Poison's Cage

by Breeana Shields

  “Good morning,” she says, sliding the tray onto the table beside my bed. “Balavan is busy today, and so he asked that you have breakfast in your room.”

  The snakes flick their tongues. Taste the air. Smell Amoli with the tissue on the roofs of their mouths. They start to peek from beneath the wardrobe.

  Stay, I tell them. Search her mind.

  “Is Balavan away from the palace?” I ask.

  Amoli’s eyes tighten at the question, and it takes her a beat to answer. “Yes,” she says, unfurling a cloth napkin and draping it across my lap. “He is.”

  But the snakes’ minds fill with an image of dozens of Naga gathered in one of the rooms of the palace. They sit facing each other on brightly colored cushions, and candlelight flickers over their features. Their eyes are trained on Balavan, who is positioned at the top of the circle.

  Amoli is lying to me.

  “When will he return?” I ask.

  Her glance skips away from me. She busies herself straightening the food on my tray. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” she says. “He’s asked that you stay in your rooms until he calls for you. But I’m happy to get you anything you need to be comfortable.”

  The snakes sense her anxiety, like a mouse in the grass. But she’s not concerned about me. She’s worried about missing whatever Balavan is telling his followers. She wants to leave so she can join him.

  “No,” I say. “I’ll be fine here.”

  Amoli gives me a weak smile. “I’ll check on you later,” she says.

  Once Amoli leaves, I call one of the three female snakes to me. The oldest. I’ve started calling her Jasu. She was the first to hatch, and she seems the least prone to distraction. It’s a huge risk to let the snake out of my presence while she’s still so young, while I’m unsure how far our connection reaches or if I can be certain she’ll return. But if I’m going to get any useful information to pass to the Raja, it’s a risk I have to take.

  I lift the snake onto my lap and stroke her small head with my index finger. Follow Amoli, I tell her. But you can’t be seen. Jasu’s mind touches mine, and I know she understands. I set her on the floor and watch as she slithers beneath the door and out of sight.

  Jasu’s progress is slow, and for a long time all I see in her mind is the memory of Amoli’s smell. It’s the only way the snake knows how to find her. As Jasu searches, I keep testing our bond—tugging on the threads that bind our minds together, fearful of feeling them snap.

  The connection holds. But as the minutes pass, a knot forms in my stomach. It’s been too long. Jasu’s thoughts are gathered into a single sharp point—Find Amoli. She can’t focus beyond that, can’t think about where she is or where she’s going. She won’t know if she’s lost.

  I reach for Jasu’s mind to call her back to me, when the snake’s vision suddenly expands. Amoli’s scent bursts into my mind, along with her scattered, frenetic thoughts. The itch on the back of her neck. The ache in her knee as she sits, legs crossed, on an oversized cushion. The rumbling in her stomach because she had to skip her breakfast to bring me mine. Balavan’s voice drones in the background, but I can’t reach his words. Jasu is too firmly attached to Amoli, too focused on the deeper areas of her mind, where her stray thoughts live.

  I try to nudge the snake to tune out the distractions. What is she hearing? Focus.

  Jasu’s mind is pierced with the sting of reprimand. I startle at her strong reaction, remind myself that she’s still a baby. And she wants so hard to please me. A wave of tenderness washes over me, and I try to fill my thoughts with calm reassurance. You’re doing well, Jasu. Keep going.

  Jasu tries to obey. A fly buzzes near Amoli’s face, and the woman waves it away with a flick of her hand. Jasu’s mind latches on to the distraction and follows the fly.

  I take a deep breath and nudge her back to Amoli. I need to hear what she hears.

  Finally Balavan’s voice enters my mind. Yes. Good.

  “…didn’t get any useful information from his death,” he says. “We can’t make that mistake again.”

  “I would have been happy to question the prisoner,” one of the women says. “If you’d let him live.”

  “We’d tried questioning him,” Balavan says. “Many times. He gave us nothing. But when I brought the visha kanya to the dungeon, he suddenly found his voice. He tried to tell her we were hunting relics. After she’d already kissed him. I had to silence him before he could say more.”

  “But that’s not Marinda’s fault.” Gita’s familiar voice scrapes inside my mind. “Do you still not trust her?”

  Balavan sighs. “The question is why a member of the Pakshi thought he could trust her. Especially when she was there to kill him.”

  “But she did kill him,” Gita says. “Surely that proves her loyalty?” Her desire to protect me brushes up against something raw inside my soul, like soft cloth dragged across a fresh burn.

  “You’re too close to the girl,” Balavan says. “You can’t be objective.”

  “If you’d just let me talk to her, I’m sure—”

  “Enough.” Balavan doesn’t raise his voice, but his words slice through the room as if he shouted. “I’ve told you to stay away from her. Amoli is in a better position to determine her loyalty.”

  I can’t see Gita’s face in Jasu’s mind—Amoli isn’t looking at her—but her expression must be contrite, because Balavan’s tone softens. “Perhaps the man was playing games with me. Maybe he mistook the rajakumari for someone else. It doesn’t matter.” I can picture Balavan waving a hand in front of his face. “We don’t need her to find the other relics. Iyla is in place to bring down the Crocodile King. I need the rest of you to focus on finding Garuda. And more importantly, finding the feather.”

  My sharp intake of breath nearly makes Jasu lose her focus. Her mind turns to mine, questioning, but I gently redirect her attention. Keep listening.

  “Kamlesh,” Balavan says, “how many of Bagharani’s followers are dead?”

  “All of them,” the man answers. “After we destroyed the Tiger Queen, they lost their appetite for fighting. Some joined our cause. The rest we slaughtered.”

  Balavan’s dark laugh fills Amoli’s mind, darkens Jasu’s, overtakes mine. “One down,” he says. “And two to go.”

  I lie on my bed with my knees tucked to my chest. Jasu is back with the other snakes beneath the wardrobe, but her mind still reaches for mine. She mirrors the horror I feel, amplifying it until it grows so large it closes off my throat.

  The Naga are hunting relics. And somehow the relics—whatever they are—provide the key to taking down the other members of the Raksaka. Bagharani—the Tiger Queen—is dead. There’s so much to take in, so much I still don’t understand. But one thought especially haunts me, a thought I know will stalk my nightmares.

  I helped them do this.

  I helped the Nagaraja grow so powerful that his followers are on their way to building a world where only one of the guardians of Sundari exists. And I have no idea how to stop them.

  I feel like a naive child who has spent her whole life peering through a keyhole, thinking the sliver I could see was all that existed. Foolishly believing I had the power to change that slice of reality, to shape it into something just and lovely. Now the door has swung wide. And I realize I didn’t know anything at all.

  I think of the many depictions of the Raksaka I’ve seen—the ones created from gems, where the great tiger is fashioned of amber, her head in profile, her eyes alert as she stalks through a thicket made of jade. I used to believe they were legends, the four guardians of Sundari—nothing more than symbols of a kingdom in perfect balance. That was before the Nagaraja tried to kill Mani. Before he entered my mind and I tasted the evil that lurked there.

  I don’t know much about Bagharani, but she must have been better than the Nagaraja. And now she’s dead. The people who followed her, slaughtered. I think of Deven and his friends who follow Garuda. Of what could happen to them when the Na
garaja finds the relic he’s looking for. I think of Iyla, somewhere in Sundari, plotting to take down the Crocodile King. Does she know what Balavan is planning? Does she know he plans to remake the world?

  Fear scrapes at my throat. There’s so much more at stake than just my own life, so much more than Mani’s. Thousands of lives press against my conscience; their weight squeezes the air from my lungs. For once I feel like the poison pulsing through my blood isn’t nearly as deadly as it needs to be.

  At this moment I would gladly take up the burden of Kadru’s loneliness if it meant I could kill the enemy with a brush of my fingertips.

  A movement on the floor catches my eye, and I lean over the side of the bed to see five small white snakes, their minds reaching to comfort mine. I scoop them into my palm and place them on the pillow next to me. They slither closer and wrap themselves around my wrists and ankles. They cover the scars that their ancestors made. They infuse my thoughts with their compassion. And finally I find enough peace to fall asleep.

  Fazel put something in the tea.

  The room has gone fuzzy around the edges. The furniture blurs into the walls. Fazel sits across from me, nothing more than a smudge.

  I stare reproachfully into the bottom of my cup, where only dregs remain.

  “What did you give me?”

  “Does your leg feel better?”

  I reach down, but it takes me three tries before I’m able to find my ankle. The throbbing is gone, but it still feels tender to the touch. I sit upright and my head swims. It takes me a moment to realize that Fazel didn’t answer the question.

  “What’s in this?” My words melt together. My tongue feels thick.

  “My grandmother was a healer,” he says, as if this explains everything. “She made me this tea when I broke my arm.” He laughs. “All three times.”

  “But why…” I forget what I was going to ask. Something about…something.

  “Do you want to lie down?” Fazel asks.

  “I have to go,” I say. “Balavan will want…” I stop. I don’t think I was supposed to mention Balavan’s name.

  “He’ll want what?” Fazel asks.

  I shake my head. “I can’t stay here.” I stand up, and the room starts spinning. Fazel hops to his feet and grabs my elbow.

  “At this point you don’t have much of a choice.” Pain pulses in my ankle and I slump against him. He smells like citrus.

  “Did you give me a truth serum?” I ask. I think about moving away from him, but I don’t.

  He laughs softly, his breath rippling through my hair. “No,” he says. “But I’m starting to think I overdid it on the valerian root. I don’t think Naniji’s tea ever made me quite so silly.”

  I lift my chin and find his gaze. “I’m not silly,” I say. “I’m just tired.”

  “Which is why you should lie down.”

  It’s a good idea. I lay my head on his chest. Some part of me thinks this isn’t what he meant, but I’m so sleepy and my limbs feel so heavy. For the third time today Fazel scoops me into his arms, and then he lays me down on the sofa. I reach up and drag my palm over his scalp. His short hair is just as soft as I imagined.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” I tell him.

  He smiles. His face is only inches from mine. “Well then, I’m glad you got your chance.” He covers me with a thin blanket. I pull it up to my chin and let my eyes slide closed.

  “I’ll check on you later,” he says. His voice already sounds far away, like I’m slipping underwater while he waits onshore. I intend to answer him, but I never do.

  Pale sunlight falls across my face and I turn toward it, eyes still closed, and let it warm my cheeks. I stretch my arms above my head, arch my back, flex my toes. A sharp pain shoots through my ankle, and I freeze as a memory of the injury rustles at the back of my mind.

  I crack an eye open. “Morning,” Fazel says. He reclines in the chair across from me, his foot resting on the opposite knee, his hands behind his head. He’s smirking.

  Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I scoot into a sitting position and wrap the thin blanket more tightly around myself. I’m trying to piece the previous day together, but there are gaping holes in my memory. Did I touch his hair?

  “Stop looking at me like that,” I snap.

  He laughs. “Oh, so it’s the prickly one.”

  I give him a hard stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “I just wasn’t sure which version of you I was going to get this morning. The irritable one, the seductress or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Or the girl from yesterday. The one who accused me of feeding her truth serum.”

  A wave of nausea rolls over me. “I said that?”

  His face is solemn, but his mouth twitches like he’s repressing a smile. “You did. Right before you ran your fingers through my hair.”

  My mouth goes dry. I hoped that part, at least, was a dream. “Your hair is too short to run my fingers through.”

  “Yes,” he says. “So you discovered.”

  I groan and let my face fall into my hands. There’s no way to salvage my dignity. I should have chosen my target more carefully—I knew there was a reason to pick the angry guy instead of the one with a sense of humor. I stand up, toss the blanket aside and try to smooth the wrinkles from my sari with my palms, but it’s no use.

  “Have you seen my sandals?” I ask without meeting Fazel’s gaze. “I need to go.”

  “Anxious to get back to Balavan?”

  A sharp knife of horror pierces my heart. Mentioning Balavan by name is a serious violation of tradecraft. If I said anything else, if I compromised the Naga in any way…I swallow hard. I can already feel the metal blade of Balavan’s anger pressing at the hollow of my throat.

  “What did I say about him?” I put as much air into my voice as possible. Casual. Easy.

  “Only that you seemed to think you needed to hurry back because he’d want something.” Fazel gives me a mischievous grin. “I can’t imagine what your boyfriend might be waiting for.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I say the words before I can stop myself and then immediately wish I could take them back. Balavan would be better explained that way. It would be effortless, believable. But attaching myself to him, even in the midst of a lie, makes my skin crawl.

  “Then who is he?” Fazel asks. “And what does he want?” His voice has lost its playfulness, and I know I need to choose my next words carefully. I disguise my trembling hands by picking up the blanket I tossed aside. I keep my face turned away as I fold it into a neat square.

  “Balavan wants food,” I say, setting the blanket down on the end of the sofa before I finally meet Fazel’s gaze. “And he’s my dog.”

  His eyes widen, and then he bursts out laughing. The sound is like drinking hot tea on a cold day. I can’t resist smiling, and the expression feels foreign. I can’t remember the last time I smiled without forethought or calculation. Fazel’s eyes soften.

  “How is your ankle feeling?” he asks.

  “Better,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry I bumped into you.”

  “I’m sorry I touched your hair.”

  “I’m not.”

  This time it’s my eyes that widen.

  The tips of Fazel’s ears turn pink and he shrugs. “It will give me something to hold over your head if I ever need to blackmail you.”

  He’s teasing, but the joke hits too close to home. I look away, but not quickly enough to miss how his smile falters and then disappears. I spot my sandals tucked neatly under a side table, and I try to imagine Fazel slipping them off my feet last night and setting them there, the heels and toes precisely lined up, like they were placed with care. I snatch them and slide them onto my feet.

  “Thank you again,” I say. “I need to be on my way.”

  “Wait,” Fazel says. “Let me grab my shoes and I’ll walk you.”


  I wave him off. “No,” I say. “I can manage alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I say, but my heart clenches at the lie. I try to smile, but my mouth won’t cooperate. “Balavan doesn’t like strangers.”

  Fazel stares at me for a beat longer than is comfortable. “Okay, then,” he says. “Have a safe trip home.”

  My throat feels thick. Because I’ve never had either one of those things. Never safety. And certainly never a home.

  It gives me some comfort to think of Balavan as an animal—as the dog I told Fazel he was. Every time Balavan questions me about the Crocodile King, I picture him sniffing at my pockets for bits of meat. I imagine his wet nose pressing against my palm. I envision him licking himself in the corner after I leave.

  It makes me less terrified.

  I don’t tell Balavan that I need to select a new target. I don’t confess that I mentioned his name to one of the followers of the Crocodile King. I report that everything is going according to plan.

  “It will take some time before he trusts me,” I say one afternoon a few days after my meeting with Fazel. Balavan and I are sitting outside on a large stone terrace at the back of the palace. A pair of peacocks strut in front of us, and every so often Balavan throws the birds a bit of bread. “If I question him too soon, he’ll withdraw and I’ll have to start all over again.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” he says. “I need to know where the relic is. If you can’t find it, I’ll need to send someone who can.” I wonder if he has someone else who can. If he has dozens of girls like me dotted all over Sundari, being managed by handlers like Gopal and Gita. Or am I the only one? It might shift the power balance if I knew he had only me. But it’s not something I can count on.

  “What does the relic do?” I’ve been waiting to ask the question since he first told me to infiltrate Crocodile Island, but with Balavan, questions always need to be timed carefully. This one wasn’t.

  He freezes. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Does it matter?”