Rebel Queen by Michelle Moran Page A

archery this way. But the act of reaching back into my quiver, drawing an arrow, knocking it, then letting it loose—there was a cadence to it when it was done right. It was poetry in action, the way Shakespeare intended his words to be. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.” Iambic pentameter, echoing the natural rhythm of the human heart—and the rhythm of practicing weaponry with Shivaji in the courtyard.
    Shivaji looked at me for confirmation, and I was surprised to hear myself saying, “It’s true.”
    He blew the air from his cheeks. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll find the horse, you find the time.”
    After Shivaji left, my father pointed to the chess set balanced on the wooden chair across the room. He had carved it from mango wood and teak years ago, before I was born. We usually played in the evenings, but we hadn’t played since he’d first become sick.
    “Are you sure?” I wrote on his palm. “Perhaps you should rest.”
    He laughed. “And give up the chance to win?” My father hadn’t won in several months. The student had outgrown the teacher. “I know you wouldn’t let a sick man lose.”
    I grinned. “I think I would.”
    But out of three games, my father won two.
    “Either your mind is distracted,” he wrote, “or you really do feel sorry for me.”
    Maybe it was a little of both.
    “You’re nervous about the riding,” he guessed.
    I shrugged.
    “You shouldn’t be.” He held up one of the chess pieces and wrote, “Every skill you master is like another chess piece, designed to bring you closer to the king. You can do this.”
    “I hope so.”
    “You’ve mastered chess. You’ll master this as well. If you don’t let this get in the way.” He reached out and tapped my head.

    W hen Shivaji came back later that afternoon to tell Father of his plan to borrow a horse from the local overseer of wedding baraats, I was certain the animal would arrive bedecked with flowers and draped in satin. After all, its sole purpose in life was to carry a bridegroom through the streets to his bride, and any of the horses I’d ever seen wore gem-studded saddles and silver bells. So when Shivaji arrived in our courtyard the next morning and the horse was bare, I’m embarrassed to say that the first thought that came to my mind was that it was naked. My second thought: the beast was enormous.
    To say I was scared is like saying a mouse has slight reservations about the cat that prowls around its hole. I had never seen a horse up close, and had certainly never touched one.
    But Shivaji motioned me forward. “Sita, this is Raju. Raju, meet Sita.”
    I could hear nothing except the blood rushing in my ears. I was too paralyzed to reach out and pat the horse’s muzzle, as Shivaji was doing. I prayed that it wouldn’t take a bite out of me.
    “It’s a horse,” Shivaji said, “not a wild bear. Come.”
    He took my hand and guided it to the horse’s long face. Father had given me strict instructions not to disobey Shivaji, no matter how frightened I might be. “Animals can smell fear,” he’d warned earlier, before lying back on his pillows and closing his eyes. I didn’t want to disappoint him, especially in his weakened state, so I stroked the white hair along the horse’s nose. “He likes it,” I said to Shivaji, surprised.
    “You see? It’s nothing to be afraid of. Every bridegroom in India has ridden one of these. Even Anuja is interested in it.”
    I turned and there indeed was Anuja, eager to see what sort of beast had taken up residence in our courtyard. She had obviously escaped Avani’s watch, because her hair was unbraided and still hanging in wild curls. And instead of wearing juti to protect her feet, she was standing barefoot on the hard-packed earth.
    “It’s a horse,” Shivaji said to my sister. “Would you like to come and see?”
    Her eyes went big, and I was thankful for any distraction that prolonged my having to mount the thing.
    Shivaji picked her up and