the other fighters in his class and sneaked a peek out into the arena boxes, searching for a thick mane of curls.

  Esha was a glimmering blur, and Kunal peered closer, pulling at his power to hone in his gaze and catch a glimpse of her.

  “Win,” she mouthed.

  He smiled.

  Esha sat back in her seat, glad that Lord Mayank was deep in conversation to her right and hadn’t noticed her leaning forward to watch Kunal.

  Esha hadn’t much liked Mayank after their initial meeting at the Welcome Ball, but his potential support from House Pramukh would help make up for the manpower the Scales refused to provide. Coups needed armies, and the Blades needed allies.

  She tuned back into the conversation to her left, led by Lord Aniket of House Rusala. His armbands were a glittering white ivory, which he showed off with every wave of his hand.

  “It’s true,” he said, holding court with his sister, Lady Mati. “My sister saw it herself.”

  “I did,” she confirmed.

  “Really?” another lady piped in, crushing her sari pleats as she leaned in, which drew a disapproving glance from another older courtier.

  “Have you figured out what they’re going on about yet?” Lord Mayank said, his voice soft enough to startle Esha. He leaned in close to her, not past impropriety, but enough that she could feel the warmth from his skin.