I Shall Rewrite the Stars

Chapter 14

***

Spinning back, Raja gulps down a deep breath and sighs, “I’ve missed the smell of home.”

“Is there a reason it’s so rancid?” Helios asks as a breeze drifts over us, bringing a foul scent from the direction of the city.

“That would be the moat,” Mrunal explains. “It serves to protect the city, as well as deal with sewage wastes. Once we’re inside the walls the smell will fade.”

“And you will marvel at the wondrous scents that perfume our streets,” Raja huffs, and levels Helios with a glare.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” he tries, flinching back when she rolls her eyes.

“Onward, then,” Mrunal says. “It will take time to schedule our greeting with His Esteemed Majesty, and longer still to arrange a meeting for the rest of you. We’d do best to reach the palace before noon, if we’re to hope for such audiences within the week.”

“The week?” Ptolemy balks. “What good is the promise of friendship between our realms, if your pharaoh won’t prioritize us when we need him most?”

“Maharaja, Ptolemy,” I correct. “Respect the titles of this empire.”

“But—”

“And be grateful if he decides to speak with us at all,” Helios adds. “We’re not Cearion. We’ll be lucky if the maharaja accepts us as representatives—”

“Is the man not bound by the same ancestral oaths that we are?” Ptolemy demands. “Mother said that he—”

“Is wise and might be willing to help us. But his oaths are between himself and the ruling pharaoh of Kemet.”

“And until Cearion’s crowned, there is no ruling pharaoh!”

“Exactly,” Helios concludes. “The maharaja owes us nothing, so we need to be grateful for whatever he decides to offer—even if it’s just the chance to walk back out of his palace with our lives.”

A swift breeze sweeps past us, drawing my eyes from Ptolemy as she stamps her foot, red-faced with anger, to Raja. Though silent, a smile sets her face aglow. She’s been more subtle with testing Helios, but it seems her mentions about what to expect here have not been wasted.

Political matters were never my twin’s strength, but at least he seems to have grasped the severity of our situation.

“Continue your lecture another time,” Raja says. “It’s been months since I left this place. I would like to greet His Esteemed Majesty and my son sooner rather than later.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Helios says, and Ptolemy heaves an annoyed sigh.

“Of all the things, your priority is a greeting?”

“Mind your tongue,” Juba snaps, and she whirls on him.

“How dare you speak to a royal Sat-Nesut of—”

“You are an ignorant, spoiled brat who plays with birds. Not the Sat-Nesut you once were.”

Ptolemy clenches her hands into fists, baring her teeth when her pigeon decides now of all times to land on her shoulder. “Kemet still exists,” she hisses. “The wealth, people, and power still exist—and their ownership belongs to my bloodline. Our allies the world over will do well to remember that.”

No one speaks for a long moment, and when the wind sweeps through again, Raja starts off toward the city without a word. We follow in a tense silence that only lifts when the stench of the moat becomes too choking for anyone to remain straight-faced.

By the time I see the massive, sloshing expanse of brown water, my eyes are burning. I gag from the steaming reek, choosing to hold my breath for as long as possible before I gasp in another putrid gulp of air.

Helios bites his lip, his eyes watering, and Ptolemy looks like she will be sick, her glare dripping with envy when her pigeon flies off into the clear, stench-less sky.

Peeking toward Juba, I find his head high and eyes forward, the only indication of his discomfort being the slight twitch of his right eye. This stench must remind him of the vents leading to the underground sewers in Roma.

I pat Juba’s arm and offer what I hope is a consoling glance.

Brows drawn, he watches me for a few steps, then smiles and nods ahead of us.

Following his gaze I spot a long, wooden bridge a few meters away. Beyond it, high, square towers rise not from the stone wall I expect, but a wall of thick, dark wood. Slits in the boards glimmer with the reflection of sunlight off dozens of arrowheads, which I assume are nocked and awaiting the command to fire.

Thankfully, as we cross to the large, open entrance of the city, no such command is given. And by the grace of all the goodness in the world, when we step onto the wide, crowded street beyond the gate, the stench of the moat rapidly fades behind us.

In its place drifts a waft of spices—sharp, pungent, and sometimes sweet. I awe at them just as much as the sight of veiled women with lush, dark hair who heft clay jugs onto their heads. Children run at their sides, weaving around the legs of adults with whoops and laughs. On straw mats at the street corners, men with heads wrapped in white turbans sit sucking in huffs of smoke from the long cords of silver hookahs, then chat excitedly in the shadows of some of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen.

Lining both sides of the street, they tower above an expanse of merchant tents with colorful awnings, under which wares of all kinds are displayed. Fruits of purples, reds, and greens; clothing of shining cotton and dyed linen; delicately carved brushes and pots of paint.

Everywhere I look, I see the bustle of a thriving city, and though I’m happy to experience such a wonder, I can’t help the ache in my heart for Alexandria. Surely her lively streets have fallen silent since we left…

“Are you alright?” Juba asks, jarring me from my thoughts.

I offer a small smile. “I’m fine.”

He studies me as we turn a corner, and though he frowns, Juba doesn’t press the matter.

Leading us through a maze of streets, around packed carts and under bridges of arched stone, Raja brings us to the high, speared gates of the white building I had first noticed when gazing upon Pataliputra.

Two guards, taller than I’d believed any man could be, step forward. Long spears in hand, their black turbans match their tunics and shalwar, and around their necks hang pendants of gold engraved with swirling Jambudvīpan lettering.

“Make way for Her Serene Highness, Rajkumari Raja te Jambudvīpa!” Mrunal commands. “Kneel in reverence, or else forfeit your lives!”

Immediately the guards take a knee with heads bowed. Raja straightens, her carefree demeanor lost beneath cool, mature grace. Without a word, she takes a step forward. The guards rise, one to push the gates open whilst the other runs inside, quickly vanishing among the many doorless halls I spot beyond the dozen arched entrances of the palace.

“Come,” Raja commands, without looking back.

Across a wide yard of lush, green grass, we follow a stone path to the largest of the palace’s entrances. Once inside, we step into a labyrinth of high pillars and intersecting halls. The marble floor reflects a rainbow of emeralds, rubies, and pearls that drip down the pillars, cast by sunlight pouring in from the many glassless windows carved into the walls.

Several minutes pass before we find ourselves in a square courtyard featuring a large pool, under which black and white tiles depict a scene of the sea.

Raja pauses here.

“Escort them to a guest chamber,” she says to Mrunal. “Summon maids to help them bathe and change into more appropriate clothing—”

“Your Serene Highness,” an approaching guard says, dropping to one knee when he reaches us. “His Esteemed Majesty has summoned you to the throne room. I am to escort you without delay.”

“All of us?” Raja asks.

“Yes, Your Serene Highness.”

I expect Raja to tsk or click her tongue, but her expression remains blank.

“We have heard and will obey.”

“His spies move fast,” Juba whispers to me. “To have warned him of our arrival so soon is...”

“Almost terrifying,” I whisper back.

Juba glances around. “And the layout of this palace is bothering me. It’s clearly designed to confuse invaders. I fear we’re already in too deep to flee, should he prove hostile.”

“Even so, we have survived worse odds.”

Focusing on Raja’s back as we skirt the pool and enter a new, larger corridor, I rapidly become more conscious of our odds and appearance.

As a whole, we are covered in dirt, dust, and sand. Ptolemy’s hair is a knotted mess, the boys are haggard, and no matter how high Raja lifts her chin, the trailing stench of elephants puts a damper on her otherwise regal flair.

What gall must it take for such an eyesore of a group as we, to march in and beg an audience with the great Maharaja Ashoka? If I were him, I might weep with laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all.

“When you enter, fall to your knees,” Raja says, as the hall narrows toward a pair of golden doors. “Bow your heads and do not dare lift your eyes until given permission. Do not speak without permission. All who dare come before His Esteemed Majesty are subject to his beck and whim. Do not forget that.”

“Halt!” our escort commands. Raising his fist he knocks in two hard thumps upon the right-most door then steps to the side, where he falls to his knees with head bowed.

When the doors part, Raja strides forward with enviable grace. I cannot help but stare—that is, until we’ve taken all of five steps into the room, behind her.

The vision of splendor that greets us stops me in my tracks.

Golden carvings glitter from the walls, broken only by narrow, glassless windows and rich tapestries. Pikes topped with golden candles line the room, their wax carved to look like pale flowers, and high above, gems form geometric patterns in the domed ceiling. At its center hangs a massive chandelier of what looks to be solid gold, and from it dangles strings of pearls and diamonds, all pointed toward the solitary figure on a low-backed, lotus-shaped throne.

Cloaked in a tiger pelt over silken robes, and head wrapped in a turban of crimson, the man’s long, white hair and eyes contrast the deep brown of his skin. Chin in hand, he tilts his head so as to look down on us despite his seated position.

It is a sight both awe-inspiring and frightening.

“Bow in reverence of His Esteemed Majesty, Maharaja Ashoka te Jambudvīpa!” Mrunal commands.

I fall to my knees, unsure if I do so out of respect or from sheer breathlessness at the grandeur around me. Head bowed, I desperately hope that Ptolemy has done as instructed. But before I can peer back at her, I’m surprised to spot Raja on her knees just two paces ahead.

A long, tense minute passes before a deep voice says, “Rise, Rajkumari.”

Raja stands.

“Speak.”

“I have returned, Your Esteemed Majesty.”

“And were you successful?”

“I will leave that to your judgement.”

“I see.” The maharaja huffs a laugh. “And you’re certain of the following: first, that three of your lot are in fact Cleo ny Kemet’s children. Second, that the honest and trusting nature of Kemite royalty lives within them. Third, that the slave’s assumption about our yuvaraja is worthy of my personal consideration. Correct?”

From the corner of my eyes, I see Juba flinch. Was it because he was called a slave, or was it because the maharaja knows things it should be impossible for him to know…unless Raja or Mrunal have been sending reports via carrier pigeon since we met.

But the only bird I’ve seen near us has been Ptolemy’s. She couldn’t have been sending messages for them in secret, could she?

“It is as you say,” Raja replies.

“Know now that you wager your life alongside theirs, for having shared such private information about my heir,” the maharaja warns. “Will you accept the consequences of this gamble, should it prove to have been a mistake?”

“I will,” Raja says. “We will, Your Esteemed Majesty. Should they prove useless, all six of us will accept any punishment you deem fit.”

No sooner does the last word leave Raja’s mouth, then the door flies open behind us, and several pairs of feet storm into the room. Ptolemy cries out, thrashing in the hold of a masked guard when I whirl around, just as another guard fists Helios’ hair and sets a sword to his throat.

“Be still,” Juba hisses to me, his hand finding and clenching mine.

But how can I? I don’t understand—why is this happening? Have my siblings been deemed so unimportant, the maharaja has decided to kill them? He can’t—I won’t allow it!

“Wait!” I beg, whipping my eyes back toward the throne. “Please, I—”

“Silence,” the maharaja commands, his voice amplified by a fierce wind that rips through the room and throws my hair up in all directions. “You’ve come seeking my aid, have you? Earn it. You wish to be my ally? Prove yourselves an ally to me.”

“Tell me how and I will!”

“I said to be silent—”

“Tell me how to earn your faith, Majesty, and I will do so—I swear it!” I cry, my forehead burning until a pulse of energy rips outward from my body.

Stealing my breath, it shatters the roar of the wind, which vanishes as quickly as it’d come. The maharaja’s eyes go wide, and a slow grin lifts his lips.

“Interesting,” he says. “You are Selene ny Kemet, yes? A rajkumari so greatly favored by the moon, Isis has allowed you to live twice.”

“I…” I swallow hard.

“You I cannot touch, but all else in your party are subject to my whims. If you wish to prove their usefulness, I will offer but one opportunity.”

“Anything, Your Esteemed Majesty.”

“Heal my heir. Prove to me what has been done to him, who is responsible, and how he can be cured. That is the price of my favor, and the cost of your companions’ lives.”

 “Spare Raja,” Helios begs through gritted teeth, flinching when the blade presses hard enough to leave a red line just beneath his chin. “All she did was bring us here—it’s not her fault if we fail!”

“Be silent,” Raja snaps, and her father tsks.

“She brought you into the heart of Jambudvīpa, and as such, she will share your fate.”

“Didn’t you order her to bring us? How could she have disobeyed the one man she respects above all else?”

The maharaja’s grin widens. “Loyalty demands sacrifice, reasonable or otherwise.”

“But—”

“Go.” The maharaja flicks a hand toward the door. “Hold the youngest in confinement near my private quarters. Escort Selene, Helios, and the slave to the yuvaraja’s bed chamber.”

Meeting my eyes, Maharaja Ashoka sits back with arms crossed. “You’ve twenty-four hours to prove yourselves. For the sake of the world as we know it, I wish you luck.”

***