Excerpt: A Kiss of Crimson Ash by Anuja Varghese
Inspired by medieval India’s most epic love stories, this debut Romantasy blends rich storytelling, lush worldbuilding, and spice of every variety. Perfect for fans of Nisha J. Tuli and Tasha Suri.
“A seductive and magical romantasy from a wonderful new voice – a truly vibrant epic and erotic read.” ” —Tasha Suri, bestselling author of The Isle in the Silver Sea
Read the first three chapters of A Kiss of Crimson Ash, on sale May 26th, below!
CHAPTER 1
TAARA
A swirling mist. The chime of anklets in the long grass. A voice in the wind.
Stay with me, my queen, my love.
Stay…
The new queen of Abhaya sat up in her bed as the remnants of the dream faded from her mind, although the sadness that always came with it lingered in her body like a stone wedged between her ribs. It was a mystery to her—a dream of a place she had not been, a voice she did not know, a longing she could not name. The same dream had come to her many times over the years since she was a girl, but in the week since she had been crowned, it had come every night, its colors more vivid, its feelings ever more real. Who are you? she silently asked of the voice in her head, but heard only the gentle coo of the pigeons that nested in the palace alcoves in reply.
Then there was a clucking of a different sort as the silk curtains drawn loosely around her bed were pulled open, and Taara looked up into a stern face as familiar to her as her own reflection. “Ut! Get up! So much to do before our guests arrive, and the queen thinks she can sleep all day, is it?” The older woman continued to fuss and grumble as she tied the bed curtains together, shooed away a bird that had wandered inside, and sipped from a cup of tea, just as she had every morning for twenty years—the warm, sweet tea the only thing Taara would drink after being weaned from her mother’s breast. When she was satisfied the tea posed no threat, she held the cup out, but instead of taking it, Taara fell back into her pillows, gazing at the canopy above her.
“Can’t you make some excuse?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “Tell them I’m unwell or that I’m lame or that I’m cursed. Dooseri-Ma, please, tell them anything. I’m not ready.”
Bala’s lined face softened at the words. She had been Dooseri-Ma—second mother—to the princess Taaratajini for two decades, and to her mother, Queen Suvarnatara, beloved ruler of Abhaya, the southernmost gem in the Samjayan Empire, for the two decades before that. Taara had been the subject of comparisons to her mother all her life, and Bala often spoke with pride and exasperation in equal measure about the ways the two were alike—both strong-willed, quick-tempered, and independent of spirit. Of course, Taara also knew her Dooseri-Ma’s fears for her, overheard in quiet exchanges never meant for her ears. Suvarnatara had captured the heart of a prince who respected the matrilineal lines of power from which Abhaya drew its strength, a man who had loved her for who she was. What if… Taara had heard it whispered—between her parents or between Bala and the women of her mother’s chamber, in hushed voices, concern etched on their faces when the question of Taara’s marriage prospects arose—what if here, the princess’s path was destined to diverge from her mother’s?
With her right hand, Bala waved a quick circle around Taara’s head, as if tracing a crown that was not there, then brought her palm to the folds of the cotton sari draped across her chest: a gesture that both summoned the blessing of Goddess Yusara and warded off the evils Taara so blithely suggested. “It’s in Her hands,” Bala said, holding out the cup again. “And Abhaya is in yours.”
Taara reluctantly sat up and accepted the tea that was offered. Bala stroked her hair as she drank, her fingers combing through to the ends that now curled just below the girl’s ears. A week before, Taara’s hair had fallen past her waist in thick, shining curls that Bala had spent countless hours washing, combing, and trying to tame. Then, as tradition demanded, on the night before her crowning, the princess had cut off her hair and made an offering of it in the Temple of Yusara, burning it in the sacred fire so it could not be used to cast spells against her. A sacrifice of beauty for power. When she had appeared before her people, it had been without veils or flowers or other adornments. There was only the princess Taaratajini, named for a falling star, holding her shorn head high and wearing the simple gold crown that had made her into a queen.
But the crown does not make the queen. Bala had told her so often enough. No one had yet told her what would, but something in Taara already knew. It was days like today that would bring her closer to who she must become. It was her wedding day. The next step in her journey as Abhaya’s queen. The right step. The only step there was to take.
Bala took the empty cup from Taara’s hands and said, “When you are dressed, your mother wishes to see you.” Taara looked at her with raised eyebrows. Locked away in one of the Red Palace’s many spiraling towers, guarded from prying eyes and wagging tongues, with only a view of the sea and her crumbling mind for company, Queen Suvarnatara had not spoken a coherent word in more than a month. Bala shrugged, as if to say, If you want to know, ask her yourself, before she turned and left Taara alone with her goddess and her thoughts.
I could lock myself in this room and never come out, Taara thought as she stood and stretched, standing before the ornate shrine to the goddess that spanned one wall of the chamber. The goddess was carved in sandstone four times over, depicted in each of her four incarnations as the Mother, the Lover, the Warrior, and the Sage. Each statue had a place of honor, elevated on its own gold platform, garlanded with fresh flowers, and surrounded by colorful diyas that burned with fragrant oil. I could get on a horse and ride far away from here. I could flee, I could hide, I could die. If the goddess was sympathetic to Taara’s thoughts, she made no sign. And as the rumble of the growing crowd outside the palace gates reminded her, Taara knew there was only one thing she could do.
She opened her door and made her way through the interconnected rooms of the women’s quarters, following the sound of laughter and squabbling and song, until she came upon her serving girls, already up and waiting for their queen. Excitement for the wedding feast and festivities ahead made their spirits high, and Taara had to force herself to smile, to let herself be embraced and teased and fussed over as any bride might be. After all, what greater hope could a woman have than a fine husband? What greater joy for a queen than to find her king?
Taara had agreed to the marriage to the prince of neighboring Nandapore, as all her mother’s advisors had assured her it was what was best for Abhaya, and Taara’s very existence was molded around service to the city that she would one day rule—one of the seven kingdoms that made up the Samjayan Empire. She had always thought of her inevitable marriage to some prince within the empire as a vague future necessity, a natural progression in her path toward becoming queen. But now that it was upon her, Taara felt instead, for the first time, like swerving from the path altogether and running in the opposite direction.
The girls of her chamber were girls she knew well, or as well as a woman could know those who served at her command. She knew their gentle hands, their small happinesses and heartbreaks tied to the world beyond the Red Palace walls. That was not a world to which Taara belonged. Her place was here, where she was safe, where she was loved. And today, her girls truly showered her with doting affection steeped in anticipation for the arrival of the handsome prince of a husband she had yet to meet. They fed her rice cooked in coconut milk, handfuls of milky sweets, and ripe morsels of mango and apricot. They mixed in a clay pot a paste of turmeric and lemon juice and applied it generously to Taara’s arms, neck, and face. Although like her mother in stature—tall and lean—she had inherited her father’s complexion. Had she been a princess of the Tiger Islands, she might have been considered a beauty for the rich dark brown of her skin, but in the empire proper, a face resembling the full moon was considered the height of beauty. And so, Taara submitted to the lightening mixture they insisted on painting her with every other day, even though it was plain to see it had little effect.
Afterward, they scrubbed her clean, and then she sat squirming under their fast-moving bits of thread that stripped the hair from her body with the precision of tiny blades. They scented her skin with jasmine oil, then began arguing among themselves about how she should be dressed, which of her many jewels, passed down through generations of queens, she should wear. Delicate strings of diamonds mined from the Minadori Mountains, emeralds the size of a robin’s egg, pearls that fell in enough layers to cover a body like opalescent cloth, heaps of gleaming gold studded with precious gems—the choices were stunning, and for Taara, they were a stark reminder of the legacy of matrilineal power in which she now took her place. Her marriage had been arranged in such haste, there hadn’t been time to have new bridal attire made, and with her mother unwell it had seemed a frivolous expense. Instead, Taara watched as what seemed like every piece of clothing and jewelry every queen of Abhaya had ever owned was paraded in front of her, and for a brief time, she let herself be buoyed by the beauty of it all, the history of Abhaya’s great queens spread out before her, waiting for her to create herself in their image.
When at last the girls were satisfied and set her before the looking glass, Taara hardly recognized the woman she saw. There was barely any woman to see underneath all the finery. The golden crown of Abhaya was all but lost beneath the richly embroidered crimson veil that covered her head, then swept across her tightly fitted blouse and fastened to her heavy multilayered skirt, shimmering with gold thread and intricate patterns of beads and mirrors. Taara’s thin lips were painted with vermilion to make them darker and fuller; her eyes lined with kohl, making them sharper and wider in her narrow face. She was bedecked with too many jewels to count: From her forehead, to her ears, nose, neck, and wrists, she glittered and gleamed from every angle, a vision of regal elegance come to life.
“You’re so lovely! Brighter than the moon! Just perfect!” the girls chorused. They heard the drums approaching and the roar of the crowd rising, and they flocked to the screened alcoves to witness the spectacle of a king’s arrival.
Bala arrived with a pair of slippers in gold silk, woven through with tiny gems that sparkled in the sunlight. She knelt at Taara’s feet and gently fitted each shoe to a smooth, perfumed foot. She looked up at Taara and offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, don’t keep them waiting,” she said. “Go, child. You’re ready.”
I’m not ready, Taara thought, a girl of twenty whose stomach churned with doubt and dread. But it was Queen Taaratajini who spoke, her voice even, her face serene, as she said, “Open the gates. And tell my betrothed he is most welcome in Abhaya.”
The girls dispersed and Bala rose, offering Taara her hands. Taara took them and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, the strange weight of her finery setting her off-balance. “To the tower first,” Bala reminded her.
“She won’t speak to me,” Taara said, a note of bitterness creeping into her tone.
“It’s every bride’s right to seek blessings from her mother on her wedding day,” Bala replied. “So, she will. She must.” Bala paused, then asked, “Do you wish me to come with you?”
Taara shook her head. “No, Dooseri-Ma,” she said. “Go, see to our guests.” With a hand touched lightly to Taara’s cheek, Bala took her leave, and Taara reluctantly made her way up the winding stairs to the room at the top of the east tower where her mother was slowly going mad.
All Taara’s life, she had lived in awe of her mother, the great Queen Suvarnatara, fearless and beloved by all. The strongest woman Taara knew. But in the weeks leading up to Taara’s twentieth birthday, something had changed. Her mother’s wits—always sharp—seemed to dull overnight. She began to forget things she had known all her life, to talk to shadows on the wall, to wander the palace halls in the middle of the night cackling or wailing or staring into empty spaces, seeing things that were not there. The People’s Queen, who held court daily, suddenly disappeared from public life. The people couldn’t know, couldn’t be allowed to think less of their queen, to doubt her favor with the goddess. So, Taara, Bala, Zamu-ji—they all lied. The official story, as Taara’s uncle offered it, was that while walking in the palace lemon grove, Queen Suvarnatara had been bitten by a snake and its poison had left her paralyzed. The best physicians from across the Samjayan Empire were tending to her, and it was expected that by the grace of the goddess, the queen would make a full recovery—although there was no telling how much time the goddess might require to see her healing done.
The room Taara entered was small, with a single barred window, a bed, and a cloying scent of henna paste heavy in the air. As usual, the space was scattered with clothes, books, half-eaten food, half-painted pictures. The walls were covered in strange scribbles, like words in a language that didn’t exist. From one corner of the room, a sandstone statue of the goddess in her incarnation as the Sage overlooked the scene with unseeing eyes. And wedged behind the shrine, in a pool of silk and shadows, Queen Suvarnatara rocked back and forth, humming to herself, her eyes as vacant as the stone goddess’s.
“Mother?” Taara crouched, careful of her finery, peering around the goddess’s outstretched orb. “My betrothed has arrived. The prince of Nandapore. Do you remember?” If the queen heard her daughter’s words, she made no sign. Taara tried again. “Mother, I am to be married to him today. It’s my wedding day. Zamu-ji said it’s what you would have wanted for me, what’s best for Abhaya. Is that true?” Against her will, Taara heard the pitch of her voice rising, felt the tightening of her throat as she held back tears. The emperor had indeed sent his best physicians to attend the queen, but so far, none could offer any remedy for what ailed her, and they had left Taara with little hope that she would ever see her mother returned to her true self again. Now Zamu-ji kept the queen, his sister, under lock and key—for her own protection, he insisted—but with every passing day, Taara felt her mother more a prisoner than a patient. Taara visited her mother almost every afternoon, but no matter how much she pleaded, threatened, cajoled, and cried at her mother’s feet, nothing cut through the fog in Queen Suvarnatara’s eyes.
“The wind sweeps all the pretty birds into the hunter’s snare, but only one will sing for you.” It was a tuneless refrain, mumbled words in place of the queen’s humming. Her mother spoke now only in such meaningless riddles and rhymes, when she spoke at all, and despite knowing the unlikelihood that today would be any different, Taara had secretly, desperately believed that it would; that this day—her wedding day—would be the one day her mother might come back to her. But it was not to be.
Taara reached out a bejeweled hand and stroked her mother’s tangled hair. “Be well,” she whispered. “By Her grace, be well.” She stood, fighting the weight of her skirt, and turned to leave. She could hear her mother’s quiet, senseless song behind her, muffled as the heavy door closed between them. “Only one, only one, only one will sing for you. Listen not with your ears but with your heart, and the song will set you free.”
Instead of going to meet her betrothed, Taara felt herself drawn back to her bedchamber, back to the shrine to the goddess. One red sandstone figure stood taller than the rest, her right hand raised in blessing. Taara touched her hand to the goddess’s and closed her eyes. It seemed that this Mother was the only one from whom she would receive blessings today. Taara touched her fingertips to her forehead, then her heart, before turning her back on the shrine and leaving to face the day ahead.
And so it was that only the pigeons fluttering in and out of the alcove were there to see the lotus etched into the goddess’s palm begin to glow. Only they were there to watch her stone eyes open.
CHAPTER 2
BHEDIYA
From her third-floor balcony on the west-facing side of Chandanee Mukan, through the uneven buildings lining the narrow street, Bhediya could see just a sliver of the sea. She fixed her eyes on the water and watched as the blazing red sun sank below its surface, leaving the sky over Nandapore streaked with shades of orange and pink. In her palm, a ball of fire the size of a small plum danced and flickered in the evening breeze. Garj would be feasting in his new home with his new people. His new wife, a pretty princess of Abhaya, would be feeding him bites of fresh fish, sweet plantain, all the choicest dishes her cooks could prepare. And then he would take her to bed…
Stop. Don’t think about it. Bhediya closed her eyes against the pictures she conjured, but there were his hands encircling his wife’s waist, there were his lips pressed to his wife’s neck, his breath warm on her cheek, his eyes locking with hers as he filled her up. Flames began to peel off from the ball in Bhediya’s hand to travel down her fingers and set each fingertip ablaze, even as the ball itself began to shift and grow, lapping at her wrist and showering sparks on the balcony floor.
“Be careful with that.” The deep voice behind her startled Bhediya out of her reverie and she quickly refocused her energy, taming the flames back into an obedient ball. Smiling brightly, she turned and flung it at the Norvardarian ambassador’s head. As expected, he easily deflected the fireball with a wave of his hand, turning it to a wisp of smoke in the air between them. Bhediya had some skill as a spellcaster, but the elvenkind had powerful elemental magic of their own, and she knew she was no match for what Akio could do if he tried. “Do you launch such assaults on all your clients, or am I just lucky?” Akio approached her as he spoke, a half smile playing on his lips.
“I thought elves didn’t believe in luck,” Bhediya said. Akio was only a little taller than her, but he was all taut muscle. When he reached out to stroke her cheek, she could feel the power he possessed, controlled but surging right below the surface. Bhediya pressed her painted lips to the back of his hand, leaving their red imprint on his black skin. She tilted her chin and gazed up at him with innocent eyes. It was an old but effective trick, and after nearly two decades at Chandanee Mukan, Bhediya knew them all.
Akio laughed softly and shook his head. “Come inside,” he said, taking her hand. “I have something for you.”
Bhediya let him lead her back into her room, the biggest and best in the House of Moonlight. There was ample space for the soft woven rug covering the floor, the round table inlaid with ivory and two chairs, the decorative shrine to Goddess Yusara reclining in her incarnation as the Lover, the full-length oval mirror framed in gold against the wall, and of course, the huge bed with its four wooden posts and silk canopy in the middle of the room. Near the door, a screen painted with peacocks partitioned off a bathtub and water basin, several pieces of cloth neatly folded and stacked, and a row of baskets—one filled with soaproot, one filled with vials of oil and pouches of herbs, and one filled with phalluses of different shapes and sizes made of bronze, silver, and sandalwood. One didn’t become Nandapore’s most in-demand courtesan without collecting a few such useful items along the way.
Akio drew her before the mirror and produced a necklace from the pocket of his trousers. It was the head of a wolf in profile, carved in obsidian with one ruby eye, hanging from a silver chain. Bhediya met Akio’s reflected gaze as he fastened the clasp around her neck. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. A wolf… because Bhediya means wolf?”
“It’s not just a name. It’s who you are. It’s…” Akio stopped, swallowing whatever words he had thought to say. “It’s a gift. Who knows, it may be useful to you someday. Keep it close.”
“Useful how?” she asked, but he was already reaching around to untie the silk robe she wore, letting it fall to the floor. Bhediya let her mind go blank as he turned her around to kiss her mouth. This part had always come easy for her.
Her family had been poor; the elemental magic in her mother’s blood had been diluted by drink and her father’s violence, and so had never been of much use to help their family survive. Even at fifteen years old, Bhediya had been a rare beauty, so when Chandanee-Ma had shown up on their doorstep offering to buy her, it had seemed like a gift from the goddess herself. To live in the palatial House of Moonlight with its purple walls and silver doors, to dance for admiring eyes, to share every kind of pleasure imaginable with the men and women who paid handsomely for her company—it had all been like a dream come true, a destiny she had gladly embraced. Chandanee-Ma had been a formidable woman back in those days, and she still was, although she had softened a bit with age. She took good care of the girls, didn’t cheat the clients, and over the years had built up the reputation of her house, so that today Chandanee Mukan was easily the finest establishment of its kind in all of Nandapore. The fee simply to enter its doors was exorbitant, and Bhediya was accustomed to entertaining merchants with more money than they could count, nobles from every far-flung corner of the Samjayan Empire and beyond, even a few kings from time to time.
Kings like Garjan. The thought came unbidden, and with it, the searing remembrance of the way he had kissed her last night—as if he would devour her whole. Bhediya abruptly tore her mouth from Akio’s, sudden tears stinging her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, swiping her hand across her face and smiling her most beguiling smile as she began to undress him. “Shall we lie down?”
Shall we lie down, Your Highness? Bhediya remembered so clearly that first time with Garj, some ten years ago now. It had been in this very room—although it certainly hadn’t belonged to her then, but a visit from a prince of Nandapore called for the best the house had to offer. Out of all the girls there, he had chosen her. She had served him wine, recited for him the poetry of the sages, and eventually taken her clothes off for him. All his swagger had instantly disappeared, replaced by genuine awe of her naked body, and then the nervous excitement and awkward fumbling of a teenage boy touching a woman for the first time. It had been over quickly, as first times often are, but even then, she had felt it—the spark igniting between them.
Bhediya struggled to clear her mind of memories, to be present with Akio as he pushed inside her, but every touch that wasn’t Garjan’s felt wrong, now that his touch was beyond her reach. He had never cared about her profession, just as she hadn’t cared when he took other girls to his bed. A hunter of hearts, he had been called in his youth, a play on his namesake, Lord Garjanathan, god of the hunt. It didn’t matter. They always came back to each other. Garj unlocked something within her, something that amplified the elemental energy she was still learning to control. She had spent so long ignoring it, holding it in, holding it down. Her beauty had made her enough of a target when she had first arrived at Chandanee Mukan, she hardly needed to add spellcaster to the reasons for other girls to hate her. Even then, and more so now, elemental magic was a mistrusted thing in Nandapore, and so were those women who still possessed it. But with Garjan, she had felt it right from the beginning—the way the fire in her blood ran hotter and burned brighter when he watched her dance, when he made her laugh, and especially when they came together in love. Sometimes it was more than her body could contain, and she could see the reflection of her fire in his eyes as it blazed through them both, a living white heat that consumed them in the moment and left the sweetest pleasure in its wake.
I’ll come back for you, he had said, the night before he left to meet his bride.
You idiot, she had wanted to scream, you stupid, naive prince. How would it look for the new king of Abhaya to return to Nandapore just to fuck his whore? His wife would never allow it. More importantly, his brother would never allow it. Bhediya had no doubt that King Pavanathan would see the House of Moonlight burned to the ground before letting Garjan jeopardize the alliance that had at long last united the Samjayan Empire.
Bhediya turned her face into the pillow as her tears finally spilled over, neither able to explain them, nor make them stop. Without breaking his rhythm, Akio took her hand and guided it between her legs. “Go where you need to go,” he murmured.
And suddenly she was back in Garj’s arms, and his hands were in her hair and her tongue was in his mouth and she could feel the familiar heat rising. It was Akio inside her body but Garj inside her head, Garj making her back arch as his fingers worked the jewel that made her wetness flow, Garj’s skin glistening like polished mahogany as he moved between her thighs, Garj making her scream as he brought her to shuddering climax. And then he was gone.
Bhediya and Akio lay side by side for some time, saying nothing, until finally she turned to him. “Akio, I’m sorry. It wasn’t—” But he touched a finger to her lips.
“I do not ask for what you cannot give,” he said. It was a gift worth more to her than all the necklaces in Nandapore.
Bhediya shifted her body so that her head rested on Akio’s chest and said, “Ask me something else, then.” She traced the outline of the leopard hidden within the snaking vines tattooed from his shoulder to his hip. It was dark in the room now, but she knew the pattern from memory.
“All right, answer me this—all the kings in the empire ride to Abhaya for a wedding feast ordered by the emperor,” Akio said. “Tell me, then, why does the emperor himself ride here, to Nandapore, instead?”
Bhediya sat up, her hair falling like a length of black rope across Akio’s neck. “The emperor is here?” she asked, even as the hope rose, unruly, in the back of her mind. Perhaps there won’t be a wedding after all.
Folding his hands behind his head, Akio said, “I think this hasty alliance between Abhaya and Nandapore has some purpose beyond strengthening the empire as our king suggests. Your prince hasn’t married for love, you can be sure of that.”
“I don’t know about strengthening the empire,” Bhediya said, “but I do know that things are getting worse here in Nandapore. Just yesterday, a Norvardarian ship was set on fire in the port.”
“I know.” In the darkness, Akio’s voice was weary, as if this conversation was one he had already had, many times over.
“In the New City, teahouses are refusing service to elves.”
“As long as brothels don’t start refusing service to elves,” Akio quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
“Akio, you have to be careful,” Bhediya told him, undeterred. “Don’t you have a daughter to think of?” He got up and moved to the washbasin to splash cool water on his face. The lamps in the room flickered to life as he passed. “What will you do?”
He turned to face her, and she could see the thoughts moving behind his eyes—all that was known, and all that must yet be uncovered. Bhediya drew her knees into her chest and watched him, chin in her hand. It was not the first time Nandapore’s secrets had passed between them in the House of Moonlight. For a courtesan of repute, seduction and discretion were two sides of the same coin. “We know the emperor arrived under cover of night with a Sanamiri escort—but whether His Eminence is their prisoner or their conspirator, I cannot yet say,” Akio said. “I believe they’ve hidden him in the Sanamirian embassy.”
“They’ll never let you in.”
Akio laughed. “I don’t intend to knock.” He was speaking more to himself than to Bhediya when he said, “The Sanamirian embassy is fortified by muscle and magic both, but there must be a way in. The question is, how in the name of Ontorom do I find it?”
Bhediya thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. But I know someone who might.”
CHAPTER 3
GARJAN
It’s getting hotter,” Garjan said to his brother’s back as their horses plodded along at the head of the procession.
Pavan laughed. “You’re imagining things. Or perhaps you get hotter the closer we get to your bride!”
Garjan scowled and said nothing. It was only a three-day ride from Nandapore to Abhaya, but already he felt a world away from the crowded, chaotic city he loved so dearly. Pavan had always been destined for the throne, but if Pavan was Nandapore’s head, Garjan was its beating heart. He had grown up in Nandapore’s sprawling royal grounds, but curiosity about the world beyond the palace walls had him sneaking out into the city from the time he was old enough to devise plan after plan to do so.
Garjan had quickly learned the shortcuts through Nandapore’s winding streets, the stalls that served the best sweets, the shopkeepers who were honest men and those who were consummate cheats. The combination of the prince’s good looks, quick wit, and never-empty change purse usually worked in his favor. Over time, he learned other things as well, as the darker side of the city was revealed to him—where to find the opium dens, the gambling halls, the brothels and taverns where deals could be made to buy or sell just about anything or anyone for the right price. Now just shy of his twenty-eighth birthday, Garjan had made his fair share of mistakes, enemies, and narrow escapes, but he had also made many friends, counting among them some of Nandapore’s finest thieves, scribes, spellcasters, and whores. And today, he was leaving them all behind.
“Why get married at all?” his friend had asked as they had sat drinking together the night before in Chandanee Mukan’s Hall of Bells. They were well taken care of in the House of Moonlight, their cups never allowed to run dry as they lounged comfortably among the plush velvet cushions, only half watching the topless girl dancing in the open circle of floor in front of them.
Garjan had shrugged and mumbled something about duty, to which Roland had merely rolled his eyes. “What duty?” Roland had demanded. “You’re not king. Nobody expects you to produce an heir. Hasn’t that brother of yours already produced twenty brats in line for the throne?”
“Six, actually,” Garjan had replied. “And another one on the way.” It had been twelve years since Pavan had married Kumari, a pretty, soft-spoken princess of Kundar, and it seemed to Garjan there had barely been a day since the wedding that she had not been with child.
“Maybe deep down you want to get married,” Roland said, absently flipping a silver coin. “Maybe you’re ready to settle down, raise a bunch of little princes of your own in some sleepy palace by the sea.” Garjan had a retort ready but had paused, momentarily distracted by the gold coin flashing in Roland’s hand—the same coin that had been silver only a moment before. He knew it was merely a sleight of hand. It was only womenkind and elvenkind who wielded any real magic, after all, but spellcaster or not, his friend always seemed to have a trick or two up his sleeve. “You’ll be king of Abhaya,” Roland continued. “You’ll settle the quarrels of fishermen by day, fuck your wife by night, and live a long and happy and utterly boring life.” Roland raised his cup in mock salutation.
As if on cue, the musicians in the corner stopped playing and the dancing girl bowed and disappeared behind the heavy curtains that enclosed the space on all sides. There was silence in the room. Then, the sound of ankle bells, as slow footsteps approached the dance floor from behind the curtain.
It was her. His Diya. His light in the dark.
She was seduction come to life: her hair a curtain of black silk, free-flowing to the curve of her bare waist, her shapely legs just barely visible beneath the semi-sheer skirt sitting low on her hips, full breasts straining against the thin fabric of her blouse, lush lips and wide eyes. The musicians began her song, and it was as if her movements alone had cast some spell over the hall, although Garjan doubted there was anything of elemental magic in the desire rising palpably in the room. That was purely carnal. But she was a prize no one else could buy, not when the prince of Nandapore was there. Everyone knew she danced only for him. Later, when they had tumbled into bed together, it had been as it always was with them—all pleasure and heat and magic barely contained.
“I’ll come back for you,” Garjan had said.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she had replied.
Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could still feel her, hear her, taste her. She was a part of him, as vital as the blood running through his veins, and no rituals or vows to join him to another could change that.
“Where are you, brother?” Garjan opened his eyes to see that Pavan had slowed his horse and now rode alongside him. The disapproving glare being fired his way told him that Pavan knew all too well where his mind had wandered. “Look around, your people have come out to welcome their new king,” Pavan said. “The least you could do is play the part.” He spurred his horse forward as the drummers picked up speed.
Garjan did look around then, and realized they had crossed into Abhaya some time ago and were now approaching a red sandstone palace. Pavan waved a jewel-heavy hand and tossed out a last fistful of coins, to the delight of the crowd lining the wide road, before a drawbridge was lowered, inviting their procession to cross the moat surrounding the palace and enter the open gates.
The courtyard in front of the palace was empty, save for a shrine to Goddess Yusara, patron and protector of Abhaya since the beginning of time. The goddess was portrayed in her incarnation as the Sage, holding an orb in one stone hand, the ring of fire encircling her head burning low and bright. A chicken pecked lazily at the offerings of flowers, fruit, and ghee placed at her feet. It was a far cry from the splendor of Nandapore Palace, where guests were greeted by disdainful peacocks strutting around a majestic fountain, a row of life-size marble elephants, and the twin lions of Nandapore’s flag, cast in solid gold, flanking the grand rune-inscribed main entrance.
Turning his gaze upward, Garjan caught glimpses of dupattas fluttering behind the screened alcoves dotting the palace facade. He sensed the murmur of women’s voices and knew there were many eyes on him. He wondered if his soon-to-be wife’s eyes were among them. When he ran a hand through the dark waves of his hair, scanning the alcoves and letting his mouth turn up ever so slightly, he knew exactly what kind of figure he cut in his tailored silk tunic, regal atop his fine horse. He heard a giggle in response, and there was comfort in that at least—that even here, in goddess-favored Abhaya, the girls were no different than those in Nandapore.
From within a sandstone arch, wooden doors opened and an old man leaning on a staff hobbled toward them. He was followed by a small horde of servants who formed a line behind him, awaiting commands. With some effort, he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head before Pavan, who dismounted and placed both hands on the man’s bony shoulders. “Zamuthara-ji,” he said. “First Advisor to Her Highness the Queen of Abhaya, defender of the city, and loyal servant to the empire. Rise and let us embrace, for you have brought our great cities together. Abhaya and Nandapore are no longer mere neighbors. From today onward, we’re family.”
The man stood and Pavan enfolded him, holding him fast until he wheezed. Still, he smiled a gap-toothed smile and said, “King Pavanathan, you honor us with your gracious words.” He turned to Garjan, still on his horse, reluctant to put feet down in this place that was to be his home. “And you, Prince Garjanathan,” he said, “Abhaya welcomes you. May you find favor in the eyes of the goddess and be granted peace, prosperity, and joy for all your days in her city.”
“Thank you, Zamuthara-ji,” Garjan said stiffly, using the term of respect for an elder more out of habit than any real reverence. On the contrary, he felt a surge of irrational hatred for this man, brother to Queen Suvarnatara, uncle to his bride, arranger of this marriage to the new queen of Abhaya. It wasn’t the old man’s fault, Garjan knew; it was a fault of his fate alone. Born a prince of Nandapore and a second son, when it came to alliances made by way of marriage, he had the right to neither choose his own match nor refuse the match made for him.
A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, scattering the offerings to the goddess and blowing up clouds of dust in its wake. Garjan’s horse reared, loosing his sword from its scabbard, and through the dust, he thought he saw movement in one of the Red Palace’s towers, a flash of a woman’s face behind iron bars. Garjan dismounted and picked up his sword, then stroked the horse’s mane soothingly. He sheathed the blade, but it felt good to have his steel within close reach. When he looked up again, the face was gone. Garjan followed Pavan and Zamu into the Red Palace, casting one last look behind at the statue of the goddess, her crown of flames doing battle with the wind.
Nandapore is a city of secrets and spellcasters where seduction reigns and a power-hungry king is never satisfied, plotting to unleash a weapon that has only lived in myth … until now.
To stop him, an ancient goddess seeks out a newly crowned queen, a heartsick prince, a common thief, and a courtesan with magic in her blood. Together, they chart a course through brothels, temples, taverns, and palaces, setting a trap for the empire’s most powerful men.
Linked by desire, destiny, and a dangerous foe, they each must decide … What will they risk for a weapon worth dying for, and a love worth staying alive?