He nodded, his hands still raised to his face like he thought I would hit him at any moment. Then, he bowed, stumbling backward. He stood in the arch of the doorway, body cast in shadow, face an inscrutable inkblot. He bowed once more before I blinked and realized he was gone. Nothing. Not even that telltale seep of cold that invaded a room when another body had just left.
I kneaded my hands against my forehead, rubbing out the shadows of horned silhouettes and flashing eyes. I couldn’t shake the sense that the world had split for a moment, separating like oil and water.
A moment passed before I shook myself of that strange grogginess with a horrifying jolt.
The announcement.
My heart lurched. How much had I missed? I spared one last glance at the arch of light where the tutor had disappeared. Perhaps he was just more superstitious than normal. There had been a funeral, after all. That was all. That was all. I repeated the words in my head, bright as talismans, until I had all but forgotten the feeling of two worlds converging across my eyes—dazzling and prismatic.
I pulled myself up the ladder propped against the shelves that led directly to the hollowed roof and rafters of my father’s inner sanctum.
The wood beneath my palms was rough and scratchy. I gripped the rungs tighter, smiling when splinters slid into my hands. I am here. I am no ghost. Ghosts don’t get splinters. Heart calm, hands still, I slid through the loose space in the rafters, kicked my feet behind me and disappeared into the ceiling.
The first time I had snuck up the rafters, my heart raced so fast, I almost didn’t hear all the debates between the courtiers, the advisers and my father. Women weren’t allowed in the inner court sanctum and getting caught would mean severe punishment.
Over time, sneaking above the sanctum became easy. Now, I could wriggle my way through the empty space like a blind lizard. Safely perched in the rafters, I curled my knees beneath me and snuggled into my hiding spot. I didn’t know how many hours I had spent perched in this corner, listening to them. Up here, I could pretend that I ruled over them all, silent and mythic. From here, I could learn what no tutor could teach—the way power settles over people in a room, the way language curls around ankles like a sated cat or flicks a forked tongue in caution, the way to enthrall an audience. And I could understand, almost, the lives and histories scrawled into the lines and lines of the records stowed away in the archival building. The inner sanctum was where my father met foreign dignitaries, it was where the war meetings were held, where crops were discussed and decisions were made. It was the heart of the kingdom and at its throne, my father. According to the archives, he had ruled since the age of ten. If he had siblings, the records never mentioned them.
I flattened myself against the wall and settled in to listen. Whatever I had missed from the beginning had taken its toll on the courtiers. Even from my hiding spot, some faces gleamed white and the air was thick and sour with anxiety.
The inner sanctum held every reminder of the war that had raged on for at least six years. Dented helmets lined the walls like iron skulls. It unnerved the courtiers. Some of them refused to sit beside the armor of the dead, but father had insisted. “We must never forget those who served us.”
Each time I clambered into the rafters, the helmets seemed to grow in size and number. Now, they covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Even though they had been cleaned and scraped of blood, their presence haunted the sanctum. Sunlight glinted off the metal, haloing the helmets so that it looked like my father held court before ghosts.
“Sire, we cannot abide by this decision. There must be a different way to end the war,” said Ajeet, a baby-faced councilor with a receding hairline he hid beneath a massive pagri. He trembled where he stood, small hands knotted at the base of his ribs like he’d sunk a dagger to its hilt far into his belly. Given the flash of anger on the Raja’s face, he might as well have.
“We still have enough soldiers,” he cried. “The medics have become more skilled. We might even win this war and sacrifice only a few hundred more.”
I frowned. Couldn’t Ajeet see the helmets on the walls? People had filled that armor. Heads, once brimming with their own hopes and joys and miseries, had worn those helmets. What was only a “few hundred more” to the kingdom could be someone else’s lover, brother or son. It wasn’t right to honor the dead with inaction.
“You can and you will abide by my decision,” said the Raja, his voice hard. He looked careworn, dark eyes sunken so that for a moment they looked like the depthless hollows of a skull.
“But the rebel kingdoms—”
“The rebel kingdoms want the same thing that we do,” said my father harshly. “They want food in their bellies. Warmth in their hearths. They want their children to live long enough to possess a name. They fight us out of desperation. Who else will hear their pleas? A decade-long drought? Failing crops? Sweating sicknesses?”
“But, Your Majesty, they turned on the capital.”
“Exactly. Their desperation means they have nothing to lose. We are the only losers in this war,” he said. “We cannot fight from the fringes. We need to bring them here. Now, do as I say and arrange the swayamvara.”
A wedding? His tone sent a frisson of ice down my spine. But all of my half-sisters of marriageable age are already betrothed. The only one who isn’t is—
“—the moment the rebel kingdoms hear about Princess Mayavati’s horoscope, they will not go through with the wedding,” said another of my father’s advisers. Jayesh.
On any other day, I liked him. His voice was soft-spoken, his perspective far more liberal than the rest of the court. But in that moment I hated him, hated him for the words that leapt out of his mouth and chained me to the spot.
Everyone, including me, had thought my horoscope was enough to ward off any proposals. In seventeen years, it hadn’t failed me. But now the possibility of a life lived in unwed freedom disappeared, pulled out from under my feet in a matter of seconds.
“Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect, but the princess’s horoscope is reputed to have foretold a rather disturbing marriage. One that would partner her with death and destruction. We could offend the—”
The Raja raised his hand. “Hearsay has no place in diplomacy. Our duty is to our people and I will not see them harmed because of superstition. We need to bring the enemy to our court. We need to end this war.”
End the war. I knew he was right. Even from the sidelines of the court, death pressed all around us. Jayesh bowed and sat down. I knew they were saying other things. Exchanging details and days, parsing out my life between them like it was ribbon fit for tearing. It was a miracle I didn’t stumble through the gap in the rafters. I knew my father better than most did. I had watched him for years. Beneath one plan was always ten. Usually I could find the cracks in his words, pry them open and see what lay beneath the layers of diplomacy, sweet talk and vengeance. But not now. His voice was monotone. Pained, almost. He spoke with the finality of stone and my heart broke beneath it.
“The swayamvara will be in a few days’ time,” continued the Raja. “The rebel leaders will be welcomed as guests and suitors for my daughter’s hand. Draw up a new horoscope and hide any evidence of the original. Make it convincing.”