13
KALINDA
A host of servants rearranges the terrace into an outdoor banquet hall with low tables and candlelight. The sultan dines among his wives and courtesans, away from the rest of the attendees. Eunuchs stand guard around them, scrutinizing any patron who comes too close.
Prince Ashwin is seated at a table on the dais, and my competitors and I are invited to feast beside him. He saves the floor rug to his right for me, leaving the left one open. Princess Citra plunks down on it before Indah and Tinley have a chance.
While servants set dishes of food before us, down the short steps a toddler seated with the sultan’s court screams and throws food at his nursemaid.
“Who is that?” I whisper to Ashwin.
“The heir to the sultanate. Kuval has a lot of daughters, but that is his first son.”
Princess Citra must be fifteen years older than the young prince, yet her baby brother is to inherit the throne. Such dynamics seem unfair given the princess’s loyalty to her homeland. The nursemaid picks up the screaming boy and paces with him out in the garden.
Citra scoots closer to Ashwin’s side, drawing his attention. “What did you think of my token, Ashwin?”
“Ah . . . it was unexpected.”
“Was it?” she purrs. Indah laughs at her from across the table. Citra scowls. “What?”
“You’re exactly as your reputation portrays.” Indah’s gaze slides across the table. “All of you are.”
“Oh?” Tinley sits forward, her light hair gleaming under the chandelier lantern. “What have you heard?”
“I’ll start with you, daughter of Chief Naresh,” Indah replies. “You cut your teeth on mahati bones and learned to fly when you were only four. At age eight you hatched Bya and have since spent most of your time on your falcon in the sky. Your proficiency is with the crossbow, you enjoy anything that has to do with heights, and you tug at your tresses when you’re uneasy.” Tinley swiftly unthreads her fingers from her silvery hair. “Ever since your father’s second in command cornered you in the tanning hut, you distrust men. If you lose the tournament, you’ll negotiate for better trade for your people. However, if you win, you do not intend to live with the prince. You’ll settle in a mountain outpost and spend the rest of your days patrolling the empire’s borderlands from the sky.”
Ashwin stops chewing. “You wouldn’t stay with me in the palace?”
Tinley shoots Indah a poisonous glare. “I haven’t decided yet, Your Majesty.”
I pick at my food with my fingers. The spicy sauces and dishes smell delicious, of turmeric and coriander, but I am too nervous dining with these women to put anything in my belly.
Indah swivels her focus to Citra, her next victim. “You have never left Iresh. You didn’t even set foot outside the palace gates until you were fourteen. Your father is afraid you’ll be killed like your mother was.” I sit up straighter, and Ashwin stills, the flatbread in his hand forgotten. Citra’s eyes and jaw harden. “You have one full younger sister, Tevy, who shares your same mother, and you would do anything for her happiness. Your first love was with a palace servant when you were thirteen. Your father found out, castrated the boy, and sold him to another household. Since then, you invite public male attention often to punish your father.”
Tinley snorts, amused now that the focus is off her. I spread my fingers out in a fan against my breastbone. How does Indah know all of this? From the other women’s reactions, everything she says is accurate.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Citra seethes.
Indah leans back, unperturbed. “As for your reasons for participating in the tournament, you will do anything to avoid being given in marriage to an old, fat man. You even tried to run away once, but you were caught and the sultan’s kindred beat you before his court.”
Citra’s face flushes. “Enough.”
I would console her if she would allow it. Citra’s relationship with her father is none of our concern.
“And what of Kalinda?” Ashwin asks, engrossed in Indah’s game.
“I know the least about the kindred,” Indah replies, switching her attention to me. I block the urge to cover my face. “You’re an orphan raised in a Sisterhood temple of the Parijana faith. Your people believe you’re Enlil’s hundredth rani reincarnated, though you won your rank tournament on account of your opponents conceding. You have no particular weaponry skill, as your strongest offense is your faith in the gods.”
“Why does she wish to win?” Tinley asks. Clearly this supper game has become a means for her to study her opponents.
“Glory,” answers Indah. “The kindred wishes to uphold her reputation as a fierce sister warrior.”
Glory? I tamp down a guffaw and wait for Indah to reveal more about me. Something in regard to Deven. Or Hastin. Or Tarek. She sits back, finished, but my nerves stay locked on high alert. Indah knows more about me than a stranger should, and I sense she is holding back.
Tinley stabs a hunk of boar meat with one of her talonlike fingernails and shoves it into her mouth. “Kalinda, were you really claimed from a Sisterhood temple?” she asks, staring at me with her cloudy irises.
“Yes.”
“You killed to wed the rajah?” Tinley’s tone drips with disapproval.
Ashwin pushes food around his plate. Although he understands why I defeated his mother, it would be callous to speak of her death in his company. “I didn’t want to,” I answer.
“I would never kill for a man,” Tinley says, shoving more meat into her mouth.
I tip my chin up, lifting my chest. “We didn’t fight for a man; we fought for a better life.”
“Their reason isn’t so unlike your own for entering the trial tournament, is it, Tinley?” Citra asks, tapping her painted nails against her wine chalice. “We all want the life that goes with the throne.”
Tinley glares at Citra as she picks up a piece of flatbread and tears it into bite-size pieces.
“Don’t they have Claimings in Paljor?” Indah asks, her voice inexplicably chipper.
Tinley answers Indah, ending her stare off with Citra. “We have temples of the Parijana faith as Tarachand does, but only for the brethren. The women don’t preside in the faith. As for the Claimings, we have none. We’re betrothed from infancy.” Tinley smacks her lips, gaining a look of disgust from Citra, and adds, “My intended died last year, but you already knew that.”
“I thought it would be impolite to share,” replies Indah.
Tinley huffs, for Indah’s other descriptions have already surpassed rudeness.
“What about you, Indah?” Ashwin asks.
“She isn’t going to say anything insulting about herself,” Citra replies, her glower unyielding.
Indah raises her hands, palms out. “I’m a Virtue Guard for Datu Bulan, come from Lestari.” The datu is the ruler of the Southern Isles. His stronghold, the city of Lestari, is located on the largest island. “My mother birthed me in healing waters and raised me on milk and honey. I learned to walk on our island’s sandy beaches and spent my childhood fishing on the southern seas. My weapon of choice is the trident, which works to spear big fish and irritating supper patrons.”
Citra utters a stale laugh.
Tinley sets her chalice down hard, nearly spilling her wine. “Indah, you didn’t say anything bad about yourself.”
“She didn’t have to,” I say. “Indah is arrogant, offensively honest, and too observant for her own good.”
Indah laughs, a light tinkle like clinking shells. “Kindred, you sound like my father.”
“He must be a wise man,” inserts Ashwin.
Citra lowers her pointed glare, remembering we are in the presence of the prince. “Let me serve you some more, Your Majesty.” She ladles him another helping of sauce, even though his plate is already swimming in it.
Indah observes the celebrators across the terrace, fishing for more secrets. I nibble at my food, my thoughts hooked on what she said about being a Virtue Guard.
“Are any other Virtue Guards in Lestari?” I ask her.
“Yes, we’re the last sovereign to work with bhutas. Datu Bulan has one of each serving on his high council.”
“Even a Burner?” I ask.
Indah tilts her head, cataloging my curiosity. “The datu retains all four to maintain balance. We work in conjunction with him and his advisers. Our Burner Virtue Guard is one of the most powerful Burners in the world. Though there could be others we don’t know about . . .”
I arrange my features into disinterest, my pulse charging. Oh, yes. Indah knows more than she pretends.
Citra tries to spoon-feed Ashwin, but the food falls down his chin and into his lap. When she moves to clean it, he waves her away.
“Burners aren’t welcome in Paljor,” Tinley says, chewing with her mouth open again.
Indah sips her wine. “Our people don’t live in fear of Burners.”
“You live on islands, surrounded by water,” replies Tinley.
“We also aren’t afraid of a few burns.” Indah slides a glance at me.
I drop my hands below the table. Did she see the healing boil on my palm? She must sense I am hiding something. I would like nothing more than to shoot fire over their heads and boast about my powers as they did, but I cannot let my people find out who I am.
Musicians set up drums and two-string chordophones on the walkway over the stream. The drummers strike a low beat, and the sultan’s courtesans rise to dance in the garden. Citra tugs on Ashwin’s hand. He tries to anchor himself to me, but I have no interest in battling the princess for a dance with him.
After they go, Indah bends across the table toward me. “I’d like to speak with you alone, Kindred.”
I would rather return to my chamber for the night, but I am interested to hear what she has to say. Tinley is so fixated on her food she does not care that we leave her at the table alone. Indah and I move away from the music and cross the garden to a banister near the cliff. A dark figure follows us, a tall man with a sleeveless tunic and short baggy pants. His hair is long at the back and shaved on the top of his head and around his ears. A blowgun hangs at his waist, the short bamboo pole sticking out of his leather belt.
Indah catches me staring at him. “That’s Pons, my personal guard.”
Pons stops behind us, his stance protective, attentive. Longing for Deven draws my gaze over the cliff to the dim lights of the encampments. Great Anu, please heal him.
“Your assessment at supper was entertaining,” I say to divert my thoughts from Deven. “How did Citra’s mother die?”
“She and Vizier Gyan were near the Tarachand border when Rajah Tarek launched his eradication of bhutas. A battle ensued, and she was caught between the imperial soldiers and the rebels.” Indah faces the terrace, studying the sultan and his wives. “The sultan hoards his wives and courtesans like gems to stow away in a treasury. In my nation, women and men are free to choose their own fate. Who we wed isn’t tied to our godly devotion.”
Lestari is a republic nation. Why would Indah give up her freedom to wed Ashwin? “You didn’t say what you stand to gain from the trial tournament.”
“Neither did you.” Her gold eyes take me in. They are nearly the same color as Brac’s, only paler. “I think my initial assessment of you was off. You’re content to stay in the shadows, aren’t you?”
I answer with a guarded smile. Indah will have to find out about my past with Tarek and Deven from someone else. I will not be supplying her secrets.
“Datu Bulan was impressed with your success in the rank tournament,” Indah notes. “He was not invited to attend your wedding, but we heard word of it. We were shocked to learn of Tarek’s death. He has lorded over the continent for years. Now that he’s dead, many wonder what’s become of the Zhaleh.”
Alarm spikes through me, but I manage not to react. “I have no idea.”
“Datu Bulan feared the fall of Vanhi meant Hastin seized the Zhaleh as well, but our informants reported that the warlord has been hunting for it . . . and you.”
“I cannot imagine why.”
Indah folds her arms loosely across her chest. “I can tell you’re lying. Your heartbeat sped up. I can feel the blood pumping faster through your veins.”
Indah senses the water in my blood moving through my body. Remarkable and terrifying. Since she can detect my lie, I opt to say nothing.
“The Zhaleh belongs in Lestari, protected by our Virtue Guards,” she presses. “We want to help Prince Ashwin, but Datu Bulan won’t provide aid to the empire unless the Zhaleh is safe with us.”
My pulse hums faster despite her monitoring it. “Then you’ve wasted your time coming here.”
I start to walk away, and Indah calls after me. “You cannot protect the book alone, Kalinda. Only Virtue Guards can guarantee its security.”
I pass Pons in the shadows and speed up. I hasten out of the garden, past the celebrating guests, and into the palace. Partway down the corridor, I pull off my veil and then turn into my chamber. Natesa’s antechamber door is closed; she must have turned in for the night. I haul out my sketchbook. The Zhaleh is still hidden inside, but for how long? Indah cannot be alone in her search. Everyone knows Tarek had the book, and now that he is dead—
My chamber door flings open, and Ashwin marches in. “Are you all right? I saw you leave the feast in a hurry.”
I lay the book in my lap and conceal it with my hands. “I’m fine. Indah said something that worried me.”
“Was it about the Zhaleh?” His directness blindsides me. Ashwin sits beside me on the bed. “Brother Shaan told me you brought it from home. Do you have it?”
Brother Shaan trusts the prince enough to tell him about the book, so I might as well show him. I remove the Zhaleh from the sketchbook facade and set it in his lap.
Ashwin rests a tentative hand over the weathered cover. “It’s real.” He opens the book and peruses the pages. “I appreciate all books and texts, but this . . . The Zhaleh has existed since Anu bestowed godly powers on the First Bhutas.” He reaches the back of the book, farther than I sought. The final page has symbols all over it, runes.
“Can you read them?”
“A few.” Ashwin runs his fingers over the marks. “This means ‘evernight,’ this means ‘smoke,’ and this here means ‘awaken’ or ‘rekindle.’”
My skin bristles in alarm. “This is the incantation to release the Voider.”
Ashwin pulls his finger away from the page, as if touching it alone will transfer evil onto him. “I dare not read more, for once the incantation is started, it must be completed. I don’t know if this belief is true, but I’ve heard the invoker will go mad with desire to finish the spell.”
“The incantation is a curse?”
“From what I can glean, it is sort of a prayer, but not to the gods.”
“Then to who?” I question.
“Not who, what. When the day was made, so was the night. When man was made, so was his shadow. The Void dwells in darkness, and life dwells in light. The Voider cannot cross over to where light reigns unless he’s invited. But once welcomed, everything the gods created would be consumed by evernight.”
My nerves tingle from heightened awareness. The shadows between the lanterns grow sinister fangs.
Ashwin goes on in a hushed tone. “It’s said that the Voider can call to those in the light, tempting them with the promise of a favor. From what I have read, it isn’t a favor as we know it. Whatever the person who releases the Voider desires most is the bargain the demon must fulfill. Even knowing the dangers, having your heart’s wish granted is an enticement many cannot resist.”
My heart’s wish is to start a life with Deven independent of the rajah’s reign, but I would not unleash a demon to attain it. “A heart’s wish won’t mean much when the world is ending.”
Ashwin closes the Zhaleh and offers it to me. “Desperate people can be deceived. A mirage tricks them into believing cool waters await them, but when they bring a drink to their lips, they draw in sand.”
I hold the Zhaleh, a plan to hide it forming in my mind. I will need a contingency arrangement should something happen to me during the trial tournament. I offer Ashwin the oil vessel. “The Zhaleh and vessel are both needed to release the Voider, so we’ll hide them apart. You take the vessel, and I’ll take the book.”
Ashwin studies the small container with a troubled frown. “How many bhutas died to fill this?”
“Tarek needed a thousand drops of blood, one each from a thousand bhutas.”
Ashwin’s fist slowly curls around the vessel, and he slips it into his pocket. “I should return to the feast.”
“Citra is probably wondering where her dance partner went,” I tease.
He grimaces. “Are all kisses so . . . wet?”
“No.” I laugh and then my heart pangs, thinking of Deven, my first kiss.
Ashwin’s demeanor sobers. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” I shift away from him, and the corners of his mouth turn downward.
Ashwin rises to leave, pausing at the door. “Kalinda? Don’t tell me where you hide the Zhaleh. I may not be strong enough to resist the call of the Voider. I’m still of Tarek’s blood.”
“Brother Shaan wouldn’t have told you about the book if he was worried.” I push a reassuring smile at him. “You shouldn’t be afraid of becoming your father.”
Ashwin’s gaze pulls inward. “Unfortunately, I should.”
I tiptoe into Natesa’s darkened antechamber and stop beside her bed. Her sleeping face looks peaceful without her typically cross expression and sarcastic smirk. When I knew her at the temple, Natesa dreamed of marrying a rich benefactor. She was livid when Tarek picked her as his courtesan. Does she have nightmares about the Turquoise Palace? Do visions of Tarek disturb her sleep?
I have not thought to tell her of my own nightmares. I trust Natesa—she would not be here otherwise—but I have only ever confided my deepest fears in Jaya.
I shake Natesa’s shoulder gently. When she does not stir, I jostle her harder.
She groans. “You better be on fire.” Lamplight streams through the open door, falling across her groggy face. “It’s the middle of the night. I need at least eight hours of sleep, or I’ll have puffy eyes tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry for waking you, but I need your help.”
Natesa pushes herself up to sitting, her dark hair wavy around her. “Do you really need me right now?”
“Yes.” I lower my voice even more. “I need your help hiding the Zhaleh.”
I pace the width of my bedchamber the following afternoon. The colorful inks and charcoals beside the untouched parchment taunt me from the corner of my eye. I pause to finger the tops of the ink jars. Red, yellow, blue . . . I could try them. Just one drawing . . .
I yank my hand back and pace again.
“Would you sit down?” Natesa asks, brushing polish over her nails. After a yawn, she adds, “You’re making me anxious.”
I am anxious. No one knows what I can expect for skill demonstrations this evening. Not even Opal and Rohan have heard anything. The sultan is not revealing any more about the trial-tournament proceedings. All I know is that I am to meet my competitors at the mouth of the Morass at sunset.
Across the room hangs a tapestry of the jungle. Within the verdure are an elephant, a tiger, and a dragon cobra curled near a rock, as well as crocodiles sunning on the riverbank. The dangerous creatures are symbols of Ki’s majesty and power, a harrowing reminder that this is her land and I am a mere visitor. I draw my daggers and aim at the tapestry. I release the first dagger. The pointed end cuts through the cloth, impaling the wall. A fair hit. I grip my second dagger and toss it next. The blade lands below the first.
“Would you fetch me a drink of water, please?” Natesa asks, lying stretched out on my bed.
“You’re my servant, not the other way around.”
“I seem to remember you waking me in the middle of the night. I have puffy eyes to prove it.”
“You promised not to speak of it,” I remind her. Last night, after an hour of debating the best place to hide the Zhaleh, we hid the book under loose floor tiles in her antechamber. Should someone come sneaking around for it, we agreed they would search my room. Natesa is nearly always in our chambers, so she will guard the book.
She flashes her hands at me and fakes a pout. “I have wet nails.”
“Fine. Give me a moment to finish.” As I retrieve my blades, Tarek’s figure appears in the dimness out of the corner of my eye.
I’ve missed you, love. He reaches for my hair, his eyes smoldering with need.
Pain lashes up my arm from the rank marks on my hands. I rip a blade from the wall and throw it at him. The dagger turns end over end through Tarek, and he vanishes. My dagger hits a potted tree in the corner, rustling leaves, and falls to the floor.
“Kalinda?” Natesa joins my side, staring at the accosted tree. “Did I miss something?”
I hold still, waiting for my pulse to calm. “I thought I saw a . . . a lizard.”
“Hmm. That’s enough practice for now.” Natesa wraps her arm around me and directs me to my bed.
I lie down, numb with confusion. Tarek has never visited my mind in the daytime. Could there be legitimacy to my nightmares? Do the gods consider our marriage binding?
My memory replays the image of Tarek in the shadows. Only now that I think about it, he looked different. His eyes blazed like coals disintegrating into the night, and when he reached for me . . . the backs of my hands burned.
The sun sinks into the treetops. Standing with my competitors at the Morass, I try to dismiss the notion that every creeping creature lurking in the trees is waiting to draw me into the jungle’s gullet.
A small crowd of onlookers gather to hear what our skill of demonstration will be. Princess Citra holds herself with confidence, at ease in this wild land of her heritage. Indah and Tinley peer anxiously into the foliage. I seek out Ashwin. He is the only attendee who cares what happens to me. Although he is preoccupied with the sultan, my nerves are steadier with him near.
The sultan addresses us from the front of the crowd. “Welcome to skill demonstrations. The purpose of this preliminary contest is to provide competitors the opportunity to display their abilities to all of the foreign dignitaries and courts. At the sound of the gong, competitors will go into the jungle and search out the most deadly thing the Morass has to offer. Dangerous animals, plants, and insects dwell here. Each competitor must find and capture one lethal living thing from the jungle. This demonstration will test their weaponry skill, tracking and hunting ability, and orienteering.”
The Morass is not somewhere I wish to spend the day, let alone the night. I try to avoid things that want to kill me.
“One more rule.” Sultan Kuval’s mustache twitches with delight. “Competitors must return to the palace throne room by dawn with their deadly offering or be disqualified.”
The old buzzard is changing the rules. By tradition, skill demonstrations are regulated, to the point of allotting the same amount of time to each competitor for her performance. Adding the possibility of elimination is unheard of. But protesting the alteration is pointless. The sultan and my competitors will think I am a bellyacher if I complain. Moreover, this does not change my plan. I will still be in and out of the jungle as fast as I can.
Sultan Kuval directs the servant manning the gong. “Ready your mark.”
Indah bends into her knees, preparing to run. Citra draws her machete and sends me an arrogant grin. Her father handpicked this skill demonstration to suit her. Tinley straightens the strap of her quiver, filled with bolts for her crossbow.
The gong sounds, vibrating across the open space. My competitors tear off in separate directions. I draw my daggers and sprint into the dense trees.
Beneath the leafy canopy, grayness coats everything, thick as the steaming air. I dart through the cloying mists, water rattling in my lungs. Soon, I can no longer hear the sounds of civilization, and I pause to catch my breath.
Strange noises echo all around me. Above me, a macaque peers down from a low bough. Its persistent stare itches at my nerves. Monkeys can bite when provoked, but they are not considered dangerous. I am here for the most lethal predator I can find. The king of the Morass.
I walk away from the macaque and trudge into a swamp, wading up to my knees. Fireflies zip past me, brightening flecks of light. The shielded sky dims to pervasive dark. My thighs burn as I wrench my feet from the muddy waters. I would fashion a torch of some kind, but everything is soaked and green, unfit for burning.
When I finally leave the bog, something wiggles against my leg. I bend down and brush against a slimy, fat body. “Agh!” Hopping up and down, I pluck the leeches off my ankles. Blood spills from my skin where they fed from me. Leeches are deadly in large numbers, but I can do better. I toss the bloated pests aside and move on.
Not too far ahead, the trees open to a quiet clearing, and I come to a halt. Moonlight shines down on old stone pilings. I follow a dilapidated, crumbling wall to the structure’s darkened main entrance set between two pillars. The ancient ruins extend underground and into the hillside. These must be the remains of an archaic temple, abandoned long ago. Predators could be holed up inside, but I step away, my footsteps cautious. I will not trespass on sacred ground.
Something behind me snaps. I pull my dagger and whirl around. Before I see anything, the ground beneath me buckles and lifts me backward.
Citra’s shadow splits from a copse of ferns. She raises the ground beneath me again, and the avalanche shoves me toward the temple entrance. I stumble on the sliding dirt dragging me into the ruins. I grab the lip of the door and hang on. Citra sends forth an incessant stream of rocks, pelting my arms and face.
“You’ve found the most deadly thing in the jungle,” she says.
“Your father didn’t mean our opponents.”
“My father underestimates me. He thinks I’m unfit to rule, but I’ll show him how worthy I am after I take your throne.”
She pummels me with more dirt, pushing me farther inside. My grip on the doorjamb lessens, my beaten knuckles aching.
“This was Ki’s sanctuary,” Citra yells over the barrage. “Under these ruins lies a labyrinth of tunnels. Even if you find a way out, you will not return to the palace by dawn. Do me a favor—don’t return at all.”
She throws a storm of rubble at me. I grip the doorway, soil seeping into my nose and stinging my eyes. Larger rocks hit my wrists and arms. One of my hands slips. Holding on with my final grip, I reach for my powers, but a landslide sweeps me into the ruins.
Citra seals the door, and I am locked in the dark.