by Payal Doshi
“You will never have my blood!” he yelled, banging furiously on the bars of his cage.
The captain ignored him and turned to the protestors.
“The Imperial Guard presents to you the exiled son of Former Princess Keona, Betrayer of Her Extreme Greatness Queen Razya of the House of Flur. On the Night of Nilaya, the boy’s blood will be sacrificed on the sacred Som and Her Extreme Greatness Queen Razya will continue her bountiful reign as the Queen of Astranthia. May she reign a thousand years!”
The soldiers clamored in agreement.
“REPEAT, you heathens!” the captain shouted, jerking the reins of his horse.
“M-may she r-reign a t-thousand years,” the villagers chanted, their measly hopes for a better future left dead on the road with their friends.
“Consider this your final warning. Go to your budhoods and report the news. One more protest or word against the Queen and she shall not be as merciful. Now, out of the way!” The captain reared his horse and galloped away.
The protestors crawled towards the fallen bodies. Leela slowly released Rea and they stared at Rohan, retreating out of sight.
Turning to the side, Rea threw up.
Chapter 22
Magic Is A Fickle Thing
“RISE FOR HER EXTREME GREATNESS!” announced the guard.
The doors flew open and the seven ministers of the Queen’s Court jumped to their feet, their voices hushed into a pin-drop silence. They bowed and smiled at her nervously. It pleased Razya to see how her last-minute switcheroo of assembling in the Throne Room instead of the more intimate chamber of the Court’s Quarter had caused such unease.
In her early days as Queen, she had coated the walls of the Throne Room with the Sinisterus Charm—an enchantment she had invented, earning her the coveted spot as the favorite pupil of the Sorcerer of Shadows—so that all who walked through the chamber felt in their hearts the cold grip of fear.
Razya glided up the thirteen steps to her throne. Its bone-like branches coiled and recoiled like the body of a serpent. She raised her hand and the ministers took their seats at a long table facing the throne. A row of servants filed in with plates of meats, cheeses, and fruits, and laid the feast before them. When the last of the servants exited, guards with shapeshifting weapons took their place on either side of the doors.
“Mr. Lootin, what urgent matter has befallen us days before the Night of Nilaya that commands my personal attention?” Razya asked the Minister of Ceremony and Rites. Her nails, painted the same dark hue as her midnight-blue gown, clicked against the tendrilled arm of her throne.
“I-Indeed, my Queen. I—we—er—” he replied, muddling his words in the mess of papers he was shuffling in his hands.
“I have no patience for your stammering,” thundered Razya, although in truth, it pleased her to see the Sinisterus Charm working its magic.
“Apologizes a hundredfold, my Queen. My papers are out of order and I... oh... there—!” He located the scroll of ash-leaf he’d been searching for, and adjusting his monocle, read from it.
“We have received news on the whereabouts of the sacred Som. It is to rise in the Leafless Forest. The flowergrass there have begun blossoming in full bloom.”
Razya paused at the news. The sacred flower had chosen to appear at the first spot she had charred with Shadow Magic. Were the sacred forces playing a joke on her?
“Very well. Make speed with the ceremonial preparations. Heaven knows why that piece of information turned you into a blubbering fool.”
“Your Extreme Greatness—um—there’s one other piece of news.”
Urdaag flew in from an open window and the sound of his wings drowned out Vurk Lootin’s words. Unperturbed by the commotion he stirred, the Sirion folded his raven wings and perched beside the Queen. Lootin swallowed a gulp.
“The Asurai confirm the omen we’ve been fearing about the boy-prince.”
“The boy is NO LONGER a prince!” shouted Razya. She flicked her wrist and shot a beam of magic, sharp as the touch of ice, into Lootin’s side. He gasped, and doubled over in pain.
“Next time, I shall not hesitate to aim higher.” She pointed at his heart as the tip of her outstretched finger sizzled with cold vapor.
“A-Apologies a hundredfold, my Queen. It was merely my duty to report the Asurai’s readings,” Lootin said, flopping onto his chair with a hand over his chest.
Razya seethed. Had they forgotten she despised any reference to her past? Hadn’t each of her ministers sworn never to mention it? She had destroyed every painting, every memento that reminded her of her family’s existence. Her nerves twisted. The boy she had caged was not a prince, just a necessary tool to further her rightful reign.
The Minister of Ceremony and Rites regained his composure and hesitantly continued, “The Asurai postulate that if the boy sacrifices his blood unwillingly, or if his blood has not been awoken with the power of the nectar, the sacred flower shall sacrifice yet another petal. It is imperative we do not let either of the two situations come to fruition. It will outrage the already enraged peasant folk and your life, your Extreme Greatness, will be monumentally at risk.”
“And—and ours too,” mewed one of the male ministers.
“But most importantly, the life of the realm will be at its end,” Ainely Buci, Minister of Land and Water Preserves said. Her waist length hair, bone-white and smooth like a waterfall, fell over her shoulders. “If the boy unwillingly sacrifices unawoken blood, only a single petal will remain on our sacred flower, and Astranthia will enter the darkest of her ages.”
A shudder passed through the ministers and Razya knew what they were thinking. Never had Astranthia’s future been so dire. If they knew the whole truth, that the sacred Som bore two, not three petals, they would drag her off the throne. For all their faith in the Asurai, the scholars hadn’t discovered that of the three remaining petals, one had disappeared, hidden somewhere in the realm. If the girl did not find the missing petal and the boy’s nectar did not awaken in time, the Som would sacrifice its last two petals and in a matter of days, Astranthia and her every living inhabitant would perish.
Oleandra had prophesied the same things the ministers were reporting. If the petal was not located soon, Razya knew she would be in grave danger. The Queen needed a miracle. Her best laid plans were falling apart. The girl had indeed arrived as she had planned, but the girl hadn’t fully awoken her nectar yet. If she didn’t do it soon, it would be impossible for her to locate the petal.
And then, there was the boy. He would willingly sacrifice his blood, of that she had no doubt, but would the harsh conditions in which she had imprisoned him be enough to awaken his nectar? He had rejected every meal sent to him and that was a good sign of him upholding his principles and being selfless—a requirement to awaken the nectar—but would it be enough? On top of it all, the Sorcerer of Shadows had stopped replying to her nectral missives for help. Razya was on her own.
“If I may add...” Heinzel Beamleaf, Minister of the Court of Common Pleas by Persons and Magical Folk, interjected, disrupting the silence which had consumed the room. “What indeed will happen to the boy? I fear if he is killed, there will be riots from the peasants who are loyal to Princess Keona and her family. I shudder to think of it, but they will fight like they have nothing to lose.”
“Yet if the boy remains imprisoned, we fear the consequences will be no different,” stated Ainely Buci.
Razya’s fingers turned claw-like, piercing the arm of her throne. How dare the ministers talk so insolently to her? Why wasn’t the Sinisterus Charm working to cause fear in their hearts? Rage pulsed within Razya and a tendril snapped under her nails. The throne revolted in pain and Razya’s heart turned a darker shade of black.
No, it cannot be.
She had invented the Sinisterus Charm. She had carefully crafted its words and intentions such that those of weak hearts and frail souls were infected with its spell, causing their fears and suspicions to magnify and swa
llow them. She had not realized, until this moment, that she was not above the Charm either, and as she sat in front of her Court today, she could spot the ministers who knew the power she wielded was not as strong as it once was.
Razya leaned against her throne, needing the extra support to quieten her nerves. The spell of her own Shadow Magic was intensifying her fears, throwing her into turmoil. She had to gather herself and not allow the Court to sense her fear.
Magic is a fickle thing, she thought, remembering the Sorcerer’s words, No matter its intention, good or evil, its allure is eternal, but its power is as real as an illusion. The Sorcerer had warned her from making Shadow Magic her singular purpose of life, but she had ignored his words and sacrificed everything for it.
Razya raised her eyes to her Court. If the men were disgraceful, the women were worse. Jealousy dripped from their eyes for the power she commanded as Queen. And if that weren’t enough, Disira Teague, Minister of Coin, another one untouched by the Sinisterus Charm, spoke up.
“If I may also add, the royal treasuries are running lower than ever. The infertility spells you had cast on the farmer’s fields for tax defaults have caused poor harvests, leaving them no money for their livelihoods, let alone for taxes. At this rate, if we don’t receive tax payments, the royal coffers will be empty by year’s end.”
Razya saw right through Disira’s expression of feigned worry. “Very well, I will lift the infertility spells off their fields. The farmers have learnt their lessons and I doubt very much they will default on their taxes again.”
Disira bowed slightly. “No doubt it will bring great joy and relief to the people, Your Extreme Greatness. However, the benefit of lifting the spells will only help next year’s harvest. Our current problem of nearly-empty coffers continues to remain unsolved.”
“Not to forget that the foliage reports have brought news of quicker withering of blossoms and many species of flora have been turning sick,” Ainely Buci chimed in. “The elixir in them is worryingly low and they are slowly dying. I fear using magic against nature in the form of fertility and infertility spells has caused a revolt in its own way.”
Razya ignored Ainely’s jibe and turned to the Minister of Coin. “As we have discussed many times, Disira, if the farmers have no capacity to pay, we will give them more time. You should have issued statements about delaying the collection of taxes. I want the people to be happy on our auspicious night. Not outraged.” Razya’s gaze, inflamed with fury, travelled to Ekimmu Welt, the Minister of War. With a fist under his chin, he was intently reading the summons before him.
“Mr. Welt, how are the parades going?”
He glanced up.
“Better than expected, My Queen. The Imperial Guard has completed its village rounds. Every breathing soul in Astranthia is aware the boy is in your possession. If they were geared for revolt before, they have now been snuffed into submission. You will be pleased.”
“Excellent,” said Razya, genuinely relieved to hear some good news.
A look of concern flitted over the rest of her court, except over Dybuk El Strag, Minister of Crimes and Punishments. He was the only one digging into the feast before him. None of the other ministers had touched their plates. Did they fear the food was poisoned? A dark feeling warmed her. They were still afraid of her.
“Riots! Revolts! Such talk angers me!” She slammed her fist on the arm of her throne. She was their Queen. It was their duty to bring her the solutions, not the other way around. “The Imperial Guard has been successful in putting an end to the peasants’ protests. Aren’t the rest of you capable of handling your own ministries?”
She stared coldly at her court. They had brought her the ‘people’s problems’ about the boy and the riots, when clearly it was what they hoped would happen. Was this how a coup took place? Royal advisors plotting and planning to fool their ruler, who would mistake their worries as concern for the reign and land?
“Tell me, what answers have you given the peasants who interfere in matters beyond their realm of understanding?” she asked.
“My Queen, it is hard to argue against the people when they talk about true ascension to the throne,” said Homburg Grime, Minister of Trade, his chin bulging over his collar. “Perhaps you can take the boy under your wing and have us train him for the future... whenever you see fit that is. In this manner, the people will be pacified by your actions. It will restore faith in the bloodline of the nectar.”
A fog, cold as frost, descended into the room and the ministers, terrified by the magicked change in air, drew their robes closer to their chests. Razya couldn’t help herself. She was trying to keep her anger in check, but she was failing to do so. She knew why the ministers were vying for a twelve-year-old boy to be the future king. It wasn’t about true ascension or the happiness of the peasants. It was because they could taste the power they would control at the hands of a child. Bah, a child! Not for the first time, Razya wished she had completed her training with the Sorcerer of Shadows and learned how to wield the full force of her power. Already, with her incarnations and enchantments, she had lost so much of it.
Razya willed herself to think happy, vengeful thoughts. The Sorcerer had warned her against skipping the nuances of the Magic of Outward Manifestations. As she looked at her shivering ministers, she thought of the girl returning with the petal and the boy tapping into his nectar. She saw the petal attach itself to the sacred flower and felt the glory of her reign surge through her body. Victory would soon be upon her. That will shut them up for good. A smile filled her face and the mist dissipated. The ministers gulped in large breaths of air.
“Homburg, you and the others have been quick to come up with a solution, but I must uproot your plans. The boy’s fate has been decided. Be assured his blood, awoken with its youth-filled nectar, will be willingly sacrificed on the Night of the Blue Moon. So, rest your worry-riddled minds and gather your resources in preparation for the ceremony. It will be a fine night indeed.”
Chapter 23
The Blood of the Nectar
Eddies of dust settled over the road. Bodies lay everywhere, some breathing, some not. Rea and Leela scrambled towards Xeranther.
“Xee! XEE!” Rea shook him. A low, laboring breathing came from his lips. Rea could tell he had lost a lot of blood.
“Say something,” Leela said, her voice trembling with worry.
Rea opened his mouth and breathed into it, the way heroes did in Bollywood movies to save the heroine, but he still lay limp. His clothes were full of muck and his leg drenched in blood.
“Can you try using the magic in your blood?” asked Leela.
Rea checked her wound. It had healed completely, and she wondered if her blood from her thorn-pricked fingers would be enough to heal Xeranther.
Use your touch, Thubian whispered in her mind.
Rea immediately obeyed. Placing her palms on Xeranther’s cut, she closed her eyes. A rush, similar to that of adrenaline, surged within her, and a thrumming energy flowed out of her hands and into his wound. By instinct, Rea could feel his body growing stronger. When she opened her eyes, his blood had congealed, and he began to breathe normally. Rea turned to Leela in relief and they helped Xeranther to the side of the road where he could rest.
Then Rea rushed to the villagers. She held their wounds, healing them with nectral energy as Leela followed behind, covering the treated wounds with bandages of leaves. Rea couldn’t resurrect the dead—she tried—but the injured, like Xeranther, gradually began to heal. The villagers, spellbound, watched her with reverence.
The hours ticked by. Healing the villagers was draining Rea’s energy. Her eyes watered and she worked in a dizzy trance. She had tended to so many injured, she had lost count. Her body was bereft of strength, but she soldiered on. There were only a few wounded left.
Finally, Rea leaned over the last injured person. She had almost lost Leela, had treated Xeranther poorly, and Rohan... she had failed him by shutting him out because he had be
gun to care about other things in his life besides her and Baba. The truth was, in each situation, she had put herself first, caring little for the other person.
The injured man beneath her stirred, regaining consciousness as Leela tied his bandage. Rea sat beside him. Her body burned with a chill. She was thankful her nectar had helped to heal the wounded villagers. I’ll rest a moment, she thought, and then look for the petal again. Rea closed her eyes and collapsed to the ground, sweating and shivering. She had helped every injured villager and there wasn’t an ounce of energy left in her. Bile sloshed in her stomach and she retched weakly.
“I want you to take this in case s-something happens to m-me.” She made Leela tear a bit of her dress and she pressed her thorn-pricked finger on it. Dots of blood oozed until they soaked through her fabric. “Place it over the banyan roots. Maybe it will let you portal back.”
Leela bit down on her tears as the healed villagers pushed each other to get a glimpse of Rea. They stood on their toes and stretched their necks. They cried, kissing her hands and feet, and left her whatever coins they had in their pockets. Rea refused their money. She tried to say they didn’t have to thank her, but her mind swirled in a fog. She glimpsed Leela bringing her a flowercup of water, and the world faded.
A bolt of lightning shot through her, and she jerked upwards, impaled on the bolt. The moon shone. A near-perfect sphere in the midnight sky.
Current sizzled in her veins and her nerves exploded. Shudders racked her body.
She was in such pain.
She melted into liquid.
She awoke in flames.
She became... elemental.
Slowly, the current ebbed. It flowed more gently, calming her senses, warming her body. A cushion of light ensconced her, and she was lowered onto a bed.
The bolt disappeared.
Rea woke up, confused. She was in a bed in someone’s bud. A painting of a man hung on the wall, his features familiar except for the thick moustache. A garland of flowers was strung across the frame, the same way they commemorated the departed in India.
