Through the carved stone jali screen of a window in her high mahal, Firuzeh glanced down at the public diwan that would house the aqiqah ceremony. Her private audience hall, though large, was still too small to hold all the guests that would be in attendance. The large stone pavilion sat at the end of the charbagh closest to the imperial quarters, and the sun-warmed stones drew sweet scents from the jasmine and roses and orange blossoms in the manicured garden.
Dusk was nearing, the sun having set behind the high fort walls, though it still fell on the city below. Firuzeh used her time with her family to let the day drain from her–the Risen Celebrant, even now having his secrets drawn from him by a Taariq mind-reader, the salty stepwell, the tense negotiations with the Radiant Citadel delegates. The earth shake stayed with her, though. That was twice now in a matter of days, and she feared it boded some ill. Perhaps whatever had unsettled the earth had passed, perhaps an underground cavern had collapsed, shifting the land above, which had found its new level. It wasn't just the moving of the earth that troubled Firuzeh, though. Rather, it was the way her body had reacted to the quake ripples. As if attuned to the earth, her body had quaked as well, discomfort radiating through her like the pain of birth contractions. Eladio had been near to the mark when he had commented the first time it had happened. Then, she had been having a contraction. But today during the conclave, the pain had taken her despite her having already given birth. The child had left her womb. Why should she still feel the quake, if they had been linked in some fashion? Unless it hadn't been the child. Unless the legend of her ancestor…
No, she brushed it aside, that was a silly legend four hundred years old, crafted to undermine the Tayyibi's right to rule the empire. After-birth pangs, her healers had called it. Her body adjusting to the sudden emptiness of her womb. Coincidence, really. If I were to look close enough, she chided herself, I would see a connection between any two events. Samaira's bad braid (which thankfully Baba Jagat had rectified) and the Sa'halassa emissary's arrival. Both were sinuous and snakelike. Samaira's braid was a warning that the yuan-ti ambassadors needed tying up.
Already, people mingled throughout the grounds below her, wearing their finery and glittering in the late morning sun. Gold sparkled from the wrists, ears, and brocade of Ghiyas' relatives from the wealthy city of Menabad, home of Firuzeh's distant ancestors and once the capital of the Tayyib Sultanate. Though she had married Ghiyas because his music wove bonds between their hearts, his family was more than happy to take advantage of the imperial connection. She watched them talking with the viziers of Qaragarh and the Radiant Citadel delegates, but they kept their distance from anyone who could not advance their ambitions.
Like the family of her second husband, Jagat. Wealthy in their own right, as hereditary, though nominal, rajas of Sikra at the north of Saphed Chattaan Lake, Jagat's family was as resplendent in their finery as Ghiyas' Muwahhid family. Though not outwardly defiant against the Tayyib Empire, Jagat's raj family still harbored resentment against their subjugation by the Tayyib. Their opulence and ebullience were a show that they were unbowed and uncowed by their demotion. Indeed, but for them and the annual Baarish Ko Bulaava festival they sponsored to call the annual monsoons, all of Suristhanam would dry up and become barren.
Ahmad's family seemed almost bleak by comparison, as they shied away from any outward show of wealth of influence. Though long important in the port city of Rangampor far down in the south, his family's coinage was in the form of holiness and virtue. Members of the Shuddh sect, they seemed uncomfortable amid the splendor and opulence of the Darwapur Shukri Fort. Dressed in severe white, the men had shining amulets woven into their hair and beards, the women a screen of them hanging from the broad-brimmed hats they wore over their covered heads. Her marriage to Ahmad had not begun in bliss, having been pressed upon her by her brother Khusrau in his fanatical, righteous attempt to realign the Tayyib to their Iwahhid faith. But Firuzeh and Ahmad had over time found common ground and interests that—like the sun and moon—brought them close together at times.
And where, amidst this swirl of fabrics, emotions, ambitions, genealogies, and chilled fruits, was Sanjar, her fourth husband? Firuzeh scanned again through the crowd, but she could not locate him. He was probably in the stables with his beloved horses. She didn't bother looking for Sanjar's family. They were all gone, lost to the war at Sherpatta. He alone of his family had escaped in time to avoid the madness and destruction her brother Musa had brought down on them all.
She changed her mind. She hoped that this new child was Sanjar's. So that he would once again have a family.
Firuzeh chose a pale blue shalwar and matching kameez, hemmed in silver thread and tiny diamonds, loose enough to accommodate her still-shrinking belly, and wrapped a fiery orange dupatta—to complement her sard eyes—over her hair and around her neck.
"Have the orbs been set?" she asked Shimaz as the urdubegis fell in before her along the hallway of the mahal.
"Yes, Empress," Shimaz assured her.
From behind Firuzeh, Maham echoed her fellow guard. "Your mind is safe. It will reveal nothing. Your face, however…"
"Maham!" Firuzeh teasingly admonished the urdubegis.
Maham shrugged. "You wear your emotions in your features, Empress. Because you are an honest person. A warrior must not signal her next move."
"They're my family and friends, Maham, not an advancing horde of enemies."
Shimaz chuckled. "The orbs that shield your mind also shield theirs. Perhaps they are simply better at governing their faces."
"The war is done," Firuzeh chided them. "Do not, my warriors, look for enemies where there are none."
"Then shall we retire, Empress?" Maham queried playfully.
"And leave me to face the horde alone? Not on your life."
Mixed urdubegis and shamsherbaz formed a colonnade from the imperial quarter to the diwan, and Firuzeh strode proudly through their ranks. Al-Hajib and Jagat were waiting for her near the end of the human colonnade, the chamberlain with several sheets of parchment in his hands, nearly filled with information. Al-Hijab bowed low but began speaking even before he straightened himself.
"You have requests for audience from several guests, Empress, and the Radiant Citadel delegates will offer their blessings after the feast."
Yes, it would be a busy day.
"Bahuchara?" She asked.
Jagat chimed in, as master of the ceremony. "In the Diwan-i Am, preparing herself with her sisters."
"And the wyvern?"
"Spitted and roasting. We had a dreadful time catching one."
She nodded. "Make sure it will be ready. We have many guests to feed. Has Imam Tahoor arrived?"
"The Roshani imam awaits."
"Far from Buhachura, I hope," she prodded.
"Oh indeed, Empress," Al-Hijab answered, checking his notes.
"Shall we, then?" She deferred to Jagat.
"Indeed, my Empress, indeed," he said, bowing.
She didn't see Jagat's signal, but the music began, drawing the guests from the garden into the audience hall. The twang of the tanpura and the high skirl of satara flutes and the beat of the dholak gave a festive air to the promenade, and a sitar joined joyfully along. Garlands hung between and down the columns, interwoven with strings of colorful glass beads, and discreetly concealing the orbs that prevented any ill-meaning mind-seekers from broaching her thoughts. Camphor candles both lit the hall and—along with the incense—perfumed it.
At the center in a space left clear by the gathering throng, Firuzeh took her place with her waiting other three husbands, smiling proudly at the mother of their child. Sanjar was there, likely having only arrived from the stables. They sat as she sat, on brocaded cushions and silken pillows, a semicircle of family, with their five other children nestled in the spaces between them. Pashuben sat erect as a regal statue in his Roshani white and yellow. Firuzeh snatched the errant Sumaira with her fresh braid and plopped her in her lap. Empress she may be, heir to a ruling family stretching back through time with glory and madness, and eyes that marked her as something…other. But in this moment, she was simply a mother celebrating the birth of a child with her family.
For a little while, she could put aside the empire and its recovery from the war. She could put aside the roving bands of undead and their Risen creators hiding across the realm. She could put aside the negotiations to rejoin the Radiant Citadel, and the encroaching Sa'halassa, and even the Ulema's internecine wrangling. She could put aside the weight of the responsibility she never sought, and the personal loss she had suffered in its attainment. When the attendants brought her gurgling infant and placed his tiny body in her arms, he was all that existed.
He cried a little when his hair was shorn and placed on the scale to be balanced with gold to be given to the orphanages. Others came to see the babe and add a few coins to the pile, which grew quickly. Amid this parade of guests, the music abruptly stopped and an expectant hush fell over the diwan. The crowd parted, creating a pathway from Firuzeh to the garden entrance of the diwan.
There, a tall, beautiful woman stood with her head demurely bowed, her hands pressed together at her chest. The bust of her rich burgundy dress clung tightly, but beginning at the waist, the ankle-length skirt flared widely to just above her bare feet and exposed ankles, each of which bore gold bells on chains. More gold wrapped her bare arms in bands and bangles, and circled the clean sweep of her black hair, pulled back into a gold-wire threaded braid. Gold thread wove intricate patterns in the dress, especially at the bottom, and looking closely, Firuzeh saw dragons with wings stretched circling the hem. The exquisite, mysterious creature was flanked behind on either side by two other young women, equally resplendent in similar style - one in a pale shade of green like a new leaf, the other in sapphire blue. But it was the woman in the center - the point of the arrow - that enraptured the guests, who held their breath. Modest, yes, but teasingly so, as the playful lift of her piercing eyes from her bowed head revealed. In the silence of the enchanted crowd, the woman made a small precise twist of the hands at her chest and clapped them together once and then flame burst into a shimmer all around her. The hushed crowd cheered and beat the ground to the rhythm of the quick tune that ignited from the musicians like an explosion.
Well done, Bahuchara, Firuzeh thought with a smile hidden behind a discreet hand.
And then the three women danced to the jubilant music rising into the dark night, their steps taking them closer to the empress. The hijra Bahuchara in burgundy took the lead, swirling and twisting, her arms elegant and sinuous as she carved an even wider path through the guests who applauded and took up the tune with their voices. The hijra did not sing, but they flirted scandalously as they made their way - a seductive eye, the touch of a hand - earning a few karana hand gestures from jealous women and a couple men. With each clap of her hands, Bahuchara's long golden fingernails flashed, emitting golden sparks that exploded like crackling embers that rose around her before arcing in smoldering cinders to the ground. Wisps of color followed in her wake, as if she were evaporating with each step, which mingled with the incense and smoke of the candles, a cloudy prism of wafting color.
Firuzeh cast aside decorum and added her cheers and voice to the raucous, festive crowd pounding the beat of the tune on knees and chests. Ahmad's family and many of the other Shuddh had turned their backs to the celebration, but Ahmad simply blushed and discreetly lowered his eyes. Her children jubilantly stamped their feet to the rhythm. Well, except for Pashuben, who observed with official aloofness. Even the Radiant Citadel delegates were ensorcelled by the hijra dance. Eladio had his arm over Tordain's shoulder as the amir guided his mate in a Clan Cavernmere folk dance. Qiang Lu politely clapped while Seong Ji-Won writhed her scaly arms in a sinuous dragonish dance.
The music crescendoed to the frenetic swirl of the hijras' wide skirts and jingling bells of Bahuchara and her attendants as they reached the imperial family, finally clapping their hands in an intricate, fevered patterns which ended climatically in an eruption of scintillating sparks, loud cheers and applause.
"Beguiling as ever, Bahuchara," Firuzeh nodded to the smiling hijra.
"Greetings, Empress Firuzeh al-Tayyib," the woman greeted her with her title, but warmly.
"Blessings be upon you."
"And upon you," the hijra replied, holding out her hands for the baby.
Firuzeh lifted the infant up and placed the bundle in Bahuchara's hands. Bahuchara leaned her face down close to the child's and whispered loud enough for the others to hear. "Tell me your name, little one," and tilted her ear to the baby to listen. With a smile after a moment, she handed the child back to Firuzeh.
"The child has spoken," Bahuchara announced. "He shall be known as Abu Chaandni."
Firuzeh looked up for the moon, though the roof of the diwan blocked the sky. Others looked up as well. Why the moon? she wondered. What could this child have to do with the moon?
"Chaand," Firuzeh greeted the little smiling face. To Bahuchara, she whispered, "Imam Tahoor will not be happy with you."
"Imam Tahoor is seldom happy with me," Bahuchara whispered back with a wink.
Tahoor was not happy, as evidenced by his brusque approach and sour face. The moon was an ill-omen, and not at all a proper name for the faithful. Clad in a white jama embroidered with white thread and a yellow, fringed Roshani katzeb around his waist, the imam imposed himself so importantly that Bahuchara and her attendants were forced to step back.
"And what name has the family given this child?" He asked for all to hear.
Firuzeh peered into the child's eyes, to their ring of sard fire that looked so like her brother's had, then raised her face to the imam.
"Nekuzam," she announced.
A collective gasp issued from the guests followed by murmuring, and Firuzeh knew that she had chosen boldly and—for many—uncomfortably. But she did not shrink from the disapproving, startled eyes of the imam.
With effort to school himself, Imam Tahoor placed his hand on the child's freshly shaven head. "May the blessings of Iwa be upon you, Nekuzam Abu Chaandni," he said, with a quick grimace at Bahuchara, "ibn-Firuzeh bint-Tasneem al-Tayyib!" And the light shone from his hand and suffused the child.
Firuzeh carried Nekuzam through the feast for a while, to be welcomed, blessed, and pinched by her large family and guests, but she released him to a nurse when the child's eyes would no longer stay open. Overstimulated by the sights and sounds and people, the newest prince simply closed his eyes into sleep mid-gurgle.
Free to move around unencumbered, the empress did her duty to the families of her husbands, each firmly convinced that the child bore the signs of their lineage. It cost her nothing to agree with each of them, and she was buoyed by the festivities around her. But she was increasingly convinced that the child was Sanjar's. Ghiyas had taken Tarasiya to join the musicians, the strings of his sitar singing as if to her alone, and her other husbands gathered with their families. Sanjar seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps with his horses again.
Imam Nuruddin seemed to have brought all the staff of the house of books with him, and Firuzeh spoke with him and Auntie Karamsi, who said that they were gaining some information from the Celebrant, but he seemed to have been long isolated in Ganraala. She was about to ask the alimah how the construction of the new Door to the Radiant Citadel was progressing when a touch on her elbow drew her attention.
"Bhima!" She smiled at her cousin, and opened her arms to embrace him.
"You're not disappointed in me?" the young Raj of Jharoda greeted her. He was resplendent in a violet sherwani, with a spray of peacock feathers rising from his turban, but he looked concerned. "I don't mean to be difficult."
"You never mean to be difficult," she half-teased him. "I'm just surprised that you and Amir Sameer agree on anything." She was pleased that he looked abashed, at least. But she added sagely, "If two people so different as you and Sameer share the same opinion on a matter this important, I must consider it carefully."
Bhima sneered. "Sameer. Bagh! Nekuzam never trusted him, nor do I. I do not like being on the same side as Sameer on this or any issue. Be wary of him, cousin," he warned in a low voice. "I do not think his good intentions in these negotiations are for your benefit."
"Come to Jharoda after the delegates leave," he invited her abruptly. "Bring your family for Chamakutsav and we'll make a giant rangoli like we did when we were kids. And you can see the restoration of the Sard Palace. It's going to make a marvelous orphanage for the children of Vinduhari. As it seems the Concord Jewel will not be returning there." Bhima nodded his head to the chowk where the great vessel remained at port.
"It was not my…." She began.
"We have managed without the Concord Jewel for seven hundred years," he assured her. "We shall persevere."
His smile did not hide the resentment she knew he harbored. She knew he wanted the Jewel to return to Jharoda, to restore it to the glory it once had.
"Nekuzam?" He moved on. "A traitor to the empire?" he needled.
"Do you think it was ill-conceived?"
"I think," he scratched his smooth chin thoughtfully, "that the child carries a name of our shared Jharodan heritage, and that of a brave and honest man. He was beloved to us both."
Firuzeh found her sister Miram surrounded by a bevy of young men. Youngest of the Tayyib siblings, and the only one to eschew imperial service, Miram had traveled across the realm by Door from her home in Churapoor for the aqiqah. The two were not close, having different mothers. But the eyes also placed a barrier between them—Miram was the only sibling not born with the Tayyib sard ring of fire in her eyes, a trait that distanced her from the rest.
"Meri jaan!" Miran kissed her cheeks extravagantly.
"Darling sister," Firuzeh returned the kisses, squeezing Miram's shoulders a shade too hard. "What an absolute treasure that you could tear yourself from your harem to come to this humble family gathering."
Miram's bodice was cut indecently low, which the drape of the sheer dupatta encircling her shoulders did little to amend. The thick lashes around her dark, sultry eyes batted as if in amazement at the thought. "How could I miss my dear sister's…what is it… twentieth aqiqah? Why, you are a wonder of fertility!"
"How we miss your clever tongue here in Qaragarh, Miram." She patted her sister's check as she would a child. "But I suppose your tongue has many other duties in Churapoor."
"Why, you are a delight, Firuzeh," Miram laughed gaily. "You are my favorite sibling, now that you've killed all of them but me."
"The night is young," Firuzeh shrugged. "Have some more wine, if you have not already drunk it all."
Miram put on a pout. "The only intoxicating thing that passes these delicate lips," she leaned her head close, "is secrets. Do you want a taste?" she whispered seductively.
Though Miram had eschewed imperial responsibility and lived an extravagant life in Churapoor of seeming leisure, she had her hand in every major trade – legit and shady – that occurred in the port city. Secrets were her coin, and she used them to manipulate most of the merchants in the bustling, vital trade center. There wasn't a deal or a plot that she didn't know about, or that she hadn't clandestinely arranged herself. Firuzeh was grateful her sister had chosen to settle in a city so far away from the capital, but Miram's name had a way of popping up anytime her advisors discussed the empire's market and prices.
"Rahivamistra is reporting to you on the negotiations with the Radiant Citadel," Firuzeh countered. "He thinks I don't know he goes to the Hall of Doors each night to visit you in Churapoor."
Miram gave a petulant frown. "You're spoiling the fun. He's such a bore. He can never remember what anyone is wearing. It's all 'tariff this' and 'imports that.' Really, where's the scandal in that?"
Firuzeh wasn't fooled. "What's your cut?"
"Seven percent on outgoing products from Sikra. Ten percent on goods originating from Cavernmere trade."
Firuzeh raised an eyebrow appreciatively. "And the dwarves have agreed to that?"
"Ethereal only," Miram clarified. "We've added a transport charge. Domestic holds at five percent."
"What if I ban transport fees?"
"You won't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because you're my sister!" Miram swept Firuzeh into a dramatic hug. "Be careful of Bhima," Miram whispered urgently in Firuzeh's ear. "He's up to something, watch your back."
Startled, Firuzeh felt Miram slip away before she could say anything. Her sister kicked off her shoes and danced away into a crowd of suitors around a bonfire. What in the world could Miram have meant by that?
With Shimaz and Maham trailing her, Firuzeh wandered lost in thought through the celebration. Was this what her father Tasneem had felt like? Always troubled by agitation and dissent and plots? He made it look so effortless, guiding the empire forward. Until Musa. If his own son could turn against him then yes, this is what imperial power must be like.
She passed into the charbagh where Bahuchara st amidst the clipped shrubs of the garden on a patch of grass that was daily watered against the Qaragarh sun. Several children surrounded the smiling hijra, including Firuzeh's three youngest–Ahbalek, Lalivati, and little Sumaira. Laughing at the illusions Bahuchara created, the children clapped their hands and reached out to grasp the flower petals she caused to rain upon them, or pet the tiny blue dragon she materialized in the air, swooping between the startled children. Smiling to herself, Firuzeh stood behind the children, enjoying their joy, and grateful for Bahuchara's enchantments.
Seeing Firuzeh, Bahuchara changed her mudra, shifting her fingers just so, and the dragon became a fiery griffon in her honor, trailing flames as it darted around them and then rose above Firuzeh to burst in a cascade of golden sparks that drifted down around the empress as the youths applauded.
"Your honors," Bahuchara rose and bowed low to the children. "It has been my joy to bring you joy, and now away."
"They adore you," Firuzeh confided in Bahuchara as the two walked arm in arm through the charbagh, the hijra statuesquely taller than her.
"I did not lie," the Bahuchara said, "such moments with the children are a delight to me."
"Regrets?"
"No," Bahuchara said after a moment, then she was silent for a few steps. "Sometimes?" she admitted, as if questioning herself. "I do love children. They are so…unexpected. Unpredictable. Revelatory. Chaotic."
"They smell all the time," Firuzeh informed her. "So many smells. And sticky."
"Regrets?" Bahuchara returned to Firuzeh.
"No," Firuzeh laughed.
Firuzeh had come to know Bahuchara several years ago through her brother Nekuzam, who had spent a great deal of time with the hijra when he would visit from Jharoda. They had spent many pleasant evenings together in the fort, the three of them and others, supping in a pavilion, playing games with the family, listening to Ghiyas' improvised performances. War had sundered them, and though Bahuchara joined the other hijra in defense of the attacks launched on the city, Firuzeh knew Bahuchara's heart yearned for Nekusam. She had thought never to see Bahuchara again after Nekusam's death, and she would not have blamed the woman. Instead, they had found joint comfort in shared tears.
"Thank you for the baby's name," Bahuchara gave Firuzeh's arm a squeeze with her free hand. "I know you did not do it for me, but I'm going to pretend that you did. May your child grow to be as kind and as loving as his uncle and namesake."
"I wish he were here for this," Firuzeh admitted wistfully. "And for you."
"Do you expect any trouble because of the name?"
Firuzeh scoffed. "If he had won and I had lost, they would all be naming their boys Nekusam. I don't not fret their opinion on the matter. Now, Chaand, on the other…"
Firuzeh stopped and doubled over, her hand going to her belly. A wave of nausea passed through her, a discomfort that spread from her core out to her limbs.
"Firuzeh?" she could hear Bahuchara ask with concern in her voice. "Are you alright?"
Firuzeh fell to her knees, her hand clutching Bahuchara's arm desperately. She dropped other hand to the earth to keep her from further collapsing at the pain that seized her, but she snatched the hand back from the earth at its touch. The ground felt…wrong, sick, as if thorns spread with pestilence were emerging from it.
"The earth.." she gasped, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "Something's wrong with…"
Suddenly, a wave moved through the earth of the fort, as if the soil had liquified and some great wind had blown it into a swell. Firuzeh rolled with it, her hands pressed to the stone, and Bahuchara stumbled to the ground beside her. Shouts of alarm and the crashing of bodies and dinnerware punctuated the sound of the swelling earth as guests were tossed about. The stones of the fort groaned, the columns of the diwan shuddered, and water splashed from the pond of the charbagh.
"The ground quakes!" Bahuchara shouted over the din.
"No!" Firuzeh howled. "It is crying out!"
The tremor passed like a single wave, and Firuzeh's pain lessened, but did not wholly fade. She felt weak and tired, as if she were ill. As she started to push herself upright, her hands caught in the stone. Caught in the…? She loosened her fingers to discover that they had clenched into the stone itself, sinking into the rock as if it were clay. Ten angry finger holes stared up at her like accusing eyes.
No!
As Maham and Shimaz rushed to help her, she stepped over the scarred stone so it was hidden by her skirts. The urdubegis did not seem to have been affected physically the way she had, nor had the others. They had experienced the earth shaking, yes, but not as a sickness in their bodies. Around her, dazed attendants and guests lifted themselves from the ground, checked on one another, and dashed out from under any roofs that might fall upon them.
Nothing had collapsed. The diwan still stood, the garland and beads of its decoration swaying a bit as they settled. Firuzeh released herself from the hands of her urdubegis and rushed to the southern parapet of the fort platform. Dust rose across the city, and on the streets directly below, people were rising from the ground and rushing about. A few older buildings that she could see had collapsed—those especially that had still borne damage from the attack on the city in the prelude to the war.
"Marshall aid throughout the city," Firuzeh ordered those who crowded around her to survey the damage, knowing it would be done. Her gut twinged in a new wave of discomfort and she looked down at her hands, covered in stone dust.
"Curious," Sameer muttered thoughtfully at her side. "Each time the ground has quaked, the delegates from the Radiant Citadel have been near. You don't suppose…"
"No," she stopped him, "there will be time for conjecture and investigation." Especially of herself. Iwa, protect me, let me know have played some part in this! "We need to see to the city first."
She raised her right hand to wave the people into action, and Sameer seized it fiercely in his own.
"Your hands," he noticed, taking a bit of cloth from his sherwani and wiping away the stone dust. "Did it hurt?" he asked quizzically.
Firuzeh shrugged her hand free of his grip. "What do you mean?"
"Falling, of course."
Bahuchara was no vizier, but she hoped no one would notice her at the back of the gathered advisors and administrators. She had sent the other hijra ahead to the Aanandamay Gharana to make sure that all the sisters were alright and that the building was safe. Then, trying to go unnoticed, she followed the small crowd of officials who hurried behind the empress to the private pavilion. The rest of the rattled guests had been sent back to their dwellings. The wyvern carcass for the feast smoldered over dwindling embers and she crushed fallen flower garlands as she trailed the retinue.
She marveled at the ease with which Alimah Karamsi cast light into the multitude of lamps hanging from the rows of pointed arches, throwing shadows down to the ground. Everyone was talking at once as they tried to understand what was happening. "No!" Amir Tordain shouted, "we have not been digging tunnels under the fort!" Maybe it was ankheg, or wayward bulette. Or an earth elemental. A slumbering buried giant rolling over in his sleep. Lava rising up through underground caverns, or a powerful demon, or…"
"Officials only," a roaming guard stepped in front of her, his spear upright in his hand but the message still clear. She had to go.
Bahuchara was turning to slip away when she saw the top of a small round face under a hijab pulled up to hide all but her eyes. The small girl had also appeared to be lurking at the back of the crowd and listening, hoping to not be noticed. Bahuchara knew those eyes, though she had not seen them for eight years. Her heart ached at the remembrance, and for the lost years. So much had changed for her during that time, and she'd had to leave some things behind that she'd rather have taken with her. With regret, she looked away before her gaze was returned. And after a moment she turned to drift away.
The girl and her eyes were behind her.
"Stealth was never your strongest skill, Suraj" the girl whispered to Bahuchara.
"But it was yours, Laksha," Bahuchara answered her tentatively.
With a nod of her head, she led the girl away from the crowd around the empress and into the garden. The two walked quietly together, neither looking at the other. Unsure of what to say, of how to explain why she had left as she did, Bahuchara remained silent.
"I don't know what to call you," Laksha said.
"But you knew it was me," Bahuchara answered.
Laksha turned to examine Bahuchara's face. "I see you inside. In your eyes. I knew it was you when you flamed and radiated your way into the diwan. You are not the same boy who trained me and cared for me."
"Obviously," Bahuchara chuckled, wafting the fabric of her sari with her hands.
"No, not that." Laksha shook her head. "I mean not just that. You're glorious and proud and exuberant. Suraj would never have commanded the attention of so many people like you did. That was quite an entrance."
"Bahuchara," the hijra revealed. "I am Bahuchara."
"Bahuchara," Laksha repeated with a nod. "It suits you."
After walking in new silence, Bahuchara said, "You too have changed. I would say the kitabkhana suits you as well."
"You knew?"
"We were both trained to be observant, chhote haath."
"Don't call me that," Laksha spat. "He gave me that name."
Bahuchara stopped and faced her. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my little Laksha."
"I was eleven," the girl rounded on her coldly. "I was eleven and you left me with that man. He used me, he used us all and treated us like animals, and you left me there!"
"I couldn't go back to…"
"He beat me after you left, and you weren't there to protect me," Laksha went on. "For scraps of food, I stole for him, day after day for seven more years, I even…" She stopped herself, something too painful to say catching in her throat.
"I could not…" But Bahuchara could not go on. There was nothing she could say that would justify her abandonment of Laksha to Salim. She could not say that she was glad to have escaped the torment of her days with the thief master, while those she left behind suffered, more so because of her absence. She could not say that looking back only brought pain. She could not say that she never wanted to think of those days again, even if it meant thinking of the ones she left behind. She could not confront the cruelty of her actions, without questioning the call that she had answered.
"You survived," she decided upon, wrapping her conscience within it. "That was the most important lesson I could teach you."
Laksha simply glared at her with stunned eyes. Then the eyes grew cold. "Then here is the lesson I would teach you, Bahuchara," she said, then turned and walked away.
"I have already mastered that lesson, little one," Bahuchara muttered as Laksha disappeared from her sight.