4
KALINDA
Hours later, after flying over the seemingly endless eastern rice fields and marshlands, the road twists south, but Opal stays her course southeast over an endless expanse of trees. We fly above the jungle while I watch the treetops rippling beneath us like emerald waves.
“I need to rest,” Opal says an hour or so later. “Be ready to descend.”
The wind lessens, and we dip. I grip the navigation bar as the greenery comes nearer. The emergent trees, tualang and kapok, rise above the rest of the canopy. We dip past one, still coasting downward.
“Um, Opal? Where are we going to land?”
“Ever see a myna perch in a tree?”
I groan. Oh no.
Opal decreases the wind again, and we drop. I turn my face away from the incoming leaves. Branches snap and slap my face and legs. Opal’s wind dwindles off, and foliage surrounds the wing flyer, slowing us to a jolting halt.
Our legs dangle behind us, our bodies held up by the passengers’ plank. The wing flyer suspends high above the ground in a giant banyan tree. We are not mynas relaxing in the sun, more like floating lanterns tangled in a maze of branches.
Opal swings down off the flyer onto a sturdy bough and waves for me to go next. I lower myself beside her, sending the tree limb swaying, and grip another offshoot for balance. The abundant leafage veils the sun. Strange, discordant birdcalls echo across the treetops, and buzzing insects flit about, large as butterflies but with menacing pinchers and iridescent wings. Mists obscure the far-off trees and skulk across the hidden jungle floor.
“Sorry for the height,” Opal says. “Any lower and the wing flyer couldn’t take off again.”
“Where are we?”
“The Morass.”
Wariness settles inside me. From what I recall of my topography studies, the Morass straddles the border between the Tarachand Empire and the sultanate of Janardan. Old as the primeval gods, the nearly impassable tropical forest is home to deadly serpents, man-eating beasts, and poisonous plants.
Opal passes me a persimmon from her satchel. “The roadway the refugees travel goes south around the Morass. This is the most direct path. We should arrive in Iresh by nightfall.”
I cup the ripe fruit loosely and turn my palm over to check my burns. My blisters have popped and scabbed from holding on to the wing flyer for hours.
Opal devours four pieces of heart-shaped fruit in the same time I eat one. She covered more ground in her wing flyer than I thought possible, but she needs to store up strength for the final portion of our journey.
“How do you know Brother Shaan?” I ask.
Opal flicks a beetle from the tree branch, and it vanishes in the fog below. “Soldiers visited our hut in the middle of the night and broke down the door. Mother told Rohan and me to run to the Brotherhood temple. Brother Shaan hid us from them. A few months later he sneaked us into Janardan.”
“And your mother?”
The Galer pauses, her voice quieting. “She didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry.”
Opal contemplates the persimmon in her hand. “Sometimes I hear her voice on the wind, whispering that she loves me. She’s gone, but I know it’s her, speaking to me from her next life.”
What I would give to hear Jaya’s voice again.
“Then it must be her,” I reply softly.
Opal tosses off her nostalgia. “Are you really a Burner?” she asks, more inquisitive than accusatory, but I am reluctant to answer. “Even before I saw your hand glowing last night, I knew you were. Brother Shaan swore Rohan and me to secrecy, but I had already guessed that’s how you defeated Kindred Lakia in your rank tournament. You parched her.” I startle at her perceptiveness before I can catch myself. Opal grins. “I told Rohan that’s how you won. Wait until he hears I’m right.”
I lean against an intersection of boughs, unwilling to discuss my rank tournament. I work too hard to forget it. I try to relax and recuperate from our long flight, but my muscles refuse to unwind. Did my group escape the rebels? Duty to the empire or not, we should have stayed together.
“Have you heard anything from the others?” I ask Opal.
“Not yet, but the wind always leads my brother and me to each other.”
I hug my knees to my chest, wishing I had her certainty. “Do you like hearing the secrets of the wind?”
Opal answers after finishing a yawn. “I don’t hear all secrets, but I know yours. You carry the Zhaleh.”
My spine stretches in alarm. The Zhaleh contains the bhutas’ lineage records leading back to when Anu gifted the First Bhutas with godly powers. The book also holds the incantation to release the Voider, a darkness sent to this world by the demon Kur to combat bhutas’ godly light. The warlord seeks to unleash this caged power for revenge against those who persecuted his people under Rajah Tarek’s reign. Hastin desires the promised favor the Voider is said to owe the soul who releases it. One almighty wish.
“May I see it?” asks Opal.
“Why?” I lower my fingers to my dagger sheathed against my thigh. The book cannot be taken by someone who would use it for violence or personal gain. I tire of the responsibility of guarding it. But with whom does the Zhaleh belong?
“Every bhuta’s name from the time of the First Bhutas to when Rajah Tarek stole the book is recorded within.” Opal adds in a small voice, “My mother’s name is inside.”
I have been too intimidated by the Zhaleh to thumb through its pages, not even to see my father’s name. I shiver at the thought of disturbing the book’s slumbering powers and fist the hilt of my dagger beneath my skirt. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“All right,” Opal says. I frown at her hasty compliance. She yawns again, her expression anything but sinister. “I won’t fight you for it, Kindred. I’m just curious.”
She tips her head back against the tree trunk and closes her eyes. I leave my grip on my dagger, should her cooperation be a ruse, but the only movement near us comes from a mosquito landing on my arm. Before the insect can feed off me, I heat my skin with my powers, and the mosquito shrivels to ash.
A bone-chilling yowl rises from the jungle floor. The short hairs on my arms prickle. While Opal rests, I stand watch over the rolling mists and count the minutes until we leave the Morass.
Opal frees the wing flyer from the trees with a hearty breeze, and we rise from the murky canopy into afternoon daylight. I inhale deeply, breathing easier above the closed-in jungle.
Refreshed by a nap and food, Opal calls brisk, fair winds, and we fly eastward. Drowsiness tampers with my attentiveness when the sun begins to sink at our backs and the copse of trees below is parted by a mighty green-hued river.
“The River Ninsar will lead us the rest of the way,” Opal shouts above the rushing air.
Minutes later, twinkling city lanterns manifest on the purple horizon like waking fireflies. She summons a strong gale, and we speed toward the shining beacon of Iresh, racing the final rays of daylight.
We plunge down and graze the river’s surface, our reflection darkening the jade waters. Opal dips her toe in and splashes our legs. I smile, rejuvenated by its coolness.
I’ve done it. I’ve left the Tarachand Empire.
I may as well have stepped into another world. No spiky mountains haunt my peripheral vision, and the dull orange and brown of the desert have been replaced by a flourishing oasis that could revive the whole of any wasteland. Civilization nestles in the heart of the Morass, the reddish-yellow lights the jungle’s lifeblood.
Our wing flyer stays low, gliding over the river alongside a battalion of flitting bugs. Huddled between a tremendous cliff and the River Ninsar, Iresh molds into the lush foliage.
We soar over riverboats that bob along the merchant-lined waterfront. Opal draws a wind beneath us, and we climb steeply. My stomach drops and then floats back up when we level off. I gaze down at circular bamboo huts with domed roofs. Vines buckle the narrow roadways and scale walls, the jungle veins connecting everything and everyone.
Opal flies us higher, trailing a wide, zigzagging stairway etched into the side of a craggy cliff looming over the riverside city. We crest the top, and a tremendous gold-leaf domed palace with low, flat columned outer buildings spans the breadth of the plateau. Living, breathing vines cover the Beryl Palace’s mossy walls. A waterfall engraves a raging path from the center of the palace grounds down the cliff and lays root in the river. Even here the Morass encroaches on man, but the Beryl Palace maintains firm hold against the jungle, a pillar of fortitude for the city at its feet.
The wing flyer glides to an open strip of grassland in a garden within the palace grounds. Opal reins in her winds. We land effortlessly, and she hops off the flyer. I slip down and stretch, my arms and back aching with fatigue.
Soldiers file out from the covered patios stretching alongside the grass. They line a stone path leading to a palace entry and stare straight ahead. Opal stays by the wing flyer. I hover near her, my hand tight on the turquoise hilt of my sheathed dagger. I eye the guards, absorbing every detail of their loose, buttonless tunics and skirted legs, along with the machetes at their hips and the khandas strapped to their backs. The guards in the Turquoise Palace wore stiff, high-buttoned collared jackets and long trousers. This is the first time I have seen men sporting skirts. The bagginess of their apparel must be cooler in this muggy heat.
An elegant young woman in a lime-green sari sweeps down the pathway. “You made good time. Where’s Rohan?”
“We were separated in a rebel attack,” Opal replies. “He and the remainder of the kindred’s party will join us later.”
“You must be Kindred Kalinda,” the young woman says. “I’m Princess Citra, Sultan Kuval’s eldest daughter.” She speaks the same language everyone on the continent does, but her s sounds like a z.
The princess examines me up and down with a summary frown. I am not known for my beauty. I am too thin, too tall. I wear no eye kohl or rouge staining my lips and cheeks. No makeup colors Princess Citra’s face either, yet her eyes shine like the River Ninsar, dark pools reflecting the green of the jungle. Her blackish hair hangs straight down her back, the top strands braided and twisted up in a crown. Her silky yellow-brown skin hints of floral perfume, but she is no delicate bloom. A machete hangs at her waist, and judging from her trim figure, firm stance, and sandaled feet fastened to the land, she is skilled with her blade.
Princess Citra meets my survey of her with a self-assured smirk. “Prince Ashwin requests your company straightaway.” Something possessive, even predatory, takes hold of her when she mentions the prince.
I slide a questioning glance at Opal—is the princess always this intense?—and she motions for me to follow her.
The princess leads us down the path and through a high-arched doorway into the Beryl Palace. Torches light the vacant halls. Ceramic pots with bushy plants bring the verdure of the jungle indoors. Emerald banners hang from ceiling to floor. Each corridor has a gold-framed portrait of the land-goddess Ki wearing a huge black snake draped over her shoulders—a dragon cobra—the sultanate of Janardan’s imperial symbol.
My soul-fire flickers as we navigate the corridors, shrinking and growing every so often. I would think it odd if I was not so tired. I must stoke my inner fire with food and rest. I will not be found defenseless on foreign soil.
I maintain cautious awareness of the Janardanian soldiers. Some wear a yellow cloth band tied around their upper arm, embroidered with one godly symbol: sky, land, or water. No fire symbol, so far. They must be the sultan’s bhuta guards.
“Why don’t you wear a yellow armband?” I whisper to Opal, depending on her sensitive ears to hear me.
After a glance at Princess Citra’s back, she answers. “Bhuta refugees have two choices: sign the peace treaty and agree not to use their powers or swear fealty to Sultan Kuval and join his army. Rohan opted for the latter. The sultan doesn’t retain women in his army, so I signed the treaty. I’ve been given special permission to use my powers so long as I serve as a personal servant to the prince.”
“And who are they?” I ask of the white-clad guards with shaved heads alongside the princess. They are plain faced and fit, with toned torsos and arms.
“Eunuchs. They protect the sultan’s queens, courtesans, and children.”
How strange this place is from home. Not only did Tarek not employ eunuchs to guard his women, his courtesans were forced to entertain his men of court. I grimace at the memory of Tarek’s ill-treatment of Natesa and Mathura.
Princess Citra stops before a curved doorway. Stationed on either side of the entry are guards dressed in baggy dark-green uniforms. My longing intensifies to a piercing ache. The Janardanian guards’ postures and strict demeanors remind me of Deven.
“Your chamber is down the hall,” the princess says and then ushers Opal and me through the door.
Brother Shaan rises from a chair near an empty hearth. A smile rips across my face. He devoted his life to the Parijana faith—and to protecting me, the daughter of Rajah Tarek’s first-ever rani.
I hurry to Brother Shaan, and he wraps me in his arms. “My child,” he says, “you’re safe.”
“Anjali attacked us.” I draw away. The wrinkles on his weathered face are permanently creased into a state of concern. “I left ahead of Deven and the others.”
He grasps my cold hands in his warm ones. “You did what was right.”
Princess Citra taps her nails against her leg, her voice short. “Prince Ashwin asked to see Kindred Kalinda as soon as she arrived.”
“His Majesty is in his study,” says Brother Shaan. “I’ll look after the kindred from here. Good night, Princess.”
She bottles her breath, then exhales sharply and marches out.
“Where’s the book?” Brother Shaan asks. I lift the flap of my pack, and he peeks in at the Zhaleh. “And the oil vessel?”
“Here as well.” I nearly forgot the oil vessel was in my satchel. I try not to think about carrying around a vial that contains a thousand drops of bhuta blood acquired from years of Rajah Tarek’s merciless bloodlettings and stonings. Tarek needed to consume the blood before speaking the incantation in the Zhaleh that releases the Voider, but he did not live long enough to start the ritual.
Brother Shaan lowers the flap of my bag. “They’re safer with you. Continue to protect them. We’re beyond Hastin’s reach here, but others will seek them for their advantage.” I would rather give Brother Shaan the Zhaleh, but I can withstand a couple more days watching over it. “And, Kalinda, Burners are not welcome in Iresh. The sultan isn’t prejudiced; he’s an opportunist. Burners are historically harder to control. If Sultan Kuval discovers what you are, he’ll take action against you. For now, your heritage must stay private.”
I have lots of practice hiding my powers to put others at ease, so I see no harm in continuing.
A low voice sounds behind us. “Brother Shaan—oh. I didn’t realize we have visitors.”
I swivel to see a man in the far doorway. Great Anu, it cannot be.
His shiny dark hair is trimmed and combed back, his smooth face beardless. His soft skin is oily, like a freshly molted snake, and his apparel is sewn from the finest silk, purple as a field of irises. The regal man stands tall, perched above the world like a proud bird of prey.
Rajah Tarek is alive.
The rajah’s face lights up, as though he has been waiting for me here all this time. I whip out my dagger and push Brother Shaan behind me.
“Stay back,” I warn.
Rajah Tarek’s smile shrinks, and he closes his book. “I—I apologize for startling you, Kalinda.”
His voice is wrong.
The realization triggers an avalanche of other details that my startled mind only now registers. His chin is softer and eyes rounder. He is a tad taller and thinner than Tarek, gangly and less muscular. His clean-shaven face is young, placing him a year or two under me. And he carries a book that he was reading when he walked in. I never once saw Tarek interested in reading.
Brother Shaan steps out in front of me. “Your Majesty, please forgive the kindred. You’ve given her quite a shock.” He pushes my arm down, lowering my dagger. “You came in before I could prepare her. Kindred, this is Prince Ashwin.”
I stare at the man—no, boy—before me. The longer I gape at him, the more obvious my mistake. He is a twin of his father, but the subtle dissimilarities are apparent enough for my face to heat with humiliation.
“Your Majesty.” I manage a short bow, my guarded gaze firm on him.
The prince steps fully into the chamber, and, on instinct, I raise my dagger. He sidesteps, skirting me near the exterior of the room. “I’ll shake your hand later.”
I tremble at the thought of touching him. The prince notices my disdain, and injury fills his eyes. Did I not tell Deven to give Prince Ashwin a chance? I rush to recover my abysmal first impression. “We traveled across Tarachand from temple to temple, searching for you.”
“We?” he asks, glancing behind me. Opal sits in the chair Brother Shaan vacated, picking dried carob seeds from a dish on the table.
“I had to leave my companions behind with Rohan. They’ll join us soon.”
“Are they all right?” he asks.
Prince Ashwin’s concern causes me pause. “I . . . I don’t know, Your Majesty.”
Remorse flickers across his face. I am entranced by his openness; I cannot recall seeing Tarek regretful about anything. Prince Ashwin turns away from me, and his voice softens. “I appreciate your coming, Kalinda. I was uncertain if you would.”
I frown at his back, desiring to see his haunting face and read his expression. “Of course, Your Majesty. I am here to help you with your transition onto the throne.”
The prince swivels back around. Even after listing their dissimilarities, I am still unprepared for how closely he resembles his father. Don’t be a fledgling. He isn’t Tarek.
“I cannot express how grateful I am that you’re here,” says Prince Ashwin. “I was worried you would decline to come for the tournament.”
I go still, my stomach lurching with unease. “What tournament?”
The prince flashes a startled look at Brother Shaan. “You said you would tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I demand, my voice rising.
Brother Shaan gestures at Opal, a half wave. “You may go now.” She hops to her feet and scoots for the door.
“Tell me what?” I call after her as she leaves. I fix Brother Shaan with an impatient glower. “What is this about? What tournament?”
Prince Ashwin toys nervously with a gold cuff around his wrist. “The sovereigns of the neighboring countries are alarmed by Hastin’s insurgence. They want to see him displaced and his rebel army stopped. They agree we require aid, but not on how much and who will supply it.”
“We need allies,” says Brother Shaan, “but the other rulers are reluctant to risk their manpower and resources without being invested in Ashwin’s new empire. Sultan Kuval offered to host a trial tournament to determine who would be responsible for aiding us. All four sovereigns will submit one female competitor to vie as a representative from their nation. Ashwin consented on the condition that he could select the competitor from Tarachand. Your reputation is hailed all over the continent, and as the current kindred, your continued reign would assure our people’s cooperation.”
“What’s the reward for winning?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“My kindred’s throne,” Prince Ashwin replies with a bright smile that does not warm me. “The champion will have the honor of marrying me.”
“I don’t want to marry you.” Prince Ashwin frowns in hurt. Has he already envisioned me as his wife? I will have to put a stop to that right away. “I don’t want the throne.”
Brother Shaan licks his lips with cautious hope. “You must see the diplomatic advantage the other sovereignties would gain should one of their competitors win. The Tarachand Empire is the largest territory on the continent and has the richest resources. Prince Ashwin has promised to open trade negotiations once he is seated on the throne and offered a treaty of arms in support of lessening tensions. The sultan has agreed to provide bhuta military aid, regardless of the tournament’s outcome. It’s in all our best interests to bind states in defense against the rebel insurgents.”
His diplomatic reasoning does not explain the need for a tournament. “Why doesn’t the prince wed a wife from each sovereign?”
“I recommended that,” Prince Ashwin insists. “I suggested the champion be my first wife, and the other contenders would be my second, third, and fourth wives, according to the succession of their performance in the tournament. But Sultan Kuval felt the strongest alliance should remain solely between us and the champion’s nation. Too many competing agendas would frustrate the purpose for uniting nations, which is to defend against our common threat—the warlord.”
Brother Shaan finishes the explanation. “All Sultan Kuval requests is that Princess Citra has a chance to contend for the throne. Female representatives from Lestari and Paljor will arrive soon to compete.”
“I swore I would never step foot in the arena again.” Of the three of us, only I have fought and killed in a tournament. My memories of the bloody duels dredge up horrors I have struggled to bury. I will not relive them.
“This will be unlike your rank tournament,” assures Brother Shaan. “Each contender will be tested in a series of challenges intended to find the most worthy queen. The final test will remain a traditional match between the last two competitors, a duel to first blood.”
Back home, “first blood” means competitors battle until someone’s throat is slit. But a series of trials would be less life threatening. “What will these trials be?”
“We don’t know particulars,” answers Brother Shaan. “Sultan Kuval will devise them.”
“Then you cannot guarantee this will be different than my rank tournament!” I hear how rancorous I sound, and with great effort, I level my voice. “What happens if I refuse?”
“We haven’t considered that outcome,” Prince Ashwin admits. “You’re the only rani who escaped Vanhi. We have no one else.”
“Then I suggest you get used to the idea of wedding a foreigner.” I storm for the door.
“Kalinda,” Prince Ashwin calls, catching up. “Please—”
“I won’t fight for you.”
He smiles, a dashing tilt of his lips. “I was going to ask if you would like me to escort you to your chamber.”
I deflate a tad. He must know I cannot find my way alone. “Fine.”
He joins me, leaving a gap between us. I widen our distance even more. I am not skittish, but Prince Ashwin has brought my nightmares of Tarek back to life.
We leave his chamber in silence, the Janardanian guards following us. I peek at the prince from the corner of my eye. He catches me, and I swiftly glance away.
“You aren’t the first to fear me for my appearance,” he says.
“The resemblance is incredible.” I assumed the prince would have more of his mother in him. Prince Ashwin is Lakia and Tarek’s son, and I am Lakia’s niece.
The prince and I are cousins. Family.
I mellow my voice. “It isn’t you they fear. It’s him.”
“I’m born of Tarek’s blood. Isn’t that the same?”
“I—I don’t know.” I walk faster. We do not choose the circumstances we are born into or the gods’ will for us, but which shapes us the most? Do our parents’ choices bind us to an inescapable fate or do our own?
Prince Ashwin pauses at an open door. “Brother Shaan told me of your tastes and hobbies. I took the liberty of requesting a few comforts for your stay. Opal will be your personal guard. I hope you find everything to your liking.”
I step inside the chamber, and my knees weaken with want. I have not slept in a bed since I left Vanhi. Adjacent to the large bed is a table with three chairs, and near the hearth is a raised lounge. More potted plants and trees stand in corners, as though the jungle could not spare a single room from its intrusion.
“Kalinda.” The wistful way Prince Ashwin speaks my name compels me to face him. The strength of his optimistic gaze spears me to my spot. “I would like for you to join me in defending our homeland. I need you to stand on my right-hand side.”
“I’ve stood on the right-hand side of the rajah’s throne. No matter what you were told about me, that isn’t where I belong.”
His shoulders draw up, his elbows tucking into his sides, holding himself tight. “I’m not blind to the legacy I’ve inherited. Rajah Tarek was a tyrant, but he also made you a champion.”
“I made myself a champion. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” I slam the door in his startled face, letting the satisfaction of the brusque echo vibrate through me.
A servant bustles in from an antechamber. I wave her away. “I don’t need a servant. Tell them to reassign you.”
She retreats the way she came, and I prowl the bedchamber, searching for possible exits, an escape route, should I need one. None of the closed windows have latches. I check the balcony, dissatisfied with my findings. The exit is too high to jump from, and armed guards patrol in the garden below, either to protect me or to lock me in. Most likely both. And Opal will be stationed outside my door.
I am stuck.
I take off my satchel and drop it on the bed. A note addressed to me rests on the table. Beside the note are a sketchbook and a tray of fine quills, ink bottles, and charcoals. I run my fingers over the rainbow array of inks. I have always wanted to learn how to paint, but I pull away. Prince Ashwin cannot bribe me.
But perhaps the prince’s gift could have another use . . .
I tug the leather cover off the sketchbook and fit it around the Zhaleh. That will do. After slipping the Zhaleh back into my bag, I stretch out on the bed and try to relax into the downy pillow and silk sheets, but noises carry in from the balcony, lonesome birdcalls and warbling cicadas. My bedsheets smell oddly of musty moss.
A dull throbbing swells inside me. I wish for the crackle of a campfire, the grit of dust on my hands, and the comforting scent of warm sandalwood and leather. Where are you, Deven?
A yawn pops out of me. Shutting my eyes, I picture home to force my muscles to unwind, but Rajah Tarek’s spirit looms over me in the dark.