Of light and shadow, p.4
Of Light and Shadow, page 4
“Goddess’s flaming hair,” he murmured, watching the Shadow Bandit’s eyes grow wide. The red light of her aura now started mingling with another color: the delicate pink of embarrassment. “It seems I’m not wearing underclothes today.”
A few snickers erupted around them.
Navin smiled, hoping the bandits didn’t see his tightening jaw. If they had, they didn’t say anything. No one seemed to have spotted the ring on his left pinkie, either. Curling the finger inward, he placed his hands on bare hips and pretended to be utterly at ease while their eyes roved over his form. He was already worse off without his bracelets than his clothes. But the teak ring could work as an amplifier. It was small and not enough for a truly powerful spell like the one he’d attempted on the dhow. But his mind and body were now throwing off the effects of the alcohol, and his soul magic was beginning to emerge, evidenced by the faded wisps of bandit auras around him. None, of course, were as clear as their leader’s, with whom he’d daringly formed a name bond. This, of course, would not last forever.
Already the Shadow Bandit was looking at him like he was a pile of dung, her nose wrinkled, her mouth pinched at the corners. Whatever embarrassment he’d seen in her aura had faded, a streak of cobalt muddying the red. Was she worried? Or worse: Was she suspicious?
Quietly, she scooped up Navin’s discarded jewels and clothes from within the barrier and handed them to Chotu, who stood beside her.
“Get the rajkumar some new clothes,” she said, her low voice a cold wash of water over Navin’s skin. “Since he has generously donated his overpriced garments, we might as well give him some suitable replacements.”
“Haan, Sardar.”
Moments passed during which Navin began to sorely regret his attempt at bravado, his skin prickling under multiple gazes. But Chotu reappeared soon enough, his small hands holding out what appeared to be bits of folded gunnysack. Roshan took the clothes from Chotu and dropped them at Navin’s feet.
High hell. Was he really expected to wear that?
The curve of the Shadow Bandit’s mouth was as sharp as a blade. “Am I sensing regret, Rajkumar?”
“Navin,” he corrected. “And my only regret is that I’m naked and you’re not here touching me.”
It was dangerous to play like this—to try to strengthen their bond with lust. His stomach churned as the Shadow Bandit stepped forward, crossing his barrier with the ease of a hot knife slicing through butter. Her cool fingers brushed the cut at his throat. Ice coated Navin’s skin, making the fine hairs on his neck rise. He wondered if she’d frozen his voice again. He swallowed hard.
“Well, Navin?” she asked. “Are you happy now?”
Before he could reply, her hand dropped, leaving the skin at his throat tingling. Colors wafted around her: a blue cloud of worry, tinged with the slightest hint of yellow.
Fear? Was the Shadow Bandit afraid?
Not of him, certainly. She could kill him if she wanted to. No, something greater was at stake here. Something that had—he touched his throat with his fingers—made her heal his injury shortly after causing it.
Navin never had been and never would be good at physical combat. With a poor amplifier, he had no hope of taking on so many bandits. He would have to bide his time until he could escape. He would have to play the Shadow Bandit, play each of these bandits, the way he once did his tanpura, lightly plucking each of the instrument’s four strings, tuning it until it made the perfect sound. For now, he waited a few moments, allowing the slightest bit of magic to seep toward his throat—a subtle tingling sensation that only he was aware of.
“Tell me more, Roshni,” he said, ensuring that his voice was warm, but not too warm. Sweet, but not too sweet. “What do you want from me?”
For whatever she wanted, Navin would promise to give. Over and over, until she believed him, heart and soul.
Then, slowly, carefully, he would slide it out of reach.
ROSHAN STUDIED THE PRINCE’S FACE: THE RAISED LEFT EYEBROW, the smirk on his sensual lips.
I want freedom, she could tell him. Justice for Ashvamaidan’s villagers and our people.
But what would the spoiled brat know about either? Would he believe Roshan if she told him how corrupt Governor Yazad Aspa and his son were or that the corruption climbed all the way to his grandmother, the queen? Roshan wasn’t ignorant of the spare prince’s close friendship with Shera Aspa. Prince Navin wasn’t their ally and he never would be.
“Everything in good time, Rajkumar,” she said.
A slight frown marred his smooth forehead. He didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did he?
“Get dressed,” she said. “If you need to relieve yourself, raise a hand and someone will come fetch me.”
“And what if you’re not around?”
“I’ll make sure someone else is. Any other questions?”
Before the prince could answer, she snapped her fingers, a buzzing filling the air. Cutting him off with a sound barrier was petty, perhaps. But she couldn’t let him get away with mocking her in front of the clan. She turned around, knowing they were assessing her now, likely wondering if she was way in over her head.
Time to put those doubts to rest.
“If the rajkumar raises his hand, I must be informed right away.” She spoke with what Baba called her belly voice, her words reaching the farthest parts of the cave, her gaze briefly connecting to every single bandit. “Do not attempt to otherwise befriend or communicate with him. Understand?”
“Haan, Sardar,” they chorused.
“Any questions?”
“Naah, Sardar.”
Roshan headed to the opposite end of the cave, through a short tunnel, and into a hollow that was her room—a sleeping pallet in one corner and a small trunk of her belongings in another: clothes, an extra punch-dagger with a broken handle, and a small pile of well-thumbed farmer’s almanacs.
Moments later, Lalit’s familiar head poked through, his shoulders hunching to fit the small space. “Have a moment?”
“Sure.”
He plopped down on her pallet, the scents of poha and his sweat mingling in the air. “Maybe you should tell the rajkumar about what we want.”
“What do you mean?” Roshan pulled out a spare bit of parchment, a pen made of bone, and a bottle of charcoal ink. “He’s not going to care.”
“Why not? He should know what’s going on in his kingdom, too. He could inherit it if the crown prince snuffs out.”
“If,” Roshan repeated with emphasis. She dipped the nib into the inkwell, waiting for it to soak up the black. “I wouldn’t bet on the early death of a healthy young man who never travels without his own private force of sipahis. Besides, we don’t have any idea what this spare prince thinks of his kingdom.”
“Then why not find out? Maybe he doesn’t even know about how bad it is here. How many rich city folk do you see this far out west? Most spend their time in Surag, locked up in those fancy bathhouses or throwing drinking parties at inns. The wealthy are often sheltered from the realities of the poor.”
“Or they intentionally choose to shelter themselves.” She started writing a letter, beginning with: Exalted Parasmani of Jwala. “Besides, since when do you empathize with silk-tongued pretty boys?”
“I don’t. Not since the last one who broke my heart, at least.” Lalit grinned, but not before Roshan glimpsed the flash of pain on his face.
“Lalit, I’m sorry—”
“No need to be. You distracted me well enough,” he said lightly.
It was a testament to their friendship that Roshan didn’t wince. She had distracted Lalit. They’d distracted each other last year, first with sparring practices and later with play fights that ended in bed—on this very pallet. Fiery as their time together was, the romance played itself out a couple of months later, with Roshan’s grief over Baba’s death easing to a dull ache and Lalit admitting he was still in love with an unnamed boy from a neighboring village. Seamlessly, they’d fallen back into a relationship that was as platonic as it was old—a blessing that Roshan would have thanked each of the four gods for if she believed in them.
“Back to my earlier point,” Lalit went on when Roshan didn’t acknowledge his comment. “I think you should try to talk to the rajkumar. Turn him if you must. Bring him over to our side.”
Roshan suppressed a laugh. “Like that’s going to happen.”
“Why not? He’s attracted to you. Use that to your advantage.”
“Nonsense.” She pushed away the memory of the way the prince’s gaze had flickered over her form. “He’s only a compulsive flirt. He likely uses seduction to get his way.”
“So can you.” Lalit grinned. “Don’t make that face. You’re the one who called him pretty.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m going to take advantage of him. That’s the sort of thing the Brights do.”
There was always, always, some desperate young man or woman in a dying Ashvamaidani village hoping that a few rolls in the hay with a Bright would get them their ancestral lands back. The thought sickened Roshan.
Lalit’s smile slipped. “Roshan, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t,” she assured him. “But we’ve always had one goal, remember? When they don’t give us our birthright—”
“—we steal it.” A thoughtful frown overtook Lalit’s face. “I still think it’s dangerous, what we’re planning to do. But I don’t see another way out, either. We’ll have to keep an eye on the rajkumar. Make sure he doesn’t try to escape.”
“We’ll have to watch Hemant and his cronies, too.” The confinement barrier she’d placed around Prince Navin was strong but not foolproof. She had put Chotu on lookout and told him to let her know if any trouble was afoot.
“Chhe! Hemant.” Lalit made a face. “Can’t we expel him? He’s such a nuisance.”
“Salute the wicked first and then the good,” she responded, quoting the old Jwaliyan proverb. “If we expel Hemant, the first thing he’ll do is run to Subedar Yazad Aspa and tell him our whereabouts.”
It was what Hemant’s brother, Deepak, had done last year—leaking information about their raid to Governor Yazad, along with Baba’s tactics. It had taken a while for Roshan to guess this, realization sinking in like a shard of broken glass, moments after Deepak had suggested disbanding the Shadow Clan.
“We’re fighting a lost cause, Roshan bitiya,” Deepak had declared, his hands reaching out to her in a poor attempt at mimicking Baba. “Why continue living like this? Why not stop banditry and cut a deal with the subedar instead? He’s not so terrible a man. The Brights and those who are loyal to him are treated well. They have homes of their own instead of a cave, food instead of scraps, real clothes instead of rags.”
Arguments had broken out, some, like Lalit and Vijali Fui, pushing back hard against these points. But several others had remained noticeably silent. As if they agreed with Deepak.
“You are not a Chaya,” Roshan had addressed Deepak, her words silencing everyone. “You don’t get to decide the future of this clan—not while I’m still here.” She’d unsheathed her katar—an act that instantly resulted in a number of clan members drawing their weapons as well, cries ringing on both sides of the cave.
Ultimately, Roshan and Deepak had agreed to face off alone, one holding a katar, the other an atashban. Deepak had had the upper hand with experience and cunning, an expertise in combat magic, and the more powerful weapon. Roshan had only two things: the utter certainty that this man would destroy them for his own benefit and the knowledge that she had only one chance to kill him. She’d taken that chance, throwing the katar at Deepak’s face and then, as he’d stepped out of its way, lunging forward, locking her hands around his throat, magic pulsing white hot under her skin. Deepak hadn’t been an easy adversary. Apart from cuts and bruises, the kill had resulted in one of the worst migraines she’d had in years, one that had her blacking out and throwing up for two whole days, the left side of her head feeling as if it would shatter at the slightest touch.
She’d expected Hemant and his followers to retaliate after the duel and rat out the clan to the governor. But, for some reason, they hadn’t. Perhaps Hemant didn’t trust the governor as much as his brother had. Or perhaps he was simply waiting to see which way the dice would roll in this war over Ashvamaidan valley. Either way, there was no chance of Roshan entertaining any deal from Yazad Aspa. Baba hadn’t lost his land and his family—he hadn’t died—for things to come to that point.
And they wouldn’t, Roshan promised. Not as long as she was alive.
With Prince Navin in her hands, she would bargain with the queen, stealing back everything that had been taken from the Shadow Clan and the villagers. Killing Deepak had earned Roshan the clan’s fear. This wild plan, if successful, could earn her their respect—and their trust. Hemant or no Hemant.
“Come on,” she told Lalit. “Help me write this letter to our queen.”
HIS NEW CLOTHES WERE NO BETTER THAN A GUNNYSACK. Navin’s captors had given him a mud-brown jama that ended at the knees and matching drawstring trousers that made his legs itch. At least they appeared sturdily made. And clean. He’d been fed breakfast as well, the Shadow Bandit bringing him a bowl of cold but edible poha, overloaded with the blue river onions these westerners seemed to throw in every bit of their food. It had been too much to expect her to let him bathe in the river outside (and also scan the ravines for escape routes)—not that Navin hadn’t tried.
Pain slid up the back of his neck, pulsing behind his ears. It was the cursed sound barrier, buzzing at that terrible low frequency. No matter how hard Navin tried, he couldn’t lift it. Maybe he should have paid more attention to Dastur Jamshid during their lessons on everyday spells. But the very thought of blocking sound—the breath of every bit of music in this world—had made Navin resist performing such magic. And now, he was here. Stuck in this foul cave in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by murderous bandits.
Think.
He might not be able to lift the sound barrier or the confinement barrier restricting him to this small square of space, but he couldn’t waste his time waiting. Surely not all the bandits were like their leader. In a group this big, there had to be at least one weak link.
He spotted Chotu in the distance, floating idly, peering through the crack in the ceiling. After the Shadow Bandit and Lalit had disappeared in the cavern’s depths, most of the others had stepped out to eat, drink, or talk, leaving Navin alone with the little boy. Chotu somersaulted several times, as easily as an acrobat at a fair, but the boy used no trapezes, only his magic. Light wisps of color wafted around his small, bored face. Navin waited until Chotu’s gaze fell on him, and then he clapped hard. It wasn’t false applause. The boy was performing the sort of levitation that most magi in Prabha would cut off an arm or leg for. (Some actually had.)
The boy grinned and took a bow before spinning in the air like a wheel let loose, so fast that it made Navin dizzy to watch him.
Navin clapped again. Wah! he mouthed.
Chotu grinned. He was about to mouth a thanks for the praise—of that Navin was certain—when his smile froze and he shot back up to his old spot, floating several feet away. Navin cursed out loud. The others must have returned.
Sure enough, a group of bandits entered the cave a second later. At the center was a man over thirty-five blue moons in age, his body thin and muscular, his hair and beard nearly as red-black as the Shadow Bandit’s, except his were already peppered gold. Spotting Navin, he paused mid-laugh, a sneer on his pale lips.
Then, without warning, he tossed something at Navin—or rather his barrier—a rock that made it crackle faintly before falling to the floor. Navin started, forgetting he was both caged and shielded, which the bandits found hilarious, their widely parted mouths revealing teeth in different states of disrepair.
Navin shot a glance at the ceiling, but Chotu was gone; he probably disliked this lot as much as Navin did. Someone handed the pale-lipped bandit an atashban.
Goddess of Fire and Light. Navin swallowed. Please let not today be the day I see you.
But before the bandit could do more than point his weapon, a pair of figures raced into sight: the Shadow Bandit and her second, Lalit. Chotu flying close behind them.
The boy flashed Navin a quick look, a gray wisp of relief sliding through his aura.
That’s right, Chotu. I’m not dead yet, thank goddess.
Or maybe he ought to thank the Shadow Bandit.
She was talking to Navin’s pale-lipped tormentor, her face carved into hard lines. The man sneered in response and then, without speaking, stalked out of the cave. A couple of others followed. But the rest of the bandits remained where they were, no longer laughing.
Eventually, the Shadow Bandit marched up to Navin and snapped her fingers twice. The sound barrier faded from his ears, but this time it did little to relieve him. Even without the bright red tingeing her aura, Roshan Chaya looked like she wanted to kill someone.
“Rajkumar,” she began.
“Navin,” he corrected. Angry as she was, it would do him no good if she reinforced that emotional wall he’d breached earlier today.
Her aura deepened to the shade of dried blood: annoyance. “Navin,” she conceded. “I think it’s time we told you why you’re here.”
Finally. Navin hoped his relief didn’t show on his face. But first—
“Perhaps you ought to tell me why your friend was trying to use me as target practice,” he retorted, using exactly the tone his grandmother would while dealing with him at his unruliest. “Or is that how you bandits treat your honored guests?”
