Zahril,she thought,who—
And then she stopped.
Because Zahril was standing right before her.
For several long moments, Aasha couldn’t match the sight before her. There were the recognizable things in her room… the silk rug, and the pitcher of water that had somehow caught a mango blossom in its water. Those things made sense. But Zahril? Standing in her usual garb of cotton pants and a dark tunic? Aasha felt as if her sorrow had finally reached its breaking point and that her mind had hauled this illusion from the depths of her dreams.
“I understand why you did it,” said Zahril.
Her voice was ice.
Aasha braced herself.
“That doesn’t make it easier for me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Aasha.
“Sorry for what? Sorry that you followed orders that kept you and your monarch and the kingdom alive? Sorry that you… felt something?” Zahril laughed. But it was a hollow sound. “I taught you how to see and smell and touch and taste and listen.”
Aasha nodded, unsure of where she was going with this.
“I taught you that the senses are more than what they seem. That they deceive. That they…” and at this, she hesitated. “They must sometimes be looked past. Or at least, seen through.”
Aasha held her breath.
“You were willing to try,” said Zahril.
Aasha stepped closer, convinced that this reality would shatter the moment she exhaled. But it didn’t. She was close enough that she could see the sheen of light curving off Zahril’s cheek. Close enough that she could study the crescent formed by her wide lips.
Zahril’s eyes met hers. “I can too.”
So simple.
Three words.
They were not the three words that Aasha so often dreamed Zahril would say. But it was like seeing with one’s hands and listening with touch. It was a confusion of senses made glorious by their unexpectedness. It was… a way of understanding—and, perhaps, forgiveness—that was the only true magic Aasha had ever experienced. It filled her like a light.
She reached out, taking Zahril’s hand, folding it between her own.
***
Sometimes words draw out conclusions.
Other times, one must infer through the senses. And that was what Aasha did now. She studied the sloping curve of Zahril’slips, not pressed tight with sadness… but determination. She listened to the sound of her breathing: tight and short. A thing of nervousness. She felt the velvet-skin of her palms pressing into her own, harder than she needed to, as if to sayI am here. I don’t know how… but I am here.She tasted the salt of her own mouth, as if it had filled to the teeth with unshed tears. She smelled the mint that Zahril must have chewed on her way here. And from all this, Aasha drew her conclusion. This was not an end, but a beginning.
Her answer was a wordless agreement…
A smile.
Given and… returned.
ROSE AND SWORD
PRESENT
Ten-year-old Hira would rather eat her own hand than listen to another minute of her sister’s wedding preparations. First of all, there were too many people in the palace of Bharata-Ujijain. Which meant that she, along with her parents, the reigning raja and rani, had to stand forhoursat the threshold of the palace entry and greet people that Hira had never heard of.
What she really wanted to do was sneak outside and go to her grandfather’s study. He had kept so many stories there. Stories that not even her grandmother or parents had read. Sometimes there were little notes written in his hand. Hira liked to imagine that it was a secret conversation they were having together.
