“Something happened between us today,” I say. “Something that’s far too big to be ignored. As for those living specters—I think I might have heard one of them months ago at an inn in Javeribad. Maybe it was the one you called Latif. Maybe it was someone else. But they led me to the moon festival, saying that someone there would help me get into the palace. I think it was you I was supposed to meet, Cavas. It was you all along.” As I speak the words, my confidence grows. I may not have solid proof, but my gut tells me I’m on the right track.
“You’re dreaming. I was not at the moon festival to meet you. It was sheer coincidence that I even saw you there.” But his fists are clenched, and he doesn’t meet my gaze.
“It can’t be coincidence that your father is the one Juhi wanted me to see!” I prod. “It can’t be coincidence that the specter brought us here together with her singing. There must be some reason we keep connecting time and time again.”
“There is no connection between us. There is no prophecy, no jantar-mantar involved,” he says coldly, emphasizing jantar-mantar, a phrase used to describe illusions, cheap tricks that have nothing to do with magic at all. “I don’t know what the living specters are up to, but I didn’t bring you here because I believe in some fabled Star Warrior. You are no more to me except a means to an end.”
If he means to slice into me with those words, he succeeds. Brilliantly. But he underestimates me if he expects me to burst into tears and act wounded. Instead of walking away from him, I move closer, slow enough that he has enough opportunity to get away, to dodge my approach if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
A heat that has nothing to do with the weather or with magic simmers under my skin, reflects in his darkening pupils.
I’m not sure who makes the first move. All I know is that in the next moment, I’m pressed into the space between two paintings, his hand flat on my lower back, anger fusing his lips to mine. I welcome the rage, match it with my own: bite for bite, kiss for kiss. Somehow I know no matter how angry he is, Cavas will not hurt me.
Not physically at least.
My mind issues warnings about magi and non-magi, curses and boundaries, staying away and avoiding big mistakes.
My body takes over, ignoring the warnings. It welcomes the unsteady beat of my heart, the liquid heat between my thighs. It grows malleable, anger fading to a background hum. For a long moment, all I can think of is the skin right above my clavicle that he’s gently tracing with his tongue.
“Is this a means to an end, too?” The words slip out, my mind winning for the moment.
He raises his head. Anger flashes on his face once more. Underneath that, there’s something else. An emotion he shutters with a blink of his eyes before I can put a name to it.
I didn’t say anything wrong. Surely, after the things he said, my cruelty is justified.
So why do I feel guilty when he stalks out of Chand Mahal?
Why does it feel as if I’ve lost?
24
GUL
Somehow, I keep my wits intact and return my dagger to its hiding place in the garden before heading to the palace again.
Rain pours in torrents the next morning, the clouds overhead blacker than Queen Amba’s mood. Before the end of the afternoon, a serving girl leaves the queen’s chambers in tears, blood trickling down both nostrils.
“Whoever said things look better in the morning was lying through their teeth,” I hear another servant mutter while sweeping the lobby floor, and I can’t help but agree. The morning also does nothing to improve my guilt over what happened with Cavas in Chand Mahal.
Cavas isn’t wrong when he says we aren’t friends. Though the living specter specifically told us to stick together, being around me can only get Cavas into trouble. As selfish as I am in many ways, trouble is the last thing I want for this boy. It’s why, when the weather clears up the next day, I make it a point to keep my eyes averted from his when we head out with Princess Malti for her usual pony ride, saying nothing other than a curt “Shubhdivas” at the end.
The stormy weather makes nighttime wanderings impossible. As tempted as I am to go check on my daggers, I know it will be difficult to explain the mud I drag in from the garden and into the servants’ quarters. When I’m not thinking about my daggers or Cavas, my thoughts wander to the rekha that divides Ambar Fort in two, separating Raj Mahal from the women. Over the next couple of days, I strike up a rapport with one of the serving girls, attempt a few of the same questions I asked Yukta Didi before getting shut down.
“The rekha? It’s supposed to begin in the middle of the garden, I think,” she tells me. “I can’t say exactly where, though.”
“Wouldn’t someone be in danger of crossing it by accident, then? If it was invisible?” I ask.
“Oh no!” She laughs. “As a barrier, the rekha is far too strong. Its magic will burn you if you attempt it, so I wouldn’t even try. Why are you so interested, anyway?”
“She probably wants Yuvraj Sonar’s attention again,” another serving girl says before I can answer. “Probably thinks she can be made the crown princess if she tries hard enough. Don’t hold your breath, girl. If you’re lucky, you might be made the yuvraj’s concubine. If Rani Amba doesn’t kill you first.”
As puke-inducing as her comments are, I keep quiet, hoping she’ll equate my silence with embarrassment. Her laughter follows me out of the room, echoes in my ears, as I lead Malti to the stable for her usual ride.
“You don’t look too happy this morning,” a male voice says, sounding amused.
My heart skips a beat and then sinks when I realize it’s not Cavas.
“Rajkumar Amar.” I bow. “I apologize. I didn’t see you.”
“She has been in a bad mood for the past two days,” Malti informs her brother. I scowl at her, but she simply widens her eyes, unperturbed. “You are, Siya. You didn’t even laugh at my joke about the acharya, the fishmonger, and the Zaalian innkeeper.”
“Where did you hear that joke?” Amar asks sternly, even though the corners of his mouth twitch under his mustache.
“The stable boys.” Malti grins. “Though I didn’t understand the part about the fishmonger’s eel—”
“That’s enough!” The alarm on his face nearly makes me smile. “Wait. How about … this?”
To my surprise, he kneels and picks up a dried blade of grass. He spins it until it transforms into a pale-pink flower I’ve never seen before. “An orchid from Jwala,” he says, presenting it to a delighted Malti, who insists that he give me a flower as well.
“There’s no need,” I begin, but Amar is already bending, picking up a handful of dried earth this time, his hands glowing orange. Buds sprout from it, the bright orange of a sunset, the gold of newly hammered swarnas. Ambari roses burst into bloom before my very eyes. I don’t know why I flush when he hands them to me or why I’m suddenly aware of the stable boys whispering behind us. What makes me even more self-conscious is what—or who—I see behind Amar: Cavas, leading Malti’s pony out of the stable.
“Thank you, Rajkumar,” I say finally. “That is the finest bit of conjuring I’ve seen in a while.” I stare at the flowers, unsure if I’m supposed to take them and the dirt right out of his hands, when Amar smoothly deposits them into a pot, which has appeared out of thin air.
“You needn’t flatter me, Siya ji. There are better conjurers out there.”
“No, there aren’t!” Malti tells Amar. “Bhaiyya, you’re the best conjurer in the world! You can make things appear out of nothing!”
Her words make me strangely uncomfortable. In this proper, pretentious world of titles, where a queen’s own children don’t forget to add the word rani before Ma, it’s almost jarring to hear the affection in Malti’s voice, to hear her call Amar bhaiyya the way any other girl would her brother.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. They are still royals. The children of a man who has ripped hundreds of siblings apart with his atrocities.
“I’
m not the best conjurer in the world.” Amar gives me an embarrassed grin. “There are things I’m not good at, magic I haven’t quite perfected even in the realm of conjuring.” Behind us, Dhoop whinnies. “And if I continue talking, you won’t be able to go on your ride,” he continues. “Be good, Malti. Siya ji, I’ll have the flowers delivered to your room.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say. Goddess knows what the other serving girls will say when they see flowers arriving for me!
“They will be for everyone to enjoy,” he says, as if sensing my thoughts. “Shubhdivas, Siya ji.”
“Shubhdivas, Rajkumar.” I bow, feeling the heat of Cavas’s gaze.
“Siya, your face is red,” Malti comments.
“It’s the sun.”
“But—”
“Come along now. We’ve made Dhoop wait long enough,” I say hastily before she can point out that the sun hasn’t even made an appearance today and that the weather itself is quite pleasant, if not cool. Amar’s interest in me also makes me uneasy. Yes, there’s interest here. Something I should take advantage of. That I would take advantage of—if not for the figure in white walking ahead of me, the king’s seal embedded in his orange turban.
I’m so busy watching Cavas that I don’t pay attention to where I’m going and trip over my own foot, landing face-first in a puddle left by the recent rain. I don’t know what’s worse: the mud dripping down my chin when I finally rise to my feet, Malti’s bell-like laughs, or Cavas’s hovering over me, amusement battling with concern on his face.
“Laugh more, will you?” I don’t bother hiding the irritation in my voice. “The rest of the palace hasn’t heard.”
Malti stuffs her fists into her mouth.
“Do you want to go back and clean up?” Cavas asks quietly. It’s the first time in three days that he’s spoken to me in a tone that isn’t dismissive, and I’m annoyed by how happy it makes me.
“I’d better not.” I lower my voice so that Malti doesn’t hear. “Rani Amba is on the warpath this week. She might send me to prison for muddying her precious sangemarmar floors.”
A laugh booms out of him, surprising both of us. My heart, stupid thing, begins to thrum—even more so when he pulls the checkered cloth off his shoulder and offers it to me. “It’s clean. Washed it this morning.”
“Thanks.” The cloth smells of lye, honeyweed, and horses. I try not to bury my face in the scent.
We walk the remaining way in silence, but it doesn’t feel as strained as it was the day before. It’s not until Malti begins galloping with Dhoop that I speak again.
“I’m sorry. For what happened in Chand Mahal.”
“For the kiss?” he asks quietly.
“Yes—I mean, no!” I flush when his gaze locks with mine. “Are you sorry?”
“No.” He doesn’t look away, though I think I see red creeping up his neck. “I’m sorry for what I said to you, though. About being a means to an end. I was … frustrated, I suppose. I took it out on you.”
If it leads to more kisses, I don’t mind so much. I don’t voice the thought out loud, but something about my expression must have tipped him off, because he smiles again.
“You should smile more,” I say. “It improves your face.”
He laughs.
“Why were you frustrated?” I ask after a pause.
He frowns, turning away to watch Malti and Dhoop for a while. “There is a … man—or at least I thought he was a man—whom I meet up with from time to time. You heard me mention his name at Chand Mahal the other night: Latif. He looks a bit like the girl who spoke to us there. Gray eyes. Gray skin. Strangely … colorless. Latif was the one who convinced me to bring you to the palace. After what happened at Chand Mahal, I wanted answers. But Latif hasn’t answered me the way he usually does when we communicate. Come to think of it, he was ignoring me before that as well.”
A living specter. The words hover unspoken in the air, a mammoth in a tiny room. I can’t help but feel queasy. What do the living specters want with me? As for this Latif. Now that Cavas mentions him again, his name sounds familiar, as if I’ve heard it somewhere, spoken by someone else before.
Queen’s curses, why can’t I remember? No wonder Amira calls me useless.
“That must have taken some convincing,” I tell Cavas. “You hated me.”
“I never hated you, Gul.” A slight smile. “But yes, Latif promised me something if I got you in here. Usually he lives up to his promises fairly quickly, but I haven’t been able to get hold of him again.” Cavas pauses, his smile fading. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what that girl said. About how she is a living specter. There’s a part of me that wants to ask Papa directly, but he’s been so ill lately, so tired. I just … couldn’t.”
My mind races, picking out something that I remember Cavas mentioning before. “You told Juhi that your father has Tenement Fever. Is there no cure for it?”
“No. Tenement Fever doesn’t go away—unless you leave the tenements. If my contact doesn’t live up to his promise, then I’ll have no choice but to join the army. It’s the only way I can get out. Get Papa to a safer place.”
My elbows tighten painfully; I realize I’ve been gripping them hard with my hands. The army. “Cavas, that’s—”
“I know what you’re thinking. My father doesn’t approve, either. He promised I’d see him dead if I ever joined.” He gives me another smile, but this one doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse—that, or to see him die little by little every day.”
I say nothing for a long moment. That Cavas would be willing to pledge his loyalty to a ruler who has done nothing for non-magi except torture them baffles me.
Or does it?
I try to imagine myself in Cavas’s shoes. Imagine what it would have been like if my parents were still alive, but desperately ill.
“I don’t like it, but I understand why you’d make that choice,” I say finally, meaning the words. “It’s always easier to defy someone when you have nothing to lose.”
Cavas says nothing in response, but a moment later, I feel the back of his hand brushing mine.
Push it away, Gul, a voice in my head warns. Push his hand away before someone sees and reports you to Yukta Didi.
But then Cavas’s thumb brushes my wrist, and I stop thinking of everything except for the warmth of his skin, of my own quickening pulse. It’s how we stand, for several long moments, until Malti and Dhoop slow down to a trot, and we’re forced again to break apart.
* * *
Queen Amba summons me to her chambers the next morning. I pause outside the ornately carved door—this one with designs of a river, a sunlit orchard, and a lion—and lightly knock.
“Enter.”
Amba sits on cushions next to a large mirror, wearing a ghagra-choli of the palest pink. Right behind her, a servant pulls up sections of her wet hair, holding a fragrant pot of burning incense underneath. If the queen was planning an interrogation, she certainly isn’t dressed for it. Heartbeat slowly steadying, I bow low.
“Yes, yes, enough of that,” Amba says impatiently. “You’ll accompany Rajkumari Malti in the garden today. She’s had enough riding this week. You’ll find her in the gold room with her tutor.”
“Yes, Rani Amba.” My jaw unclenches. She doesn’t know about me and Cavas. No one knows. Except perhaps Princess Malti.
As Queen Amba said, I find Malti waiting for me in the gold room with her doll. A tall woman wearing the long saffron robes of a scholar stands next to her, holding several scrolls in her hands.
“Are you ready for your walk, Rajkumari?” The tutor’s smile does not reach her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” the princess answers demurely.
Today, Malti is dressed in yellow and white, tiny daisies embellishing her blouse and ghagra and the ends of her two braids. Her eyes glint with mischief when she sees me, and I force myself to suppress a smile.
“Here.” The tutor hands me a yellow-and-w
hite parasol. Her mouth looks like it has been perpetually sucking on sour grapes. “Make sure the rajkumari does not get a sunburn.”
She does not see Princess Malti’s scowl or hear the groan she makes later when we are left alone.
“I hate that thing,” she says, pointing to the parasol. “It doesn’t let me play!”
“We’ll have to take it with us to the garden, Rajkumari. Perhaps you can play under a shady tree?” I suggest. The last serving girl who let Malti play without a parasol had left Queen Amba’s room in blood and tears.
She grimaces, unconvinced.
I glance around uneasily before quietly saying: “I don’t want to get into trouble.” Not before I kill your father at least.
My stomach twists. I should not feel guilty, I tell myself. King Lohar is a murderer. A man responsible for the destruction of so many families, including my own. The royal family, from what I’ve seen of them, are little better.
Except Amar. And Malti.
Malti reminds me of the girl I was. The girl who had to learn what it’s like to lose a father. I push away the last thought. A pair of female guards discreetly flank the main entrance to the garden. The moment we step inside, one of them leaves her position and shadows us from about six feet away. Malti leans over to sniff an Ambari rose.
“Siya! Look here!”
As I crouch down, she whispers: “Do you want to lose her? The guard?”
I am careful to keep my body relaxed, even though my senses are suddenly on high alert. I lean over and sniff the flower lightly, my nose brushing its yellow-red petals. Losing the guard would allow me to look around the garden more closely, perhaps even spot where the rekha is.
Hunted by the Sky Page 21
