“At the market last week. The girl’s sleeve ran up by accident, and the mother was terrified. I got suspicious, so I reported them,” the first woman says. “If they were innocent, there would have been no harm, would there?”
“Where’s the daughter now?” the second woman asks. “No one could find her here in the house. Do you think the Sky Warriors took her with them?”
“If they did, we’ll find out tomorrow at the constabulary. One of the thanedars there is my cousin. If not, then one of us will have to capture her and take her in ourselves. It’s the only way we’ll be able to collect the reward money,” the first woman says grimly. “Not something I’m looking forward to, trust me. The last girl we took in put up such a fight! Five years gone and I still have the marks.”
“Let’s pray that the Sky Warriors took her, then,” the other woman says. “What now? Shall we clean the house?”
“No, we must wait until tomorrow morning. Allow any spirits to leave the place.”
My fingers curl around three of the silver beads from my mother’s necklace. I hold my breath until the villagers are gone, leaving behind nothing except silence and specks of dust floating in the air. Tomorrow they will return and sweep out the rooms, cleanse the house with soap and water and prayers, readying it for another occupant. I saw it happen once before in another village: the girl gone, her parents and brother laid out dead on the front veranda.
Once they’re gone, I slip out the door, narrowly avoiding the village guard and the light tap of his stick against the gravel. Sunheri and Neel, the yellow and blue moons, glow in the sky like sentinels, their brightness taunting in the face of my grief.
Magic still appears in traces against the bushes nearby: silver-blue, tinged with blood. Ma told me that magic always comes at a cost—the more you use it, the more it will take out of you. When Ma’s hands began glowing green on the roof tonight, I didn’t realize how high the cost would be, how much she was willing to bear.
By the time I reach Zamindar Moolchand’s stable outside the village’s biggest haveli, a mansion twice the size of my former home, my stomach has begun to growl. In the haste of escaping the villagers, I didn’t even think to go to the kitchen first.
The smell of discarded food rises from the garbage heap outside the haveli gates. I scrounge through it, coming across a half-eaten portion of yellow lentils and pulao wrapped in a banana leaf. The food appears fresh—the lentils still warm, the rice made my favorite way, with coriander, spices, and bay leaves, interspersed with tiny honeyweed dumplings. It tastes like ash in my mouth.
I avoid the haveli itself, its sandstone walls painted a bright yellow, and instead press a hand lightly against the stable door. To my surprise, it opens with only a slight creak, and for a moment, I freeze, terrified that I’ll wake the horses. A grunt rises, followed by a whinny.
Cautiously, I step inside.
The stable is clean, the sweet smell of dried hay filling the cavernous space. The paint on the wooden beams is faded, but not entirely gone: the remnants of an old fight scene between the Sky Warriors and the Pashu, a race of part-human, part-animal beings who were mostly extinguished during the Battle of the Desert seventeen years ago. Overhead, the artist has depicted King Lohar bent in supplication before the sky goddess, who is perched on a cloud, her eyes closed, her right hand raised in blessing.
The squat building must have housed several horses at one time, but now there’s only one, a Jwaliyan mare with black eyes, her mane gleaming ruby red in the moonlight pouring in from slats overhead. For a second, I forget myself. Forget everything as the mare and I watch each other, partly awed, partly suspicious.
“You’re a beauty,” I whisper, breaking the silence. I’ve only ever heard about horses like this—the sort that run wild in the plains of Jwala, animals that are so difficult to procure that they sell for no less than a hundred swarnas at the flesh market in Ambarvadi. The mare snorts, ears flattening against her magnificent head.
“I won’t hurt you,” I whisper. “I swear I won’t.”
I take a step closer and pause again, spotting a carrot on a bale of hay. I hold it out to her: an offering. “Hungry?”
The mare’s ears perk up, almost as if she could understand what I said. A wet nose brushes my fingers first, followed by the snap of teeth, which I narrowly avoid. With another snort, the mare turns away, dismissing my presence—I’m clearly not threatening enough to be of any consequence to her. I slip into the stall next to hers and sink into the sweet-smelling hay. For tonight, at least, I have a place to sleep. A place to hide.
As for tomorrow—who knows what will happen? I think of the women who entered our house tonight, the way they talked about my parents. About me. Anger slides through my fear, threads through it like a silver needle. My first instinct is to blame the villagers who tipped off the thanedars about us, who ripped my entire family apart for a bag of coins. But my mind finally settles on two people: the major who killed my parents, and the king who started it all.
Major Shayla. King Lohar.
I repeat their names over and over, memorizing them the way I would a lesson. A prayer.
“Kill Major Shayla,” I whisper. “Kill Raja Lohar.”
The idea is instinctive, ludicrous. Yet, for the first time since my parents died, my shivering hands grow steady. I wipe the tears off my cheeks. Slowly, under the watchful gaze of the mare, I unearth a bit of string lying on the stable floor and push my mother’s beads through it, one by one. Seconds after I
