Hunted by the Sky

by Tanaz Bhathena

  “Why does it matter who replaces Raja Lohar?” I ask. “Once he’s dead, the prophecy won’t matter anymore. The other king won’t bother hunting girls with birthmarks. There’ll be no more deaths, no more orphans.”

  I can feel both of them staring at me now.

  “How naive are you?” Amira cries out. “Tyrants always replace other tyrants—hasn’t history taught you anything?”

  Juhi, on the other hand, is more sympathetic. “I understand your anger. Your need for revenge. But, Gul, even if I ignore everything else Amira said, I can’t deny that you need more control over your magic during combat.”

  “More control?” Amira laughs. “She can barely do any magic as is.”

  “She can whisper to animals,” Juhi says in a cool voice. “That’s also magic, Amira.”

  “Yes, but it’s not useful if she plans to infiltrate the palace. Whispering doesn’t work on humans, so unless she somehow gets an armored leopard or a pack of dustwolves in with her, she’s completely helpless.”

  My nails bite into the fleshy insides of my palms. The birthmark on my right arm begins to burn.

  “She had the lowest score during last week’s practice fight,” Amira continues. “Her posture is poor, her aim weak. Even a spiked mace with poisoned tips would be of little use to her.”

  Blood rushes to my arms and to my face, my body growing so hot that it feels like I’m on fire. There’s a flash of green light, and the silken blue purse before me explodes, ripping into fragments of cloth and lint. Juhi brushes a hand under my nostrils. My blood coats the creamy white pallu of her sari.

  “Gul. Gul, look at me.”

  Juhi’s voice breaks whatever trance I’m under. Shivers race down my body, and I wonder if I’m running a fever. Juhi brushes her thumbs up the sides of my nose and presses the bridge. Pain stabs my forehead.

  “There,” she says. “That should clear up the blood.”

  “How in the name of Zaal did you do that?” It’s Amira who speaks now, her voice sharper than I’ve ever heard it before.

  My mouth opens, trembles. “I don’t know. I was angry with you, I guess. I … tried to push it out of my system.” I don’t tell them about how my birthmark began burning a moment before the magic burst out of me. How it always seems to burn whenever I’m afraid or terrifyingly angry.

  A dead silence follows. Juhi eyes the fragments of cloth as if they are newly discovered treasure and not the shreds of some of the most expensive silk on the continent.

  “She’s an anomaly, isn’t she?” Calculation has entered Amira’s voice.

  “Seems so,” Juhi murmurs. “All that repressed magic … it has to come out somehow.”

  “I’m an ana—what? What does that mean?” I ask.

  “You performed death magic without a weapon,” Juhi explains. “And, apart from that nosebleed, you seem to be fine.”

  “So?” My heart is thumping so loudly I’m sure they can hear it. “I bet a lot of magi can do that.”

  “They can’t, princess,” Amira says. “Just as not every girl born with a birthmark is capable of magic, let alone death magic. Even the strongest at death magic need some sort of weapon to focus their powers. There are, however, rare instances when a magus represses their powers for so long that when it does come out of them, it’s almost always explosive.”

  “Repressed?” I frown. “Why would my magic be repressed?”

  “Sometimes trauma or fear can cause repression—for instance, if you badly injured someone with your magic,” Amira replies, referring to what happened during the practice fight last year. “In your case, though, the repression has been happening for much longer—since you were very young, right?”

  “Since I was a baby,” I admit.

  “Were you ever punished for using magic as a child?” Amira asks.

  “Never. My parents encouraged me to use magic all the time. So did my teachers at school. Some even tried to scare the magic out of me. It didn’t always work.” I tell them about the few times my magic did emerge—when Ma tried to burn off my birthmark, when I felt like Agni was in danger back in Dukal, the practice fight with the novice here in Javeribad.

  “Each of those times, I felt like I was in danger,” I say. “Like if something didn’t happen, I would die—or that terrible things would happen. Right before my magic erupted, my birthmark would burn. Maybe that’s what needs to happen. But why?”

  I don’t tell Juhi and Amira about how I’d begged the sky goddess for help in the stable in Dukal. How her eyes had glowed green right before my mind slid into Agni’s. The goddess coming to my aid—now that had to be the anamoly. Or a figment of my imagination.

  Amira looks as bewildered as I feel. “I don’t know, princess. I’ve never heard of anything like this happening before.” She looks at Juhi. “What about you, Didi?”

  “I haven’t,” Juhi says. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Human knowledge of magic is not absolute. Only the gods know everything, and they often work in mysterious ways.”

  Amira rolls her eyes. “Your gods do not exist, Juhi Didi. Only magic does.”

  Juhi smiles, glancing at the amulet on Amira’s arm. “I will not argue theology with a Zaalian.”

  “Because you know I’m right! The gods never come to our aid when we need them.”

  That’s true, I think. Though I would cut off my tongue before admitting that out loud.

  “I imagine our princess would end up with worse than a bloody nose if she tried blowing up anything bigger than that purse,” Amira continues. “Not to mention endanger everyone else around her.”

  “Not if she uses a weapon and not with proper training.” Juhi stands and walks over to the map, studying it for a long moment. “There are risks, of course. A well-placed hit or an accident could mean instant death. We’d have to be prepared for that.”

  Instant death. The words chill my insides, twist into something that oddly feels like guilt.

  Juhi murmurs a few words, moving her hand over the purse. The tattered edges glow, float up, and join back into shape.

  “Death magic, if done properly, wouldn’t have let me do that. I wouldn’t have been able to mend the purse. So this is what I’m going to do.” She locks gazes with me. “I’m going to start training you in magical combat. If you perform a proper attacking spell at the end of two months, I will see what I can do to help you get into Ambar Fort. If you don’t, you will have to find your own way in.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Amira protests. “She won’t last a moment in that place by herself!”

  But Juhi isn’t paying attention to Amira.

  “You really mean it?” I can’t believe my ears. “You’ll help me get in?”

  Juhi holds up a hand, her lotus tattoo glowing. “I swear by the god of the sea and by the goddess of the sky. Unless you don’t want me to. Don’t tell me you’re nervous all of a sudden.”

  “Of course not,” I say, even though I am nervous. Yet, underneath that, I feel something else awakening. Excitement. Hope. After two years of asking questions and sneaking around, two whole years of trying to figure out a way on my own, I will have someone else—perhaps the best person I know—help me.

  “This is a mistake,” Amira mutters.

  “I can start training you tomorrow,” Juhi tells me. “You’re a magus, Gul, and it’s about time you learned to use the power lying dormant in you. Don’t you agree?”

  I try to look calm and confident, but from the twinkle in Juhi’s eyes and the surly look on Amira’s face, I can see I’ve failed. I’m much too excited.

  “I agree,” I say.

  9

  GUL

  Mornings for novices are dedicated to stretching and exercises for Yudhnatam. Initially, because of my small size and general agility, Juhi thought I would be good at the martial art’s intricate spins and kicks and the high jumps needed to perform said kicks. That she was wrong is an understatement. I grimace, not looking forward to facing the gray-haired
Yudhnatam mistress’s shouts this morning. Having seen seventy-five blue moons in her lifetime, Uma Didi is the oldest member of the Sisterhood, but you’d not know this from the way she pins down the tallest and sturdiest novices with barely a move of her wrist or a twist of those scrawny hips. Uma Didi suffers no fools, which makes things difficult, as I am considered the biggest fool among the novices.

  “Got yourself into trouble again, did you?” Uma Didi says now, eyeing the shackles glowing on my wrists and ankles. “No practice for you this morning. Instead, you’ll be helping Cook in the kitchen. You will chop the vegetables, scrub the utensils, and make fuel at the end of the day. Also, no magic is allowed.”

  I grimace, wondering if she’s taunting me with the no magic is allowed stipulation. Working with Cook isn’t exactly easy, either. Cook’s real name is Kalpana Bai, though no one ever calls her that, and she is one of the grumpiest people I know. Not only does she clean her ancient, rust-covered pots with ash and coconut husk, but she also insists on our making fuel out of straw and cow dung instead of using the less disgusting and more convenient grass-oil. She says dung cakes make the food taste better.

  I’m about to complain about this when Uma Didi adds: “You will do this for the next two months.”

  “W-what?” I stutter. “Why?” Two whole months in shackles and working with Cook? “It’s not like I’m the only one who has broken curfew before! None of the others has had such a harsh punishment.”

  “And none of them has brought the head thanedar to our door,” Uma Didi points out. Behind her, I spot Amira watching us and suddenly realize who is behind this new addition to my punishment. “Go on,” Uma Didi says, dismissing me. “I’ve wasted enough time on you today.”

  News about my punishment spreads quickly. Novices smirk at one another while passing by the kitchen, giggle openly when Cook screams at me for tripping and spilling a platter of newly cut vegetables to the ground. My lessons with Juhi are to take place in the evenings in a small room next to the kitchen, once used to store sacks of grain.

  A part of me knows that the punishment is simply a ruse to hide my training sessions. The fewer who know about what we’re really doing, the better, Juhi explained. And even though the idea is perfectly sound, I cannot help but bristle when I hear the laughs behind my back, some of them right in the open, in the alley behind the kitchen, where a couple of girls spy Cook shouting at me for mixing too much straw in with the dung. I know that the other novices don’t mean to be unkind—most of us get along fairly well outside of practice fights—but the Sisterhood’s strict rules for secrecy can be difficult. With the monotony of daily chores and training, everyone looks for ways to amuse themselves.

  Stars prick the sky when I finally trudge back into the house, stinking, my thighs and back muscles aflame, and make my way to the armory. Juhi suggested picking a real magical weapon in lieu of a sparring sword for these training sessions, which did little good for my peace of mind. Though, if the punishment goes on the way it did today, it probably won’t even matter, I think dully. Juhi will be sweeping the floor with me instead of the broom.

  I brush a hand against the armory wall, feel magic buzzing against my fingertips. Ignoring the uncomfortable sensation that comes with it, I breathe deep and unlock the door with the key I borrowed from Juhi. The moment I step inside, I feel like I’m in a small, stuffy cage, hung with an array of different weapons—most of which have likely been banned by the government.

  Sharpened jambiyas encased in iron sheaths. Round Ambari chakras that can be spun in the air and decapitate an enemy. Deadly battle-axes, ball-shaped maces with poisonous spikes, talwars forged of Jwaliyan iron, their long blades curving gently at the end. At the very center of the sword gallery hangs a Samudra split whip: a sword that in its deadliest form splits into four bendable, serrated blades.

  No one from the Sisterhood apart from Juhi is capable of wielding the split whip, and no one really wants to. The one time Juhi demonstrated the deadly weapon, she sliced a tree into five chunks with one stroke. Mastering the split whip takes years of practice, and even then, Juhi is uncomfortable using it.

  “When you get too comfortable with a weapon, you get overconfident. That is when you—and others—can get seriously hurt,” she told me once.

  I study the daggers again, drawn to a pair with blades shaped like shadowlynx horns. Unlike the others, these blades are made of glimmering green glass and hilts embedded with seashells and pieces of mammoth tusk. I imagine their sinking into the king’s belly, carving new shapes into it with brutal efficiency. My hands reach out and pause breaths away. A pulse begins at my diaphragm, skittering up to my chest cavity.

  I draw in a lungful of air. Hold. Release slowly. Without a touch, I can tell that these green daggers will need immense magic to power them. They are much too beautiful and likely too advanced for me. I turn away to listlessly stare at the weapons again, debating between a longsword with a firestone at its hilt—a weapon that’s probably too heavy for me to wield—and a lighter variation of the Ambari mace.

  “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to make a choice?”

  I spin around, heart racing, only to be greeted by Amira’s unamused face. I did not even hear her come in.

  “Why are you here?” I demand. “Where’s Juhi? I’m supposed to be training with her.”

  “Juhi is indisposed. You’re training with me, instead,” Amira says coolly.

  “What do you mean, she’s indisposed?” A memory flashes: Juhi’s body lying still on the floor, her pupils white, her hands cold to the touch. “She said she would be here!”

  A shock goes through the shackles on my wrists, ending with a throb in my skull. I grit my teeth as Amira clicks her tongue. “Your impertinent questions don’t deserve an answer. Now come with me.”

  I grit my teeth, refusing to budge. Sighing, Amira raises a hand, and another shock goes through me, this time through the shackles on my ankles.

  “Pick a weapon. Or two. A shield would probably be of use as well.”

  As tempted as I am to spit at her, I turn and grab the two green shadowlynx daggers and a belt to sheathe them in. My hand reaches out for a shield, landing on a round one made of metal with a lion engraved at the center. It reminds me of the Pashu king Subodh. Pashu, I recall, are also capable of whispering. Feeling a little better, I slide the shield over one arm.

  “Come. We’ve wasted enough time here already.” Amira steps out of the door without another look in my direction.

  Under my breath, I call Amira a word so foul that Juhi would skin me alive if she heard me say it. I follow Amira to the room next to the kitchen, the doors now closed, Cook’s snores the only sound cutting through the silence. At the threshold of the old storage room—my new training ground—another shock goes through the shackles, making me tumble to the floor, pain shooting through my knee bone.

  “That was for your filthy tongue,” Amira says before disappearing inside.

  * * *

  The moment the door locks behind us, Amira begins tapping the walls of the room with a finger. The faint, crackling sound of the noise-blocking shield raises tiny bumps on my skin. Apart from a small glass window, the storage room has no natural light. Before I can offer to bring in a lantern or two, a lightorb bursts from Amira’s fingers and floats overhead, illuminating the room.

  Show-off.

  Making light isn’t a gift limited to only a few magi, but not everyone is capable of doing it. Ma was the only one in our family who could magic lightorbs. Papa called her his Little Light, even though there was really nothing little about my mother—she was slightly taller than Papa, even. I blink away the sudden tears pricking my eyes and focus on Amira’s sharp voice.

  “Fighting without magic often involves training the body in a series of physical movements,” Amira says. “Fighting with magic, however, is largely mental, and not every weapon can withstand the power of the human mind. There are substances, of course, that
are useful. White Jwaliyan marble called sangemarmar, mammoth tusks from Prithvi, Ambari firestones, and seaglass from Samudra,” she says, pointing to the shimmering green dagger in my hand. “Any of these, when used in a weapon, can amplify magic.” She picks up a metal spear leaning against the wall, its sangemarmar tip glowing in the dim fanas light.

  “The shield you’re holding is reinforced with chips of mammoth tusk, so it will protect you from quite a few spells. But no shield is better than the one you can raise with your own magic. When we fight, you must focus on a single word: Protect. Make it the sole object of your meditation, make it your prayer. Now raise your shield!”

  It soon becomes clear why.

  I barely take two steps forward before a blast of light hits my chest, sending me to the floor, the metal shield nearly clocking my jaw. Amira stands on the other end, unarmed apart from the spear. Her simple white sari is tied like a kaccha, the cloth draped to form pantaloons for ease of movement. I expect her to be sneering at me, but her face is expressionless.

  “Up again. Concentrate this time, and try to protect yourself with your own magic instead of the shield.”

  Another blast of magic. Protect, I think, but even though I raise my shield to block it, I simply fall to the floor again.

  She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Clearly someone hasn’t been doing their morning squats. If you can’t even withstand a blast of air, how will you last through an actual fight?”

  When she sends the next blast, I remain standing—out of sheer stubborn will. But I’m still unable to cast a shield spell.

  “Good,” Amira says. “Now try to block me. Focus on protecting yourself. Use your mind, princess!”

  “How—” The question gets lost in the next blast she sends my way—one I narrowly dodge. She has me like that, skipping and ducking, until a blast hits me right in the back, blowing me off my feet.