The Mosquito and the Lion

three

Since she discovered the truth of her ancestry three nights ago, Alia had tried to escape twice, stab Vikram, the Kshat guard, four times, and considered flinging herself into the path of a wayward horse once.

"I will shackle you if I have to," Vikram snarled, pressing his hands into her shoulders and forcing her to sit down in the carriage.

The lush trappings of the vehicle threatened to suffocate her. The deep purple velvet of the seats felt unnatural against her palms. A golden snake's tail encircled the window, its head functioning as the handle. The carriage smelled unnatural. Gone was the heavy stench of sweat and urine of Toshalwar. In its place were crisp notes of jasmine. Somehow, it felt just as stifling.

She shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting with her sari. Alia had first tried to kill Vikram with his own sword when he insisted she wear something "suitable for a princess." She supposed it was a lovely garment, draped across her torso and pleated elegantly against her legs, but it restricted her movement. She felt like a tiger caught in a hunter's trap, and she guessed the Maurya Palace would make a fitting circus.

Alia would be damned before she ever performed tricks for a gaggle of overfed nobles.

"That's no way to treat your princess." She crossed her arms and huffed, settling into her seat, glaring daggers at the man responsible for this mess. Why couldn't you just leave it be? She wanted to scream, digging crescents into her palms. I was happy.

A young woman sat next to Vikram, clothed in a dark green sari with silver embroidery. Somehow, she was more nervous than Alia, furtively glancing between all three of them and chewing her lip raw.

She was too beautiful for her job, spending most of her days cooped up in the Toshalwar municipal building, sending messages to and from the Palace and keeping the Queen up-to-date on trade and the economy. If Alia had her long brown tresses, warm hazel eyes, and bright smile, she would have married a rich man and lived in excess.

Though she supposed that was her future now. Excess. Abundance. Prosperity. Maybe she was mad for wishing to return to the shantytowns. But the only thing she had ever truly had in her life was her freedom. Everything else she had stolen.

Alia had never even believed in the story of the Lost Princess, thinking it a tall tale that peddlers spun to trick foreign traders into purchasing tiny busts of the girl.

It was a simple story, really. 17 years ago, there was an attack on the Magad Palace, though no one knew who orchestrated it. They wanted to destroy the royal bloodline, and they nearly succeeded, too, killing the King. No one ever knew what happened to the princess. Alia always assumed she had died. And the Queen allowed the myth to blossom, needing her enemies to believe the princess was still alive, that the blood of the Gods still flowed through an heir.

Alia swallowed tightly, unfolding her arms and playing with the hem of her blouse. For the past three days, the revelation that she was descended from Gods had not caused her as much unease as the discovery that she had a mother.

The carriage suddenly jerked to a halt, nearly flinging Alia into the unsuspecting Nandini. She could hear the driver yelling angrily.

"We can't possibly be there yet," Alia said, looking to Vikram. His hand on his sword was all the confirmation she needed. Someone was out there, and Alia could not have been more ecstatic. Every muscle in her body itched for a fight, a way to let out her frustration.

"Bandits?" Nandini whispered, shrinking into the velvet seats.

Vikram shook his head. "They wouldn't dare attack a royal carriage." He hesitated, glancing at Alia. "They must be here for you."