Hunted by the Sky

by Tanaz Bhathena

  I’m sure he can see me blushing. “But surely Raja Lohar would release me from the binding if I asked him to. I’ve won my freedom at the cage. Why the need for a death duel?” I demand. “Do you want the king to die?”

  “Of course I don’t!” he says. His head turns this way and that, as if scanning our surroundings, and for the first time during this conversation, I realize he looks afraid. “Under ideal circumstances, I don’t want the king to die. But I also know my father.

  “As a boy of five, I asked him for a toy—the model of an Ambari foot soldier that could walk and talk. My father had the best conjurers in the land make it out of gold and firestones. It was beautiful, as big as a kitten. Then, he had me and my brothers brought before him. He smiled at me and then tossed the toy onto the paisley rug in front of him. ‘Win it,’ he said.

  “Sonar got to the toy first, as always. I watched him break off the soldier’s arms and legs as my father and his courtiers laughed in the background.”

  Amar’s face is taut with memory. “So you see, Siya, he is not the sort of king who will let you go if you simply ask him to. He relishes combat, thrills in it. As I’ve grown older, I’ve seen the damage my father has done to this kingdom and his people. For all the power I supposedly have as a prince, I have done nothing except play the role of a useless bystander.”

  His voice grows bitter now and, for the first time, I sense the undercurrent of an anger that’s years old. “You were the one who reminded me again of the Code of Asha. Of what it means to be honorable. My mother considers dishonor to be worse than death. So did the kings and queens of old. If my father dies in the duel, then he dies. You will not be blamed for it.”

  “What about Raja Lohar’s successor?” I ask. “Yuvraj Sonar will never pardon me.”

  Amar shakes his head. “Sonar may be the least honorable person I know, after my father, but as Ambarnaresh, he will be forced to uphold the law. The law on death duels is pretty clear.”

  Yes, but laws can change, I think. Before Lohar came to power, no girls were hunted for their birthmarks. It wasn’t lawful to kidnap anyone or kill entire families.

  The sky goddess’s warning echoes in my head again, mingles with what Amira said about tyrants. For years, I didn’t want to think or consider what would happen once I killed the king—if I even came close to it. If I did succeed, I didn’t expect to survive.

  You must be a leader when all hope is lost.

  But I have never wanted to be a leader. I have never wanted anything except to avenge my parents and stop the king’s senseless kidnapping of marked girls.

  “I don’t need to challenge the Ambarnaresh to stop him from binding me with the yuvraj,” I tell Amar finally. “I won my freedom at the cage. I can leave the palace right now, and no one can stop me.”

  “Yes, you can leave,” he agrees. “But my father and brother can be determined. They will track you down, and also track down the people you love. Have you no family to speak of?”

  I picture them in my mind—my parents, Juhi, Kali, Amira—and am grateful that they are nowhere near this place. “None whatsoever,” I say.

  “What about that stable boy?”

  “What stable boy?”

  The buzzing in my ears recedes. Overhead the dove hoots, a strange gurgling that sounds like someone being strangled. Amar’s eyes never move from my face, which I struggle to keep straight and unaffected.

  “Be careful, Siya ji,” he says finally, his tone formal again. “The palace has eyes everywhere. And I am not the only one who notices things.”

  31

  GUL

  Moving around the palace as a free woman should be a lot easier than it was as Queen Amba’s serving girl. Yet, after the king’s pronouncement about my binding to Sonar, I am suddenly surrounded by more people than I want, including the girls I once shared a room with in the servants’ quarters. Girls who taunted me now push one another out of the way to curry favor: offering to braid my hair, wash my feet, scent my bathwater with jasmine oil.

  The morning after my encounter with Amar in the garden, I find a package waiting for me in my new room. Inside it: my second dagger, along with a brief note that says: You might need this.

  I feel my skin flush hot and then go cold. There’s no doubt in my mind about who sent the package. Prince Amar: the most honorable man in Ambar or the best liar I’ve ever met. I still don’t fully believe in his intentions. Yet, if what he said about the old law and death duels is true, then I have the perfect excuse to commit regicide—and not be blamed for it.

  For now, I’m grateful for the reassuring weight of the daggers in my hands, relieved to see them glow green in response to my thoughts. It’s dangerous to keep them hidden anywhere in the room, so I strap them tightly to my thighs.

  Unlike yesterday afternoon, which was an exception, I learn that the royal family rarely sits down for their meals together and that I can take my meals in my room if I choose. This would be a relief, except that I’m now constantly watched by an attendant over an otherwise delicious breakfast of sweet halwa, methi bajra puri, and fried onion kachoris. The attendant, a fragile-looking girl around my age, is overwhelming in her solicitousness. I pick up a bajra puri and crunch into the deep-fried bread to hide my frustration, the scent of spices and fenugreek rising in the air.

  “I was wondering…” I begin, carefully watching the way my attendant’s slender fingers clutch at the front of the dupatta covering her hair. There’s an anxious look on her face, and it makes me soften despite my annoyance. “Does the kitchen have any rose sherbet? Or chaas?” I ask, naming two cool drinks that weren’t normally served during the Month of Tears. “If it’s too much trouble—”

  “No! Of course not!” The girl’s face brightens. “It may take the cooks some time, but I’m sure they can make either of the drinks for you. Shall I bring both, Siya ji?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  I wait until her footsteps have faded down the corridor and then slip out in the opposite direction: across the courtyard and out of the palace, toward the stables. I’m hoping Cavas will be there alone, even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to tell him. That Amar—and possibly someone else—knows about us? That there’s this vague sense of danger that has been haunting me ever since I won my freedom at the cage, or perhaps even earlier—when I heard Major Shayla talking about Cavas across the rekha.

  A pair of voices argue in my head:

  You owe Cavas no explanations. You are here to kill the king, and that is it.

  But if he’s in danger, shouldn’t he know? Don’t you owe him a warning, at least?

  I’m still debating this when Cavas steps out of the building, an empty bucket in hand. For a long moment, we both freeze in place, staring at each other. Every thought I’ve had disappears as he gazes at my freshly scrubbed and painted face. He frowns when he sees what I’m wearing: a blue choli and matching ghagra intricately embroidered with flowers and leaping silver gazelles. It’s one of the many outfits the crown prince had delivered to my room last night. The blouse is so snug that it’s nearly suffocating, tied in crisscross strings at the back, the sleeves ending at the elbows—as is the fashion these days. My attendant found me odd for wanting to dress myself, even though she marked it up to shyness this time around. She refused to let me do my own hair, and I know it’s only a matter of time before someone sees my birthmark, before this whole charade blows up in my face.

  But right now, I can think of only Cavas, the way his brown eyes narrow at the sight of my borrowed finery, the taut set of his jaw. He gives me a stiff bow. “Siya ji. How may I be of service?”

  I hate the formality of his voice, the cool, subservient tone that he usually reserves for the royal family. I am not bound to the crown prince yet, I want to tell him. And I never will be. But I bite back the words. We might be watched, perhaps even be listened to, right in this moment. But it may be my only chance to warn him. “Cavas, I need to talk to you. It’s im
portant—”

  Before I can finish, a shout goes up behind me: “Siya ji! Siya ji!” Feet pound the earth, followed by the sound of my attendant’s gasps. “I was looking everywhere for you! Please don’t leave the palace unattended again! You’ll get into so much trouble!”

  “Can it wait?” I ask impatiently. “I need to—”

  “It can’t,” she interrupts, even more anxious than before. “Rani Amba wants you. Immediately.”

  My heart sinks. Whatever my new position in the palace, even I can’t dare evade a summons like that.

  “Shubhdivas, Siya ji.” Cavas’s deep voice is filled with a warmth that doesn’t reach his eyes. I want to tell him to stop. To wait. But all I can do is listen to my attendant’s reprimands and watch helplessly as he walks away, a lonely figure in white carrying a bucket to the trough.

  * * *

  My attendant forces me to put on new shoes when we enter Rani Mahal—“Your old ones are muddied from being outside!”—and then escorts me directly to the gold room, where I find the three queens seated next to one another, straight-backed and unsmiling, on red velvet cushions.

  “There you are, Siya.” Queen Amba’s voice is cool, her eyes hard and assessing as they go over my attire. I force myself to stand straight and not wince. Shortly afterward, Amba nods; I must have passed the inspection. “I believe everyone is now here, Farishta—every woman of childbearing age, as your, er, guests requested.”

  I wonder if I’m supposed to remain standing, but then my attendant ushers me to a cushion on the side, a little away from the queens. I settle down, doing my best to adjust the daggers strapped to my thighs without drawing attention to myself. Farishta murmurs something to a serving girl standing quietly beside her. The girl leaves the room and then reappears a few moments later, followed by a pair of bald figures. Sadhvis, I realize. Holy women garbed in loose brown garments, their faces smeared with vertical lines of blue-gray ash. They pause a couple of feet from us and bow low, their voices rising and falling in perfect rhythm:

  “Our greetings to the queens and the future crown princess.”

  A shock goes through me as I get a closer look at them, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m wearing shackles again.

  Kali’s long, glossy black braid is gone, her lovely gray eyes almost obscured among the lines of ash. Amira, on the other hand, looks far less recognizable because of the many wrinkles around her mouth and her eyes—wrinkles that I’m certain she didn’t have a few months ago. Indeed, I wouldn’t have known her if not for her dark eyes and expression—a look of disdain that I’m far too familiar with. She gives the queens the same look now—and while Amba remains unflappable, I’m secretly impressed by the way it makes the other two cringe.

  “I hope your accommodations are adequate, Sadhvi ji,” Queen Farishta says. “As I mentioned, we have more than enough rooms—”

  “And as I mentioned before, we require nothing more than the earth under our feet and the goddess overhead. One room is adequate.” Amira’s voice is cold. “My rani, coins do not move us. Neither does luxury.”

  “Forgive Rani Farishta for her ignorance, Sadhvi ji,” Amba cuts in smoothly. “She comes from the Brimlands. They know nothing about austerity.”

  “As if you know anything about it!” Farishta snaps, no doubt referring to the fine jewels and the expensive green silk sari Amba herself is wearing today.

  “I wonder,” Kali says, “if the queens have brought us here to solve their troubles or to listen to them engage in petty rivalries.”

  A chill that has nothing to do with the temperature permeates the room. Queen Janavi, the only queen who hasn’t spoken during this exchange, hides a smile behind her hand.

  “We shall begin the cleansing ceremony now,” Kali goes on, pretending that she isn’t being sent death glares by the first and third of Lohar’s queens. “Let the lamps be lit. By the blessings of Asha, the first queen of Ambar, and the sky goddess, who bore her…”

  “By the blessings of Asha, the first queen of Ambar, and the sky goddess, who bore her,” we repeat, launching into the first verse of the Sky Scroll. The ceremony is long and rather boring. Neither Amira nor Kali spare me a single glance, and I have to catch myself from dozing once. Queen Janavi winces often, her hands reaching out to massage her knees. What surprises me most is how well both Amira and Kali stay in character, reciting enormous chunks of the scroll without even looking at it.

  At the end of the ceremony, they rise to their feet. First, they approach Farishta, to whom Amira gives a bottle filled with yellow liquid: “Drink this and you should have a son within the year.” Next to Amba, whom Kali offers a single flower: “Blessings for healthy grandchildren.” Next to Janavi, who is given a handful of tulsi leaves: “Mix these into your morning tea and your joint pains will ease.”

  By the time they come to me, my heart is hammering. Amira gives me a cool look. “Come closer, girl. Let me see your face.”

  Her hands cup my cheeks, draw me close, then she murmurs so softly that only I can hear: “The green room.”

  The room right next to mine. My heart leaps. I give her the tiniest of nods.

  “May your binding be long and happy,” Amira says out loud before releasing me. “Rise, my queens. Rise, future crown princess. Let us now offer prayers to the sky goddess at her temple.”

  The prayer at the temple, which is on the grounds outside Rani Mahal, takes a surprisingly short time. Or maybe it only feels that way because I’m thinking of ways to get to the green room without being followed by my too-watchful attendant. It’s not until it’s time for the afternoon meal, when Amira and Kali finally take their leave, that I have an answer.

  “Rani Amba.”

  The queen turns in my direction—the closest she’ll come to dignifying me with a Yes?

  “I’m not feeling very well.” It’s not a lie. There has been a sick feeling in my stomach ever since my encounter with Cavas this morning. “I … I think it’s something I ate for breakfast.”

  To my relief, the queen doesn’t touch me or question the lie. “Go, then. The evening meal will be sent to your chambers later in the day.”

  “Feel better, Siya ji,” Queen Janavi says. There’s a kind look in her eyes, and I have a sense that, under other circumstances, I might have even liked her.

  I bow, careful not to turn my back to them, then slowly make my way to Rani Mahal, clutching my stomach the whole time.

  “Rest, Siya ji,” my attendant says softly. She places the cups of rose sherbet and frothy chaas I’d asked for on my bedside table. “You can drink this once you feel better. I will be in the gold room, cleaning. If you need anything, ring the bell.” She gestures to a heavily embroidered sash hanging right by my giant four-poster bed. I simulate a weak nod. I wait for long moments, listening to the sounds in the corridor, waiting for them to subside completely. Then, slowly, I slip out of my room. My attendant is nowhere in sight. I look both ways again before quietly pushing open the door to the green room.

  Amira and Kali are seated cross-legged on the floor, their eyes closed, hands pressed together in meditation.

  “It’s me,” I say quietly.

  Their eyes snap open at once. “Thank Zaal,” Amira mutters, rising to her feet. “I’ve had enough of queens and serving girls barging in here, asking for solutions to their troubled love lives.”

  “It’s only been one night, Amira,” Kali admonishes before wrapping me in a warm hug. “I’m so glad you’re safe, Gul. We’re going to get you out of here.”

  I stiffen in her arms, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Get me out?” I say.

  “I suppose there must be another reason we’ve shaved our hair off and infiltrated the palace,” Amira says sarcastically.

  “We were so afraid when you disappeared,” Kali says, releasing me. “Juhi was beside herself when she found your note. It was only thanks to Agni that we were able to track you to the flesh market and later the palace. That mare of yours is better than
a hound. Tell me quickly—did you sign any contracts? Put any thumbprints anywhere?”

  “No. I wasn’t sold at the flesh market.” I tell them about Cavas and how he helped me get in.

  “Cavas?” Kali frowns. “But wasn’t he the one who refused to help you and Juhi in the first place?”

  I avoid looking into her eyes. “I guess he changed his mind.”

  “Desperation makes people do things they wouldn’t otherwise do,” Amira says without a trace of her usual mockery, and I wonder if she’s thinking about her own parents, who sold her for money in Havanpur. “Well, the one good thing that came out of it is that you haven’t been magically bound to any contracts. It’ll make tracking you a lot more difficult. It was Juhi’s greatest worry.”

  My throat tightens. “Juhi. Where is she now?”

  “She isn’t here at the moment,” Kali says cryptically. “But she has a plan to get you out. Now that we’ve found you—”

  “I’m not leaving,” I interrupt. It’s not until the words leave my mouth that I realize they’re true.

  “Right.” Amira snorts. “And Sunheri and Neel lived happily ever after.”

  “You can’t be serious, Gul.” Kali, for the first time, sounds angry and a little afraid. “You can’t possibly think you’ll be able to kill the king!”

  “Maybe I can. There’s an old law.” I fill them in on what Prince Amar told me, notice nearly simultaneous expressions of distaste cross their faces.

  “Challenging the king to a death duel over a binding? I’ve never even heard of such a law!”

  Amira shushes Kali, whose voice has grown alarmingly loud, and turns to me, frowning. “Whether the law exists or not, it’s still much too dangerous, princess. Lohar is the most powerful magus in Ambar. He could kill you before you take a step into the dueling arena.”

  I know what she says makes perfect sense. It’s not like I haven’t thought of the same thing myself. But her assessment still infuriates me.