Page 6 of Storm of Ink and Blood

He smiled, and she reached out, grabbing his hand and squeezing it.

Then they stared across the horizon as they both watched a plume of smoke curl gently against the starry night sky.

THREE

TWO MONTHS AGO

Kingdom of Andhera

The mountains of Andhera loomed in the distance as Rabin soared over the landscape, his chest tightening at the sight. Though he hadn’t been away long, this place had become home when his own had rejected him so many years ago.

Banking left, his wings snapped against the frigid atmosphere, and he closed his eyes as a blast of wind slipped over his scales, savoring its fresh bite after the heat and humidity of Dharati. There were days when the stinging cold of the north made him wish for the warm, sandy beaches of the south, but there was also something purifying about the icy air freezing in his lungs.

When Andhera’s sprawling castle—made of dark stone forged from the Pathara Vala mountains—came into view, he arrowed down, swooping over the high towers and the surrounding city. With his keen eyesight, he spied the sentries stationed on the ramparts, watching him with cautious looks. Even after all these years, very few were used to him. Shapeshifters were uncommon enough, but a dragon was something most of these northern people had only heard about in story books.

With a soft thump, his feet hit the stones of a tall tower, wide enough to accommodate his size, before he dissolved into black smoke, shifting back into his rakshasa form. He paused on the high platform, taking in his surroundings: the soaring mountains blanketed with snow and the miles of evergreens spreading in every direction. He inhaled a deep breath of clean air, welcoming the chill snaking down the back of his neck.

He wasn’t properly dressed for this climate, and already the cold nipped at the tips of his ears and fingers. But it made him feel something at least. Turning on his heel, he strode towards the castle, entering through a door, and wound his way down the narrow staircase, planning to see Abishek first. The king of Andhera would expect an update on Rabin’s activities in Daragaab.

After the events with the blight and Dhawan’s betrayal, he’d remained in Dharati to offer whatever assistance he could to Vikram, but his brother wanted nothing to do with him. He’d made it clear Rabin was not welcome in the Jai Palace, and he could take the hint. Though Rabin’s actions were the reason for their strained relationship, he hoped they could find a way to work past this somehow.

Rabin understood he’d condemned his brother to an unwelcome fate as the steward of Daragaab, but how could Vikram have expected him to remain in Dharati when he’d suffered so much at their father’s hand? Gopal had never paid much attention to Vikram, but at least he hadn’t beaten the shit out of him for half of his life. Rabin knew he had bridges to mend with his brother but also refused to feel guilty for choosing himself when he’d been given no alternative.

After Vikram had forbidden Rabin from going anywhere near Zarya, he realized it was time to put some distance between them lest he be tempted to snap his brother’s neck.

Besides, the only person in Daragaab who cared about him was his mother. Though she also bore no love for her husband, she was at least comfortable enough and surrounded by friends. She didn’t really need him, and Rabin had no place there. In this northern kingdom, he’d finally found somewhere to belong.

He entered a long hallway lined with thick scarlet rugs, the dark stone walls hung with intricate woven tapestries. A servant wearing a simple black sari passed him, bowing her head and staring at her feet as he passed. Here, they were all scared of him, too, but after a lifetime of being shamed for his nature, he was learning not to hide who he was any longer.

Stalking through the castle, he approached Abishek’s wing and nodded to the sentries posted outside. They were a bit more accustomed to his presence, and Rabin was one of the few people in the king’s circle permitted entry without question. The only other people on that list included Abishek’s personal mystic, Kishore, and Ekaja, Abishek’s army commander and Rabin’s only real friend.

“He’s in his workroom,” a guard said, and Rabin nodded his thanks.

He entered another long hall lined with wooden paneling engraved with complex enamel art along its length, the bright colors directly contrasting the monotone palette of greys and whites of the snow-capped mountains surrounding them.

He knocked on the door with a sharp rap and waited.

“Enter,” came a voice, and he swung the door open to reveal Abishek’s enormous workroom, which served as part library and part refuge. The king was obsessed with knowledge and research, and the high walls were lined with shelves stuffed full of thousands of books, most of which he’d apparently read at some point.

A large window opened to a view of the mountains, and at the far end was a series of worktables covered in an array of glass vials and bottles, along with scales and a small cauldron where he conducted much of his experimentation. No one knew more about magic in Rahajhan—of every variety—than Raja Abishek.

“You’ve returned,” he said from his workbench, where he was mixing ingredients into a bowl.

“Happy to be home,” Rabin said and gave him a quick bow.

“You’ve been missed.”

Rabin wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Had anyone ever missed him before?

“Are you hungry?” Abishek asked with a wave. Next to him sat a large platter of food—roti and channa, along with a bowl of raita—and a pitcher of water floating with ice.

“I’m good, thank you,” he said.

“Then have a seat. Tell me everything. Did you uncover who your mysterious dream woman is?”

Rabin pulled up a stool and sat across from the king. He folded his hands on the table and took a deep breath. “I did.”

Abishek cocked his head, placing the instrument in his hand on the workbench and offering Rabin his full attention, perhaps sensing Rabin’s inner conflict.