Of light and shadow, p.32
Of Light and Shadow, page 32
She barely noticed. Her eyes opened wide as she took in the walls, alight with color and embedded with gleaming shards of rock: from the palest yellow to the clearest glass, from rich, velvety greens to deep ambers and the reds of congealed blood. A well-used pick and shovel lay in one corner, next to a barrow heaped with glittering dust and gems.
Firestones.
A mine full of them.
Roshan’s back struck the ground, the impact so sudden that everything around her began spinning. The shackles on her wrists and ankles burned, and there was no way for her to hold in a gasp.
“Looks like she’s awake,” the governor said, his face shadowed by a lightorb overhead. “Come now, Shera. Let’s begin.”
“Baba, are you sure you want to do this again tonight?” The hesitation in Shera’s tone surprised her. “Your leg—”
“There’s nothing wrong with my leg! Now do something useful for once and draw up Laleh’s casket!”
Shadows partly shrouded Shera’s face, nothing visible except the pale tint of his pursed mouth. He turned and knelt, pulling on a lever. The ground parted and the firebloom casket rose from within, caked with dirt and maggots, as if it, too, had traveled with them all the way here.
Roshan’s throat tightened. She cursed herself for listening to Lieutenant Manek—whoever he was—and not killing Shera when she had the chance. Now she was fully shackled and stuck underground in this gods-forsaken mine while Hemant scampered restlessly from one corner to another.
“Laleh.” Governor Yazad’s voice was soft as he brushed the dirt from the casket. “Bitiya. Soon we will be together. Our family will be whole again.”
Roshan’s gaze slithered to Shera, noting the way he stiffened at his father’s words.
“What about your son?” she asked, her voice raw but still clear. “Do you care he exists at all? Or have you forgotten the living in favor of the dead?”
Pain lanced through Roshan’s shackles as Hemant lunged, his sharp teeth latching onto her left thumb. The pain made her eyes water, turning everything ablur. What felt like hours later, a sharp buzz in her wrists and ankles jolted her back into consciousness. Her throat ached from screaming.
The governor must’ve called him off at some point, because Hemant was whining as if being denied a treat. He bounced in place, his sharp teeth streaked with Roshan’s blood.
A sliver of bone peered through the mess of blood and flesh on her gnawed thumb. Her hand warmed, her magic reacting almost instantaneously to heal the wound. But the throbbing in her thumb did not ease. Neither did the flesh and skin begin knitting back together as quickly as they normally would.
“Stupid girl,” the governor said coldly. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
Roshan gritted her teeth against the pain and exhaustion creeping up her body.
It was tempting to stay quiet. To accept the inevitability of what surely must be a slow, agonizing death. But then she looked again at her bloodied thumb and nearly threw up in her mouth. Governor Yazad had already stolen their lands and her baba. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of stealing her mind as well.
The gleam of firestones in a nearby barrow caught her eye, an idea beginning to form in her head.
“You’re wrong,” she said. It was an effort to say the words. To speak clearly when she wanted to wail. “When you say that I don’t understand what you’re going through.”
As she spoke, she shifted her hips, inching toward the barrow. Her shackles jolted again, but the pain was nothing compared with her left thumb.
The governor stiffened but did not turn to look at Roshan. Shera didn’t seem to be listening to her at all. Something about tonight had drained him of his usual bloodlust.
“I understand what you’re going through,” Roshan went on. “I, too, was someone’s bitiya once. If I could, I would do everything in my power to steal his life back.”
A brief silence. Next to her, Hemant growled, as if itching to bite her again.
The governor didn’t move.
Roshan could feel Shera turning to look at her. But instead of eyeing him, she forced herself to turn to the bone demon, addressing it the way she couldn’t bear to address Hemant when he was still alive.
“I was angry. So angry when Deepak Bhai betrayed Baba. But I didn’t try to stop myself. To pause and think of the devastation I would cause others when I killed him. I was only thinking of myself.” As she spoke the words, she realized they were true. “Given a choice, I would’ve brought Baba back to life again. When I couldn’t, I decided I would take his clan instead. Ultimately, I wasn’t able to hold it together. You were right, Hemant. I was—am—a failure as a sardar.”
Hemant’s growl softened to a whine.
She turned to Governor Yazad, who was watching her with narrowed eyes.
“You’re thinking about your daughter now,” Roshan said. “And I don’t blame you. But you forget that she’s my mother, too. If you succeed in resurrecting her, do you think she’ll forgive you for killing her only child?”
“Enough,” the governor whispered. “Shera. Grab her.”
Time to move.
Relying on a strength she didn’t know she still possessed, Roshan dived for the barrow, her hands closing around the rough-hewn edges of a large red firestone, so hard it felt as if she’d pierced skin.
It was a risk. A major risk that could backfire worse than she’d anticipated.
However, for once, fate was on her side. Magic flushed her skin, her whole body feeling like it had been thrust into heat after being frozen for hours. Life magic, glowing gold on her eyelashes, her cheeks, on every tip of her finger.
Her thumb snapped painfully back into place, flesh and skin knitting together a second before the bone demon landed on her back, its claws digging into her shoulders.
Crack.
Hemant’s skull shattered to bits under the impact of the firestone in Roshan’s grip, fragments of bone clattering to the ground. Without really understanding why, she brought the stone down on the shackles with a scream, her body still glowing with life magic.
Boom: The sound rattled her teeth as her legs burst free and then pierced her ears once more as she focused the firestone on the shackles binding her wrists.
The world began to blur around the edges. Roshan’s head throbbed, partly stunned, partly dizzy from having used magic this way. Life magic to break shackles—she hadn’t even known such a thing was possible. But there was no time to ponder. No time for anything except the intense, blinding pain that seemed ready to rip her skull apart. Along with the migraine, a voice echoed in Roshan’s head. Low and sonorous at first, it grew louder like the crush of a waterfall, the flap of tens of thousands of butterfly wings.
Was this what death felt like? Roshan wondered as darkness descended. Had she broken her shackles only to have her own magic kill her?
In the midst of the black river she was floating on, a light sparked. Scattered like stars.
The homāi’s black eyes were soft, warm even, as she spoke in the voice Roshan had once thought a figment of her imagination:
“It is not your time yet, ladli. This place is not for you.”
Amma? Roshan was unable to say the word out loud. Was that really her mother?
“My baba has grieved so long. Hurt so many people for my sake. But his jewel cannot return to him,” her mother’s voice grew more urgent. “Tell him that, ladli. Tell him to let me go.”
Roshan wanted to weep. To reach out and touch her mother just this once.
But before she could, the homāi burst into flames and Roshan found herself flying out of the river—back into the light of the living world.
SOUND.
A complete and utter lack of it, along with a darkness so absolute that if not for the homāi hovering ahead of him like a beacon, Navin would’ve thought he’d gone blind as well as deaf. He pressed a pair of fingers to his throat, preparing to sing and break the barrier when the light ahead of him flared sharply, making his eyes water.
Don’t. The warning was clear even though the homāi had not spoken a word. Not yet.
She flew farther, illuminating a long tunnel branching off several ways. If he’d blinked, he would’ve completely missed the path she’d taken. Several times, his arms and legs scraped rocks, and once a bone jutting from the walls of the narrow space.
Curse you if you die on me, Roshni.
As if in response, he felt something brush softly against his cheeks. A sigh that tickled the inside of his ears.
“Sing, hatchling.” His father’s voice poured from the homāi’s beak, the only audible thing in the silence.
Navin sang. Of moonlight glinting on a dhow floating across a river. Of lies and truths, hope and heartbreak. Of the sun streaking a sky outside a dark cave. A rainbow tinting the aura of a girl with black-red hair.
The sound barrier broke. Along with it, so did the darkness, a hole crumbling through one of the walls, the force of the explosion turning Navin nearly dizzy as he stumbled into a…was it a room? No. It was a cave.
Glittering with firestones and swelling with chaos.
The homāi was gone.
“Roshan!” Navin shouted, ducking Governor Yazad’s death spell and trying to reach the motionless girl.
Here, he was blocked by a glowing red atashban and Shera at its other end.
“Drop your weapon. You are not to shoot nor kill anyone,” Navin commanded, magic resonant in his voice, which echoed through the cave. “Now, Shera.”
Shera’s arms moved jerkily, as if fighting the order. His aura was red. But by the time Navin realized his mistake and opened his mouth to rectify it, Shera had already thrown his weapon aside.
The soul magic in his earlier command would prevent Shera from killing him. It would not, however, stop the man from beating him to a pulp. Shera pummeled Navin’s face, breaking his nose and slicing his lip with a few well-placed punches. A blister burst in Navin’s mouth. His hands searched the ground, found a rock with jagged edges. Shera deflected the blow easily, his grip on Navin’s wrist so painful that it was an effort not to cry out in pain.
“Drop,” Navin forced the word out, magic singeing his lips. “My. Hand.”
Shera did, after a struggle, his curse lost in another new sound.
Footsteps hammered the tunnel, followed by voices rising in the air.
“La-Lalit!” Navin shouted, recognizing one of them. Before he could say more, Shera punched Navin again, so hard that he saw stars.
But his ears were still functioning perfectly. And they heard Governor Yazad’s voice crawling through the cave along with the bone-chilling magic of a verse in old Paras. A command Navin couldn’t decipher except for one word.
Ahriman.
Demon.
From all around them, as if they’d always been hidden in nooks and crannies, shadows emerged, solidified into bone demons larger than any Navin had seen before, their hollow eyes glowing scarlet instead of green, their ruddy jowls stained with old blood. They swarmed into the tunnel, which burst into screams and webs of red and green light.
As Navin struggled to his feet, another punch rattled his jaw. Shera raised an arm, about to hit him again, when a figure dived between them, her familiar shout sending a rush of adrenaline through Navin.
As Roshan and Shera grappled on the floor, Navin grabbed a dusty shovel lying nearby. He raised his arms, about to slam Shera in the back, when something sharp curled around his feet and ankles, rapidly snaking up his legs. Navin’s nerves screamed in agony as the thorny shrub punctured his skin, forcing him to his knees.
“Foolish prince,” Governor Yazad said, sounding almost disappointed. “I suppose you are truly bewitched by her. But tonight, I will end it. Tonight, the world will be righted again.”
Navin tried to speak. To move. But his limbs were frozen. His mouth could do no more than twitch. He could only watch as Shera wrenched the firestone from Roshan’s grip and began dragging her by her hair to an open casket.
Were they planning to bury her alive?
“I saw her!” Roshan screamed. “Laleh! She talked about you, Subedar. She said that your jewel cannot return to you. You need to leave her in peace!”
The subedar’s daughter, Laleh? But wasn’t she…?
Navin stared at the casket, years of conversations with Shera about the governor’s grief and his inability to forget his daughter gaining new and terrible meaning.
The governor’s face had twisted at Roshan’s plea. Turned into something ugly. Unrecognizable. His aura, which until now had remained invisible to Navin, flared to life. A grief as deep and green as an ocean. One that had turned to venom.
Navin knew then it wouldn’t matter what Roshan said or did. The governor would kill her before the night was out.
Navin closed his eyes, feeling the cool weight of the jade bracelets at his wrists, picturing the magic that now hummed in the skin underneath climbing up his arms. Warming his throat, unraveling his frozen tongue.
“Save yourself.” As Navin spoke, his voice filled every empty space in the cave. “Save yourself, Roshan.”
Through a fog, he watched her hands reach up and twist hard, loosening Shera’s grip in her hair. As she, somehow, miraculously slammed the bigger man to the floor, Governor Yazad raised his cane, his limbs trembling.
No. Navin wanted to say. You will not hit Roshan.
The words that left his mouth were entirely different, spoken in a voice that sounded at once like a hundred peri singing, like the crackle of a thousand fires:
“Let her go.”
As pain knifed Navin’s throat, blood filling his mouth, the governor’s bad knee gave way, his spell arcing in the opposite direction like a scythe, setting Laleh’s open casket aflame.
“Baba! Baba, no!” Navin could barely hear Shera’s shouts over the explosion that shattered the casket, the governor’s anguished wails. “Baba, she’s gone! Gone, you hear me?”
More bodies burst into the mine: Shadow Clan members, including a bruised and bloodied Lalit and Vijali Fui, followed by a young Bright in gold armor, his forearm held high, a royal messenger tattoo glowing on his skin.
“Drop your weapon, Shera Aspa!” the sipahi ordered. “By order of the crown prince of Jwala, you and Subedar Yazad are under arrest for various criminal activities, including, most recently, the murder and desecration of the bandit Hemant…”
Sound faded from Navin’s ears as more sipahis poured through the tunnel, filling the mine with their round, homāi-emblazoned shields, marble-tipped atashbans pointing at the governor and his son.
The last thing Navin saw was Roshan’s face, light limning her form—from dark red lashes to dirt-tipped fingers—her lips saying a word that might have been his name.
With the blessings of our Goddess of Fire and Light, we bring you
THE
JWALA KHABRI
THE ORIGINAL
Voice of the Kingdom
Day 1 Flowers, 40 Bhairavi Kāl
JWALA’S PERI PRINCE RETURNS
The erstwhile prince of Jwala, Navin of Clan Behram, arrived in Prabha early this morning by boat, under heavy guard, amid fervent cheering and binding proposals by delirious citizens, some of whom have declared themselves devotees of the Peri Prince.
Two other armed barges docked at Prabha later in the day, the first containing Ashvamaidan’s disgraced provincial governor, Yazad Aspa, alongside his son and lieutenant governor, Shera Aspa, arrested seven days earlier by royal sipahi forces outside Alipore village, twenty-five miles west of Surag. Several charges have been laid against the Aspas, including murder and the creation of bone demons, all of which have been severely contended by the governor’s dasturs, who insist they will fight the allegations in court.
The other barge contained the notorious Shadow Bandit, alias Roshan Chaya, the Peri Prince’s alleged lover, who was arrested by the sipahis along with several other members of the Shadow Clan. However, the Shadow Bandit seems equally if not more popular than the Peri Prince, her arrival spurring a protest of hundreds of Jwaliyan citizens—including masked and turbaned university students who congregated outside the palace gates and balcony, chanting slogans of freedom and justice for Ashvamaidan’s farmers. While the Khabri did not receive an official response from Kiran Mahal to any of our hawks, an anonymous insider tells us that “the protests have caused agitation among many a courtier and even royals—including our exalted parasmani.”
Our sources have further suggested the existence of an active firestone mine near Alipore. Firestone, a powerful mineral with magic-amplifying qualities, was believed to have gone extinct half a century earlier. Lieutenant Manek Atashin, the officer in charge of investigating the Ashvamaidan saga, as we now know it, declined to answer our questions about the mine, only calling the mission “a success beyond imagining.”
NEWS FLEW IN ON A PALACE HAWK’S WINGS, THE BIRD DROPPING the note on the pavement in front of Navin while he strolled through the gardens at Kiran Mahal, burly sipahis surrounding him on four sides. He paused, waiting impatiently, as one of the men picked up the scroll and scanned the name on it. Snatching it once it passed inspection, Navin broke the familiar seal and unrolled the parchment. Insects buzzed around him as he read the few lines that were written there. Once. Twice. Again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“I’d like to see the parasmani,” he told the guard who’d handed him the note.
Navin had to remind himself to speak low, to avoid exerting his voice more than needed. The poison from Governor Yazad’s plant had damaged his vocal cords, making speech painful. The palace hakim, who’d examined him on arrival, said that Navin was lucky to have a voice at all.
“Whoever healed you drew out most of the venom at the right time,” the hakim had commented without mentioning Roshan by name. “Thankfully, your magic is functioning as normal and you should still be able to see auras. But I advise giving your vocal cords as much rest as possible. No soul magic commands or singing for at least a year.”
