The Tiger at Midnight (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy #1)(31)

But there was no stove furnace that let from the back of the stall. Kunal gave the man a look before pushing to the corner of the tent, where the noise had come from. There was a small opening, as if the canvas flap of the stall had been hastily closed.

He pulled at it, his knife at the ready.

Only to find himself in a small room, surrounded by young girls. A middle-aged woman sat at the front, on a small wooden stool, her arms raised in the air. Her voice was deep and musical.

“It’s whispered that the gods foresaw the fracturing of the janma bond and planned for Princess Reha’s birth, determining she would be our savior. On a summer morning during his first visit to Gwali, Mahir Himyad, the future king of Dharka, caught sight of a beautiful maiden walking the palace gardens and vowed to win her heart. It wasn’t until later that he discovered the girl was Gauri Samyad, princess of Jansa and the younger sister of the reigning queen. A love for the ages—one that bridged the two nations.

“After marriage and the birth of a son, who became the crown prince of Dharka, Reha was born. A girl child who held claim to the Samyad queendom. She was a clever child but kind, spending her time in the libraries and stables of the palace in Mathur. Years passed in peace, both Jansa and Dharka thriving and the people happy. Little did they know what was to come.

“It is said that on the Night of Tears, the gods themselves wept with anger. The skies shook with storms, raining down a monsoon so fierce the air became a hazy gray. The queen Shilpa was dead, as were all those dear to her. And by a cruel twist of fate, Princess Reha was also there, visiting her aunt in Jansa to learn about that half of her blood, her birthright.

“The Senap Guard advanced on Princess Reha’s room, their jeweled armbands bright even in the darkness of that night, their tread heavy upon the marble floors of the palace. But someone had warned her. The princess Reha ran from her room, slipping through the tunnels under Gwali and escaping into the night.

“She has been roaming the land ever since, hidden to us, readying herself to return when we need her most. Our only savior. Our only chance to complete the renewal ritual as the gods intended and heal the fractured janma bond.

“And if we continue to pray, she will be found.”

He had never heard the story of the lost princess told this way. A memory of his mother came unbidden to him, her wide eyes as she screamed at him to run . . .

Kunal started at the hand placed on his shoulder, coming out of the memory.

“Please do not report them, emenda,” the shopkeeper whispered, appearing at his elbow. “I beg of you. They are only girls.”

Kunal’s pulse quickened at his words, understanding dawning.

The king’s edict against gatherings of more than six.

He had thought of it only as a counter-resistance method to deal with “malcontents,” as his general called them, those who wanted to incite rebellion and unrest. Or that’s what he had been told.

He was slowly realizing he had been told a lot of lies, and he had believed them all.

Kunal closed the flap and put a hand on the shopkeeper’s shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about,” he said, looking the shopkeeper in the eye. “As I told you, on my honor. What is this?”

It had looked to be a school of some sort, pieces of paper and chalk strewn about. A small, carved marble statue of a girl, a cowherd, had sat in the corner, on a raised platform. He’d seen the same one in the last town he had ridden through.

“We teach these girls, as no one else would. We have not the resources of a bigger city like Faor, but we make do.”

“I will tell no one.” Kunal crossed his hand over his heart. The shopkeeper visibly relaxed. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

Kunal hated that he had to make that clear.

“Was that the story of the lost princess? I’ve never heard it told that way before,” he asked.

The shopkeeper looked at him askance. “That is the way all Jansans tell the story, with a few variations. But the heart is the same.”

“The story we were told at the Fort was so different,” Kunal said.

“I am not surprised, young man. The general is a fierce friend to the king.”

Kunal started, realizing that he was speaking in the present tense. Which meant news of the general’s death had not reached them yet. At the mention of his uncle, Kunal tugged out the scroll in his pack, unraveling it to show the older man. He hadn’t sketched in a number of moons—but he had managed to capture the deep arch of her eyebrow, the curl of her lips. It would have to do.

“Have you seen this girl here?” he asked, a bubble of hope in his chest.

The shopkeeper shook his head. “Someone special to you?”

“You could say that.” He paused, trying not to be disappointed. He would just go on to Faor. “You mentioned food before?” Kunal asked, smiling.

The shopkeeper nodded, seemingly happy to move away from dangerous topics. He led him into the stall, away from the hidden room. Slowly, he relaxed around Kunal, answering his questions as he fried up more green pea cakes.

Kunal did love green pea cakes, but he also wanted to learn more about these people. Raju, the shopkeeper, told him more about Ujral—how it was reliant on agriculture and had begun to suffer two years ago, as the Bhagya River drought had begun. They had nothing for trading either—all of their sugarcane crops were no longer sellable, despite demand.