Daughters of the Dawn, page 1
Dedication
To Bademom, for telling us stories and teaching us about our culture and traditions. We love you!
SNAKE MASTER
Magic of serpents and stories
Descendants: snakespeakers
Talisman: scepter
MEMORY MASTER
Magic of mind and visions
Descendants: mindwielders
Talisman: cuffs
EARTH MASTER
Magic of stone and soil
Descendants: stonebringers
Talisman: map
SKY MASTER
Magic of air and wind
Descendants: currentspinners
Talisman: feather
FIRE MASTER
Magic of flames and light
Descendants: flametalkers
Talisman: compass
TIDE MASTER
Magic of water and storms
Descendants: tidesweepers
Talisman: sword
SOUL MASTER
Magic of life and death
Descendants: specterwalkers
Talisman: none
The Masters of Magic were brought into this world as healers and left as prisoners. They cleansed the world of its poison and gave life to fire, earth, sky, and water. But as the Masters were banished one by one and magic drained from the world, hope did not wither. For an artifact that had done much harm still existed in our world, begging to be used . . . and to be broken.
—Excerpt from Saira’s Songs, Chapter 3: “The Night the Masters Disappeared,” by Queen Saira of Retan, published posthumously by the Retanian Academy Press
The First Descendants forged six magical talismans as extensions of their Masters’ power, capable of housing magic in all its forms. To possess a talisman, a piece of a Master, is to possess a piece of the world itself.
—Excerpt from The Complete History of Magic by Suneel Nanda
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
The Masters of Magic
Part One: A Sign from the North
1. Ria
Prologue: Amara
2. Rani
3. Ria
4. Rani
5. Ria
6. Rani
7. Ria
8. Rani
Part Two: The Hunt
Sahil
9. Ria
10. Rani
11. Ria
12. Rani
13. Ria
14. Rani
15. Ria
Amara
16. Rani
17. Ria
18. Rani
19. Ria
Sahil
20. Rani
21. Ria
22. Rani
23. Ria
Amara
24. Rani
25. Ria
Sahil
26. Rani
27. Ria
Part Three: A Shattering of Storms
28. Rani
29. Ria
30. Rani
31. Ria
32. Rani
33. Ria
34. Rani
35. Ria
36. Rani
37. Ria
Epilogue: Rani
Ria
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Books by Sarena Nanua & Sasha Nanua
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Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Amara
The man’s dead body reeks of sweat and cowardice, bent over like a broken statue with its hands clasped in supplication. If Amara ignored the blood and rancid smell of the afterlife, she could imagine him praying to her. In death, at least, the man could finally see her as who she wanted to be.
A Master.
“Such a pity,” she snarls, the man’s lifeless eyes beaming up at her. She nudges his head over to the other side with the toe of her boot, examining his worn crow’s feet, withered brown skin, wide unblinking gaze. A pity indeed.
A pity that he wasn’t of more use to them.
Around her, wind whips through the White Mountains, frigid as ice yet comforting to her skin. After all, her blood runs cold now.
Terror, delicious terror, lingers in the dead man’s eyes.
“Death is a necessary precaution,” comes a voice next to her. She turns her gaze over to him—to the man they spent ages searching for, and finally found in the cold winds of the North. His cloaked figure lifts himself from where he had been crouched by the dead man. “We couldn’t have villagers realize my cohorts and I are back on the rise.”
“Your foresight will be rewarded, Black Viper,” the voice hisses within her, using the man’s moniker, for he moves lithely and quietly, like a serpent in the grass. “And now that we’ve finally found you . . . we must head for the Snake River.”
Amara obediently rises and heads for the jutting rock on the outskirts of the cave, located next to the winding river. There, she produces a gem from the inside of her cloak. The Bloodstone, dark as crimson, winks even in the dying daylight. The gem that will bring them the wishes they desire most.
The voice within her rumbles with power, echoing off every wall of the cave hidden deep within the icy mountainside.
The first time she’d seen her Master, it had been like a fever dream. She’d thought she was dying, was being swallowed by the Snake Pit, when she heard him. First, just a voice. Then the visions. Visions had never come to her, not with her magicless blood, but she had seen him—seen his eyes—in a still pond of water in a lone Abaian cave. She thought, for a moment, that she was hallucinating.
Then there came the snap of acid, the taste of copper and blood. Magic. In a blink, she was in the sky. No longer simply Amara Gupta, a woman who had lost her husband, who had manipulated the raja, who had poisoned her own son.
A woman who had been abused so thoroughly that she refused to find herself a victim again.
Cruelty is no stranger to her. But the cruel would never again be able to threaten her.
It is time for her to tell her own story.
Time for her to hold her own power.
I will become the Soul Master. A being above all others.
She imagines the control she would have over all who cross her. What she could do to the nation that had betrayed her!
She could see Kaama burning to the ground at her will, flames licking the air. She could envision the kingdom cracked in two, its pieces crumbling into dust.
Amara tucks her hands around the golden cuffs on her wrists. The Memory Master’s talisman glows like a caught star, and she watches the air fill with blinding gold light.
The Black Viper flicks his knife into the air. Amara extends her bare arm and lets him slice into her skin.
Blood, red as roses, fills the river. The water bubbles into a lingering crimson, as if alive, before settling back into its calming blue churn. She grins.
After weeks of shivering in caves and preying on the lost to gain strength, Amara feels her and her Master’s dreams drawing ever closer. Dreams once tasting of dust, now sweet as clouds, ringing true.
“I will inform the others,” the cloaked man says in farewell.
Alone, Amara stares at the river. “In one month’s time,” she says, gazing at her twisted reflection, “you will get what is yours. And I’ll get what’s mine. We will find all the—”
“Say no more on the matter,” the voice within Amara cuts in. Something shifts inside her—her Master, sharpening his focus. “She’s listening.”
1
Ria
I’ve got two problems, and one of them is trying to remember how to act like a commoner.
Not even two moons ago, no one gave me a second glance. Now, anytime I step outside the palace walls, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to turn invisible.
A small tavern lies before me, lit by sconces that cast the building in shadows. I slide the silver bangles up my arm so they don’t rattle, then pull my cloak tighter around me. The crimson cloak is the perfect disguise, but it’s also keeping me warm. It’s getting chillier in Abai, and I shiver down to my toes. Where I once complained about the heat, I now wish for an inkling of it. Admittedly, those shivers are mostly from nerves—from who I’m about to meet . . . and the nightmare I had. That hiss of a voice, reaching my ears, throbbing in my temples.
“She’s listening.”
My second problem. The voice woke me at midnight. I found myself drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. I cursed inwardly, reaching under my bedside for the journal I’ve kept there for the past few nights. Another nightmare, I recorded in scribbled handwriting. Amara, again. But this time . . .
It was more vivid than the others. Like I was there, watching a scene play out instead of dreaming it. I can still see her, Amara, standing next to a cloaked figure. Yet as soon as I awoke, small details from the dream fell away, turning fuzzy instead of sharp.
I had hoped, after Amara disappeared from the Snake Pit, that she could no longer haunt us. That she was gone for good. But then why would I be dreaming about her almost every night?
My gaze refocuses on the tavern and I force myself to drop the thought of Amara. Just play it cool, Ria. I’ve been so used to pretending to be Rani that tonight’s charade—and my all-consuming thoughts of that nightmare—has me tangled up in worried knots. I force out a breath and step inside.
Whispers flit through the tavern. I catch some of the hushed tones as I head toward the barkeep
“Heard the Blood Moon’s comin’,” one man says.
“As if that’s even real,” scoffs another.
I sigh with relief. No one’s given me a second glance. But what is this about the Blood Moon? And why—
“Welcome,” the barkeep tells me once I’m before her.
Right. Focus on the task at hand.
I keep my head low, raising two fingers. She nods and escorts me to a table at the back of the establishment. Calling this place a tavern would be a bit . . . generous, but I’ve lived in far worse places when I was on the streets. Who am I to judge?
I settle into my seat and swiftly pull out my small coin purse. It’s really Rani’s, but she doesn’t need to know I’ve been snooping in her closet today. After all, I might’ve told her a little white lie about where I was headed—to visit an orphanage friend. She didn’t question it, but, stubborn sister that she is, she did make a Chart accompany me.
I wasn’t about to let the soldier follow me inside, which means I need to be quick. He’ll come looking if I take too long, and the sky is already darkening. Soon, a celebration will be underway. Long-lost twins, finally found, our mother said. Tonight, we’ll finally introduce you two to the whole kingdom.
No pressure.
I tap the coin purse against the table, letting the few coins inside clink. A candle has been set on the tabletop, its flame flickering, hypnotizing. Melting wax pools at the base, the saucer beneath it barely holding the candle aloft.
After a few minutes, a woman approaches with shambling steps. She sits in the seat directly across from mine. Her eyes are a deep, verdant green unlike any I’ve ever seen.
A newcomer in Abai isn’t all that strange, but one with her description definitely is. White hair. Nails like claws. Unearthly eyes. She’s all anyone’s been talking about this past week . . . besides Amara. A shudder runs through me at the thought of Saeed’s mother. No one knows where she went. Most speculate she’s dead. I wish I could believe them.
I first heard about this newcomer from the best gossips around—children. A few days ago, I visited an orphanage just outside Anari. The king and queen—my father and mother, I still remind myself—let me leave with a bundle of food and some spare coin. It’s not nearly enough for the orphans, but the smiles on their faces warmed me up like steaming-hot chai.
“We call her the Winter Witch,” one child said, because of her silver-white hair. “I’ve heard that she can read people’s minds. And control them, too—she can make them do whatever she wants!” Some children cowered at the older kids’ overexaggerated descriptions: pupils like a cat’s, stringy hair that held a web of spiders.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” I tell the woman.
“I seldom get mail from the palace,” the Winter Witch intones. Her voice is like a biting wind, and her mouth twists into a sour grin. She lays her hands flat on the table, revealing her nails, long and curved.
Perhaps her appearance was not that exaggerated after all. “You are her, then? The other princess?”
The other princess. Princess Ria.
“Yes,” I whisper. I glance around, making sure no one heard. I don’t want to cause a scene.
“And why, Princess Ria, do you request my services?” She croaks a laugh at the end. Like a princess already possesses everything she could ever need. I once thought the same.
“They say you’re a witch. A mindwielder. I’d like to know if this is true.” If she truly does have this power, then that makes her a descendant of the Memory Master.
Like Saeed.
Just a few moons ago I thought stories of magic were old wives’ tales. My sister believed that only the royal family could possess the power of the Masters, and that talk to the contrary was blasphemy. But if there’s anything we learned these past few moons, it’s that neither of us is as wise about magic as we believed.
Gazing at the Winter Witch, I recall the rumors swirling through the palace about her. Memories unlocked, secrets revealed, runaways found—this witch could warp any mind you’d like, for a price. A man saw a green-eyed woman in the streets of Anari Square. One look, and his mind bent as if he were looking at his lover. All memory of his wife was gone.
“Call it magic or call it intuition.” The woman chuckles again, but her tone is grim. “Either way, services require coin.”
“I’ll pay when I get my answers,” I tell her.
She only cackles. “I suppose I’ll leave then—”
“No!” I whisper harshly. I didn’t come all this way—by horse!—for nothing. I huff and pass over the coin purse. Let her have it. I’m good at taking what I need in the end.
And what I’m asking for is worth any price.
“I need to know something,” I tell the woman, leaning in as last night’s nightmare comes back to me. “A . . . man I know has been on a journey, searching for a woman named Amara. He’s important to me. I need to know where he is. Can you tell me?”
The woman digs through the coin purse and eyes the money. Then she shutters her eyelids. “Hmm. Describe this Amara.”
I recount Amara’s appearance. It’s not one I can ever forget. “Red hair . . . dark eyes . . .” I continue on, picturing Amara exactly as I last saw her, before she fell into the Snake Pit. That manic grin, the gleam in her eyes that made her look almost inhuman.
“And this man who seeks her?”
My stomach flutters. “Curly hair with a white streak. Hazel eyes. He’s tall and . . .” Muscled, I want to add, but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to sound like some foolish, lovesick girl. Even if I am one.
“He’s been gone for weeks,” I add, my voice more desperate than I want it to be. These dreams remind me constantly how dangerous Amara is. “I just need some information. Is he safe? Is he well?”
I don’t realize how far I’ve leaned over the table until the woman snaps her eyes open, drilling them into mine. The candle continues to melt, dripping hot wax onto the table.
“This man . . . his name is Saeed?”
My body stiffens at the sound of his name. “Yes.”
Either an extremely lucky guess, or this woman really knows what she’s talking about.
“He is well,” she reveals. “In fact, he is not far.”
“What?” I start. “Where is he?”
“Somewhere dark. He has traveled a long way to find this woman . . . his mother. But he has failed.”
A stone fills my throat. Every day I’ve stared out my window, hoping to see him. Every day I’m disappointed. I’ve tried to busy myself, scour the palace library, search through nearly every book Rani and I could think of that could tell us more about the Bloodstone. About how Amara might access the lifeblood of the Creator, Amran, within it, and make her wish to become the Soul Master come true.
So far, bust. And now I hear that Saeed has had the same luck.
From the front of the tavern, I see my Chart attendant march in and gaze around. His eyes find mine. I hold up a hand. Halt.
It’s strange to me now, how I can control a Chart. A soldier that once made me freeze with fear, a title that sent shivers down my back long before I was conscripted for war. But if I’m being honest, I haven’t stopped shivering at the bloodred jackets they wear, the caps that shield their eyes.
I’m running out of time, but there’s one last thing I need to ask this woman. Something else that’s been haunting me.
I think of the strange voice in my dream. She’s listening. “Have you ever heard of a nightmare coming true for someone who isn’t a mindwielder?”
“Depends on what you believe a nightmare to be.”
I swallow. “I have no memory magic, but I’ve been . . . seeing things. It’s like I’ve been peering into someone else’s life and they know I’m . . . listening.” That deep, haunting voice has plagued my memory all day. Maybe this woman knows something.
I know I’m right when she raises a silver brow. “Someone is always listening.” She taps her fingers along the edge of the table. “It’s not every day I’m called to a secret meeting by a royal with such odd questions. Is this why you called me here today? Your . . . nightmares?” She gazes deeply into my eyes, and I force myself not to look away.
“Yes and no.” I debate. “Mostly yes.”
The Winter Witch laughs. “I cannot provide information on something you already know. You do know, don’t you? Where these nightmares are coming from?”
