The Serpent's Secret (Kiranmala and the Kingdom Beyond #1)(13)

We climbed for what felt like hours in relative silence except for an occasional whinny and a grunt from me as I stubbed my toe on a stone. The sun was up, but the higher we got, the more the desert winds ripped through us, biting at our skin. My bones ached and my stomach growled. I wished I’d stuck some sandesh in my pockets too.

“Why don’t we just have the horses take us up there?” I panted. It was so much higher than it looked. The animals were doing well on the hard rocks, but neither of them had unfurled their wings.

“It is a winged horse no-fly zone.” Even though that didn’t exactly clarify the situation, I decided not to ask any further. I didn’t want Neel to call me a 2-D again.

I also didn’t ask why it was taking so long to get to the cave. Probably something to do with my concentration or commitment. Was I ready to face my real identity? Was I ready to see the place that I came from? The truth was, I didn’t really have a choice. Turning away from this journey would mean forgetting about my parents and letting them die. And there was no way that I was willing to do that.

I tried to focus my mind, visualizing getting to the top. It seemed to work, because all of a sudden I could see the plateau of the mesa. And on the top, a dark cave. But a few yards before its entrance, something very strange blocked the way. After no indications of civilization whatsoever, we suddenly faced two roped-off lines going in different directions. They were the kind you see in front of theaters or in airports—waist-high metal pillars with black vinyl ropes hooked to them. The lines were marked with large signs. The first one read:

Those upstanding royalty, citizens, animals, and demons holding papers (this way)

While the second said:

All the rest of you good-for-nothing undocumented scoundrels (this way)

No one else was visible for miles, but the roped lines threaded their way over the ground in front of the cave. Who’d put them there? And who was here to check which way I went? But my question was answered as the princes headed toward the right side, and a disembodied voice barked, “This line is for those with papers only!”

Lal and Neel fished inside their pockets and pulled out papers, which they waved around in front of them. Then Neel reached over to each horse’s saddlebag and pulled out what must have been the horses’ official papers.

I took a big breath and headed all by myself toward the left-hand line, the one for “undocumented scoundrels.”

“This place could use some immigration reform,” I grumbled.

“We’ll meet you on the other side, Just Kiran!” Lal called with a nervous smile. “No matter what happens, answer honestly, and do not be afraid.”

Neel gave me a hard look. “And if that doesn’t work, for the Goddess’s sake, run like crazy!”





For a few minutes, we threaded our way through our individual lines. It was slow going. The ropes herded you this way and that—like the lines in an airport—so you couldn’t walk straight but had to keep turning left, right, left, right.

At each corner, there was another ridiculous sign. The first read:

Drink all your liquids. Take off your shoes. Hop on one foot.

I looked over at Lal and Neel, and saw that they were hopping away, curly toed shoes in hand. I slipped off my combat boots and did the same. Until I came to the second sign.

No drinking of liquids. No bare feet. And unless you can provide evidence of being part toad, kangaroo, or jumping juju beast, stop hopping!

I put my boots back on and kept walking, until I came to the third sign.

All bows and arrows, knives, whips, maces, clubs, swords, and magic wands must pass through the X-ray machine. No nunchakus, poisonous darts, or firearms permitted.

And then:

P.S. If your arms shoot fire, that’s okay. But you will be liable for anything or anyone you accidentally set on fire. And you must provide your own fire extinguisher. If you do not have your own fire extinguisher, one will not be provided for you.

Miranda rights for people with fire-shooting arms. Now I’d seen everything.

Up until this point, I’d been able to see Lal, Neel, and the horses turning this way and that in their own line. Now they disappeared behind a huge boulder, probably to have their weapons X-rayed. My heart sank to see the last flick of Snowy’s tail.

I realized I must be getting closer to the guard’s station, because the next sign read:

Do not sneeze, cough, snot, or drool on the transit officer. If you must, use conveniently located spittoons for the appropriate deposition of your bodily fluids.

And then, in smaller letters:

A spittoon is a spit-bucket, you illiterate swine.

I remembered being covered in the rakkhosh’s reeking snot. I looked around for a spittoon, but didn’t see one. I continued walking until I saw the next sign.

Any rakkhosh, khokkosh, magical beast, or half human caught eating a spittoon will be prosecuted. Any human caught eating one will become very ill. And probably die.

(Stop eating the transit spittoons, we know who you are.)

The line came to an end a few feet away from the entrance of the cave. In front of me was a podium—the kind of stand Principal Chen used during auditorium assemblies at school. On it was a teeny tiny bell and a sign that read:

Ring here for transit officer. Be not afraid. (If you can help it.)

I looked around the deserted hilltop and down into the rocky valley. I wasn’t anywhere near Alexander Hamilton Middle School or Parsippany anymore. I felt very small and very far away from anything I knew. What I would give to see a familiar face. Even giggly-mean Jovi’s.