Matanta cleared his throat. “I said we should be walking together. This seems quite the opposite.”
As they walked, chirping adaiman materialized in the skies and descended upon them with cheerful chatter.
“You won’t be able to see anything with all of these birds swirling around us,” the lion grunted. “Perhaps you would enjoy the view from my back?”
The little girl’s jaw dropped as she stared up at the lion.
“I will not offer twice,” he said, but he lay down on the ground.
Abbakka did not give him the chance to change his mind. She scrambled onto Matanta’s back, making sure not to tug his fur too hard as she slid into place in front of his wings. Her toes looked tiny next to his long, silky feathers.
Before the little girl could thank the lion, he bounded up the mountainside, each stride longer than the last. Abbakka squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in Matanta’s billowing mane. She tried to pretend she didn’t feel his wings unfurling behind her feet.
One adaiman chirped from near her ear, then another and another. Soon, she could hear the birds circling, fading in and out as they called to her. She peeked through one eye. A tuft of white flew by her toes, sending a thrilling chill up her ankle and to her knees. It made its way up her spine, tingling behind her eyes until she flung them wide open and found herself staring into an infinite blue expanse.
With a whoop, she let go of Matanta’s mane and extended her fingers out on either side, reveling in the undiscovered space where the sun met the clouds. The winged lion chuckled as the birds trilled in their revelry.
“Hold tight,” Matanta called out, and Abbakka wrapped her arms around his neck obediently.
He swooped into the clouds, stopping short of breaking through them, so they hung in the haze between the sky and the land. Through the mists, Abbakka could see all of Ullal: the sandy beaches and lush forests, the vast rows of crops sprawling over the countryside, and the rivers that cut through the landscape as they answered the ocean’s call.
“I knew this land when it was nothing,” Matanta said. “Before the mountains reached for the skies and the valleys hid in their shadows. I knew it before there was even a single blade of grass or any human footsteps on the ground. It has changed and shifted over time, and I have watched it all from above.”
The lion’s words rumbled from his chest and through Abbakka’s legs and body as she sat upon his back.
“It’s hard to imagine going from nothing to all of this.” She stared at the land below her feet. “And I suppose even this will change.”
The little girl with big brown eyes did not see the winged lion’s smile as he turned back to the mountaintop. “Indeed, it must. We are all on a path, even if we cannot see it. But the best way to know where we are going is to understand what brought us here.”
Abbakka’s eyes were still in the skies as she and Matanta thumped on the ground, but she scrambled off the lion’s back as soon as he lowered down.
“Thank you,” she said, affectionately scratching Matanta’s side as she walked toward his head.
The little girl’s dreamy eyes cleared as a mischievous smile lit her face. She stood in front of the lion, who was resting his head on his paws, ready to take a nap. “I understood what you were saying earlier. If you really wanted me to go to my lesson, you could have just said so.”
The big green lion closed his eyes sleepily and turned his head to the side as he wiggled his shoulders to find the perfect spot to rest. “There will be many more lessons, little one, and those that you least want to learn are often the most important.”
Chapter 38
“Are you sure you’re all right, dearest?” Aru touched my arm tentatively, as if I might break if he pushed too hard.
Telling him I was already broken probably wouldn’t help.
I just wanted him to leave me alone. He’d become so attentive in all the wrong ways, as if he thought that his gifts would somehow make me feel better about signing a contract I despised. Every time he saw a hint of a frown on my face, he’d offer me a sweet I had no interest in eating or a jewel I had no interest in wearing. I would accept his gifts with a smile, taking bites that turned into ash on my tongue or adding more ornaments to my already glittering attire, and he would pretend he had fixed whatever plagued me.
Sometimes I dreamed of telling Aru about Vishwajeet’s true nature?—about his schemes with the Porcugi, his threats toward me, and his hand in the murders of my uncle, Chaaya, and Maraan. But I never did. I knew what would happen if I spoke up. Aru would summon Vishwajeet, Vishwajeet would deny it all, and I’d have nothing to prove his guilt. A pillow was just a pillow, everyone knew I never took off my bangle, and Chaaya was supposed to be with her nephew. I had no real evidence. Vishwajeet would lean into that, and he’d make sure I fell even further in Aru’s estimation. He’d probably throw in some comments about how pregnancy had made me even more emotional and that these delusions were just additional proof that I couldn’t be trusted to manage the future of Ullal.
Being the rani gave me little credibility here; it made me first among women but last among men.
Thus, Aru and I continued to live in parallel, side by side but never truly walking on common ground. We had a script. A routine. An understanding. We knew our parts and spoke our lines, but neither of us would say the words that had split us apart. He had decided our nations would pay the tithes, and nothing I could do would change that. Vishwajeet’s threats hung over me like the endless stream of servants he sent to take care of my every need and watch my every move.
So I ate the sweets and wore the jewelry and smiled with my mouth alone as I let the fog that had clouded my mind embrace me. Now that I’d stopped fighting, I realized how tired I was. The exhaustion from the pregnancy and the nausea and the formality and the gamesmanship had all rolled together and eroded my strength?—like waves dragging away at the sand beneath me until I stood on nothing. I knew I needed to rekindle the forge that helped me shape my sadness into anger?—into action?—but I couldn’t.
And I didn’t want to.
One morning at breakfast, Aru declared that he had two surprises for me, but we’d need to travel to see them. I murmured my thanks, and we climbed into our chariot as soon as he finished eating. Vishwajeet, Nallini, and a throng of servants and soldiers followed behind in a royal caravan that accompanied us to the Netravathi River. We crossed together in a small boat but then separated again once we got to the shore.
Sitting in Aru’s chariot made me feel even farther from home. In Ullal, the royal chariot was comfortable, but it had still been made for speed. This one was the opposite: It had ornate carvings and a lush seat that easily accommodated both Aru and me. It even had a roof so we could sit comfortably in the shade and watch the people who ran out to gawk at us in all our splendor as we passed by.
