And then there was the matter of my having to be escorted by a member of the palace retinue, which made leaving the grounds decidedly less fun than I hoped. But Arjun had traveled the world with his parents and, more recently, on his own.
When we were children, every time he went away, I cornered him upon his return, demanding to know what he had seen. Every time, he was vague.
“I went to a temple.”
“Which temple?”
“It’s high up on a mountain, with a slanted roof and lanterns hanging from the rafters.”
“Who goes to this temple?”
He would shrug. “People.”
“What kinds of people? Where do they live? Whom do they pray to in the temple?” Impatience creeping into my tone.
Arjun would sigh. Or sit down, or bite his lip, running his nervous fingers through his hair, apprehensive that his answers would never placate me in a way that was satisfying to either of us. “It’s really not all that interesting, Amrita. And I’m no good at describing things anyway. You’re the one who tells stories.”
“You’re the one who gets to travel.”
“So?”
“So at least bring me back something.”
And so he did. From the ocean, a shell. From the desert, a dried fossil of a sea horse. From the temple, a thread of jasmine. From a shop, a silk scarf. I had a collection of things that Arjun had brought for me from the outside world, that he would hide in all corners of the palace for me to find. Sometimes he left me clues about where his presents were hidden. A note tucked into my schoolbooks, arrows made of stones that I would find in the mango grove outside his living quarters, and occasionally, a sly gesture or glance.
I had, over time, made peace with the fact that he spoke better in gifts than he did in words.
Now I turned the ring in my hand as Arjun and I crossed the wide, pillared corridors of the residential west wing, past the potted palms and portraits of my ancestors, our feet clacking on the marble checkerboard floor.
“I had it made,” he whispered. “An artisan in Shalingar. I know jasmine is your favorite flower. You can’t carry the fragrance with you all the way to . . .” He went silent for a moment, as though he didn’t want to say it, as though he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. “And I wanted you to remember . . .”
That was all he said, his eyes fixed on the guards, dressed in emerald and gold khalats, who saluted us as we made our way down the corridor. He refused to look at me, but I couldn’t help but watch that profile I was so familiar with that it may as well have been my own. His regal nose, his square jaw, his full lips tightening into a line as his face fell into a mask of composure.
“It’s good luck,” I repeated his words.
“Too bad you’ve never believed in luck,” he said to me, and I caught a brief smile fleeting across his face.
“Maybe I should start now. I need it,” I told him.
“You’ll be fine. You’re good with people. He’ll . . . love you.”
“Perhaps it’s better if he doesn’t,” I whispered under my breath as we turned toward the grand stairway. I tried to smile, attempting to shore up my confidence.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s an option,” Arjun responded. “It’s impossible not to adore you.” He was still looking straight ahead, and his words released a torrent of butterflies in my stomach.
I wanted time to stop. I wanted to turn, to run, but where? I could already hear the brass band playing Shalingar’s national anthem in the gallery below.
In the quiet hollow of my chest, I was lamenting the fact that I was powerless in the face of my own fate, and something within me was screaming, flailing against all the walls of my own existence, fighting for another outcome, for another choice.
But on the outside, I remained calm. I did what I knew to do whenever I greeted dignitaries: I slipped a cool mask of composure over my face. I held my head high, flashing the diamond-studded shoes Mala had selected for me, my fingers light on the redwood banister as we descended the grand stairway into the Durbar Hall, a vast gallery with a glass dome and frescoes of Shalingar’s history painted into the ceiling.
“Are you sure you want to wear it?” Arjun asked, his eyes glancing at my finger.
I nodded. Wearing Arjun’s ring felt like an act of defiance but also reflected something true within me.
I knew why my heart was racing. And it didn’t have to do with my fear of Sikander.
I wanted to choose my own future.
I didn’t want to be Sikander’s bride.
What I wanted was too impossible to say aloud, too dangerous, too fraught.
And yet I knew that I desired it with my entire heart: To stay in Shalingar. To be my own person. To serve my people. And to be with those I loved—Papa, Mala, Bandaka, and Shree. But also Arjun, I realized in that moment. Especially Arjun.
Two
MY HEART WAS POUNDING like a drumbeat as I descended into a sea of red coats. They stood in formation as the band played Shalingar’s national anthem.
“Where is he?” I whispered to Arjun, squinting my eyes as I smiled at the crowd of men standing before me.
They didn’t smile back. Their faces were somber, immovable. Their large, rectangular bodies formed a wall of sameness. Even their haircuts were identical.
“I can’t recognize him,” Arjun said. “All I’ve ever seen is his likeness on a coin.”
Shree, Arjun’s mother, had shown us the coins, along with maps of the region, giving us lectures on the Silk Road, teaching us Macedonian greetings, which we employed the moment the band stopped playing.
“Kalispera.” I nodded as I bowed before a tall, broad-shouldered man with silver hair. He nodded back at me, his eyes narrowing as they took me in. I quickly looked away.
“Kalosìrthes.” Arjun shook hands with another man whose palms were at least three times the size of mine.
When the musicians started playing Macedon’s national anthem, I knew this was a signal. Our own guards saluted in formation as a man walked across the threshold of the hall, his feet plodding heavily across the parquet. He too wore a maroon jacket, but his was trimmed with gold, medals across his chest.
I had held those coins in my hand, inspecting them so carefully, trying to identify who he was from those gilded discs. But it was tantamount to reading my fortune in tea leaves.
He looked past me and Arjun, his head held high, his hand over his chest as he listened to the brass chorale that seemingly went on forever. Was their national anthem a war chant? I wondered as I watched him.