The Jewel of the Kalderash

  Before she could begin to answer these questions, the tunnel opened into a vast chamber. Arcades of windows were cut into the walls, and the night breeze poured in, guttering the torches. Petra could see that each of the room’s four walls was painted a different color.

  “Every wall represents a Roma tribe,” Treb explained. “Green for the Maraki, red for the Ursari, yellow for the Lovari, and blue—”

  “For the Kalderash,” Neel muttered as they walked slowly, now side by side, toward the three people seated in front of the blue wall.

  Petra had never seen someone who had only weeks, maybe days, to live. But even the quickest glance was enough to tell that Queen Iona was fighting death tooth and nail. The enthroned woman’s hair was thin and lank, her nose a sharp beak in a sunken face. Iona had four things that glittered: she gripped a golden scepter in her bony hand, a sapphire earring shone on her right ear, and her eyes, too, were as bright as jewels.

  “Ma!” Neel shouted, and rushed toward the woman seated to the queen’s left. For a moment, it seemed like Damara would pull him onto her lap as if he were still a small boy, but then she stood and simply rested a hand on his shoulder.

  Treb stepped forward to greet the man to the queen’s right. Though shorter than the captain, the man resembled Treb so much that Petra knew this was Tarn, whose face was not as merry as his younger brother’s.

  “Something really is wrong,” Tomik whispered.

  “Yes,” Arun said shortly, and left them to stand by his queen.

  Astrophil urged Petra to approach the throne. There is something unusual about Queen Iona’s eyes, he said.

  Petra had seen many Roma, and they all had eyes whose color was somewhere between brown and black—except for Neel. His irises were yellow flecked with green, like autumn leaves with only a few drops of summer left.

  Queen Iona looked at Petra with those very same eyes. The scepter dropped from the queen’s weak hand, and an unseen force caught it before it could clatter against the floor. The queen had not moved, yet there was the scepter, secure again in her grasp.

  She has the gift of Danior’s Fingers, said Astrophil.

  Petra’s brain felt like a machine. Pieces clicked into place and her thoughts were spinning, whirring, driving toward a realization. She gazed at the jewel on Queen Iona’s ear and remembered Neel’s older sister telling her, in the dark dormitory of Salamander Castle, that Neel’s full name meant “sapphire.” Sadie’s voice drifted through Petra’s memory, explaining how her brother had been adopted as a baby:

  Nobody wanted to take him at first, especially because he had no token around his neck.

  Token? Petra had asked.

  A string. Or a bit of leather with a ring or a stone on it. Anything, really, that means that a father has acknowledged a child as his. Neel was just wrapped up in a blue blanket, with no clothes or anything else.

  The color blue had trailed after Neel all his life, and now it was staring him in the face. The blue wall framed the queen whose magical gift matched his. Although Neel had told Petra on the very first day they met that Danior’s Fingers was a talent found in every tribe, no Roma doubted that it was first and foremost a Kalderash trait.

  Could Petra’s suspicion be true? She glanced at Neel and saw anxiety flare again across his taut features.

  “Ma, what’s going on?” he asked Damara. “Why’re you here?”

  Before she had a chance to reply, the queen opened her thin mouth. “She’s here because she is not your mother,” she rasped. “I am.”

  5

  The Heir

  “WRONG!” SAID NEEL. “You’re dead wrong!”

  “I wish I were,” said Iona. “It does seem unfitting that a dirty guttersnipe should be the Kalderash heir, but”—she studied him from top to toe, then continued in a croaking, amused voice—“at least someone tried to give you a bath.”

  Damara’s eyes flashed. “Don’t insult my son.”

  “I am dying,” said Iona, “and I am your queen. I will do whatever I like. Moreover, old friend, we both know full well that Indraneel is not your son.”

  Petra recognized the emotion blazing across Neel’s face, because it was one that she had felt before, when she learned that her father had been transformed into a monster. It was the feeling that the known world is crumbling apart.

  Damara gathered Neel into her arms, sighing. The resigned sound of that one low breath said everything. It was true.

  “Neel,” she began, “this is no more than what you’ve always known: that I didn’t give birth to you.”

  “It is more!” He twisted out of her embrace. “It’s a whole lot more. It’s years of mocking. ‘Neel, left by the fire, the trash baby no one wanted—’”

  “I wanted you.”

  “Insults and jibes like little, salty cuts. ‘Neel, the by-blow, the blackguard foundling, bastard boy—’”

  “That is correct,” said the queen. “You are entirely illegitimate. Your father was no husband of mine. He died, thrown by a wild horse. You were a mistake, and had to be hidden.”

  Tarn spoke for the first time. “This is a trick.”

  “Kalderash sneakery,” Treb added. “A plot to steal the throne from the Maraki. When you die, dear queen, it’s rightfully ours.”

  “Yes, I do wish to keep the throne for the Kalderash,” Iona acknowledged in her ruined voice. “But I am not lying. Damara will testify that this boy is my child, and few will doubt it.” She lifted her left palm, and Neel strained against unseen fingers that reached across the room to grasp his chin and turn his face from side to side, so that everyone in the room could observe the uncanny resemblance between him and the queen.

  “Stop that!” Neel’s hand twitched, and Petra imagined what she could not see: his ghostly fingers swatting away the queen’s.

  “Even his magical talent is proof,” said Iona. “He has the Gift of Danior’s Fingers, and of course he would. However illegitimate he may be, he is still a direct descendant of Danior.”

  Petra recalled the anger that had ripped through her when she had stood in the palace river. She felt it again, this time for a different reason. “Why are you doing this to him?” she challenged the queen.

  “Why, I thought it was clear, little gadje. There is no one else left to be the Kalderash heir, no one else whose veins flow with Danior’s blood. My tribe has plans that need to be carried out over the rest of our reign. No doubt the news about my son will be shocking to some, but I am too tired to care, and too sick to feel any shame. It is my right to name an heir, and I name him.”

  Tarn stepped forward, and Petra could see that he and Treb shared the same oil-black eyes and a physical strength that could be brutal. Tarn looked at Neel with resentment. “If you knew what was good for you, cousin, you’d deny any claim to the throne.”

  “I do.” Neel’s voice was low. “I do deny it.”

  But Tarn had already left the room. Treb was not far behind him, and shook his head at Neel on the way out. “There’s something about you, lad, that attracts trouble. It follows you like a bad storm.”

  “Neel,” Damara said quietly. “I’m sorry that you discovered the truth like this, but don’t let a golden opportunity slip by denying it. You are the rightful Kalderash heir.”

  “You’ve known all my life about this?” said Neel.

  “Yes.”

  “How come you kept it a secret? Didn’t I deserve the truth?”

  “You deserved not to be broken by disappointment. Iona and I have been friends since we were little girls. Fifteen years ago, she came to me, pregnant and unmarried. She was the Kalderash heir to the throne then, and feared what would happen if her secret became known. She begged me to adopt her child. I agreed.”

  “Don’t sugar the story,” said Iona. “You said yes because I threatened to abandon the baby to the wolves.”

  Damara shot a warning look at her. “Iona planned to marry another man,” she continued, “and to have legitimate children by hi
m. One of them would inherit the throne after her.”

  “They were never born.” The queen shrugged. “And my husband is dead, so that leaves you, Indraneel.”

  “What point was there in telling you until now?” Damara brushed the damp hair off Neel’s face. “You would have grown up feeling cheated of a destiny that could have been yours. But now it will be. You’ll become king of the Roma.”

  “Well, I don’t want to! Who’d want to be that bony hag’s son? Not me. And I guess I’m not your son, either. Never was.” Neel turned away from her and fled down the narrow tunnel.

  Petra and Tomik ran after him, with Astrophil helping track Neel as he burst from the tunnel and zipped down palace passageways.

  He wasn’t easy to follow, and soon Tomik said, “We should let him go. He’s hunting for a place to be alone.”

  They stopped, hearts beating, breath quick, then slower, then calm.

  They stood on a balcony that stretched into the night air, the stars above shining sharp and brilliant. There was no moon, so they couldn’t see the waves below, but they could hear them rushing against the rocks. Petra stepped to the balcony’s edge and felt like she was floating in darkness.

  Tomik joined her at the railing, leaning his back against it. Settling onto his propped elbows, he said, “A king. Neel’s going to be a king. Where does that leave us?”

  “I believe that leaves us approximately three thousand, four hundred miles from Prague, Bohemia,” replied Astrophil. “It leaves us, as Neel would say, in something of a fix.”

  They smelled Treb’s burning tobacco before they heard him speak. “Yes, you’re in a fix, but I haven’t forgotten about you.”

  They whirled to face him.

  “Your honorable pal Captain Treb has arranged for you to meet the Metis tomorrow,” he said.

  “The Metis?” said Petra.

  “They’re the Vatra’s experts on magic, and if anyone can help you find a cure for your father, it’s them. They’re a bit dangerous, though. Snappy. Quick to take offense. Powerful, too. So don’t get them angry, or they’ll turn you into worms for baiting hooks.”

  6

  The Metis

  “PETRA, WAKE UP!” Astrophil cried.

  She bolted upright in bed. “What’s wrong?” She ripped away a frothy mosquito net. “Where are you?”

  “Here!” he called from a corner of the white stone room. “Help me!”

  Petra swung her bare feet to the floor and was about to race to save Astrophil. Then she saw the cause of his distress and laughed.

  A furry brown spider had cornered Astrophil and was trying to touch him with one curious, hairy leg.

  “Who’s that?” asked Petra. “Your sweetheart?”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.” Astrophil folded his front four legs. “Very amusing. Now get rid of it.”

  Petra reached for one of her sandals.

  “Don’t kill it!” he cried. “Just … make it go away.”

  Petra crossed the room, nudged the brown spider aside, and scooped up Astrophil. “It’ll go away on its own.”

  As Astrophil crept up her arm to her shoulder, Petra looked around the sun-bright, simple room. It contained one luxury: a sunken bath filled by a mountain spring. Petra dipped in a dirty foot. The water was a chilly but refreshing contrast to the tropical heat of the morning. She pulled off her shift and slipped into the small pool, leaving Astrophil on its edge. He kept a wary eye on the brown spider.

  Aside from standing fully clothed on the deck of the Pacolet during the occasional rain shower, Petra hadn’t been clean in ages. She discovered a bar of coconut-scented soap in a nook carved into the stone wall, and as she scrubbed away, her body seemed like it belonged to someone else. It had been so long since she had seen her skin uncovered by salt-encrusted clothes, and her dark brown hair felt like knotted yarn. Once, she would have hacked it off with her dagger, but now she discovered that there was something calming in trying to untangle it. Doing this helped her think, as if working out the knots in her hair somehow made it easier to untangle her emotions.

  Petra was anxious to meet the Metis, but what kind of help could they offer her father? She doubted his cure would be simple, and even if it was, returning to Bohemia and finding him wouldn’t be. Would her friends go with her? Astrophil would, of course, but what about Tomik? Petra admired him—and envied him. He seemed to succeed at everything he tried, like becoming so skilled at sailing that Treb had once called him Tom of the Maraki. Tomik fit so easily into Roma life. Maybe he would want to stay in the Vatra and study magic.

  As for Neel … Neel had his own problems.

  She ducked her head under the water and rinsed the soap from her hair. When she surfaced, she turned to Astrophil. “Why do you think Neel was so nervous last night, even before he entered the palace and the queen spilled her secret? I know he thought he was in trouble, but he’s been in trouble lots of times. Usually, he pretends like nothing’s wrong.”

  Astrophil considered this. “Some people in this world have unusual origins. Like somebody abandoned at birth and raised with no knowledge of his true parents. Or a creature with sparkling legs and an equally sparkling wit who was built out of tin to look like a spider. Now, in these cases, one might imagine many things about one’s own existence. A boy, tired of being mocked, might pretend that he is in fact a lost prince. I used to wish sometimes that I was a real spider, but”—he glanced at the brown spider in its corner and shuddered—“I have changed my mind. It is easy to dream dreams—even if, in our secret hearts, we do not really want them to come true, and we might be in danger if they did.”

  Danger. The word echoed in Petra’s mind when she stepped outside the palace entrance to meet Tomik and Treb, as they had agreed last night. Like her, they were so clean they looked like strangers, and wore cotton clothes as bright as the orange dress someone had left folded at the foot of Petra’s bed. The skirts swished against her ankles, thin and airy. Astrophil perched on her shoulder.

  “Where’s Neel?” she asked. “Is he coming with us to see the Metis?”

  “He’s missing,” Treb said.

  “Missing?” Petra turned to the captain. “‘Missing’ as in your older brother tossed him off a cliff because he’s competition for the Roma crown?”

  Tomik rolled his eyes. “‘Missing’ as in he’s sulking somewhere.” He caught Petra’s reproachful glance. “What? Do you expect me to feel bad for him because he’s going to become king?”

  “I expect you to try to understand what it’s like to have your life change so suddenly you can’t recognize it anymore!”

  “Quit your yammering,” Treb told them, “or I’m not taking you anywhere. If Neel doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.”

  Petra fell silent, and the friends remained quiet as they followed Treb down through the city.

  Every house and shop in the Vatra seemed as if it had sprouted from the mountain. As they walked past a cliff, shuttered windows in the rock wall sprang open like clam shells, the people inside cranking out long, wooden rods clipped with laundry. Petra had become familiar with the way the Roma here liked to mix nature with the man-made, but she was still surprised when Treb led them to the mouth of a cave. She had been expecting … well, she wasn’t sure what she had expected. Something like a schoolhouse, perhaps, or a temple.

  “Go on in,” he said. “The Metis are expecting you.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” Petra asked.

  “I’ve got a political crisis to attend to,” said the captain. “Plus a grouchy brother and a missing cousin. My poor aunt Damara constantly looks like she might burst into tears. So I’ve got enough on my hands and, anyway, the Metis make my skin creep and crawl. See you back at the palace.” With a flip of his hand, Treb turned around and walked back up the steep street.

  Tomik looked at the cave. “Treb did say that the Metis are human, right? Not bears or mountain lions or dragons?”

  “Hmm,” said Astrophil, “I think he negl
ected to say exactly what they were. He only warned us not to anger them.”

  The three of them looked at each other. “Well, let’s not waste any more time,” said Petra. “We’ll find out soon enough what they are.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small oval crystal. Tomik did the same, and they stepped into the cave.

  They squeezed their Glowstones, which flared with pale blue light. For a moment, all Petra heard was the sound of her heartbeat and their footsteps on the rocky floor. Then she seemed to hear a soft whispering, and saw a tricky sort of light, white and flickering.

  They stood at the mouth of a tunnel. As they ventured down it, the light became clearer, and they soon saw four sunken pools. Floating in each one was a body.

  “Are they dead?” Petra asked uncertainly. The submerged bodies were ancient—so old and shriveled that they were as small as children. Although they were naked, the vast number of wrinkles made it impossible to tell which bodies were male and which were female.

  Petra stepped closer to the edge of a pool, and noticed the ball of white light in the body’s open mouth. Suddenly, the eyes jolted open, the mouth coughed, and the light rocketed to the surface, bursting through the water to bob up and down in front of Petra’s face.

  “Dead? Of course we are not dead!” exclaimed the light, which stretched into a shape like steam from a kettle.

  Three lights exploded from the other pools.

  “The dead learn nothing,” said one of the four. “And so they are not very wise.”

  “And we,” said another, “are the Metis, and most knowledgeable indeed.”

  “Indeed!” chorused a third.

  “Although,” one said in a soft tone, “death must be a fascinating experience, else why would everyone do it?”

  “Not everyone!”

  “Not us!”

  “Sister, why must you always doubt our choice?” a Meti said. “For a hundred years now, it’s been nothing but ‘death might be nice after all.’”

  “One hundred and twelve years,” corrected another.