Gifting Fire by Alina Boyden (read my book .TXT) 📕

rushing forward to take our zahhaks to the parts of the stables that were still in good repair.

I threw off the straps holding me to the saddle and dropped to the ground beside Sultana. She shoved her snout against my chest before I could so much as adjust my dupatta.

“It was a very good flight,” I told her, pressing my nose to hers while my hands worked to wrap my dupatta around myself into something approaching appropriate court attire. In other kingdoms, a princess never would have ridden a zahhak, or appeared outside of the zenana without a veil, but we Nizamis hailed from the wild steppes some centuries back, where everyone, man or woman, had to know how to ride, and so we permitted our princesses more freedom than other nations.

“Can I help you, my lady?” a familiar voice asked. The tone was confused and uncertain, and the language was Court Safavian, a language I hadn’t heard in years.

I looked up to find Sikander, my father’s old master-at-arms, standing at the head of a group of mail-coated soldiers, their fine steel turban helms covered in golden calligraphy invoking the grace of God. He was peering at me from under the rim of his helmet, without a trace of recognition behind his dark brown eyes.

“Good morning, Sikander,” I replied, pleasantly surprised to find that my own Court Safavian hadn’t suffered much during my years in Bikampur. I enjoyed too the way that Sikander’s gray-tinged eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he finally realized who I was.

I couldn’t blame the man too much for not recognizing me. The last time we’d seen one another, I’d been sweaty and exhausted, without makeup or jewelry, wearing only a simple black shalwar kameez. Now, I was dressed in a peshwaz, the proper gown of a Nizami princess. The blue, coat-like garment was covered in golden zardozi embroidery and studded all over with fine crystals, creating patterns of twisting zahhaks and bolts of deadly lightning that sparkled in the sunlight. I’d paired it with loose cloth-of-gold trousers, embroidered in the same fashion, and a matching golden blouse, which was revealed by the peshwaz’s deep, triangular neckline. With my dupatta arranged neatly on my head, my makeup artfully done, and every inch of exposed skin glittering with gold and sapphire jewelry, I must not have looked anything like my former self—which had been the whole point.

Sikander’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed as he tried to work out what emotion he was supposed to be feeling. He should have been disgusted with me, furious, just like he always had been when I’d lived in the palace in Nizam, but it was plain that he was having a hard time summoning up the necessary anger when confronted with the image of a beautiful young Nizami princess dressed in perfectly appropriate attire.

“Your highness?” he ventured, as if he still wasn’t sure that it was really me.

“Yes, Sikander?” I asked, trying and failing to keep a smile from tugging on the corners of my lips. I couldn’t help it. My whole life, he’d been so fierce and decisive, and now he seemed so completely and utterly disarmed that I wondered how it was that I’d lived in such terror of him for so many years.

“Your father is waiting for you,” he said, clearing his throat, because the tone had come out gentler than he’d intended. When he spoke again, it was gruffer, more like his old self. “He expected you sooner.”

I shrugged. “It’s the monsoon. You know how hard that makes it to travel.”

He grunted at that, unwilling to agree with me, but unable to deny the truth of it.

“My father is in the diwan-i-khas, I presume?” I asked.

“He is, your highness,” Sikander affirmed, his voice softening again in spite of his best efforts to the contrary.

“Then please take me to him. I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

Sikander hesitated at my pretty smile and my kind words, his brow deeply furrowed, like he was still trying to work out what trick I was playing on him. In the end, he didn’t manage to figure it out. He just spun on his heel and began marching across the courtyard. I followed a few paces behind him, attended by Lakshmi and Sakshi, my only female companionship these days.

“That was a brilliant landing,” I told Sakshi as we walked, mostly to keep myself from dwelling on the coming meeting with my father.

“I think I’m ready to solo, don’t you?” she asked.

“I’d say so,” Arjun said, laying a hand on Sakshi’s shoulder before I could reply. “You timed that turn into the landing just perfectly. And it wasn’t just me who noticed—Padmini could tell too. That’s why she was so relaxed.”

Sakshi’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you for trusting me with her.”

“Anything for my sister-in-law,” he replied.

“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Are we to be married now, my prince?”

He answered me with a lopsided grin. “What need has a love as storied as ours for marriage ceremonies?”

I rolled my eyes at that, but I didn’t press the matter. What his honeyed words hid was a truth I preferred not to dwell upon. I was a hijra, so I could never give any man children. There would be no little Arjuns and Razias running around at our feet, no young princes and princesses to carry on our family lines, to serve as living proof of our love for one another. And the less I let myself think about that, the better.

“Are you all right?” Arjun asked, his brow knitting with concern. I must have let my thoughts show through on my face. He let go of Sakshi in favor of putting his arm around me and holding me close to him. “Was it something I said?”

“No, my prince,” I replied, letting my head fall against his chest. His warmth and strength were a comfort, given that I was presently surrounded by my father’s heavily armed guardsmen. They were ostensibly there to protect me, but