Sisters of the Snake

1

Ria

I despise the heat.

But it’s everywhere, choking my breath, wrapping its claws around me. I pull my scarf forward, hoping it will shield against the sun’s relentless rays. The humid air prickles my neck, my forehead, the hollow of my throat.

Keep going, I think, pressing a hand to my rumbling stomach. A girl’s got to eat. So I push forward, past alleys of beggars and vendors with today’s street foods: potato samosas with tamarind and mint chutneys. Fried pakoras, like jewels, glistening with oil. Fresh naan, like steaming pillows. Close. So close.

Passersby, young and old, hold out their hands. Some ask for money, others food. Some simply pray. I wonder if they’ve tried to sneak past the border, too. The smell of war practically stinks up the air.

I was once in their place, before I began to steal with Amir. Or as he called it, sleight of hand, as if we were playing card tricks instead of thieving rupees and jewels.

I shove toward the back of the stalls, nearly stepping on a stray cat’s tail in the process. Its ears twitch, once, twice, before it spins to hiss at me. I nearly hiss back. Its matted fur reminds me of Barfi, the cat in my old orphanage, whose own fur was the color of curdled milk. I haven’t seen her since I ran away twelve moons ago.

When I’m behind one of the stalls, I wipe my neck with my chunni, and the scarf becomes sticky with sweat. I tighten it around my waist like a sash. I don’t want it getting in my way when I run.

A new vendor is here today. I can tell because he keeps the hot naan behind him, slathered in garlic and butter, mine for the taking. The former vendor, Samar, would never be so foolish. He’s sold his wares enough times to notice thieving.

The vendor is accompanied by a lanky boy, probably a lookout, though he’s not doing much of a good job of it. The only thing between me and this new vendor is a thin veil, unzipped, meant to keep him cool while he cooks. I measure the distance between the naan and me, calculate the time it will take to slip one into my hand.

The vendor holds up one finger, then another, to a customer: One naan? Two? He spins around to pull out the batch of naan and hands them in exchange for a pile of rupees. After he refills the basket with more, I slip my arm through the curtain’s opening and tug. I’ll take two, please. One for Amir and one for me.

The hot flatbreads sting my fingers, and I blow on them to cool them down the way Mama Anita used to do at the orphanage.

Before I spiral into memories of her, the vendor turns, and his eyes lock on mine. He sees the naan in my hand, and I realize my face is stupidly uncovered.

Get back here, girl! The vendor shouts something at the lookout, probably to watch the naan, and then hobbles toward me, arms outstretched. I shake my head and grin. I can’t help it. The thrill of a steal, a chase, is like a firecracker inside me.

I take in the streets around me, stragglers and beggars and villagers all minding their business. I won’t make it out of the market on foot. Not like this.

A hut looms in the distance. Wait—that’s it! A plan forms in my head.

I bolt, ignoring the oncoming shouts, and head for the nearest hut with a low, sloping roof. I jump onto a stray rickshaw and, with one quick glance behind me, launch myself onto the top of the hut. I run recklessly, roof to roof, until I leap back to the ground, feetfirst. I press the naan to my chest and speed through the market, fast like an Amratstanian mountain cat. Left, right, left.

Despite having been here for only two weeks, I know this village better than I know myself. I know its worn alleyways, squat wooden buildings, streets that curve like question marks. I know the travelers on rickshaws, lugging miserable passengers who look like Death’s second self. They scream when I leap in front of them, just barely skimming the rickshaw and landing in a nearby alley. I roll and cough up dust before springing back onto my feet.

Those’re mine! The vendor’s voice is gruff, but I hear him slowing. He’s not quick like me. They never are.

I rush into the nearest alcove and watch him pass. I pray he won’t hear me holding my breath. I pray my grumbling stomach won’t betray me.

The vendor stumbles past, but I don’t allow myself a grin just yet. Never let your guard down. Amir’s lessons sink into me the way I want to sink my teeth into this naan.

A steal-and-run isn’t uncommon in the Dirt Village. If anything, I’ve given the villagers of Nabh a show. Amir showed me how to steal quietly, but I prefer a quick chase, even if it means cutting it close.

When I think I’ve lost the vendor, I make my way back through the alley, keeping myself tight against the brick wall. I pull my chunni low over my head and let it curl around my face, more for protection from those who might pin me as the thief than from the bright sun.

I turn the corner. All clear. But before I can leave, a pressure at the small of my back jolts me and I whirl.

Amir! I growl.

Evenin’, Princess, Amir jokes. I earned the nickname seven moons back, not long after we first met, after stealing petty jewelry from a merchant’s stall. He doesn’t say the nickname as much as he used to, but it grates on my nerves nonetheless.

Prince, I jab back. You scared me. I thought you were a . . . The word doesn’t slip off my tongue, but he knows. One of the king’s soldiers—a Chart. Find any jewels?

Nothin’. And if I were a bloodcoat, don’t you think you’d’ve heard the thudding boots? He lifts his legs up and down like a monkey, sandals slapping the sun-scorched footpath. To Amir, saying Chart aloud is like spilling a secret. He thinks speaking the very word will summon them. But if the soldiers heard him calling them bloodcoats, he’d be struck faster than a thief could run.

Amir keeps his hair shorn, and a scar across his brown face cuts perfectly between his eyes. He looks the exact same as when we first met in a dank alley eight moons ago. He had naan, and I was a starving girl who knew little more than how to pick a lock. I thought he was a sixteen-year-old looking to play a joke. Turned out he’s eighteen, with no one to call a parent and no place to call a home. Without him, I would probably be dead—or worse, half alive, easy bait for bandits.

Charts can be sneaky, too, you know. And I don’t wanna hear another word about ’em.

Only once have I gotten a close glimpse of a Chart. That day is imprinted in my memory, a stain that’ll never wash away. Bloodred coats. Fingers chaining Mama Anita’s wrists. All without giving my caretaker the mercy of saying goodbye before they dragged her to the palace.

The Palace of No Return, Amir calls it.

The Kingdom of No Escape, I say in return.

Three times we’ve tried escaping Abai. We were naive, thinking we could slip into a crowd and sneak onto the next carriage out of this kingdom. One time we nearly made it past the border that connects us to the northern kingdoms—and the waters beyond. For the first time in my life, I tasted freedom: sea salt laced with second chances, humid air filled with hope.

No—false hope. A guard discovered us hiding in the back of a carriage, alerted by a baby’s cry. A foolish attempt, and a mistake we won’t make again.

What do you think the Ruthless Raja is up to today? Amir tacks on the moniker with ease, but it makes me shudder. I have this eerie feeling that the royals are always watching us, spying from their lofty towers.

Beats me, I say, tossing a piece of naan at his chest. He catches it with deft hands, a grin lighting his face. Neither of us waits to tear into the food, the first we’ve had to fill our bellies all day. We devour the naan in seconds.

Amir dusts off his hands and cracks his knuckles when he’s done. In that case, the royals might as well not exist.

Pfft. Yeah, like the laws are made from thin air, right?

He crosses his arms over his chest defensively. Might as well be.

A metallic screech comes from behind us. We spin and find a trolley rattling its way across Nabh’s dirt-lined streets, holding all sorts of food: a basket of ripe mangoes and papayas; boxes of snacks, like golgappa; a barrel of sweet gulab jamun.

Amir spins to the alley’s entrance, a frown on his face as he watches the cart meander away with its precious cargo. That kind of food could only be headed for one place: the ice-cold palace. Outside, guarded by a ring of Charts. Inside, a merciless raja, calling for executions like one might order a meal. And in front of the palace, a supposedly magical fountain they say can predict your future.

Amir must know I’m thinking about the palace, because he says, What kind of raja lives so far north? It’s as if he’s trying to get away from his own kingdom instead of rule it!

I let out something like a laugh. But even the thought of the palace, whose spiraling towers are just specks in the muggy distance, makes me sick. Amir is right—it’s as if the royals would rather be quarantined than expose themselves to any of us. I would spit on the ground in disgust, but my mouth is too dry.

I can’t remember the last time a royal stepped out of that place. The Charts do the king’s dirty work, looking for traitors.

But I’m no traitor. I’d rather not draw attention at all. Invisibility is a cloak that separates me from them, us from the royals.

I move toward the lip of the alley, where a carpet of garbage and glass lies, left over from drunks drinking bitters in run-down taverns. The alcohol must be in abundance now that some tavern owners have disappeared, left, like so many others in this Masters-forsaken kingdom.

Have they fled across the border, or been taken in as prisoners?

A young newsboy rushes by, hollering about trade happenings in the North, followed by rumor of a sandtiger sighting. He continues, Kaamans preparing for war with Abai! Just over a half-moon away! Cavalry is set—

The bone-chilling sound of hooves breaks through the din. I step out of the alley. The only people with horses around here are the royals and, worse, the Charts.

That’s when the horses arrive, stirring up clouds of dust. One knocks over a cart of papayas, and they tumble and crack open against the ground.

The once-trickling villagers brew into a crowd. Running would be a fool’s errand right now—better to blend in—so Amir and I ghost toward the dense cluster. When we near the front and see them—the Charts—we stop dead in our tracks.

Don’t. Say. A. Word, Amir breathes. I can’t even nod. One Chart, a man sporting gold tassels and too many badges to count, dismounts his horse and strides past us. I catch a whiff of his scent, like death and skin and bones all wrapped up in one. Why are they here? What do they want with us?

A sickening thought comes to mind. What if they’re here for recruitment? Sure, the raja usually selects people from poor families and turns them into soldiers or army lackeys, but I’ve heard horror stories of people being tossed into wagons off the streets and dragged to the palace. There are more every day, with the upcoming war. Some say the Charts’ induction ceremony, when the soldiers are assigned their official numbers and given their bloodred coats, is painful to watch. I don’t really want to know why.

I train my gaze on the Chart closest to me. His face is stone, his uniform too clean to belong in Nabh. He barely looks at the rest of us; we’re all interchangeable to them anyway. One smirk at the rips in our clothes tells me that much. I want to dig into the wrappings around my waist and pull out my knife, but the Chart is quick to move on.

He pulls a length of burnt-looking parchment from his pocket and flips it to face us. Drawn on the page is a man’s face—and not just any.

It’s Samar’s—the naan vendor who wasn’t in the market today. That gap-toothed grin is a dead giveaway. I shudder when I read the words.

BY ORDER OF RAJA NATESH OF ABAI, THE GREAT SNAKESPEAKER, RULER OF THE OLDEST KNOWN MAGICAL KINGDOM

WANTED ALIVE: SAMAR BANGA, PREVIOUS TUTOR OF THE FUTURE RANI

CRIME: TREASON

The words, written in a too-polished scrawl, make my eyes go wide. Samar.

It’s no wonder he wasn’t selling naan today. He was hiding.

Even the other words surprise me. Samar once tutored the princess? Everyone thought he lived a simple life. After all, that’s the only life we know.

And that line—Ruler of the Oldest Known Magical Kingdom—nearly makes me vomit. I’m no believer in magic, but when Mama Anita was alive, it was all I thought about. Everything I know about the world outside of Abai came from her. She told me of the continent’s four kingdoms—five, if you count Pania, now nothing more than a desolate wasteland. Kingdoms like Kaama, rumored to bloom fresh fruit year-round. Retan, with sand dunes cresting like a golden sea. Amratstan, where mountains’ peaks graze the clouds.

My thoughts unwind as the Charts’ eyes cut through the crowd. Mama Anita’s voice disintegrates, the same way it had the day she was taken. The day she was killed.

Anyone seen this man? another Chart asks. Her black hair is tied into a tight bun, face shadowed by the black-and-red cap she wears.

Amir and I hold a collective breath. The Charts’ horses stay steady, trained like the raja’s lethal weapons.

Speak up, another Chart spits, the number 213 gleaming on the badge hooked to his collar. This man is a traitor. First one to find him gets a prize. Two Thirteen smirks and reveals his pristine, pointed teeth.

No one dares to speak, let alone breathe.

All right, then. The next few moments blur together: the Chart grabs the nearest woman by the arm, ripping her chunni from her neck. He brings his knife out and presses it to her throat, silencing her screams.

Another woman steps forward, but an identical Chart knocks her aside with an elbow to the jaw. I hold in a gasp. My feet begin to move forward instinctively. My veins ignite. My whole body is coiled, ready to fight, but before I can, Amir wraps a hand around my wrist. He pulls me back, eyes fear-flecked.

Amir, I whisper. He only shakes his head. The Chart digs the knife’s point deeper, drawing blood.

Noise sounds behind us, and we all turn. Someone is shoving their way through the crowd. Before Amir can say Raja’s beard, a man reaches the front.

My muscles melt when I recognize him. He’s missing more than one tooth now. His hair is tousled like he just got out of a fight.

Stop! Samar yells. Get your hands off her.

The Chart shoves away the woman, whose blood trickles down her neck in rivulets. On your knees, he orders.

Coolly, Samar does as the Chart says, and the other soldiers rope the man’s hands behind his back.

What shall we do? The Chart chuckles, curving the sword against Samar’s throat. Your obedience is shocking, I must say. To think you were once one of us, in the palace. . . .

Samar fiddles with a golden band on his ring finger. A wedding band. I think of his wife, hidden somewhere far away, clinging to her husband’s memory.

Samar’s lips twitch. You won’t find Irfan.

Wrong answer.

The Chart grips him even harder. Another Chart marches up and strikes Samar across the face with the back of her hand, leaving a quickly purpling bruise.

Rule number one: never talk back.

Amir and I swap glances. The only sign of emotion on the first Chart’s face is the slightest sneer of his lips.

Stale air and sweat curls around me. Silence—there’s only silence.

Up, says the Chart, removing his sword from Samar’s neck. A small mercy.

But Samar’s fate will be left in the raja’s hands. And that is no mercy at all.

As easily as they came, the Charts shove Samar into a rickety old carriage. Another takes a scroll of parchment and slams it against a lone sandstone hut, then pins it in place. The still-bleeding woman cries out when she glances at the writing on the scroll. My son! she wails. Oh, my son . . .

My heart flips in my chest. Could that scroll be . . . ?

I glance at the carriage and watch the Charts pile up on their steeds. The horses clop away, kicking up dirt and despair in their wake.

A few people immediately turn to the injured woman, calling for cotton and gauze. I rip my gaze away and whisper to Amir, The scroll. D’you think that’s a . . . ?

I don’t need to finish my sentence for Amir to understand. Let’s find out.

We approach the scroll with bated breath, pushing through the crowd to reach the front. Some people cry out when they see their names. Amir gasps, color draining from his cheeks. I follow his gaze, finding the scroll’s endless list of names and family identification markers. For the orphans, instead of last names, there are black strikes.

It’s a conscription list! the newsboy from earlier announces. Raja’s callin’ for more help!

He doesn’t need our help! a different woman cries.

At the same time, Amir murmurs to himself, This can’t be.

Skies be good. If Amir’s name is on here—

The villagers’ words blur together as I gaze at the scroll again. Please, I think, not Amir, not Amir—

More people squeeze in, blocking my view. Amir ushers me out of the crowd. Bile snakes up my throat, burning me from the inside out. Amir begins talking, telling me to remain calm. But I don’t hear him, not clearly anyway. I hear what he told me moons ago, the day we first met, about what happens to those who try to defy the raja’s orders.

His executions are more painful than a sword through the chest. The royals use snakes. They twist their fangs in your gut and don’t let go.

It’s not just snakes that send a jolt of fear spiking through me. It’s not even the raja, or the Charts. It’s that I finally understand the look of horror on my friend’s face.

It wasn’t Amir’s name on the list.

It was mine.

2

Rani

Everything I say turns to gold—or dust. On a good day, it’s gold. It’s power, sung in my mother tongue and listened to by many. On a bad day, it’s dust. Derelict. Unheard.

Today is a bad day.

Rani, come down, Mother calls from the base of the double spiral staircase. I twist my body over the railing to spot her figure. Mother is short, as if she stopped growing when she was no older than ten summers. She twists her own body, mirroring mine, to look up at me. Quickly. This is important, she adds, the words a slap to my ears.

I pull at the threads that hang loose from my once-pretty sari and mutter a curse under my breath. I can wrap a sari with ease, but if I have to wear one more under Mother’s orders, I’ll lose every thread of the quickly waning patience I have.

I take my time strutting down the steps. Mother awaits, wearing a pink-and-orange fabric that mimics the sunset. She smiles, pale lips thinning. Rani, beta. Come here. She spreads her arms open as if to give me a hug, but I know better. She wants me to twirl. I’m her own personal doll, ready to play dress-up, to bend to her every whim.

I follow her command. Twirl, bow; twirl, bow. Suck in a breath; don’t loosen the stitching. For a moment, I wish for a thinner waistline but remove the thought. I won’t let Mother’s voice enter my head.

Beautiful, she says, clapping as if I’ve just put on a show. Saeed, isn’t she beautiful?

Saeed appears from the corner of my eye, sashaying down the hallway as if he’s the prince himself. Once he’s close by, he pops something into his mouth—a whole gulab jamun. He chews, swallows, and licks the saccharine syrup from his fingers.

Beautiful, he finally agrees, the sunshine that pours in from the lower-level windows giving him an ethereal glow. His curly hair bounces against his head. His lips, once perfectly kissable according to my fourteen-year-old self, spread into a smile.

Want one? Saeed says, pulling me from my reverie. He wiggles his sticky fingers. They were just delivered. Mangoes, too.

Where are those manners Amara taught you, sweet boy?

Saeed grins, and Mother pats his cheek as if he were her son. But she only has me, and so far, I’m more disappointment than daughter.

I clear my throat, bringing Saeed’s attention back to me. Beautiful? Beautiful enough to bow for? I ask, hiding an impish smirk. I’d like to see Saeed squirm under my gaze, but today he won’t have it. He bows, keeping his hazel eyes on me the entire time. Something in my stomach flares.

He purrs, Always.

The air charges with heat. A false spark. I’ve had enough. I’m canceling all future lessons.

Rani! Mother scolds, placing a hand to her chest. That is no way to talk to your instructor.

Or your betrothed, Saeed adds, his back now perfectly straight. That flare reaches my fingers, and for a moment I wish our lessons were comprised of sword-fighting and knife-wielding, rather than mathematics and chemistry. At least then I would have something to use against him.

I will leave if it is your wish, Saeed says. His words are quiet enough—innocent enough—to Mother, but I know better. What I told him last night, at midnight in my bedroom, was not what he wanted to hear.

Not after three years of this. Of us.

Yes, I reply regally, like the princess I’m supposed to be.

Not without a kiss first, my boy, Mother orders. You two are to celebrate your engagement in less than a half-moon. It is time you started acting like it.

With the faintest hesitancy, Saeed complies, striding toward me and placing a light kiss on my cheek. His lips caress my skin for a moment too long. As if I might fall into his arms like I had three years ago. Or just last moon.

I seethe against his haughty arrogance. Struggling to loose a steady breath, I stare at him with a venomous gaze. He is no prince. I, on the other hand, descend from a bloodline destined to rule. My role has forever been princess, to safeguard my people—and continue my line by marrying well. The last bit, however, is not quite working out as planned.

Before I can gather up the courage to tell her the truth of what happened last night, Mother begins to strut through the palace, past its bone-white walls and icy spires. Hurry now, Rani. You are expected in the throne room, she commands. Your father is waiting.

My gaze flits curiously to Mother’s, but she keeps her expression curtained. I have no choice but to suck in a breath, press my damp palms against my sari, and follow Mother’s shadow.

For eighteen years, I’ve walked these halls. Cool marble floors, paisley-patterned carpets, and a frosted-glass exterior. Ornate jalis, latticed screens that filter out the hot Abai air. Domed ceilings painted with sweet flower blossoms that belong nowhere near a raja like my father. The flowers are ornaments, distractions from what my family truly is. Royalty with nothing more on our minds than fatal justice—my father’s specialty—and what our next meals will be.

The palace towers into the very clouds of Abai’s capital, Anari. I know little of the world outside this home, this confinement. Its walls squeeze in on me as I walk, threatening to echo every horror of my existence. Stuck here, forever. No way out. Princess of a kingdom you barely know. A kingdom on the brink of war.

Every green-clad servant I pass bows, as if their spines are cemented in an arch. Mother’s heels burn staccato footsteps into the cool marble tiles. When we reach the throne room, another servant heaves open the wide, gilded double doors.

Three chairs are perched at the front: one each for Father, Mother, and me. They are covered in soft velvet cushions and crowned with jewels, the silken thrones so spotless they look allergic to dust.

The deafening chatter withers away in the crisp air. Nobles from Abai’s richest families, including elderly women—aunties—from the women’s room with nothing more than gossip on their tongues, fall deadly quiet at my entrance. No—the raja’s entrance through the door directly opposite this one. I wring my hands behind my back and face him.

Father is king in every sense of the word. In one hand, he carries his staff. A talisman, I’ve been taught, that’s been passed down from raja to raja, rani to rani, imbued with our snake magic. His clothes, adorned with endless badges, make him look like he’s been through battle, though he’s never experienced any form of combat in his life. A royal-purple turban is perched atop his head, and two golden chains wrap around his neck, with minuscule beads that look like they’ve been plucked straight from the sand of the continent’s lushest coastal beaches.

Samvir, Father’s snake familiar, slithers patiently at his side. Today the snake sports glimmering obsidian scales streaked with gray. The king of cobras for the king of Abai.

I clear my throat, snagging Father’s attention. His gaze cuts toward mine, tiger eyes flashing.

Rani, he greets. Just in time. Father heads for his throne just as Mother takes her seat. Queen and king, rani and raja.

I might be named Rani, but I am no queen. Not yet.

Father, I say, tilting my head forward. What occasion is this?

But Father pays no mind to my words. He spins to the center of the throne room, where Father’s Head Chart, Two Thirteen, hauls a man into the room. He dumps him onto the marble. There, I examine the figure crouched on both knees, clad in clothes dirtier than Nabh and covering his face with dirt-stained fingers. My heart thumps with understanding. This is a trial.

Removing his fists from his face, the man unveils nails both chipped and soiled. His eyes are a soft blue, the color of the rivers that shape and border our lands. He does not tear his gaze away from Father’s, even when my own jaw collapses to the floor at the sight of him.

Tutor.

Before Saeed became my teacher, I was taught by this man—science and stars, algebra and fortunes. But he taught me more still: to wish for a stronger world, a world rid of war and hate. A world that does not exist.

He once had a clean face and all of his teeth, too-large ears and an ever-present smile. When I was no more than fourteen, he defied Father’s iron-fisted rule and deserted the palace completely. Rumors flew—he left to join rebel groups or went off to live quietly with his wife. Father branded him Traitor instead of Tutor. He would forever be an enemy in the mind of the king.

I never learned his real name.

On the floor, weak-kneed and clothed in dirt and woe, he looks nothing like I remember. He is emptier, somehow. Perhaps that is what Father thinks will happen if I step outside—that I will change in some way. Or that I will become a traitor to the raja and everything he stands for.

Your sentence is clear, Father states. His voice bellows through the throne room, curling into every corner. You have been found guilty of treason, keeping information about rebel intelligence while tutoring Abai’s future queen, fleeing the palace, and thus colluding with the enemy.

Tutor’s facade does not give way, even at the sight of the snake slithering under Father’s throne. It’s Shima, my own snake familiar. Tutor never did like snakes. She is coiled like a spring and camouflaged so well I nearly mistook her for an intricately designed snakeskin rug. Her blue-green scales and vicious fangs echo the feelings of my own cold-blooded body, like a reptilian twin. It is our snake magic, my father’s and mine, thanks to the Snake Master, that gives us the ability to bond with serpents. I glance over at Shima and, with a mental tug, unlock the wall I’ve built between her and me. Tonight, I need her in my mind. I need her fierceness and her strength.

Rani, the raja calls, forcing my gaze back to his.

I clear my throat. Yes, Father?

As princess, you know what must be done.

He stares at me a beat too long. It is only then that I register what he is asking of me.

My skin turns to ice. I think of the Snake Pit, humming beneath my feet. Of Shima, diving after Tutor’s lifeless body. All at my simple command.

Just one word: kill.

To the spectators, tonight is a performance. A display of power. To me, it is a reminder of how I imagined this moment—Shima’s fangs showered in red, screams twisting in the air like an arced blade—but never had I thought Father would ask it of me so soon.

His gaze trails over to Shima, who now slithers across the tiles, examining the traitor with bared fangs. She’s hungry. I can smell it, taste it, feel it in our blood bond. She is ready for this. Tonight, Samvir is a bystander and Shima, the killer.

The Pit is alive beneath me—hundreds of snakes, waiting. They are ravenous. Starved, just like Shima.

I turn to the snake, but she is already moving. This is routine to her. A dance. Nothing more.

She circles around the traitor, making a complete loop. Her emerald-sapphire scales ruffle, pronouncing the hint of rose gold around her eyes. I approach him with caution and pause, my anklet surrendering its song. Tutor’s hands don’t need to be shackled for me to see he is a prisoner of fate.

But something niggles at my heart, chipping away at the icy cage I’ve drawn up around it. A memory. His gentle hands clapping out a song—one made to help me remember my lesson on one of the first queens of Abai.

They called her the Gem of Abai, the queen who passed so young

A ruler who commanded Abai to treat no one unjust

For Amrita was a woman of love, a woman of power as well

She gave so much for so little, and so we tell her tale

Do not forget what I taught you, Rani, he whispers now. You can be more than what the stars wish for. You can be like Queen Amrita. You can do what I could not.

My chest tightens. Time freezes as my eyes lock on his, as those words roll over in my mind.

Find it, he tells me in a low voice, his words ominous. He reaches out, pressing the inside of his hand into mine. Something sharp bites into my palm. His voice becomes a whisper. The stone.

I freeze. The stone? My eyes dart down to the object in my palm—a ring inscribed with a foreign yet familiar symbol—and I try not to glance back at Tutor with confusion.

Rani, Father warns. He slides off his throne with ease, glaring at me as he approaches, then pauses a few paces from Tutor.

A fiery tingle grips my chest. Father, I say. Please. He was my—

Before I can finish, or even utter a prayer to Amran, Father bangs his staff on the ground. That sound resonates through the room, sending spiderwebbed cracks along the marble floor.

One second passes. Another. The ground beneath Tutor crumbles to ash, unveiling a pool of snakes. I grip the folds of my sari and hold back the gasp in my throat.

A ruler never hesitates, Father’s voice booms. The next command slips from Father’s tongue.

Kill.

Shima dives into the Pit, followed by Samvir close behind. My eyes seal shut at the first crunch. I don’t have to look to know what is inside. Fang and flesh, blood and bone.

A hunger sated.

I blink my eyes open, peer over the Pit, and find the snakes writhing in contentedness. A coppery tang swells in my mouth—the taste of magic, blood, death. Over the years, I’ve learned to numb it. But now, as I hover over the Pit itself, the taste floods my mouth.

I twist away, covering my lips with my free hand. I could not speak Father’s command. But I didn’t stop Tutor’s fate from being sealed, either.

He is Tutor no longer. He is a memory.

My body numb, I march toward my throne. Mother watches me with her eyes narrowed. Whether in fury or simple irritation, I cannot tell.

This is why she wanted me dressed up. Not for her but for this game. To show that the princess is capable of more than just wrapping a sari. Which you are, Shima hisses, her voice slipping into my mind. She glides out of the Pit, and in a blink, the marble tiles are back, sleek as silk. As though they had never crumbled. As though nothing happened.

The Charts branch out, heading to their posts. Mother dusts her hands off and stands, sighing. This is the third execution in one month, but Mother seems more preoccupied by her manicured nails than the smell of death.

I’m going to go talk to Amara. There’s much to be prepared for tomorrow, she says, and leaves.

Tomorrow. Diwali. This year, the celebration is midway through autumn, and will be held outside the palace beneath a starry sky in the courtyards. It will be my first taste of fresh air—real Abai air—since last year’s celebrations.

I try not to think of all the guests who will be pouring into the palace, and focus instead on what Mother just said. She’s going to talk to Amara, Saeed’s mother. I shiver at the thought of my future mother-in-law, her bloodred lips, her mehendi-streaked hair—

Daughter.

I start at the sound of Father’s voice. Father’s back is straight, scepter in hand, his head only just tilted in my direction. I did what was necessary. And one day you shall, too, he says.

My body grows cold. I nod back, the