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 get him.”
“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—”
I spot the boy at the top of the staircase, peering down at me. Then he dodges to the left. “Ah no!” I spring forward, taking two steps at a time until I reach the top. And then I’m careening onto my tiptoes as several goats strut past. A bustling town square lies before me, market day in full swing. People in colorful clothing jostle one another. Vendors shout from open stalls. Large, wide bowls of fruit and different-colored spices lie on the ground before kneeling merchants. “Watch it!” The goatherd yells roughly at me for almost colliding with his livestock. This just got harder.
“Vindati Agni Dipika,” I whisper. Tendrils of red mist unleash from my hands, searching for my own creation, for my firelight. More than intuition forces my head to the left. I catch the boy sneaking around a vegetable stand, hugging the ball of light to his chest. I run forward, tumbling past people who are just standing there. Why is the market this crowded? Why aren’t people ambling around, shopping? They all stand there, frowning, as I swivel among them.
The boy sees me coming, but I’m already close, within two body lengths. He darts into the open square. Too late I realize why no one is moving, just standing around and staring at the center path. A coach, bright blue, gold trimmed, and pulled by one large elephant, rumbles along the path. The boy glances back at me, not what he is about to run into. Everything slows.
“Stop!”
The elephant startles, trumpeting to the clouds. No green magic spells to combat or halt an animal come to mind. “Tvarenni!” I scream. People around me can foresee the tragedy, the bloody mess the boy is about to be turned into. Their gasps and cries drown out my own voice. Some make way for me, dodging to the side to create a clear path for interception. I push past others. Again I scream the speed spell and my body is enfolded in red. “Tvarenni!”
The elephant jerks skyward. The boy’s hands rise. My firelight gleams, the first thing the elephant will smash. And I pour every ounce of magic I have into my muscles. I must have moved faster than ever before, because somehow I slam into the boy and twist at the same time. The elephant stomps down, an arm’s length from my head. I wince and roll myself and the boy farther to the right.
“Matagga Zantahihtrae,” a male voice chants.
I roll again, the boy and me, tumbling in the dirt. The elephant no longer moves a muscle, but trumpets softly in frustration. Yeah, me too, buddy.
I sit up, dazed by the amount of magic and fear lingering in my bloodstream. The boy whimpers when I move. I process the noise of his heavy crying at the same time a male voice shouts, “Is everyone okay?”
I can’t exactly turn around with the boy fastened to me like a leech, so I raise one weak hand. “Yes, we are alive.” Faces in the crowd gape, hands stretch out. Thank Gods I’m not eighteen yet, that these people have no clue this dirty mop of a girl may be their future ruler.
Someone bends over me, blocking the blinding sun and the blur of faces. It has to be whoever was in the carriage. Before I see his face, an emblem stitched onto his jacket greets me, a snowcapped mountain with blue wind encircling it, the emblem of my intended. Raja…Raja Jatin.
I scramble like I’ve never scrambled before, both brain and body afray. “Ahhh.”
Again, he speaks, with a rich voice that can only be described as masculine. “Are you all right?”
The boy cries into my side. The crowd murmurs. But the noise should be louder, should be as pounding as the questioning voice. Am I all right? Something in me seems to be malfunctioning. Another man appears behind Raja Jatin. “The elephant and everyone else are fine,” he says. “Are she and the boy okay?”
“I think she hit her head,” Raja Jatin says.
“I, um, I’m good.” Good? Really? That’s all I can come up with? Embarrassment, because it knows it has the right to invade this situation, creeps into my cheeks and spreads over my entire body. I must be dipped in a different, fuming red.