by Sasha Nanua
Minutes pass before I spot the back of a woman sporting a purple chunni. For an instant, I see Mama Anita: graying hair, fine wrinkles, thin lips that told endless stories.
But then the woman turns around. Her face is square instead of round; gaunt instead of plump. Not Mama Anita. I should’ve known better than to fantasize. To muddle dreams and reality.
Still, Mama Anita’s stories cling to my memory. She’d recount how Abai hadn’t always been this way, cruel as a knife’s point, ruled by a snakespeaker’s fist. Whenever she told me a story, she’d lean in conspiratorially, like she was telling a secret. This one always began the same:
“Over a thousand years ago, at the beginning of time, our Creator, Amran, made life. He sprouted trees from barren ground, gave rain to the hottest deserts. Not long after came six special beings, the first people to walk our world. But they were no mere humans—they were like spirits visiting from the sky. Collectively, they are known as the Masters of Magic, because each was born with a special kind of power.”
Mama Anita taught me that all magic came from Amran and these special beings—the Masters. Amran’s magic came in the form of gifts bestowed upon the world: the blessed Var River, where promises are forged in blood; the Fountain of Fortunes, perfumed with sweet scents; among others. On the other hand, the Masters’ magics were tied to their blood. There was the Master of Fire, whose flames could grow hot enough to singe the soul and burn kingdoms to the ground; the Tide Master, who controlled disastrous monsoons and wicked floods; and even Masters of Earth and Sky. But there were others, two whose magics were considered the most unique and powerful of all: the Master of Memory, kind but persuadable—and the Master of Snakes, who possessed untold cunning.
The first time Mama Anita told this story to me, I interjected, looking at her wrinkled hands compared to mine. Her twine bracelet shook as she demonstrated a sweeping wave from the Tide Master’s floods, or bursting fires from the Fire Master’s fingertips.
“But Mama Anita, I don’t understand. Where is this magic? I don’t see it!”
Mama Anita chuckled. “The magic was passed on through the Masters’ direct descendants. The Snake Master’s bloodline—now Abai’s royals—became known as snakespeakers. The Tide Master’s children were tidesweepers; the Fire Master’s children flametalkers. Their blood was bound to their Master, and when the Master’s magic was gone, so was theirs.”
Mama Anita glanced past the curtains that shielded me from the humid evening air. “If our world was a quilt, then magic was the threads that bound it together. Magic was as much a part of our kingdoms as the air we breathe.”
I always loved that metaphor. It made me cozy inside, even during a brutal windstorm. But it was the next part of Mama Anita’s story, the part she refused to repeat, that made my blood curdle.
The way we lost magic to the royals.
It was the Snake Master, the Great Deceiver, who took magic away from us.
“Long before the lines of our world were drawn and borders patrolled by soldiers, many of the Masters lived in harmony, like brothers and sisters of sorts. But like most siblings, some did not get along. The Master of Snakes was a known trickster, and for much of his life he was never trusted by anyone.”
“Why not?” I questioned innocently.
Mama Anita pursed her lips. “It all began when the Snake Master asked the Master of Memory to search for a missing relic—something that could bring peace to the world forever. Something that could grant any wish—except bring back a loved one from the dead. It was called the Bloodstone. Made from the Creator’s own blood, it was the most powerful of Amran’s many gifts.” She leaned back so she could look me square in the face. “Of course, the Memory Master agreed, using her mindwielding abilities to access the memories of everyone who’d touched or seen the Bloodstone before. She searched for moons before she found the stone, hidden away in a cave deep in Retan.”
“Then what?” I bounced on the bed, begging Mama Anita to continue the story.
“Things fell apart,” Mama Anita said simply. “The Snake Master never truly wanted the stone for peace. At the time, there were no kingdoms, no rulers. Once the Snake Master took the stone from the Memory Master, intending to use it for selfish purposes, the other Masters retaliated. And so began the Great Masters’ Battle. The battle ended quickly, thanks to the Snake Master’s possession of the stone. He used its powers to banish his siblings one by one. As a result, the other Masters became trapped, their physical forms stripped away while their souls drifted to the skies. No one knows where the Snake Master went. Soon, his bloodline ascended to what became the Abaian throne, and the stone was passed down from king to king, queen to queen. Until five hundred years ago. The stone was lost—or perhaps hidden.”
I hung on to Mama Anita’s every word like a bee to honey.
“With their magic fading away,” Mama continued, “the Memory Master’s descendants created their own kingdom, Kaama, becoming their own royalty and nobility. And soon after, new countries were born. Retan, Pania, Amratstan . . .”
I shivered but held her arm tight. “It’s just a story, Mama. Right?”
She brushed my hair back. “This is no fable, dear Ria. After what happened to the other Masters, their descendants noticed their magic beginning to fade, until it all but disappeared. Those Masters have never returned from the heavens. There are rumors that they can appear in times of great need as spirits . . . just rumors, of course.” Mama Anita swept my hair into a single knot. “Because of the feud between the Snake and Memory Masters, Abai and Kaama were at war for a long time. The two kingdoms’ royalties haven’t forgotten—and they haven’t let the hate of the past go.”
The hate of the past. I didn’t understand what she meant back then.
“What happened during the war?” I asked.
“Many years of bloodshed and violence. A hundred years ago, the raja of Abai at the time, King Amrit, tried to find the Bloodstone. He thought he could use it to win the war and destroy Kaama, but wherever it was, it was untraceable. Then he noticed that his kingdom began to change. There were lightning storms, a drought across the country, signs of ire from the Creator. Eventually, King Amrit proposed a treaty to the Kaaman king, Rahul. Both kingdoms were running out of resources, spending everything on battles, and everyone could feel Amran’s anger. So the kings agreed on the Hundred-Year Truce. No war, no trade, for one hundred years. In just over a decade, the time will come for the truce to end, and the treaty with it.”
“And then what?” I asked, standing. I remember jumping on my toes in anticipation, waiting for Mama Anita to continue. All she did was close her eyes, shake her head just slightly.
“And then it will be time for another story.”
The hazy memory of Mama Anita’s stories should mean nothing to me now. But some stories are true. And too many don’t have happy endings.
Reality sets in. Mama’s voice is gone. I never found out why she was taken away, even spent months wondering before realizing the answer would never bring her back.
A biting wind makes me shiver. Until I realize there’s no wind. I’m shaking with such ferocity that Amir has to hold me up, but I fall to my knees and clutch my churning stomach. The world spins. I heave, trying to let something out. But there’s so little there. A sob lurches its way out of my mouth.
The war is coming.
My name on a conscription list.
My life, my future, gone.
Amir offers me water from his canteen and helps me stand. He tells me we need to move fast, forget what we saw. I don’t know how long it takes me to get moving. To stop thinking about what’ll happen if I become a solider.
What’ll happen if I don’t.
Imprisonment. Death.
We know better than to stay in Nabh any longer. Hours ago, we escaped the dense crowds and headed for the outskirts of the Dirt Village. By tonight, we should reach the Moga Jungle, if I don’t buckle to the ground first.
I te
ll myself the Charts won’t find me there. In the jungle, I’ll become a ghost. I’ll make a new life, change my name if I have to. Anything but join a pointless war.
Before we left, Amir and I packed up what little we had stashed away: a jar of tangy lemon achaar, a bottle of sweet lassi, and a handful of now-crumbled besan. We pocketed a pile of rupees Amir snagged last week, and I stuffed coins into my now-bulging pockets. They expose me for who I am: a thief, and nothing less.
Blisters bloom on our soles. A caravan rustles past, hordes of people huddled inside. I’ve seen enough caravans rushing southward these past few moons to know where they’re headed. These people must be rich enough to get through the border unharmed, passports in hand. A woman’s eyes lock on mine with suspicion. Maybe she sees my bulging pockets, or hears the chime of coins. Maybe she can sense that I would rob her if I had the chance. Take her passport and run for freedom.
Amir gently nudges me in the arm. “You think they have mangoes in Kaama? Wait—stupid question. Of course they do. What about pomegranates? I’ve dreamed about those, lemme tell you.”
“Never tasted one.” I think of what lies beyond Abai’s borders, where we’ll go. Kaama won’t work. I don’t want to be in Abai or Kaama when war erupts in just over half a moon’s cycle. Maybe Amir and I’ll find a way to the North, where snowbirds drift through the Amratstanian mountains. Or south to Retan’s desert dunes.
Everyone knows what happens to those conscripted from the lottery—they either follow the law and head for the palace’s official induction ceremony, or they are eventually found and dragged to the Pit. Which means I need to get out of here, out of Abai, one way or another.
It’s barely nightfall when Amir and I spot it: a rickety box-shaped cart on wheels. It’s attached to a horse, but there’s no owner to be seen. Painted on the side of the cart is Abai’s crest, a snake slithering toward a crown.
“Royals.” The word sticks to my throat, scrapes along my tongue. This cart is for King Natesh and Queen Maneet.
Amir takes a cautious step toward the cart, but I pull him back with a forceful hand. “What’re you doing?”
Amir only smiles his trademark smile, mischief swirled with a dollop of anticipation.
Before I can speak, he’s picked the lock with the tip of his blade. The back doors of the cart swing open from a gust of warm wind, revealing piles of fresh kharbooja.
My eyes bulge. The melons make my mouth pool with saliva.
Amir takes another step forward. “Must be for Diwali. You know, the party.” He eyes me and mock-gags.
“Some party.” I roll my eyes just thinking about it. Diwali is a time of celebration and good fortune. But only Abai’s richest will attend, even the ones who despise the raja. And not just for his politics either—it’s the tension that flares every time Kaama is brought up in a conversation, the hearts that pump at the thought of the princess ever showing her face.
She hasn’t in years. Not once has she left the grounds of that pristine palace. In turn, the royals have become little more than a myth. Nearly, because if there’s any proof of them, it’s Mama Anita’s stories. And the Charts.
Some say the princess doesn’t show her face because she’s half snake, half human. Some say instead of teeth, she bares fangs that drip scarlet blood, that she can rip hope from your soul with just one puncture.
If the rumors are true, I’d rather not know.
Amir strides toward the cart and reaches inside, pulling out a piece of fresh fruit. Its skin is clean, with no rot or dent marks to be found. As if the entire cart has been untouched by filthy villagers’ hands. Hands like mine.
I shake away the thought, survey the wide array of melons, and gather up a few in my palms. Amir joins me, takes a few into his hands, and gives me a look, complete with a dipped eyebrow and a single dimple on his cheek.
“What’s your plan? Steal a couple of melons and sell ’em? You know these are dirt cheap, right,” I say.
“Not dirt cheap, exactly,” Amir says. “After all, we are in Nabh. But . . .” He brings his gaze to the white mount. “Ever thought of stealing a horse?”
Stealing a horse? “Afraid not.”
Eyes gleaming, Amir leans back and rests a hand on the cart door’s wooden handle. “What about stealing this cart and riding the horse to the border? We’ll pretend we’re delivering the melons to Amratstan—”
I jab an elbow into his ribs, and he presses a hand against his torso, feigning hurt.
“Yeah, and when the Charts see Abai’s crest, we’ll be good as dead. Weren’t you the one who told me about the king’s snakes? Worse than a sword through the chest . . . gut-ripping . . .”
“Think about it,” he offers.
To my surprise, he’s as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “You’re not kidding.” I tap my foot and say, “Let’s say we did steal this horse. We don’t have identification markers. And we’d need fake passports.”
Amir laughs. “So we steal some jewels and use those to pay for fake passports before we reach the border! No big deal. Did you forget? You knew how to pick a lock better than me before I taught you the tricks of the trade. You’re the best damn thief in Abai, Ria. Small and nimble as a mouse. No one notices a mouse.”
“Unless you’re a cat,” I point out. “And where would we get the jewels from, anyway?”
Amir eyes the crest. “No place better for a heist than that raja-damned palace.”
Now I’m the one laughing. “Didn’t you see my name on the conscription list? If I go there, I’ll just fall into their hands. And what about that Diwali party tomorrow?”
Amir’s eyes sparkle. “It’s the perfect opportunity. The royals will be too distracted with the party and all the extra people there. They’ll never know you were one of the hundreds of names on that list! We get in, we get some jewels, we get out.”
“We? There is no we,” I retort. I think of all those pretty jewels locked up in the palace and nearly drool but snap out of it. “You’re not gonna risk your life—”
“I’d rather risk my life here than never escape,” he cuts in, gaze unflinching. “I’d rather fight weaponless than never try.”
I’m quiet after that. Nothing except the sounds of our ragged breathing, of the thought—or maybe even thrill—of a heist. The biggest we’ve ever pulled. Am I insane for thinking that way? For wanting to believe him, for just a moment?
Stealing naan is one thing. But jewels from the palace itself . . .
Who knows what I might be able to snag in there? A pocketful of rubies? With those, we could get a boat to Amratstan or a caravan to Retan. We could get those fake passports, pretend my name was never on that conscription list.
It’s no secret Abai’s border is closing the day the truce ends. Some say the treaty will be renewed, that we don’t have a thing to worry about, but I know different. I know war is on the way, can taste it like salt on a sea breeze.
My stomach growls as I think about the melons inside the cart. Just one bite . . .
“If we’re gonna do this, we’ve got to be smart about it,” I say. “We need to get there soon, before the Charts expect all their recruits to arrive in Anari. Now, I can run fast like nobody’s business. You, on the other hand, are noticeable. Good at distraction. If one of us can get in and out, it’s me.”
“Now we’re talkin’.” Amir jumps aboard, and the cart sways. I suck in a gasp, but the horse doesn’t move. “C’mon,” he urges.
I follow. Leaping onto the cart, I hunch down so I don’t hit the wooden ceiling with my head. My trousers ride up, revealing the scar on my left leg I got five months ago. I was on the run outside of Nabh and given a lashing for stealing a petty bowl of paneer. Instead of evading my captor, I’d turned around to taunt him and instantly tripped over a bucket full of bathwater. Now the feeling of the scar is a reminder: Don’t look back. Never stop running.
In seconds, I hear it: the huff of an old man, trudging his way across the dirt-laden grounds.
The next thing we hear is a lock latching closed, wheels beneath us screeching forward.
“Raja’s b—” Amir begins, but I clamp a hand against his mouth before he can say more.
The melons skitter to one side as we round a sharp corner. Amir and I fall back, and my spine connects with the door. I peer through the slits between the slabs of wood.
After a good while, the roads change. They’re not the dark, gritty ones of Nabh. No—they’re clean. Lotus flowers and plants bloom along the streets. There are no weeds here except for Amir and me.
I shut my eyes, but all I see are those damned Charts, their coats red as blood. The raja’s snakes, hissing at his side. We’re in Anari, the capital of Abai.
I wipe my sweat-stamped palms on my legs and swallow down my thoughts, my heart thump thump thumping. My breath shudders in—and saws out. Steal the royal jewels. Get out of Abai once and for all.
This is it. We’re headed to the palace.
4
Rani
My earliest memory of Tutor is also my fondest: a night wrapped in the stars, Tutor and I tucked in the courtyards beneath a gauzy mosquito net. The net made me feel safe, as though nothing and no one could touch us.
“Your kingdom belongs to its people,” he told me after a long lesson on historic Abaian rulers, closing the pocket-sized book in his hands, “as much as it belongs to you.”
“I thought everything belonged to Father,” I replied matter-of-factly. Eight-year-old me didn’t mind being so outspoken, especially when Father was away on one of his official trips to Amratstan like he had been that night. I toyed with the tiara Mother had given me a few days prior.
Tutor put down his book, the cover a luminous jade, then took the tiara from my hands and gently placed it on my head. “You are to be queen someday. That is a great responsibility.”
