I silently repeated the words from the scroll and found myself gazing at a deep sapphire bond, thicker even than my connection to Manthara.
“Come on,” he whined. “Let’s go.” As he spoke, I poked at the bond with my mind, thinking, Can we play my game instead?
Out loud, I said, “Please, Yudhajit?” The ripple from my touch moved down the bond until it reached my brother’s chest.
He groaned again. But to my astonishment, he sat down, reaching for the pebble. “Fine, fine. We will play your game first.”
I beamed at him as he threw the stone into the air.
Once might have been random, but twice? I knew better than to think so.
I watched him carefully for any sign that he knew what I had done, but he clapped his hands happily enough and then tossed the stone to me, a smile on his face. “Six! I bet you can’t get seven.”
I could get seven, and in fact, I had practiced this game alone just so I could beat Yudhajit. But now, watching him, and distracted by the feeling inside of me—magic! I had power—I only managed four claps before fumbling the stone and nearly dropping it. Yudhajit laughed at me, and after a few seconds I laughed with him. I had lost, but by making him play the game I had won. I could hardly believe it.
When we were done playing and Yudhajit had gone to his archery lessons, I spent hours wandering the palace, following different strings to discover my ties with others.
My bonds with my brothers stood out, bold and strong, while other servants and people in the palace had varying degrees of connection to me. I had so many bonds tying me to others, and seeing them all laid out this way caused tears to prick at my eyes. I often felt lonely, with only my mother’s quiet coolness and brothers who could not fully understand me for company. But here was proof that I was not alone. I tried, at one point, to figure out which one was my mother’s. Perhaps I could send her a message. After all, I had been trying to bring her back when I had discovered this magic. But among the tangle of strings, I could not ascertain which would lead me to her.
By the time the sun set, my muscles were aching, and I limped on trembling legs back to my room, the strain of using the Binding Plane taking its toll on my body. But my mind still thrummed, even after I lay in bed.
On ordinary nights, I would pray to Nidra, goddess of sleep, for restful slumber and pleasant dreams. She was one of my favorite gods—Manthara had told me her story on many nights when I wished to stay up instead of sleep. Once, Vishnu fell into a deep, mysterious sleep and could not be roused by any of the gods. While he slept, two asuras were born from Vishnu’s own ears, and they found Brahma defenseless. They conspired to steal Brahma’s powers, and Brahma was unable to withstand their might. He tried with all his power to wake Vishnu, but Vishnu would not wake. Desperate, Brahma called upon Nidra, the goddess of sleep. She slipped into Vishnu’s conscience and roused him from within. And so Nidra saved the gods from the asuras.
But despite this, I knew of no rites for Nidra, no prayers or festivals for her. She was forgotten, as I was. And she was my favorite for another reason—sometimes, if my dreams were soothing or my sleep deep and restful, I could wake pretending that she had favored me.
The thought struck me then—perhaps I was favored. The gods had ignored me for years, but was this not a great gift indeed? Could this power be from the gods? They may have bestowed this upon me for my patience. My cheeks flushed with excitement at the possibility. I would have to search in the cellar to see if any scrolls said more about this strange magic. But for now, I clasped my hands together and whispered a prayer for Nidra.
The next evening, my father had a guest of honor for the meal, some warlord who he could not put off, even with my mother’s departure. Manthara was busy with preparations, so Neeti had been sent to help ready me. Aside from Manthara, Neeti was my favorite among our servants. She was only two years older than me and had been in the palace since we were small. We had played dolls together when we were younger, using scraps of cloth given to us by Manthara to dress them in colorful saris we were too young to wear and finding small stones and ribbons to build them gilded thrones. Even now, on the occasions she would come to ready me, we would rush through the preparations so that we could steal a few moments sitting on my floor and sharing sweets as she told me tales of her life outside the palace.
“You will never believe what my neighbor did,” Neeti said, straightening out the front of my stiff silken skirt. “He has a goat now. Can you imagine it!”
But today I did not want to hear her stories, for I did not intend to go to the feast. I could not bear to see my father, pretending as though nothing had happened. Pretending as though he hadn’t exiled my mother. Just thinking of him caused my fists to clench.