Sisters of the Snake Read online

  Dedication

  To our family, for all the support. And to all the brown girls who want to see themselves on the page.

  SNAKE MASTER

  Magic of serpents and stories

  Descendants: snakespeakers

  MEMORY MASTER

  Magic of mind and visions

  Descendants: mindwielders

  EARTH MASTER

  Magic of stone and soil

  Descendants: stonebringers

  SKY MASTER

  Magic of air and wind

  Descendants: currentspinners

  FIRE MASTER

  Magic of flames and light

  Descendants: flametalkers

  TIDE MASTER

  Magic of water and storms

  Descendants: tidesweepers

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Masters of Magic

  Part One: A Switch in the Stars

  1. Ria

  2. Rani

  3. Ria

  4. Rani

  5. Ria

  6. Rani

  7. Ria

  8. Rani

  9. Ria

  10. Rani

  11. Ria

  Part Two: A Kingdom Divided

  12. Rani

  13. Ria

  14. Rani

  15. Ria

  16. Rani

  17. Ria

  18. Rani

  19. Ria

  20. Rani

  21. Ria

  22. Rani

  23. Ria

  24. Rani

  25. Ria

  26. Rani

  27. Ria

  28. Rani

  29. Ria

  30. Rani

  31. Ria

  32. Rani

  33. Ria

  34. Rani

  Part Three: A Change of Fortune

  35. Ria

  36. Rani

  37. Ria

  38. Rani

  39. Ria

  40. Rani

  41. Ria

  42. Rani

  43. Ria

  44. Rani

  45. Ria

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Books by Sarena Nanua and Sasha Nanua

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Ria

  I despise the heat.

  But it’s everywhere, choking my breath, wrapping its claws around me. I pull my scarf forward, hoping it will shield against the sun’s relentless rays. The humid air prickles my neck, my forehead, the hollow of my throat.

  Keep going, I think, pressing a hand to my rumbling stomach. A girl’s got to eat. So I push forward, past alleys of beggars and vendors with today’s street foods: potato samosas with tamarind and mint chutneys. Fried pakoras, like jewels, glistening with oil. Fresh naan, like steaming pillows. Close. So close.

  Passersby, young and old, hold out their hands. Some ask for money, others food. Some simply pray. I wonder if they’ve tried to sneak past the border, too. The smell of war practically stinks up the air.

  I was once in their place, before I began to steal with Amir. Or as he called it, sleight of hand, as if we were playing card tricks instead of thieving rupees and jewels.

  I shove toward the back of the stalls, nearly stepping on a stray cat’s tail in the process. Its ears twitch, once, twice, before it spins to hiss at me. I nearly hiss back. Its matted fur reminds me of Barfi, the cat in my old orphanage, whose own fur was the color of curdled milk. I haven’t seen her since I ran away twelve moons ago.

  When I’m behind one of the stalls, I wipe my neck with my chunni, and the scarf becomes sticky with sweat. I tighten it around my waist like a sash. I don’t want it getting in my way when I run.

  A new vendor is here today. I can tell because he keeps the hot naan behind him, slathered in garlic and butter, mine for the taking. The former vendor, Samar, would never be so foolish. He’s sold his wares enough times to notice thieving.

  The vendor is accompanied by a lanky boy, probably a lookout, though he’s not doing much of a good job of it. The only thing between me and this new vendor is a thin veil, unzipped, meant to keep him cool while he cooks. I measure the distance between the naan and me, calculate the time it will take to slip one into my hand.

  The vendor holds up one finger, then another, to a customer: One naan? Two? He spins around to pull out the batch of naan and hands them in exchange for a pile of rupees. After he refills the basket with more, I slip my arm through the curtain’s opening and tug. I’ll take two, please. One for Amir and one for me.

  The hot flatbreads sting my fingers, and I blow on them to cool them down the way Mama Anita used to do at the orphanage.

  Before I spiral into memories of her, the vendor turns, and his eyes lock on mine. He sees the naan in my hand, and I realize my face is stupidly uncovered.

  “Get back here, girl!” The vendor shouts something at the lookout, probably to watch the naan, and then hobbles toward me, arms outstretched. I shake my head and grin. I can’t help it. The thrill of a steal, a chase, is like a firecracker inside me.

  I take in the streets around me, stragglers and beggars and villagers all minding their business. I won’t make it out of the market on foot. Not like this.

  A hut looms in the distance. Wait—that’s it! A plan forms in my head.

  I bolt, ignoring the oncoming shouts, and head for the nearest hut with a low, sloping roof. I jump onto a stray rickshaw and, with one quick glance behind me, launch myself onto the top of the hut. I run recklessly, roof to roof, until I leap back to the ground, feetfirst. I press the naan to my chest and speed through the market, fast like an Amratstanian mountain cat. Left, right, left.

  Despite having been here for only two weeks, I know this village better than I know myself. I know its worn alleyways, squat wooden buildings, streets that curve like question marks. I know the travelers on rickshaws, lugging miserable passengers who look like Death’s second self. They scream when I leap in front of them, just barely skimming the rickshaw and landing in a nearby alley. I roll and cough up dust before springing back onto my feet.

  “Those’re mine!” The vendor’s voice is gruff, but I hear him slowing. He’s not quick like me. They never are.

  I rush into the nearest alcove and watch him pass. I pray he won’t hear me holding my breath. I pray my grumbling stomach won’t betray me.

  The vendor stumbles past, but I don’t allow myself a grin just yet. Never let your guard down. Amir’s lessons sink into me the way I want to sink my teeth into this naan.

  A steal-and-run isn’t uncommon in the Dirt Village. If anything, I’ve given the villagers of Nabh a show. Amir showed me how to steal quietly, but I prefer a quick chase, even if it means cutting it close.

  When I think I’ve lost the vendor, I make my way back through the alley, keeping myself tight against the brick wall. I pull my chunni low over my head and let it curl around my face, more for protection from those who might pin me as the thief than from the bright sun.

  I turn the corner. All clear. But before I can leave, a pressure at the small of my back jolts me and I whirl.

  “Amir!” I growl.

  “Evenin’, Princess,” Amir jokes. I earned the nickname seven moons back, not long after we first met, after stealing petty jewelry from a merchant’s stall. He doesn’t say the nickname as much as he used to, but it grates on my nerves nonetheless.

  “Prince,” I jab back. “You scared me. I thought you were a . . .” The word doesn’t slip off my tongue, but he knows. One of the king’s soldiers—a Chart. “Find any jewels?”

  “Nothin’.
And if I were a bloodcoat, don’t you think you’d’ve heard the thudding boots?” He lifts his legs up and down like a monkey, sandals slapping the sun-scorched footpath. To Amir, saying Chart aloud is like spilling a secret. He thinks speaking the very word will summon them. But if the soldiers heard him calling them bloodcoats, he’d be struck faster than a thief could run.

  Amir keeps his hair shorn, and a scar across his brown face cuts perfectly between his eyes. He looks the exact same as when we first met in a dank alley eight moons ago. He had naan, and I was a starving girl who knew little more than how to pick a lock. I thought he was a sixteen-year-old looking to play a joke. Turned out he’s eighteen, with no one to call a parent and no place to call a home. Without him, I would probably be dead—or worse, half alive, easy bait for bandits.

  “Charts can be sneaky, too, you know. And I don’t wanna hear another word about ’em.”

  Only once have I gotten a close glimpse of a Chart. That day is imprinted in my memory, a stain that’ll never wash away. Bloodred coats. Fingers chaining Mama Anita’s wrists. All without giving my caretaker the mercy of saying goodbye before they dragged her to the palace.

  The Palace of No Return, Amir calls it.

  The Kingdom of No Escape, I say in return.

  Three times we’ve tried escaping Abai. We were naive, thinking we could slip into a crowd and sneak onto the next carriage out of this kingdom. One time we nearly made it past the border that connects us to the northern kingdoms—and the waters beyond. For the first time in my life, I tasted freedom: sea salt laced with second chances, humid air filled with hope.

  No—false hope. A guard discovered us hiding in the back of a carriage, alerted by a baby’s cry. A foolish attempt, and a mistake we won’t make again.

  “What do you think the Ruthless Raja is up to today?” Amir tacks on the moniker with ease, but it makes me shudder. I have this eerie feeling that the royals are always watching us, spying from their lofty towers.

  “Beats me,” I say, tossing a piece of naan at his chest. He catches it with deft hands, a grin lighting his face. Neither of us waits to tear into the food, the first we’ve had to fill our bellies all day. We devour the naan in seconds.

  Amir dusts off his hands and cracks his knuckles when he’s done. “In that case, the royals might as well not exist.”

  “Pfft. Yeah, like the laws are made from thin air, right?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Might as well be.”

  A metallic screech comes from behind us. We spin and find a trolley rattling its way across Nabh’s dirt-lined streets, holding all sorts of food: a basket of ripe mangoes and papayas; boxes of snacks, like golgappa; a barrel of sweet gulab jamun.

  Amir spins to the alley’s entrance, a frown on his face as he watches the cart meander away with its precious cargo. That kind of food could only be headed for one place: the ice-cold palace. Outside, guarded by a ring of Charts. Inside, a merciless raja, calling for executions like one might order a meal. And in front of the palace, a supposedly magical fountain they say can predict your future.

  Amir must know I’m thinking about the palace, because he says, “What kind of raja lives so far north? It’s as if he’s trying to get away from his own kingdom instead of rule it!”

  I let out something like a laugh. But even the thought of the palace, whose spiraling towers are just specks in the muggy distance, makes me sick. Amir is right—it’s as if the royals would rather be quarantined than expose themselves to any of us. I would spit on the ground in disgust, but my mouth is too dry.

  I can’t remember the last time a royal stepped out of that place. The Charts do the king’s dirty work, looking for traitors.

  But I’m no traitor. I’d rather not draw attention at all. Invisibility is a cloak that separates me from them, us from the royals.

  I move toward the lip of the alley, where a carpet of garbage and glass lies, left over from drunks drinking bitters in run-down taverns. The alcohol must be in abundance now that some tavern owners have disappeared, left, like so many others in this Masters-forsaken kingdom.

  Have they fled across the border, or been taken in as prisoners?

  A young newsboy rushes by, hollering about trade happenings in the North, followed by rumor of a sandtiger sighting. He continues, “Kaamans preparing for war with Abai! Just over a half-moon away! Cavalry is set—”

  The bone-chilling sound of hooves breaks through the din. I step out of the alley. The only people with horses around here are the royals and, worse, the Charts.

  That’s when the horses arrive, stirring up clouds of dust. One knocks over a cart of papayas, and they tumble and crack open against the ground.

  The once-trickling villagers brew into a crowd. Running would be a fool’s errand right now—better to blend in—so Amir and I ghost toward the dense cluster. When we near the front and see them—the Charts—we stop dead in our tracks.

  “Don’t. Say. A. Word,” Amir breathes. I can’t even nod. One Chart, a man sporting gold tassels and too many badges to count, dismounts his horse and strides past us. I catch a whiff of his scent, like death and skin and bones all wrapped up in one. Why are they here? What do they want with us?

  A sickening thought comes to mind. What if they’re here for recruitment? Sure, the raja usually selects people from poor families and turns them into soldiers or army lackeys, but I’ve heard horror stories of people being tossed into wagons off the streets and dragged to the palace. There are more every day, with the upcoming war. Some say the Charts’ induction ceremony, when the soldiers are assigned their official numbers and given their bloodred coats, is painful to watch. I don’t really want to know why.

  I train my gaze on the Chart closest to me. His face is stone, his uniform too clean to belong in Nabh. He barely looks at the rest of us; we’re all interchangeable to them anyway. One smirk at the rips in our clothes tells me that much. I want to dig into the wrappings around my waist and pull out my knife, but the Chart is quick to move on.

  He pulls a length of burnt-looking parchment from his pocket and flips it to face us. Drawn on the page is a man’s face—and not just any.

  It’s Samar’s—the naan vendor who wasn’t in the market today. That gap-toothed grin is a dead giveaway. I shudder when I read the words.

  BY ORDER OF RAJA NATESH OF ABAI, THE GREAT SNAKESPEAKER, RULER OF THE OLDEST KNOWN MAGICAL KINGDOM

  WANTED ALIVE: SAMAR BANGA, PREVIOUS TUTOR OF THE FUTURE RANI

  CRIME: TREASON

  The words, written in a too-polished scrawl, make my eyes go wide. Samar.

  It’s no wonder he wasn’t selling naan today. He was hiding.

  Even the other words surprise me. Samar once tutored the princess? Everyone thought he lived a simple life. After all, that’s the only life we know.

  And that line—Ruler of the Oldest Known Magical Kingdom—nearly makes me vomit. I’m no believer in magic, but when Mama Anita was alive, it was all I thought about. Everything I know about the world outside of Abai came from her. She told me of the continent’s four kingdoms—five, if you count Pania, now nothing more than a desolate wasteland. Kingdoms like Kaama, rumored to bloom fresh fruit year-round. Retan, with sand dunes cresting like a golden sea. Amratstan, where mountains’ peaks graze the clouds.

  My thoughts unwind as the Charts’ eyes cut through the crowd. Mama Anita’s voice disintegrates, the same way it had the day she was taken. The day she was killed.

  “Anyone seen this man?” another Chart asks. Her black hair is tied into a tight bun, face shadowed by the black-and-red cap she wears.

  Amir and I hold a collective breath. The Charts’ horses stay steady, trained like the raja’s lethal weapons.

  “Speak up,” another Chart spits, the number 213 gleaming on the badge hooked to his collar. “This man is a traitor. First one to find him gets a prize.” Two Thirteen smirks and reveals his pristine, pointed teeth.

  No one dares to speak, let alone
breathe.

  “All right, then.” The next few moments blur together: the Chart grabs the nearest woman by the arm, ripping her chunni from her neck. He brings his knife out and presses it to her throat, silencing her screams.

  Another woman steps forward, but an identical Chart knocks her aside with an elbow to the jaw. I hold in a gasp. My feet begin to move forward instinctively. My veins ignite. My whole body is coiled, ready to fight, but before I can, Amir wraps a hand around my wrist. He pulls me back, eyes fear-flecked.

  “Amir,” I whisper. He only shakes his head. The Chart digs the knife’s point deeper, drawing blood.

  Noise sounds behind us, and we all turn. Someone is shoving their way through the crowd. Before Amir can say Raja’s beard, a man reaches the front.

  My muscles melt when I recognize him. He’s missing more than one tooth now. His hair is tousled like he just got out of a fight.

  “Stop!” Samar yells. “Get your hands off her.”

  The Chart shoves away the woman, whose blood trickles down her neck in rivulets. “On your knees,” he orders.

  Coolly, Samar does as the Chart says, and the other soldiers rope the man’s hands behind his back.

  “What shall we do?” The Chart chuckles, curving the sword against Samar’s throat. “Your obedience is shocking, I must say. To think you were once one of us, in the palace. . . .”

  Samar fiddles with a golden band on his ring finger. A wedding band. I think of his wife, hidden somewhere far away, clinging to her husband’s memory.

  Samar’s lips twitch. “You won’t find Irfan.”

  Wrong answer.

  The Chart grips him even harder. Another Chart marches up and strikes Samar across the face with the back of her hand, leaving a quickly purpling bruise.

  Rule number one: never talk back.

  Amir and I swap glances. The only sign of emotion on the first Chart’s face is the slightest sneer of his lips.

  Stale air and sweat curls around me. Silence—there’s only silence.

  “Up,” says the Chart, removing his sword from Samar’s neck. A small mercy.

  But Samar’s fate will be left in the raja’s hands. And that is no mercy at all.