“Is this how you talk to your father?” His amused smile is replaced quickly by a grimace. “With all that talk about modern medicine and the healing magic of the vaids, can they really do nothing about the taste?”
I watch him drain the last drops of the cup. “At times like this, I really miss your mother,” he says, the light slowly fading from his eyes. “She’d laugh at me. She’d say that if it tasted good, it wouldn’t be medicine, would it?”
I glance at the binding cord on my father’s right wrist, its blue and gold threads frayed, the colors so faded that you can barely see them anymore. He never took it off after my mother first tied it on his wrist, not even after she died. Ma’s portrait—sketched inexpertly by Papa—hangs garlanded in our room, right next to the small statuette of Sant Javer and the shriveled incense sticks we occasionally burn during prayers. Papa said that Ma’s eyes were the palest green—and that my face looks a little bit like hers. I don’t resemble my father at all. Papa’s eyes are hazel, not brown like mine, and he’s at least half a head shorter than I am.
There are nights when I see Ma’s eyes in my dreams, when I imagine her holding my hand, the sand under our bare feet cool, stars pricking a moonless sky overhead. When I tell Papa about these dreams, he says that my mother was born in the tenements in the south of Ambar, near the Desert of Dreams.
Strange, I think now, how my dreams about Ma took me to the desert, how they always take me there when I think of her. My boy, she calls me in these dreams. My precious boy. The last dream of her had been so vivid that the world I woke up to in the morning didn’t feel quite as real.
“I miss her, too,” I tell my father. “More than anything else in this world.”
8
GUL
Their voices wake me up before the sun does, floating in from the courtyard, through the window to my dormitory.
“… dressed in a black ghagra and choli … capable of whisper magic, perhaps. The fireflies were acting most strangely.” A man’s voice. One that’s oddly familiar. I bury my head deep in my pillow.
“The thanedars in Ambarvadi must be mistaken. None of my girls were near the city last night.” Juhi’s low voice reaches my ears as distinctly as a temple bell. “We have a very strict curfew policy here, Thanedar ji.”
“If you’re sure about it, Juhi ji.” There’s a shuffling sound, a pause right outside our window. “You know how it is with young boys and girls these days. The things they get up to.”
My eyes snap open.
I climb out of my cot and nearly fall to the floor, knocking over the copper mug that I keep for washing on a small trunk next to my bed.
“Queen’s curses!” someone swears inside the room. Before the other novices can do more than groan their wakefulness, I’m already up, out of the dormitory, and sliding against the mud-brick walls until I reach the end of the corridor. There, I pause a few feet from Juhi standing at the door, the blue tips of her braid peeking out from behind the crumpled white sari draped around her head.
“Ji. Ji. I am sure, Thanedar ji.” I’m pretty sure I haven’t heard Juhi use that honorific so many times in one breath. There’s a pause, during which the thanedar says something else and Juhi laughs. “Oh no, you are too kind to an old widow.”
My palpitations don’t ease until she shuts the door, and slowly I begin to make my way back to the dorms. I nearly forget the shackles glowing around my wrists and ankles; the shock going through them makes me nearly take another tumble.
“You.” Juhi’s quiet voice feels like ice on my spine. “Follow me.”
I know better than to argue. I follow Juhi down the corridor to the schoolroom at the back of the house, nearly slamming into her when she suddenly stops.
“What happened?” I say—and then see that we’re not alone. “Oh.”
A shvetpanchhi is perched on a short desk in the center of the room, a bird the size of a human baby, white-feathered and red-eyed, blinking as I appear at the doorway.
“Gul?” Juhi looks the way some of the other novices do upon finding a dead bloodworm in their soup. “Do you know this bird?”
“Sort of.” Birds are a lot more difficult to whisper to, and two months ago, when I’d first tried to whisper to this shvetpanchhi, she’d pulled out some of my hair. These days, she brings me an occasional dead rat as a present. I always politely decline. “Would you like me to—”
“Please,” Juhi says, failing to suppress a shudder.
I bite back a smile. Shvetpanchhi aren’t dangerous to humans unless provoked; they can also be used to send messages over long distances. But this shvetpanchhi’s bloody beak is working against her image today. Sorry, I tell the bird. Can we talk later?
There’s a brief silence. Then the shvetpanchhi whistles softly and rises in the air, black tail feathers fanning as she flies out the window.
Juhi releases a breath. “Sit.”
I quietly pull up a cushion from the corner of the room and plop it down next to a short desk, where several cowrie shells are arranged in two perfect circles. Juhi sits next to me, and for the first time, I notice her exhaustion, the veins in her eyes redder than normal.
“You were scrying again,” I say. “Weren’t you?”
It’s not really a question. Juhi is the most powerful magus I’ve come across. She can modify the memories of several people at once; she’s an expert martial artist who mastered death magic at a young age. While all magic is draining in some form or another, everyone’s tipping point is different. And no magic takes more out of Juhi than scrying does. There have been a couple of times when I’ve seen Juhi lying on the floor of her room after a scrying session, Amira and Kali sprinkling water over her face, slapping circulation back into her hands and feet.
“No sleep for the wicked, as the thanedars say.” Juhi shrugs now and gives me a sudden smile. “Don’t look so worried, my girl.”
“I’m not worried.” Even though my heart leaps to my throat each time Juhi takes out her shells. Even though I wonder every day about what will happen to us if Juhi dies.
“The shells aren’t that bad. They led me to you, remember?”
“I remember.” Not that I believe I am the girl Juhi was looking for. I sigh. “I suppose you’re going to give me a new punishment, then.”
“I should, shouldn’t I? For that map. For nearly causing a riot in Ambarvadi. For bringing the head thanedar to our door.”
I feel my insides curl. No one piles on guilt better than Juhi.
She pauses briefly. “How long have you been with us, Gul?”
“Three days shy of two years.”
If the exact nature of my response surprises her, Juhi doesn’t show it. Her dark eyes narrow at the shells, which she now arranges to form a five-point star. “I’ve scried over and over during this time, looking for the Star Warrior. But the shells are always silent. They’ve been so ever since the day we found you in that zamindar’s stable in Dukal.”
I say nothing in response. There are days when I wonder if it could be true. If I really am the Star Warrior. Before I remember who I am. A magus with power that’s as unreliable as it is dangerous. You don’t need magic to kill someone, I remind myself. A well-placed dagger works; so does poison in a cup. All you need to do is get close.
“Why is finding the Star Warrior so important to you?” It’s a question I’ve asked Juhi many times in the past. “You always say you’ll tell me when the time is right. But you never do. Not the real answer anyway.”
“And why do you think rebelling against the raja’s atrocities isn’t a real enough answer?” she asks mildly.
I think back to my own parents, who hid me for years—and lost their lives for it. “People don’t rebel against tyrants unless they’re affected somehow,” I say. “Unless there’s a personal reason involved.”
It’s why I have asked Juhi several times over the past two years—with little success—to help get me into Ambar Fort.
“I can’t wait anymore,”
I tell her now. “When I come of age in two months, I am going to infiltrate Ambar Fort. I am going to find Raja Lohar, and I’m going to kill him.” I gather my courage, the question spilling out of me again, for perhaps the twelfth time in two years. “Juhi Didi, please. Will you help me?”
Juhi stares at me, saying nothing for several long moments. Just when I think I’m not going to get any answer, she speaks again: “What do you know about the Great War?”
I frown. What? “What does this have to do with the question I asked?”
“Bear with me, please.” Juhi points to the mural in front of us. “Come now, we learned this when you first came here.”
Spanning the entire front wall of the schoolroom, the painting is a detailed map of the four corners of the known world. Bhoomi, the continent we live on, forms the map’s center and its focus: with the Free Lands of the Brim in the northwest and the land of Aman in the northeast. The kingdoms of the empire formerly called Svapnalok form a diamond between the two, flanked by the Yellow Sea in the west and the Bay of Fire in the east.
I bite back a grimace. As much as I hate this, I know I won’t get any answers until I answer her question. “Once, there were two kings and two queens, descended from the gods and goddesses,” I say quickly. “Each ruler created his or her own land. The son of the earth god established Prithvi in the north. The daughter of the sky goddess built Ambar in the west. The fire goddess’s son drew on the power of her flames to carve out Jwala in the east, and the sea god’s daughter harnessed the ocean’s strength to grow Samudra in the south. Together, they banded and formed an empire called Svapnalok. It was Year 1 of Dev Kal, the first year in the era of the gods.
“For fourteen hundred and eighty years, all was well. Then Rani Megha of Ambar died. Her stepson, Lohar, succeeded her, as she had no children of her own. Raja Lohar, however, was suspected of foul play—some say he poisoned his stepmother. The other rulers of Svapnalok rebelled against his ascension, and a war broke out.”
Juhi nods. “Yes, but a suspicious death is not the only reason the rulers rebelled. Why else?”
“A prophecy was made by Lohar’s priests shortly before his ascension.” I break off. This is the part that always gets to me—a part that I’ve never liked saying out loud. “It talks about—”
“Recite it,” Juhi says quietly. “A prophecy is of no use unless spoken in its entirety. Come on now. You haven’t forgotten it.”
I should have—the way I’ve tried to forget every terrible memory. Yet, how could I, when our teachers made us recite it every morning at school? When my parents had moved from village to village, town to town, just because of it? I choke out the words:
“The sky will fall, a star will rise
Ambar changed by the king’s demise
Her magic untouched and unknown by all
Marked with a star, she’ll bring his downfall.”
When I was ten, I asked my parents why the king believed the prophecy. “Prophecies are made by scryers all the time! Not all of them are true!”
“This prophecy was made by Raja Lohar’s own priests, who are the best scryers of fortune in the land,” Papa told me gently. “Some say they can speak to the sky goddess herself. The king had no choice but to believe them.”
My hand tightens around my right arm, around the mark that no weapon can erase, no tattoo can hide.
“Terrified by the prophecy’s implications, Lohar began hunting the fabled Star Warrior,” I continue. “The prophecy never mentioned if the girl would also be from Ambar, so he decided to hunt for her across Svapnalok, sending his Sky Warriors to the other three kingdoms as well. Naturally, this made the rulers of Jwala, Prithvi, and Samudra furious. They called Lohar’s actions a blatant abuse of power. They also feared a rebellion from within their kingdoms as more girls began disappearing.
“The Prithvi king erected a giant magical wall overnight, barricading his entire kingdom from everyone else. Made of Prithvi Stone and ancient earth magic, the wall is so powerful that it cannot be scaled or burrowed under, nor can it be cracked open with a giant atashban. The other rulers, however, had no such option. Internal corruption had financially impoverished Jwala, and shortly after the war began, the queen signed a peace treaty with Ambar, offering Lohar access to her own army and military base. To the marked girls in her kingdom as well.
“The Samudra king continued to fight, allying with Subodh, the ruler of the Pashu kingdom of Aman.”
Part-animal and part-human, the Pashu are a race bound by an honor stronger even than the Code of Asha. The Pashu can’t tolerate injustice, which gives their magic a unique purity, allowing them access to powers that are rare or unseen among humans. I recall the pictures I saw of some of the Pashu from our history scrolls. The peri, who appear human apart from their golden skin and the giant wings sprouting from their backs. The simurgh, who are part eagle and part peacock, with the faces of women. And then there was King Subodh himself, a rajsingha, with the head of a lion and the torso of a man, his bloody teeth bared against the Ambari troops, his reptilian tail embedded with arrows. Born of the union of a magi human and a lioness, Subodh’s lizard-like tail was gifted to him by the gods when he lost his own as a youth in battle.
“Ah yes, Raja Subodh,” Juhi says. She smiles slightly, as if recalling an old memory. “You would like the Pashu, Gul. They, like you, are also capable of whisper magic. In fact, the early Pashu taught whispering to our human ancestors. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
Warmth suffuses my face and, for a moment, I feel exactly the way I did as a child, whenever my parents were proud of me. Then memory intervenes, cold hard facts that I read in history scrolls, reminding me of what ultimately happened to Subodh.
“But there were limits to Pashu magic, weren’t there?” I continue, bitterness creeping into my voice. “Lohar developed the atashban, the most powerful weapon in Ambari history, and armed his Sky Warriors with it. Subodh and his army of Pashu were no match for the combined forces of Ambar and Jwala and were defeated brutally in the Battle of the Desert. Subodh died in the battle, and his decapitated head was paraded throughout Ambar in celebration.
“Left without allies, the Samudra king fought for three more years, leading to more bloodshed between the two kingdoms. This was known as the Three-Year War, which eventually came to an end with the king’s death. His successor, Rani Yashodhara of Samudra, signed her own treaty with Ambar, offering a form of collateral to ensure the treaty remained in place.” I pause. “What was the collateral, though? That’s never mentioned in the history scrolls.”
Come to think of it, Juhi didn’t mention it, either, during our lessons over the past couple of years. Juhi gently traces the border between Ambar and Samudra on the map, her fingers lingering over the desert that separates the two. Her lips have grown so thin that I can barely see them.
“This has something to do with you—doesn’t it?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yes.” Juhi reaches into the folds of her sari and, to my surprise, pulls out a small drawstring purse. Made of blue silk and covered with embroidered golden lotuses, it is the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen. “Rani Yashodhara did use a form of collateral. She put up her twenty-five-year-old sister, binding her to Lohar.”
She undoes the purse’s strings, pouring the contents into her hands. I stare at the gold choker she holds in her palm, the square edges of its pendant encrusted with fat, iridescent pearls. Engraved in the center is a weapon I’ve seen before only in illustrated scrolls, but one I instantly recognize: a Samudra split whip, embedded with mermaid hair and green waterstones that glow even in the faintest light. It is a symbol every child in Ambar learned to recognize several years ago and eventually associate with fear and bloodshed.
After a long moment, I look up at Juhi’s face, at the blue streaks in her hair, and wonder how I didn’t guess before. “Do the others know?”
“That I am Juhi, daughter of the late Balram, seventy-second king
of Samudra? Amira and Kali do. The others may have guessed; I don’t know.”
Juhi’s voice grows hard. “Yashodhara thought I would be the perfect spy. That I would go into Ambar Fort, win over Lohar, learn his secrets. But Lohar didn’t trust me. The night of our binding, he made one of his guards strip me naked and search me in front of the court. ‘A security measure,’ he called it. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of screaming.”
My throat tightens, and for a moment, I think I’m going to throw up.
“He eventually tired of me, of course,” she continues. “Lohar’s obsession always has been with the Star Warrior. Once he began looking for her again, he forgot about torturing me. That was when I began making my move. Gathering power while pretending to be weak.”
“Was that where you met Amira and Kali?” I ask.
“Not exactly. And not by intention,” another voice says.
Amira stands in the open doorway, paler than I’ve seen her before. “Are you regaling her with tales of your time at Ambar Fort?” she asks Juhi. “Or did you head straight to the cesspits, where you found us?”
I do my best to keep my face expressionless even though my stomach is still churning from what I’ve heard.
“Are you afraid, child?” Amira drawls. “Can you handle hearing about what they do to magi girls they drain of their powers? Of how the guards like to play with them when they’re bored? I won’t even tell you what they did to the one and only non-magus girl over there.”
“I am not a child,” I say. Even though her words do make me ill.
“At Ambar Fort, without any control over your own powers, you will be far worse than a child. By some miracle, if you do kill the king, have you considered what will happen to you after that? What they’ll do to you at the palace? Have you even thought of whom you’ll end up putting in his place?”
I evade Amira’s gaze and focus on the empty silken purse. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to tell her I haven’t really thought beyond getting into the palace and killing King Lohar—two tasks that, in themselves, are massive and likely impossible. The idea of killing Major Shayla—the woman who murdered my parents—sometimes hovers in my mind as well, but she still does not take up as much space as the man who gave her those orders.
Hunted by the Sky Page 8
