Page 41 of Dance of Stars and Ashes

The woman nodded. “I thought… You seemed upset. I thought you might want to know.”

“Is your sister vanshaj?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “Of course.”

Zarya stared at the woman, her gaze drifting to the line of stars tattooed around her neck as a premonition nudged in the back of her head.

“Zee!” She turned to find Yasen approaching, and she dropped the woman’s wrist. He looked relaxed but regal in a cream kurta and slim burgundy pants. The woman stepped back, putting distance between them.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, his gaze flicking between the two women. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Zarya said. “Let’s go.”

She took his arm and looked at the woman.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course.”

Then, Zarya left with Yasen as they wound their way through the palace.

“What was that about?”

“Hmm?” Zarya asked, her thoughts a million miles away. “Oh. Nothing.”

Then, she asked, “Have you seen Amrita since the seeding?”

Yasen nodded. “She’s… different.”

“What if it was never Rani Vasvi’s temperament that made her so complacent but rather an effect of the transformation itself? What if it… dulled her?”

Yasen’s mouth pulled at the corner. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

They exchanged a look, and she nodded. Daragaab needed a strong ruler. Someone to stop the blight and remedy the many ancient ills of this queendom.

They entered the central courtyard, which glowed softly in the falling dusk. Lotus blossoms cradling candles filled turquoise pools, reflecting warm light. A host of fruit trees planted in white wooden boxes had been spaced around the perimeter, and hundreds of points of light hovered in the air, almost like the stars had descended from the heavens just for this occasion.

The charred Jai Tree stood in the middle of the otherwise cheerful space, lost and forlorn, absent of light and color and life.

Piles of cushions and low, round tables sat on top of thick embroidered rugs laid out on the stone floor. Several were occupied by nobles, courtiers, and high-ranking officers, their polished and decorated uniforms signaling their positions of importance. Yasen and Zarya snagged an empty table and slid into the plush cushions. A bottle of sparkling wine sat in the center, and Yasen poured two glasses.

Zarya sat back and sipped, trying to relax. In just a few more hours, Amrita would be the official queen of Daragaab, and the enchantment on the wall would return to its place. Dharati would be safe once again—or as safe as possible, considering the circumstances.

She couldn’t get the conversation with the vanshaj woman out of her head. What did it mean that her sister could see the apparitions, too? How much did anyone know about the caged magic of Rahajhan’s most vulnerable citizens?

Aarav sat nearby, his arm draped over Lekha’s shoulders. The pair had been going at it like rabbits in the haveli again last night, and Zarya wondered if he’d consider taking his girlfriend somewhere else in exchange for saving his life. They were driving her nuts. And it wasn’t only because Zarya’s own love life was currently as prickly and starved as a dried cactus. Maybe she should have taken up Vikram on his offer the other night. But she was pretty sure that wouldn’t help scratch this incessant itch she couldn’t reach.

Aarav grinned over at Zarya as their eyes met. In spite of everything, he’d become much less of an idiot lately. He’d fought bravely during the city’s attacks, and she’d grown to respect his fearlessness during his time with the Khada. It was a different side of him. One that she found she liked. She didn’t know if they could ever be friends, but maybe they could veer in that direction.

The Chiranjivi all sat together, including Row. They appeared deep in conversation, casting furtive glances first in Zarya’s direction and then towards a certain black-haired rakshasa warrior. What were they gossiping about? Her gaze wandered to the edge of the courtyard, wishing she hadn’t noticed him, but she was drawn to him like a very stupid moth hovering around a very hot flame.

Rabin stood leaning against a wall, looking like his usual moody and restless self. His sleeveless kurta showed off the impressive cut and breadth of his arms, as well as the tattoos that ran their length—dragon scales, Zarya realized. They shimmered in the light, catching various jeweled colors against the midnight-black ink.

He’d recently shaved, leaving only the barest shading of stubble, and Zarya tried her best not to stare. Poorly.

He didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring back. Only his was less of an awed glimpse than a glower clearly meant to melt the marrow right out of her bones. She let out a huff and then turned away as heat flushed up the back of her neck before draining half of her glass in one long sip.

She could still feel his eyes on her, and she resisted the urge to turn back. What did he want? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Was he still convinced she was his father’s spy? What a ridiculous notion.