Some say that Raj Mahal is a mirror image of Rani Mahal, but built with black marble and rainbow-hued metal called indradhanush. Some say that the king’s palace is made of firestones, thunder, and clouds. No one really knows, as no portraits are allowed. Some secrets were paramount to the king’s safety. Even then, I had the sense that Papa knew more about those secrets than he was telling me. And now I will never be able to ask him what they are. I swallow against the tickling sensation in my throat, barely holding back a fresh bout of tears.
Useless. My heart burns when I think of what Amira called me. I am not useless. I am not weak.
I recall King Lohar’s portrait that hangs in every school, every hospital, every government office, and even some private homes. The king is seated on a cushion, cross-legged, wearing a deep-blue angrakha embroidered with gems, matching narrow trousers and a sash. His cheeks are tinted with gold dust to indicate royal blood; his jootis, crafted by the kingdom’s finest shoemakers, are decorated with shimmering threads of indradhanush. Crowning his head is a turban of blue silk, set with a plumed ornament made of an enormous firestone in the shape of a teardrop.
I don’t know how I will do it, but one day I will meet Raja Lohar, I vow. And when I do, I will kill him.
“What do the Sky Warriors do?” I ask Juhi. “To the girls who are taken? Do they really drain them of their powers?”
For the first time, I glimpse fear on Kali’s and Amira’s faces.
Juhi frowns. “That is a question for another day. Sleep now, Havovi. It’s getting late.”
I feel the exhaustion of the past few days creeping up on me, threatening to unravel me like a spool of wool.
“Gul,” I tell her. “My name is Gul.”
A TWO-MOON NIGHT
The city of Ambarvadi
2nd day of the Month of Moons
Year 22 of King Lohar’s reign
4CAVAS
The fireflies stop glowing.
It happens for an instant, a faint crack in the brilliant dome of insects magicked over Ambarvadi’s bazaar before it reseals, barely noticeable unless you’re like me, your face scrubbed clean with sugar oil, your skin prickling from being out in the crowded marketplace, pretending that you belong. It’s a sticky night, the day’s heat still lingering in the air, compounded by bodies jostling for space, sand feathering the roofs of the tents. The sweat beading on the back of my neck, however, is cold and has little to do with the temperature around me.
When I arrived in the market, the sky was still awash with orange—the exact time Latif asked me to meet him here, behind the bangle seller’s stall. The sun is gone now, but Latif is still missing.
“Time flies quickly in my line of work,” Latif always says, even though he never mentions what that work is.
A thanedar passes by, glancing at my face first and then at my palace-issued orange turban, with its identification pin in the center. His gaze travels over my white tunic and dhoti, the pointed tips of the worn leather jootis on my feet. I brace myself for the slurs, more out of habit than out of fear. Dirt licker. Abomination. Get out of my way, filth. But when he simply nods and moves along, I realize the uniform has done the trick. In the palace, every servant wears a uniform, whether they are magi or not. Here, in this moment, no one knows about who I am or the blood that runs through my veins. Unless the thanedar decides to ask me to identify myself on a whim—to press my thumb into the tip of his lathi, waiting for the wooden staff to change color, the way it would for a magus.
A beat passes. Two. I let go of the breath I’m holding. Overhead, through the shifting veil of glowing insects, two moons hang in the sky. Sunheri, the yellow moon, and Neel, the blue one. According to legend, the moons were both goddesses once. “Friends first and then lovers,” Papa told me, “until one of Sunheri’s many suitors killed Neel out of jealousy.”
But their love was a true one. A moon appeared in the sky one night: blue, like the color of Neel’s skin. Pitying her plight, the sky goddess granted Sunheri’s wish to join Neel—turning her into a moon as well—a faded yellow orb that waxes and wanes, that grows full, but never brightens to gold except for one night out of every three hundred and sixty. On Chandni Raat—the night of the moon festival—the only night in the year when the blue moon appears in the sky.
There are those who call the story of the two moons a myth. A tale of childish fancy, spun into a clever way of gathering coin for the king’s depleted coffers after two successive wars. Out of the story of Neel and Sunheri emerged the moon festival: a night for lovers, revelry, and mischief. A night where it’s possible to find your neela chand. In Vani, the words neela chand literally translate to “blue moon,” a phrase that refers to your mate. Your perfect other half.
A few feet away, I spy a pair of girls, no older than fifteen, holding hands as if preparing to launch into a rain dance spin. But then the girl dressed in yellow rises to her tiptoes and lightly kisses the cheek of the one dressed in blue. The fireflies, drawn by their laughs, glow brighter, several twirling around the girls before rising up to float overhead again.
Bahar, the girl I once thought would be my mate, used to laugh like that, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief,
