Kalyan glides close, too close really, but we are skilled enough to do it. He slaps my shoulder, obviously aware of my sudden unease. “Hey, we’ve been over this. She can’t be too bad.”
I sigh and pull a hand through my hair. “Yeah, Father just loves her.” Which in truth makes it worse, so much worse. How can I escape this arrangement when the man whose respect I crave more than anyone’s in the world admires a temperamental hothead who is all wrong for me?
Kalyan doesn’t respond. He likes to find his words, make sure they convey something of importance or at least set up a joke. Mere talk for talking’s sake is senseless garble to him. School was a real quiet time having him as my closest friend, but in the air, facing home, I cherish that silence. Wordlessly, he extends his forearm. I quickly knock mine against his before he whooshes out a few meters for safety. It’s enough.
Ahead of us, three of my older guards fly, a small procession considering when I left for school at age nine I had twelve guardsmen. Not that we expect any danger, but it’s a long journey. Someone could burnout. Accidents do happen. Only four flying stations, yellow-magic-fueled platforms for rest and recuperation, hover along our current route.
Mostly, though, it all comes back to me being the only heir, not just my father’s only son but his only child. I was supposed to have a sister. I was also supposed to have a mother. By now I’ve almost stopped noticing the cage of precaution. Almost.
From here I can only see the whip of cloaks and the guards’ magic. Orange, yellow, and blue jet streams spout from the end of their skygliders and disperse before reaching Kalyan and me, thus prohibiting the potential cross of magic that could send us all barreling toward the mountain’s feet.
Suddenly, yellow drops and my body tightens. “Vardrenni.” I rush into a spell to make sure Samik hasn’t been hit or fallen asleep, to make sure I can still save him. White smoke blurs my eyes for a second and my vision zooms in, magnifying Samik, who is descending and falling back on purpose. I sigh. Just a report then, but I stay alert regardless. I should be paying more attention, not thinking of Adraa or my father.
It takes Samik only a minute of hard flying to swoop under and then rise to fall in line beside me, the skill of a yellow forte. “Raja Jatin.” He lays his index and middle finger to his throat in salute. I mirror the action.
“Yes?”
“We are approaching the East Village of Belwar, where we will meet the carriage.”
Great. Just great. Not just paraded around for my father but for the Belwars too. One in particular, I’m sure.
“Thank you, Samik.” I press my fingers against my pulse point again and he copies me, adding a deeper bow. Then he waits a moment to catch the wind and drop. So much honor and tradition; so much respect. But who is Samik beyond that salute? Something seems to whisper I’ll never get to know. Partly, it’s the Naupure way. We are formal by nature. But it’s more than that. We don’t discriminate based on one’s forte, unlike my uncle’s country, Moolek, but propriety is still ruled by how many types of magic one can cast. In a land in which the majority can handle four types at the most, I’m a novelty. A nine. I’m also the heir to the throne. To a few people, I’m the embodiment of a god. That last bit has always been overwhelming. But it doesn’t stop everyone from bestowing his or her ultimate respect and that means I get guards, I get loyalty, I get reverence. Never friendship.
Kalyan veers closer instead of shouting. “Think we should switch when we land? After all, we are doing the whole carriage thing to parade through the village.”
I touch my simple blue kurta and look at Kalyan’s fine embroidered jacket with my family’s emblem, a mountain constricted by wind stitched into the fabric. We look so similar, like brothers: black hair, dark eyes, a light-brown complexion, even matching square chins. He is my guard for that reason, impersonating me whenever we travel or for laughs back at school. The real difference lies in the fact I’m a head shorter than my friend, but that disguises me even more. Everyone expects a maharaja to be tall, looming. Only my Touch gives me away, the power of my studies and blood racing up both my arms to meet my shoulders. Concealed in cloaks and a long-sleeved kurta, only the five of us surfing above mountains can identify me as a raja.
“You don’t want to pretend to be me for one last time, for humor’s sake?” I’m grasping, and we both know it.
Kalyan sighs, letting me grasp anyway. “Fine, but as soon as we pass Mount Gandhak we are switching. I am not riding up to Azure Palace and knocking on the ice door wearing this.”
“Deal.” I know I will never masquerade as a simple guard again. I already ache for the easiness, the simplicity in pretending I will not one day rule the country.
“Himadloc,” I chant. Red streams of magic slip off my fingers and streak toward a bowl of water. The liquid stirs and slowly, way too slowly, hardens, cracks, and finally freezes over. Sighing at that pathetic attempt, I walk back to the covered porch, where the fattest book in history sits upon a podium. I flip through it, searching for other simple white magic spells.
A door to the training yard slams shut, which can mean only one thing.
“Hey! Your ceremony training isn’t for another three hours. Why did you start without me?” When I don’t look up, my best friend slaps her hand down on the page I’m reading. “Adraa. What’s going on? Did something happen?”
“No.” I shrug and push Riya’s hand away.
She peers down at the paragraph. “Snow spells, really? Might as well show me the letter now.”
I finally glance at Riya, who’s shaking her head because she knows I only turn this desperate with white magic when I’m reminded of my royal ceremony. And Jatin in any form is the ultimate reminder. Oh Gods, he’s really coming home today.
“What? You are easier to read than this ancient thing.” She lifts one corner of the book and lets it drop for emphasis.
“I resent that. I’m complicated, mysterious, and…”
“And fretting over a boy?” Riya arches one of her thick eyebrows.
I jerk the letter from my pocket and hand it over. “I’m not fretting about him. I’m fretting about…about…”
Riya holds up a hand, my stammering explanations puttering out as she scans the letter. She finally meets my eyes again. “I guess he is kind of winning.”
I tear the letter from her. “Aren’t you supposed to be supportive?”
“I protect your life, but the job description doesn’t say anything about being nice to you.” Her hand rests on her knife in implication, but she also smiles.
It’s a bad joke. Seven months ago there was no job description. Seven months ago Riya only had to worry about being my best friend. Then three Vencrin criminals cornered my personal bodyguard, Mr. Burman, her father. They blasted him with torture spells until he was comatose. Riya took up her father’s mantle to protect me without hesitation. But it wanes on us, stiffening our once comfortable relationship.