The Library of Fates(12)

“So it starts,” mumbled Arjun under his breath.

It took everything in me not to look at him when he said this. I leveled my gaze at my father, whose face was stern and unmoving. “Please go on,” he said.

Sikander’s mouth twisted into a mischievous grin. “As you know, Chandradev, I love to surprise.”

I wondered what he meant by this, but my father’s face gave nothing away.

“I come bearing gifts,” Sikander continued as he nodded to some members of his retinue who disappeared for an instant, only to return with hundreds of large golden chests. One by one, they were placed before my father and me.

“There was no need, Sikander.”

“Come now, old friend. You wouldn’t refuse a gift for your daughter, would you?”

And then, at a mere inclination of Sikander’s head, his footmen opened the chests to reveal troves of jewels—cut emeralds, sea-blue sapphires, rubies the color of blood. Gold coins, shimmering in the light of a thousand diyas, illuminated the Durbar Hall. Reams and reams of buttery silks spilled forth across the marble floor.

More footmen arrived, carrying pots that contained unusual varieties of flowers—horn-shaped and bell-shaped poufs of purple and magenta, others that looked like flames. “The first gift.” Sikander nodded. “The gift of beauty. For your daughter,” he said, smiling at me. “The greatest treasures the world has to offer.”

He smiled again, and I tried not to stare at his teeth.

“Sikander, you’ve outdone yourself—” my father began, but Sikander interrupted him.

“It’s the first time I’m meeting this little one in sixteen years,” he said, smiling at me.

I bristled at being called that. My mind flashed to the night before, Arjun kissing me, undoing my blouse, his hands on my stomach, his fingers dipping into the waistband of my petticoat.

Stop, I told myself. I could tell that my face was reddening, and I wondered again if everyone in the room could tell what had happened between Arjun and me.

But Sikander merely turned back to his footmen. “The second—a gift of power. A cavalry of trained horses—for your army. Just outside the palace,” he said, waving his arm toward the grounds.

My father’s chin lifted, his eyes narrowed. “I thank you for your Nawaazish, Sikander.” But Papa’s cold tone told me that he was dubious of this gesture of generosity.

Sikander smiled a circus-master’s smile, but something about the way his mouth twitched, or the way his eyes scanned the room nervously, made me slightly anxious. “And the last gift, of course, is the most important one.”

Once again he gestured to the door, but his eyes were still on me, inspecting me carefully. I looked away self-consciously as four footmen, led by a man with sharp features that appeared as though they had been chiseled in stone, brought in a large golden box.

“Nico, my head of security, has been guarding it with his life the entire journey to Shalingar.” Sikander pointed to the man with the sharp features. Nico bowed before us, and his eyes lingered on me for a moment before he turned back to the box.

“Well, open it.” Sikander smiled, glancing from my father to me. He rocked on his heels, his arms clasped behind his back. He looked like a magician, delighted at his own tricks. Something about the amusement on his face made a chill go up my spine.

I looked at my father, and he nodded. I stepped forward, reached for the latch on top, and flung it open.

Inside the box, something moved. I jumped back, startled.

Sikander smiled.

I stepped closer. Inside, the creature writhed. Skin, hair, fingernails. A mouth. It was a person. When she looked up, her eyes squinting into the light, I realized that she was a girl. A girl my age.

My heart began to race.

Her skin was pale, practically translucent. Her hair was woven into copper-colored braids. But it was her eyes that struck me. They were lavender, and they flashed fear.

I backed away till my shoulder bumped Arjun’s. He grabbed my elbow, but his grip did nothing to reassure me.

“An oracle,” Shree whispered. “I’ve never seen one before.” Her eyes widened in shock.

“Sikander.” My father’s voice was tense. “You are truly”—he stopped, took a deep breath—“too kind,” he quickly said. “But you must know we don’t keep slaves in Shalingar.” I could see from his eyes how disturbed he was at the sight of a girl my age chained and trapped in a box.

“Not a slave.” Sikander shook his finger vehemently at my father. “A gift of vision. An oracle. Some say they’re anomalies, freaks of nature. But I say they’re quite magnificent.” He grinned at my father. “Come now, Chandradev, I remember your fondness for prophecy.” He stressed the last word, and my father’s eyes flashed anger at the sound of it.

“She can’t stay here,” my father tersely responded.

“Of course she can,” Sikander went on, ignoring him. “She must be kept in darkness. She needs silence. Solitude. Her gifts are only effective under such conditions. And with the chamak that your kingdom trades in, her powers are magnified.”

“She cannot stay here!” My father raised his voice.

“Are you refusing my gift?”

“She’s not a gift. She’s a girl. A human being. What exactly is the meaning of this, Sikander? Are you threatening me? Are you threatening my daughter, my kingdom—”