15
My guards stop shy of the high arched doorway leading to the throne room. I press a hand to my churning stomach. I am as unsettled as I was before the Claiming, only then I had Jaya by my side. I have never missed her more than I do now.
Deven maintains a proper distance but compensates for the gap between us with his soothing tone. “Approach the throne, and the rajah will receive you.”
My chin ticks up, and I step into the throne room. Stunning young women fill the long, grand hall, which is brightened by chandelier lamps. Cloth rustles as nearly a hundred veiled ranis and over two hundred courtesans turn on the red-and-gold satin floor cushions, where they are kneeling, to watch me enter. A center aisle separates the ranis from the courtesans. In addition to the numbers dyed on the back of their hands, the ranis are set apart from the courtesans by their loose hair and the veils hanging from their noses to their chins. Their veils are a public sign of devotion to their husband. Their lips are for his eyes only, the same as their other concealed body parts. Courtesans wear no veil, as they are not married. Their hair is tied in a single thick braid down their backs, and their revealing garments lack the refinement of the ranis’ attire.
Parisa and Eshana smile from their seats. Shyla is not here; she is with her newborn. Soon after I left the infirmary, word came that she had delivered a baby girl.
A dozen brethren stand off to the side, their ivory robes a calming force. A crimson carpet muffles my footsteps down the center aisle. Rajah Tarek waits at the other end in a high-backed gold throne set between two purple draperies swooping from ceiling to floor. He reclines to one side with his elbow on the armrest, casual in his stance, though his intense gaze is anything but. I cannot tear free of his stare.
The carpet ends at the base of the dais. Natesa kneels to my left, facing the rajah. She does not deign to give me a glance, but Lakia glares. The kindred occupies her own throne, set beside the rajah’s. A third throne stands empty to my right.
Rajah Tarek’s gleaming eyes range over me from head to toe. I grit my teeth. He raises a hand loaded with gem-encrusted rings. “Kneel,” he says to me.
I lower to the floor and rest my forehead against the cool marble. The court goes as silent as the moon. My quick breaths resound through my head, marking time.
Rajah Tarek speaks again. “After tireless searching, I have claimed my final viraji. Kalinda, arise.”
I stand, and one of the brethren brings over a pot of henna. He adds more dye to the faded line down my nose, reaffirming that I am a claimed bride.
“The brethren endorse this young woman,” says the brother. “We pray yours will be a happy union.”
“Your support is noted, Brother Shaan,” Tarek says.
Brother Shaan returns to his fellow brethren. I trail him out of the corner of my eye, having recognized his name; he is the brother Deven sent the beggar boy to for assistance.
The rajah gestures me forward. I scale the half dozen steps to the foot of his throne. He opens a velvet pouch and removes an ornate turquoise necklace. He holds up the jewelry for all to see. “For my final rani, I sought the help of the gods to find a young woman who resembled my first wife, Yasmin. I lost Yasmin when we were very young, but her short life changed mine forever. I scoured Tarachand for someone who could match her memory. A few came close, but none exhibited Yasmin’s brave spirit and selfless virtues more impressively than Kalinda.”
He fastens the necklace around my throat. The stones lie heavy and cold on my collarbone. “The gods teach us that life is a cycle. It is only appropriate that my final wife receive a token of my first wife, and so it is that Yasmin will live on through Kalinda.”
Rajah Tarek leads me by the elbow to sit in the unoccupied third throne. Angry tears pool in Lakia’s eyes. I face his court of ranis and courtesans, their stares almost as insufferable as his choking necklace. He has set me apart from his women. He may as well have placed a collar on me with a leash tying me to him.
Tarek’s hand floats down my hair. “The viraji is the champion of my choosing, but I am a benevolent man. I welcome any courtesan who believes she can best Kalinda to step forward. Let those who wish to duel for her rank cast their lot before us and the gods.”
The brethren file out of the throne room, and several women come forward. Natesa beats the others to the front of the line and hands me a square white envelope. At Tarek’s nod, I open the envelope and read the card within.
I, Natesa, hereby challenge the hundredth viraji to a rank duel.
“Viraji,” she says, bowing with a smirk.
“My newest courtesan,” Tarek says, his smile smoldering with charm. “Join me.”
Natesa crosses to his throne, and he pulls her into his lap. A servant brings the rajah a flask, and he drinks as he caresses Natesa’s hip. Lakia feigns cool detachment, but color builds in her cheeks, and her temples bounce from her clenching jaw.
My eyes widen at the lengthening line of courtesans before me. Fewer courtesans are in line than remain kneeling, but there are more than I had expected. One by one, those who wish to challenge me come forward and hand me their declarations. I open them and read their names. Ameya. Cala. Shanti. Manju.
After a dozen women, I cannot bear to keep count any longer, and I leave their envelopes unopened in my lap.
A tall, curvy young woman stops in front of me and rests a hand on her hip. “You don’t look sick.”
“I’m not.”
We study each other. She is about my age and as pretty as a dandelion. “I heard you went to the infirmary after sparring with the kindred.”
“I doubt I’m the first.”
The young woman’s gaze skips from me to Natesa and back again. “Are you contagious?”
My fingers curl over the armrests of my throne. “If you’re afraid of getting too close to me, you can step out of line.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She flings her declaration into my lap and struts away.
I open her envelope. Fareeshah. I have a feeling that I will need to remember her. Cupping my hands together, I straighten, forcing confidence into my posture.
Before long, Anjali prances to the front of the line, kisses her declaration, and tosses it at me. The envelope hits my leg and tumbles near my feet. Anjali sashays away, and Tarek chuckles.
A servant refills the rajah’s flask. The rajah tilts up Natesa’s chin and pours spirits down her throat. The back of my mouth scalds with anger. These women are willing to risk their lives to wed Tarek, and he will not sit through their ceremony without a drink in his hand and a woman in his lap.
I push to my feet and curl up my hands. The pile of white envelopes in my lap falls, scattering down the steps. Everyone goes silent, and Lakia sits higher in her throne.
Tarek sends me a glazed smile. “Has something upset you, love?”
I uncurl my hands. “I—I didn’t realize I would have so many challengers.”
“What does she have to complain about?” one courtesan in line mutters. “We’re on our feet, and she sits in a throne.”
Eshana shushes them, and the entire line of challengers scowls back at her.
Tarek considers the pile of declarations and frowns. “Yes, there are more challengers than I allotted for.”
He must realize that it is ludicrous for so many to fight to the death. I motion at the envelopes. “Do I have to duel them all?”
“That’s how the gods organized the tournament,” Tarek says, but his focus turns inward, and he swirls the tail of Natesa’s braid in his fingers.
His chin snaps up decisively. “The viraji has received more contenders than any other champion. It would be unjust for her to compete more than the others, and I believe the gods would frown upon an excessive trial of her worthiness.” He narrows his gaze at his women of court. “As it is my duty to bestow the mercy of the gods on my people, the viraji’s challengers will draw opponents by lots and battle against each other in pairs. The winner of each battle will then draw lots with the other winners. This will continue on until only three challengers remain. The viraji will then confront the top three courtesans in a final match.”
Murmurs break out across the hall. I sit again, my joints loosening with shock. Tarek has altered the tournament bylaws. Instead of dueling each opponent, I will have to win one battle against three contenders. Part of me wants to refuse his help—the rajah is setting me even further apart from his court—but I hold my tongue.
“But, Tarek,” Lakia says, “the viraji must fight each of her challengers. It is tradition.”
Silence seizes the women, and Natesa turns rigid in Tarek’s lap.
His tone chills. “Can I not change the rules? Am I not the rajah?”
“Forgive me, husband.” Lakia lowers her gaze, her lashes brushing her reddened cheeks.
The rajah shifts his stare to me and then down to the necklace constricting my throat. “The gods chose Kalinda to be my champion. I will provide her with every advantage she needs to secure her throne.”
A storm of nausea roils inside me. I peek down at the necklace, grimacing slightly. Does Tarek see me or Yasmin?
“The day after tomorrow, contenders will demonstrate a weaponry skill before an audience of benefactors and peers. Contenders, I expect a magnificent show of prowess. Intimidate your competitors, and astonish your spectators.”
A show of prowess. What in the gods’ names will I do? Resentment hammers through me. I am to fight for my life. Performing for others is the least of my concern.
“If anyone else would still like to cast a challenge, do so now.” Tarek waits, his fingers gliding up and down Natesa’s thigh. No more contenders step forward. Those who were still in line return to their seats, put off by Tarek’s alteration of the rules. He grins at his courtesans, ignorant of their cold expressions and shuttered stares. “This concludes our ceremony,” he says.
There is a beat of silence, and then we all exhale at once. My shoulders drop; I had been holding them near my ears. The base of my skull aches with a tension that runs up behind my eyes.
Some women leave, and others dally, chatting in divided groups, the ranis on one side of the hall and the courtesans on the other. A servant collects the envelopes at the base of my throne, stacking them in a basket. I count twenty-six in total. I am set to fight only three, yet the fate of each challenger piles heavily upon my heart.
Tarek presses his lips to Natesa’s ear, and her head lolls back against him, her eyes dull with drunkenness. While Tarek is preoccupied, I step down from the dais and cross the hall, ignoring the whispers in my wake. I meet up with my guards outside the throne room and release another pent-up breath.
“Are you all right?” Deven asks.
“Get me to my chamber.”
Outside my room, Deven relieves Manas for the night and stands guard with Yatin. I shut the door and try to remove Tarek’s necklace, but my fingers fumble on the latch. Asha is not here; she must think that I am still at the ceremony. I try again to remove the necklace, but the fastener is stuck. I claw at the clasp, scraping my skin. Tarek’s hands feel locked around my throat. I throw open the door.
“Deven, this necklace. I cannot—”
He comes in and stands behind me. “You’ve tangled it.” He sweeps my hair aside, and his warm breath slides across my bare neck. I still, remembering long days of riding in the saddle with his body pressed against mine. He frees my hair from the clasp and undoes the fastener. The necklace falls into my waiting hands.
I fling the jewelry onto my bed and rub my hot throat. “Thank you.”
He speaks softly from behind me. “You did well tonight. No one doubts you have the soul of a rani.”
No one except me. I face him, and his gaze touches every part of me at once. “Do you think I can win?”
“Yes.” Deven reaches around me and rearranges my hair to hang down my back. “You must believe you can, or you have already lost.”
His fingers brush my shoulders, sending delicious shivers down my arms. My senses sharpen in anticipation and soak in his nearness. I wish to push him away and to yank him close, to tell him to leave and to ask him to stay forever. My gaze skims the landscape of his face: full lips, smooth cheekbones, midnight eyes. He reaches for my hands, and I thread my fingers in his bigger rough ones, hard like stone but so gentle.
Deven leans in, and our chests meet, grounding me to him. He smells of sandalwood and leather. I cannot see beyond the brightness of his embrace. My bobbing heart floats to my throat. He lowers his forehead, eyelids growing heavy, and our noses graze.
Yatin clears his throat from the doorway. “Captain.”
“Gods.” I yank myself away from Deven and flee to the balcony. I face outside, chest pumping, and brace for Yatin to condemn us.
“Your mother is ready.”
“Thank you, Yatin. Please wait at the door.” Deven strolls up behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. “Yatin won’t tell anyone. He’s our friend.”
Yatin may not tell, but what if it had been Manas? Or Parisa or Eshana? Or the rajah? I pull away from Deven and press my palm over my aching sternum. The closer I get to him, the guiltier I feel. I am risking my life, his life, Jaya’s life.
Deven shoves his hands in his pockets, as if he does not trust them to behave. “My mother wants to meet you, but I will have to sneak you into the courtesans’ wing.”
“All right.” I will not pass up the opportunity to meet his mother. I go to my satchel, hanging on the bedpost. “But before we go, I have something to show you. I found a book on my bed.”
“A book?”
“I haven’t had the chance to read much of it, but what I have read is . . .” Disquieting. Confusing. Thought provoking. “Interesting.”
I remove Bhuta Origins from my satchel and hand it to him.
“I’ve never seen a text like this before,” he says, partly awed but, more so, cautious. He flips through the pages.
“This says bhutas are half-gods, and their gifts come from Anu,” I say. “It also mentions the Zhaleh, the book the bhutas think that the rajah stole. If this text is correct and the Zhaleh is real, and if the bhutas believe Rajah Tarek has hidden it, perhaps the Burner is sneaking around the palace trying to find it.”
Deven passes back the book. “I don’t care what this says about bhutas or their damned lost record. Those demons killed my brother.”
I glance down at a passage in the open book.
Every mortal man and woman was created in the likeness of the gods—sky in their lungs, land beneath their feet, fire in their soul, and water in their blood.
My skin bristles in fear. Fire in their soul.
Deven takes the book and slams it shut. “No one can know you have this, or they will think you’re a bhuta sympathizer. Who gave this to you?”
Before witnessing Deven’s reaction to the book, I was going to tell him that I think that the Burner left it. But I have no proof beyond a feeling, and suggesting that the Burner may be creeping around inside the palace will not please Deven. So I say, “I don’t know.”
“I want to show this to Brother Shaan,” he says. “We can trust him to tell us if it’s credible. I’ll ask him to meet with us. Until then . . .” Deven takes Bhuta Origins to the bookcase by the door and tucks it in among other texts. “That should do it. No one will think to look for it in plain sight.”
Then he considers me, his eyes glinting with an idea. “How are you at braiding?”