I make my way to a fallen log and sit. The men work around me—setting up lavishly decorated tents, unfurling sleeping carpets, passing out dried meat and loaves of flatbread. But no one dares glance in my direction. They act as if I’m invisible.
Maybe it makes sense not to look your master’s meal in the eye.
My shoulders ache from being confined so long in such an unnatural position. I try to turn my wrists to loosen the bindings, but they’re too tight—the rope digs into the soft flesh at my wrists.
I study my surroundings, but it’s too dark to plan an escape route—all I can see in the distance are trees. I soon realize it’s hopeless and give up.
I spot Fazel across the clearing. A younger boy holds a flaming torch nearby, angling it so that Fazel can see to work. It’s just enough light to make out the muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he sets down the wooden chest he’s been carrying. He pries open the lid and pulls out a tent decorated with bold blue peacocks and bright red blossoms against a creamy background—it’s too opulent to belong to anyone but Chipkali.
My heart sinks. The Crocodile King trusts Fazel, and everything I’ve learned about tradecraft tells me I shouldn’t. We hardly know each other, and no one understands better than I how affections can be faked in order to manipulate. But then Fazel darts a glance in my direction. The firelight falls on his face, and I notice a smudge of dirt on his cheek that sends a wave of tenderness rippling through me. I have the urge to rub it away with the pad of my thumb. If only I were closer. Or untied.
Fazel returns to his task, but he smiles as he works, and somehow I know that smile is meant for me.
It takes some effort, but I pull my gaze away from him and study the other men in the camp. I can’t risk letting Chipkali see me staring at one person for too long. The men work with quick, efficient movements, but there’s a palpable sense of unease among them. They don’t speak to one another. Their brows are pulled together in concern. Whatever news came from the scouts Chipkali sent out this morning has the men on edge.
A few minutes later one of the men approaches me and sets a bowl of dried figs in my lap before turning to walk away.
“Are you going to untie me so I can eat?” I ask.
He turns to face me. “Chipkali said your hands are to remain tied.”
“How am I supposed to eat without my hands?”
The man stares at the ground near my feet. He won’t meet my gaze. “Sorry,” he says under his breath, and then returns to his post.
I find Chipkali a ways off, watching me with his arms folded across his chest. He wants to see what I’ll do. He wants to watch me eat directly from my bowl like a dog. I turn away. I’d rather go hungry than give him the satisfaction.
It’s not until hours later that the activity in the camp finally starts to wind down. The low buzz of small talk dwindles, the trunks of food and supplies are closed and locked, men drift, yawning, into the tents.
At first I think the Crocodile King plans to leave me exactly as I am, sitting here on this log, my hands tied behind my back. I’ve been twisting my arms for hours, trying to loosen the knots at my wrists, but I’m no closer to escaping. And the thought of having to stay here all night, of not being able to lie down and sleep for a few hours, fills me with grim dread.
But then Chipkali glances in my direction and barks orders at one of his men, who jogs over to me and roughly grabs my elbow. “Bedtime,” he says as he hauls me to my feet.
My shoulder screams in pain, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.
“I need a personal moment,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What are you talking about?”
I cock my head to one side and give him a pointed look.
“Oh,” he says. “I don’t know if…”
“You’re seriously not going to let me pee?”
He hesitates before he lets out a long sigh and pulls me toward the edge of the camp. “Go over there,” he says, pointing to a copse of trees. “No more than ten paces. You have two minutes.”
“I’ll need you to untie me,” I tell him.
He gives a dark laugh. “I’m not that stupid, sweetheart. Sorry.”
“How do you expect me to…”
He shrugs. “Not my problem.”
I’m tempted to kick him in the shin, but I settle for a dirty look before stomping off.
But I don’t even make it to the tree line before the camp breaks into chaos.
The heavy pounding of a dozen pairs of boots, the shouts of men as they’re pulled half-asleep from tents. And cutting through it all a silky voice that makes my blood run cold. Balavan. “Gather them all in the clearing,” he says. “But bring Chipkali to me.”
My guard glances over his shoulder and jabs a finger in my direction. “Don’t you move.” Then he runs toward the center of the camp like a fool. But I have no intention of obeying his orders, of standing here and waiting to die. I spin on my heel and run. I make it only a short distance before I trip and fall flat on my face.
Balavan’s voice booms through the camp, “Either I get what I want or all of you are going to die.”
I wriggle, snakelike, and conceal myself behind a giant banyan. It’s not nearly good enough, but it’s the best I can do.
Chipkali’s gruff laugh ricochets off the trees. “I wouldn’t be so sure you’re not going to be the one to die, old friend.” His voice betrays none of the worry I saw in his eyes earlier.
“You should know that Bagharani is dead,” Balavan says. “She spilled her own blood to protect her followers. But I’m guessing I’ll need to use a different approach with you. You’ve never struck me as the selfless type.”
A long silence stretches over the forest and I creep farther forward, straining to hear. Sticky leaves adhere to my cheeks like glue.
“You’re not surprised that the Tiger Queen is dead,” Balavan says. It’s too dark to see him, but I can picture him pacing in front of the Crocodile King, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Interesting. So you questioned Iyla before you killed her? Or is she still alive?”
Chipkali doesn’t reply, and Balavan gives a dramatic sigh. “No matter. She’ll be dead in a matter of months either way. But you, my friend, will be dead by morning.”
My breath sticks in my throat. What does he mean? That he’ll capture me? Or that I don’t have as much life left as he promised?
And why doesn’t Chipkali simply transform into the Crocodile King? How can Balavan possibly expect to kill him when he knows what Chipkali can become?
“I’m going to torture you slowly,” Balavan says. “Until you beg to spill your own blood.”
In one swift motion I’m yanked to my feet. I try to scream, but the sound is swallowed by the rough flesh of a palm pressed against my lips. I arch my back and try to land a kick, but without being able to use my arms, without being able even to see my assailant to know where to aim, I’m helpless.
He drags me away from the tree and pulls me deeper into the forest. I’m filled with sudden dread. I thought I had prepared myself to die, but the fear that claws at my throat is a stark realization that I’m not ready.
My attacker adjusts his hold, and the hand covering my lips shifts just a little. I open my mouth to scream.
“Stop.” A hiss against my ear.
I go still. Fazel.
I don’t know if it’s a betrayal or an escape.
We move farther away from camp. Fazel keeps his hand over my mouth. I try to shake him off, to reassure him that I won’t cry out, but he still trudges forward, half carrying, half dragging me. My shoulders scream in pain—they feel like they’re being wrenched from their sockets.
Finally, after what seems like an hour, Fazel stops. He pulls a knife from his belt and steps behind me. I squeeze my eyes closed and wait for the cool metal to bite against my throat, but I feel it against my wrists instead. Fazel slices through the rope in one fluid motion, and my arms are suddenly free.
“Is that better?” Fazel asks, his breath stirring against my neck.
I roll my shoulders. Every inch of me aches. “Yes,” I tell him. “Though you could have done that a long time ago. I would have come willingly.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I had only a small window of opportunity to get away. I couldn’t risk you screaming.”
“For an hour?”
I can barely see him in the darkness, but his voice is apologetic when he answers. “If we got caught on the way out, I thought we’d both be safer if you looked like a prisoner.”
“You’d be safer, you mean.” I can still feel the pressure of his hand against my mouth, the sharp panic of not being able to breathe.
“Are you angry? Because I just risked my life to get you out of there.”
“Would you be angry if you’d been tied up all night and then dragged through the forest like a dead animal?”
“I was trying to help,” he says.
“Well, if that’s what you consider help, then I think I’ll go it alone. Thanks anyway.” I spin on my heel and stomp off.
“You’re headed back toward camp,” Fazel calls out.
I stop walking and blink up at the black velvet sky. A storm of confusion rages in my chest—I don’t know if I want to punch Fazel or fall into his arms and thank him. I ache all over and I’m so tired. I slide to my knees.
A hand falls on my shoulder. “Iyla, let me help you. I thought you needed to get to your friend.”
I shake him off. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He sighs. “Why am I doing what? Helping you? Maybe because I don’t want you to die.”
I look up and try to study Fazel’s expression, but he’s nothing more than a shadow.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You think I want you dead?”
“I think people don’t risk their lives for someone they just met. I think you took me so that if you got caught on the way out, you could turn me over to Balavan in exchange for your own life. That or I’m just a pawn in whatever game you’re playing with the Crocodile King, a stepping-stone to getting more power.”
Fazel sucks in a sharp breath. “The man Chipkali sacrificed was my best friend’s father.” The low, strained tone of his voice slides under my skin like a sharp sliver. “The two of them were like family to me—at least until…” Fazel’s voice breaks, and something inside me cracks open. I want to comfort him, but the words stick in my throat.
“Kalan lost his mother a year ago to a sudden illness, and her death changed him. He withdrew from everyone—even me—and he hasn’t been the same since. Chipkali knew that he was struggling, that the grief was overwhelming. He knew it better than anyone. But still he turned Kalan into an orphan.” Fazel scrubs a hand over his face, and when he speaks again, his voice is weary. “So, no, Iyla. I’m not using you as a stepping-stone to get more power. I’m just tired of watching people die.”
A trembling silence stretches between us, and I wish I could take my earlier words back. But it’s too late. It’s always too late.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
He doesn’t answer. He just stands up and starts walking. I scramble to follow him and wonder if I’m so broken that I can’t tell the difference between the people who care about me and the people who want to kill me. Because right now everyone feels like an enemy.
There are no safe houses on the path between Colapi City and the Widows’ Village, and none of us are up for walking all night, so we sleep under the stars. I curl my body around Mani’s and bury my face in his hair until he’s snoring softly. Each time he stirs in the night, I hold him tighter and tell him that he’s safe. And each time Deven hears me whispering, he puts a palm on my shoulder to tell me the same thing.
When morning comes, Deven and I have barely slept at all, but Mani looks better rested than he did yesterday, so my bleary eyes and the headache pulsing at my temples are worth it. At least for one night I could chase the bad dreams away.
“How much farther?” Mani asks as we roll our blankets and stuff them into our packs.
Deven pats him on the shoulder. “We’ll be there before dark.”
And for the first time since we left the Raja’s palace, I see Mani smile.
We arrive in the Widows’ Village just as the sun is starting to set. The houses spilling across the landscape in a shock of blue always fill me with a raw kind of wonder.
The path widens as it dips into the valley, and I reach for Deven’s hand. Our eyes meet and he must see the worry in my expression, because he stops and cups my face in his hands.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says. “We’re safe here.”
I don’t remember the last time I truly felt safe, but I give him a thin smile. “I hope so.”
The small blue cottage Iyla and I stayed in a few months ago is just around the bend, nestled alongside dozens of other houses painted the same bright hue. The muscles in my shoulders start to unwind.
Then we turn the corner and I freeze. My hand flies to my mouth. A man stands on the porch, his back to us.
Balavan.
“What is it?” Deven asks. His hand tightens around mine.
“How did he find me?” The snakes stir in my satchel, tasting my panic. My heart slams against my rib cage.
“Talk to me.” Deven’s voice is low and urgent. “What is it?”
“It’s Balavan.” I take a step backward. “He’s the leader of the Naga.”
“Marinda,” Mani says, his voice trembling. “What’s wrong?”
I squeeze Mani’s fingers. “Don’t let go of me,” I tell him. “Do you understand?”
But it’s too late to run. Balavan has already turned, has already seen the three of us standing hand in hand. A smile stretches across his face.
“Rajakumari,” he says, moving in our direction with the grace and speed of a mountain lion. “You disappoint me.” His eyes gleam like puddles of spilled ink.
I gently push Mani behind me without letting go of his hand. Deven stands next to me so that Mani is completely blocked from view.
“I’m not coming back with you,” I tell him.
Balavan gives a cold laugh that sounds like shattering glass. “You’re brave,” he says, taking a step toward us. “I’ll give you that. But you always speak too soon.”
“Just go.” My voice is tight. I can barely get the words out. “You don’t need me.”
“I underestimated you.” Balavan circles us like a predator. Deven and I move along with him so that Mani stays behind us. “I thought mentioning the boy would make you more compliant. But now look what you’ve done. You’ve made it so much easier to kill him.”
Behind us, a sharp intake of breath. A whimper. Mani presses his face into my back.
“You aren’t killing anyone,” Deven says. He moves closer to me.
“There would be no point in killing him,” I say. “It would gain you nothing.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, rajakumari. I think killing him is the only way to get everything I want.”
“What is it you want?” I ask.
Deven stiffens beside me. “This isn’t a negotiation,” he says in a low voice. But it is. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect Mani.
One of the cottage doors opens, and a widow steps out onto the porch. “Marinda? Is that you? Are you all right, love?”
I don’t take my eyes off Balavan. “Yes,” I call. “I’m fine.” I repeat my question, softly this time so the woman won’t overhear. “What do you want?”
“What I’ve always wanted,” he says. “Absolute power.”
“You don’t need to kill Mani to get that.”
More doors have opened, and the widows of the village are spilling into the lane. They surround us like a small army, but I wish they were younger, stronger. I wish they had weapons.
“Oh, but I do,” Balavan says. “Letting the boy live didn’t work so well the la
st time.”
My palm slicks against Deven’s. My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean, the last time?”
Balavan takes a step toward us. “You will serve me,” he says. “Or you will be compelled to serve me.”
Deven starts to move between me and Balavan, his hands curling into fists. But then he recoils as if he’s been struck. My vision fractures and bends. The air around Balavan seems to fuzz at the edges, and my nose is filled with a smell I would recognize anywhere. Musky. Reptilian. The odor of the Nagaraja.
I spin, expecting to find the Snake King at my back, but I only find dozens of widows with their hands pressed to their mouths.
I turn back to Balavan. His skin is rippling, turning from deep bronze to pale white. His neck and body stretch and elongate. Huge scales emerge along his body. Before my eyes, Balavan transforms into the Nagaraja. Cold horror rolls over me.
Mani screams.
Deven yanks on my arm. His eyes are wild. “Come on,” he says. “We need to run.”
A dark cloak falls over my mind, warm and comforting. Like the moment just before falling asleep. I touch my wrist, expecting to find Jasu, but she’s not there.
Daughter.
The word slices through my mind, and I stumble backward. This isn’t one of my snakelets.
“Marinda,” says a voice at my side. “Listen to me.” Deven. I turn my head and see his panicked expression, hear the chaos erupting around us, see the widows streaming from their houses. If I could…
Stop fighting me.
My gaze goes back to the Nagaraja. I want to stop fighting.
Good, he says. Yes.
He dips his head low until I can see my reflection in his pitch-black eyes. And Mani is standing beside me. Mani. I have to protect him.
I turn toward my brother, and his expression goes vacant. I think of what Kadru said about snakes, how they can focus on only one mind at a time. If I can make the Nagaraja concentrate on me, maybe he won’t be able to control Mani.
“Someone bring me a weapon!” Deven shouts. I resist the urge to turn to him. I have to distract the Snake King. Mani’s face is slack. He takes a step forward.
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