The Mosquito and the Lion

six

Alia only stopped running when the straps of her leather sandals dug into her ankles and opened her wounds. Wincing, shameful tears blurring her vision, she collapsed in an empty hallway.

Her blood dripped onto the thinning rug, the only mark she would ever leave in the Magad Palace. In the evening, she would steal a horse and go on her merry way. She would have to avoid Toshalwar for a few moons, but there were plenty of crowded cities she could call home.

Stubbornly, she wiped her face with the back of her hands, finding comfort in her memories. Her stomach grumbled as she imagined eating chunks of watermelon sprinkled with black salt, a sweet-and-savory blend that never failed to amaze her in the summer. She smiled wistfully as she recalled the colorful markets of the square, with the shopkeepers and peddlers screaming sales and thrusting their wares in your path.

A delicate ahem interrupted her musings. Glancing up, she did not bother to hide her frown when she saw Nandini — the last person she had expected to see.

The timid girl sat next to her. "You're bleeding," she said lamely, gesturing towards Alia's feet. "Let me wrap them."

Alia let her stay. For all her bluster and bravado, she did not want to be alone. And though she did not expect Nandini, she found herself grateful that it was the noble woman, and not Vikram, who had followed her. Vikram would always be the Kshat guard who tormented her. Nandini carried none of that history.

Wordlessly, Alia took off her sandals and hesitantly brought her feet towards the girl. They really did ache, and she should have bandaged them hours ago. With the amount of dirt and gravel embedded in the open tissue, Alia was basically asking for an infection.

And yet she remained in healthy spirits, and, though she dared not admit it out loud, she could guess why.

Nandini tore off a length of cloth from the hem of her petticoat. Gently, and ignoring the yelps from Alia, she picked out the larger bits of debris. With her brown hair falling in her face in soft waves, her hazel eyes fixed resolutely on her task, and her lithe hands gracefully wrapping Alia's injuries, she looked like the perfect noble daughter.

"Why did you become a messenger?" Alia asked, unable to withstand the silence any longer. "You are a pretty woman with money. Surely you must have had plenty of suitors."

Nandini paused, her shoulders tense. Alia had struck a nerve, apparently, though she did not understand how. Nothing she had said was false. Finally, she answered, "For the same reasons you do not want to be a princess."

Alia shook her head firmly. "No, I do not want the responsibilities of being a princess. If a rich merch or noble told me I was their long-lost daughter, I would gladly join their family."

Nandini chuckled, resuming her careful bandaging. Her fingers expertly twisted the cloth around the wound, and, as frightened as she had been in the carriage, she was the embodiment of poise and grace right now.

"All right. If that question is too hard, another one. Why a messenger and not a healer? You're clearly gifted." Alia wriggled her toes. "I feel as good as new."

The noble woman shrugged, but her muscles coiled, as if her body could not understand its predicament either. As if the healer's calling was a compulsion that Nandini was denying.

"There are few options for noble women."

Alia sighed, tracing a line in the carpet. "Few options for poor women, too."

Her wrapping complete, Nandini carefully wiped her hands on her sari, disregarding the bloodstains left behind. Alia had pegged her entirely wrong, she realized with a start. The woman was easily scared, to be sure, but she was no coward.