by Sasha Nanua
He left, a voice amends. No. Amir wouldn’t leave me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shape scaling the nearest tree. Someone steps out on the branch, now hovering over the Charts. The branch cracks.
Arms out, Amir leaps from the tree and at the Chart with the long braid, taking her down with him. I scramble to my feet, but the scrawny Chart has his sword trained on me, wobbly and unsure.
I dodge his first blow, ducking and rolling around his legs. I shoot back to my feet, woozy, while he’s still turned, using my elbow to jab him in the neck. He gasps for air, and I kick the back of his knees. As he falls, I reach around and grab ahold of his talwar and press it to the back of his neck. Adrenaline sings in my veins, a strange thrill in the dark night.
But the moment collapses when I see what’s happened to Amir. He’s no longer knocked down; the other two Charts have taken Amir hostage. The decorated Chart ties rope around his wrists, keeping them bound behind his back, while the other draws a knife, holding the blade so close to Amir’s lips that I see his breath fogging the steel.
“Drop the sword.” The Chart’s voice is as sharp as the knife she holds. She dips the point into Amir’s cheek, drawing blood.
“Stop!” I shout, but the Chart continues.
“Don’t listen to them. Get out of here, Ria,” Amir manages, but he lets out a cry of pain.
The Chart jeers as she pulls back the blade. She clucks her tongue. “Look at the boy. He’s smitten.”
Amir’s eyes never leave mine. “Love isn’t a crime.”
My cheeks heat. Is he distracting Father’s soldiers again? Hatching a new plan? Or does he truly mean what he says?
I think of his words from earlier. The trust he placed in my hands to get us out of this situation. That unshakable faith. Now when I glance at his eyes, they are not taunting or teasing. There is no humor laced in his voice. This is an Amir I have rarely seen: a prince in a pauper’s clothing, unafraid of his words and unflinching in his actions.
I will not leave him. I drop my weapon.
The soldier on the ground recoups his blade. I need to act fast. As the man’s eyes find the woman’s, an idea sparks in my mind. My snake senses sharpen, and I smell a whiff of perfume coming off the decorated Chart.
Not his own.
I dig into what little snake magic I can harvest, wringing every last drop until I feel it fill my veins. Every smell sharpens, every sound heightens. I recall the way the decorated Chart walked side by side with the braided Chart, their fingertips brushing. . . .
“Yes, love is not a crime. But Charts are forbidden from palace romance,” I say, twisting my head so my eyes meet the soldier on the ground. “Your fellow Charts are involved, aren’t they?”
The Chart’s eyes grow wide. “Y-you’re wrong,” he quivers. But I can tell he’s scared, unlike the other Charts. I must distract them.
“Actually, I’m far from it.” I slowly step forward. The scrawny Chart’s sword quivers, and I step farther away from him, headed for the pair of Charts holding Amir. “I’m no orphan. You’re looking upon the face of the Snake Princess. And my father wouldn’t be pleased to know of romance in his ranks.”
Amir’s mouth falls open. What are you doing? he mouths.
I nod at Amir. Trust me.
With the two Charts baffled, I take action. I leap over to the woman holding Amir hostage and sweep a foot behind her leg, jerking her off-balance. Her grip loosens, and I steal the knife from her hands. I spin and knock the hilt of the blade against both Charts’ heads, and they sink to the ground, unconscious.
“Ria,” Amir breathes as I slice off his bindings. “What were you thinking? Snake Princess?”
“I’ve used this trick before,” I say, trying to play it off, drained from the magic I just used. The bloodied knife makes my stomach twirl, so I drop it to the ground, ready to forget this entire scene. But the young Chart in the clearing gives me pause. He rises and begins to approach us.
Amir sees me tense up and turns. He leaps forward and knocks the younger Chart with a punch to the face. His aim leaves a welt on the soldier’s lip, and the Chart reels back, dropping his sword. He raises his hands as if in surrender.
“Please,” he begs. His teeth are stained with blood. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want any of this. I was pulled from my mother’s home when I was eighteen. I never wanted to be a Chart. Let me come with you.”
His sentiment is so far from the hardened words of Father’s guard. Charts aren’t supposed to have feelings . . . they’re not supposed to have these thoughts.
The other Charts lie on the ground, bleeding and bruised.
“Why should we believe you?” Amir asks. He pulls back his fist, ready to land another punch, but I hold him back and pull him aside.
Out of the Chart’s earshot, I say, “Don’t you think we could use him? Get him to help us find the stone?”
“But he’s a—”
I glare at Ria’s friend, and he relents. We head back to the Chart.
“Tell you what,” Amir says. “We know you’re looking for the Bloodstone. We won’t hurt you if you tell us what you know.”
The soldier spits out blood. “Fine, I’ll help you,” he says. “But I could use some gauze first.” Then he collapses to the ground.
We have taken a Chart hostage.
Still unconscious, the man lies before us, his face sharp as a sword cut on a whetstone. Amir and I met Irfan, Sanya, and Jas in a tavern in town. The tavern looks like it’s been overturned: chairs in disarray, arrows scattered on the ground, boot prints trapped in the floor’s dust, drinks abandoned on countertops. As if people were just here.
“What’s happened?” I ask them.
“A raid,” Irfan informs me. “We had to fight off a few Charts. They wanted to collect coin.”
Sanya leans in and, tilting the Chart’s face back slightly, examines the damage. She unravels a roll of gauze from Jas’s pack, using her teeth to cut a piece loose.
“You’ve learned healing practices?” I query. Sanya looks methodical in her work, hands steady and eyes narrowed.
“Jas Auntie started my interest in medicine when I was young, before we left the Foothills.” As she speaks, Jas applies an herb ointment to the skin surrounding the wound.
“You saved Ma’s life more than once,” Amir says as Sanya applies the bandages.
“It wasn’t enough the last time,” she cuts in, heat glossing her cheeks. Their eyes lock, and for the first time, there’s a warmth instead of cold.
The first step to healing our wounds is to speak of them, Jas had said. I square my shoulders without hesitation. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . what happened?”
Sanya gnaws at her lip as she finishes the wrappings. “Our parents were out for months at a time, looking for the stone. I kept up appearances in our village, pretending our parents were gone working. I worked for the local healer while—”
“While I was out stealing food,” Amir admits. He rubs his worn knuckles, like he’s trying to scratch away the memory. “I should’ve stayed with you once we realized they were never coming back.”
Sanya inhales an unsteady breath. “Why’d you go? You left me alone.”
“I had to get away from the memories, Sanya,” Amir says. “I asked you to come with me.”
“You knew I couldn’t just leave for a life of crime, Amir.”
Amir finds me in the darkness. It doesn’t matter that we’ve barely spoken in days. I urge him on with my gaze.
Steeling himself, Amir says, “Sanya, I’m sorry. I was wrong to abandon you like that. If I could go back, I never would’ve left you alone. And I know we can’t go back, but . . . we could stop this fight.”
Sanya lowers the gauze, and for a moment, her guard. “Look. The moment you found me in the tavern, it only reminded me of what we lost. I didn’t know if I could trust you.”
“Do you trust me now?” Amir asks, his features earnest.
Her eyes soften. �
�I didn’t know until that moment in the jungle when you stayed back to help Ria. You’ve grown up. You’ve handled so much on your own. Ma and Pa would be proud of us.”
Amir’s voice is thick with remembrance as he says, “I won’t leave you again.”
He embraces Sanya before she can turn away. “Oof,” she says as her brother hugs her. Slowly, she lowers her arms and hugs Amir back.
A cough fills the room as the Chart comes to. Sanya and Amir part. At the sight of the Chart awakening, we crowd around him like bees swarming honey.
“Abai’s sun,” the man groans. Sanya checks his pupils and pulls a vial from her pack. With Jas’s approval, she forces the liquid down the Chart’s throat.
The soldier sputters. “What was that?”
“It’ll numb the pain,” Sanya explains.
The young Chart takes in the room around us; boxes litter the space, and lit candle sconces create ominous shadows lengthening on the walls. The room is no bigger than a servant’s closet space. If they even have one.
His eyes halt on Irfan. “What’s going on here? H-how did you find him?”
“Irfan?” Amir’s gaze flicks to the silver-eyed man.
“You mean One Sixty-Two? His number is whispered everywhere in our ranks.”
My mind races. I think back to the burnished coin I found in Irfan’s pack. The proof he worked for my father.
I jump up. Even Amir leaps to my side, though Sanya and Jas only frown, as if they knew all along.
I look at Irfan with strange clarity. For I have seen these silver eyes on countless occasions, when I was younger. Have seen him in the palace. Only now, watching him with another Chart, do I remember, as if a sudden Abaian downpour has washed away the fog between Irfan and me.
The realization unfurls like a poisonous flower.
“You. You were the first deserter.”
I think of the wound beneath his collarbone, where Charts are traditionally branded upon their induction.
I remember first meeting him days ago, thinking his build would get him into the barracks of Amratstan’s Sentinels.
I remember.
And a chill sweeps over me.
“What?” Amir shakes his head. Irfan gulps audibly as he takes hold of the collar of his shirt and peels it away from his skin, as if in slow motion. The world freezes. Breath crawls from my throat in a shallow stream.
A burn covers a portion of his chest, right over his heart. The brand on his chest reads 162.
“No way,” Amir coughs out. “You’re one of them? Are you all going to betray us now?” He stares pointedly at Sanya. “Are you working with the raja?”
His sister shoots up. “Amir, he isn’t a Chart anymore. He’s one of us—”
Just then, the other deserter’s eyes fall on mine. His face withers into a look of confusion.
“Ria?” he recalls. My heart catches. Is he remembering the conversation we had in the jungle? When I used the magic on him? “But—you’re—”
My veins, still singing with adrenaline from the discovery of Irfan’s secret, ignite. It seems my magic on him is wearing off, based on his confusion. “It was a ruse,” I say. “I am a commoner; we are villagers who simply want a better life.” My gaze shoots to Irfan’s. “I hide no secrets.”
Liar, a voice echoes within me, but I shove it down.
“We aren’t loyal to the raja,” Irfan clarifies to me. “I broke the magical oath and suffered the consequences. It’s why I feel pain in my shoulder every day. But Sanya’s medicines have helped me.”
Irfan turns to the deserter Chart. “There was a raid on this village. What’s the raja’s motive?”
“Ask the raja and his adviser,” the man says, again glancing at me curiously, though it is as if he is looking through smoke. “They plan these raids. They cause uproar in the inner villages. First, they ask for ungodly amounts of tax money. Then they take what they want in blood.”
My mind darts back, back, back. For a moment, I forget about Irfan, forget about this revelation, and remember: Father’s adviser is Amara. Ria had told me that Amara was looking for the stone. Did she have the Charts raid the villages in her search?
In this moment, I am unsure of everything.
“So,” Amir says with a gulp. “What happens when the truce does end?”
“I already told you,” the man begins. “The raja and his adviser made the plans. That’s all I know. I overheard them speaking . . . something about water, and a gem. I don’t know.”
A gem. Surely the Bloodstone. But what of the water? What could Father and Amara have been discussing?
“You’re a deserter, like me,” Irfan says plainly. “What is your name?”
“Two Twe—”
“Your real name,” Irfan clarifies.
The man looks at him steadily for a moment. “My name is . . . Aman. I am loyal to my country. Not my king.”
Something about those words breeds unkempt thoughts. “Are there others?” I ask Aman and Irfan. “Others, besides the two of you, who wish to desert their stations?”
Aman grimaces. “Irfan might’ve been the first deserter, but he wasn’t the last by any means. Nor the first one who wanted to leave.”
Irfan works his jaw, glancing over at the group of us. “I have an idea. Can you give us a moment?”
Several minutes pass as we wait outside the back of the tavern in the warm autumn night. “How can we trust any of them?” Amir asks me, though I know his real question.
How can we trust anyone from the palace?
He crosses his arms across his chest, accidentally brushing my arm as he does so. I stiffen. We’ve kept our distance while traveling from the hills, only touching when absolutely necessary. I think again to his hands spinning my hips, to his arm against mine now. The warmth is startlingly comforting.
“Perhaps trust can be earned back,” I tell Amir. He gazes at me deeply. I know what his look means. Whose side are you on?
Until now I have been on no one’s. Except my own.
“Trust doesn’t come easy,” a voice proclaims from behind us. “No one deserves the life of a Chart. I’ve let Aman go, but not without gaining an advantage.”
I turn and gape in a most un-princess-like manner. I almost do not recognize Irfan—dressed in a Chart’s uniform from head to toe, silver eyes demanding attention.
“Is that . . . Aman’s?” I whisper.
Irfan glances down at the red coat. “I burned mine a long time ago. But at my request, Aman gave me his. Now I think I’m finally ready to wear it again.” He nods, as if assuring himself. “With me in this uniform, no Chart will give us a second glance.”
Sanya catches on. “We can go where we want, when we want, without hiding. It’s genius.”
It is dangerous. A mockery of Father’s court. But I should know all about pretending. And despite myself, I begin to grin.
Irfan continues, “If we encounter the king’s army, you are my prisoners, and we continue on our quest. We find the ancient guard, and then the stone.” He breathes deeply, his eyes locking on mine. “In the words of the raja: We move like a king cobra.”
I finish my father’s mantra. “We strike first.”
31
Ria
The carriage rolls smoothly through the village streets, quiet as a jungle cat.
“We’re nearly there.” Saeed glances over at me. He nearly swallowed his own tongue when I suggested visiting the Vadi Orphanage as part of my preparation for becoming queen. I told him it’d be good for royals to see the villagers firsthand. The raja and queen approved, citing this as the first of my new freedoms outside the palace.
Two hours away from the palace. And my first time returning to the orphanage I grew up in.
Saeed is my escort for the trip. The ghost of his fingertips still trails up and down my jaw days later. I haven’t seen him since the engagement. Since . . .
I think of the mango-sweet taste of his lips. His sculpted figure—muscled arms, sharp j
aw, broad shoulders—enough to catch anyone’s attention. Raja’s beard, stop thinking about him!
As if Saeed can sense my thoughts, he glances over at me. “You’ve been silent this whole trip,” he notices. “I apologize for my mother’s . . . tactless interruption, if that’s what this is about.”
But he doesn’t know that Amara’s done worse. He hasn’t seen the fear, the agony, on the face of a child as Amara seared their flesh, branding them with a number as though they were no more than livestock.
The carriage jerks to a stop. Saeed unloads himself from the back seat. I take his hand and follow him out, letting the driver know we won’t take much longer than a half hour’s time. I wear a modest suit today, something that won’t draw villagers’ eyes, with a chunni pinned in my hair so it won’t slip. I’m as disguised as the raja’s daughter can be.
I freeze at the sight of the orphanage, just beyond the massive, open gates. My old home. Still crumbling, still brown as the muddied dirt I stand on. I recall playing games in the yard, feeling free without understanding that I never was.
Until now.
I chance a step forward and, beckoning Saeed to follow, find the hidden back door I used to sneak out through nightly, when I’d first practiced my pickpocketing. Saeed glances at me in confusion, but I only grip his hand tighter, and his shoulders relieve themselves from their tense hold. He takes hold of the knocker—a brass clawed bird’s foot—and taps three times.
The door swings open. It’s only a child, maybe eleven summers old, wearing plain rags. They look the same as the ones I used to wear.
I gulp.
“May we come in?”
The kid only stares at us, but someone appears behind him. Eyes sallow and hard, with endless wrinkles and eye bags.
Memories swing into my mind like a punch: the headmaster dragging me for a whipping when I didn’t finish my dinner on time. The crack of the stick on the backs of my knees. The flesh splitting on my leg, blood trailing out. Blood that never left the rug.
Mama Anita would warn us there was nothing she could do to stop him.
