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?
