“Why shouldn’t I?” I responded, panting with the effort. I dropped to the ground, brushed stray hair from my eyes, and turned to face Manthara, whose expression was pinched. I had been rather rude. “I’m sorry,” I added. “I just…” I could not articulate it, this need to learn. Manthara eyed me intently.
“You do not need to be able to fight,” she said. “You will be radnyi of a kingdom one day. That will be all the power you need.”
In a way, she was right.
I was learning my own power more and more each day as I took over duties of the court. This had recently come to a head with Dhanteri, my mother’s former chief lady-in-waiting. I would never forget her whispered conversation with Prasad the night my mother had vanished, where she held her tongue in exchange for control of the palace’s workings. In the week before Holi, Manthara had taken me to the kitchens to hear the plans for the celebration that would follow the great bonfire. Each year, we burned an effigy of the Holika, a wicked asura who had tried to immolate her devout nephew alive. Burning the effigy would cleanse our kingdom and bring a good harvest.
The supplies were limited for the feast; the usual caravans that would bring grain and rice had been delayed, and only after the harvest would our kitchens be replenished.
I listened carefully to our cook and, when Manthara nodded, encouraged him to use our flour stores to prepare vadas, delicious balls of dough mixed with fragrant herbs, then fried until they were golden and sizzling before being dipped in tangy yogurt. Our bins of dried chickpeas were plentiful, which meant we would be able to prepare my father’s favorite spiced stew, and it was decided that we would slaughter several chickens besides—those who had become too old to lay. I felt a pang for the chickens but overall was quite pleased with myself, until the next day when Dhanteri came to confront Manthara.
“I heard you spoke to the cook,” Dhanteri said without any pleasantries.
“I did—” Manthara began.
“It is my place to make such decisions until the yuvradnyi is able,” Dhanteri continued. “I will ensure that Prasad hears about this. I cannot imagine he would want to keep you around after—”
“It was me,” I blurted, not wanting Manthara to get in trouble for my actions. “I spoke to the cook.”
Dhanteri stopped. Her expression fell slightly, before she marshaled a thin-lipped smile. “I see, Yuvradnyi. But you are still so young. You should not concern yourself with such matters.”
“I want to,” I said, stepping forward. “It is my role, is it not?” Manthara coughed behind me, or perhaps it was a laugh. Dhanteri’s eyes flashed up to Manthara, then back down to me.
“Perhaps the raja would want a more capable—”
“I hope you are not saying that Kaikeyi is not capable,” Manthara said behind me. There was an unpleasant note to her voice, one I had never heard before.
“I have been doing this for some time,” Dhanteri said. “It is simply that I am more experienced. It is laudable that you want to help. In that case, it is my place to assist you.”
“I appreciate your help,” I said, for Manthara had always taught me to be generous. “But I do not believe I need your assistance.”
“You don’t need it?” Dhanteri asked, and now she looked a bit afraid, although I did not know why.
I looked to Manthara, confused, but she gave me a small smile and a nod. “No, I do not. If these responsibilities are mine, I should be the one to handle them.”
Dhanteri looked at Manthara. She seemed sad now, only moments after looking so angry, and I did not understand.
She pivoted on her heel and walked away so briskly she might have been running.
It was only after the feast, at which Dhanteri did not appear, that I realized what I had done. I had all but dismissed her. Of course, she might have stayed, but her place would have fallen, and she was unwilling to bear that. Once I had fully claimed my role, she had no reason to stay.
This was a different sort of power than the Binding Plane, and it didn’t feel good, even when Manthara assured me that Dhanteri’s departure was inevitable, and I was simply doing my duty.
I remembered how I had felt when my father disbelieved me, dismissed my dream, and then trusted Yudhajit in the same breath. The despair that had rocked me the first evening after he sent my mother away. Even a radnyi did not have the power to stay with her children, or a yuvradnyi to gain the trust of her father. That could not—would not—be my whole life. I wanted to have power over myself, and I did not have that. In that regard, I was no different than Dhanteri.
This discomfort was still on my mind when I explained to Manthara why I wanted to fight. She must have observed something in the set of my jaw and the clench of my fists that gave her pause. “If it makes you feel strong, then by all means do it. But you do not need to prove yourself to anyone. If Yudhajit has put you up to anything—”
“No,” I interrupted. “He thinks I am foolish as well.”
“I do not think you are foolish,” Manthara said gently. She moved in front of me and secured a strand of runaway hair with a pin, giving me a small smile. “It is admirable that you want to improve yourself. I just fear you will have little use for such things. I am sure it is hard to live here, surrounded by men, but there are other ways to be strong. You are already learning—see how the palace staff admire you.”
“Can I not be strong in many ways?” I asked her. “I want to learn this for myself.”
“Of course.” Manthara picked up my dirty clothes, her expression grave. “You are your own mistress.”
Yudhajit stayed true to his word and his teachings. As time passed, he began bringing weapons to our lessons. First, a simple bow. He stood behind me as I drew the string, lifting my elbow, correcting my stance, giving encouragement. It was hard work that left my arms numb, and so between lessons I began lifting objects around my room to gain strength.
After several months, Yudhajit set up a range of targets for me throughout the hills. I ran across the grass, and each time I spotted a target, I planted my feet, pulled the bowstring back, and let loose. Yudhajit followed behind me, shouting with joy at each hit. Some targets were far away, but when I pulled the string back as far as it would stretch, my arm did not tremble. Others required me to crest an incline, and yet my thighs did not burn. For almost an hour, I practiced. And when we studied the targets at the end, nearly every arrow had hit the center.
We flopped onto the grass afterward, tired from the exertion. I closed my eyes for a moment. With both of us lying sweaty in the dirt, I could imagine that I had been a warrior my whole life.
After that, Yudhajit insisted that I learn how to drive a war chariot, even though what I really wanted was to learn how to use a sword.
I had cautiously begun reentering the Binding Plane, using only the gentlest of touches on the strings and threads around me, and withdrawing at even the smallest tremor. So I sent a suggestion, just a tiny push, across our blue cord. Would swordfighting not be more fun?
“Our kingdom is known far and wide for its horsemanship,” he insisted. “You know how to ride. Driving is what you need to master next.” And, reluctant to test him or our bond, I complied.
At our next meeting, I arrived at our usual spot and found him waiting there with two matched horses and a chariot he had clearly stolen from the palace grounds. The horses tossed their heads, nickering, and I rubbed their noses in affection before examining the chariot itself.
It was large, designed to be swift and easily maneuvered. I ran a hand against the wood, marveling that something so vicious could feel so smooth.
“You can observe while I drive them in a simple circle,” he said.
The day was a beautiful one, so I settled on a rock on the side of the hill to watch.
It went well at first, but after a few minutes, the horses seemed to decide they preferred to run in a straight line. He struggled to get them back in control, eventually pulling them to a halt and dropping the reins in disgust. He hopped down from the chariot, face red, and any jibing remark I was considering slipped from my mind. “You did very well,” I told him sincerely.