Of light and shadow, p.16
Of Light and Shadow, page 16
As a child, Navin had not known that his grandmother had never ridden to war, that the painting was merely the product of an atelier. He’d spent hours studying Bhairavi’s face, picking out parts of her features that most resembled his own: the thin, finely arched brows, the firm chin that gave them both a stern countenance when they didn’t smile.
She wasn’t smiling in the portrait. Unlike her more lavishly dressed predecessors, Bhairavi appeared almost austere, her hair in a single auburn plait down her back, her long jama and billowing trousers made of simple white muslin, embroidered at the hem with starblooms to reflect her northern mountain heritage. The ceremonial Jwaliyan taj circled her head: leaves of gold and iridescent indradhanush hammered and shaped to form the homāi’s distinct, flame-like feathers, encrusted with shimmering red and white firestones.
Today, Bhairavi was seated behind a desk instead of on a horse. Her red hair, after thirty-five years, was streaked with bronze and held back with an embroidered dome cap made of red velvet. Painted yellow and red flames crept out of her hairline and onto the warm brown skin of her temples, but apart from that small festive concession to Hashtdin, the queen was garbed, as always, in the purest white.
“I’ll be another moment,” she said, still poring over a scroll, as Navin entered the room alone, his guards remaining outside.
Next to the queen, much like the crimson sunbirds that continually hovered beside the garden’s ornamental banana flowers, stood Crown Prince Farhad, his sandalwood attar infusing the room. He was dressed identically to Navin, except for the upper part of his handsome face, which was painted over with flames yellow, red, and blue, as if he were wearing an elaborate mask.
His older brother grinned. “Shubh prabhat, little brother. You look well this morning.”
Colors floated behind Farhad’s head: blue for worry, purple for guilt. Though they’d both inherited their magic from their late mother, normally, Navin wouldn’t have been able to see his brother’s aura. Soul magi were trained to hide their auras from other soul magi for their own protection—it was the first lesson they’d been taught at the palace. But Farhad was probably feeling bad about what he’d said last night. Don’t be unreasonable, brother.
“Suprabhat.” The morning greeting, spoken the Ashvamaidani way, slipped out before Navin could hold it in.
The queen looked up from the papers she was studying, her dark gaze pinning Navin in place. “Your face isn’t painted,” she said bluntly.
On another day, he would have apologized. Would have claimed to have forgotten and rushed to fix his face again.
“I didn’t feel like it,” Navin said with a shrug. From the corner of his eyes, he noted his brother stiffening. “Paint clogs my pores.”
“Do you think this is funny?” Queen Bhairavi asked, her voice soft, deadlier for it. “Tradition does not care about your feelings. Nor do our people. Your brother and I have struggled as is to undo the damage your kidnapping has done.”
Navin’s throat tightened. Looked like his warm welcome was at an end. “What do you mean by damage? Getting kidnapped wasn’t my fault.”
“Parasmani ji—” Farhad began.
“Not your fault?” Bhairavi rose to her feet and leaned forward, making Navin automatically take a step back. “Not your fault that you consistently broke protocol for years to do whatever you pleased? Do you know how terrible it looks when one of the princes gets stolen away by provincial bandits—how badly it reflects on my reign? We must thank the goddess you are still here and not dead in a pool of your own vomit.”
Neither prince dared to speak. Farhad had once equated a reprimand from the queen to having one’s skin peeled off—and Navin couldn’t find it more accurate than he did now.
Bhairavi straightened, folding her spectacles with a gentle tap. Her aura, as always, remained blank, every emotion carefully shielded behind a wall neither Navin nor her favorite, Farhad, had been able to breach.
“You will apologize to Minister Babita, whose sari you ruined last night with that pitcher of wine,” she told Navin. “Also to poor Steward Dharmdev, who faced the brunt of your inebriated curses.”
So that’s what had happened. Navin felt bad about the minister, who’d always been kind to him. Old Decorum Dharmdev, on the other hand, could go fly a kite. Navin had little sympathy for the man—especially after years of his snide remarks, the taunts that had been made to humiliate Navin whenever he got the chance.
“Yes, Parasmani ji,” Navin said.
She frowned, likely not appreciating the flat tone of his voice. But she didn’t say anything else.
Navin followed the queen and Farhad out into the hall, and their retinue of guards trailed them down the stairs leading to the grounds and into the palace temple. His head pressed against the marble floor of the sanctum, Navin was reminded briefly of another temple in the village of Alipore, of a girl bleeding onto its floor.
“Navin,” a voice murmured. Farhad. “Do you need more time?”
He rose to his feet again, curbing the tremors that threatened to overtake his limbs.
“What’s wrong?” Farhad asked, staring at him.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
Bhairavi, whose magical gifts included truth seeking, would have instantly caught the lie if she was touching Navin. But the queen was holding on to Farhad’s arm. Her cold eyes assessed Navin, as if testing him for weakness. Navin couldn’t let it show. Not to her. Not even to his brother, who clearly appeared worried.
Later, they stood on the viewing balcony at Kiran Mahal, a perfect little family of three, clothes smelling of sandalwood, foreheads marked with ash, palms joined in greeting before a crowd of over ten thousand citizens gathered outside the palace since dawn, a sea of fiery faces painted in different hues of red, yellow, and blue.
“It’s a nice, clear day, isn’t it?” Bhairavi said, addressing Farhad.
“Better than last year, when everyone was soaked to the skin,” Farhad agreed.
Navin said nothing. Celebrating a festival of fire during a month known for its monsoons was always a challenge. But Jwala was a stickler for tradition where the fire goddess was concerned. Navin spotted several colorful umbrellas and glowing blue deflector shields in the crowd—though rainfall didn’t appear likely today.
The queen addressed the crowd, her voice amplified with magic: “From fire and ash, let her be born!”
The high, reedy pitch of the shehnais, expertly played by palace musicians stationed under the balcony, mingled with the drumming of dhols. The crowd erupted into cheers that vibrated the tiles under Navin’s feet.
“With blessings from the fire goddess, we stand before you today—two more generations that will continue the legacy of Jwala’s first king, Behram.”
More cheers from the crowd, though this time, they were accompanied by a chant that slowly grew in volume: “Raj-kumar Navin! Raj-kumar Navin!”
Navin stilled. Was he dreaming? Or was the rang ras still messing with his head?
He pinched his arm—hard enough to leave a bruise.
It was no dream. The crowd continued its chants throughout the queen’s droning speech, refusing to shut down, even when sipahis fired warning shots in the air with their atashbans.
“Looks like you’re rather popular, little brother,” Farhad murmured. “Maybe I should get kidnapped the next time.”
Navin frowned. Was Farhad serious? Without seeing his aura, he couldn’t tell if his brother was annoyed or merely amused.
“Maybe you should,” Navin replied. “Maybe you, too, will then wake up each night feeling like you can’t breathe. Like you’re still trapped underground.”
Farhad’s mouth opened. Closed.
The smile on Navin’s lips tasted bitter. What did he expect? An apology from Jwala’s perfect crown prince?
He turned and waved at the crowd, whose cheers grew louder.
“What are you doing?” Farhad’s whisper grew harsh. “The parasmani is still speaking.”
She was. And, from the way her back had stiffened, it was clear she was furious.
But for once, Navin didn’t care. He might be expendable to his grandmother. Might not mean much once Farhad took the throne. But to the people of Jwala, Navin still meant something. A banner unfurled at the back of the crowd: WELCOME HOME, NAVIN. OUR PERI PRINCE.
“Don’t be unreasonable, brother,” Navin replied. His smile widened, and he blew a kiss in the banner’s general direction. “I’m merely acknowledging our people.”
THE CROWD’S EBULLIENCE BUOYED NAVIN THROUGH THE REST of the morning. Through the tongue-lashing his grandmother gave him for “usurping the royal address,” through the brief, uncomfortable lunch, and through the long-winded prayers that swallowed the rest of the afternoon in the palace temple. By sunset, Navin’s shoulders were sagging again, his body nearly as drained as it would have been after a long trek in the ravines. He’d forgotten how exhausting it was to smile constantly, to put on a perpetual front before the courtiers, and to match them wit for barbed wit.
Was this the life he’d missed in captivity? His mouth watered already for another drink. Something that numbed him to his surroundings—though perhaps not as potent as rang ras.
Navin was so tired that he didn’t even argue when Sushil adorned his face with blue and yellow flames to match his dinner outfit: a brocaded ochre jama and trousers and a midnight-blue turban festooned with strings of golden seed pearls.
The first Hashtdin dinner was held in the palace gardens, bedecked with hundreds of floating lightorbs. Appetizers floated by on trays for the hundred or so guests to partake in—cubes of freshly caught rawas grilled to a char, fried turnip bhajias, and zardalu balls in firebloom syrup. Children gathered by the fountain, splashing water that changed to reflect the sunset or the night sky with a touch.
Nearby, a musician played the sitar on a small stage, an elderly woman in a pale green jama, her entire being captured by the evening raag. Navin stood watching her for long moments, wondering what it would be like to submit to music like this again—without a care for the world, without being reminded each time of everything he’d done wrong.
What you did in that temple for Jaya was the exact opposite of what you did when you were nine.
The voice echoed through Navin’s head even as he forced himself to focus on the song. A moment later, he sensed a presence by his side. One fragranced with sandalwood and vetiver.
“I miss seeing you play the sitar like this,” Farhad said quietly. “And sing, of course.”
“I played the tanpura,” Navin corrected after a pause. Maybe it was petty, but he was still annoyed by Farhad’s comment on the balcony earlier. “It has only four strings and is used to accompany singers and musicians. A sitar has frets and more strings.” And it could be played on its own.
“I see.”
A pause as the musician completed her piece. The princes clapped, their applause sending a silver rush of pleasure through the old lady’s aura. Navin was about to turn away when Farhad caught hold of his arm.
“Navin,” he whispered. “Please talk to me.”
Tempted as he was to ignore Farhad, Navin was also aware of the gazes on them right now. If he walked away, there would be even more whispers of “new tensions” between the crown prince and his “peri brother.” The Jwala Khabri would have a field day with that.
“What’s there to talk about?” he asked.
“I want to apologize.” Midnight wisps of his aura curled around Farhad’s gold turban. “What I said on the balcony was reprehensible. Please. Forgive me, little brother.”
Navin’s insides contracted. This was the second time that day his brother had let him see his aura. His truth. He faced the musician again, who was beginning another song.
“The last time I sang was in the badlands,” he said quietly. “It was the only way I could do magic without my amplifiers.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Either that or the Shadow Bandit was far too gullible.” And Navin doubted that was the case.
Farhad frowned. “I wrote to your father, you know,” he said. “When you were kidnapped. He wrote back, wanting to know if he could help.”
A curse rose to Navin’s lips. He bit his tongue. “What do you mean you wrote to him?” And that he wrote back?
“News about your abduction was spreading everywhere—even to kingdoms outside Jwala. It was better he found out from me than another source. Don’t glare at me that way, Nav. If something like this had happened to me and my father were still alive, I’d want him to know.”
“Well, mine did know, according to you. And he didn’t do anything.” Navin wondered why that continued to hurt him.
“That was because the parasmani refused his help.” Farhad glanced both ways to make sure no one was listening. “She said she didn’t want the peri flying all over Jwala. It would equate to external interference in our domestic affairs. She was furious that I wrote to him. Navin? Navin!”
But Navin didn’t want to listen anymore. Didn’t want any more explanations about his grandmother, his father, or his so-called family. Farhad’s voice faded from his ears. Everything faded, except for the tinkle of jade and rock crystal goblets magically floating on trays around the guests, filled to the brim with spiced wine. Navin picked up one and downed the drink in a few gulps. Throat burning, he passed the empty goblet to a serving boy, reached out a hand to lift another.
“Trying to upstage the rest of us again, are you, Peri Prince?” someone said.
Navin spun around, ready with a cutting retort when he recognized the grinning face under the wild swirls of red and blue paint. Shera. Appearing like an unexpected blessing at the end of a prayer.
Navin exhaled. “You’re here,” he said.
“Where else would I be?” His friend lightly punched his shoulder. A cloud of silver aura floated around his black brocade turban and long red curls. “It’s Hashtdin, remember?”
Hashtdin, when they’d pretend to be good for the day, then feast and drink away the nights, finding girls, boys, and taverns to slip off to in secret, when the stars came out. Behind Shera, he spotted a pair of ministers talking to Queen Bhairavi and Farhad. His brother was still glancing at Navin from time to time, trying to catch his eye.
The knot in Navin’s throat tightened. “Can we get out of here?” he whispered.
Shera laughed. “What? The party’s too tame for you?”
More like it was too much.
But Navin wasn’t in the mood for the gaming tables or pleasure houses his outings with Shera usually entailed. “I…need air.”
The best part about Shera Aspa was that he knew Navin well enough to not ask any questions. Even though a shade of blue entered his aura. Worry.
“Premchand’s a few miles from here,” he said simply. “It’s quiet and the owner’s pretty discreet. Serves an excellent firebloom madira, too. What about the parasmani? Will she be comfortable letting you go out so soon?”
She’ll be glad to see the back of me after this morning. But Navin didn’t say the words.
He gestured to his guards, waiting a few paces behind him in the garden. “Don’t think she cares as long as they’re with me.”
“All right, then.” Shera grinned. “Let’s go.”
* * *
THE FIREWORKS HAD BEGUN BY THE TIME THEIR CARRIAGES pulled up to Premchand’s, a small inn on a hill, away from the bustle of central Prabha. The proprietor was Pashu—a yima named Saam Premchand, his bulk squeezed into a small chair behind the reception desk. He raised his horned head, taking in Navin and Shera with a single glance.
“Please follow me,” Saam murmured with a bow before either man could say a word. A long tail peeked out from under his jama as he walked ahead, cut cleverly by a tailor to accommodate the human and bovine parts of his large form. “We will ensure that you are not disturbed by anyone.”
A door slid open to reveal two large beds, a sitting and eating area, and thick silk drapes to close over large windows that gave them a view of the sparklers bursting over the palace’s giant golden dome.
Some of the tension left Navin’s body. Behind him, he could hear Shera whispering to a servant along with the tinkle of coins. When he turned around, he saw that the low table by the sitting area had been set with food: a fragrant vegetable pulao, steamed pomfret encased in banana leaf jackets, a saag of fresh green riverweed and crumbly paneer accompanied by folded squares of muslin-thin roomali roti.
Navin’s eyes widened. “How come we’ve never been to this place?” He ripped open the banana leaf, digging into the pomfret with his hands.
“It’s more my father’s style, that’s why,” Shera remarked dryly. “He comes here whenever he has business matters to deal with. Of course, tonight, he couldn’t be here. Laleh beckoned,” he added bitterly.
Navin felt a twinge of guilt. He’d forgotten that Shera’s sister had died sometime during Hashtdin. It was why Governor Yazad never celebrated the festival, why he remained, according to Shera, cloistered in his haveli in Ashvamaidan, mourning before a framed painting of his favorite child.
Navin handed Shera one of the goblets of bloodred firebloom madira from the northern mountains. “To friendship,” he said.
Shera’s lips curved slightly under his beard. “To friendship.”
By the third cup, Navin was feeling a pleasant buzz, the sort that accompanied a particularly excellent wine.
“How about this?” Shera withdrew a small, familiar-looking jade bottle from his pocket. “Bought it off one of your cousins. Guaranteed oblivion.”
