by Sasha Nanua
I scrunched up my eyebrows. “I don’t want responsibility.”
Tutor’s laugh was brash and melodic all the same. “Did I ever tell you of Queen Amrita?”
I shook my head.
“She ruled hundreds of years ago as one of Abai’s first ranis. Her first rule as queen was to provide education widely across her land—new schools and books made for the youth, and for young girls especially. She wanted to create change. You, dear Rani—you can make whatever change you desire. Always remember this: You can be more than what the stars wish for. More than you ever dreamed.”
Tutor’s mantra echoed in my ears. “More?”
He touched his ring, almost absently. He once told me his wife had a matching band. Though he did not know it, I thought him my true father, someone who wrapped me in warm hugs and wove stories from thin air until I fell asleep. Someone who believed in me and the queen I could become. The queen I fear I’ll never be.
A clang from the palace kitchens and the smell of simmering daal jolt me back to the present. I berate myself for daydreaming in the throne room.
The place where everything went wrong yesterday.
Kill.
One command to seal his fate. That word meant death. That word meant falling into the Snake Pit. That word meant Tutor shall never breathe again.
His last words to me echo like a clanging bell. Find it . . . the stone . . . Perhaps he was speaking of a simple gemstone in the treasury, but something tells me he meant something greater. His mentioning Queen Amrita must be important, too; or perhaps it was the panicked ramblings of a man about to die. Perhaps I’m reaching for something that is not there.
I swallow down my guilt and glance around the throne room. It’s early evening of Diwali now, and frilly decorations fill the air. Servants glide past, carrying trays of fruit and lavish foods for tonight’s meal. The palace has completely transformed, lit up for the Diwali celebrations.
More servants swarm around the throne room, and some decorate the double doors leading to the Western Courtyard. I catch sight of the grand map of our world along the eastern wall. In the northeast sits Kaama, above the strict line bordering its kingdom and mine.
Soon to be my kingdom; I do not want it to be mine anytime soon. I am no Queen Amrita, even if I’m meant to marry Saeed. He may have been a good teacher, but love was different altogether. Love, unlike history, is unteachable.
Is it?
Shima’s words slip into my mind as easily as Saeed had once slipped a promise ring onto my finger. I spin around to find her lying across the threshold.
“Eavesdropper,” I tell her.
She smiles a viper’s smile. Thought I couldn’t hear you?
I arch a brow. “I never said that.” Or thought it, for that matter. Shima always glides into my mind without warning. There are boundaries to our bond—communicating only when Shima’s near, for one. When I first chose her as my familiar and began my training, I lost control of her, thinking of ripping up the out-of-style lehengas in my closet. Not long after, Shima’s fangs had torn through the precious skirts. I learned my lesson that day, that keeping my mind shut off from Shima is just as important as keeping it open. Even now, controlling snakes is something only Father has mastered. There’s a reason people call him the Great Snakespeaker, one of the most gifted kings in centuries. I, on the other hand, have not earned such a title.
Shima exhales and finally uncoils herself. She slithers and slides toward me, her forked tongue flickering. Good, she replies.
The air chills around me, and an icy current sweeps through my blood. Shima twists her body to face the throne room entrance. Where Saeed stands, eyes drenched with memories of first love.
First love gone wrong.
I once ached to see Saeed every morning, holding towers of books for the day’s lesson. At twenty, two years my senior, his frame is tall, his curly hair bouncy, tempting my fingers to tangle within the curls. His thick eyebrows are two curtains that sweep over his hazel eyes, dip with concern, or—this one I liked the most—lift when I would give him surprise kisses in the palace’s hidden corridors.
My heartbeat rises to my ears and a flush grows over my cheeks.
Looks like you’re not as icy as you think, Princess. At my blush, Shima’s scales tint pink, and petal-sized patches of rose bloom along her scales.
Quiet, I snap as I stalk past her and toward Saeed. He leans against the doorway with an air of arrogance.
“I haven’t seen you all day,” he says once I’m within earshot. “The servants have been avoiding you too, it seems.”
“They’ve always been scared around me,” I snap, more a confession than a retort. “If they think me the Snake Princess, then cold-blooded I’ll be.”
Saeed narrows his gaze. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. And I told you I don’t need any more lessons, didn’t I?” My words are bitter with hatred, burnt like the prospect of my freedom. My future is sealed, locked, the key thrown into an abyss of lies. “I turned eighteen just a moon ago.”
He fingers an unclosed button at his collar, feeling the seashell between his fingertips. I remember a time when I once held those fingers, when they’d run their way through my hair, when they’d grazed my lips with the gentlest touch.
“You don’t need lessons?” he asks. “Or you want a new tutor?”
“Both.”
“The two are mutually exclusive.”
“I’ll unmake them mutually exclusive.”
“Despite the number of lessons we’ve had in probability, I’m not sure you remember what that term means.”
I huff. Just because Saeed is right doesn’t mean I’m going to give him the satisfaction of it.
Saeed arrived at the palace at two summers of age, around the time I was born, with his mother, Amara. His father had just passed, and Mother allowed him a place to stay with Amara in the palace. It wasn’t long before the two of us were promised to each other. Neither one of us had any say in it.
My future mother-in-law has been Mother’s friend for longer than I have been alive, even longer than my parents have known each other. Although Saeed and I were bound for betrothal once we grew up, our lives were anything but similar.
At first, we were playmates, scrambling around the palace, climbing like monkeys together into the rafters.
Then, when we grew, Saeed was taken away. Homeschooled by his mother in candlelit corridors, while I had a private tutor and towers for classrooms. Saeed chatted among noblemen with ease, while I was told to hold my tongue at the aunties’ palace gossip. We lived in the same palace but might as well have resided in different kingdoms.
After Tutor left four years ago, Father instructed Saeed to become my new tutor. By then, we were strangers. I can hardly remember our first lesson; I was too distracted by how much he’d grown. After a few lessons, I asked Saeed to teach me outside. It wasn’t long before Father’s stipulations grew harsher than usual. Horseback riding and fencing became dangerous sports; the Abai sun would burn my skin; if I were seen, commoners would manipulate my image. Better to stay away from a world that ridicules us. A world filled with untold dangers.
At the time, Saeed’s hair was shorn, barely displaying the crown of curls he wears now. I remember the way he looked at me the night of my fifteenth birthday—like I was one of the world’s first Masters, a being above all others.
His superior.
“You know I’ve never had an affinity for arithmetic,” I tell him. I dare a glance into his eyes, and I remember exactly what I saw in him all those years ago. It took but a half-moon for his lessons to become spells, each one drawing me closer to him, until I thought about him daily.
He would be my adventure, I decided. A worthy one, with the way his hair shone in the light. The way his hazel eyes lingered on my own. And not long after, the way his skin felt against mine—the softness of his full, full lips.
Saeed clears his throat. “Then, may I ask, Princess . . . what�
�or whom—do you have an affinity for?” His cheeks rouge, mirroring Shima’s scales. My heart flips in my chest. I do not know what to tell him. When I was younger, his mother, Amara, began taking me to the women’s room to talk. She started with easy questions—my birthdate, my astrological sign. Then came the harder questions: How many boys have you kissed? Zero. What are your aspirations? I was unsure. Would you be a faithful spouse?
Saeed Gupta. He was always destined to be my husband and king consort. I would write his name in my notebooks when he wasn’t looking. I would draw frivolous hearts around his initials. I would write my own name in ink, its permanence a sickening thought now, using Saeed’s last name as part of my own, Singh.
I berate myself for thinking of it. “No one,” I tell him firmly. I adjust the gold necklace my parents gave me as a present. It once felt light, but now it weighs a hundred pounds.
Saeed brings a finger to it, thumbing the precious jewels. He leans forward, his lips dangerously close. He is playing at something—another one of his games. I used to like them. Now they mean nothing.
He breathes against my ear, his hand gently coming down to my wrist. He leaves his fingers there for a moment, and I wait for that jolt of heat, that inexplicable feeling that filled my chest for so many years.
But no—instead I feel ice. And that’s exactly what I want to feel.
“You’re scared,” he whispers, resting his eyes on mine. I don’t waver in my gaze. He rests one hand on my cheek, and for a moment I close my eyes and relax against him. “What happened to us, Rani?” His voice cracks with hurt.
I splay a hand on his chest and push back gently. “Nothing.” Everything.
He moves to cradle my neck but does not kiss me. His breath is perfumed with mint and candied fennel seeds.
Gently, he pulls away, something deeper than disappointment behind his eyes. I recognize it, the hesitation before he says something I don’t want to hear. I should have known his banter was merely a way to hide his true feelings. He is covering something up. “What’s wrong?” I ask him.
Saeed sighs. “Rani, I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I knew last night wasn’t a good time, and now . . .”
I hold my breath. The words I’ve wanted him to say, finally. I love you, Rani. I love you more than the stars love the sky.
“I . . . ,” he starts before courtiers bustle into the room. Whatever Saeed wanted to tell me, the moment is over.
I conceal my disappointment. “I must go.”
Saeed takes my hands. “Rani, wait—”
Unable to handle another moment of his traitorous touch, I push past him and run up to my room. I move to shut the door and notice Shima has already beat me to it. She blends herself into the purple carpet and hugs her body tight, her scales mirroring the lilac-colored confusion filling my heart.
“Come here,” I say, hating the way my voice cracks. A labored breath spills from my throat as I sink into my bed’s silky cushions, letting Shima wrap around my right arm. For the first time in the past few days, my heart calms.
Ever since my Bonding Ceremony five years ago, Shima has been my snake familiar, the snake with whom I have the deepest connection and companionship. As a child of a snakespeaker, I could communicate with other snakes before I bonded with her but never felt quite a kinship with them. Shima is the only being in this palace who knows my true wants and desires, as if they are hers, too. Deep down, she knows the question I ask myself every night: Will I ever be like Queen Amrita? Or will I end up like Father?
I dig my fingernails into the bed’s sides. I reach into my magic the way I was taught, envisioning the subsets of snake magic like a chest of drawers, each a compartment filled with a different force. I tug on the one I want, the one that allows me to channel my will to Shima’s. Don’t constrict. Obey.
The maids have left me a snake venom tincture on my bedside table. A numbing agent to help me rest before the party tonight. I take a long gulp and fall back on the bed.
It’s not long before I drift to sleep. In my dream, I imagine Saeed’s soft lips, his hair, his forever-tanned skin. I see him falling into the Pit instead of Tutor, Shima’s fangs sinking deep into him—
I jerk up in bed and clasp my wrist, finding the empty space where Shima was curled around me.
“Shima?” I call. There is no answer.
What was I dreaming of? The snakes in the Pit, preparing for a fresh kill . . . No—it had been Saeed in the Pit, his flesh punctured with Shima’s two fangs.
I gasp. In seconds, I’m sprinting out of my room, bare feet slapping against marble. Ashen pillars flash past me on all sides, and I feel Shima slithering through these halls, silent save for her hiss of death.
Stop, I think. I can speak to Shima easily, but when her bloodlust takes over, it’s as though she’s shed her skin for something unrelenting. Something crueler.
I pause in the middle of a hall studded with gems, red and rich as crisp apple rinds. I spin around and search everywhere for my snake familiar. But I’m too late.
Shima is going to do what I imagined. She’s going to poison Saeed.
5
Ria
Amir and I wake to light piercing the sky through a break in the wooden ceiling. As the carriage made its way across uneven plains last night, we eventually found sleep. But now we’ve stopped moving, and as I peer out the slats of wood, I know we’ve arrived. Far gone are we from Nabh, from the clanking of steel cups holding fresh lassi, from the smell of dirt after rainfall. From the world of villagers and peasants, grimy roads and sunken eyes.
A cool breeze slides through the wood’s cracks. The sun is sitting far past its zenith, and I guess it must be early evening. How could Amir and I have slept for so long?
“Wake up,” I say, shoving Amir’s shoulder. He’s way too groggy to function, like he always is after a long nap. I fiddle with the back door, but it won’t budge.
I shove my pack aside and start throwing melons at the back door. After a few heavy throws, it begins to creak. Split. It pains me to throw this perfectly good food, but we need to get out of here. I don’t know how long we’ve been sleeping and wasting time, or when the owner will be back.
Amir’s eyes finally flutter open. “Hey! That’s our lunch.”
“Grab a melon and help,” I snap. Taken aback, Amir does as I say. The doors are ajar now, the space in between allowing me to view the heavy chain binding us to this prison. I pull the chain toward me until the lock tumbles inside, fiddle with it using one of Mama Anita’s plain hairpins, but the lock won’t budge. I practiced picking locks with fervor at the orphanage—to Mama Anita’s dismay—but now my hands are trembling, an ache of hunger in my stomach as familiar as a friend.
I throw the lock back out in frustration just as an idea springs to mind. I take a few deep breaths as wind slides through the wooden slats. Then I start banging on the wooden doors, rapping my knuckles so hard they nearly bleed. After I hear a sharp intake of breath from outside, I stop.
Amir glances at me like I’ve grown a third eye. “Please tell me you’re not trying to get us thrown in the Pit.”
“Just grab a melon and wait,” I tell him. I roll one into my hand and hold my breath as shadows eclipse the doors. A man comes into view, shoving a key into the lock.
As soon as the doors creak open, I leap out and toss the melon. Target hit.
The man crumples to the ground. “Raja’s beard!” he swears. Before he can get a good look at me, Amir grabs me by the arm and we pump our legs into the thick of the Moga Jungle and away from the palace road, where coconut trees jut into the sky like fists and tamarind plants litter the nearest clearing. I dive between the leaves, taking in the scent: musk and sap. My chunni catches on a two-pronged branch, sharp as fingernails. There’s a gap in the fabric, like a fatal wound. Too bad. It’s my favorite of my nonexistent collection.
Amir and I pause only when we’re sure it’s safe, the man nowhere in sight. When I look up, gasping for air, the
tip-top of the palace comes into view, sharp and cruel and knifelike.
“We shouldn’t stay in the jungle long.” I wipe my hands on my trousers. “There’re tigers and—”
“Snakes. I know.” Before he can lock his mouth shut, Amir says, “C’mon—are we stealing jewels or what?”
I shrug the pack off my shoulder. It’s too bulky to run with, but I’ve sewn hidden pockets into my salwar. A suit made for a thief. “We don’t have much time. I’ve heard rumors about the jewels in the palace. Maybe if I can find the queen’s chamber, I can swipe what we need and get out fast.” I toss my pack to him. “You keep watch.”
“Keep watch?” he says. “Those bloodcoats will be so preoccupied with my distraction that your part of the job will be easy.” Then he tightens his mouth. “Are you sure you want to go in alone?”
“Did you hit your head on a melon? I’m quick on my toes, and much smaller than you. No one notices a mouse,” I tease. Amir might be lanky, but he’s roughshod, and his scar’ll get him noticed just about anywhere. “So, what’ve you got in mind?”
He whispers the plan in my ear. I hesitate, searching for Amir’s single dimple or his traitorous grin to tell me this is all a joke. That going into the palace is truly a death mission, one I shouldn’t risk.
But then again: no risk, no jewels, and definitely no way out.
My stomach swirls. “Be safe. I’ll be back soon.”
Without turning back, I head to the palace courtyards, where servants are busy setting up ivory tents. Beyond that, gardens of fresh fruit and flowers adorn the palace’s exterior, as if the lavishness could cover up the rot inside. I scurry through the long alley leading up to the palace, a sidewalk crammed with beggars and open hands. Beggars aren’t only in Nabh, I realize; they’re here, by the palace, seeking a way in but always pushed out.
No. There’s still a chance. Like Amir said—strike fast. Get in, get out.
I continue on, using the trees as cover, and peer out for Charts every few seconds. When I’m close enough to the palace gates, I spot a boy no older than me approaching a Chart, head lowered as he hands something to the soldier. Behind the boy, a man and woman weep, hands clutched fiercely together. The boy’s parents, I suppose. The Chart leads the boy off to the side, where he inspects the family crest sewn onto a spare bit of cloth. It’s an identification marker, and he flips it over to read the boy’s name on the back. Almost everyone in Abai has one, along with a passport if they’re rich enough. But not me, not Amir.
