Bloodseed

Chapter 1

Chapter One: His Hands are Made For Painting

Anarkali

The moon's light glints off my blade, streaming through the cream chiffon curtains covering my window. Once they were of silk, embroidered with gold thread forming the distinct shapes of flowers. I had sat by Mama's side, watching her move the needle with precise movements, her golden brown hands more delicate than the fabric she held. I wonder if she would've frowned upon mine, riddled with numerous scars I cannot recall gaining.

Pulling a dark scrap of cloth across my face that so resembles hers, I take a hasty glance towards the mirror, assessing my figure covered in black from head to toe. Not my best ensemble, but it'll pass for what I have to do tonight. I let my eyes stray toward the small figure underneath my covers, her dark hair spilling off the edge of the bed. I often wished I had been the younger one, so I wouldn't have to venture through our crumbling home at ungodly hours of the night.The sensible part of my mind brushes away the thought. Sending my sister into a den of lions is not something I am cruel enough to do.

I uncork the small bottle I hid under the vanity, carefully using a rag to absorb a few droplets of the acidic liquid inside. The metal of my daggers glints beautifully as I slather a generous amount of poison on them and attach them to my belt, careful to let layers of cloth separate my skin from them. 

My hands shake as they fumble with the latch of our wardrobe, palms slicked with sweat despite the frigid air. I push the wooden paneling until it swings open, revealing the narrow tunnel Anaya and I have used to escape the silence of our empty haveli. Its darkness still terrifies me, and the sputtering candle in my hand does little to calm my nerves.

The icy copper of the candleholder bites into my skin as my grip tightens, and I shut the panel behind me. The flame flickers and I raise a hand to shield it, to stop it from going out. My breath does not dare leave my lips, in fear of the fragile light in my hands. I stand in silence for a moment, allowing my frantic pulse to calm.
But there is no room for fear today, so I move forward.

****

It doesn't take long to reach the bazaar, and the cacophony of vendors and music assures me of my destination. There's a clumsily crafted ladder leaning against the dirt wall to mark the end of the passageway, and the state of it almost has me convinced that it won't hold my weight.

I climb it, pausing only to check if my talwar is strapped securely across my back. Not prominent enough to be stopped by guards, and not too far out of reach. It's my favorite possession, solely due to its size, smaller than most, and just as deadly.

The trapdoor makes a slight creak as it swings open, letting in soft light and the aroma of various fried street food. My stomach growls in response. I scan for any sign of life before slipping out into the alleyway, kicking sand back over the tunnel entrance.

I try my best to ignore the posters lining the streets, the same face I loathe on every one of them. His eyes follow me as scan my surroundings, boring holes into my back. My hands itch to rip his face off the wall, erase his existence from our land. I do the smart thing and turn away, focusing on the bazaar before me.Blending into a crowd is far easier than trying to slip past it, so I weave through gossiping aunties and giggling children, making a beeline for the samosa stand. 

"One samosa, please."

My voice comes out more hoarse than I intend to, and Hashim snorts, picking up the deep-fried pastry with a piece of newspaper. His dark brows scrunch together as he stares into my eyes.

He sees right through me.

"It's a bit late to be out eating samosas all alone, isn't it?"

I don't reply, focusing on the flaky pastry in my gloved hands. He places a small clay bowl of yogurt and mint sauce along with it, raising a brow.

"You know that you'll need to take off the mask to eat, yes?"

It takes all my willpower not to have my eyes roll to the back of my head.

"I'm aware, yes. The samosa isn't for me," I lie through my teeth.

He shrugs, using a scrap of cloth to wipe his thin fingers. I watch him slip a thin silver band onto his finger, similar to the one my sister refuses to let go of. Anaya says his hands are fair and delicate, with not a blemish in sight.

"His hands were made for painting, not frying samosas," she laughs.

The thought of my sister sends a needle into my heart, and a tremor shakes my hand. My grip on the newspaper tightens, his gaze landing on it. His face softens.

"There are a million other ways out of this, Anar," he whispers.

I shake my head.

Shame claws at my chest at the thought of using my sister's friendship to my advantage. But Hashim is the only one that can help me. Judging by his restless movements, he won't hesitate to do so, no matter how guilty he feels.

"Tell me where they are."

"Go home. You're going to get yourself killed."

"Anaya's going to be sold off like chattel if you don't tell me now," I lose my composure, my voice rising higher than it needs to. Hashim's eyes dart to the left, and it takes me too long to notice the armed men in their navy blue uniforms. I wouldn't have recognized them if not for the single pale-skinned one leaning against the wall, his blue eyes fixated on us. The rest look similar to Hashim and me, with warm skin, apart from the golden sigil on their breast pockets.

I can't tell if the Aspendians bribed them into joining or simply let them into their ranks. Surely the state of our country hasn't fallen apart that badly. And by the look on their faces, it'd be best if I don't stick around long enough to find out.

Hashim forces out a laugh, a muscle in his neck straining.

"I've told you already. Leave."

I back away, discreetly placing the samosa back onto Hashim's cart. There's movement at the corner of my vision. I keep walking, weaving my way through vendors and gaggles of giggling schoolgirls until I reach a jewelry stall.

The small jewel-encrusted accessories twinkle back at me in golds and silvers. I pick one up, holding it to my ear. I frown as if dissatisfied, putting it back. Trailing a finger along the jhumkas hung on display, my eyes shift to the mirror next to them. There's no sign of the soldiers, or of Hashim.

The empty feeling in my stomach grows bigger by the second, replaced with fear instead of hunger. I replay our conversation in my head for what seems like a hundred times before it finally clicks.

Home.

Hashim had told me to go home. Not my home but his, a small house away from the hustle of the town center.

The perfect place to meet with unwelcome guests.