“Jagat! Grab her!” Sonar shouts.
A kernel of energy forms in my solar plexus, a little seed of heat I had felt only once before—in a storage room, before a gunnysack filled with rice. Use me, it seems to say. Kill them.
I know I can. I feel it—death magic ready to burst free and wreak havoc—when a blast echoes through the sky, momentarily eliminating all sound. I feel my mouth open in a scream, see my action reflected in the three princes nearby. We fall to the ground, the thud of our bodies making impact with it finally breaking through to my ears.
“What is this?”
The woman who speaks has eyes the same shade of yellow as the princes’ and a voice colder than Prithvi ice. The streaks of gray in her braided hair reveal her age, even though her face appears ageless, the gold on her high cheekbones so perfectly applied that it looks like part of her smooth, sun-kissed skin. The firestones on her cream-colored ghagra catch the light when she steps out into the sun, her mere presence seeming to suck the air from around me, rendering the heat even more oppressive.
The princes sink into deferential crouches at the same moment, their heads bowed so low their noses nearly brush the hot tiles. “Rani Ma,” they murmur.
Their mother. Even though I’ve never seen her before, I know this is Queen Amba. I feel it in my bones. No one else can possibly inspire this level of respect or fear. Holding on to the queen’s firm hand is none other than the little girl I’d seen earlier, her dark eyes filled with worry. She widens them at me now and grips her little dupatta, which is tucked neatly across her torso, before jerking her chin at me.
My own dupatta lies pooled at my feet like sloughed snakeskin. I quickly grab hold of it and wrap it around me. I look for the bundle containing my daggers and spot it next to a group of bushes right by Rani Mahal, a few feet from the queen herself. It must have been tossed there during my scuffle with the princes. I try not to groan.
“All this fuss over a serving girl?” Queen Amba’s eyes focus on me now, sharpen on seeing the gold badge still gleaming on my shoulder. “My serving girl?”
“Rani Ma, I told them not to!” the turbaned prince exclaims. “I have nothing to do with this!”
The murderous looks his brothers shoot him are quickly superseded by the utter coldness of Queen Amba’s glare.
“Tell me, my sons. What pledge do you make when you become princes?” She lets go of the little girl’s hand and walks around the three men, as if inspecting them. The three of them mumble something. “Louder!”
“Valor in the face of fear. Respect for the poor and the elderly. Honor above all else,” they say, their voices a perfect chorus.
“Yes. Honor. The one thing I promise each girl I take into my employ—a trait I expect from my sons as well. If you don’t have honor, you don’t have anything.” Her eyes flash. “Rise to your feet.”
The princes wince as a beam of light, as thin as a blade, flashes three times, leaving behind the smell of burned flesh. I wince as well, even though I don’t pity any of them. Except the one named Amar, who probably didn’t deserve the same punishment. When she finally dismisses them, I see it for myself—three thin lines bisecting the center of three different backs, delicate trails of blood beginning to seep into their white tunics.
She watches the princes walk away and then turns to the little girl. “Malti, you can run along now and play in the garden.”
Malti glances at me one last time and then nods. “Ji, Rani Ma.”
“What are you staring at?” Queen Amba asks me. “Come along.” She points to the bundle lying by the bushes. “And bring that with you.”
I trudge toward the bushes and bend slowly, my body shielding the bundle from her gaze.
“Hurry up,” the queen snaps.
The seaglass daggers catch the light for a brief second before I toss them into the bushes. I rise to my feet, the bundle held close to my hammering heart. But Queen Amba doesn’t ask me any questions, and I follow her into Rani Mahal without another word.
SPLENDOR AND BLOOD
19GUL
Tiles, cool under my feet. Swirls of sangemarmar overhead, interlocking in an archway made of shimmering rose-colored stone and stained glass. If I were another girl, I might be standing there staring at everything in awe. Only I’m not another girl. I’m an impostor inside Rani Mahal, following in the footsteps of a queen who may very well cut short what’s left of my life in this gleaming white courtyard. Balconies border us on all sides. A few women stand there, peering at us, their whispers like leaves rustling in the silence.
It’s not until we cross the entire length of the yard and enter the building that I begin breathing again. A pair of serving girls dressed in the same outfit I’m wearing, only better fitting, bow for Queen Amba. One dares to glance at me, an eyebrow raised at my sweaty face and dirty clothes.
“Don’t loiter,” Queen Amba says, as if sensing my hesitation. Or maybe she has eyes in the back of her head. Though she says nothing else, I’m sure she hears the whispers that break out behind us. I follow her farther into the palace, down a long passageway lit by fanas after jewel-toned fanas. The air here smells of frankincense and oil, the sort used in temples to light wick-lamps for the gods.
A sharp left and we enter another passage, the sun pouring in from
