Rajasthani Moon by Lisabet Sarai Page B

her from a distance, anywhere in the palace—lenses, mirrors, peepholes or periscopes. After Cecily had enjoyed breakfast and a sorely-needed bath, Sarita had delivered her to the library. The wizened and taciturn man who served as librarian—Gopal, Sarita had called him—had spent a quarter of an hour pointing out the shelves that housed the disgraced queen’s books, then had left Cecily to her research.
    Initially, she’d been able to make little sense of the multi-level script that flowed across the pages of Ziya’s books. Then she’d seen it was a possible variant on Brahmi, the ancestor of Devanagiri and Tamil alphabets, with extra ligatures and syllable-length marks. Assuming a homology gave her some clue to pronunciation. Following her hypotheses had led her to the conclusion that the language was actually quite similar to Kashmiri, which wasn’t surprising given its northern origins.
    By this time the sun had been high. Sarita had arrived with lunch, in a somewhat better temper than Cecily had seen her previously. Perhaps Amir had given her some carnal attention.
    “Have you made any progress?” Sarita had inquired.
    Cecily had chewed and swallowed a spicy mouthful of cauliflower curry before answering, “Some. I believe I can read the script. Now I need to find the books that deal with magic. That’s a challenge.” She’d indicated the ten shelves that housed Ziya’s volumes. “The Rajah’s mother was obviously quite a reader.”
    Sarita had nodded but hadn’t seemed inclined to answer. Cecily consumed another few bites of her lunch.
    “He misses her anyway.” Sarita spoke so softly that Cecily could scarcely make out what she’d said.
    “What?”
    “My Lord Amir misses his mother, even though he knows she was wicked. He was five when she was executed.”
    “Every child loves his mother. And no one is totally evil. Queen Ziya probably saw herself as defending her own future and that of her son.”
    “Perhaps. I worry sometimes that Amir inherited some of her darkness. He can be—cruel…”
    Cecily’s eyes had met Sarita’s. A new understanding had passed between them. “Yes,” she’d agreed. “I’ve gathered as much.” She took another bite. “How long have you known the Rajah?”
    “Almost all my life. My father rules the state of Maharashta, an important ally of Rajasthan. Amir and I were betrothed as children—before Pratan was born.”
    “Betrothed! But—are you his wife, then?”
    The despair Cecily had seen in Sarita’s eyes made her wish she had held her tongue and her curiosity in check.
    “Alas, no. My Lord Amir no longer believes in marriage, or in sexual exclusivity. When time and maturity revealed his brother’s evil destiny—well, the Rajah decided he did not wish to repeat his father’s mistake.”
    “I suspect that the marriage between Amir’s parents had nothing to do with the tragedy. The Rani would have been equally jealous had she been the Rajah’s concubine.”
    “Perhaps. Still, her status as the father’s legal spouse gave her a certain power over poor Lady Chameela. Amir is determined not to give that kind of power to any woman. Not even someone who worships and obeys him the way I do.”
    Cecily had not pursued the conversation, which obviously caused Sarita far more pain than her master’s evil toys.

    * * * *

    She laboured all afternoon, until she began to regret having volunteered to undertake what was starting to seem like an impossible task. In fact she had succeeded in finding two books she was fairly certain were grimoires, but none of the spells she deciphered seemed to have anything to do with shape-shifting.
    The sun had set hours before. Through the window, high up near the ceiling, Cecily caught a glimpse of indigo sky and a sliver of moon, just a bit fatter than it had been the previous evening.
    She leafed through the pages, scanning for the words she thought would translate as ‘wolf’ or ‘beast’. The letters swam in front