Sisters of the Snake

by Sasha Nanua

  Evening, Princess, she tells me.

  “Evening,” I tell her, though my voice is washed away by the bustling courtyard as nobles take their seats. My eyes scan the crowd, looking for Saeed. A flutter fills my stomach, but I ignore it. I’ve tried not to think about him ever since the-thing-that-must-not-be-named.

  Let me spell it out for you, Princess. K-I-S-S. And you liked it.

  I burn holes into Shima’s eyes with my stare. She’s more smug than is warranted. Though it does help that I haven’t seen Saeed since that moment.

  I take my seat by the queen and raja, facing out toward the crowd as the sun sets.

  The induction ceremony is legendary—mainly for its brutality. No one knows much about it other than that. This ceremony is the very reason Amir and I came to the palace. We wanted to escape this. I never wanted to be a part of it. And now here I am.

  The raja stands. His presence is stifling, and the heat of the air turns thick, reminding me of nights in Nabh.

  “King Amrit,” the raja begins, “was a man who set Abai on its path to greatness. Creator of Abai’s army, the Charts, over a hundred years ago, when our wars with Kaama would not relent, King Amrit even forged them a home: Anari’s Charts’ Sector.” A thin-lipped smile, fingers tightening around his golden serpent staff.

  “Over the decades of his reign, King Amrit divided the Charts in two: the Veterans, experienced Charts to stay at the king’s side”—the raja points to a Chart near him, wearing a gold sash—“and Trackers, soldiers who journey into Abai’s villages and streets. Every year, we welcome over a dozen new Charts into our home. Tonight we mark the largest induction of new recruits into our ranks in our history—a celebration of Abai’s forces strengthening, readying for battle.”

  The audience of nobles looks like a group of vultures ready to pick through the flesh of Abai’s enemies. I’ve felt it, the shift, the fissures in the ground widening at the thought of the Kaamans readying their weapons. Of the truce’s inevitable end.

  “And now it is time I hand over the reins to my daughter, the future rani of Abai.” The raja turns to me. “Present the recruits!”

  I don’t know what to say. My lips are stitched together, bound tight. They expect this of me, the raja and queen. They know Rani will one day have to lead a kingdom, maybe they’ve even been training her for it. But the raja has never led us to any victory, so how could I?

  With a gentle prod from the queen, I stand, looking out over the crowd. Nobles swim in and out of view.

  “Y-yes,” I say after what feels like an eon. I turn to the audience with no idea what to say or do next. Do what Rani would do. Say what she would say.

  “Let’s all welcome our recruits.” I look out at the crowd. “The newest Charts who will protect Abai and help us grow in numbers . . . against the Kaamans.”

  Each word feels like death, like dust against my tongue.

  The raja grandly extends an arm, gesturing in the newest line of Charts like he’s inviting guests to a party.

  A portion of the new recruits enter like a river of blood. They have thin garments and forlorn faces. Some look younger than me, as young as fourteen, according to Amara’s new demand. Some shiver, and my eyes prickle. I would be one of them, if the Charts had found me. Maybe I would’ve been standing there tonight, if I’d never met Rani.

  They each kneel, eyes dampened. Hollow. The raja steps down from his throne and pauses by each of them, scrutinizing the recruits under his piercing gaze. I see one flinch, a boy. I wonder if his family tried to escape this fate the way I did.

  “We will begin with the oath,” the raja orders, ripping me from my thoughts. The crowd before us holds its breath, as if awed. “Repeat after me. I am a Chart. I am a leader. I am a fighter.”

  As if on cue, the soldiers all stand and speak in synchronous harmony.

  “I am a Chart. I am a leader. I am a fighter.” Their voices reverberate, as if the trees are instruments playing a tune.

  “I promise to fight. I promise to defend.”

  The soldiers’ lips open and close. I don’t even realize the soldiers have finished their oaths and are now being taken to the center of the courtyard, where a bed of hot coals and an oddly shaped iron poker await. My heart rate spikes. Are they about to be . . . branded?

  The Charts each have their own number, Amir told me when we once came close enough to escape Abai. I’d never considered how they got those numbers. That escape attempt was just two moons ago, but it might as well have been a thousand moons now, my life looks so unfamiliar.

  “This tree we stand under is legendary,” the raja says. “The Mitti Tree is where the first Chart was branded, and each Chart thereafter. The tree was planted centuries ago by a stonebringer, and its roots were first intended to be the grounds of many marriages, tying the lovers to the tree, ensuring their bond would last as long as the tree stood.

  “Now we use the tree’s magical properties to bind soldiers to their oaths. The Charts’ numbers, as they are branded onto their skin, appear in the bark of the tree.”

  I gasp. That’s what I saw in the tree bark that night. The Charts’ numbers.

  “My adviser, Amara Gupta, will perform the official branding.”

  “Thank you, Raja Natesh,” Amara says, appearing from the crowds. She smiles sharply as she takes a poker from the Head Chart, the iron glowing and smoking at the tip. “With the magic fibers of the Mitti Tree imbued into the steel of the poker, I now bind the Charts to their rightful place as the king’s soldiers.”

  The soon-to-be Charts, many of them children, stare at Amara fearfully. I shiver; Amara’s been missing these past few days, and her disappearance didn’t escape me. Aditi says she was on an errand, but it’s strange to me how she completely deserted the palace.

  Has Amara been pulling these children from their homes?

  She approaches one soon-to-be Chart, her steps steadfast, and leans forward. The boy’s eyes are wide with fear, and I can tell he’s trying to hide it from the way his fists are clenched at his sides. Amara, on the other hand, looks unbothered. Like someone else’s pain doesn’t matter to her, which it probably doesn’t, not after that slap she gave me. When the iron reaches the boy’s skin, right under his collarbone, he bites down on his own lips hard but cannot fully stifle his scream. My fingers tighten around the arms of the throne seat, as if I can feel the pain on my own flesh.

  The number 234 glows on the tree.

  Again and again, the poker sizzles against skin, and one by one, numbers turn into scars. The skin beneath the poker turns raw, puckered. Too suddenly, I remember the scar on Amir’s face. The one running down my leg. We’re all victims of what the raja’s made this kingdom to be.

  It’s not only the branding that scares me. It’s the look on Amara’s face, like there’s a smile simmering just beneath the surface. She enjoys this.

  A set of Veterans with golden sashes approach with the traditional Chart vestments, dressing the new soldiers in their signature red coats.

  “You are now loyal members of the Charts,” Amara says, “The soldiers behind you will train you until your souls sing of Abai. Until your flesh is hardened into stone. Until we are one people, and no other kingdom can betray us.”

  The raja nods. “Stand together, and Abai will be undefeatable. But disloyalty will not be tolerated, and a consequence awaits those who turn traitor to their brother and sister Charts.” He points at a few of the numbers on the tree, crossed out. Are those meant to represent the traitors?

  The ceremony ends, and the crowd before me claps. It takes Queen Maneet’s glare for me to join them, though it feels like betrayal.

  “Never put a name to a face,” she warns me. She’s smiling, yet her eyes are dark, foreboding, something sad in their depths. “It is the only way we can win this war.”

  She means the Charts. Those whose lives have been lost, like mine. Her words are a threat coated in silk and jewels. Nonchalant, but a threat all the same.


  “And the villagers thrown in the Pit?” I retort, thinking of Mama Anita. Her senseless death. “Do we ever bother learning their names?” I’m shaking, and my voice matches.

  The queen’s nose flares at the question, like it’s preposterous. “Everyone who dies in the Pit has been brought there for a reason. A tradition that began with the Snake Master, and a tradition we do not forget today.”

  The queen stalks off. The courtyard is near-empty now, the new recruits gone and the bloodthirsty audience with them. I turn away from the scene, rush back to the front staircase of the palace, and rip the whole ceremony from my mind. But the world becomes dizzy, and fast.

  My tongue is dry, and suddenly, it’s like I’m young Ria again. Curled up next to Mama Anita, dreaming up some fantasy I never thought would come true. I’m reminded of her stories—of the Masters’ magic, of the impending war.

  But she’s gone now, murdered in a ceremony not far from the one I just witnessed. Though her life ended, her story is unfinished.

  Why did Mama Anita die in the Pit? Is there something I’m missing here?

  Mama’s words float back to me. Retrace your steps; go back to the start; and follow your heart.

  She was telling me something.

  To figure out all the palace’s mysteries, I need to start from scratch. Refresh my search. Go back to the beginning.

  The orphanage.

  30

  Rani

  “We have to go, now,” Amir repeats.

  Everything still feels out of touch, as though I’m waking from a dream. Ria had just been here, so close it was like she was here in the jungle. But the harsh, rhythmic thud of the Charts’ boots grows louder. It’s enough to snap me back to reality.

  A shiver crawls up my spine. Father’s soldiers are traveling through the Moga Jungle, on the night of his daughter’s engagement party? Why?

  Amir takes hold of me by the elbow, spins me, and points at the mostly empty encampment, save our packs. The once-billowing fire is now a plume of smoke. Two of the horses are gone; Irfan, Sanya, and Jas must have already left.

  “W-where—?” I stutter. I’m still thinking of Ria, everything she told me about Amara, the strange dreamscape we were both in.

  “I was looking all over for you,” Amir says, out of breath. “You were just standing out here in the open. I thought . . . I thought they took you.” His voice breaks on the last word.

  My brows raise. Amir was . . . searching for me? Of course, he wouldn’t leave Ria behind, I remind myself. A stuck-up princess, on the other hand, he’d be happy to forget.

  Clip-clopping hooves sound in the distance. I’m surprised to feel Amir’s hand wrap around mine as he pulls me behind the nearest tree in one swift motion, out of sight from the arriving threat. My back jerks against the tree trunk, and an ache spreads through me just as Amir moves forward to cover me. The sounds grow louder, louder, like a painful drumbeat in my ear. One glance at the clearing shows a growing pool of red. The soldiers are here, their noses tilted into the air like Amratstanian icewolves on a hunt.

  Jas, Sanya, or Irfan might’ve put out the fire, but smoke clings to the air, a sure sign that travelers were just in the area. Not to mention my and Amir’s packs are still lying in the middle of the clearing.

  “Do you have your knife?” I whisper to him. Sweat beads on Amir’s brow, and he shakes his head.

  Amir’s chest presses against mine, so close I can feel the beat of his heart. My own heart races. Danger is near. Darkness shrouds my vision, and my breath hitches as his chin accidentally brushes my cheek. My eyes flick up to his. Part of me wants to erase the worry I find there, while the other seethes at the way my body heats at our close proximity.

  Traitorous, double-crossing feelings.

  “Smell that?” one of the soldiers calls, her voice a clap of thunder.

  “It was just put out,” another says, observing the smoke. “They left their packs. Can’t have gone far.”

  “Search for them,” the first soldier says. “We’ve still got villagers missing from our conscription list.”

  I peer through the branches and find three Charts, two side by side, the third roaming the clearing. He’s younger-looking than the others, peering around nervously, and I see he is barely older than I am. The two together are a man and woman, the man wearing a suit of fine decoration.

  I hunch back down. “Three of them.”

  “Who has their weapon out?” Amir asks. He inches his head past the tree trunk, squinting.

  I grab Amir by the shirt and yank him back. “Don’t you dare move any farther.”

  “They’ll find us hiding here,” he argues, then gulps. “The timepiece my dad gave me . . . it’s in my pack. I can’t leave it behind.” I never thought I’d hear it, but Amir’s voice breaks.

  My fingers bunch in his shirt. “So what’s our plan, then?”

  His eyes fix on mine. “I’ve got something in mind. And it involves you.”

  My hold slips. After the days of silence, this is unexpected. I’d thought he wanted little to do with me.

  “And how do you think I can help?”

  “Take a talwar from under their noses,” Amir responds. “I’ll keep ’em busy until I get our packs. Just don’t forget to slice my bindings if I’m caught, ’kay?”

  “W-what?” I begin, just as Amir steps out from our safe spot.

  “Oy!” he calls, waving his arms up and down. “Looking for me?”

  Masters above, he’s going to get us both killed!

  “Ha,” the first Chart laughs stiffly. I hear her footsteps crunch closer toward the tree I hide behind. “You know, we don’t normally find villagers so . . . accommodating. How’d you like to become part of our ranks?”

  “Eh, I thought about it,” Amir says, shrugging. “But I decided red isn’t really my color. To be honest, it isn’t yours either.”

  A growl escapes the woman’s lips. Amir glances sideways at me, offering me a covert wink before continuing his speech. “You know, you’d be better off searching for villagers deeper south. No one likes being near the palace.”

  As he speaks, I ready myself for what I’m about to do. If Amir trusts me, I cannot falter. I take a deep breath, adjust my chunni over my head, and crawl away until I’m behind the other two Charts. They stand in the clearing, not far from the woman, alert with their backs facing me. My eyes land on the younger soldier’s talwar, sheathed in the scabbard across his back. I step with light toes into the clearing, eyes trained on the sword. I hear Amir’s voice in the background, raucous and loud, but it’s muffled as all my focus homes in on the weapon so close to my grasp. The closer I get, the farther I reach out, fingers just inches away from the hilt.

  I’ve only just got the hilt in my hand when the soldier turns.

  “A girl!” the man next to him says. The woman Amir was speaking to spins, braid whipping out as she aims her sword at my throat. As I wheel back, Amir springs into action, rushing forth and grabbing the soldier I was about to steal from. The Chart buckles, a clear sign he’s still new to Father’s rankings. In one smooth motion, Amir clutches the soldier’s sword and launches it in the air.

  At me.

  I barely catch the sword by the hilt, and it’s so heavy in my palms that I almost drop it to the ground. This is no training sword. Amir wants me to fight. He believes I can fight.

  The soldier closest to me, the one dressed in finer decoration than the other two recruits, lunges forward. I block the blow and return his attack, but the Chart is quick on his feet. Blow by blow, we spin in dizzying circles. I keep my head low and defend myself against the soldier, but the Chart strikes downward, and I lose my balance. I fall back into the trees.

  Irfan’s words echo in my ears: fight with instinct. I have no fighting instincts inside me, but I do have knowledge. I know how Charts operate. I’ve seen them train in the practice fields.

  A Chart’s weak spot is simple: how vastly they underestimate their opponents. He’ll
expect me to remain defensive, so I need to attack. I watch the Chart’s feet, the way Irfan taught me, anticipating his next move. He veers left and I leap forward with a grunt. I swing my sword wide, forcing the guard off-balance. The decorated Chart falls to the ground, disoriented.

  But I have no time to celebrate knocking down the soldier. The young Chart is back on his feet, a blur lunging at me. Amir attempts to punch the Chart but the soldier blocks him and aims a blow of his own.

  “Duck!” I cry. Amir follows but takes a punch to his side. The next thing I know, the woman is after me. I panic and block attacks from the soldier, her braid flinging through the air. My mind clouds. Is Amir all right? What if he’s—

  By the next hit, I fall on my back, my chunni flying off. Moonlight illuminates my features, leaving me bare.

  “Is that . . . ,” the woman begins, her face blanching as she takes in my features.

  “It can’t be. Princess?” The younger Chart leans in. If they know who I am, they must be from the palace grounds. A few of the younger trainee Charts spend time inside the palace before working in the villages. Either this is poor luck, or I should have been more careful disguising myself.

  For one sweltering second, I let fear in. The Charts know who I am. But I have more than one weapon.

  I clench my fists and open the drawer in my mind, calling on the threads of my snake magic. “It’s Ria, actually,” I tell her, feeling that bite of coppery magic. “An orphan. But names don’t mean much right now.”

  Confusion settles on their features as the magic seeps into their minds. A rush of wind hits them, and I know instantly that the magic is working.

  It feels good to use my snake magic again. Like a horse’s reins in my mind, it is something I can tug on and control at my will.

  “An orphan named Ria,” the younger Chart says, blinking.

  “The missing girl . . . from the conscription list?” the woman asks.

  Abai’s sun. Why had I brought up my sister’s name?

  The Chart raises her talwar. I scramble back with the little strength I have, searching for Amir. He was on the ground a second ago, but now I don’t find him in the clearing. He’s gone.