Before settling atop Hubris, I adjust my belt and redo the knot of my orange skirt over my pink pants as Riya pulls on a purple pair. Around the palace I normally wear pants under my wraparound skirt because, well…let’s just say I’ve been so active and forgetful in the past that Zara never creates an ensemble without them. Riya, however, is more proper and elegant. Any outsider, though, might think I’m the more modest and traditional one, with my dedication to long sleeves. They would be wrong, of course.
When you’re under eighteen, it’s best to wear your parents’ colors while in public. So while I’m doomed to pale-orange and bright-pink attire, Riya, who’s three years older, gets to wear whatever she wants. Like most days she sports her parents’ purple and a soft blue that looks fantastic with her light-brown skin. One day the nine-pointed sun will also be stitched to my clothing, but the royal emblem of Belwar is only donned after the ceremony. I can’t seem to get away from the fact that I’m not ready for the throne.
I crisscross the straps of two large saddlebags around my shoulders. Riya does the same, heaving them over her head before mounting her floating skyglider.
“Ready?” she asks. I fix the curled strap of one of the feisty bags before nodding and punching my feet hard in the ground.
“Makria!”Riya and I shout. Frostlight petals explode into the air as we jet upward. The sticky grip of humidity loosens as the wind ruffles my blouse. The aroma of frost lingers until Mother’s factory of smells takes over. Years ago, Mother seized the east wing of Belwar Palace and converted it into a pharmacy and patient station. It can smell of anything, from rotting seagull feet to spring flora. As I glide by the roof of my home and Mother’s potion galley, the smell of lemons and fish circles through the air. Not too bad, since everything near the coast smells of fish anyway.
Already fifteen meters in the air, I can see the line of people amassed outside the palace gates and curved around the corner. A baby wails. The elderly hobble forward. Younger kids anxiously bounce around, sent to fetch my mother’s potions. A bittersweet smile pulls on Riya’s lips as she catches my eye. I know how the lines of people looking for medicine can unwind her. They unwind me too.
We are flying right over her father. Mr. Burman’s room is near the east wing, close enough to all the potions and pink magic to remind us that he needs my mother’s expertise to keep breathing. She knows how much it destroyed me too. He was my tutor before he became my bodyguard. He taught me how to fly. He taught me how to fight. And nine years ago, after I came back from my visit to Naupure, he’s the one who caught me crying about my Touch. He’s the one who took me aside and said, “A true rani doesn’t have to have magic or a god’s blessing. A true rani just helps the people.”
He is one of the reasons I am the way I am, that I’m doing what I’m doing when I sneak out at night. He always knew what to say. Sometimes I do too, but today, like most, I’m lost for words for my best friend. We stream upward and eastward in silence.
Anchored between lush mountains lies the cavernous valley of Belwar, my city and home. As we rise, I can see just how far my country extends to include the smaller villages nestled in the northern mountains and among the rice fields. But the majority of the population that my father and mother protect is here, bustling and moving beneath me and Riya.
It’s the most diverse place in all of Wickery. Belwar has always been a shipping port calling to travelers and hagglers and foreigners. Then, five years ago, the Southern Bay Monsoon tore through southern Agsa and refugees fled here. Pire Island, right off our coast, was left without the usual shipments of agricultural goods, which sent another wave of asylum-seekers. With Mother being Pire we welcomed them with open arms.
It would be easy for my country to segregate itself like Moolek does, based on religious tradition and forte color. Or by any other facet along which hatred likes to divide. By skin color like Agsa does, by gender like Pire Island, or by power level like Naupure. We don’t. While we might have a problem with the long perpetuated stigma against Untouched, with half the populace powerless, I’m proud. And I’ll do anything to be a “true rani.”
Belwar may be small, a pond compared with the lake Maharaja Naupure controls or the ocean of land Maharaja Moolek governs, but it is home. The four villages, denoted in simple geographic terms—north, south, east, west—all splinter outward from Belwar Palace. I live in the center of a compass. Maybe that’s why I so fiercely want to retain my title. Being a Belwar gives me direction and purpose. Without it, what am I, really?
I gaze westward toward Mount Gandhak, the towering volcano separating my land from Jatin’s. It is a foreboding but dormant landmark of distinction that casts a wide shadow. Was he there already?
It takes only seven minutes of focused flying to get to Basu’s. Not enough time to clear my head of Jatin or the looming royal ceremony. As we descend into the East Village, I spot Basu’s shop immediately, a stacked, bushy fortress. Basu tumbles out and waves me down, which is quite annoying.Yes, I see you!I want to shout. Riya and I land with only a slight whirlwind of air swooping and swirling around us.
“I was worried you would be late again,” Basu says, his tone spiked to critical capacity and tinged with impatience. What a wonderful combination.
I smile. “I wouldn’t miss your charm and warmth, Basu.”
Riya shakes her head, but to the untrained eye it appears as if she is only shrugging off one of the heavy saddlebags. I haul my own bag over my head, but it tugs in protest. The strap smacks my shoulder and I spin to find a little boy, about seven years old, holding one of the firelights. He reached into the bag and took it.
“Hey! That doesn’t belong to you!” Basu roars.
The boy’s eyes widen, clicking between fight or flight. He chooses flight. Thieves always choose flight.
“Stop him, someone stop him.” Basu bounces into the road, waving his hairy arms to indicate the boy.
Firelight is three coppers, literally one of the cheapest things in our country—I made sure of that. So why steal? Was the boy that poor? I drop both saddlebags into Basu’s arms. “I’ll gethim.”
“Adraa!” Riya yells.
“Five minutes, I’ll be back.” I wave in reassurance.
I have to know.
“Tvarenni,”I whisper, and send orange magic to my legs to catch up. But the boy is fast like he’s memorized the twists of each alleyway. This might be more challenging than I thought. He ducks into a dark side street where a strand of villagers are washing and dyeing clothing. They yell in protest as the boy blows by sheets billowing out to dry. The path turns into hundreds of steps, pebble encrusted and moss coated. I can still see him, bouncing up, up, up.
“Hey! Boy! I just want to talk!” I yell. He turns around, jolts, and flies even faster up the stairs.“Zaktirenni!”I shout, shooting energy into my muscles.
I thump up the stairs and my orange magic brings me within four steps of the thief. I reach out to hook a hand around his arm when,whack,a dusty rug slaps me in the face. A woman leans out the doorway from which she threw the dust-covered thing into the stairwell. “What the—”
I’m knocked sideways and my lungs knocked into turmoil. Hasn’t my throat already had enough of this today? Coughing and gasping, I watch as the horrified woman pieces together the person-sized object her precious rug has run into. “I’m sorry, Miss….” She begins a trembling bow, but I wave my hands.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
