Racing the Sun Read online

   Copyright © 2019 by Jasmine Rose Koop

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  ABRECAN BOOKS

  Adelaide, South Australia 5000

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Art & Illustrations © Sylvia Bi

  Map © Jasmine Rose Koop

  Racing the Sun/ J.R. Koop -- 1st ed.

  Print Edition: ISBN-13: 978-0-6485244-0-3

  E-book Edition: ISBN-13: 978-0-6485244-1-0

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is for anyone who has had to fight to be who they are, like my future wife: a Bangladeshi Muslim who immigrated to Australia at 10. She showed me what the Summer Lands could be, a home of her own invention. A new home for us. Working on this book together helped us through losing her parents in coming out. Much of this story is inspired by our own. I hope it may help others like us.

  For the years spent daydreaming

  

  The Neverworlds swirl in her sight. After the feasts, she will depart for Ajrapur, following her family who left days ago. She had lied to stay behind; told them that she needed to lead the prayers and give thanks to her patron, the goddess Kaiduko. Really, she can’t stand to see the love of her life marry her brother for the sake of peace.

  Pain sparks through her ribcage as she returns to the mortal plane. Kneeling before the low altars of the dream goddess’ temple, Iliyah Tyrikaara whips back the golden veil from her ebony hair. The marble floor beneath them thrums with power, with wrongness.

  But this cannot be. Her vision must not become truth.

  ‘Send for a messenger,’ barks the Praitosí princess, rising to her feet. The candles at the altar sputter out, the oxygen snuffed from the room. Iliyah turns on her fellow dream weavers gathered on the wide steps behind her. As the future High Priestess, they look to her with wide, expectant eyes. So, they have not seen what the Neverworlds showed her.

  ‘Someone find my brother,’ she demands, gathering her skirts in her hands as she descends the dais. Saadi will need to know of this news. For if their aunt Nisha is coming for them, then they must fortify the wards of the palace. Even Ajrapur across the border will not be safe.

  One of the younger priestesses rises from her knees. She’s so young she has barely a freckle of the gift. But she is skilled with the tapestries of time. ‘My lady,’ she breathes, her urgent voice echoing off the domed ceiling of the ancient temple.

  But Iliyah’s eyes find the threat before it can be spoken.

  The woman in black stands at the open doors of the inner-temple. A dark aura ripples off of her, clouding the room. The priestesses unfortunate enough to be nearest her are frozen in time, their forms unflinching as the banished sorceress strolls further into the temple.

  If the wards were new, she would not be able to enter.

  ‘I assume you have seen what is to come,’ purrs the sorceress, her pointed teeth glinting in the candlelight. There’s the silver glow of madness in her eyes.

  Iliyah flicks her hand at an armoured guard by the side entrance. ‘Fetch the Crown Prince,’ she orders again, knowing that it is already too late. ‘Tell him I am dead.’

  The shocked silence of her followers echoes in the silent dome.

  ‘A shame,’ drawls Nisha, running her hands over the shoulders of kneeling priestesses who tense beneath her touch. Iliyah lifts her chin in defiance as her aunt approaches, the darkness rippling behind her. ‘Rahat will be so broken.’

  Iliyah releases the folds of her gown; the muslin whispers as it falls against her dark skin. ‘Leave her out of this,’ she growls, hands balling at her sides. Her fingertips grow warm, but her magic does not come. Could her aunt be blocking her gift?

  Nisha eyes her niece’s throat and the gems that rest there. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’

  Taking a step back up the stairs to the altar, Iliyah throws up a hand for the others. ‘Close the doors; mark the gates! No matter what you must do, keep her contained!’

  But Nisha moves so quickly, Iliyah does not catch her movements until she feels the hand in her chest. With her claws wrapped around her heart, the sorceress grins. The world about them stills, the warmth banished from this cold temple. Iliyah feels the arctic arching through her torso.

  ‘At last,’ the sorceress sighs, bringing Iliyah to her knees, soul in hand.

  Delorran will have to find itself another hero. For Rahat is no saviour. How can she save them when all she dreams of is running?

  ‘Rahat!’

  The rajkumari leaps out of her skin—seconds before her brother Karnan brings his scimitar down hard on her sabre. The blades scream. This blow is harder than the last, throwing her off-balance. Any harder and he’ll have her backed into a corner.

  They’ve been at this for hours now; waiting, dreading the moment that this all becomes real. It won’t ever feel real. The red mehendi lacing her hands peels against the sword’s hilt. Deep red, those strokes are laced across her hands as final as a death warrant.

  ‘Is that all you got?’ sniggers her brother as he spins the grip on his scimitar. The ruby in its hilt glints, sparking in the sunlight whilst she hides in the shade.

  With a growl ripped from her lips, she lunges, forcing Karnan back. The ill-aimed lunge forces her against the nearest pillar, the sandstone catching at her trousers. Not missing a beat, Karnan raises his blade to his sister’s throat with a grin. She gulps.

  And just like that, she knows she’s lost. Her mind has gotten the better of her. Time is laughing, denouncing her for the fool she is. For each breath brings her closer to that moment. That moment. It may have been her idea, but it doesn’t make this any easier. Everything is going to change. And soon, she’ll have to leave her brothers behind.

  ‘Where is your head today?’ demands their brother Ashrit from the garden steps. The Crown Rajkumar of Delorran paces, wringing his hands behind his back. In the glaring sunlight, his features are harsh, his raven hair mussed, unruly. The polar opposite of Karnan, younger by only two years. ‘Honestly, Rahat,’ he huffs. Mere days ago, his world was torn apart. ‘You know his moves—how are you losing?’

  The Rajkumari Rahat Brijesh turns away, wishing more than anything to curl in on herself and be left alone. They cannot save her from this, though she can save them. She will save them all.

  If only.

  Her painted hands take better grip on the sabre, but they don’t feel like her own. Their laced lines serve a reminder that there’s no way out of this mess. Rahat will end the war. The Praitosí Empire will recede; they’ll leave Delorran and return its lands to its people. And her people will thrive once more—because of her.

  Too bad she can’t do it.

  Enslaved by the Empire for ten years, and she is meant to save them?

  They chose the wrong hero.

  Karnan’s sword blocks her blow. The reverberations are painful sparks up her arm, bringing her back to the present. She’s only nineteen; she’s rarely left the palace—how can she save an entire country, an entire culture, by herself?

  ‘Dammit, Karnan!’ she gasps out, pressing him back with a playful swat of her blade against his.

  ‘Pay attention!’ orders their brother, irate in the heat. His kurta hugs him tight, the cotton stuck to his skin with water from one of the hundreds of fountains scattered th
roughout the palace grounds. The water’s sprinkling touch is gentle and cool against their flushed skin.

  Beside him stands their uncle Badal, brother to the Maharaja, his bird’s eyes glaring with unwavering intensity. Sheltered beneath the palace balconies, his dusky features are hidden in shadow. At his brow sits a bright tilak, a blessing marked by a priestess that morning. A religious man, Badal keeps his hand over his heart as he watches his niece. For not even he can keep his mind from the coming storm.

  Turquoise trousers swim about her legs in gleaming layers as Rahat spins, raising her sabre over her head and lunging with calculated movements as if this were her ceremonial dance. She’s been practicing these steps her whole life.

  Music trails down from a balcony overhead. Inside, her sisters and fellow dancers are practicing for tonight. The reminder is an unpleasant shudder down her spine. She should be up there with them, practising.

  Karnan gives his sister a sideways glance as that sleek grin crosses his features.

  Light on her feet, she keeps herself from slipping into the performance, instead becoming one with her weapon as she breathes in the sizzling heat. It’s no mere coincidence that her dance simulates battle. Her hair mats at her nape as she leaps, bringing down her sword on her brother’s. Over the weapons, the music trailing from above engulfs them.

  It sounds like freedom.

  Elaborate moves soon have Karnan captivated. As his sister dances back, brandishing her sword as if it were an extension of herself, he ties his crimson sash about his waist. It appears like they’re about to dance the Khumaani to the beat, when Ashrit halts in his pacing. The Crown Rajkumar sighs as he unsheathes his scimitar with a hiss of metal. Rolling his shoulders, he brushes Karnan aside with a single wave.

  ‘Rahat,’ he breathes, the name hardly heard to her ears as she stills her turn. The beat of the dhol drums rain down on them. ‘Rahat.’

  She still itches to dance—to lift her hands together and toss up her skirts with high kicks. But she can see the people watching from the palace windows. Young, old, they all stop to witness the bride before her wedding day.

  Down another level of the courtyard, foreigners watch the celebrated princess. She’s a wonder whispered across the continents. They all wait for her to dance.

  Yet she brings herself to a pause. Her silks shimmer with motion.

  The windows empty of her audiences.

  Her eldest brother stands before her, sword in hand.

  She flashes that grin, and without warning, he lunges. The blow’s aimed at her side, but she quickly deflects. The swords collide almost clumsily. The scream of steel makes her wince as she retreats. Ashrit’s brows are knit, his eyes soldering as he stares her down. ‘You don’t understand,’ he growls under his breath as he throws another blow, using both hands as he swings his blade.

  Dropping the sabre to her side, she narrowly misses the bite of his sword. It scrapes the stone ground.

  ‘Ashrit—’

  Badal shoots his nephew a glance as Karnan strips himself of his sash. The swath of red falls to his feet as he takes ahold of the twin daggers at his belt. His sister is struggling and the strain is showing. Each block comes with a scream, making Karnan itch to intervene. But they move so quickly he fears he’ll harm them both.

  ‘Ash!’ he screams.

  His brother doesn’t deign a response. For days this has been building. The fury radiating from his brother is enough to make Karnan feel sick. He’s been waiting for this—waiting for the moment when Ashrit would finally snap.

  Guess he couldn’t hide the truth for long.

  Karnan screams again, ‘Ashrit!’

  This time their uncle steps forward, holding his hands out in suppliance. Rahat is no more than a swirl of ebony hair and turquoise and gold as she parries their brother, her movements and footwork perfect—just the way her uncle taught her.

  A hissed intake of breath makes Ashrit pause, his muscles locking as he watches his sister. Sweat coats her face in a thin sheen, though he tells himself it’s the shine of the fountain’s spray. Again he attacks, leaping forward with scimitar raised. This time Rahat screams, throwing up her hands without thinking.

  The sabre clatters at her feet.

  And, captured in the second of a gasp, Ashrit stops himself.

  The blade stops short of Rahat’s face, making her yelp when she at last opens her eyes. It’s as if Ashrit’s frozen time. Around him even the air is still. As Rahat sucks in a shaking breath, she stills her hammering heart. He could have killed her.

  For too long, they stand frozen in time, feeling the stares of those observing just beyond the courtyard. Rahat watches the regret sinking into her brother’s features as he comes to his senses.

  Gingerly, he lowers his blade.

  The clang of the scimitar against the stone makes Rahat flinch. She takes a further step back like he might rush her, but his feet are firmly planted in the earth. He doesn’t know what to say. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to force something out, but…

  Her hands smooth over her shoulders as she wraps her arms around herself. ‘I wasn’t ready,’ she demurs.

  He doesn’t look up from wiping his fingers of sweat on his white kurta. The fabric of his shirt has ripped in places, though they were too distracted to notice. ‘An opponent won’t wait for you to be ready,’ he says, unable to look at her. He can’t even look at his brother.

  The courtyard suddenly feels too open. Standing before them clad in nothing but cotton and silks, Rahat can’t deny that this is something they cannot help. The pressure has been high for them all. Ashrit hasn’t been himself in days, but for him to… She doesn’t want to entertain what might have happened. ‘I’m sorry he left you, Ash,’ she says, at last finding the words she should have said days ago.

  The rajkumar bites his lip. ‘I heard she’s ugly,’ he mutters.

  Glancing to Rahat, Karnan comes to the rescue. Sweeping the discarded weapons into his hands, he brandishes the blades like batons. ‘Ugliest woman Sā-Mares has to offer,’ he says with mock horror. ‘I hear she has horns like one of their gods.’

  At last, Ashrit looks up. The look in his eyes almost kills them as he cracks a grin, releasing the breath he was holding. ‘Horns,’ he half-laughs as he rubs his chin, the day-old stubble so unlike him, ‘that’s a good one.’

  A few feet away, Badal keeps his eyes on Rahat. Her hands won’t keep still as they pick at the flaking layer of mehendi.

  She glances up, her gaze flitting to the now-silent balconies above before coming to rest on her uncle. Though he knows it won’t help, he offers a reassuring grin. But her face remains void of emotion. From above, she can feel her mother’s judging stare, heavy as the seas.

  ‘We all have the same gods, you goat,’ Rahat murmurs. Turning her back on them, she brushes them off when they attempt to follow.

  Fighting is un-ladylike, purrs her mother’s voice in her mind. Rahat swats it away. Dancing the Khumaani has been the only chance she’s had to take a sword in hand. All because of her mother. Her mother, the Maharanee, who freely forgets that her homeland, the Asthore Isles, have produced some of the fiercest female warriors in history.

  A calloused hand at her arm makes Rahat pull away. Above them, she can feel visitors watching from the backs of elephants along the strips of lush grass level with the lower levels of the palace. Huge stair-platforms separate them, but their gaze feels intimate. She can’t shake the feeling that they’re strangling her.

  ‘I don’t need your sympathy, Karnan,’ she rasps over her shoulder. The moment she left the courtyard, her mother disappeared from her balcony; she expects to see her any moment, and when she does, she refuses to cry.

  Her brother’s sigh is quickly followed by the shuffling of his slippered feet growing quiet. She thought she’d wanted to be alone, but the silence is stifling. Passing through the gates, the gardens spread out before her like flowering blooms. She can hear the birds from the menagerie, the wome
n singing as they work, the visitors having their fun with what they call exotic animals, and her sisters preparing themselves for the welcoming dances tonight. Exhausted, she can’t imagine having again to dance—And before so many people? The thought is terrifying.

  Passing a fountain makes her pause. A peacock sings as it passes, feathers fanning before the bird skitters off at noticing the rajkumari near.

  Along her left side, the outer walls of the palace are open to the gardens and the summer heat. In ornate latticed carvings, they cast delicate shadows upon the steps leading inside. The whooping of a langur monkey not too far away makes her smile as she looks to the fountain. Water falls in sparks against her skin like a thousand tiny kisses.

  In the middle of the fountain stands the dreaded creature on her mind: the Naj, a snake-like creature with powerful legs, a whip-like tail, and nightmarish claws. Its bite is deadly, its jaw hinged back as if ready to devour a tiger. Dagger-like fangs protrude from its mouth, and from that mouth emerges a thin trail of crystalline water. Thankfully, this Naj is alabaster. Rahat doesn’t know what she’d do if she encountered the true monster.

  The touch is cool as she kneels by the pool, washing its icy waters over her hands.

  ‘There you are.’ Her mother’s lilting accent floats down on her from the stairs to her left. Scooping her hands up under the canary yellow falls of her saree dotted with hundreds of bells, the Maharanee joins her daughter by the pool.

  ‘I can’t do this, Ma,’ whispers Rahat.

  Beside her, the Maharanee dips her pale hands into the pure water. It washes over her skin with an almost-purple glow.

  Rahat can see the effort it takes for her mother to ignore her words. ‘I was hoping you might be rehearsing for tonight,’ she says, eyes downcast on the pool, ‘or at least making your way to the fitting.’ Long lashes brush her mother’s freckled cheeks. Her blonde hair is so out of place in this feast of colour that is Delorran. ‘We have two days, if I might remind you, and much more than two days’ worth to do. There’s no time for you not to be taking this seriously.’