“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
