(A/N: Hello there. This is not my first fan-fiction-like thing I've written, but it is the first I've uploaded here. Sooo.. this is kind of an old story mixed in with a new story. This first part contains no NT characters, but it's important to the rest of the story.. so read! And please review too!)

A piebald horse galloped across a barren stretch of desert beneath a wide and cloudless azure sky. Its hooves churned up a tawny cloud of dust, and a rider clung to its back, a scroll clutched in his hand. The rider guided his horse skillfully through the broad gates of a palace.

It was an extravagant place, with twisting, towering minarets and sweeping arches decorated with intricate marble carvings of painstakingly meticulous craftsmanship and design. The palace's grounds sprawled—green and lush compared to the surrounding desert, which was parched by the endless cloudless days. Still the monsoon had not come, and by now the countryside was sweaty and starving.

The rider, who was a young man but more like a boy, slowed his horse to a trot before sliding from its back and landing with a surefooted hop. With its lead in hand, he approached the palace's main entrance, simultaneously awed and disgusted by the property's sheer opulence. Next to him, the piebald mare huffed softly catching her breath after the long, hot run. The young man kept her close, his shoulder brushing against hers.

"What's your business, boy?" A guard suddenly appeared, stepping from the cool shade of his post beneath a scraggly aam tree. He kept a suspicious eye on the rather unkempt newcomer. The guard wore a bright red turban and an elaborate tunic, and had a long sword strapped to his slender waist.

The messenger boy – as he was acting today – watched the man who could have been his cousin with wary black eyes. Putting a hand on the horse's sweaty black shoulder for comfort, he nervously thrust the scroll towards the man, who flinched—if only out of surprise. The horse too threw her head, spooked, and laid her curvy ears flat against her neck for only a split second.

Taking the scroll carefully, the guard asked with narrowed eyes, "What's this?"

"It's for your Raj," the boy messenger replied. He was starting to sweat, more from nervousness than from the actual heat that was bearing down on them like a thick blanket. Even the horse appeared uncomfortable; she wrung her wispy tail and stomped her dusty hooves. "I've come all the way from Udaipur," the young man explained, rehashing what he had rehearsed earlier that day. "My horse is tired. Can't you grant me a night's stay?"

But the guard seemed to ignore his request, as he was admiring the animal before him. Instead of answering, he appraised the young man's horse, "What a fine animal you have. Where did you find her?" The man was suspicious, as if he could not believe how such a poor boy had managed to commission such a finely bred horse.

In truth, the horse was indeed a fine animal, though a bit too thin at the moment. She was gracefully constructed, delicately boned yet sturdy. She was surefooted and swift. And when she stood alert, her curvy ears touched each other at their tips – the mark of a great native-bred horse. In contrast, the boy was a ruffian, with dirty, fraying clothes, worn sandals, and dark skin smudged by dust. Poorly bred, many would say, as if they were talking of a horse. Poorly bred and impoverished, dirty, and untouchable. The guard was right to be suspicious, in his own mind. Only the rich and well-connected could own such a horse. And this boy who spoke Hindi with an undeniably rural lilt, was definitely not rich.

So he quickly said, "She was a gift." He clutched the lead a bit tighter.

The guard's eyes narrowed, but he said finally, "Very well. Bring your mare. You and her can sleep in the stables."

After most residents of the palace had darkened their rooms and gone to sleep, the boy sat awake in one of the stable's wide stalls. He was looking at a map he'd spread out before him with the aid of a thin candle. He had tied his skinny piebald horse in the corner so she wouldn't step too near. Happy to be resting, she chewed on millet as she watched him in the half-light with shining black eyes.

The young man traced a long slender finger over the crinkled paper. "This way," he spoke quietly to himself and to the horse, who seemed to strain her ears forward. "Following the great hall, and into the armory. In that room it's hidden, somewhere." Trapped in his thoughts, he looked at the mare. She made a noise, a low throaty noise that warmed his resolve. Waving the candle dead, he refolded the map and tucked it into his lungi that was wrapped like a towel around his bony hips. Then he swung himself over the stall's low wall and padded down the aisleway barefoot. The stale was empty except for a brace of magnificent bright white cows kept tied in the far corner near a trough of cut grass. They chewed in silence, watching the young man with wet eyes. The king kept his prized horses elsewhere, of course, and not in these common stables where messenger boys would harass and toss stones at the mares and taunt the stallions.

The stable opened into a large walled courtyard, dotted by gardens and small ponds. Relying on the moon for light, he slunk through the shadows. The ground was still warm from the day, but the thin desert air was gaining a slight chill. The boy spent only a moment gazing at the patterns of the stars in the clear black sky. He had to hurry, find what he needed, and get out without being seen. The guards – while not as clever as he – were ever watchful.

The great hall's entrance had no door. It was just a giant stone and marble maw that was strangely unguarded at the moment. There were utensils and the remains of a cooking fire outside, but from the safety of a low-rising wall, the young man could see no one. Delicately, he padded forward through the mouth of the hall. Here the floor was a smooth marble so clean he worried over the dirty his dusty feet might leave behind. He looked above him at the cavernous walls and ceilings lit by flickering butter lamps. Nearly the entire Bhagavad Gita was written on these walls, beautifully illustrated in brilliant living color. Everything was so detailed—the chariot of Arjun, battling his objections to warfare, and the blue form of Krishna, goading him on through reasoning—the kingdom must have spent to pay the artists! The boy smiled to himself, tracing his fingers over the ancient and sacred tale. But he had to force himself onward; he couldn't linger for long looking at the vain portrayals of wealth, no matter how much he secretly enjoyed them, else he get caught.

The armory was close by he knew, or at least one of the armories, the one he cared about. He kept a hand on the wall and followed as it turned into a right hand branch. This was darker and made of stone, like a dungeon. Lighting the candle on the last of the butter lamps, he shivered slightly as goosebumps rose on his arms and calves left exposed by his lungi. If he didn't have his candle, he wouldn't have been able to see a meter in front of him. With a portion of the narrow hallway illuminated, the boy saw that there were indeed decorations on the walls. They were crude however and old, depicting ugly things like a man being decapitated and a pack of dogs chewing at his legs. But nearby the gory scene, there was a girl. She was drawn so beautifully that the lehenga she wore seemed to still shimmer in the sunlight, even after all these years. The image wept and her face was twisted in sorrow. Around her ankle there was something—he squinted his eyes and held the candle closer. It was an anklet, of course, made of delicate woven silver chain, decorated with something… but he couldn't tell. The image was much too faded.

The young man bit his lip. Perhaps these people were more clever than he thought. They advertised the anklet in plain sight—but it was still so subtle. And what of this gruesome scene? He glanced at the painted man's face, which looked in shock as bright red blood poured from a half-severed neck. And the dogs—even as the man was still alive, perhaps screaming too—they bit and tore. The young man felt disgusted, afraid, and fascinated all at the same time. Surely this man must have committed a very sinister crime to be killed like a Diwali goat. And who was the girl with the anklet (soon to be his anklet)? And why did she cry over this man?

Snorting, the young man stepped away. The candle was burning down fast, and the guard would be returning soon for sure. Just as he knew, the armory's door stood beyond the painting, and with his slight weight he pushed it open. Other thieves and plunderers wouldn't spend so much time considering this room. There were only weapons here—cheap weapons. Ancient and half-rusted swords and spears and barbaric-looking spikes. There were no guns, the new weapon of choice. The boy stood in the circular room's center atop a painted circle with an arrow pointing north like some compass on a map. He bit his lip again, thinking. The compass wasn't here as a decoration—not that was for sure. It was a clue. He followed the north-pointing arrow to the wall, feeling around the swords and minding their sharp edges, searching for anything… maybe a secret passageway or a vault. The search however was fruitless. He returned to the compass and put a hand on his hip. The arrow pointing to the wall would have been too easy. It had to be something more clever—something relating to the kingdom. He racked his brain and scratched his head. Which directions were important? To the east there was Kashi—the holiest city for Hindus. But this building was constructed during the invasion of the Moghals. He wasn't sure it would have such strong Hindu ties or inclinations. So what about Islam? The king long ago wedded a Muslim girl. There were stories about her. When prayer was called, she would obey every time, like clockwork. She always faced where the sun sets. The direction of Mecca. From the north where he faced, the young man turned to his left, to where the west should be.

The wall was bare where he faced—no swords, crude spikes, or speaks. He approached it quickly after affixing the candle to the compasses middle. With both of his hands free, he felt the bare stonewall up and down, but he felt nothing amiss.

"Ka karein," the man lamented, until he looked down towards his bare feet. A portion of the stonework on the floor was missing, replaced with dirt. This was odd…

Using a thick dagger he found on the opposite wall, he sat on his heels and dug furiously through the packed dirt. He struck something hard.. a box. Almost whimpering in delight, the young thief unearthed the box. Ignoring the Arabic inscribed on its top—he couldn't read it anyway—he opened the box, its hinges groaning anciently. Finally seeing his prize, the young man's brown eyes widened…

(Please review! Next chapter will be up soon. Riley will be there...haha)