Prologue
The problem with weaving stories is that you can never quite know when yours will begin.
I didn’t.
What I did know was that the magic had always been a part of me, potent as burning stars and night-colored dreams. And so was danger, following the magic like a filly following a mare. In a kingdom where legacies were at war, these were the only two things I was certain of.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The Bookweaver named me after the reya flowers that bloom in Kasmira every spring: luminous and silver, like shards of broken pearl. “Reya Kandhari,” he once told me. “A powerful name for a powerful girl.”
I sometimes think it’s the sight of rippling silver reya fields that first inspired me to write. I wanted to capture all of that beauty and enigma and save it from the darkness.
My father once dreamed of placing the traditional wreath of reya on my brow and passing his gift down to me. But that dream had been ripped apart years ago, tearing with it a girl with a legacy for a last name, and leaving an unfinished tale in her place.
Then all I had were the words and the pressing, bone-deep cold.
One
The Bookweaver once told me that when we die, we all leave something behind.
A cobbler leaves behind a legacy of warmly clad feet; a baker leaves behind memories of sated stomachs; a writer leaves behind a testament to our humanity. You can leave behind a book or a house or a child. Really, it can be anything, as long as it was once warm from your touch and alight with your fire and carries a piece of you within it forever.
The problem is, he said, we don’t realize the gravity of our duty until we’re forced to act. We find ourselves unanchored, and that’s when we realize that we forgot to leave our mark. And by then, there’s no turning back.
“Reya Patel!”
The sound of the name that I used in the Fields jarred me back to reality. I looked down from my tree branch to see Lord Gilani, the overlord, glaring at me.
“Are you expecting the mangoes to harvest themselves, Patel?”
I took a deep breath.
“No,” I said. “I’m almost done.”
Gilani rolled his eyes. “I need another half-bushel before sundown. Get to work.”
I envisioned the mango tree toppling down on him as I slung my basket over my shoulder and started to climb.
A strong branch, laden with mangoes, loomed over my head, and I wrestled its fruit into the basket with vengeance. And then I continued to climb, because in moments like this, it felt easier to leave my anger on the ground.
From the treetop, I could see the Fields unfolded before me: the orchards, the pastures, and other peasants toiling in the heat. Beyond that sprawled the entire Raj— raucous bazaars, clay gardens, and homes painted brightly to ward off demons. Pearl-tipped minarets that challenged the heavens themselves. And most hauntingly, the royal mahal, reflected a thousand times in rivers unspooling like silk.
Once the basket was full, I tied it to a pulley and lowered it to the ground. As the basket descended, I remembered what my father once told me about the cosmic laws of karma. I wondered what I’d done to get mine so out of balance, and how long I had to wait until the universe repaid its debt.
Down below, a gray-eyed girl hefted the basket onto her shoulder and squinted up at me.
“Reya?” she called.
Nina’s voice was steady enough, but her eyes kept darting up to the sky, where storm clouds were gathering. A cold wind washed over the Fields, sending crops rippling. The storm was going to be especially bad today—I could see it in the restless pacing of the overlords, the hushed whispers, and the billowing darkness descending upon us.
Somehow—and perhaps I was imagining it, but I picked up on the stench of decay, laced within the drowsy scent of mangoes—I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was stirring. A story waiting to unfold, a legend in the making.
“You look depressed,” Nina continued matter-of-factly. “You promised me that the angsty phase was over.”
She smiled at me. For a moment, it felt like we were still eight years old, and it was my first day of mandatory service in the Fields. I had just scraped my knee on a branch, and she had reached for me with that same smile. I knew right then when she took my hand, she was also taking a piece of my heart. In spite of the secrets I kept from her, there was something about Nina Nadeer that made me certain that scraped knees could be healed, rain storms could be weathered, and humans could leave their mark.
“You worry too much about me,” I called down, resisting the urge to check the sky again. “I’ll be fine.”
Her eyes crinkled a little, like she didn’t quite believe me.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said. “There’s a rumor that there’s going to be a raid on the Fringes soon, so be careful going home tonight. King Jahan’s on a witch hunt for rebels.”
I ignored the twist in my stomach.
“Forcing us all to work the Fields isn’t enough for him?” I said. “The Zakirs drove out the Mages seven years ago. There’s literally nobody left to rebel.”
“They’re getting paranoid,” said Nina sagely, stooping back over the mangoes. “I don’t blame them. These are dangerous times.”
I opened my mouth to respond, and that’s when I felt it.
Heat seared the skin between my collarbones, so fleeting but powerful that I nearly fell off the branch. I rolled completely sideways, one hand clutching the fork of the tree, the other reaching for the pearl I wore on my neck.
Someone screamed as the branch tipped precariously, sliding out of my grip. I flailed, fingers scrabbling on the decaying bark—it was smooth, entirely too smooth—and even as the blood rushed into my head, all I could hear was the screaming. I wished it would stop.
Right before the branch broke, I realized the screams were mine.
There was an awful crack, and for a moment, I was suspended in midair—nothing but iron-colored clouds, a clean blank page—then the ground rushed at me as I tumbled, broken branch and all, landing flat on my back.
“Ni—Nina—” I couldn’t get the words out.
“Reya!” Nina dropped her basket and pulled me to my feet. Vaguely, I heard her fuss over me, but I couldn’t focus on that—only the panic, clawing its way up my throat.
My pearl was an illegal amulet, and its lifeblood was connected to my father’s. If it was discovered, I could be accused of being a Mage. I’d never understood how the pearl worked, but its meaning was devastating: if it burned, my father’s life was in danger. If I was too late, it would shatter.
I hadn’t imagined it: the pearl had burned. And that could only mean one thing. The Bookweaver was in danger.
I could feel the pearl throbbing against my heartbeat. I had to get home to him.
Thunder rumbled through the clouds, and the skies split at last, releasing a horrible fury on the peasants below. I stumbled forward, and Nina stretched out her hand.
The thunder sounded like a thousand pearls spilled by a careless hand, the beating tabla drums for a riot of rain and wind. I could barely see where I was going: only Nina’s hand guided me through the stampede of people. Despite her comforting presence, my panic was rising.
I slipped my hand out of Nina’s, but she held on tight. “Don’t lose me,” she shouted over the wind. “I know where we can find shelter—”