7
DEVEN
We soar into Iresh on a tailwind and land in the grounds of the Beryl Palace. I have never wanted to stand on my own two feet more than I do now.
The gardens are magnificent and clean, luxuries afforded to the affluent. No sooner do we jump down from the wing flyer than footsteps drum around us. Janardanian guards flock into the courtyard, and one points a machete at my nose.
This isn’t the warm welcome I expected.
I lift my hands away from my sword. One green-clad guard confiscates it, and another pats me down for hidden weapons. More guards disarm Yatin and Rohan, but when they reach Natesa, she shoves them away.
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses.
She is promptly wrangled and her haladie taken. Unarmed, she tosses them a look that would send a pig squealing.
A narrow-faced older man wearing a Janardanian military uniform strides into the garden. “Who are you?” he asks, coldly scrutinizing us.
“Vizier Gyan,” Rohan answers, “I’m an imperial guard here at the palace. These people are Kindred Kalinda’s party, come from Tarachand.”
“Refugees,” the vizier surmises.
“We’re the kindred’s personal guard, sir,” I explain.
Vizier Gyan arches a slim brow at Yatin’s filthy uniform and my lack of one. “And you are?”
“Captain Deven Naik, sir.” I use my former title, as Kali probably gave it to them to identify us upon arrival.
“Welcome to Janardan, Captain,” says the vizier. “Are you or your companions bhutas? We are required by law to ask.”
A snap of apprehension hits me. Did Kali reveal she is a Burner? “We are not.”
Vizier Gyan squints at me a long moment, skeptical of my answer, and then swivels away and speaks to his men in a low voice.
Natesa studies the mossy palace walls in consternation. “If this is our reception, what did Kalinda walk into?”
Yatin gently squeezes her elbow for comfort.
The vizier returns his attention to us. “Rohan, you may go.”
Rohan, unable to argue with a higher-ranking officer, twists on his heels and enters the palace. Four guards with yellow armbands flank the rest of us.
Vizier Gyan smiles without warmth. “Captain Naik, your party will come with us.”
“Where are we going?” I ask, heedful of the armed escort.
“We have protocols regarding refugees.” A muscle in the vizier’s cheek jumps slightly from his insincere smile. “As a military man, you must understand our need for order.”
What I understand is that this man controls whether or not I see Kali. “Lead the way.” I will comply with him, for now.
Vizier Gyan and his soldiers direct us down a steep stairway to the dense jungle below. Everything is so green. Vines and wild fruit trees grow alongside the stairs, and moss lives in the cracks of the stones. Life thrives on every surface. The jungle is suffocating compared to the barrenness of the desert.
White patches of tents appear below. The encampment is barricaded with a fence patrolled by soldiers. A smaller compound is organized opposite the other and is closed in by high dirt walls. Watchtowers with mirrors for spotlights are posted at either end. Each camp has one gate near a guardhouse so soldiers can observe all those who enter and exit. A small locked hut is stationed between them, a weapons bunker.
I could not have designed more secure compounds myself, but the measures do not protect the refugees from outside forces. They lock the refugees in.
Vizier Gyan stops between the entranceways to the camps. “Captain Naik, I’ll escort you and your man to the military encampment.” He means the high-walled compound guarded by soldiers wearing yellow armbands, an identifier of some sort. “My guards will lead the young woman to the civilian camp.”
Yatin sidesteps closer to Natesa’s side. His great bulk is intimidating, but we are grossly outnumbered. Our last line of defense is our words.
“Sir, the kindred is expecting us,” I say. “Before we go in, please notify her of our arrival, or if she’s unavailable, Prince Ashwin.”
“That’s not a possibility,” Vizier Gyan replies. “You see, neither Kindred Kalinda nor the prince told us you were coming.”
I do not believe him. Kali would not forget to arrange for our arrival. More likely than not, Prince Ashwin has taken a liking to her and is keeping her from us. Or keeping me from her.
“This is our procedure for all refugees,” says the vizier, his words crisp. “Civilians and military personnel are to reside in separate camps.”
“These aren’t camps,” Natesa says, glaring. “They’re prisons.”
Vizier Gyan sniffs his nose at her. “These arrangements are temporary, miss.” He signals to his men. “Take them inside.”
Natesa jerks away from a guard. Yatin plants his feet apart, preparing for a fight. My fingers go for my sword—but they confiscated it. Our chance of running and hiding in the jungle tree line across the way is too risky. I will not endanger Yatin or Natesa.
“Yatin,” I say. He hears my command in my colorless voice. Stand down.
“Do as they say, little lotus,” Yatin tells Natesa.
She places her palm on his wide chest. Though her touch is gentle, her eyes are hard. “Don’t let them mistreat you.”
“I won’t,” he promises.
Guards escort Natesa to the gate for the civilian encampment. Additional guards nudge Yatin and me toward the high walls of the compound. One of them throws out his hand, and a sudden wind unlatches the gate. The guard is a Galer. I spot a sky symbol on his yellow armband. The armbands must distinguish the elite bhuta guards from the regular soldiers.
Vizier Gyan leads us to an open quad amid rows of canvas tents. Loitering men quiet when they see us. All of them are from home, some having served under my command. They wear prison garb, plain brown tunics and flowing trousers. A younger man, four years shy of my twenty, stalks up to me.
“Manas,” I breathe. He was a fellow palace guard who served under my command. The last time I saw him, he was battling the rebels beneath the Turquoise Palace. “I thought you were—”
Manas punches me in the jaw. I fall back a step, and he strikes me again, his knuckles slamming into my cheekbone. Yatin grabs Manas by the back of the shirt and lifts him away. Manas hangs from Yatin’s hand like an infuriated kitten in its mother’s maw.
“Traitor!” Manas bellows. “You betrayed Rajah Tarek!”
Vizier Gyan steps between us. “What’s the trouble here?”
Yatin sets Manas on his feet, and Manas yanks his shirt from Yatin’s hold. “Ask Captain Naik,” he growls.
I glower back at him, my jaw and cheek burning.
“You’re a disgrace to the imperial army,” Manas says, spitting at my feet.
More caustic glares from the other men box me in. These soldiers were my comrades. Manas and I were friends. I thought he died in the rebel insurgence and I would never see him again. I ball my vibrating fists. If the vizier were not involved, I would strike Manas for betraying our friendship. He turned me in to the rajah.
“Detain Captain Naik until I confer with Prince Ashwin,” Vizier Gyan calls to his guards.
Yatin puffs out his gigantic frame to protect me, but I signal for him to bow out. He crosses his arms over his chest and lobs a disgruntled look at Manas.
Guards usher me across the yard to a windowless shack, shove me inside, and slam the door. The dark cell stinks of stale body odor and rotten moss. A ray of sunlight sneaks through the crack at the bottom of the door.
Traitor. My men think I should be dead. I strike the wall with my fist. In the wave of pain that carries up my arm, my shock and anger at seeing Manas dissolve to bleak acceptance. Try as I might, I cannot entirely fault him or the men for their resentment. I did betray our empire by breaking my oath to serve the rajah. My penalty was not absolved, only postponed. I could pound against the door, demand to speak with the prince, and plead with him for forgiveness, but he is within his right to discipline me. Gods know, disobedience has a cost. The sky is everywhere, and Anu’s justice sees all.
Laden with regret, I bow my head. I’ll face my dishonor with humility. Just please, Anu . . . forgive me.
Minutes pass as cold fear trickles into my heart. My mind falls silent, but my heart prays on.