9
I extend my hands away from my body, away from everything. My fingertips radiate heat, as if an oil lamp has replaced my thin flesh. I cannot breathe fast enough to slow my whirling head. Of all the fevers I have had before, I have never had one like this.
I flap my hands to cool them off and rap one against the bench seat. The velvet melts, curling into a scorched hole. I go rigid, fearful of touching anything else and burning the carriage down.
How am I doing this? How do I make it stop?
Black spots discolor my vision. I shut my eyes, and the lights behind my lids blaze. Weakness drills down to my bones. I sway toward a feverish faint, dizziness spreading. I have to stop my fever from rising.
The last few tonic vials lie on the floor. I uncork one, handling it as little as possible, and down a revolting sip. That should be enough to extinguish my fever, yet I draw another mouthful to speed up my reaction time to the treatment.
Pounding hooves ring out in the distance. My darkened vision gradually clears, and the fires behind my eyelids dim to their usual mellow lights. I test the heat of my fingers by touching the wall—no singeing or smoke. I bow my head. Good gods, what was that?
I shove my last three vials into my satchel and arm myself. Slingshot drawn, I defend the burned doorway. My hands quiver. Thundering hooves make the carriage shudder, and then the captain appears on horseback. I lower the slingshot and slouch against the wall.
Deven first assesses me for injuries and then Natesa. “Is she dead?”
“Unconscious.”
“Where’s the bhuta?”
“He killed Jeevan and ran off when he heard you coming.”
Deven’s eyes pang with hurt when he hears of his fallen comrade, and then, still in his saddle, he evaluates the inside of the carriage. Blood wets the shoulder of his jacket. “And the shattered glass?” he says.
Healer Baka’s warning to guard my condition slows my reply. “The bhuta dropped some vials, and they broke.” Deven watches me, his gaze doubtful. Two more riders gallop into view—Manas and Yatin. “Where are the others?” I say.
Deven’s face sets in a hard mask. “Swept away by the landslide.”
Sorrow lances through me. Bel and Ehan are not coming.
Deven turns to Yatin. “Natesa will ride with you. Manas, take care of the carriage. Quickly. They could return.”
Manas swings down off his horse and lifts his khanda. “We must stay and fight!”
“We must think of the viraji’s safety,” says Deven.
Manas glares, his face a mottled red. “But, Captain—”
“Release the horses. That is an order.”
Spittle builds at the corner of Manas’s mouth. He rubs it dry with a hard shove of his forearm and tromps to the carriage.
Deven extends his hand to me. “We have to go.”
I swing my satchel over my shoulder and accept his hand. His firm grip lifts me into the saddle in front of him. The hem of my petticoat rides up to my knees, and my backside presses against his hips. The light scent of sandalwood fills me, and a flush rises up my face. The narrow saddle leaves no room for respectability.
Yatin gathers Natesa in his arms. She rouses, awake but drowsy. He helps her onto his horse with him. She sags against Yatin’s broad chest, a button-eyed doll in a giant’s lap.
Manas releases the horse team, slapping the white mares on the rump. They take off uphill. I am sorry to see them go, but since Natesa and I do not ride, it is impractical to bring them along. The carriage is of no use either.
Deven gathers the reins and urges our great horse into a run. The forward motion drives me back into his chest. His strength surrounds me, and I give my weight over to him. He lowers his arms so that they hug my hips, and our bodies meld with the rhythm of the horse.
We avoid the trail, traversing rocky ground through thick trees. I scan the misty woodland, the tale of the First Bhutas on my mind. Three hundred years ago, the demon Kur bestowed upon four mortals his most potent powers, the elements that make up our world. Half-human and half-demon, these bhutas were formidable but not immortal. They passed their powers on to their offspring to wield as weapons against mankind. Burning is the worst bhuta power I know of, though the other three are heinous too.
We ride out the gloomy day without seeing our attackers. I assume that nightfall will compel us to stop, but Deven pauses only long enough to light torches. We press on through the darkness, pushing the horses and the bounds of our endurance.
Deven’s arms cage me in. I incline my head against his shoulder to rest, but whenever I close my eyes, I see Jeevan disintegrate to dust.
Sunup births a periwinkle sky without a single cloud. Deven maintains our relentless pace, stretching my tired legs into brittle ropes. I sneak a sip of my tonic when we stop briefly to water the horses, and we continue on. The horses’ strides eat up the hours, and daylight dwindles into dusky, bruised heavens.
I am about to keel over when the trees break to a rolling highland dotted with fleecy sheep. The Alpanas’ snowy razor peaks are so far off that they could be a dream from my past life.
Deven dismounts his horse to speak to an elderly shepherd tending his flock. They both glance at me. I shift in the saddle, wondering what is being said. They part, and the shepherd plods away on his mule, his staff bobbing along until it vanishes over a grassy incline.
Deven helps me down. I prop against the horse, waiting for my shaky legs to adjust to being connected with the ground again. “We will rest here awhile,” he says.
Yatin lifts Natesa down from his saddle. “For how long?” she asks. “We will kill the horses if we continue running them this way.”
I scoff under my breath. Natesa cares not for the horses’ well-being but only for her own comfort.
“As long as you are beyond the palace walls, you are in danger,” Deven answers.
Natesa squares herself to him. “How far away is Vanhi?”
“Not far on horseback,” he says.
She huffs, and Deven’s tone cools. “Farther on foot.”
Her eyes widen to outraged circles. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I do believe that he would, but I leave them to settle their quarrel. I wander to the pool where the horses drink, and I scoop up water and wash my arms and legs. Our descent has dropped us into warmer, stagnant air, and the dust itches.
Shadows disturb the glassy pond. The elderly shepherd approaches with a weathered old woman guiding his mule. Both wear threadbare clothes, and their skin hangs from their bones as it does when one has gone many moons hungry. This serious-faced couple bows to me.
“My wife and I welcome you, Viraji,” says the shepherd.
I catch Deven watching us from the corner of his eye. He must have told them who I am, that this filthy, smelly creature is their intended queen.
The shepherd’s wife passes me a basket. “For you. May you win a place in the rajah’s home as well as in his heart.”
I bow in appreciation, though winning Rajah Tarek’s heart will never be my ambition.
The shepherd lays a large cloth bundle at my feet. “You may rest here as long as you need, Viraji.” His accent is strange. His r’s roll an unusually long time. “May Anu guide you and Ki protect you.”
He nods farewell at the captain, and then he and his wife lead their mule away.
The basket they gave me contains a jar of honey and fresh flatbread. I untie the cloth bundle to find more food, along with jugs of water. At the bottom, they left two sets of women’s clothes: fitted tunics, headscarves, and loose trousers. They even gave me a flask of apong—a strong liquor—and a bar of soap.
This must be the entirety of their reserve. This is too much to accept from anyone, let alone these poor shepherds. I raise my arm to call them back.
“Don’t.” Deven presses a light hand to my lower back. “You will insult them. Few people this far from Vanhi meet a future rani.”
I look down at the wares. “You shouldn’t have told them who I am.”
“I didn’t. They saw the rajah ride through days ago and supposed who we were. The gifts were their idea.”
I meet Deven’s insistent eyes.
“They are honored to serve you,” he says. “Honor them by accepting their gift.”
I will—we are in no state to refuse—but their sacrifice will not go unrewarded. “I want them to have my carriage. They can salvage what’s left of it to keep or trade. The gold leafing must be valuable. Please give them directions for how to find it.”
Deven is silent so long that I expect him to argue. Then he bows and whispers, “Yes, Viraji.”
“Food!” Natesa hurries over. “Clean clothes!” I wait for her to complain about the coarse cotton garments, but she admires them.
“The shepherd and his wife gave us permission to stay as long as we need,” says Deven. “We will take turns bathing in the pool and sleep here tonight.”
Natesa snatches up the bar of soap. “I’m first.”
I do not bother arguing. The promise of cleanliness and rest is enough.
We dine near a campfire, our clean faces reflecting the shining light. Our meal of bread and honey is cold, simple fare, but no one complains. Yatin returns to camp, and I pass him his portions. Deven sent him away on an assignment earlier. Neither said where he was going, but I assume that it involved the bhutas.
Manas broods, tearing out grass and tossing the soft blades into the fire. “We should have stayed and faced our attackers.”
“We were outnumbered,” Yatin replies.
“We should have tried. One of them was a Galer.”
“What’s a Galer?” Natesa asks.
“A bhuta who conjures ill winds,” Manas says. Pain burns deep in his eyes. “A Galer killed my family. I returned home from fishing, and our entire village was gone, smashed to the ground by a wind tunnel.”
Out of respect for those who perished, I wait a beat in silence and then ask, “What else can bhutas—”
“Not tonight.” Deven gazes into the orange heart of the fire. “We can discuss our enemies tomorrow. Tonight is for those we mourn.” He is the first to speak of his lost men, though we have all been thinking of them.
Sheep bleat peacefully in the darkened greenery. Under the eye of the moon, Yatin tells a story in honor of those we lost. The story is “Enki’s Path,” the water-goddess’s tale of adventure, and one that I know well. Enki strives to walk a straight and narrow path of obedience to her parents, a quest that leads her through mountains infested with crafty demons and serpentine dragons.
Yatin reaches the part where Enki tricks a dragon into his own demise, and I drift off. When I awake, the fire has burned low in the night and our camp is silent. Deven’s jacket hangs over me, still stained with blood.
I sit up and see him at the perimeter of camp. He has taken off his tunic, revealing a slash across his shoulder. In one hand, he holds the flask of apong, and in the other, a threaded needle. I creep to his side and grimace at the deep cut. “You should have told me you were injured.”
“You know now.”
My nose scrunches at his spicy breath. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Only a little. The apong makes the pain bearable.”
I inspect his jagged gash more closely and cluck my tongue. “It’s infected.”
“I was cleaning it.” He motions at a dirty cloth beside him.
“Not with that you aren’t. Stay here.” He begins to rise with me, and I scowl. “Stay or I will shout and wake the flock.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Spoken like a true rani.”
Deven’s handsomeness shines when he smiles, but I do not appreciate his joviality. He could fall ill from an infection. I wet my new veil with clean water from a cask and return to him.
“You’ve ruined your gift,” he says.
“Better the veil than your arm.” I clean his wound and then splash apong on it.
Deven growls between gritted teeth. “Must you?”
“The spirits will purify it.”
I rethread the needle with clean thread. I have watched Healer Baka sew stitches, but I have never done so myself. I doubt that Deven would let me near him if he knew this, so I dig the needle through his torn skin with a staid expression. He flinches but does not gripe.
Silence lengthens between us. We are close, our faces nearly touching.
His quiet voice reaches out to me. “Thank you. You have many talents, Viraji. They will serve you well in the palace. The rajah’s wives are a cunning, vicious lot, but you will claim your place among them.”
I cannot think about the rajah’s wives. The way Deven describes them, they must be like Natesa. I look up at him. “Do you have wives waiting for you at home?”
Firelight enhances the severe angle of his jaw and the smoothness of his lips, lifting in a wry smile. “I have no wives, and when I marry, I will have only one. From what I’ve seen, one woman ordering me about will be plenty.”
My face warms. “Not all women have my temper, Captain.”
“Not all women wear it as well as you do, Kalinda.”
My heart stammers, and I am suddenly aware of his elbow brushing mine. “Do not say anything you will regret.”
His head lolls back. “I already have.”
“Then why speak?” I ask, annoyed with his wavering.
Deven leans forward and rests his forehead against mine. “Because you’re beautiful.”
“You’re drunk,” I scoff.
“Kalinda,” he says softly, “I would not be so foolish as to be drunk while on night watch. I assure you I am here. All of me is with you.”
His serious gaze holds me near him. Our expelled breaths intertwine, his flowing into me like an intoxicating current. I want to touch the stubble on his jaw to ease my curiosity about whether it is scratchy or soft. I want . . . things I should not want.
Leaning away, I finish sewing his shoulder closed. His gaze strokes up and down my face. We are so close that he must be able to hear my crashing heartbeat. I tie off the thread and sit back. “Your arm should heal properly now.” I rise to rinse out the bloody veil in the pond, and he reaches for me.
“Stay in the firelight, where I can see you. The bhutas are following us.”
My senses jump. “Why? What do they want?”
“From us? Revenge. But I am told it all started with a book.”
I kneel beside him. “What book?”
Deven grips the hilt of his sword and surveys the shadowed hillside. “It is called the Zhaleh, a record of the bhuta people, tracing back to when they originally received their powers. Seventeen years ago, the bhutas accused Rajah Tarek of stealing the Zhaleh, and they retaliated by attacking a village in the west borderlands. No one was prepared for their powers. The villagers could not stand against them, and the bhutas . . . they showed no mercy.” He mashes his lips into a line. “The Zhaleh was not there, so they went to the next village, and the next. They destroyed everything in their path until Rajah Tarek sent soldiers to drive them out. Our army outnumbered them, but the bhutas killed thousands. After a year of bloodshed, we finally overcame them. The bhutas who survived fled to the sultanate of Janardan or went into hiding.”
My jaw drops. I have never heard of this war, or of the Zhaleh. “If the bhutas think the rajah has their book, why did they attack us?”
Deven’s gaze tenses. “The bhuta warlord must have heard that the rajah claimed his final viraji, and saw an opportunity for retaliation.”
I see my own confusion in his questioning eyes. So then why did the bhuta let me go? Why did he not kidnap me and use me for ransom? Or kill me as revenge?
Shadows conceal half of Deven’s face. “Yatin found them. They are camped nearby, but they have not made preparations to attack. Do you know why?”
“Should I?” I will not mention that the bhuta said that we would meet again—or that I owe him for sparing my life.
“Few people face off with a bhuta and live. Why did the Burner let you go, Kalinda? What did he say to you?”
The honey-eyed man was a Burner. A bhuta who burns people and things, like I did to the carriage floor . . .
My heart bangs against my breastbone. “He said nothing. I don’t know why he let me go or why he’s following me.”
“Following us. Unless you have reason to believe he’s only after you.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” I shove the thread and needle into the basket, busying myself so that I do not have to look at him. “This isn’t my war. I want the mountains and the temple. I want peace.”
Deven lays his hand over mine. “I wanted peace too, but I didn’t find it in the Brotherhood. I found it in the army. Sometimes the only solution that produces peace is war.”
I pull away. “I have never heard anything more absurd. If everyone lived according to the five godly virtues, there would be no war.”
“This isn’t paradise, Kalinda. War is real, and peace comes at a cost.”
“Then why don’t I have peace? I have paid more than my share.”
His gaze softens, but I do not want his pity. “Good night, Captain.”
I cross back to my spot by the campfire and settle down. Deven’s words about the Burner bury daggers of doubt in my mind, and an image of the scorch marks on the carriage floor blisters my memories. I banish the chilling picture and shuffle closer to the fire.