This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2017 by Emily R. King

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Skyscape, New York

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Skyscape are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781503943650

ISBN-10: 1503943658

Cover design by M. S. Corley

For John

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The religion of the Tarachand Empire, the Parijana faith, is a fictional variation derived from Sumerian deities. However, the Parijana faith and the Tarachand Empire do not directly represent any specific historical time period, creed, or union. Any other religious or governmental similarities are coincidental and do not depict actual people or events.

1

Snowy mountains tear into the ashen sky, their jagged peaks pearly, like wolverine fangs. Cold winds sting my bare cheeks and exposed hands. The frosty temple courtyard is barren of the other daughters and sisters who reside here. Only my best friend is with me.

“Strike me here,” Jaya says, pointing to her neck.

I frown, gripping the bamboo staff harder.

“I have done this a thousand times,” she says. “Trust me, Kalinda.”

Jaya is the only daughter in the temple I do trust, so I swing the staff at her jugular, sweeping sideways in an arc. She stops my attack with both hands and yanks backward. Still holding the other end, I am dragged with her. Jaya jerks upward, wrenching the staff from my grasp, and brings the long end down over my shoulder blades. The bamboo gives a hollow thwack, and I crumple to my knees in the snow.

Jaya straightens to her whole height, a head shorter than I am. “You should have let go.”

I grind my teeth together. Jaya is not gloating. She knows that I have to master this maneuver, one of several I should have already learned, and would have, if it were not for years of lying in a sickbed. I am well enough now, not that my performance shows it.

I push to my feet, my back stinging almost as much as my pride. “Again.”

Jaya passes me the staff and rubs her hands together for warmth. I must have done something tremendous in my past lives for the gods to reward me with a friend like her. She will stay out in the cold as long as I ask, exposed to the Alpana Mountains’ wintry moods.

I swing the staff at her once more. Jaya catches it and yanks back, no hesitancy or leniency in her strength. I hang on, and we grip the staff face-to-face, our silvery breaths colliding in the icy air. My mind goes blank. I can remember the last book I read and the last sketch I drew, but I cannot remember what to do next.

“Spin it fast and pull,” Jaya reminds me.

I whip the staff in a dizzying circle. Jaya’s wrists cannot rotate with it, and she is forced to let go. Finally, I have the upper hand. I jam the short end of the staff into her chest. She jolts backward and skids on a patch of ice. I seize her arm before she falls.

“Sorry,” I say. “I should have warned you.”

“I would have done the same.” One corner of Jaya’s mouth curls up. “But I would have let you fall.”

Rightfully so. I cannot be unprepared for my first skill trials tomorrow, or my opponents will laugh me out of the ring. Training with the younger girls at the preliminary level, and having them beat me, was humiliating enough. I finally won my match two days ago and moved up to my age group, but I am still inexperienced compared to the other eighteen-year-olds.

I skim the back of my hand across my forehead, relieved to find it cool to the touch. My health has improved since Healer Baka first concocted a tonic that lowers my chronic fevers, but I have a lot of time to make up for and a lot of skill to prove.

“Up for one more round?” I ask.

Jaya brushes her ebony hair from her eyes and takes the staff from me. “See if you can stop me this time,” she says.

I grin, accepting her challenge. She knows that my strength lies in defensive maneuvers. She is trying to increase my confidence as a dueler, and, gods’ virtue, I love her for it.

A sudden noise, like rocks being crushed, comes from beyond the high stone temple wall. We still and tilt our ears to the wind.

Jaya’s gaze intensifies on me. “Wagons.”

By wagons, she means visitors—or, more specifically, men. I listen harder to the sounds of their approach. Many mysteries surround our gender counterparts, but I am more curious than frightened. I grab my slingshot and start for the gate.

“Kali, wait!” Jaya tugs me back. “You cannot leave the grounds alone.”

“So come with me.”

She worries her lower lip with her teeth. I glance at the gate. We do not have much time. The sisters will discover us missing and come for us. The temple was built without windows, to withstand the lengthy winters and to protect our innocence—or ignorance. This is our first and maybe our only chance to glimpse an arrival party.

Jaya’s gaze flits to the gate. “All right. Quickly.”

We fling open the gate and race to an outcropping overlooking the road, the only thoroughfare leading to and from the Samiya Temple. I crouch low behind an alpine shrub, my senses jumping. Jaya joins me, shivering in the frigid wind. The steady clattering swells. I arm my slingshot with a firing stone. The sisters have warned us of bhutas hiding in nearby caves. No one has seen the evil demons with dark powers, but I want to be prepared.

A supply caravan plods into sight, a line of horse-drawn carts loaded with wares. My belly rumbles with hunger. Our last delivery of fresh goods was three moons ago.

Jaya nudges me with her elbow. “Kali, look.”

A gold-leafed round-top carriage pulled by an ivory horse team ambles over the jutted roadway. The golden carriage is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but an inner chill shakes me. I cannot mistake who is inside. One of the empire’s elite has come to Samiya, and the benefactors make this journey up from the valley below for only one reason. A Claiming.

Jaya frowns so hard that a crane could roost on her lower lip. I was raised in the Sisterhood of the Parijana faith from infancy, but she was brought to the temple at age eight. When she shared horrible memories with me from her life before, my stomach ached for days.

Several horseback riders come into view. My heart pounds harder. The lead soldier is the clearest to make out; his long legs taper from narrow hips and a boxy, solid chest. He is the first man I have seen in person. My eyes widen to take him in. He is more fascinating than the chapel murals of the sky-god, Anu, and his son, Enlil, the fire-god. I want to see him more closely.

Slingshot ready, I rise for a better look—and stand in full view of Priestess Mita, the headmistress, who calls for us to come in. Jaya goes directly to her. I drag my pace, hoping for another look at the lead soldier, but it is too late to see his face again.

“Kalinda,” snaps the priestess.

I hasten into the courtyard. Jaya picks up the two potted plants she brought out for a spot of sunshine and cradles them against her sides. Priestess Mita hustles us through the dark temple entry. Smoke curls laced with sandalwood rise from the ever-burning incense sticks stationed in the corridor to lessen the mustiness. The priestess passes us lit oil lamps.

“What were you doing outside the grounds?” For a short, shoulder-hunched woman, her authority could make a mountain tremble.

I brace against her scowl. “Jaya was helping me practice for skill trials.”

“What did you see on the road?”

“Nothing.”

Her nostrils flare. “Is that true, Jaya?”

Jaya lowers her eyes. “Yes, Priestess.”

The priestess’s gaze cools. She believes Jaya over me. Last year, the priestess caught me trespassing in the north tower. I was tired of being bedridden, and I often sneaked up to the restricted observatory for fresh air. I tiptoed up there unseen for years, until she came upon me in the stairwell one night. The tower door has been locked since, and Priestess Mita’s trust in me has been stowed away with the key.

“Jaya, go to supper,” orders the priestess.

My friend sends me a hesitant glance and then leaves, her lamp lighting the way down the corridor.

Priestess Mita pins me with her stare. “You know better than to leave the temple grounds, Kalinda,” she says. Then her voice turns careful. “Are you content here?”

“Yes, Priestess.”

This is my home. I would scale the highest peak of the Alpanas to protect it, but, given the opportunity, I would do the same for another look at the lead soldier. I tip my face away from the lamplight to hide my flush.

Priestess Mita clucks her tongue. “Focus on your lessons, your sisters, and your devotion. Of the five godly virtues, which do the gods esteem above all else?”

“Obedience,” I mumble. I do not add that I doubt that the gods intended us to be stripped of all but one choice. Then again, when it comes to the Claiming, none of us have any choice at all.

“You will do well to remember your place here,” Priestess Mita says, shooing me along as she leaves to greet the arrival party.

I stare at the closed door at the temple entrance after she goes. I could open it a crack and steal one last peek at the men, but I know that it was fortunate that Priestess Mita did not punish me. I do not want to tempt her further.

My lamp lights the way toward the dining hall. My footsteps resound through the corridors of the building, where teachings about the Claiming are as old as the foundation. Long ago, the temple was instituted by the land-goddess, Ki, as a refuge for female orphans, ranging from infants to young women. Like all Sisterhood temples of the Parijana faith, it operates solely on monetary endowments from benefactors. But the benefactors’ generosity is not without cost. They can travel to any Sisterhood temple and claim a ward—to be their servant, courtesan, or wife.

I quicken my step. I do not want to be claimed for any of these positions. I do not want to be claimed at all. Most daughters cannot wait to leave this remote fortress, but they will leave here only if they are claimed to live whatever life a benefactor dictates for them. I would rather stay in Samiya and serve the gods than leave and serve a man.

Chatter from a hundred girls spills out of the dining hall. I pause at the doorway and scan the knee-high tables for Jaya. She is sitting with the other daughters our age, including Falan and Prita. Jaya motions me over to an empty floor cushion next to her. Sarita and Natesa sit across from them at the same table. I force away a frown and kneel beside Jaya. Falan and Prita smile a hello and return to their quiet chatting.

“Bamboo Girl,” Natesa mutters.

Sarita snickers around a mouthful of rice. I pick at my food with my fingers. I do not wish to take on their tired insults about my awkward height and skinniness.

Jaya leans into my side. “Are you all right?”

I shrug and poke at my watered-down curry. I want to talk about the golden carriage, but not in front of the others. I would rather that our rare glimpse of the outside world stay between us.

Priestess Mita enters the dining hall with an orderly line of sisters trailing behind her. Falan and Prita stop talking, and all eating halts across the hall. The sisters line up at the front of the room. Jaya tenses beside me, and I wipe my hands, no longer hungry. Our leaders rarely interrupt mealtime.

“Daughters, I have marvelous news.” The priestess presses her hands together, as if in prayer. “A benefactor has arrived for a Claiming!”

Most of the girls, even those too young to be a recipient of this rite, gasp with delight. Priestess Mita allows the outburst, smiling proudly. I seek out Jaya’s hand beneath the table and clasp her chilly fingers in mine.

The priestess strides our way to address the girls of age. Twelve of us kneel at two tables. Our blue saris are identical, the shade of obedience and submission, deference and conformity. That is where my similarity with the other girls ends. My gangliness sticks out among their compact curves like a pin stuck into a basketful of thread spools.

“By request of our honored benefactor, tomorrow’s skill trials will continue as planned,” says the priestess. “They will take place in the courtyard, where the benefactor will watch anonymously from the north tower observatory.”

Resentment ignites low in my belly. I want to duel for my own sense of accomplishment, not for a benefactor’s entertainment. I do not care to gain the benefactor’s favor.

Priestess Mita paces the length of our table, her words deliberate and her steps measured. “You will be given the choice to spar with a staff or a bladed weapon.”

Jaya squeezes my hand so hard that my fingertips tingle. Because my chronic fevers have held me behind the other girls, I have not trained with bladed weapons. We learn to slash and parry with steel after we master the staff. I am more than fair with a slingshot, but it is not considered a respectable weapon in the ring.

“We want each of you to look your best when you are shown,” Priestess Mita says. Her smile contains an edge of warning. “Be mindful not to leave too many marks on your opponent.”

I look askance at Natesa smirking. Everyone knows that she wants to leave the temple and become the wife of a benefactor. If she had a choice, she would fight against the weakest girl to increase the appearance of her own skill, and it is no secret that I am the weakest girl.

2

Winter’s chill soaks into the temple’s ancient bones, dampening the shadowed corridors. Jaya and I leave the dining hall in silence and return to our bedchamber. We change into our nightclothes and brush out our braids, and then Jaya tends to her pots of seedlings, and I cozy into my cot with a sketchbook. Our nightly routine is effortless, comforting. I refuse to think that this evening’s could be our last.

Jaya drizzles water over green shoots in her clay pots. She is assigned to tend to Healer Baka’s medicinal garden, but these are not herbs. With little exposure to sunlight in our windowless home, Jaya has successfully grown only poisonous plants, but she prefers to nurture something rather than nothing.

She sets aside her watering can and stands behind me, stroking her fingers through my hair. She considers my sketch. This is how we first met. Jaya had spent her early weeks at the temple in the infirmary, recovering from being starved, beaten, and hurt in other ways that Healer Baka only whispered about. During one of my bouts of fevers, I was laid up in the cot beside Jaya’s, and she asked to see my drawing. Most of the other girls would not come near me, for fear that I was contagious, but Jaya did not mind. I have shown her all of my sketches since.

Jaya finishes smoothing down my hair. “The wheels were bigger.”

She has a fine eye for proportions, so naturally she is right. She sits down beside me. I rub away the wheels and redraw them wider. Jaya picks up my other sketchbook and flips through finished drawings: portraits of her, the garden where we played Fly-Fly Crane between the barley, and the meditation pond where we raced lotus flower petals.

She stops on a drawing of the sky-god. Anu is the most prominent male subject I have ever sketched. I am enthralled by the hard, angled lines of his rugged facial features, so like the formidable Alpana Mountains. In my drawing, a sarong covers his thighs. His hairless, bare chest is flat and wide, like a valley, and his lean legs are strong, like a river. He wields a shard of sunlight in one hand, his other hand outstretched in invitation to follow him. Anu is the majesty of the world; his large eyes are the doorway to the sky, his fierce expression a warning of his omnipotent power.

Jaya traces a finger down Anu’s nose. “What if you’re claimed?”

“What if Natesa starts being kind to me?”

Jaya’s lips tauten. “The benefactor could see your worth and claim you, Kali.”

I shake my head. I will be passed over. My best physical attribute, according to Jaya, is my long hair, but hair is not enough to draw the eye of a benefactor.

Jaya’s shoulders curl over her chest, and her voice drops to a whisper. “What if I am claimed?”

I open my mouth to tell her not to worry, but Jaya is not gawky and whip-thin like me. She is petite and lovely. Looking at her, I understand her anxiety. I cannot imagine anyone passing her over.

Her voice becomes even more scraggly. “What if the benefactor is like my—”

“Do not think about it. No matter who he is, it does not change our plans.”

Jaya and I plan to swear fealty to the Sisterhood and live out our days here, but we can do so only if we are passed over during the rite. “They will not separate us. We will make certain of it.”

“How? You may not even pass inspection.”

I tamp down a groan; I forgot about inspection. Healer Baka examines each recipient before the Claiming to weed out those who are not in prime condition for the benefactor. She has not said if my illness will impede my chances, but taking a daily tonic may be grounds to fail me.

“We will worry about inspection later,” I say. “First, we have to discuss skill trials. The benefactor must want to judge how well we are trained as sister warriors.”

Jaya nods solemnly. Sister warriors are prized among men. The most desirable girls are pretty and skilled at battle.

“You have to lose your duel,” I say. “The benefactor won’t want you if you’re defeated.”

Jaya’s eyebrows slant together. “What about you?”

“Me?” I scoff. “Even if I somehow won, the benefactor would still prefer a pretty face.”

“And if we’re chosen to fight each other?”

I laugh. “Then I will best you, even though all the girls will know we cheated.”

Jaya rests her head on my shoulder and takes my hand. We weave our fingers together, clamping our palms close. “All right, but we cannot get caught, or Priestess Mita will put us on refuse duty for the rest of the year. Our losses must be believable.”

“That will be easy for me.” I lean my head against hers and stare down at our linked hands. “We will be careful.”

“Can you sleep?” Jaya asks, sitting up.

“Of course.” I feign a smile. “I will dream of besting you.”

Jaya snorts a laugh. She squeezes my hand, our way of saying I love you, and then kisses my forehead and goes to her bed.

Despite my attempt at humor, the reality of the next day saws at my nerves. Regardless of our plan for skill trials, Healer Baka could fail me during inspection, and Jaya would face the Claiming without me. I want to be seen by this benefactor and be done with the rite. Then, once passed over, Jaya and I can join the Sisterhood. Most girls opt to be shown again for a chance to leave. A recipient who is not claimed by age twenty-one is automatically sworn in as a sister, but few wards last that long. Benefactors are always in need of more servants.

Amber candlelight warms my sketchbook. I open to a fresh page and slide my charcoal stick over the ivory paper, leaving smooth, dark lines. I hope that putting my thoughts on paper will relieve my mind. I waited for Jaya to go to bed to draw this; I cannot get it out of my head.

Finished, I lift my hand. The lead soldier looks exactly how I remember him—with shoulders a mountain could rest upon and arms powerful enough to soar with the clouds. But his face remains blank, as is true of all of the male faces I have attempted to draw.

As an infant, I was abandoned on the steps of the Vanhi Brotherhood’s temple, run by the men of the Parijana faith. I cannot remember the brethren who cared for me until I was old enough to transfer here. In fact, I do not remember ever seeing a man. Jaya has told me about her older brothers, warning of what will await us should we be claimed. I believe her, but the brethren are proof that not all men are terrible, and the sisters teach that men are our masters and protectors.

Staring at my sketch of the faceless soldier, I do not know what is true. Did the gods create everything about us? They gave me fevers and gave certain plants poison, but did they give people their power? Was Natesa born a tormentor? Was Jaya always cautious? Where is the line between the gods’ will and ours?

I set aside my sketchbook, still wondering if all men are fashioned like Jaya’s cruel older brothers and if I really am better off without them.

A white satin robe is draped across the end of my bed when I awake. Someone left an identical robe at the foot of Jaya’s cot, where she still sleeps. They are our clothes for the Claiming.

I slip out of my rumpled bed, achy with restlessness. I did not dream of skill trials. I did not dream at all. Fretting about Healer Baka not passing me during inspection drove sleep away. I cannot speculate any longer. I have to speak with her.

Flinging a shawl over my shoulders, I tiptoe down the hushed corridors, through incense smoke and pools of lamplight. Though I have no way to see the dawn, a chill emanates through the stone walls, whispering of the early hour.

The familiar pathway to the infirmary sets me on edge. I have spent more time with Healer Baka than any other sister. I do not wish to argue, but if she uses my chronic fevers as an excuse to exclude me from being shown in the Claiming, I will oppose her.

I pass a stairwell opening, and murmurs carry up from below. The rumbles are so faint that I nearly miss them. I back up to listen, sharpening my hearing. The voices are low, lower than I have ever heard. I silence my breaths, but my pulse drums a quickening tempo. I think that these voices are the voices of men.

Priestess Mita’s reprimand from yesterday pricks at me. I should return to my bedchamber and be obedient. The lower floors are forbidden to daughters. But, gods’ virtue, I want to see who is down there.

I descend into shadows, all light skittering away from the skulking darkness. I feel my way along the wall, my fingertips chafing against rough stone. Each step drops me farther into bone-drenching cold. I lose track of the number of stairs and the number of times I carefully survey for the bottom with my bare toes.

The floor smooths out, and the wall I was trailing disappears. The low voice barely thrums above my thundering heart. I chase the sound down an unlit corridor toward a gaunt glow at the far end. The temple is the only shelter on this secluded mountaintop. I had not given any thought to where the benefactors lodge, but it must be here, on this level.

The corridor juts into a lit alcove. Two deep voices steal out from behind a tall door, their exact words broken by the barrier. I eye the way out. I know that I could be caught, but their conversation may tell me who has come. I creep up to the entry and lean in to listen.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

I spin around at the muted voice, no louder than those through the door, and alarm pushes me back a step. A young soldier blocks my escape path. I must have passed him in the dark.

He grips the hilt of a sword slung at his side. “Does anyone know you’re down here?”

My tongue thickens to a useless lump in my mouth. From the drawings I have studied of the gods, I wager that the soldier is two or three years older than I am. He is also taller. A rarity. I have towered over everyone since I was thirteen.

Despite the soldier’s daunting stature, I do not sense aggression from him, merely suspicion.

I pull my shawl closer around me. “I—I heard voices,” I say. “And . . .” I have no reasonable excuse. I doubt that he would believe that above all else, I wanted to see a man’s face.

His face is not what I expected. He looks more god than mortal. Though the angular shape of his jaw is the image of Anu’s, the smooth sweep of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips, and the straight slope of his nose resemble Enlil, who takes after his mother, Ki, the land-goddess. His arrangement of delicate yet sturdy features is striking.

“You need to go.” The soldier glances at the closed door. He must be guarding whoever is inside. “It isn’t safe here.”

My palms turn clammy, but I cannot leave without the answer that I came for. “Who has come for the Claiming?”

His gaze and voice flatten. “You must leave.”

Beyond the door, the talking ceases. My ears explode with the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Go!” The soldier sweeps me out of the alcove.

I flee down the dim corridor, pursued by the creak of an opening door and the annoyed voice of a man.

“Captain Naik?”

My lungs burn from short, shallow breaths. Something wet squishes through my toes. My teeth lock down on a squeak. A little farther. Almost to the stairwell.

“I relieved Manas of his post,” says the captain. “I apologize for disturbing you, Your Majesty.”

I trip forward on the lowest stair and scrape my hands on the stone. Your Majesty.

Tremors rack my body. I cover my mouth, locking in a gasp. Rajah Tarek is here. The ruler of the Tarachand Empire has come to Samiya. I hold still, my flesh shivering.

“Where is Manas?” challenges another voice, the second stranger to speak.

“He has gone to bed, General,” replies the captain.

I frown, my only movement. Why is Captain Naik protecting me? Why does he not tell the rajah that a girl listened at his door?

“Come in, Captain,” the rajah says. “I wish to discuss our plans for after I claim—” The door creaks closed.

An icy finger slithers down my spine. Rajah Tarek has come for the Claiming.

I rest my forehead against a stair. Heat blazes down my face. In seconds, I burn all over. Gods, I forgot to take my tonic.

The sudden fever drives a hot mallet through the top of my head. I rise on shaky limbs and push myself up the dark stairwell to the main floor. Daughters pass me on the way to the dining hall for breakfast. I weave down the corridor and stagger into my bedchamber.

Jaya is awake and dressed. Her arms and legs are marked with hives—red, raised, and furious. The room reeks of chamomile.

“Healer Baka says they will go away,” Jaya says, slathering ointment on her legs.

I eye the angry dots on her skin. “Where did they come from?”

“I’m having a reaction.”

“To one of your plants?”

“To the Claiming.” She rubs ointment into her arms with trembling hands, her countenance pale. “Healer Baka says I need to calm down, but . . . Where were you?”

“On a walk.” I stumble to my cot and sit, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. Breathe.

Jaya hurries over and tests my forehead. “You’re burning up. You didn’t take your tonic this morning.”

Groaning, I lie back. “Get it for me, would you?”

Jaya finds it on the bedside table and pushes it into my hand. I uncork the thin vial and draw a swig. The fermented tang sours my mouth, but I swallow. A rush of coolness accompanies the remedy to my belly, clearing my mind.

My fever came on fast. Usually it takes a day before I reach that height of illness.

Jaya hovers over me, tugging her braid nervously. Dark circles stain the skin under her bloodshot eyes. “Do I need to fetch Healer Baka?”

“I’m fine.” I grab Jaya’s hand and lay it against my forehead. “See? I’m cooling off.” Her tepid skin soothes my flaring face, and my temperature adjusts to hers. I sniff loudly and smile. “You smell like Healer Baka’s herb garden.”

She laughs and looks at her rash. “We’re quite the pair. If only the benefactor could see us now.”

My smile stiffens. I cannot tell her that Rajah Tarek is the benefactor. She is already sick with worry. Furthermore, his identity does not change our strategy for skill trials. But the immensity of his presence weighs me down. I cannot understand why the rajah wants to watch us duel before the Claiming. Skill trials are a rite of passage—proof of womanhood and the exercise of moral maturity, proof that we deserve our inherited birthright from Ki. A true sister warrior is well trained and physically strong, but she is also dedicated to practicing the five godly virtues—obedience, service, sisterhood, humility, and tolerance. The rajah wishes to view a test of our inner and outer strength, but for what purpose? All I am certain of is that Rajah Tarek has come to claim a girl, and, by midday, I will know what for.

3

A silhouette darkens the casement of the observatory at the top of the north tower. I try not to look up, or think of the rajah watching us, as I listen to Priestess Mita’s instructions.

“I appreciate your being on time, daughters. We hope to hurry these trials along and move you back inside, where it is warm.”

Jaya and I huddle against the frosty wind lashing at us. We wear training saris, the pleats passed between our knees and tucked into the waistline at the back, allowing free movement while covering our legs. The slippery ground beneath us has been cleared, the ice chipped away to reveal the circle that was hidden during practice yesterday. The dueling ring.

“Today’s skill trials will be run a bit differently. Our benefactor has made a request.” The priestess glances up, and our gazes follow. The rajah presses against the observatory casement in anticipation, his dark silhouette growing. My brittle nerves tighten. “The match will end when the winner draws first blood.”

I narrow my gaze in dissent. As a rule, the duel winner is whoever drives her opponent out of the circle first. We never battle until first blood.

Priestess Mita holds herself too still, her rigidness pronounced by her silent disapproval of the changed guidelines. “For leniency, injuries you acquire in the ring will not be taken into account during inspection.”

How considerate of them. Jaya and I exchange a look, our brows raised.

Healer Baka and our defense trainer, Sister Hetal, who has stepped aside to let the priestess mediate, wait on the sideline. The healer attends skill trials in case a girl is accidentally injured. A tassel of nausea hangs in my belly. Those defeated today will definitely need her care.

The priestess’s voice pervades the courtyard. “Step forward to draw lots!”

Jaya grabs my hand and pulls me to the front of the group. The priestess offers her fist of wooden lots to the daughter in front of her—me. I pull out a long lot, and Natesa draws next. Hers is a quarter the size of mine.

Natesa sucks her teeth. “Shame.”

I almost agree. I would like to see her skin run red, but the likelihood of my winning a duel against her is lower than the chance of escaping the Void.

Sarita draws a wooden lot and measures it against mine. We are a match. She grins, and I arrange my features into apathy. Our pairing is anything but fair. Sarita is the third-most-skilled fighter here, after Natesa and Jaya.

The other girls pluck their lots. They match fates, coupling off and wishing each other good luck. Priestess Mita hands Jaya the final one.

Natesa nails Jaya with a pointed smirk. “Looks like you are with me.”

Their match is even, but Jaya has to lose to Natesa, and I must lose to Sarita. The rajah must see us bleed.

Priestess Mita finishes our instructions. “Those with the shortest lots will go first, then the next shortest, and so on. Our first match is between”—she scans the pairs of girls—“Natesa and Jaya. Daughters, select your weapons!”

Natesa jogs to the weapons laid out near the iced-over meditation pond and chooses first. She sneers at Jaya on her way to the dueling ring with a khanda. As the biggest, scariest weapon, the long double-edged sword suits Natesa’s battle style. Intimidating. Abrasive. Hefty but powerful.

Jaya selects the haladie, a double-bladed knife. The weapon reflects her combat method. Versatile. Precise. Small yet quick. She could win with the haladie, but I do not know if she can lose.

The rest of us cluster around the outer perimeter of the circle. No one may enter the ring until the victor is declared. I drift to the back, refusing to look up at the rajah spying over us. I cannot stomach watching Jaya be defeated. Hives still blemish her arms and legs. I pray that Natesa will not do anything permanent to her.

Jaya and Natesa assume their stances: feet spread, knees bent, shoulders tense, weapons raised.

“On my mark.” The priestess lifts a hand drum, palm hovering over the stretched deerskin face. Tension sparks the air. Her hand thunders down on the drum.

Natesa lunges, swiping the blade at Jaya’s chest. Jaya spins like an arrow, and their shafts clash. Natesa’s khanda is slow to rebound, and Jaya retreats to the rim of the ring.

I scan my friend from head to toe and exhale slowly. No blood yet.

Natesa paces around Jaya, attacking with taunting smirks. She has won many matches by intimidating her opponent, but her efforts are wasted here today. Jaya is prepared to be beaten.

Jaya closes the gap and brings her blade down against Natesa’s. I cringe at the screeching metal. The challengers’ grunts reverberate off the outer walls. The onlookers are silent. We typically cheer on our favorites, but today this is less about skill trials and more about the Claiming. Apprehension hangs over us like a thunderhead. One of us will be taken from here today. Maybe more than one of us. And no one knows who.

Jaya thrusts with the short haladie blade, grazing Natesa’s sari. She pauses to see if she drew blood. She missed. Only I know that the miss was intentional. Natesa swoops in with the khanda, ramming Jaya back. Jaya falls and drops her blade. Natesa places the tip of the sword to Jaya’s torso. My friend stills. So does my breath. Natesa raises the sharp point to Jaya’s face and rips a slash across her cheek.

Fury hits me like a wall of flame. I do not realize that I am moving until I have shoved my way into the circle. Natesa shifts the sword to Jaya’s other cheek. She is going to cut her again.

I slam my whole body into Natesa’s side. She spins through the air, feebly lifting the sword to defend herself. I roll forward in a somersault and unfurl, kicking my feet into her legs. Natesa flings away and lands hard on her back, banging the khanda loose from her hand.

Snatching up the sword, I stoop over her. I lower the thick middle of the blade to her throat. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I know that I should stop. But I do not care about the plan. I do not care about the rajah. Natesa did not mark Jaya in a spot that could be hidden.

She scarred Jaya on purpose.

“Kali, stop,” Jaya calls. Blood runs down her cheek from the gash, feeding my rage.

My blade bites into Natesa’s neck. Crimson flecks bead around the razor edge. She freezes at the scent of her own blood. Not a gasp or a plea leaves her lips, parted in fear.

“Kalinda!” Priestess Mita’s snappish voice tears through my haze of vengeance. She drags me away from Natesa, and I stagger back, staring wide-eyed at Natesa’s bloody throat.

I did that.

Sister Hetal kneels in front of Natesa. Healer Baka rushes forward to help Jaya. My friend holds her cheek, scarlet teardrops seeping through her pale fingers.

“Kalinda, go inside.” Priestess Mita’s order leaves no quarter for disobedience.

Before I take a step, someone starts to clap.

Without a word, every person in the courtyard gazes up at the north tower scraping the gray sky.

The applause stops, and a deep, firm voice shouts from above, “Let her stay.”

Barbs of terror dig under my skin. The courtyard goes as still as a sky burial. This is the first time many of these girls have heard a man speak.

Priestess Mita breaks from the daze first. “Kalinda, you heard the benefactor. Step back and wait your turn.” Her eyes roll upward, and she steals a look at the rajah without lifting her chin. She is frightened of him.

Healer Baka helps Jaya up. I start toward my friend, but the healer warns me off. “She’s going to the infirmary. Stay here.”

“I will be all right.” Jaya holds her bloody face. “Be careful, Kali.” She eyes the tower, and she and Healer Baka walk toward the entry.

Sister Hetal raises Natesa to standing. Natesa blubbers on as if her neck has been cut clean through, but her wound is a mere scrape compared to the one on Jaya’s cheek.

My lack of empathy after what I did surprises me. Natesa saw Jaya’s lovely face as competition, so she marred her. I wish the pain of a thousand cuts upon her head.

I toss the khanda into the weapons pile and join the daughters waiting to duel. The weight of their shocked gazes oscillates from me to the shadow watching from above.

“Sarita and Kalinda, please step forward.”

At last, Priestess Mita has called our names. Natesa and Jaya left less than an hour ago, but we have shivered in the cold for an eternity. I am ready to be done with my trial and go inside.

The rest of the duels were predictable. Falan overcame her opponent, and Prita lost, the former being the more aggressive of the pair. All that remains is for Sarita to defeat me, and she must. The rajah has not applauded or spoken again. I have drawn too much attention to myself. I did not intend to, but now is my chance to reverse my mistake.

Sarita and I face off in the ring. Not one for subtlety, she has chosen the khanda. I am the first dueler to select the staff. Everyone else attacked with a blade. Each victor sliced her opponent in unseen places—arms, legs, torsos. Never again on the face. My only regret, other than drawing the rajah’s attention, is that I did not repay Natesa’s cruelty with a more appropriate punishment. I should have cut her cheek and tarnished her face too.

Grasping the staff with both hands, I prepare my defense. Sarita may be shorter than I am, but she is nimble and has a mighty swing. Though my assault on Natesa made me out to be a swordswoman, I am most comfortable with the weapons I have trained with.

Priestess Mita strikes the hand drum, and Sarita moves in.

“Natesa isn’t here with me because of you,” she says, blade raised.

I rotate the staff in a circle. “Neither is Jaya. She did nothing to Natesa. She did nothing to anyone.”

Sarita bares her teeth. “Natesa wanted to fight you.”

“She did a poor job of showing it.”

Sarita lunges, hacking at the air with sloppy, angry swings. I evade her, sidestepping. She thrusts and connects with the bamboo. The strong vibration jolts up my arm. I revolve, and we meet again. The blade hacks a chunk out of the staff.

“I knew you would choose to fight with a tree.” Sarita smirks, all superiority and malice. “It’s as ugly and skinny as you.”

Annoyance rasps at me. Quit jabbering and end this.

I strike at her head with the maneuver that Jaya and I practiced yesterday, only I misjudge the strength of irritation behind my swing, along with how far apart we are. The end of the staff smacks Sarita in the mouth.

Priestess Mita beats the drum, signaling the end of our duel.

I stare openly at Sarita’s split lip. She touches her injured mouth and gapes at her bloody fingertips. My victory was not a brazen show of skill. Neither of us expected me, the weakest fighter here, to draw first blood.

Alarm barrels down on me. What have I done?

The priestess dabs Sarita’s lip with a cloth bandage, and the daughters clear the courtyard. Everyone shivers from standing in the wintry air, and it isn’t long before they have all funneled inside. I am the last to go in, but not before I hear the distinct ring of applause from the pinnacle of the north tower.

I nearly laugh at the girls scurrying out of my way in the corridor. They have always kept a distance on account of my illness, but they have not had a real reason to fear me. It is disconcerting yet oddly satisfying that I have given them one.

The familiar scents of ground ginger and sweet chamomile welcome me into the infirmary. The cot Healer Baka reserves for me is empty, and none of the other beds are occupied. We are alone, like we were for most of my childhood.

“Where is Jaya?” I say. “Is she all right?”

Healer Baka looks up from sterilizing her instruments. “Jaya needed stitches. She will have a small scar from the cut, but she is fit to be shown. I sent her to dress for the rite.” The healer considers me from behind her spectacles. “I understand why you stepped in to defend her, but you went too far.”

I rest my hands on the back of a chair and stare her down. “Someone had to help Jaya. How long was the priestess going to wait before intervening? Until after Natesa marked Jaya’s other cheek?”

“How long should she have waited to pull you off Natesa? Until after you slit her throat?”

I clamp my mouth shut, and Healer Baka tempers her voice. “You cut Natesa the same way she cut Jaya. You have to make peace with what you did.”

“She scarred Jaya on purpose!”

“And what you did was so different?” Healer Baka asks gently. “Making peace is not for her. It is for you.”

I grip the chair, remembering the weight of the sword in my hand. Sisterhood is one of our five learned godly virtues, but I have no sisterly love for Natesa. “I will not apologize. I was right to help Jaya.”

“That may be so, but peace is a choice, Kali. A decision not to be at odds with the world and to accept the gods’ path for you. You can attain no higher peace of mind than doing what the gods would have you do.”

I glower at the floor. I have so little freedom. It is unfair for her to expect me to forgive Natesa. Holding a grudge is one of the few choices I have.

Healer Baka rounds the table and touches my forearm, forcing my gaze up. Her brow creases with concern. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” It is on my lips to tell her that my fever surged when the dosage expired, but she would scold me for neglecting to take my medicine on time. “How much longer will I have to take my tonic?”

“The tonic isn’t a cure, Kali. You could grow out of your fevers, but it is just as likely the tonic’s effectiveness will wear off.”

We frown at each other, mutually dissatisfied. After years of failed remedies, Healer Baka concocted a fever-reducing tonic; however, she has not determined the source of my sickness. We know I am not contagious, since I am often the only patient in the infirmary. Her best theory is that I inherited my fevers from a family member, but with my unknown parentage, it is impossible to confirm.

Still, my past is not what concerns me most. Jaya and I have to pass inspection before the Claiming, and considering the rajah’s unpredictable behavior at skill trials, I decide that we should abandon our efforts to be shown. I would rather that we suffer through a second rite together than face the rajah and risk being separated. But, ultimately, Healer Baka has the final word.

I meet her stare. “Can I pass inspection?”

“You know the rules. No one unfit will stand before the benefactor.” She removes her spectacles, revealing her stern gaze. “I will judge you fairly, but if you feel a single degree warmer than you should, I will fail you.”

I manage a wavering smile. Healer Baka means to prepare me for the disappointment of failing inspection. She must think that I am worried that my fever will spoil my chance of being seen by the benefactor, but that is precisely what I want. I pray that Jaya’s hives and my fever will be enough to spare us from the rajah.

Healer Baka pats my arm. “Go change.”

4

I strip off my robe, letting the ivory satin pool at my bare feet, and resist the urge to cover myself. The sisters taught us the order of the rite, so I was fully prepared to disrobe, but being naked before my peers heightens my insecurities about my thinness.

Gooseflesh puckers across my exposed skin. I am one of twelve girls standing in two rows in the inspection chamber. Healer Baka patrols the lines of nude daughters, looking in eyes and mouths, peering up noses and into ears. No one utters a complaint. The Claiming is our payment for a life of shelter, food, clothes, and training. This is what we were saved for.

The healer stops beside me, in front of Jaya. The gash across Jaya’s cheek has been sewn shut with a skintight row of tiny black stitches. Her hives are nearly gone; the chamomile ointment soothed away the redness. My hope that we will fail inspection does not look good.

Healer Baka finishes with my friend, and her calm eyes meet mine. I try to ignore the healer’s adept hands roaming around my body, but it is impossible not to be anxious about potentially being shown to the rajah. I breathe easier when Healer Baka moves on.

Natesa lobs a withering glance over her shoulder at me from where she stands in the front line. A white bandage rings her neck. A thimble’s worth of shame spills over me, but with one sideways glance at Jaya’s cheek, fury burns my guilt to smoke.

I do not know how long we wait, but my knees ache when Healer Baka finishes. “You may put your clothes back on,” she says.

I scoop my robe off the floor and cover myself. Natesa and Sarita flaunt their bodies, unrushed to get dressed. They are replicas of the goddess Ki, petite and round, soft yet firm, fit yet feminine. So unlike my gangly, angled shape.

Priestess Mita, who watched the inspection from the rear of the chamber, confers with Healer Baka. They speak in low, heated voices. Healer Baka looks at me and shakes her head. Priestess Mita nods fervently and steps forward.

“Daughters, you have all passed!” says the priestess.

I lock gazes with Jaya. Her weak smile releases slivers of fear. We are going to be shown to the rajah.

“Daughters,” says Priestess Mita, “we will now adorn you with the mark of Enki.”

The priestess and Healer Baka come around with a pot of henna and draw a wavy line down each girl’s spine. The wave symbol dyed into our skin represents the water-goddess, Enki. Stories depict Enki as a daughter who walks in perfect obedience to her parents, Anu and Ki. Wearing Enki’s mark indicates to the benefactor that we are in full submission. I let my robe hang low at my back, clutching it to my front. Priestess Mita marks me and then leaves the henna to dry and flake away.

Once we are all adorned, the priestess whisks to the side door. “Form a line. We cannot leave our benefactor waiting.”

Jaya and I pair up and hang back. The other girls take their positions close to the door. Priestess Mita ushers Prita into the adjoining chamber first, with Healer Baka. Jaya and I step to the end of the line, and I take her hand. We have prepared for the day we could be separated and have done everything we can to prevent it from happening. Now our fate is up to the gods.

The line shortens. One by one, the daughters are shown to Rajah Tarek until only Jaya and I remain. The priestess tilts her head toward the door to listen. Healer Baka soon appears and motions Jaya inside the chamber. My breath constricts into a hot, burning ball. Rajah Tarek may have shown me favor at skill trials, but his wives and courtesans are renowned for their breathtaking beauty. One look at my bony shape and he will conclude that I am not a girl to add to his collection. He will pass me over, and I will be free of the benefactors. But Jaya . . . Great Anu, please do not let her be claimed.

The door opens a final time, and Priestess Mita accompanies me inside the Claiming chamber. I have not been allowed in here before. The walls, ceiling, and floor are tiled in a multicolored mosaic, depicting clouds as white as the August moon, land the deep orange of safflower seeds, fire a madder red, and water a serene indigo. Opposite the entry, a heavy mallow cloth hangs from ceiling to floor.

“Face the veil and undress,” says Healer Baka.

Someone painted a red line on the ground near the white drapery. My gaze downward, I approach the worn, chipped line. I shrug out of my robe, wondering how many daughters have stood in this exact spot, naked and afraid.

Priestess Mita collects my robe and dangles a strip of muslin. Every daughter is blindfolded to preserve her innocence for future benefactors. The priestess brushes my long hair behind me, and I stoop so that she can tie on the blindfold. Sudden darkness disorients me. I touch my covered eyes and press my knuckles against my pounding temples. I cannot stop from quaking.

The room falls silent. Someone is hiding behind the drapery. I can hear him breathing.

Cloth rustles in front of me, followed by steps. Something glances my chin. My spine snaps into line, and my muscles grit down. A featherlight touch—a fingertip—traces my jaw and dips down my neck. Gooseflesh breaks out in its wake.

Hot, sour breath permeates my blindfold. The rajah’s stroke follows the curvature of my collarbone. My chest heaves, and I prepare to be groped. His touch carves a direct line to my pelvis. I lift my chin, refusing to flinch. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing my fear. Rajah Tarek is at fault for Jaya’s injury. Her cheek would still be untouched if he had not demanded that our duels end in blood.

His finger pulls away. Softness brushes against my elbow, perhaps a sleeve, and then my hair lifts off the nape of my neck. The rajah stands behind me, and his careful fingers feather through my tresses from my scalp to the ends. He grabs a loose handful of my hair.

“This one.” His deep voice bores rivulets of horror into my back.

“Your Majesty, I commend you on your selection, but are you certain?” asks Healer Baka. “It is my duty to inform you that this ward has a sickly past.”

A tense silence weighs down the air. I capture my breath, questioning what the rajah sees in me. I am too skinny, too tall, too homely. He has countless women already. He cannot want me.

“Is she well now?”

“That is difficult to determine, Your Majesty,” Priestess Mita replies.

“I trust your healer’s estimation.”

“She is well,” Healer Baka answers with a tenor of defeat. I wait for her to mention the tonic or my fevers, but she says nothing more.

The rajah releases my hair and rubs my hip. I ball my hands into fists to resist smacking him away. His voice coarsens with finality. “I stand by my decision.”

Cloth rustles. A door shuts, and the women exhale in chorus. Frigid hands scramble up my face. Healer Baka removes the blindfold. Rajah Tarek is gone. The healer’s strained gaze consumes my sight.

I seize her wrists. “What does this mean?”

Priestess Mita drapes the ivory robe over my shoulders and rubs my arms too briskly to be comforting. “It means you have been claimed.”

5

Healer Baka and Priestess Mita steer me toward the chapel, each with a hand on my shoulder. My legs are stiff with shock. All of the younger daughters wait cross-legged on floor cushions. The older ones, who just came from the Claiming, are barefoot and clad in identical ivory robes, creamy against their skin, eyes, and hair. When we first congregated in the inspection chamber, I admired our elegant uniformity. Now I barely register my surroundings.

Jaya motions me over to the cushion that she has reserved near her own. I split off from Healer Baka and Priestess Mita, and they lapse into urgent whispers. I do not linger to hear them, though I can fathom their disbelief. Bamboo Kali caught the rajah’s eye.

“Did you hear?” Jaya clutches her chest, her nose red from crying. “We were inspected by the rajah.”

I nod and kneel beside her, bile winding up my throat.

“Natesa said she felt his breath across her chest.” Jaya’s horrified gaze drifts inward. She sucks her lower lip. “I heard her tell Sarita she’s going to live in the palace. Do you think that’s true?”

“Maybe.” Two rows in front of us, Natesa sits high on her knees, beaming smugly. “Did he touch her?”

Jaya pulls out of her anxious daze. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Did he claim anyone else?”

“Not that I heard.” Jaya’s breaths shorten to quiet gasps. “I—I could not stop shaking.”

I wrap my arms around her, guilt digging a gulch in my stomach. I have to leave her. I have to leave here. I should warn her, but the confession grips my tongue, reluctant to let go.

A gong chimes, and all conversation dwindles to a close. Many faces shine with eagerness. Rumor of the rajah’s visit has spread like ripples across the meditation pond. I release Jaya but stay pressed against her side.

Priestess Mita commands our attention from the front of the chapel. “I am certain by now you have all determined the identity of our benefactor. Rajah Tarek was pleased with the variety of your beauty and battle skills.” She raises her fingers in a V. “He chose two daughters.”

Gasps fly around the room. They know of Natesa but not of me. The others speculate in hushed voices, and Jaya rests her hand on my knee. I meet her searching gaze and nod. Tears sprout at the corners of her eyes.

“Quiet in the chapel.” Priestess Mita waits for silence to resume. “Both daughters will leave for Vanhi to live in the Turquoise Palace. However, only one will wed the rajah. The second will be his courtesan.”

Jaya clutches my leg harder in question. I shake my head. I do not know which I will be.

My insides coil like a viper trapped in a basket. To be a queen—a rani—is a charmed life. The highest station any girl, orphan or not, could dream of. Certainly, the rajah would not choose me to wed him over Natesa, with her heart-shaped face and abundant curves.

“Natesa and Kalinda, please step forward,” says Priestess Mita.

Upon hearing my name added to Natesa’s, the daughters erupt in various forms of astonishment, but all reactions rapidly wane to envious mutters and spiteful glares. Even Prita and Falan, who have always been distant yet polite, eye me with jealousy.

I rise fluidly, head high. Whether I am to be a wife or a courtesan, there is no sense in showing my devastation. What is done is done. I will accept my fate with dignity and cry my eyes dry later.

Natesa slings me a look of surprise. I join her at the front of the chapel and stare out at the kneeling group, searching for Jaya’s comfort among the daggered glares. She stares bravely forward, tears dripping off her chin.

Priestess Mita faces Natesa and me. “Whatever your position may be, I ask that you represent the Samiya Temple and Sisterhood well. Serve the rajah with perfect obedience.”

Natesa’s lips twitch in triumph. I am her only competitor left, and she has arrived at the same conclusion. I am no man’s bride.

I clasp my hands in front of me, concealing my unsteady fingers in my robe. Candlelight flickers across the mural of Anu on one wall, and on the wall opposite, a mural of his wife, Ki. The painter positioned them to gaze across the chapel at each other. I would have liked to see the rajah before he claimed me, but I now stand on the edge of a cliff, about to plunge into a faceless unknown.

“The rajah’s word is final,” the priestess says. “We do not defy. We obey.”

“We obey,” the daughters echo.

I mouth the promise, my tongue still too deadened to allow me to speak.

Everyone waits in silence. Quiet does not usually unsettle me. I can sketch in peace for hours, but the anticipation here is unnerving.

“To join his household as a courtesan, Rajah Tarek chose Natesa.” Priestess Mita swivels to me. “And to become his wife, he chose Kalinda.”

I gape at her rare approving smile, my heart falling . . .

Falling . . .

Falling . . .

I hit no bottom, no end, no release.

I have been claimed to be a rani. A queen.

Stunned silence pervades the chapel. My face must mirror everyone else’s disbelief and astonishment. Priestess Mita calls forward Sister Hetal, who brings a pot of henna. The priestess dips her pointer finger in the dye and strokes it from between my eyebrows, down my nose. Though I cannot see it, there is a short line down the center of my face—a sign to all that I am to be wed.

The priestess waits for Sister Hetal to return to the back of the chapel and then says, “I have more momentous news. His Majesty visited the other Sisterhood temples prior to traveling to Samiya. He was searching for a very special recipient, and Kalinda is his choice. She is to be the rajah’s one hundredth rani.”

Murmurs from the sisters rupture the quiet. I, with the other daughters, silently consider what this means. In the Parijana faith, mortal men are permitted only as many wives as Anu, who had one hundred. Otherwise, the sky-god becomes jealous and curses the man and his lineage. But to wed the same number of women as Anu is proof of eminence. No other living sovereign has cared for one hundred wives. No other ruler has the resources. Marrying me will establish Rajah Tarek as the dominant monarch on the continent.

The thought of so many unknown faces dazes me. I am to be the rajah’s one hundredth rani. He has ninety-nine wives. Ninety-nine! I understand that a man’s number of wives is a sign of his wealth and power, but how powerful should a man be?

“Can anyone recite the story of Enlil’s Hundredth Rani?” the priestess says. She scans for a volunteer, but no one raises their hand. “Jaya, would you please?”

Jaya stands slowly, her eyes swollen from crying. I clamp my teeth shut. I detest Priestess Mita for turning this into a preaching moment. But before I can think ahead to what reason she may have, Jaya starts.

“The fire-god, Enlil, took many mortal wives and courtesans, all of whom were blessed with astounding loveliness, enough so that the sky-god began to covet his son’s good fortune. So when Enlil announced that he would wed his one hundredth wife, Anu was wrought with his son’s greediness and would not allow Enlil more wives than he had. Anu told Enlil he could have only one hundred wives and courtesans, mortal or otherwise, and he was to drown those he did not keep. Enlil was distraught. He cared for his wives and courtesans, and could not pare them down to so few. In his grief, he asked his father how he should choose which of his women to retain. Anu responded by saying, ‘Let them decide.’”

Warmth seeps from my face. No, no, no.

Jaya goes on, each word quieter than the last. “Enlil’s wives would not rescind their rank. They loved their husband and honored him, but the courtesans loved Enlil as well, and they did not think that it was just that they should die. So the courtesans challenged Enlil’s future wife and battled for her rank as the last rani. Enlil’s future wife was the loveliest of them all and had a merciful heart to match, but she was also a fierce contender. She defeated every challenger and held her position until she was the last warrior standing. She wed the fire-god and was his favored wife forevermore.”

“Well done, Jaya. You may kneel.” The priestess beams at me.

I have waited all my life for her to see me as someone of worth. Now that she does, her praise repels me.

“Kalinda has been claimed, but now she must claim her place in the palace. She has the great honor of defending her throne by participating in the age-old rite of rank fighting.”

Her words are talons ripping into my chest. My hands betray my fear, quaking against my sides. I never thought that this would happen, or I would have remembered my lessons about the rank tournaments. Each time the rajah takes a wife, the law of the gods states that his current wives and courtesans may host a tournament in which they duel to defend or improve their position or vie for the coveted first-wife spot. These brutal battles go on for days and often end in death. This is why Rajah Tarek wanted to see us duel. This is why he chose me, despite my looks. I am the last wife he will ever claim, and he wants a warrior to defend her rank as his final rani.

But I cannot win. The priestess must know that. Everyone must. My performance at skill trials was a fluke. I triumphed over Sarita, yet surely the rajah must have seen that I am not the strongest fighter. My strength came from my love for Jaya. His courtesans have trained for years for the tournament. Some of them are novices like me, but they will be weeded out. The strongest will win and wed Rajah Tarek, and it will not be me.

“The rajah has chosen Kalinda to represent his throne as his champion,” says Priestess Mita. “In her honor, his wives and courtesans will host a rank tournament, their largest ever, as this will be his courtesans’ last chance to secure a spot as rani. Let us honor his champion!”

Priestess Mita brings her hands together in prayer and bows before me. The sisters at the back of the chapel emulate their leader, and all of the kneeling daughters bend forward, resting their foreheads against the floor. Natesa does not move.

“Show respect for your future queen,” orders the priestess.

Natesa’s nostrils flare, and her fingers turn clawlike. I have no doubt that she wants to toss me off the mountain, but she presses her palms together at her chest and dips her chin.

“I appreciate your obedience, daughters,” says the priestess, releasing them from their deference. She wraps an arm around me and steers me down the chapel aisle to the rear door.

This is happening too fast. I cannot leave now. Yet some part of me registers that I am leaving.

We reach Jaya, and I tear away from the priestess’s hold. I drop to my knees before my best friend and crush her against me. “I would bring you with me if I could.”

“Come back and claim me as your servant. Promise me you will win the tournament, Kali. Promise me you will return for me.”

Her forward thinking overwhelms me. On occasion, a benefactor’s wife accompanies him for a Claiming, and together they choose a servant, usually a ward with weak fighting skills. But even if I could come back and claim Jaya, would I?

“No,” I say. “You have to swear fealty to the Sisterhood, or you could be claimed by the next benefactor who comes here.”

“But if I join the Sisterhood, we will never see each other again.”

My stomach lurches. Saying farewell to Jaya forever is unbearable, but asking her to wait for me is a tremendous risk. Too much can go wrong. “You cannot—”

“I will not be claimed. No one will want me now that my face is scarred.”

I clasp her shoulders hard. “I thought no one would want me either!”

Jaya’s wet eyes press upon me. “You can win, Kali. You never give up. Promise me you will win. Promise me you will come back for me.”

I want to argue, but she has made up her mind. She will not join the Sisterhood. She will wait for me and face more Claimings. I have to win. I have to return for Jaya.

I kiss her cheek above her stitches and whisper, “I will come for you.”

Jaya grabs my hands and squeezes. I grip back hard, our fingertips turning red.

Priestess Mita tugs us apart. In a teary fog, I say, “I love you; I love you” to Jaya until I can no longer see her.

The priestess leads me from the chapel and down to the lower level. She opens the same door I listened at this morning. I expect to come face-to-face with Rajah Tarek, but Captain Naik turns upon our arrival.

The captain’s presence pulls me up short. I clutch my skirt and step behind the priestess.

“I was told there would be two,” he says.

“The other will be along shortly.” Priestess Mita tugs me out in front of her. “Kalinda, this is Captain Naik. Captain, this is Kalinda, the rajah’s intended.”

Captain Naik sums me up with a frown. I dry my tear-streaked cheeks with the back of my hand and wait for him to tell the priestess that we have met, but he sets off for another door.

Priestess Mita pulls me along after him, and I stumble to keep pace with her. We cross the chamber filled with gold-etched furniture. The rajah stayed here. Where is he?

The door opens to an exterior stairway that carries us to the front courtyard. Snow clouds hang low and heavy along the midsection of the mountain. Though it feels like a lifetime since skill trials this morning, it is hardly midday.

A line of horses waits with five more soldiers packing saddlebags laden with swords. I am struck by how quiet they are, and how big. One soldier, with arms thicker than my hips, hooks a team of white horses to the golden carriage. All of the soldiers wear saffron-colored knee-length tunic jackets, along with trousers loose around the thigh and gathered at the ankles, and securely wound turbans. The captain’s uniform varies slightly, with gold embroidery around the cuffs and a stand-up collar. Still not seeing the rajah or the general, I fidget with my skirt.

“Where is Rajah Tarek?” I ask.

The captain addresses me while fastening his saddlebag. “His Majesty has returned to Vanhi ahead of us to prepare for the rank tournament.”

My disappointment equals my relief. Rajah Tarek must have left immediately following the Claiming. Perhaps it is best that we travel separately. This way I have time to adjust to my twisted fate before I must face it.

Captain Naik continues. “The carriage and horse team are an engagement present for you. The rajah sends his apologies that he was not here when you received it.”

My mind clears of all except the captain’s words. The grand carriage and horse team are mine?

“Captain Naik.” The priestess raises her voice to be heard over the wind. “The second daughter may not immediately appreciate her calling. Natesa may need . . . additional supervision.”

The captain swaps a dry look with a fellow soldier. “We will keep an eye on her,” Captain Naik says as he mounts his horse. His sudden height startles me back a step. I stare up at him, recognition dawning. He is the lead rider, the man that I sketched. I lean slowly toward him, studying every facet of his face so that I can draw it later. He peers down at me with a peculiar look. “Do you wish to see inside your carriage?”

I straighten and drop my gaze. “I—I—”

Natesa and Healer Baka exit the temple behind us, bracing against the sweeping winds. Natesa goes straight to the carriage with her small bag and runs her fingers over the shiny door handle. “Is the carriage for me?”

“The carriage is a gift from the rajah to his intended,” says Captain Naik.

Natesa thrusts out her chin. “Oh, Kalinda won’t mind if—”

“Ask her if you may accompany her,” the captain says, “or you will ride to Vanhi on the top of the carriage.”

I do believe that Captain Naik means his threat. He strikes me as someone who does not go back on his word.

Natesa glares at me. “May I ride with you?”

Every time she has called me Bamboo Girl thunders in my ears, but I will not be high-handed to anyone, not even someone who deserves it. “Yes,” I say.

Natesa huffs and climbs inside. I turn into the wind to blow my hair out of my face. Healer Baka comes over and hands me a satchel weighed down with tonic vials, charcoal sticks, my sketchbooks, a slingshot, and firing stones.

My eyes blur with tears. “Thank you.”

Healer Baka draws me into her arms and speaks into my ear. “Have a care who you tell about your fevers. Not everyone will understand. The tonic formula is inside your bag. Hide it and take your daily dosage in private.”

Her sudden urge to be secretive confuses me. I am prone to fevers. What is there to understand? And even if I do not tell anyone, Natesa could wag her tongue. I want Healer Baka to clarify, but she silences me with a significant look and holds me tighter. “You can win the tournament, Kali. I know you can.”

“I will try.” My throat runs dry on the breath of my hopeless promise. I cannot win. Entering the arena will be a death sentence. But I want her and Jaya to know that I did my best.

A blast of wind nearly swipes us sideways. Healer Baka releases me and returns to the shelter of the entry. Captain Naik rides his horse to the back of the party and relays instructions to his men. The soldiers squint at the moody skies, impatient to get ahead of the snowfall.

The priestess does not reach out to me as Healer Baka did. “I know we have not always agreed,” she says, “but I am honored to have had you as my daughter. Be safe on your journey, and keep your distance from the men. You belong to the rajah now. Any disloyalty to your future husband will merit the gods’ punishment.” Priestess Mita brushes away the henna flaking off my nose, where she marked me as a betrothed woman. “Remember your duty, and represent Samiya well.”

“I will,” I promise.

The captain calls to his men. “Mount up!”

I join Natesa in the carriage. She is seated on the far side, against the second window, leaving me the seat nearest the door. The procession sets off down the hillside. My eyes stream tears. Priestess Mita and Healer Baka quickly drop out of sight, and soon only the temple’s familiar stone towers are visible. Lamplight emblazons the observatory in the north tower. I hold on to that beacon until distance swallows it up and my home vanishes.

“Finally.” Natesa spreads out her lap blanket. “I’ve been waiting to escape that prison since I arrived.”

I glance at her sharply. After Natesa’s parents died, she was fortunate to be taken in by the Sisterhood. I want to slap her mouth for her ingratitude, but I will save my reprimand for later. We have to endure these close quarters for a fortnight, down the Alpana Mountains and across the Bhavya Desert.

In those fourteen days, Natesa will say or do something more offensive. That is a guarantee.

6

Darkness descends hours later. Our guards erect a tent and start a campfire in a nook near the canyon wall. Natesa and I are not invited to join them. We will spend our night as we did our day, inside the carriage.

One of the soldiers, a boy younger than I am, with bowed head and nervous hands, brings us stones warmed in the campfire to tuck beneath our blankets. Along with the stones, the boy soldier delivers a meal of charred flatbread and spiced nuts.

“Where is the silk tent?” Natesa whines after he leaves. “Down cots? Rich foods and doting servants?”

I pop a cashew into my mouth. Why does she expect opulence? We are in the wilds. Considering the soldiers’ rustic sleeping arrangements, I am thankful for our privacy and comfort. My single grievance so far is the size of the carriage. I have nowhere to escape from Natesa’s grumbling. Thank the gods for crunchy food.

“I don’t see how we are expected to be confined in this . . .”

Chew. Chew. Chew.

“The blanket is hardly big enough to cover my . . .”

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

“They didn’t offer us hot water to wash.”

I reach for more nuts, but I have eaten all of them. I scrunch the paper funnel in my fist with a sigh. That is the end of my peace.

Natesa glares. “You ate them all?”

I send her a long look. I am not dense. She does not seek a sympathetic ear from me. She simply does not know what to do with herself if she is not complaining.

A rap comes at the door, and the boy guard comes inside. “Captain Naik wants the lamps extinguished.”

“Your captain cannot order us about. We are his betters.” Natesa states each word with venom.

Past the soldier, I see guards kicking snow onto the campfire, dousing the flames. More snow drifts down from the night sky in thick, feathery flakes.

“How will you sleep in the cold?” I ask.

The young soldier smiles shyly. “We have warmed stones for our beds too, Viraji.”

My heart jolts at the endearment. Viraji. Intended queen.

“You cannot expect us to sleep in the dark,” Natesa says, voicing her infantile fears. She turns up her nose. “We have no reason to trust our entourage will not defile us.”

I would be lying if I said that thought had not crossed my mind. I am uncertain what to make of these men. Their great strides eat up the land, and they grow dark hair on their faces. They are organized, well trained, and strangely subdued. They are our protectors, but it is too early to tell if they can be trusted.

“Guards are forbidden to touch any woman of the rajah’s court,” the boy guard says, “by pain of death.” His grave frown ages him many years.

I do believe that the rajah has honored this threat, and the boy has witnessed the punishment. “How long have you been in the army?” I say. “What is your name?”

“Manas.” He puffs out his chest. “I have been a soldier for two years. After I lost my family, the rajah took me in as his boot-shine boy. I joined the army on my fourteenth birthday.”

“Fascinating,” Natesa drawls.

Manas ducks his head, blushing. “I will leave you to your rest.”

He goes, and Natesa shrills at the door, “How can they expect us to sleep without a light? Captain Naik is—”

“Our guide to Vanhi. Be civil to him, if you know how.” I blow out the oil lamp and pull up my blanket.

Natesa settles down on the bench across from mine, punctuating her movements with angry huffs. I do not fear the night. When I close my eyes, tiny lights glow behind my eyelids. Jaya says that they are residual daylight, but I think of them as inner guiding stars.

The soldiers quiet outside, and, soon, only the wind knocks at our door. Under night’s velvet cloak, I ache to be home. I want my cot, my bedchamber, and Jaya. I cannot relax without her steady breathing lulling me to sleep. I miss her fingers running through my hair and the echo squeeze of her hand. I wonder if she regrets saying that she will wait for me.

I sit up and see that Natesa is asleep. I quietly lift the curtain and peer out the window. We did not travel far today. The snow and ice slowed our descent.

Seeing the observatory light from the north tower may help me rest. Grabbing my slingshot and stones, I creep out of the carriage with my blanket wrapped around me. There is no sign of a guard on watch in the silent, still camp. Muted light from above adds an ethereal glow to the snowy landscape, and the freshly fallen snow muffles my steps up the road. Cold pries at my skin with jagged nails, yet I push on.

I round a bend and look back. The carriage is long out of sight, my footprints the only guide to camp. Shivers rack my body. This is ridiculous. I could freeze before finding the temple. But I have come this far, and I do not know if I will be back.

I face forward. One more rise.

The path steepens. I stumble over the tail of the blanket and fall, catching myself with my hands. My fingers are ice. I wrap the blanket closer and stand. Almost to the top.

I crest the hill, legs and lungs burning. I promise myself that regardless of what I see, I will turn around at the top. I look to the darkened skyline and skim for the beacon. Nothing.

I set my jaw against a torrent of tears. Healer Baka would advise me not to look back, but all I see before me is my death. I will not survive the rank tournament. I will never see Jaya again. But I promised her that I would try.

Shoulders hunched, I retrace my footsteps in the snow. On the second slope, my footprints intersect with another’s. The tracks, nearly twice as long as mine, split off the road and disappear into the trees. My pulse quickens, and my breaths slow to deliberate streams. I load my slingshot and aim at the forest.

Captain Naik steps out from the shadowed tree line. I aim between his dark, calm eyes.

“You shouldn’t have left camp,” he says.

“How long have you been following me?”

“Since you left. Lower your weapon, Viraji. I won’t harm you.”

“I know that.” A partial lie. I am cautious of his size, his strength, and his foreignness. Even so, each time we meet, my desire to stare at him grows. Am I intrigued by his being a man, or is this feeling singular to him?

I lower my slingshot and trek swiftly down the road.

Captain Naik trails me at an obligatory distance. “I followed you for your protection. I thought you might be running away.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then what were you doing?”

I stop and glower at him. I would rather not answer, but I cannot have him thinking that I will try to escape. I am here, and, as unhappy as that makes me, I have to stay. The Sisterhood does not take back claimed wards.

“I wanted to see the temple beacon,” I say.

His pensive stare husks away my annoyance at him for following me.

“I don’t know if I will see my home again,” I say.

The captain’s stare lengthens, his eyes softening with every ragged beat of my heart. He smiles a little. “Follow me.”

He turns and plods up the hill. I glance toward camp. I could return, or I could find out where he is going. Priestess Mita would be appalled that I am considering following him, but the rajah left me in the captain’s care, so he must trust him. I have felt nothing unseemly from Captain Naik, but what if I have misjudged him?

The captain pauses at the tree line and quirks a brow. “Coming?”

I search his open face for cause to distrust him beyond the fears that Jaya implanted in me. If Captain Naik meant to harm me, he could have done so by now, but he gave me distance, even when he thought that I might run.

I hasten to catch up. My rationale for joining him falls to the back of my mind with every step, and I wonder what it would take for him to smile at me again.

Instead of going up the road, the captain cuts across the ridge, through the trees. The faint siff, siff, siff of his steps blends into the night so well that it could be heavy-laden branches dropping their snowy burden. He spies on the shadows and pauses more than once to listen. His caution prompts me to walk quietly and be alert.

We hike into a clearing. On the skyline, blue-purple shadows frost the Alpanas’ triangular tips. Captain Naik points, and I follow the line of his finger to a tiny glow near the lowest peak. Samiya’s beacon. A single star breaking through the night.

Tears mist my eyes. We stand side by side and stare into the distance at the last sign of my home. Sometime later—I do not know how long—a violent shiver pulls me back.

Captain Naik faces me and draws my blanket closer over my shoulders. His breaths steam between us, whispering across my cheek. “I hope coming here brings you peace.”

Snowflakes stick to his sooty eyelashes, his eyes warm brown. I am no more afraid of him than I was in the lower level of the temple. He radiates warmth and safety, riveting me with the trust he engenders. I want to tuck myself against his tall, muscled form and curl into his body heat, like a rabbit in a burrow.

My cheeks flame in embarrassment. I should not feel this way. I did not react so favorably to the rajah. His touch, his voice, and his smell were repulsive. But every nerve ending in my body comes alive near Captain Naik. Beside him, my slenderness feels delicate, curvy, and even womanly.

An ache to explore this new, scary feeling deepens at the back of my throat. I should turn away, but an odd fusion of curiosity and empowerment locks me in place. I never thought that a man would come this close to me without my feeling intruded upon. Compared to the other daughters, I fall short of having feminine allure. The captain’s nearness does not make sense, unless he has another reason for bringing me out here alone.

My eyes shoot open in shock. “Do you—do you desire me?”

Captain Naik withdraws, his color rising. “I cannot. That is to say, I brought you here only to please you.”

Hotness creeps up my neck, remembering my study course on bedchamber behaviors. A sister told us that we must satisfy the desires of the man who claimed us. The daughters blushed and giggled the rest of the day. Some whispered of Anu’s consorts and told stories of his touch awakening feminine pleasures. My pulse pounds harder, the ache in my throat spreading. I want to know if their whisperings are true, but the captain is not the man who claimed me. No matter how exciting and tempting these feelings may be, I would be reckless to pursue them.

“Captain, you are very handsome, and I am grateful to you for bringing me here, but I cannot repay you.”

The captain dips his chin and rubs the back of his neck. “Viraji, I never said . . . I did not bring you here so you would be in debt to me. I caution you to be less open about such matters.”

“Oh.” I press my cold hands to my burning cheeks. “Have I spoken out of turn?”

“Generally speaking, men express their interests. Women do not.”

Gods, I am a fool. Captain Naik does not desire me, or he would have said so.

He tries to ease my humiliation with a smile. “We should return. For your safety, and for the safety of my men, please stay in camp.”

Captain Naik starts for the trees. The distance between us numbs all but my swelling chagrin. Is the sign of a devoted woman one who holds her tongue? Am I only to think of pleasing the rajah forevermore?

Is there no room left for my own happiness?

Stealing one last glance at the temple beacon, I turn away from Samiya and follow the captain south, toward the City of Gems.

7

Over the next three days of descending from the snow-clad peaks, the terrain transforms. Evergreen trees thicken to indomitable forests, the snow melts to soil, and the air warms to tolerable temperatures. Natesa finds a stack of religious texts under her bench and reads nonstop, flicking the pages so that they make irritating ruffling noises. I stare out the window at the passing scenery, each rickety turn of the wheels taking me farther from Jaya. In my nightly prayers, I plead with the gods to let me see her again in my dreams. But nightmares plague my sleep. I dream of waking by myself, and Natesa and our guards are gone. I run into the forest to find them and lose my way.

Even in my dreams, I am alone.

On day four, I try to read, but the jostling carriage nauseates me, and I surrender after two pages. Drawing is my usual escape, but when I open my sketchbook, my mind goes blank. In the infirmary as a child, I would use my slingshot to knock empty medicine bottles off shelves; Healer Baka did not object, most days. But trapped inside this carriage, I cannot do even that.

By sunset, I am desperate to plant my feet on solid ground. I leave Natesa with her nose in a book and step outside. Our guards are assembled around a campfire, eating their supper beneath a starry sky. Upon my exit, Captain Naik promptly stands. My face warms, my mortification returning from the other night. A second later, his men rise.

“Viraji, how may we assist you?” Captain Naik asks.

My smile wobbles under the men’s quiet scrutiny. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your supper. I came out for fresh air.”

The captain hesitates with a heavy pause and says, “Please, join us.”

I normally would not stay after such a lukewarm invitation, but I cannot stand to be in the carriage any longer. The men take a seat, and Manas offers me his log stump. I sit, tucking my limbs close.

Manas dishes a bowl of red rice and offers it to me. “Welcome, Viraji.” He points to each of the guards, going around the campfire. “That’s Bel and Ehan, and Jeevan, your coachman.”

Each soldier nods in turn. I stash away their names in my memory for later and eye the one I have not met. The soldier seated beside Manas is as big as a bear. His ropy beard hangs to his massive chest, and cords of muscles line his thick neck. Next to his bulk, I am dainty.

“That’s Yatin,” Manas says. “If you think he’s big, you should see his mother.”

I smile, envisioning a bear of a woman, and my apprehension about this group of men lessens. “Are you all from Vanhi?”

Manas’s smile falters, but he regains it easily. I had forgotten that he had lost his family. I assume that his brief frown was about them. “We’re not, but Deven is.”

Deven. All eyes turn to their leader. I try not to stare, but Deven’s supple mouth and sculpted jawline fascinate me. Sadly, he shaved this morning. I rather liked the dark stubble on his chin.

Deven picks at his red rice, avoiding my gaze. After my forward behavior while we were alone, I cannot blame him. He must think that I am a dolt. I would leave him be, but I am interested to hear about Vanhi from a native.

“Have you been to the Turquoise Palace?” I ask.

“Many times,” Deven says. He does not elaborate.

He does think I’m a dolt.

“Deven and I met at the last rank tournament,” says Manas. “Remember, Captain? It was the opening match. The kindred had her opponent in a headlock—”

“I remember,” he says. Perhaps it is the firelight, but it looks like Deven is blushing.

The kindred is the rajah’s number one wife. Rajah Tarek’s current kindred is a legend. She and her older sister were claimed from a Sisterhood temple together. They were the rajah’s very first wives. “What happened?” I ask.

Manas leans forward. “The kindred took a knife to her opponent’s throat and sliced her clear open.” He draws his finger across his neck—as if I needed a demonstration. “The kindred is undefeated. She has been Rajah Tarek’s number one wife longer than any other and is fully devoted to him.”

I have difficulty swallowing. Even with additional training, defeating tournament veterans such as the kindred would be impossible. I wonder what Manas would think if I told him that I do not care to wed the rajah. In fact, I do not care for Rajah Tarek at all. I expect that my honesty would not be well received. Manas clearly admires the rajah and the kindred.

Deven stands. “That’s enough for tonight. Viraji, I will escort you to your carriage.”

The other soldiers stand and bow. I set aside my bowl and bid them good night. Deven and I walk away side by side.

“My men are taken with you,” he says.

My chin ticks sideways at his disapproving tone. “They’re very welcoming,” I say.

“They’re good soldiers, but you’re the viraji and the rajah’s champion. You should keep your distance.”

Priestess Mita taught that a woman who is unfaithful to her intended is punished by the gods, but I have not been disloyal. “I merely had supper with you,” I say.

“That’s enough to invite trouble,” Deven says as we reach the carriage. He faces me, his brows turning in. “Manas was once Rajah Tarek’s personal servant. If he or any of the other men should mention your friendliness toward us to the rajah, we could all be disciplined. Severely.”

Deven does not appear to be threatening me, but still I ask, “Will you report me?”

“You know I won’t.”

His eyes hint at a secret we share: the moment in the lower level of the temple when he did not inform on me to the rajah. Or perhaps he thinks of our time together in the woods. Only now do I realize how dangerous it was for him to go off alone with me. Why would he take that risk?

Perhaps he considers that pacifying me is part of his duty, but he was kind to me before the Claiming, when I was only a temple ward.

My breath stalls. This is who he is.

Back at the campfire, Yatin yanks away Manas’s stump, and the younger soldier topples to the ground. Yatin’s deep chuckles mingle with the other soldiers’ laughter.

Deven smiles at his men. “This group of baboons isn’t worth being punished over.”

I am not so certain. Their company is skies above Natesa’s, and I am less homesick in their presence, especially Deven’s. I remember how close we were the other night. His warmth brightened my whole world. Seeing him has helped me forget the miserable hours I have spent inside the carriage, but I will not endanger him or his men.

I look down and mutter, “I will keep my distance.”

“Thank you.” His warm smile squeezes me breathless. He turns to leave and then stops. “About the rank tournament Manas spoke of—I only attended to watch a competitor.”

I do not understand why it is important to distinguish himself as someone who did not want to attend, but I nod. “Did she do well?”

“No.” He smiles regretfully and returns to his men.

Watching him go, I open and close my fists, grasping for a tangible explanation for his changing moods. If I were to sketch Deven’s heart, I would draw a labyrinth of secrets. A puzzle that I will not be solving tonight.

I step inside the carriage and stop short. Natesa looks up from a hand whetstone, where she is sharpening a dagger. A dagger that she took from the temple.

“I’m not going to kill you, Kalinda. You would be dead already if that were the case. I will wait for the tournament. So don’t go snitching to the captain about my knife.”

I sit across from her, my gaze tight on her blade. “The tournament?”

“Any of the rajah’s courtesans may challenge you. We all have a chance to duel for your rank, kill you, and claim your spot as the final viraji.” Her lips twist in an ugly smile. “Including me.”

My mind tallies the number of my possible opponents. The rajah has hundreds of courtesans. “What about the ranis?”

Natesa sharpens her knife with meticulous calm. “The kindred may challenge anyone she wishes, but she won’t bother with you. None of the wives will. They can improve their standing only by challenging a higher-ranking rani.”

Relief sweeps away some of my worries. I will not have to battle the rajah’s warrior wives. “How often do they hold tournaments?” I say.

“As often as the rajah claims a bride. The most I remember was six in a year. My father went to one. My mother fell ill soon after we arrived in Vanhi, and she sent my older sister and me to fetch him. Father pulled us out of the amphitheater before we got a good look at the arena, but I remember it stank of piss and blood.” Natesa’s mouth turns downward. “He caught my mother’s illness, and both of them passed away.”

I am sorry for her, but beneath my sympathy lies a twinge of envy. She knew her parents, whereas I cannot remember mine. Still, I do remember when Natesa and her older sister arrived in Samiya. Not long after, her sister was claimed as a courtesan.

“What happened to your sister?” I ask.

“Why do you care?”

“If she’s in Vanhi, maybe you will see—”

“My sister is dead.” Natesa runs the blade over the stone so hard that sparks fly. “Priestess Mita received word last year that she died in childbirth. She had no burial. No one cares for the courtesans. The wives receive all the respect.”

“I’m sorry.”

Natesa looks up at me, her gaze hard. “Don’t be. I will not live my sister’s fate.” She slips the dagger into a leather strap around her calf and lies down with her back to me.

My engagement gift has become a gilded cage. For two days, I have respected the captain’s request to distance myself from his men, but I cannot stand to be locked inside this carriage with Natesa any longer. While she reads away the hours, her knife hidden the gods only know where, I agonize over how she plans to defeat me in the arena—slit my throat, gut my belly, stab me in the spine. Whatever method she chooses, it will not be merciful. I have to get away from her.

After we make camp at the end of the day, I gather my sketchbook. “I’m stepping out.”

She lifts her gaze from her reading. “Going to make eyes at the captain again?”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but I need to relieve myself.”

“Are you planning to pee on your sketchbook?”

I glower at her and step out under the mild night sky. The soldiers gather around a campfire, finishing supper. Deven’s back is to me. None of them notice me as I sit on the carriage footrail and open my sketchbook. The glow of the campfire reaches my page, and fresh air frees my mind. I touch my charcoal to paper, and my hand flies with ease.

The water-goddess takes shape. Enki hovers over the sea, her wavy, dark hair swathing her body like cascading water. She wears a shell necklace and a short skirt, and she wields a staff with three prongs at the top. Her slim waist curves out to full hips, balanced by strong shoulders and legs powerful enough to withstand any tide. Enki exudes sexuality and strength. She is as steadfast as the moon and would not be threatened by Natesa.

“Are you ready to turn in?”

I look up to find Deven standing over me. Time has slid through my fingers. No one remains at the fire. Everyone else has gone to bed.

Deven sits beside me on the carriage footrail. “Enki, the water-goddess.”

“You know the gods?”

“Very well. I studied the Parijana faith with the brethren for a time.”

I gape at him. The brethren oversee the Sisterhood temples and provide new wards to bring up for the Claiming. They have no equivalent rite; only girls are reared for that ceremony. Their temples are where general congregations worship. Like the Sisterhood, serving in the Brotherhood is a lifelong calling. I have never met a member of the brethren, let alone someone who renounced his duties.

“Did you swear an oath of celibacy?” I say.

Deven’s lips lift slightly. “Yes, but my vow was negated when I left.”

I flush, realizing I have asked another improper question. “How did you come to be a soldier?”

“My mother is a courtesan, and my father is a benefactor. For bastards like me, it’s either the army or the Brotherhood. I thought I would spend my life with the brethren. They were my place of peace. But the gods had a different path for me.”

A lump forms in my windpipe.

“You understand what I speak of, Kalinda.”

He says my name in three pieces, Ka-lin-da, each syllable as precious as the last.

I do understand. The path the gods have set forth for me is vastly different than the one I want. “Do you begrudge the life you’ve been led into?” I say.

“I fought becoming a soldier. My father is an army officer, a hard man who respects little other than his own importance. I thought I could hide from the part of me that stems from him, but being in the Brotherhood taught me to accept my path. I wanted to be a soldier more than I was afraid of becoming my father. Being like him was never my fate.”

I envy his certainty. “I thought I knew what my fate would be, but now . . .”

Deven’s knee rests against mine. I stop myself from pulling away, allowing the small comfort. “Was it not fate,” he says, “when you stepped in to help your friend during skill trials?”

“Maybe.” If protecting Jaya is what led the rajah to claim me, I would do so again with no regret. But I cannot say if that was fate.

Deven watches me quietly. The sisters are nurturers and teachers, whereas the brethren are patient counselors and protectors of the Parijana doctrine. Deven would have done well serving in the Brotherhood.

His knowledge of the gods has reopened a side of myself that I thought that I had left behind. I have only been this open about my faith with Jaya. I even hid this part of my heart from Healer Baka, afraid that she would lecture me on godly virtues. But Deven understands what it is to sacrifice his will and adjust his course to align with the gods’.

I glance at our connected knees. “If you had the choice, would you have stayed with the brethren?”

“The army has its challenges. I travel too often to keep a home, but the soldiers are my brothers. I would still choose to be with them. And I would still be here with you.”

His smile spreads through me like a cozy ache. I wait for him to move away, but he stays, touching me. I drink in his sandalwood scent, mesmerized by his eyes glowing softly against the night. I wonder if he would pull back if I traced the stubble on his jaw . . .

I drop my chin and bite my lower lip. My thoughts are disgraceful. I am wrong to fuel my desires with impossible wants. These stirrings belong to my intended. I am tempting punishment by thinking of Deven in this way.

I start to stand, and my sketchbook falls off my lap. Deven picks it up and offers it to me. I close my hand over my book, and our fingers brush. He turns toward me, and our knees reconnect, securing us together.

“You are exactly where the gods intend you to be, Kalinda.”

The gentle way he says my name sends warmth to my belly. His complexity intrigues me. His outer layer is hard, like a warrior, but inside he is a man of faith. “No one told me a man could be like you,” I say.

His lips quirk. “You mean ‘very handsome’?”

I blush, hearing him use my words from the first night. “I’m a dolt,” I say. “I cannot understand why the rajah claimed me.”

Deven suddenly goes expressionless. “I trust the rajah has his reasons. It isn’t our place to question His Majesty.” He stands and bows with wooden joints. “Morning will come quickly. Good night, Viraji.”

I frown, seeking Deven’s face for what I did to merit his dismissal. Finding only a hardened shell, I leave him alone with the stars.

8

Natesa and I endure the next five days of incessant rainfall boxed inside the carriage. Our guards have grown quiet, the drizzle dampening their moods.

Soon after we break camp on the sixth morning of stormy skies, the carriage jolts to a halt. Manas opens the door and asks us to step out. A rock has torn away from the sodden hillside and sideswiped the carriage. Natesa and I enter the rain and watch the soldiers repair broken wheel spokes. My face warms as we wait. I have yet to swallow my daily tonic, and my vials are hidden in my satchel inside the carriage.

Once the wheel is repaired, Deven orders his men to prepare for departure. We have not spoken since he reverted to formalities days ago. He sends Manas to deliver our meals, and with the heavy rain showers, there has been no nightly bonfire to sketch near.

Deven helps Natesa into the carriage and then offers me his hand. I clasp his fingers and search his face for any sign that he is pleased to see me. He stares politely back, his thoughts hidden behind propriety.

A deafening boom thunders overhead.

Deven’s chin jerks up. The firmament releases another tremulous roar, and I cover my ears. A thunderhead materializes on the horizon. Thick black clouds tunnel toward us, seeping across the sky and blotting out the murky light. I have never seen weather appear out of nowhere; clouds always flow from somewhere. But these are suddenly here.

Bel and Ehan spread out to corral the horses that scattered during the thunderclap.

Deven directs me toward the carriage door. “Get in!”

I step onto the footrail, but my attention is detained by four black-cloaked figures appearing on horseback above us on the rise. They look like men, but there is an ominous spirit about them, as if the demon Kur has escaped from the Void.

Deven and his men swing onto their mounts. Jeevan, our coachman, hurtles into the forward seat. Ground-trembling thunder booms overhead, rattling straight through me. The light rain intensifies to a shocking downpour. My sari is drenched in seconds.

The cloaked riders race down the incline. I shield my eyes and watch their galloping horses tear down the sopping hillside. A tumble of land and rocks unlooses behind them but does not overtake their horses. Coldness entrenches my core. The landslide is following them.

Deven hollers from his saddle. “Kalinda, go!”

I break from my daze and vault inside. No sooner do I shut the door than Jeevan cracks his whip at the horse team. I am thrust backward into the seat.

Natesa braces against the bench. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.”

Another rumble of thunder shudders around us. Who are our attackers? What are they? I do not understand how, but they brought upon the unnatural storm and held a landslide at bay.

We charge over the bumpy road. Natesa and I fly to the ceiling like feathers in a puff of wind and then hit the floor like bricks. Jeevan shouts for the horses to go faster. We stay down. I lift my head when I hear roaring hooves behind us. We are being followed.

I open my satchel to retrieve my slingshot, and the tonic vials spill out across the floor. My temperature creeps up, escalating with my fear. A wave of warmth ripples from my veins. I load the slingshot with a firing stone. Natesa stands ready with her dagger. Her fierce stance reminds me of the water-goddess.

We throw open the side door. Several of my tonic vials fall out, bursting into twinkling showers. Rain pelts my face. We are alongside a cliff. I look down, and wooziness spirals through me. A riderless horse gallops to our rear. No one else pursues us.

I lean out over the drop and look for the missing rider. At the front of the carriage, Jeevan wrestles with a black-cloaked figure. The reins lie slack at their feet. I struggle to steady my balance and aim for the assailant, but the carriage swerves erratically. I drop my attack and grip the doorsill.

“Here.” Natesa grasps a handful of my sari. She holds my weight, and I suspend myself out the door, over the cliff.

My head spins from the perilous drop. Arming my slingshot, I look up. The attacker grabs Jeevan’s throat, and Jeevan’s face leaches of color. His eyes shrivel in their sockets. His nose and lips wither. His skin sags from his bones. I gape in rapt horror as Jeevan crumbles into a mound of ash, and the wind and rain sweep away his remains.

Our cloaked assailant picks up the reins to control the horse team.

“Bring me in!” I say.

Natesa hauls me inside, both of us crushing glass vials beneath our feet. I shut the door, pressing a hand to my heaving stomach.

“What is it?” she says.

“Our coachman is dead. A bhuta is driving the carriage.” That has to be who is attacking us. I recall the sisters’ stories. Bhutas can make fire with their hands. Others can conjure winds and storms or call upon the land.

Natesa’s eyes broaden. “We have to get out of here!”

“We’re wedged between the cliff and a wall. We have nowhere to go.”

The horses slow. I rearm my slingshot, and Natesa raises her dagger. We will have to fight our way out. I quash my panic and focus on her frightened yet determined face.

Our carriage halts at the same time the rain ceases to drive against the roof. The bhuta disembarks from the coachman’s seat, rocking the carriage. Footsteps ring out as he comes around the side, but I barely hear them over my thundering pulse.

He stops at the door. Natesa points her blade there, clutching the hilt so hard that her knuckles turn white. I wrench back on my slingshot. A sizzling noise starts, and the door glows, turning to embers. I shrink against one wall, Natesa against the other. The wood disintegrates in a cloud of smoke. I blink my stinging eyes, and Natesa coughs. The haze clears, revealing the cloaked bhuta.

The bhuta is no hideous, gnarled demon, but a man. Startling eyes the shade of honey peer out from the shadow of his hood. He skims the broken vials on the floor and narrows his eyes at us.

He dismisses me with a succinct once-over and concentrates on Natesa.

“Are you the viraji?” he says to her. His silky voice is dangerous. I am sopping wet from the rain, while Natesa, with her beautiful looks, fits the role of royalty.

“No.” Natesa points at me. “She is.”

The bhuta turns his attention to me, and Natesa jabs at him. His hand whips out and seizes the blade of her dagger. I expect the red of blood, but the metal in his palm turns another red—fire. He heats the blade to malleability and bends the hot steel, angling it sharply to the floor.

He lays his hand over Natesa’s on the hilt. I do not know what power he pulses to her through his touch, but her eyes roll back into her head, and she flops to the floor, unconscious.

The bhuta tosses the warped dagger out the door and picks up one of my intact tonic vials. “Where did you get this?”

I aim my slingshot at his right eye. “Leave or I will shoot you blind.”

“Answer my question and I may spare your life.” He opens the vial and sniffs. His whole body recoils. “Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

He flings the vial out the door. It shatters, and I jolt. But I do not release my firing stone. His golden eyes slim to slits. “Who are you?” he says.

I tip up my chin and try to sound imperial. “The viraji. Who are you? What do you want?”

“You are the final viraji?”

He steps closer so that I can see his shadowed head: he has dark hair with brassy streaks, and sharp cheekbones. He is younger than I supposed for his abilities, about my age. I memorize his features, and he does mine.

“You’re the viraji.” The bhuta throws back his head and laughs.

I admit that I am not much to look at even when I am dry, but his mocking goes too far. I release the slingshot. The bhuta lowers his head at the snap, and my mark goes high, hitting him in the forehead. A gash opens. But before blood swells in the cut, he seizes my throat with both hands.

“You have fire in your blood. It would be a terrible waste to kill you.”

His skin buzzes with heat, adding to my rising fever. “I saw what you did to the coachman,” I say. “You’re a demon.”

“You call me a demon when it’s you who has been chosen to wed one.” He throttles me, sealing off my lungs.

My skin flares. I claw at his wrists for freedom and kick him in the shin, but he does not relent.

“I admire your spirit,” he says. “Remember that I spared your life when we meet again.”

He releases me with a shove. I stumble back and drop to all fours. Gasping, I look up at the empty doorway and hear the beat of retreating hooves. I crawl to Natesa’s side. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. Where there was once a door is now a singed gap in the carriage wall. Tonic and shards of glass are scattered around us. I follow the glittery path of destruction to charred spots on the floorboards.

My mind replays the attack. Once. Twice.

Dismay lashes at my cringing heart. I cannot deny what I see. The bhuta did not touch that area on the floor. I placed my hands there when I fell.

Those are not his burn marks. They are mine.

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.

10

I steal a private moment away from camp at dawn, under the guise of using the latrine. Away from onlookers, I take my tonic dosage. Only two and a half vials remain. Overall, less than a moon’s supply. My reserve is lower than I would like, but I can concoct more with the formula Healer Baka gave me once we reach Vanhi.

We are not far from the palace now. Deven’s and my time alone last night was a mistake. I need the favor of the gods while I participate in the tournament proceedings. I do not wish to evoke their wrath or the rajah’s by disobeying my impending marriage ties. I will not see Deven punished because he has gotten too close to me.

Deven’s gaze locks on me when I return to camp. I pretend not to see him waiting beside his horse, and I walk up to Manas and say, “I would like to ride with you today.”

Manas glances at Deven. “But the captain—”

“Will not mind.”

“Yes, Viraji.”

Manas mounts his horse. I pull myself up with the stirrup and slide in front of him. His leaner body fits more easily with me in the saddle than Deven’s. Manas’s arms come around me and take up the reins. I lean back against him and wait for my heart to strike a rebellious beat of attraction, but Manas is not built as finely as Deven. None of the men are.

“Viraji”—Deven circles to us on his horse—“you’ve changed the riding arrangements.”

Manas tenses at my back.

“I thought it best to vary whom I share saddles with.” I offer him a smile to ease the sting of our separation.

“Fine idea. I was going to suggest the same.”

My smile falters. After our closeness last night, his distance from me now is yawning. I should be glad of his indifference; ignoring him requires less effort when he is reserved Captain Naik. But I like him so much better when he is Deven.

I remember his words to me. You’re beautiful . . . All of me is with you.

“We will ride to the Bhavya Desert today and travel straight across,” he says, “to avoid the chance of being slowed by dust storms. Tomorrow, we reach Vanhi.” Deven digs his heels into his mount and races for the road.

Yatin lifts Natesa into the saddle with him, and they gallop off. She has hardly left his side since the attack. I suspect that she chose the largest soldier as her companion in case the bhutas attack again. We have not heard or seen them, but Yatin was gone when I woke. Upon his return, I overheard him tell Deven, “They’re close.”

Manas and I embark for the road. Deven sets a less punishing pace than yesterday’s, but the ride brutalizes my sore legs. Instead of looking over my shoulder for golden eyes, I now look forward into the distance, each of the horse’s strides carrying me closer to the Turquoise Palace.

The Bhavya Desert has been abandoned by the gods. A scorched abyss of burnt-orange knolls stretches to every horizon. We bake in the blazing sun, our camels plodding up and down an endless sea of sand dunes.

Around midday, we leave the foothills and enter the flatlands. We trade our horses for camels at a small outpost, refill our casks, and start across the desert. Manas rides in front of me. My gaze slips to the front of the caravan, where Deven leads the way. I cover my mouth and nose with a headscarf to fend off the dust.

The sun banks low in the sky, and I allow our camel’s steady lope to rock me to sleep. A sudden stop wakes me. I sit up from resting against Manas’s back and gather my bearings. Sunrise marks our eastern flank. To the west, illuminated on the crest of a hill, the Turquoise Palace shimmers like an opal in the distance. The palace consists of a series of ivory buildings patched together by massive golden orbs tapering into points on top.

Our camels lumber toward Vanhi, the far-off hill growing to a solitary mountain. Stacked below the palace, as if holding it up, lies the City of Gems. Clay huts roofed with rust-colored tiles crouch together against the hot desert sun. Splashes of green from the leafy fronds of tall, skinny palm trees break up the dull brown, and smoke tendrils rise in short plumes, sky trails to civilization.

We approach a towering wall of clay bricks encircling Vanhi, and I sip my tonic dosage when no one is paying attention. We reach a hut outside a city gate, and two soldiers greet us. Sand crusts their beards and turbans, and their fists are tight on their khandas.

Deven addresses the guards, and they speak in low voices. I gaze up at the Turquoise Palace and wipe sweat from my brow. Sunlight glares down on me from the gold-domed palace roofs, and my mouth goes dry at their grandeur.

Deven turns back to us. “Kalinda and Natesa, please unveil.”

We remove our headscarves, and the guards study our faces. I wash my expression clean of curiosity. Finally, the guards step back.

“What was that for?” I whisper to Manas.

“One of the ranis ran away with her lover. They are looking for them.”

“What happens if they catch her?”

“She will be executed as a traitor,” Manas says matter-of-factly.

I rock back in my seat, away from his heartlessness. He takes my distance to mean something else. “Do not worry, Viraji. The runaway rani will not affect your rank tournament. The rajah may wed only one hundred women in his lifetime. Even if one of his wives dies or leaves, she is still counted as his.”

Manas’s effort to pacify me leaves a foul tang in my mouth. I stay bent away.

The guards open the city gate and wave us along. Our camels lurch forward, and we pass through the city wall. Haggard-looking women, bow-shouldered men, and half-naked children fill the yards, roadways, and rooftops. Though we sit on the camels, high above people’s heads, the buildings dwarf us. Huts are crammed so closely together that a child can scarcely squeeze between them. The crowded streets stink of unwashed human flesh and animal waste decaying in the hot morning sun.

Manas pulls back on the reins to let a woman balancing a basket of grain on her head pass.

I have never been anywhere like this. The heat, the bodies, the noise, and the stench tighten my chest into a snarled coil. To level my breathing, I pretend that I am in the Samiya Temple chapel, surrounded by a sea of daughters wearing calming blue saris.

Deven rides up to a road dammed with tents and dismounts. Manas helps me down after him. This new swarm of people and tents and animals shatters what is left of my composure. I gasp, trying to inhale enough air to feed my body, but my head spirals like water going down a spout.

I shut my eyes. I have come this far. I can make it to the palace.

Soft lights shine behind my eyelids. I focus on their serene brightness and ease my breathing one mouthful of air at a time. My chest loosens ever so slowly, and my head clears. On a steady breath, I reopen my eyes.

“The camels are too big to pass through the market.” Deven hands the reins of our camels to a peasant boy with a face smudged with dirt. “These are yours. Trade them and give what you earn for them to your parents.”

“My parents turned me out.” The boy juts his chin. “I’m on my own.”

“Then trade the camels and go to Brother Shaan at the temple. You can trust him. Tell him Captain Naik sent you. He will help you find a place to stay.” Deven bends so that they are eye level and passes the boy a gold coin. “For taking the camels off our hands.” The boy gapes at the coin in his dirty fist. “Go on. Say hello to Brother Shaan for me.”

The boy collects the reins and guides the camels away.

“That was good of you,” I say softly.

“A real kindness would be to go with him. He will be lucky if he isn’t robbed of the camels before he sells them or if the buyer gives him a fair trade.”

“Why do you think his parents turned him out?” I ask, thinking of my own.

“Most families are poor and are forced to put their children out at a young age. The boys resort to begging and stealing. And the girls . . .” Deven turns his solemn gaze on me. “You were fortunate to be taken in as a temple ward.”

“I see.”

Vanhi is a place of plenty—with people, huts, and sunshine, but also hardship, poverty, and sadness. My parents having left me with the brethren may have been a blessing. “Does the rajah know his people live this way?”

Deven lowers his voice. “The rajah is aware.”

I glance around, confounded. Rajah Tarek allows his people to live in squalor. How can he not wish to help them?

I frown at my quick judgment. The sisters did not hide the rajah’s flaws: he is a strict man with an appetite for women and power. But they also said that he is generous and judicious, a man of faith. What virtue could he gain from his subjects’ poverty?

“We’re going into the market now.” Deven offers me his hand. “It’s easy to get lost in there.”

I did not think that he noticed my moment of panic earlier, but I suppose he did. I accept his hand, and our fingers entwine. He smiles and gives an encouraging nudge, and we lead the way into the busy market. Yatin and Natesa follow at our backs, with Manas at the last.

Awnings hang from the surrounding structures, encroaching on the narrow roadway. I gawk at a man with a monkey on his shoulder and salivate when we pass a plate of fried sweetbread. Merchants shout at us to purchase their wares. They sell everything from clay pots to spices to animal hides. Deven is unfazed by their heckling, but I stay tethered to his side.

A loud boom startles me. “What was that?”

Deven smiles at my jumpiness. “Performers. They entertain for coin.”

I crane my neck and see people assembling in a small courtyard to watch a woman dancing to a drummer’s beat. Her movements are strong and purposeful, her theatrical gaze steady and direct. Bells chime around her ankles, jingling with each rhythmic step. She aims her startling stare toward me, and I look away. My gaze snags on someone across the road with honey eyes. I freeze, and the Burner grins at me.

“Deven.” I yank his arm. “The Burner.”

“Where?” In one movement, he reaches for his sword and pushes me behind his back.

I peer around Deven and point to the spot where I saw him. “He was there.” I search the shifting crowd for his face. “He’s wearing a dark headscarf, and he has golden eyes.”

Deven’s attention jumps to me. “Golden eyes?” He returns his sharpened gaze to the market and whistles. Manas and Yatin immediately come to our side, Natesa with them. “The Burner is here. Manas, find him. Yatin and I will get the girls to the palace.”

Manas takes off, and we shoulder our way to the other end of the market. There, Deven pays a man more coin than I have ever seen for his two horses. Natesa rides with Yatin. I settle into the saddle in front of Deven. We race uphill, streaking past decrepit buildings and dirty faces. I watch for the Burner, but there are too many shadowed doorways where he could be hiding.

The scenery briefly opens to stone pavers curving down to a wide, muddy river jammed with people washing clothes and bathing. We return to the winding, enclosed streets and climb higher. Near the top of the mountainous city, a great white wall surrounds the palace.

Imperial guards spot our approach and open the golden gates. We burst inside, and Deven yanks on the reins, bringing us to a sudden halt. He helps me down and runs his hands over my shoulders.

“Are you all right?”

I nod, coldness pooling inside me. The Burner must have come to collect on our bargain. But what could he want as payment for sparing my life? Coin? Land? Valuables? Whatever he seeks, I have only the clothes on my back.

Deven grasps my upper arms. “You’re protected here, Kalinda.”

I should be grateful to be standing at the threshold of Rajah Tarek’s palace, but I am too paralyzed by trepidation about what awaits me to thank the gods for my safety.

We scale the marble steps to the main entry, Yatin and Natesa following silently.

The Turquoise Palace is a verdant oasis, everything the lackluster city below is not. Clean white walls glow in the sun. Sapphire, canary, and ruby draperies billow from lofty balconies. Warm air, thick with the perfume of evaporated morning dew and desert flowers, clings to the breeze. Tall silver-plated doors adorned with elephant faces, their gold trunks coiled into handles, mark the entrance. An imperial guard opens the door, and I step into the rajah’s stronghold.

11

Deven guides us past the grand double stairway to an arched doorway. Two imperial guards in dark uniforms with khandas slung at their hips defend its threshold. A thin copper-hued drapery blocks our view inside. My heart trips into a fall.

Rajah Tarek could be waiting within.

I am not alone in my unease. Yatin shifts on his big feet, and Natesa wrings her skirt.

Deven draws the muslin shade. “Kalinda and Natesa, follow me. Yatin, you may go.”

Natesa throws her arms around Yatin’s brawny waist, stunning me with her openness and affection. Yatin pats her head and says, “I will see you soon, little lotus.”

Natesa lets him go, and we enter the receiving hall. Translucent fabrics drape above our heads, lowering the high ceiling and bringing the massive chamber a lavish coziness. A peacock, a bird that I have seen only in books, struts across the carpet, pecking at stray sand fleas. The bird’s eye-catching feathers mimic the brilliant array of colorful floor cushions scattered about.

Deven kneels before a dais raised three hands above the ground, where a stunning young woman lounges on a gold-and-jewel-encrusted throne. She invites Natesa and me forward with the flick of her red-painted fingernail. I am suddenly aware of every granule of sand in my hair and every speck of dust on my clothes.

We pass down the silk-laden aisle. A wide-open balcony behind the dais ushers in ample daylight, which warms the smooth marble floor. The brighter lighting adjusts my first opinion of the lady’s age. Her curves are taut and sinuous, and her skin has the flawless sheen of a rose petal, but her overall look speaks of the maturity and refinement of a woman forty years through her life.

A girl about my age stands beside the lady, propping her elbow against the throne. She is dressed exquisitely. Her ebony hair is tied in a braid, ornamented with calla lilies.

“Will you introduce us, Captain?” says the seated woman, her voice a smoky purr.

Deven bows. “Kindred Lakia and Lady Anjali, this is the rajah’s final viraji and his newest courtesan.”

The kindred, the rajah’s number one wife, is the older woman. Lakia is the deadliest rani in history. The girl, Anjali, must be one of the rajah’s courtesans.

Anjali sizes up Natesa. “So you’re the viraji Tarek traveled far and wide to find.”

“You have it wrong,” Lakia says, pointing a red fingernail at me. “She was claimed to be rani.”

Anjali glances between Natesa and me. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain it isn’t your place to correct me, Anjali.” Lakia’s voice wields an edge. “You may be one of my husband’s favored courtesans, but you are still only a courtesan. Now, leave me and the viraji alone, all of you.”

Servants so quiet and hidden that I had not seen them flee from the recesses of the hall.

Anjali steps off the platform and struts to Natesa. “I will show you to the courtesans’ wing,” she says. “It isn’t as grand as the wives’ wing, but it’s less dull.” She tries to loop her arm through Natesa’s, but Natesa wrenches away.

“You won’t be the rajah’s favored courtesan for long,” says Natesa.

Anjali smirks and forces her arm through Natesa’s, securing the crook of her elbow. “You will do just fine here.” She leads a stony Natesa to the door, and Deven follows.

“Captain,” Lakia calls, “please escort them to their wing and return here.”

Deven hesitates and then ducks out. I brace myself against the kindred’s hard, glittering gaze and pray that he returns quickly.

Lakia sweeps her gold-embroidered silk sari behind her and steps off the pedestal. “What’s your name?”

“Kalinda.”

The kohl lining her eyes makes them look tapered. “No surname?”

“I’m certain I have one, but I never met my parents.”

Lakia fingers my sandy headscarf and then brushes off her hands. “Remove it.”

I do, letting my hair hang loose. She circles me, and the peacock struts behind me. “I am the kindred. Do you know what that means?”

“You’re a rani.”

“I’m the rani.” She stops before me. I can see over her head; I am that much taller than she is. Her bare shoulder has a dark raised scar—a healed stab wound—and a thin white scar marks her jawline. “You will call me Lakia. I am kindred to Tarek and our people, but I will never be kindred to you. I’m charged with watching over my husband’s other interests. Any punishment you receive will come through me.” Her nose turns upward. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“At least you’re of age. Tarek has developed a taste for young girls. Anjali was fourteen when she came here.” She curls her upper lip in distaste.

“How did you know I was claimed to be His Majesty’s wife, and not Natesa?”

Lakia grabs a handful of my hair and speaks into my ear. “I know my husband.” Her breath smells of spearmint, and her skin, of cinnamon oils. She releases my tresses a few strands at a time so that they swing past my shoulder. “His wives have only one trait in common—beautiful hair.” She flicks the last of my locks into my face, and I flinch.

“When will I see the rajah?” I say.

She grips my shoulder, digging in her nails. I withstand her biting grasp, refusing to balk for her amusement. On the back of her hand, I see a single line dyed in henna. A matching line marks her other hand. I do not recognize the symbol. “Proceedings for the rank tournament will begin shortly. You will—” Lakia eases up on my shoulder. “Ah, Captain,” she says as she sails back to her throne.

Deven approaches her dais and kneels. My gaze latches on to him, a steady rock in this torrent of change.

“Rise,” Lakia says. “Tell me about this trouble you had on your journey.”

“We were attacked by bhutas in the lower Alpanas. They killed three of my men and followed us to the desert. I thought we lost them, but the viraji spotted one of them—a Burner—in the marketplace. My men are searching for him.”

Lakia clicks her fingernails together. “Tarek anticipated this, which is why he asks that you reconsider your advancement to the imperial guard. The bhutas will do everything in their power to interfere with the rank tournament and prevent him from crowning his hundredth rani. You are one of the few soldiers Tarek trusts implicitly. He wishes for you to supervise the viraji’s protection.”

Reconsider his advancement? They asked Deven to be an imperial guard once before? Why did he refuse?

Deven bends at the waist. “I’m pleased to serve His Majesty and the viraji.” He straightens, with a glance at me. “I will protect her with my life.”

I hold myself still, hiding my swinging emotions. I am pleased to retain Deven as my guard, but I am worried about how I will keep him at a distance that is safe for both of us.

“It’s settled then. Viraji, you may explore the palace grounds only while guarded, and you are never to leave the gates. Wives are not permitted in the courtesans’ wing, and vice versa. You may not receive or send correspondence with anyone outside the palace walls. Violation of these rules will result in your swift punishment, which I will decide the severity of.” She flourishes her hand, and a serving woman wearing a long black veil appears. “Asha will be your personal attendant. She will show you to your chamber. You will dine with the wives for supper tonight.”

With another flick of Lakia’s hand, we are dismissed.

My servant, Asha, escorts Deven and me from the receiving hall. We have hardly exited when we come upon an older officer in a dark-blue military uniform. Deven stiffens beside me and slows to a stop. The man’s intruding stare combs over me, climbing up and down my body. Asha waits a few paces away with her gaze down.

“General Gautam,” says Deven. “You caught up to us.”

“I didn’t have a carriage to slow me down,” says the general, his smile glib. “I heard there was excitement in the market.”

I know that voice. General Gautam must have been one of the men I overheard in the lower level of the temple. But what does Deven mean that he “caught up to us”? The general was at Samiya after we left? I had assumed that he rode ahead of us with the rajah.

Deven stares past the general, his expression controlled. “We saw a bhuta, nothing more. The viraji is safe here in the palace.”

I question how true that is, given that Deven has been asked to stay on as my guard.

“No one is safe so long as bhutas are in the empire,” says General Gautam. “We should burn the foothills where they hide and be done with them.”

“Then we would be no better than they are,” I say.

The general arches his brows in amusement. “I understand why the rajah claimed you, Viraji. He likes fiery women. The gods know why.” He glances around the hall. “Where’s the other one? The courtesan? A pretty thing. I should like to see her.”

“She’s settling into the courtesans’ wing,” Deven answers. Everything about him is stiff, from his voice to his stance.

“I will be certain to pay her a visit.” The general winks at me.

“Why would you visit Natesa?” I ask.

Deven draws a deep breath through his nose.

The general chuckles. “Young Viraji, let me give you a word of advice from a man who has known the rajah many years—do not ask questions.”

I tilt my head and return his condescending tone. “And I will advise you to stay away from the rajah’s women.”

“Kalinda,” Deven warns.

I scowl at him for taking the general’s side.

General Gautam flashes a cold smile at Deven. “Still haven’t learned how to keep a woman in line, have you, son?”

Deven goes stock-still. My eyes widen, and I glance from him to the general. They share the same strong chin and dark brows, the same thick shoulders and long arms. Deven told me that his father is a benefactor and an officer. The general is his father.

“A pleasure to meet you, Viraji.” General Gautam bows without lowering his chin. “I will offer your regards to Natesa.” The general strolls into the receiving hall.

Deven’s firm silence repels my questions. Asha steps forward, and we clip down the corridors after her. I glance at Deven’s stony expression and replay our meeting with the general. I still do not understand what General Gautam was doing at the temple or why he would visit Natesa.

We turn a corner and enter my bedchamber. My chamber is ten times the size of the one at the temple and bedecked in the same ostentatious taste as the rest of the palace. A four-poster canopy bed that could easily sleep five is stuffed with silk pillows. A table near the hearth is decorated with a large bowl of multicolored glass orbs, shining prisms of rainbow light across the plaster walls. Daylight and a slight breeze pour in from the balcony overlooking the gardens, a view Jaya would adore.

“Viraji, I will see about your bath.” Asha backs out of the room in a bow, leaving Deven and me alone.

“My apologies about my father,” he says quietly.

“Why does the general want to see Natesa? You said the rajah punishes men for speaking to his women.”

“Wives. The rajah punishes them for speaking to his wives without permission. His courtesans are entertainment for his court.”

I recoil a step. “Rajah Tarek is going to share Natesa?”

“He shares all of his courtesans.” Deven’s composure cracks. Deep in his eyes, he looks as though he has been kicked in the chest. “Gautam won’t take her to his bed right away. The rajah will expect that privilege first. But afterward, Natesa will spend time with anyone who requests her company.”

The wrongness of a woman being passed around like a flask of apong roils my stomach. Courtesans should belong to a single man, as they did to Anu. “Do all the benefactors do this?”

“Only the rajah.”

I glance around me. What crooked world have I come to? I set my jaw. “Rajah Tarek is a monster.”

Deven comes close and rubs my arms. “He’s better to his ranis. For your protection, you must obey him.”

“Does every choice come down to obedience?” I whisper.

“Yes.” He brushes my arms one more time and steps back.

Longing flares inside me for more of his touches. I swallow the desire, locking it down. “Do you know why the general stayed behind at the temple?”

“He came there to attend the rajah’s Claiming, and he was so impressed by the recipients that he arranged his own.”

Jaya. My stomach dips to my ankles. No, he could not have. The general could not have claimed Jaya, not with her scarred cheek and hives. She has to be in Samiya. She must be. But the possibility rips the ground out from beneath me.

“Can you find out if he claimed anyone? My friend Jaya, the one I helped during skill trials, is the only family I have.”

“I know some of my father’s men. I will ask them about your friend.”

“Tell me as soon as you find out.”

“I will.” Deven tries for a hopeful smile, but it comes out weak.

Asha returns with a small army of veiled serving women heaving buckets of steaming water and a brass tub.

Deven takes that as his cue to leave. “I will return soon.” He bows and squeezes past them out the door. I stifle the urge to call him back. I am not ready to be alone here.

Asha starts to undress me. I pull away and wait for the extra servants to finish filling the tub and leave.

I strip down quickly and slide into the bath. Warm water seeps into my pores, loosening the knots in my bones and removing all traces of Deven’s touch on my arms. I cannot understand why he agreed to stay on as my guard; he knows the risks. Yet his nearness relieves some of my apprehension. I want him by my side while I face the tournament proceedings.

Asha scrubs my hair with a bar of soap. Try as I might, I cannot quit fretting about Jaya. I have no right to complain about the rajah when Jaya’s future is so uncertain. Rajah Tarek may be a monster, but I will fight to wed him. And gods willing, I will win.

A couple of young women welcome themselves into my chamber, walking in without knocking. “She’s taller than I thought,” one says to the other.

“And thinner,” adds the second.

“Her face isn’t entirely unpleasant.”

“Not entirely. And that hair! Tarek does admire beautiful tresses.”

“Especially when they are all a woman wears!”

They saunter my way, snickering. One of them, with oval eyes and a pouty mouth, yanks my hand up from the side of the tub and tsk-tsks. “Your nails are frightful.”

The second young woman tugs on my big toe, which is sticking out of the water. “Hasn’t anyone taught you that nail care says you care about your appearance?”

“Was that question for her or me?” I ask.

The first young woman answers with all seriousness. “For you.”

“Then no, I don’t care about my nails.”

“Clearly,” sniffs the second young woman. “I’m Eshana, and this is Parisa.”

“Kalinda. Are you courtesans or wives?”

“Wives!” Parisa says, hand rising to her throat. “You must learn to tell apart the courtesans from the wives, or you will find a scorpion in your bed.”

I laugh, but neither of them join me. Clearing my throat, I ask, “How long have you been married to the rajah?”

“A year.” Parisa sits on my bed. Her bone structure is striking. Her lean face and lofty cheekbones would be a joy to draw. “Tarek claimed us from the Hiraani Temple at the same time. We were glad to get away from the Sisterhood. Those old crones never let us do anything exciting. Here we can do anything we wish, so long as we stay within the palace grounds—”

“And it doesn’t involve a man,” adds Eshana. She is the more obvious beauty, with her pouty lips and slim oval face. She leans forward and whispers across the room, which is quite pointless. “One of the wives ran away. With a guard.”

My thoughts fill with Deven, and I am unprepared when Asha dumps a bucket of water over my head. I sink into the tub and sputter to the surface.

Eshana smiles. “Tournament jitters?”

“Or wedding nerves?” says Parisa, speaking to her friend.

Eshana’s demeanor sobers. “I was more nervous during my rank tournament.”

“The arena is terrifying,” Parisa admits. “But for some, being with a man for the first time is scarier.”

Eshana laughs, shaking off her mood, and starts for the door.

Parisa pats my hand. “Should you survive the tournament, you will have the rajah to yourself on your wedding night. That is Tarek’s gift to his brides. After you have him the first time, you will never have him alone again.”

She joins Eshana, and they walk toward the door, commenting on the size of my room and the color of my draperies. Asha dumps another bucket of water over my head, and when I reopen my eyes, the gabby duo is gone.

12

Asha rotates me to face the mirror glass. I gape at my reflection and touch the beadwork on my bodice. The fitted top amplifies my slight curves. The trousers hang low on my hips and then balloon out and tighten again at my ankles. My bare midriff is partially hidden by a shawl draping from my shoulder and sweeping across my chest. Heavy kohl lines my eyes, arcing out at the sides in crow wings. Gold powder speckles my eyelids and cheekbones. My hair is down and brushed to a shine. The dark line of henna Priestess Mita drew down my nose has faded, but it is still noticeable. I purse my lips, stained red with passion fruit.

Asha clasps her hands together, an accomplished gleam in her eye. “You’re a vision, Viraji.”

She is being generous. After hours of grooming, I nearly pass for pretty. But then I think of Deven’s words to me during our journey: You’re beautiful.

I wrap my arms around my torso. I have shed more than fabric. Nothing appears to remain of the temple ward from Samiya, but beneath this painted mask I am still that girl. I will not lose sight of her. I dig through my satchel for a reminder of who I am to carry with me, but there is a problem.

“I don’t have pockets. Where am I supposed to hide my slingshot?”

“Do you intend on needing it for supper?” Asha says.

A handsome man in finery fit for the gods enters my chamber and displays a wide smile. “My wives may be fierce, but they won’t spoil a fine meal.”

I hold myself tight. Rajah Tarek needs no introduction. I recognize his voice from skill trials.

Asha bows out of the room, and two imperial guards position themselves near the door. I look for Deven, but he is not here.

“Kalinda, isn’t it?” Rajah Tarek strolls to me and takes the slingshot from my hand, setting it aside. He is younger than I thought, not an old man, but middle-aged. His is a pampered appearance, a look of long days soaking in the bathhouse and rubbing oils into his skin. His dark hair is short, almost the same length as his beard. Well-trimmed and well-dressed, the rajah carries himself with the ease of someone certain of his place in the world. Or perhaps someone who owns the world.

I bow low. “Your Majesty.”

“I would wager those who know you well call you Kali.”

“Some do.”

“Then so will I.” His eyes shine with amusement. “You look surprised.”

“I thought you would be . . .”

“Older? Fatter? Grayer?” His lips tug up.

I have no reply. I cannot agree that, yes, I expected him to be unsightly. That if he were, he would better suit my impression of him during our brief encounter in the Claiming chamber.

Rajah Tarek traces a finger down my arm, setting off a fire of gooseflesh. “Kali, did the priestess tell you why I claimed you?”

“To be your wife.”

“Not just my wife—my final rani. The importance placed on my hundredth viraji meets, and perhaps exceeds, that placed on my kindred.” His fingers feather through my hair. “For that, I need a young woman I can mold into a legend, someone worthy of the role.”

I confront him with a glare. I will never be who I once was, but if the gods have indeed brought me here, then they know that I will not bend to him. Not now. Not ever.

The rajah grins. “There’s the woman I claimed. I could feel your fiery glare through the blindfold.”

I repress a shudder. He is incredibly handsome, but his calculating eyes chill me. He is a charmed cobra that could snap out of its trance and turn on me any second.

“Tell me about your sickness.”

His abrupt command catches me off guard. My first instinct is to lie, but since Healer Baka notified him of my illness, I tell the truth. “I have a tendency toward fevers.”

“Any other weaknesses?” The rajah releases my hair to stroke my chin. “Pride perhaps?” His grip tightens on my jaw. “Or is it disobedience?”

I jerk free, and he chuckles. “I don’t like to be told what to do either.” His hand lashes out and clamps down on my chin before I can move away. Holding me captive, he leans in. “General Gautam spoke to me about your impertinence. I won’t hear any more tales of your defiance. You are my champion. You will conduct yourself properly. Do we have an understanding?”

His threat vibrates to my knees. “Yes.”

Rajah Tarek lets me go only to reach for me again. I cringe. “Shh.” His knuckles skim my cheek. His hot breath stinks of spicy apong. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

He brushes my hair off my forehead so tenderly that he could be looking at someone else. Someone he knows well and cares for.

“You will defend your throne for me. Won’t you, love?”

I nod, unable to speak. I will fight to win, but not for him.

“Captain Naik,” Rajah Tarek calls.

Deven rounds into the room, his gaze appropriately blank. He has changed his uniform into dark fitted trousers and a plum jacket with gold embroidery and a stand-up collar. The attire of an imperial guard.

The rajah kisses the back of my hand, his dry lips lingering against my skin. He looks at me and speaks to Deven. “I needn’t remind you of the importance of Kali’s safety. Nothing in the world matters more to me than her. I would not entrust her care to many men. Take that to heart.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I will see you soon, love,” Rajah Tarek says to me. He kisses my cheek and goes, his two guards marching out behind him.

I slump onto my bed and shove my shaking hands beneath my thighs.

Deven’s controlled voice carries to me. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” The pain in my jaw has faded. I stare at my lap, confusion twisting my mind around. “He spoke to me as if . . . as if he knows me.”

“Perhaps he has been waiting for you all his life and he feels he does.”

Deven’s quiet answer tugs up my chin. His tender gaze extends across the room, and a warm ache gathers in my chest. Having met Rajah Tarek, I am no closer to understanding why he claimed me. He has bound me to him, but my heart is above whatever role he wishes me to play. As I look at Deven, that same heart whispers of a certainty.

The gods guided me here to Rajah Tarek, but that path also led me to Deven.

He glances at the door. “The ranis will dine soon.”

I follow him into the corridor and see two more imperial guards. A smile splits my face. “Manas. Yatin. What are you doing here?”

“The captain promoted us.” Manas stands with his chest thrust out and his shoulders back.

“We hope you don’t mind,” says Yatin.

“Not at all.” I tug his stiff collar, and he smiles shyly. “I hope you don’t mind the uniform.”

Manas yanks at his own high neckline. “The jacket will take some getting used to, but look at us. We’re imperial guards.”

“You earned it,” says Deven. “Let’s escort the viraji to her supper.”

He guides the way. Every corridor in the palace is a copy of the last, with the same gold-leafed trim and flowing jewel-toned draperies. I have yet to see any turquoise, for which the palace was named.

We turn into an outdoor corridor lined with latticework doors opposite arches that open to the garden and the sunny sky. Early evening light streams through the openings, glowing against the palace’s alabaster walls. We stop at an inner doorway draped with red silk.

“The Tigress Pavilion,” Deven says. “The wives spend most of their time here.”

I waver at the threshold. “Are you coming?”

“Imperial guards aren’t permitted inside. If you need us, we will be stationed at this exit.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. All of the ranis could be like Parisa and Eshana, more concerned with their nails than backbiting, or they could be as horrible as their reputation, vain and vicious. None of the warrior wives will be my competitors in the tournament, but that does not mean that they will be friendly. But I will not know until I face them, so I step through the door.

13

The Tigress Pavilion is an unroofed courtyard in the center of the wives’ wing. A portico borders the black-and-white-tiled area. Silk fabrics flow from the eaves, where they are pinned. At the center of the patio, a fountain gurgles a tranquil song. The carvings on the fountain’s base complement the outer walls, which are covered in a plastered pattern of Tarachand’s scorpion emblem.

I circle the area, staying under the shady portico. The pavilion is broken into two parts. In one area, young women lounge on overstuffed floor cushions, where they read books or play games with tiles. The other section is a training ring. I stop by one of the columns that divide the pavilion from the portico and look out at the courtyard. Women wield khandas, haladies, bows, slingshots, metal-tipped spears and shields, axes, javelins, and even an urumi—a weapon made of several flexible whiplike blades. Generally treated as a steel whip, it is the riskiest weapon to master. One lash from an urumi and a victim’s flesh could be sliced so deeply in several places that he or she might never recover.

A knife zips past me and sinks into the closest column. I step back and look around the pillar at Parisa. Her hair is pulled back, revealing a deep-purple scar from her ear to her neck. A piece of her earlobe has been hacked off. She flings another dagger, embedding the razor end through a target tacked to the post.

“Too far left,” Eshana says from a bench nearby. Her attention appears to be on the book in her lap, but her assessment was accurate. Parisa missed the center of the target pinned to the pillar by a hand’s width to the left. “Goddess Ki would not approve of that throw.”

“Why don’t you get off your rump and do it then?” Parisa challenges.

Eshana rises and accepts the throwing knife that Parisa offers her. Taking her stance, Eshana hurls the dagger with impressive form. The silver blade revolves in the air, gleaming like a spiraling star, and stabs the center of the target. Eshana reviews her mark and turns to smile at Parisa. “Ki would approve.”

Parisa notices me in the shadows and purses her lips. “You clean up well,” she says.

“Don’t mind her crankiness,” Eshana says. She comes to my side and pulls me out into the open. “The rajah sent his summons for tonight, and her name wasn’t on it. He hasn’t summoned her to his bedchamber in six moons.”

“Five!” Parisa shouts to our backs.

Eshana tips her head toward me. “Six, and the last time she was summoned, she had to share him with another wife and three courtesans.”

I shudder in repulsion and glance back at Parisa, who is throwing another knife. Her aim is still pulling left. “How did she get her scar?” I ask.

“A souvenir from her rank tournament.” Eshana sits back down on the bench, just out of the range of two ranis practicing swordplay, and I see that the book in her lap is Enlil’s Hundredth Rani. Jaya’s recitation comes to mind, and longing for her stretches through me. “Many of us will be glad when the rank tournaments are over. Every time another takes place, we cannot help but remember our own.” Eshana rests her palm on the book, and I see the number eighty-nine dyed in henna on the back of her hand.

“What’s that?” I ask, touching the number.

“My wifely rank. We all have them.”

I search the women before us, looking past their weapons for the numbers on the backs of their hands. Those were not strange lines that I saw on Lakia. They were ones. I consider my own hands, picturing what they would look like with the number one hundred branded on them.

Eshana rubs the book cover. “Most people’s favorite part of Enlil’s Hundredth Rani is his viraji winning the tournament, but what happened next was more important. Do you know the rest of the tale?”

I shake my head slowly. I have never heard that there is more to the story.

“I didn’t know the rest until I found this text in the palace library,” Eshana says. “It says that after Enlil married his final viraji, men began to emulate the gods and institute their own rank tournaments. But Ki soon became wrought with the loss of so many of her daughters, and she formed a band of young women and trained them for battle in secret. Her followers became warriors in the Sisterhood. By the time the next tournament was proposed, the sister warriors loved each other so much that they laid down their weapons and refused to fight. Their bond made them stronger together than they were apart. The land-goddess’s tradition of raising girls to be warriors became the cornerstone of the Sisterhood and carries on today.”

I scan the new passages in the book, seeing the full story for myself. I was taught that Ki established the Sisterhood, but the rest of the tale was never disclosed. “Why did the sisters tell us only part of the story? Why not teach us peace, like Ki taught the sister warriors?”

“I have often wondered the same.” Eshana watches the sparring wives with severe focus. “Whatever the case may be, the virtue of sisterhood has not been upheld as well as the tournaments.”

That may be so, but these ranis are established sister warriors. Their preparation saved their lives in the arena. “Does everyone here plan to challenge someone to a duel?” I ask.

“Any rani could try for first-wife rank, but Lakia has yet to be challenged.” Eshana smiles sadly. “Many practice to forget our past battles. We all bear scars.”

I study the women closer. Most scars must be deftly concealed by clothes and jewelry and their long hair. But as I look, signs of their hard-fought battles become visible below this flawless veneer. I spot faint scars on arms and legs. Even the impeccable Eshana has a scrape on her back, seen beneath her blouse and extending down, disappearing beneath the waistline of her silk sari.

A gong chimes across the courtyard. The ranis prop their weapons against the wall racks and then pass through a lattice archway bursting with vine flowers.

Eshana and I cross the patio with everyone else. As we walk past the weapons rack, I ask, “Have you mastered all of these weapons?”

“All the rajah’s favored four have. They are Lakia, me”—Eshana blushes—“and two courtesans, Anjali and Mathura. Mathura has lived in the palace almost as long as Lakia, since they were our age.”

Past the archway trellis, we go into a candlelit dining cove. Servants rush to fill chalices with wine. The wives kneel on cushions, congregating around knee-high tables stacked with lavish place settings and mouthwatering dishes smelling of turmeric and coriander.

Parisa beats us to a table. “Eshana! Viraji!”

Heads snap in my direction, and snatches of whispers fly. The comments I overhear pertain to my lankiness or plain looks. Nothing is said that I have not heard before, but the judgments still sting. The ranis’ flaws—their battle scars—are not at the forefront to be gawked at. But my lack of attractiveness cannot be concealed behind a sari.

Eshana sits beside Parisa, and I kneel across from them. They lean their heads together and speak in quiet voices, slightly set apart from the rest of the ranis. Is that how Jaya and I looked together? Separate in a hall full of people?

Hollowness carves out my center. Please let Jaya be safe. Even as I pray, the selfish part of me wishes she were here. I count the number of seats at the tables until the urge to cry goes away. I tally ten seat cushions at each of ten tables, but five of the tables have empty spots.

“Where are the rest of the wives?” I ask.

Parisa and Eshana are engrossed in their conversation, but the young woman beside me answers.

“Three ranis are with their infants in the younger nursery.” The young woman cradles her bulging abdomen. I slant away, having never seen a belly so huge. The temple had two nurseries, a younger one for babies and an older nursery for little girls, but no women with child. The young woman laughs. “I remember the first time I saw a pregnant woman. I thought she was as big as an elephant.”

I think that this young woman looks like a spider, all swollen stomach and skinny legs. But her face is pretty, and her dark hair is the shiniest at our table. “I’m Kalinda,” I say.

“Shyla.” She lifts her hand to show me her rank. “Wife eighty-one.”

“May I . . . may I touch your . . . ?”

She nods and rests my palm on her belly. A strange flutter raps my hand, and my eyes go round.

Shyla beams. “He likes you.”

“You know you’re having a boy?”

“No, but if it’s a boy, he will be thirty-second in line for the throne. Lakia’s son is the rajah’s heir, but you won’t see him. The brethren are raising him at one of their temples.”

I vaguely remember that it is tradition for noble heirs to be brought up by the Brotherhood. The brother responsible for training the heir to the throne later becomes the new rajah’s head counselor. Depending on how long Rajah Tarek’s counselor has served the Vanhi Temple, he may be able to answer questions about my adoption. If anyone can tell me about my family, the brethren can.

Lakia strides into the dining patio, her supple walk all swishing hips and hair. She stands at the head of our table and raises her chalice. Everyone hushes.

“Tonight we celebrate the arrival of the rajah’s final viraji,” she says. “Tarek has claimed Kalinda as his champion. She will defend her throne in what will be our final rank tournament.”

Nods abound. This marks a major point in history. After this, they will no longer have to worry about jockeying for rank in the arena. There will be no more battle scars. “The opening proceedings for the tournament begin tomorrow night with the declaration ceremony. Should Kalinda uphold her throne, she will join us as a rani. All welcome our sister queen. Nush!”

“Nush!” They salute me with their chalices and drink.

I salute them back, and Lakia sits. Cups lower, and bowls of food are served. Voices and clinking silverware take over the night. The dishes smell delicious, but my stomach is too upset by Lakia’s announcement that the declaration ceremony is tomorrow to eat.

“You should try something.” Shyla piles a serving of chickpeas on her plate.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

“I am, but I don’t have much room left.” She pats her belly.

“How long until your delivery?”

“The midwife says any day now.” Shyla chews on a stalk of palm heart. She is missing two fingers on her left hand. My mouth turns papery as I try not to stare at the stubs near her knuckles where her fingers used to be. “I may miss your tournament. Pregnant women are exempt from fighting, and with the baby coming . . .”

Her concern helps me muster a smile. “I am certain it cannot be helped.”

Beside us, Parisa and Eshana quit chatting and focus their attention over my shoulder. “Oh, he’s an eyeful,” Eshana says in her not-so-quiet whisper. “Where do I know him from?”

I turn and see Deven waiting near the door with his hands tucked behind him and his head high. He really is a treat for the eyes.

“That’s Mathura’s son,” replies Parisa.

“She told me about him.” Eshana’s admiring tone grates my ears. “Mathura wasn’t exaggerating about his handsomeness.”

I go still, my mind running.

Mathura is one of the rajah’s favored four.

Deven’s mother is a courtesan. General Gautam is a benefactor.

The rajah shares his courtesans with his court. Deven went to the rank tournament to watch his mother fight.

Mathura is Deven’s mother.

Why did he not tell me? Whatever the case may be, I doubt that he has come here to talk about his parentage. He would not set foot in the Tigress Pavilion uninvited without a good reason.

Nearly everyone at our table has noticed his presence. I rise and go to meet him. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

“You asked me to tell you when I heard news about your friend.”

My stomach reels. Jaya.

“Captain Naik,” Lakia calls from our table, “you’ve interrupted our supper.”

Deven steps fully into the light. “My apologies, Kindred. I came to deliver some news. A bhuta was spotted near the palace walls.” Utensils ting, and voices halt. “Soldiers are searching for him now.”

Lakia leans her head in an exaggerated tilt. “How good of you to alert us and check on our safety.”

My lungs squeeze tight. Despite Deven’s reassurance that I am safe in the palace, the Burner has him spooked.

“Please forgive the intrusion, Kindred,” Deven says as he bows. He whispers to me, “I will be outside.”

Parisa and Eshana have their heads tilted together when I return to the table. Upon my arrival, they separate, and Eshana looks me over. “You know your guard well.”

I shirk their questioning glances and pick at my food in silence. Within minutes, a handful of ranis finish their meal and leave the table. I excuse myself with them. Shyla bids me good-bye, and Parisa and Eshana lapse into whispers. My senses crackle, aware of Lakia’s thinned eyes gazing at my back.

I leave the pavilion through the door I came in. Deven waits for me in the empty corridor.

“What did you hear about Jaya?”

“Gautam did not claim her.”

I clasp my hands close to my heart. “Thank you.”

Jaya is safe in Samiya, and with the rank tournament luring the benefactors to Vanhi, that is where she will stay.

Deven’s smile weakens, and I remember the other reason he came. “Was it the Burner who was spotted?” I say.

“Yes. He escaped again, but a bhuta sympathizer was detained for helping him flee.” My insides twist, remembering how close the Burner came without my noticing. Deven grips the hilt of his sword. “The sympathizer was coerced into revealing a bhuta hideaway in the city. Soldiers are headed there now.”

I do not know what he means by “coerced,” but I doubt that Rajah Tarek asked politely. “Are you going?”

Deven stares out the arched walkway. Mynah birds caw to one another, their melodic calls echoing in the shadowed garden. No more than a crescent slit, the winking moon offers scant light. “I’m an imperial guard now. My place is here.”

“Then why did you refuse to become an imperial guard the first time you were asked?”

Deven leans against the arch column. “A year ago, I was part of a military caravan transporting the rajah when bhutas ambushed us. A Galer’s high winds swept away the others, but I tied the rajah and myself to a boulder. Only we survived, and Rajah Tarek offered to promote me to imperial guard. I took a position as captain in the army instead.” His voice thickens. “I left the Brotherhood and became a soldier to be nearer to my younger brother. He, Yatin, and I trained together. Yatin wasn’t with us during the ambush, but my brother was. After I secured the rajah, I tried to go back for him, but he was already gone. I have been searching for the bhutas who killed him since.”

Grief rolls off Deven’s bunched shoulders. He is not at fault for his brother’s death, but if I had saved the rajah instead of Jaya, I would never forgive myself either.

“But why did you accept this promotion now?”

“Things have changed.”

“Such as?” As counterintuitive as it may be, I wish for him to say that he stayed to be near me. That I am the change.

Deven scrubs a hand across his jaw. I doubt that he has slept more than an hour at a time since we left Samiya. “I have hunted bhutas for many moons, but I have never been as close to them as I have these past days. So long as the Burner is near you, I will be too.”

“I see.” I rein in my disappointment. “I am bait.”

Deven turns to me, his eyes sparking with temper. “I did not accept this advancement solely to serve the empire, Kali. You are the people’s champion and the viraji, but let there be no mistake—you are not bait.”

His sudden intensity pulls at me. I soften my expression, extending a silent apology for misunderstanding him. His stance relaxes, like a taut bow released. The shield of distance he carries with him falls bit by bit, and the crease between his brows gradually smooths away.

Footsteps sound down the corridor. Deven straightens, morphing back into detached Captain Naik. But beneath his reserved exterior, he is still Deven.

14

Today is not a day to miss my tonic dosage. I wake early, dawn’s flaxen light easing through my bedchamber, and draw a swig from one of my remaining vials. With my nose scrunched from the pungent taste, I notice a book on the other half of my bed that was not there when I fell asleep. I glance around my empty chamber and pick up the old text.

Bhuta Origins. Gooseflesh springs up my arms. I open the cover and flip through the pages, pausing on a drawing of Anu. Four mortals kneel before the sky-god as he offers them fragments of light he carved from the sun with his mighty khanda. I have seen countless images of Anu, but never this one. The caption reads:

Anu bestowed four mortals with shafts of his power. His visitation was later documented in the Zhaleh, a record of bhuta heritage. In his visit, Anu’s light elevated these mortals to half-gods, the highest form of mortal reincarnation.

Questions cram my mind. Half-gods? But Bhutas are offspring of the demon Kur, the ruler of the Void. I continue flipping through the pages, and the same several words and phrases stand out. Sky-god. Bhutas. Half-gods.

“Good morning, Viraji.”

I slam the book shut and look up. Asha carries in a breakfast tray and slides it onto my bedside table. I stash Bhuta Origins under the covers, my thoughts circling deeper into perplexity.

I eat my breakfast, a bowl of honey-drizzled yogurt, and Asha tidies my chamber. Her heavy black veil conceals all but her downcast eyes. None of the other servants wear such a veil, and I wonder what she is hiding.

She picks up my satchel from the bedpost, where I had slung it, and one of my vials falls out and shatters on the floor. She kneels to sop up the mess. “I’m so sorry!” she says.

“Leave it,” I say. I step down off my bed, dodging broken glass. Asha continues to work. “I said, ‘Leave it!’”

She covers her face in defense and backs out of my chamber in a bow. I expel a sigh and clean up. Asha did not mean to break my tonic vial, but she still shortened my remedy supply to about eight days. I only have one full vial and a bit left.

I dress, pleating my sari between my legs for training, and then put the strange book in my satchel along with the remaining vials. I dig the tonic formula out of my satchel pocket and skim the ingredients. Most are herbs that I recognize, but I pause on the final two: white baneberry and snakeroot. Frowning, I reread the list. Jaya used to grow white baneberry and snakeroot. They are both poisonous.

That does not make sense. Healer Baka had never told me what was in her remedy, but she would never feed me poison. She must have written the formula wrong.

Asha returns, her step wary. I tuck the tonic formula into the waistband of my trousers. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” I say.

Startled, her eyes swerve to mine. “You won’t punish me?”

“No. It was an accident.”

“Bless you, Viraji. Bless you.”

She shielded her face from me before, when I was angry, thinking that I would strike out at her. Is that what the other ranis do?

“How did you come to serve here, Asha?” I ask.

“I was claimed.”

“You were raised by the Sisterhood?” I consider her calm, dark eyes and picture her wearing a blue sari like other temple wards.

“The kindred accompanied the rajah to my temple and claimed several wards to serve the ranis. I have been here nearly two years.”

So it is possible to return for Jaya and claim her. My heart flutters, knowing that our plan could work, but I am ashamed of my impatience with Asha. She shares my upbringing. I could have just as easily been claimed as a servant. “I truly am sorry.”

Though I cannot see the rest of her face, her eyes warm. She picks up the breakfast tray, and I follow her out.

Manas waits in the quiet corridor. “Morning, Viraji.”

He looks ready to keel over. He must have been outside my door all night. “Where is Captain Naik?” I say.

“Off duty. You’re up early. Most of the ranis are late rousers.” He tries to subtly prod me back inside my chamber with his gaze. I could wait for Deven, but I start down the hall. Manas stays with me. “Where are you going?”

We pass a mirror glass on the wall, and I glimpse my reflection. The henna line down my nose has faded even more, but I am still marked as an intended bride.

“The Tigress Pavilion. I have training to do.”

An ax whirls across the courtyard and impales itself in a pillar with a solid thunk. I round the corner of the portico and see Lakia unbend from her throwing stance. We are the only two people here.

“Another early riser.” Annoyance clips her tone. She stalks to the ax and yanks it from the target. “No one else has been up this early with me since . . .” Her eyes taper to incisive slits.

“I’ll come back—”

Lakia shoves the ax at me, and I catch it on reflex. “The rajah’s new courtesan has a mouth on her. She has been here just one night, yet she has convinced some of the courtesans who were not already clamoring for your rank to step forward as challengers. She said you spent your childhood in a sickbed and cannot fight.” Her gaze rolls down me. “She also said you are shaped like bamboo, and your personality is just as flat.”

Natesa. I grip down on the ax. “I can fight.”

Lakia wrenches the ax from my hands. “Then pick your weapon.”

“And spar with you?” My insides shake. Lakia has killed more opponents in the arena than any other rani.

She twirls the ax at her side. “Did you come here to train or not?”

I do not see how sparring with Lakia will end well for me, but if I refuse, the rumors about me will worsen. I do not need a reputation as a poor fighter and a coward. I select a staff from the weapons rack.

Lakia sets aside her ax with a smirk. “To be fair.” She gestures me forward. In her obscenely short training sari, more scars are visible on her legs. I swing at her head, and she sidesteps me. “You aren’t as pretty as I thought you would be.”

“You are.” I hold up the staff, preparing to block.

She paces sideways. “Do you know how long I have waited for Tarek to choose his final wife? I have been forced to watch him wed ninety-nine other women. Ninety-nine.” Her fist attacks too swiftly for me to evade. I back away, jaw on fire.

“Don’t you mean ninety-eight? You were claimed with your older sister, weren’t you?”

Lakia kicks me in the middle. I stumble back against the wall. She slams her fist into my gut, precisely where she kicked me. I clutch my pained abdomen, groaning through my teeth.

“Do not speak of her.” Lakia yanks the staff from my grip and presses it across my neck. “You aren’t the only one who has to fight for rank. The first-wife position is the most coveted. Any of the wives may challenge me.” I push against her, but with the wall behind me, she has the leverage. “After you,” she says, “there will be no more tournaments. No more challengers. No more wives. No more proving my devotion.”

She drives the staff down on my jugular, sealing off my breath. My lungs reach into the rest of my body for air.

Yatin is outside. He replaced Manas when we reached the pavilion, but my mouth gasps soundlessly for his help.

Lakia leans forward, her weight still bearing down on my gullet. A veil of blackness falls over my vision. “You’re the hundredth viraji Tarek traveled far and wide for?” she says. “Pathetic.”

She lets me go. I slide to the ground, wheezing.

Lakia drops the staff, and it clatters near my head. “Tarek is my husband. Win your tournament—if you can—but when it is over, I will be his kindred forevermore.”

Through my splotchy sight, I see her strut away. I sag against the floor and cough.

“Kalinda? Kalinda?”

I look up to see Shyla bending over me. I try to answer her, but my voice box aches. She toddles off in a hurry, and I pull myself up to half sitting. Hoarse chunks of air burst in and out of me.

“Kali!” Deven races across the patio. Yatin lumbers behind him with waddling Shyla. Deven stoops over me. “What happened?”

Coughing slows my reply. “Lakia.”

“Let’s get you to a healer.” Deven lifts me to my feet, and Shyla grips her round belly, puffing out her cheeks with labored breaths. Deven motions to Yatin. “Better bring her too.”

The infirmary, located in the central palace, smells familiar—of ground ginger. An elderly woman brews me a cup of ginger tea and advises me to sip it slowly.

Yatin has gone to help Shyla to her bedchamber, and the healer sent a midwife after them. According to her, Shyla should deliver her baby by day’s end.

Deven stands guard at the end of my cot. He is unshaven, his eyes red rimmed. He must have been up all night searching for the Burner. How is he still on his feet?

The healer returns with a second cup of hot tea and hands it to him. “You need this as much as the viraji.”

He does not take it. “I’m on duty.”

“So am I.” The healer squints at him, multiplying her wrinkles.

Deven accepts the tea, and, with more prodding from the healer, he sits beside me on the cot. He stretches out his legs, crossing his dirty boots. Tendrils of steam curl up from our cups, fogging our faces. The healer goes to her desk to write in her logbook.

“What happened?” he asks.

I rub my sore throat. “Lakia asked me to spar.”

A troubled frown lengthens his face. “You aren’t the first person her temper has sent to the infirmary. What happened between you?”

“She threatened me. In a sense.” I could not care less about Lakia’s rank. She could have the rajah to herself, and I would be happier for it.

“Keep your distance, Kali. Everyone in the palace sidesteps the kindred.”

I nod, and Deven nestles his delicate teacup in his big hands. “You didn’t tell me your mother is one of the rajah’s courtesans,” I say.

“I told you she’s a courtesan. Whose courtesan didn’t seem relevant.” He exhibits no frustration, merely resignation. “She won’t challenge you. Her tournament days are over.”

My fingers relax on my drink. Thank the gods I do not have to decide between his mother’s life and my own. “How often do you see your mother?” I say.

“Not often. I love my mother, but courtesans don’t raise their children. My brother and I were brought up by nursemaids. He was my only family for a long time.”

“You must have loved him very much,” I say, thinking of Jaya.

“Yes, I did.” He sets his tea aside and unbuttons the top of his jacket, releasing his neck from the strangling collar. “There is still no sign of the Burner,” he says. “He was not captured in the raid, but the rajah wants us to stay on the lookout. He believes the Burner may be near the palace.”

Near the palace or inside it? The Burner must be skilled at hiding; anyone who looks at him would remember his distinctive eyes.

He must not have been far from me since we met. He may have even been close enough to sneak into my chamber and leave something on my bed.

The notion turns my tongue to cotton. I want to tell Deven about Bhuta Origins, but it must wait. The healer could be listening.

Yatin appears in the doorway. “Captain, the viraji’s servant is looking for her. Her midday meal is being served in her chamber.”

Deven stands and buttons up his jacket. “I will take her.”

The healer rushes over, wagging a finger at Yatin. “The viraji needs to finish her tea, and Captain Naik needs to rest.”

“I will rest right after I escort the viraji to her chamber,” says Deven.

Though the old healer is half his size and more than three times his age, she does not back down. “Captain, I will confine you to the infirmary if you do not go directly to your quarters.”

“Go on,” I say to Deven. “Yatin will take me back to my room.”

Deven swallows and nods. He goes out into the corridor to relay orders to Yatin.

The healer holds up the teapot. “More, Viraji?”

“No, thank you.” The healer pours herself a cup, and I remember the tonic formula tucked at my waistband. “But if I may ask, what do you know about white baneberry and snakeroot?”

The healer carries her teacup over to me. “They are very rare and highly poisonous herbs. Some used to believe they could ward off bhuta powers. Brickmakers ground them into powder and added the powder to their building clay for protection. Certain areas of the palace are rumored to have been constructed with the poison-infused bricks.”

“Do they truly repel bhuta powers?”

“Cannot say. In all my years of medicine, I have never seen them used against bhutas.” The healer takes my empty cup. “You should be well enough to attend tonight’s ceremony.”

“Thank you. My throat feels better.”

My mind, however, is not relieved. Healer Baka had somehow gotten her hands on these rare herbs, but I doubt that I will find them on the palace grounds, so then why did she give me the formula? Without the ingredients, I have no chance of concocting more. Healer Baka knew I would need my tonic to sustain me through the tournament. I wish that I could pen her a letter, but I am not allowed contact with those outside the palace.

Based on what this healer said, Healer Baka must have known she was feeding me toxins. But how could I have ingested poison for over a year and yet still live?

Unless . . . unless my tonic does more than lower my fevers.

Yatin appears at the doorway. “Ready, Viraji?”

“Yes.” I fasten on a smile and push my thoughts of poisons away. I have tonight’s ceremony to prepare for.

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?”

16

I reach the arched doorway to the courtesans’ wing and face my guards. My hair swings in a braid down my back, and per Yatin’s recommendation, I have changed into a scarlet sari and smoothed matching rouge on my lips. He and Deven cannot come in with me. Everyone knows them as my guards, and with them, I could be recognized.

“My mother is waiting for you in the bathhouse,” Deven says. “She’s wearing yellow. We will follow you inside in a few minutes. Be on guard. The benefactors are indiscriminate about who they touch.”

I swallow a spike of disgust and push through the doors.

The courtesans’ pavilion is as large as the wives’ patio and opens to the sky. I follow boisterous laughter and clinking chalices through stringy clouds of hookah smoke to the end of the portico. On the dim patio, benefactors and soldiers, their clothes untucked and sloppy, lounge on plush floor cushions and sip from amber decanters. Some men smoke from tall ceramic-tiled hookah pipes, expelling puffs of clouds into the midnight sky. Oil lamps are lit throughout, breaking up the shadows without disturbing the intimacy—if there is such a thing as intimacy here. Half-undressed courtesans loiter among the men, beside them and in their laps.

Some courtesans stand off to the side. A man walks up to one and takes her hand. The courtesan goes with him to lie on a floor cushion in the shadows. More men approach the unoccupied women. None of the courtesans refuse a man’s summons, and it strikes me that they cannot. They have no say in choosing with whom they share their company.

I press a hand over my queasy stomach. Are their souls in jeopardy for being with men other than the one who claimed them? Tarek wishes for them to serve his men of court. Do his orders supersede the gods’ warning to be faithful? Whom should the courtesans obey?

I spot the entrance to the bathhouse on the other side. Unlike at the Tigress Pavilion, the portico does not rim the entire patio. I have to go straight across.

Sticking to the shadows, I slip around knee-high tables and lounging couples. A benefactor carrying a wine cask staggers into my path.

“Excuse me,” I say, chin down.

He slips his hand across my bare lower back. “Where are you going, apricot?”

I grab his wrist and twist. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

His eyes scrunch, and he grunts. I let him go, and I briskly walk away—right into the back of Anjali and General Gautam’s floor cushion.

Anjali is nestled up to the general. Neither looks up. I stumble sideways to get around them and then hustle to the bathhouse entrance.

Across the patio, Yatin and Deven enter the pavilion. Deven stares straight at me and then sees his father with Anjali and frowns.

I slip inside the bathhouse, and steam temporarily blinds me. I breathe the steamy air into my pores and blink fast. When my vision clears, I take in tiled ceilings and cool stone floors. A lotus-star-shaped fountain dribbles in the concave middle, ringed by wide raised steps.

In the corner, a slim woman in a yellow sari reclines on a woven-grass bench. Mathura’s stately elegance places her just under forty, slightly younger than Lakia. She is lovelier than the kindred. Her kindly countenance lacks Lakia’s jealousy. I join Mathura and look over the other bathers.

“Don’t be concerned with anyone noticing you. They’re preoccupied with their own business.” Mathura smokes a handheld pipe and stretches out her legs. Through her gauzy trousers, I see a scar on her right knee. She notices me staring at it. “Lakia challenged me to a tournament duel. The steam helps with the ache; the pipe helps with the memory.”

“I thought ranis only challenge other ranis.”

Mathura puffs on her pipe and exhales a stream of smoke. “The kindred can challenge any courtesan or rani. The ranis do not duel to the death, but until first blood or one of them concedes. Otherwise the rajah would lose too many wives in the tournaments. Lakia has no need to challenge us courtesans, and only does so for sport—or, in my case, to prove a point. I could have refused, but striking her was too tempting.” Mathura smiles and offers me her pipe.

“No, thank you. What was Lakia trying to prove?”

“That she’s the best. Yasmin’s spirit will always haunt her. Lakia would not have married Tarek if it weren’t for her older sister.”

“I thought the rajah claimed them at the same time.”

“He did—at Yasmin’s request. She would not leave her younger sister behind.”

My arms ache for Jaya, and my mind replays our final moments together in the temple. I must return for her. “What happened to Yasmin?”

Mathura glances at a couple coming in. “Not here. Follow me.” Hobbling along on her ruined knee, she leads me out a side door to a hushed corridor. I link my arm through hers to steady her. “Thank you,” she says. “My son did not exaggerate your virtues, Viraji.”

“If the captain claims I have virtues, then he was exaggerating.”

She laughs. “I admire your modesty. Humility is the most undervalued godly virtue.” Mathura’s mouth tugs downward. “I’m becoming an old crone. Someday Tarek will tire of me and sell me.”

“He would do that?”

“On rare occasion, when select courtesans grow old or ill, or an injury interferes with their duties, they can be granted a pension for their years of service and released. More often, we are sold or gifted to less powerful benefactors. But no one else massages Tarek’s feet like I do, so he keeps me.”

I glance askance at Mathura’s arresting face and take in her calming spirit. I doubt that foot massages are the only reason he retains her.

We step onto a balcony overlooking Vanhi. We are so high that the rustle of palm tree leaves in the garden comes from below. The landscape here is desolate in comparison to that of the verdant Alpanas, but where life blooms, the desert’s splendor is unmatched.

“This is the closest I get to the city.” Mathura rests against the balcony edge and stares at peaks of terra-cotta roofs under the moonlight. “Tarek took me in when I was your age. Yasmin and I were raised in the same temple. She was two years older than me. Lakia was a year older than me.”

“How did Yasmin die?”

“In childbirth.” Mathura’s brow is marked with grief. “After the delivery, there was a misunderstanding. Tarek was told their baby was alive, but when he went to see them, Yasmin and his son were dead. Tarek was inconsolable. He drank to ease his heartache, but that only unlocked his temper. After Yasmin died, he summoned women to his bedchamber and took pleasure in causing them pain.”

I cross my arms over my flip-flopping stomach and grip my elbows.

Mathura stares out at the city unseeingly. “One day, Tarek gathered his women of court and declared that he was reinstituting the rank tournaments. Many centuries ago, Tarek’s ancestor had abolished the tournaments when Ki’s sister warriors refused to battle each other, but Tarek took in dozens of wives and forced them into the arena.”

My mind struggles to absorb her every word. The sisters had never spoken of a hiatus in tournaments. They led us to believe that rank tournaments were a certainty and had operated continuously since the days of Enlil’s hundredth rani.

“The women would not fight,” Mathura continues. “So Tarek set archers above to shoot resisters. Those first tournaments were dark days, but tonight, Tarek was the happiest I have seen him since Yasmin was alive.”

I touch a finger to my pinched windpipe. Though I have removed Tarek’s gift, the spirit of his first rani’s necklace remains corded around my throat.

Mathura regards me. “They say you’re Enlil’s hundredth rani reincarnated and you will be the greatest rani in all of Tarachand.”

I shift away from the railing. “People say a lot of foolish things.”

“Even so, the women of court are watching you. Tarek has never changed the tournament rules for anyone. His fondness for you will incite jealousy in some and inflame anger in others.” Mathura offers me a sheathed dagger that she had hidden at her side. The robin’s-egg-turquoise handle is the same color as the necklace Tarek gave me. “It was Yasmin’s.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“The second I saw you stand up to Tarek in the declaration ceremony, I knew you were sent by the gods. I have never seen anyone do that, except for Yasmin. It seems appropriate that you should have her dagger. Carry it with you. The tournament isn’t so much about what takes place in the arena as what happens in the palace.”

“Thank you.” I slip the sheathed blade against my hip, my fingers trembling. “Will someone try to sabotage me?”

“Almost certainly.” Mathura looks out over the city. “Not all of us come from temples. Anjali is cocky now, but she was scrounging up gutter scraps in the street when Tarek found her. Life as a courtesan is an improvement for most. Here we have food, shelter, clothes. That’s more than we had outside the palace. If it were not for the ranis, none of us would know life could be any better. This would be as good as any girl could hope for.”

Mathura’s gaze pulls inward. She and the other courtesans serve the rajah for the same kind of reason that I participated in the Claiming. I owe everything to the Sisterhood and our benefactors, just as the courtesans owe all to Rajah Tarek. I do not understand why the gods have made it so that every woman’s lot in life is to owe her security to a man. Maybe if it were otherwise, we would not put up with them. But is silent obedience our divine role? Or has Tarek undermined the very strength the Sisterhood was built upon? I cannot discern the gods’ will from men’s; the layers of truth are too muddled together.

“I don’t blame my challengers for wanting more,” I say. “I would too.” And I do. I want what I have always wanted—freedom to decide my own fate and live in peace.

“Do not misunderstand,” Mathura says. “Your contenders do not strive only to better their lives. They fight to show devotion to the gods. Some of them believe Tarek has warped their godly purpose by requiring them to keep company with his men of court. They would rather die for their faith than risk their standing with the gods.”

Her explanation clears some of my confusion. Obedience to Tarek is not necessarily obedience to the gods. I exhale shakily. If this is true, the freedom it would give me . . .

Mathura pats my hand in a motherly gesture. “The gods mean for you to be the final rani, Kalinda. Defend your throne with every breath of your being.”

Deven steps out onto the balcony, Yatin a great shadow behind him. They must have followed us from the bathhouse.

“Hello, Mother.” Deven kisses Mathura’s cheek. “The viraji has to return now. Where is your cane?”

“I left it in my chamber.”

“Yatin will escort you there.”

“I can walk on my own.” Mathura bats Yatin away, but the bear of a man takes her gently by the arm. She huffs at him, and they shuffle off.

Deven passes me a cloak. “We must go. I overheard Anjali asking a guard about a tall woman in red.”

I do not know what the penalty is for visiting the courtesans’ wing, but since Lakia oversees the wives’ discipline, I imagine that the punishment must be dreadful. “Will Anjali tell?”

Deven helps me into the cloak. “We will know before dawn.”

17

I am less enthusiastic about taking my morning tonic now that I know that it is poison, but I am in no position to quit. Fareeshah’s questioning reaffirmed that I need to be in top condition, so I swallow my dose and try not to think about what I am putting in my body.

Shouts ring out in the corridor. I hide my tonic and jump to my feet, expecting Lakia to charge into my chamber. I spent the night waiting for the consequences of Anjali reporting me, but Lakia has not come. Ranis stream past my door, heading toward the main palace.

I join Manas in the corridor. “What’s happening?” I ask.

One of the ranis rushing by answers over her shoulder. “A Galer is being executed in the courtyard!”

My gut wobbles with unease. Two more ranis hurry past, bringing along children from the older nursery. Manas clearly yearns to go with them, but he is my only guard on duty. He cannot go unless I do. I do not wish to attend the execution, but the Galer could be the same one who killed Manas’s family and destroyed his village. If the same tragedy had befallen the Samiya Temple, I would desire to face the guilty bhuta.

“Let me get my headscarf. It’s bright out,” I say. And, gods alive, I do not want a soul to recognize me and think that I am attending this execution for vindication or amusement. I am going only for Manas’s sake.

I run alongside him down the main entry stairs and out to the front courtyard. Manas and I follow the flow of women and children around the palace to a smaller courtyard encircled by lime trees and guarded by imperial soldiers. Within the courtyard are two rock pilings, long and flat, like altars. The children who came pick up rocks from a mountainous pile of stones set off to the side and stack them on the rock heap nearest Manas and me.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

Manas points to the bottom. “Punishing the demon.”

Fingertips peek out from beneath the piling. Revulsion slams my stomach to my feet. I cover my gasp and back away, making out more bits of skin under the rubble.

“Who—who are they?”

A soldier stationed nearby answers. “That one is a Trembler. He split the desert floor open with a quake and killed a troop of soldiers. The other is an Aquifier. She drowned three guards with her heavy rains.”

I stare down at the nearly buried fingers as I consider the bhuta powers. Burner and Galer. Trembler and Aquifier. Gifts that were bestowed upon four mortals by the demon Kur.

Manas leads me away from the soldier. “This is the punishment for bhutas and bhuta sympathizers,” he says.

A breeze blows toward us from the execution pilings, hitting me with the foul stench of decaying flesh. Clearly, bhutas are not immortal or omnipotent, but I am shocked to see them killed this way. “Why don’t they break free?” I say.

“A bhuta’s blood holds its powers. They are bled before they are stoned, and die from the weight of the rock before they recover from the bloodletting.” Manas speaks with a gleam in his eye, relishing the bhutas’ prolonged suffering. “The rajah keeps a drop of their blood as a token of his triumph over the filthy demons.”

I tug my veil over my nose to block the stench of death. My lips tremble on a realization: this could be me. If these people had witnessed what I did to the carriage floor, they would not have waited for me to explain my fevers.

Imperial guards haul a half-naked woman forward, dragging her limp legs behind her. They drop her in the center of the courtyard, belly down. Shallow breaths and an odd flicker of her eyelashes are the Galer’s only movements. Her wrists have been slashed, where they let her blood and drained away her powers.

The guards pass out stones to waiting participants, adults and children alike. Many of the rocks are stained with dried blood from past stonings. The armed punishers form a circle around the barely moving Galer.

“Is it . . . is it her?” I ask Manas, praying that it is not. I want to leave before the first stone is cast.

Manas cranes his neck to see the woman’s features, but her stringy hair covers most of her face. “I cannot tell.” He collects a stone and joins the circle of punishers for a closer look. I fall back to the fringe of the courtyard.

A guard raises his sword, signaling the first line of executioners to step forward. The participants shuffle in, surrounding the Galer and blocking my view. The guard lowers his sword in a blur of silver. The people release their rocks. Each thunk crushes my empty chest. The Galer makes no cry of pain, no plea for help.

Anjali joins me on the outskirts near the lime trees, glaring at the gruesome scene. We are both removed from the execution, far enough away not to dirty our hands but close enough that the brutality will sully us forever.

Manas shuffles closer to the front of the line, stone in hand, and a movement from above grabs my attention. Tarek and his advisers watch from a balcony, drinking from gold chalices and congratulating each other on the bhuta’s capture.

A forceful wind stampedes into the execution yard, grabbing women’s veils and knocking off men’s turbans. Lime tree branches clap above me. I clutch my headscarf and shield my eyes from the dust-strewn wind. Children bury their faces in their mothers’ skirts. The sudden gale silences all but the sky’s almighty breath. As quickly as it came, the gust vanishes, and a thin voice speaks.

“We will not relent.”

Gooseflesh ripples up my arms. The Galer is speaking. She still has power in her drained veins. The punishers back away, and I look at her, partially buried in stone.

“Anu will curse you.” The raspy voice surrounds me, as though it is laced to the air.

From above, Tarek’s advisers gape at the Galer’s might even while dying. The rajah’s smile disappears.

“Bhuta, it is you who is cursed,” Tarek shouts, his voice carrying half as far as hers. “You are a demon. A soulless child of the Void.”

“You know what we are, Rajah Tarek,” the Galer responds, “and you will be slain for your lies. Anu sees the darkness in your heart. You cannot hide from the sky.”

The Galer’s solemn vow freezes my heart.

Tarek’s face reddens in the morning sun. “Finish her,” he commands, and storms inside.

I turn away, but not fast enough to miss the sight of the guards dropping great stones on the Galer, followed by the grisly crush of bone, and then the bleak silence of a sky without wind song.

I flee from the courtyard, down a stone path into the gardens that stretch between the palace and exterior wall. Manas will not like my leaving him, but he needs time alone as well. From his disheartened glower, I could tell that the Galer was not the one who killed his family.

You cannot hide from the sky.

The Galer’s eerie promise chases me. Her death discolors everything, washing the brightly hued oasis to grays. The Galer spoke with her powers, yes, but also with an authority that lingers like frost in my bones. She used her final breath to threaten the rajah with revenge, not from her people, but from the gods. I do not know the source of her powers, but to my ears, she did not speak like a soulless demon.

A stitch in my side and the rising morning heat force me to slow to a walk. I catch my breath and turn down a path shaded by neem trees to escape the sun. The pathway winds to a dead end and a meticulously maintained stone tomb scored with vines of blooming clematis. I read the plaque.

YASMIN. TAREK’S BELOVED FIRST QUEEN.

I touch the door of the tomb, still cool from the shade of the massive banyan trees standing as sentinels on either side. The gravel at my feet has been disturbed. Someone has recently gone inside to visit the rani’s remains. I am not tempted to look within. I do not trespass on the dead.

Branches rustle behind me. I revolve and gaze down the path, where dappled sunshine is breaking through the leafy cover. No one is there, but Mathura’s warning of sabotage blares through me. I slip my hand across my lower back, reaching for the dagger tucked along the indent of my spine.

A twig snaps nearby. I do not wait to draw my blade. I swivel on my heels and dash into the trees. Urgency pushes me through the thicket. Hopping over mangled tree roots and dodging low branches, I pray that this leads me to the palace faster than the pathway.

The trees end. I run out onto a trail and slam into someone.

Deven catches my arms. “Kali?”

My breaths ring ragged in my ears. I clutch my chest, trying to pull more air inside.

“I’ve been looking for you. Manas said he saw you run into the gardens.” His gaze roves the trees for danger. “What are you doing out here?”

I have no proof that I was being followed. All I have is my fear over Mathura’s warning. I straighten and recover my breath as I say, “I’m all right.”

Deven’s voice roughens. “We haven’t found the Burner yet. You shouldn’t explore the grounds alone.”

Alone. The word echoes through me, hollow and desolate. I rest my palm in the center of Deven’s chest. “I’m sorry I worried you,” I say.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he says. He lays his big, warm hand over my hand.

I want more. I want his hands to cover my whole being. It is a selfish wish. A stolen dream. But I do not step back. I do not let go. My hand slides up to his shoulder.

Deven leans down. I can see my name on his lips, ready to ask me to step away. My own lips carry a plea.

“Ka—”

I press my mouth to his, sealing my name on his lips. His warmth spreads everywhere, dazzling my mind and aching straight down to my toes. My loneliness and my fears peel from me. His arms come around me, tentatively at first, and then they crush me against his hammering heart. I have never felt freer. I lift my hand to his cheek and stroke his jaw, skimming the thick, soft bristles. He groans, a low rumble in his throat, lighting my senses aflame. He is the sun and the stars in my sky. He is my light.

Deven releases me and steps back. “Kali, we risk too much.”

I choke on broken words. I should apologize, but it would be insincere. I am sorry for endangering us, but I am not sorry for kissing him.

“We need to go back.” Deven starts down the path with brisk strides. I follow a heartbeat behind, my limbs floating around me.

We go inside and reach my chamber door, and Deven faces me. “About what happened in the garden . . .”

“Yes?” My gaze drops to his lips, longing for their warmth.

“Kali,” Deven says in a pained whisper, “we cannot.”

I boost my chin. “I can do what I wish.”

“Not at the expense of your safety. I am asking you to, please, forget it.” His voice quavers. He is afraid for me. Afraid for himself. If I had any sense, I would be afraid too. I am fearful of many things here at the palace, but Deven is not one of them. Even so, I feel guilty enough that I cannot deny his request.

“All right.”

“It’s better this way,” he promises.

Looking into his eyes, I see the remembrance of our kiss, and the hurt of him asking me to forget it is too much. I leave him in the doorway.

Asha turns to see me come into my bedchamber. She is washing her face in the basin, her veil beside her and her face uncovered. My eyes widen at the red scars on her cheeks. She turns away and tugs on her veil.

“Forgive me, Viraji. It’s hot today.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Her veil must add to the miserable heat. I want to ask how she got her scars, but she keeps her head bowed, and I do not want to humiliate her further. “Would you please bring my meals here today?”

“Of course, Viraji.”

Asha scurries past me. I let her go, sorry for her embarrassment, and sit on the bed. I run my fingers over my lips. They no longer capture Deven’s warmth, but his taste clings to them like spring dew.

I drop my hand, a headache burrowing behind my eyes. I cannot face Deven again today, and I am in no mood to be social. Dining in the Tigress Pavilion would draw questions from the ranis about skill demonstrations, and I have no idea what I would do.

I take my sketchbook out of my satchel and draw. The meditative practice of scraping charcoal over parchment eases my headache and helps me think. I must stay composed in the face of my contenders at skill demonstrations. My sparring teacher taught us to maximize our strengths in the ring. Ki’s sister warriors were each known for having mastered one skill, like Jaya has done with the haladie. I wish that I had Jaya’s ability with a blade, but my weapon of choice is the slingshot, which will not intimidate anyone.

Asha brings me a lunch tray. I eat the fruit and leave the rest. She later brings my supper tray, lights the oil lamps, and again departs. In the twilight hour, I sit back and massage my tired hand.

The land-goddess stares up at me from the page. She stands within her misty jungle. A deadly dragon cobra is slung over her neck and shoulders, and she holds its diamond-shaped black head toward me. A crown of poisonous nightshade surrounds her head like a halo. Her straight dark hair falls like vines around her strong, feminine shape, both warrior and goddess. I stare into Ki’s knowing eyes, waiting for her to speak wisdom to my soul.

A warm shudder washes over me. I look across the chamber at the decorative bowl of colorful glass orbs near the hearth. Could it work?

I clutch my sketchbook to my chest and close my eyes. The remembrance of Deven’s full, velvety lips visits me in the dark. Relaxing into my pillow, I invite the memory of his kiss to stay with me through the night.

18

I wake with a start, beads of sweat rolling down my face, thinking that the palace itself is ablaze. First light streams in from the open balcony. My bedchamber is free of smoke and flames. I touch my face and find that I was mistaken. I’m on fire.

My satchel hangs on my bedpost. I reach for my tonic vial in the front pocket and notice radiance in my hands. I stumble to the mirror glass and gape. My face, arms, and chest are glowing. Dizziness grabs the sides of my head and spins me around. I slump forward, resting a hand over the comb on my vanity. The comb’s silver prongs curl and warp. I cringe away, my mind flashing back to the Burner bending the blade of Natesa’s knife.

Gods’ virtue, no.

I stumble back to my bed and lower myself to the floor. Handling my satchel as little as possible, I dig out a tonic vial. The glass heats in my hand. I pop the cork, and it burns to ash in my palm. My pulse thrashes in my ears. I press the vial to my quivering lips and down the last of the tonic.

Panting, I extend my hands in front of me. The radiance slowly fades, and I slump against my bed. Everything I know about myself disintegrates, like the cork did in my hand. No normal person glows or bends silver combs.

I press my fists to my stinging eyes, and tears slip out. Healer Baka must have known. I bite my teeth down on more tears, my chest swelling with anger. Why did she not tell me? I spent years in a sickbed, yet she never uttered a word. She should have done more than send me here with a formula. She must know what the rajah does to bhutas. She must know what will happen if I am caught.

Shoving away my tears, I stare at the ashes on my palm. Great Anu, what do I do? I have one vial left, enough tonic to last me through the tournament, but then what? I rub my palm clean on my skirt. I cannot do this. I cannot win the tournament and be a . . . What am I? Demon or half-god?

My gaze flies across the chamber to Bhuta Origins, stashed on the bookshelf. I push myself to my rickety legs and fetch it. Sitting cross-legged before the empty hearth, I start at the beginning of the book and thumb through the pages. The same phrases shout out at me. Half-gods. Godly powers. Children of Anu.

In the middle, the chapters break down bhuta abilities by name. I skim over each power, certain phrases hooking into me. Aquifiers possess healing waters. Tremblers hold indomitable strength. Galers hear the secrets of the wind.

I pause on the chapter about Burners.

Burners possess Enlil’s mighty fire. Some even share the fire-god’s golden eyes, though not many. Burners raze the good and the bad, clearing a path for new growth and learning. They are the rarest bhutas, and their powers are the most crucial to control and contain. In their early years, Burners’ flare-ups may be mistaken for fevers. Many inaccurately regard Burners as sickly, and if overlooked, their abilities will smolder until self-destruction. As such, many die before they reach maturity.

I slam the book shut, hands and head shaking. Mistaken for fevers. My gaze rests on my last tonic vial. Their abilities will smolder until self-destruction. At the end of my dosage, my bones feel as though they are on fire. I never considered that they actually were.

Questions strike my mind like lightning bolts. I reopen the book and read on, searching for an answer I fear I already know.

Deven comes for me not long afterward. My face and hands are washed, and I have hidden the ruined comb under my mattress. Though I am still, my mind churns like the base of a waterfall.

“Brother Shaan has come to meet with us,” Deven says.

My strained muscles feel fragile, but I am ready. I drop the book into my satchel, and we set out.

The chapel is on the lower floor of the main palace, tucked into a quiet niche. Deven opens the door, and I step inside. Brother Shaan is bent over in prayer before the altar, where dried herbs and flowers burn, a sacrifice to the gods. His white hair mimics his light robes, his reedy frame stooped from decades of kneeling in adulation.

Deven removes his turban, a sign of respect. His freed dark hair curls at the nape of his neck. I have not seen him without his turban. I try not to think of his wavy tresses as I kneel on a cushion near Brother Shaan.

“Let the sky lead me, the land ground me, the fire cleanse me, and the water feed me,” I say.

Deven kneels on Brother Shaan’s other side and recites the same Prayer of Protection.

“Brother Deven,” says Brother Shaan, “it’s a rare man who is suited to kneeling in prayer and hefting a sword.”

“Brother Shaan, you remember the viraji.”

“Congratulations on your Claiming,” says the brother. “Healer Baka and I are old friends. She was a midwife before she became a healer and was working in the palace when we met. She sent a carrier dove with a message that arrived just before you did to inform me of your arrival.” Brother Shaan’s gaze bounces between Deven and me. “I was intrigued by your message. How may I assist you?”

I slide my hand into my satchel and pause. Bhuta Origins is not a book I should possess, but I would not be here if Deven did not trust Brother Shaan. I hand him the book.

His eyes flare open, and he skims his hand over the cover. “Where did you find this?”

“A Burner may have left it for me.”

Deven straightens in my side vision.

“Do you recognize the title?” I say.

“I used to read texts such as this in the temple vestry,” says Brother Shaan. “I thought they had all been destroyed.” He thumbs through the pages, stopping on the drawing of Anu bestowing the bhutas with his light. “But the truth has a way of shining through the dark.”

“You once had books like these in the temple?” Deven says, tilting his head. “Why?”

Before Brother Shaan can answer, I jump to the question foremost in my mind. “Are bhutas half-demon or half-god?”

“We are all half-demon, half-god,” says Brother Shaan. “The demon half being the mortal side that continually errs, and the godly half being the side that strives to improve. In each life, we endeavor to raise our standing and become closer to everlasting perfection.”

Deven gapes at Brother Shaan as though he has lost all sense.

“But demons don’t progress,” I say. “So what are bhutas?”

Brother Shaan lays a reverent palm on the book. “In his wisdom, Anu created each mortal in the image of the gods. Sky in our lungs, land beneath our feet, fire in our souls, and water in our blood. When the first four mortals achieved the highest form of reincarnation, Anu gave them dominion over these powers. The First Bhutas’ divine path was to help mankind achieve balance between their inner elements through the five godly virtues. They were our Virtue Guards. Mankind has since turned on our chosen guides.”

His words resonate through my perplexity. The more I think about it, the more plausible it is that bhutas received their gifts from Anu. The demon Kur has dominion over the Void but not over fire, water, land, and air. As the Parijana faith teaches, those are godly realms.

Deven touches his temple and closes his eyes. “You’re saying bhutas are good?”

Brother Shaan nods. “Soon after the death of his first wife, Rajah Tarek raided the homes of the bhutas living in Vanhi and executed them. The bhutas defended themselves, and Tarek retaliated with increased bloodshed. He began to exterminate them in droves, and he removed those around him who opposed the war. He raided the vestry and destroyed all records that exalted bhutas above man. In a matter of years, centuries of teaching were lost. I was Tarek’s private counselor at the time.” Brother Shaan’s voice quakes, his gaze dull with regret. “I raised him from a boy. Tarek always had headstrong tendencies, but I never thought . . .”

“Tarek started the rank tournaments around that same time,” I say.

“He blamed the gods for Yasmin’s death. I warned him that those who persecute Anu’s bhutas will bring down the wrath of a falling sky. He refused to listen, and I was forced to resign.”

Deven sits back, thunderstruck. “Why don’t you preach these things to the people if they’re the truth?”

“I swore I wouldn’t. It was the only way Tarek would spare me.”

Deven hangs his head between his knees and runs his hands through his hair.

I take the book from Brother Shaan. “What do you know about the Zhaleh? Did the rajah take it from the bhutas?”

“Yes. Bhuta powers are passed from parent to child,” he says. I force myself to hold his stare, my lungs wrung of all breath. “The record of their lineage is documented in the Zhaleh. This list is an ideal resource for someone seeking to wipe out bhutas.”

“The rajah is using their book of lineage to hunt them?”

“And has done so quite successfully. There were thousands of bhutas in Tarachand seventeen years ago. Those who have not fled the borders are now dead or in hiding.”

Deven lifts his head, his expression cold. “If the rajah wants them dead, why don’t they all run and hide?”

“The Zhaleh warns of a fifth power.” With Bhuta Origins still open to the drawing of Anu, Brother Shaan points to a face I did not before notice, hidden in the shadows. “Demon Kur was in attendance that day. He disagreed with Anu’s decision to bestow upon mortals these godly powers, so he took it upon himself to employ his abilities in a fifth mortal. In that dark hour, the demon Kur created a Voider, who could rend the sky from the land, destroying all life. The First Bhutas’ mission was to trap the Voider. After they did so, they hid the secret of how they captured the Voider in the Zhaleh. But the same powers that confine the Voider can also release him. Whoever has the book can set him loose. Every bhuta leader protected the Zhaleh until Rajah Tarek took hold of it. If the rajah opens the Void . . .”

I shudder, thinking of the horror Tarek could unleash.

Deven gets to his feet. “We’re out of time, Kali. Skill demonstrations start soon.”

Brother Shaan tucks the book into my satchel. “Keep this hidden. If you have any more questions, you know how to reach me.” We rise, and he faces Deven. “Brother Deven—”

“Captain Naik,” Deven says, correcting him.

“Captain, I understand this was difficult for you to hear, but I hope you will come to see that this war is an abomination in the sight of the gods.”

Deven manages a brusque nod, and we leave. Worries cloud my thoughts. I had hoped that hearing that bhutas are Anu’s children would relieve my uncertainties, but the breadth of Tarek’s hatred for bhutas has undone any chance for peace of mind.

Deven stops me outside the entrance to the wives’ wing. “Don’t expect anything from the bhutas, Kali. They have been active participants in the war as long as the rajah. They’re loyal to no one, not even their own.”

“You still don’t believe bhutas could be good?” I quiet my breath, praying that Brother Shaan’s words have softened him.

Deven’s eyes go flat. “I believe what I have seen all my life.”

I nod, my chest caving in. Brother Shaan gave a fair explanation for why the bhutas are at war with us, but not why Yasmin’s death drove Tarek to eradicate them. We are missing part of the story.

Deven rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to assign you another guard. You will have two with you at all times. The Burner won’t get close to you again.”

I manage another nod, though it is not the Burner I fear, but myself.

We start to my chamber, my legs weighing heavier with each step. I wish that I could undo everything that has happened since I met the Burner. I wish that I could go back to when I had fevers, nothing more. I wish that I could be that sickly girl from the temple. I knew who I was then. Now I cannot trust my own hands.

Anu, please do not let this be true. I will adhere to the five virtues. I will obey everything asked of me. Just please, do not let me be an enemy to the rajah, to Deven, to the empire.

I listen with my heart, but my only answer comes from my pulse, a ticking timepiece propelling me closer and closer to a ledge from which there is no escape.

19

The gardens are set for skill demonstrations. The rajah’s court—benefactors, ranis, and courtesans—cluster under silk tents, hiding from the sun like lizards under a rock. From the terrace above, I watch the wide strip of greenery where my contenders are taking turns showing off. Perspiration makes my blouse cling to my back, and a hot wind blasts my exposed skin.

Parisa hands me a chalice of chilled spiced wine. “You need this more than I do.”

I accept the cup, the welcome cold biting into my fingers, but do not sample it. I must be clearheaded for my performance. I am slated to present last, wherein I will have thirty seconds to astonish this throng of drunken benefactors and validate my place as the rajah’s champion. Tension builds at the base of my skull. Our battle skills are a sign of devotion to Ki. They should not be diminished to entertainment. But refusing to perform would forfeit my opportunity to establish that I am not a weak contender.

Fareeshah pitches an ax across the field, and its sharp head decapitates a bush.

“Oh!” the audience peals.

“At this rate, Tarek will have no roses left,” Parisa mutters to Eshana. Their translucent veils flutter in the stale afternoon breeze.

The previous dozen or so courtesans started ripping apart the garden with their blades. The once-beautiful foliage is quickly being pruned to pieces.

From the corner of my eye, I see Natesa mingling with Anjali and Mathura in front of a servant waving an ostrich fan. With our segregated lives, I have not seen Natesa since the declaration ceremony. Her face seems paler and thinner, her eyes bigger. But if she is ailing, it did not show in her demonstration. She brandished her khanda like a seasoned blade fighter.

Fareeshah’s display earns her applause. I scuff my feet against the terra-cotta tiles, my confidence that I will impress the crowd crumbling to dust. I want to present my skill and be done with this spectacle.

“It’s a shame two courtesans are already out.” Eshana scoots closer to a servant swaying a feather fan. Another servant passes out ice chips from a golden bucket. She and Parisa take a chunk. “I overheard the healer say food poisoning.”

“Sabotage,” Parisa says. She runs ice across her brow. “Happens every tournament. Rarely does anyone get caught.”

Eshana pops a piece of ice into her mouth. “At least we know it isn’t Lakia. She wouldn’t stoop to toying with the courtesan duels, not with her own to worry about.”

“Who challenged her?” I ask.

“Four fools,” Eshana answers around the ice in her cheek. “They will be fortunate if Lakia tears their throats out in the middle of the night instead of in the arena.”

Sweat breaks out on the nape of my neck. Sabotage tactics have begun. I feel for Yasmin’s dagger, hidden at my waist, grateful for the protection.

Anjali’s name is announced, and she strides forward to perform her thirty-second demonstration. I lift my chin to see her better over the benefactors at the front of the crowd. She is my youngest opponent, yet she carries herself with maturity.

Anjali picks up a stack of chakrams, ringed throwing blades with blunt rims on the inside, and aims at a feather-stuffed dummy across the lawn. An official tips the sand timer, and Anjali tosses the rounded chakrams in quick succession. The first one slices off the dummy’s foot. The next one severs the second ankle. Another two disks disconnect its hands at the wrist. Another stabs itself into the dummy’s abdomen. The final disk slices through the dummy’s neck, beheading it. Anjali bows to the cheering audience and blows kisses.

“She has talent,” I say.

“And ego,” adds Eshana with a dry smile.

“You will go up against her in the tournament, Kalinda,” Parisa says.

Eshana nods. “Anjali will be in the final three.”

My insides roll like windswept sand dunes. I try not to envision Anjali’s chakrams amputating my limbs.

Parisa sends me a heartening smile. “Don’t let it bother you. Tarek could have chosen any of his courtesans to wed him, but he didn’t want them as his rani. He wants you.”

If only that were the comfort she means it to be.

Eshana runs her fingers absentmindedly through her hair. “What skill are you showing, Kalinda?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Eshana exchanges a look of consternation with Parisa. “Whatever you do, it ought to be flashy. Lakia opted to perform before you.”

Parisa slips the last of her ice down her shirt. “Lakia loves dramatics.”

Lakia plays mind games. I will not let her intimidate me.

My gaze wanders to the raised platform at the center of the terrace, where Lakia sits on her throne beside Tarek. The rajah is watching me. His gaze slides down to my throat, and he smiles. I did not want to wear Yasmin’s necklace today, but Asha insisted. Considering Lakia’s deep scowl, I am glad I did. Mind games can go both directions.

“Kalinda?” Shyla comes through the crowd holding a bundled infant. “We came to wish you luck.” She leans toward us, and I look into her newborn’s sleeping face.

“She’s tiny,” Parisa says.

“What’s her name?” asks Eshana.

“Rehan, after my mother.” Shyla offers the child to me. “Would you like to hold her?”

“I shouldn’t.” I have never held a baby before; my fevers prevented me from working in the temple nurseries. Rehan is so little and fragile that I would not know what to do with her. “She’s beautiful. Tarek must be proud.”

“He doesn’t meet his children until they’re older.” Shyla glances up at her husband on the podium and lowers her voice. “He’s still distraught over losing his firstborn.”

Parisa and Eshana nod in unison. I can understand how losing a child would have wounded Tarek, but for him to not want to meet his newborn is unfathomable. I cannot resist running my finger over his daughter’s fuzzy dark hair.

“We should return to the nursery.” Shyla smiles. “Good luck, Kalinda.”

“Thank you.” I stroke Rehan’s soft head once more, and they disappear into the audience.

Parisa’s eyes go wide. “Hurry this way.” She ducks her head and links arms with Eshana and me, dragging us in the opposite direction from the place where she was looking. “General Gautam is over there. Last time we spoke, he tried to touch me.”

I twist my head to see the general, but we lose him in the crowd.

“Gautam is terrible,” says Eshana. “I would loathe to be his—Kalinda, your guard is looking for you.”

Deven starts to cross the covered terrace. He is supposed to wait outside the tents with the other guards. I try to repel him with an off-putting glower, but he keeps coming. What has come over him? The rajah could see him. I glance up at Tarek to see if he is still keeping an eye on me, and the gong sounds for quiet. All look to the rajah, rising from his throne.

“A treasure was returned to me this morning.” Tarek motions before us, and the crowd swivels to face the clearing. Two soldiers drag out a filthy woman and shove her to her knees on the grass. Whispers spread across the tent like a sudden wind. “My dear wife Taline has been found. Unfortunately, the guard she ran away with did not survive his capture.”

His contrived regret hardens my jaw.

Deven reaches me and speaks low in my ear. “We have to talk.”

“Not now.” He could not have chosen a worse time. We are surrounded by people, the rajah is watching me, and the reappearance of the runaway rani tells me something horrible is about to happen.

Lakia strolls out of the warm-up tent in the clearing, carrying an urumi.

“My kindred has requested that she carry out Taline’s penalty as a demonstration of her skill,” Tarek continues.

Great Anu, they are going to discipline the woman here.

“How many lashes, my kindred?” Tarek calls over the audience.

Lakia circles the woman, blades trailing in the grass like silver asps. “One for each day she was missing.”

“Husband, please forgive me,” Taline cries. “I will be loyal. I will obey.”

Tarek speaks over her, his hard eyes glinting. “How many days was she gone, Kindred?”

“Thirty-five.”

Bile scalds my windpipe. The urumi will tear Taline apart long before she is lashed that many times. This is brutality beyond retribution. Rajah Tarek wants to make an example out of her, but she is not his enemy; she is his wife. Taline deserves more respect than to be used as an exhibit. The rajah should end her mercifully, with a clean kill.

“Deven, we have to stop this,” I whisper.

He curls his fingers around my elbow, holding me in place. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Lakia halts behind the sobbing woman. “Shall we count with the gong?” She lifts the urumi, and the servant manning the gong raises the mallet.

I yank myself from Deven’s grasp and shove through the bystanders to the terrace balcony. “Is this the best you can do?” I say.

Lakia looks up at me, the urumi outstretched.

“Taline’s a large target,” I say, “and the urumi has so many blades. This won’t be much of a show of your skill.”

Lakia lowers the urumi. “I would like to see how you fare against the urumi, Viraji.”

“Do you propose a better demonstration, my champion?” Tarek calls from his throne.

I turn to him, fingers quivering against my sides. “I do, Your Majesty. A skill competition between the kindred and myself.”

Benefactors mumble and nod in appreciation. The ranis and courtesans whisper their surprise. Deven shakes his head to end this. I ball my trembling fingers into fists. I will not allow Lakia to treat this rani like a stuffed dummy.

Rajah Tarek considers me with a probing stare. He must realize that I am delaying Taline’s death and preserving what dignity she has left. But this is a diversion. Once I finish competing with Lakia, skill demonstrations will be over, and I will plead with the rajah on Taline’s behalf for a merciful, private death befitting her station.

“By all means.” Tarek sweeps his arm to push me along. “Present your challenge.”

I signal Asha over from the warm-up tent, where she waits. She lugs a crate of clinking glass orbs into the garden, a group of serving women behind her. I recognize them as the ones who bring my tub and bathwater.

“Glass orbs?” Lakia sneers. “You challenge me with decorations?”

Nervous chuckles sound from the crowd.

“They’re small and light.” I descend the steps to the lower garden. “A much more difficult target than a shackled prisoner.” Taline cries softly on the ground. Gods, she looks about my age. I stand between her and Lakia, my heart drumming so hard that I fear it will fracture a rib. “Not up to the task?”

Lakia pets the urumi handle. “Tell me the terms.”

“At the signal of the gong, the servants will throw the glass orbs and we will have thirty seconds to shatter as many as we can. Two guards will keep count of our felled targets. Whoever breaks the most wins.” I motion to Asha to open the crate and pass out the glass orbs to the throwers. The servants fill their arms with them. Asha came prepared with more than enough.

Lakia’s gaze dashes to the captivated crowd and then narrows on me. “Done, but I choose the guards.”

I hide a relieved exhalation. Her pride is dependable; I will commend her for that.

The soldiers cart Taline to the perimeter of the clearing. Lakia assigns two guards to keep count and then faces the wide clearing with the urumi. I stand down the way from her and take my slingshot out of my pocket.

Mocking laughter spills out behind me. I stand tall, gaze forward. I will display the skill that best represents me. I am certain that is what the land-goddess would advise me to do.

“Is that your weapon of choice, my champion?” Tarek’s amusement is wearing thin.

“It is.” I seek his patience with a slender smile. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Tarek wags a finger. “Continue.”

“Your pathetic attempt to humiliate me will fail,” Lakia says under her breath.

I see Taline tremble from the corner of my eye. The kindred has no idea of my intent.

I fill my fist with firing stones from my pouch. Asha and the other servants stand off to my right and left, ready to fling the colorful glass orbs across the clearing. I load my slingshot with the first firing stone and draw back. Ki, let my aim be true.

The gong rings, and the sand timer turns.

Servants hurl the glass orbs into the air. Lakia lashes out. The urumi’s dozens of blades shatter three orbs from the sky before they soar free. I shoot a twinkling orb arcing away. The ball bursts, and glass rains down like frozen tears.

I reload with the stones amassed in my palm and train my sight on another orb, farther out. I release, shattering another target. The servants shield their faces upon throwing orb after orb, Lakia striking down the ones close to her. I release, reload, and shoot. Inhale and load. Exhale and fire. Vibrant shards and fine dust litter the grass with glittering pieces. Seconds drain away in the crack of the urumi, explosion of glass, and snap of my slingshot.

The gong rings, signaling the end of our time.

Lakia scans the area around her. “How many?”

Her guard counts her broken targets. “The kindred brought down eighteen!”

“How many for the viraji?” Tarek asks, sitting forward on his throne. My range was farther with the slingshot. Whereas Lakia had to break the orbs before they spun away, I shot them down farther out.

The audience stays quiet for the second guard to answer. “The viraji felled twenty-one!”

Tarek releases a roar of triumph over the audience’s applause. “Bring the viraji here!”

Deven is at my side in an instant. I avoid his tight-lipped frown and go with him, passing through the clapping benefactors. The women utter proclamations of “With a slingshot!” and “More than the kindred!” Deven escorts me to the platform stairs and returns to his place outside the tent.

Tarek embraces me atop the podium and swings me around to face the people. “My champion!”

His boasting shakes a weak smile out of me. Across the way, Taline crouches in a defensive position, but her chin is lifted high. As I look out over the spectators, waiting for Tarek to stop bragging so that I can speak to him about the fate of his wife, I spot the general. Gautam’s arm is tucked around a young woman wearing a veil over the lower half of her face. Her hair is ebony; her big eyes are vacant. Her figure is tiny beside him, and her skin is icy pale. My heart dives to my feet.

Jaya.

My world spins to an abrupt halt. Jaya and General Gautam sift to the back of the tent and out of sight. I break from Tarek’s hold and hop down off the podium, knees jarring. I reel around, but I cannot see Jaya anywhere.

Eshana rushes over. “Kalinda! You were tremendous.”

I grab Eshana by the shoulders. “Have you seen General Gautam?”

“I—I saw him over there not long—”

I plunge into the crowd. The general’s dark-blue uniform should be easy to pick out, but he is nowhere to be seen. I pause and search in a circle, clutching the sides of my head. They must have gone into the gardens.

I run down the closest path, following the endless trails away from the tents. My distracted weaving leads me to more empty paths. I stop, my lungs heaving on mounting tears.

“Kali!” Deven jogs up behind me.

I slam my fists against his torso. “You told me the general did not claim her!”

“His men lied.” Deven holds his hands up in a plea for peace. “I tried to warn you about Jaya as soon as I saw her.”

“Why?” I hit him again. “Why would Gautam hide her from me?”

“To repay you for standing up to him. He saw you and Jaya at skill trials. He knew you were close.”

“He claimed Jaya!” I cup my hands over my mouth. “Oh, Deven. I let her wait for me. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know the general would stay in Samiya. I didn’t know he . . .” My voice crackles. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes to distance myself from the image of Jaya pinned against the general’s side, but she is all I see. She looked so . . . so empty. “I promised I would return for her. I promised.”

“I’m sorry,” says Deven. I lower my hands and look into his watery eyes. “I am so sorry,” he says, his face ashen.

A scream breaks out from the clearing. I stand taller to see over the shrubbery and glimpse the silver tips of the urumi’s blades flickering as they drop. Another bloodcurdling scream digs nails into my spine. Lakia has begun Taline’s execution. I cannot appeal to Tarek now. I am too late for Jaya, too late for Taline. I bang my fists against my temples and release a guttural groan.

“Taline was going to be punished, regardless of what you did, Kali,” Deven says.

I flinch at a third lash and a pained sob, quieter than the last.

Hot tears burn my eyes. “I suppose she deserves it, then. She deserves to be humiliated and ripped apart for daring to do what she wishes, for daring to love someone of her choosing.”

Deven recoils, my words too close. Off in the clearing, Lakia strikes the wayward wife again. This time, there is no scream.

20

I gaze out the balcony door at the falling sun, Asha hovering at my back. “Viraji, it’s time to prepare for the feast.”

“I’m not going,” I say. Tarek brought General Gautam with him to Samiya. He is the reason Jaya was claimed. I will not dine with a monster.

Servants haul in the tub and steaming buckets of bathwater. I do not go inside. They fill the bath and file out of my chamber. I still do not budge.

Asha lingers, a silent shadow behind me. She waits for me to surrender to my weary bones and emotional fatigue. I do not. My stubbornness prevails, and she pads away.

The sky darkens to ash, and Vanhi burns with soft yellow lights. This could never be my home. I favor snowy winters over this harsh heat. I long for the distinctive spiked apexes of the Alpanas over these rolling dunes of dusty sameness. But I will never again return to Samiya. I have no reason to go back without Jaya there. I have been an orphan all my life, but I have never felt without a home, without a family, until now.

“You aren’t dressed for supper.”

I swivel at Mathura’s voice. She has broken the kindred’s rule, coming to the wives’ wing. “I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I.” She walks to the doorway with a cane. “You put on quite a spectacle today.”

“A useless delay. Taline was executed nevertheless.”

“I meant in regard to the general’s new wife—and my son.”

Jaya is Gautam’s wife?

I turn my stricken face away from Mathura, but she is not finished. “If you care for my son, you will leave him alone.”

I go as still as a hare. Mathura must have seen Deven track me down in the spectators’ tent to warn me about Jaya. I would hate to know who else saw him.

“You needn’t worry,” I say. “Deven would never choose me over the empire.”

After skill demonstrations, he escorted me to my chamber and left without a word. I am certain Taline’s pained screams echo on through his memory, as they do mine.

Mathura walks to my side. “I thought my son would choose the empire above all else too, and then I saw him charge after you into the garden, risking his career, his reputation, his life. Why?” Her gaze searches my face for answers. “Then it occurred to me. To Deven you are the empire. You are the viraji. The people’s champion. His champion. He has confused his devotion to Tarachand with his obligation to protect you.”

My heart capsizes on a wave of crushing hurt. Deven’s loyalty to me is actually his obedience to the rajah. This realization warps every private moment we have had between us. He did not kiss me; I kissed him, and then he asked me to forget about it. Each time we touched before that, he was comforting me, building me up to fight in the tournament.

“What would you have me do?” I whisper. “I cannot request for him to be reassigned. I have no reason to dismiss him. And fabricating an excuse would damage his standing in the imperial guard.”

Mathura grips my hands in hers. “Protect him from himself. If Tarek finds out that Deven cares for you, he will not understand that Deven’s loyalty is to the throne. I lost one son. I cannot lose the other.”

My heartbeat dulls to slow, heavy thuds. My throat strains from holding back tears. “I will remind Deven that I am Tarek’s viraji.”

“That’s all I ask.” Mathura squeezes my fingers and lets them go.

I exhale the last of my strength and go rest at the foot of the bed. My throbbing head echoes down to my pitching stomach. I want to crawl under my blanket and stay there until my fevers return and burn me up.

Mathura follows me. “You should change for the feast. Tarek is waiting.”

“I cannot face him.”

“The feast is in your honor. Your absence would be a sign of weakness.” She passes me the evening sari that Asha hung on the bedpost. “Get changed. Your reputation is worth more than a fit of rebellion.”

“I don’t care what Tarek or his court thinks of me. I don’t want to be their champion.”

“But you are. If you cannot face them for yourself, do it for your friend. She and Gautam are invited.”

I clutch the cloth in my lap. “He was not supposed to claim Jaya. I swore to return for her.”

“None of us got what we wanted from the Claiming.” Mathura’s expression softens, and she sits by my side. “At one time, recipients chose their benefactors.”

My gaze snaps to hers. “What?”

“When I was little, becoming a recipient was a coveted honor. Very few girls were enlisted to be raised by the sisters. In those days, a Claiming was a reward for completing rigorous training, a symbol of womanhood and devotion to the gods.”

A reward. I have never thought of the Claiming as anything more than an inescapable obligation.

“The recipients were highly desired as wives. At the time, the rank tournaments were not in practice, and the recipient could reject a benefactor’s request.” Mathura’s tone darkens. “Then Tarek came to our temple. He wanted Yasmin at first sight. She refused him, but Tarek did not care for tradition, and he claimed Yasmin against her will.

“Word spread about what he had done, and the other benefactors felt their monetary endowments entitled them to any recipient they desired. The temple priestesses declined to change the rite, so some benefactors withdrew their requests, but most withdrew their funding. Fearing the closure of the temples, the sisters complied. The greediest benefactors began to claim recipients for courtesans and servants. Temple enlistment plummeted, so the brethren sent orphan girls to be wards.” Mathura looks down at the blank backs of her hands. “By the time I came of age two years later, I had no choice.”

She raises her cool gaze. “You are not the only one dismayed by the life you have been claimed for, but you have been given more than most. Yes, you must fight for your throne, but should you win, your children will be heirs to the empire. You will be permitted to raise them and keep them. You will not suffer the heartache I have for my sons.”

I lower my gaze, feeling properly chastised, but my problem still remains. “But how can I hide my loathing for Tarek?”

“You lay up your fury for when you need it most. Hatred is sustenance for survival. Use it right, and your loathing will sustain you through the tournament, all the way to your triumph.” Mathura pats my knee. “This is how I survive. This is how you will survive.” She stands with the dignity of a sister warrior. “I will meet you at the feast.”

Long, low tables fill the throne room, lit by hundreds of fat candles. Tarek is seated at the head of a table set above the rest on the dais, surrounded by his favored four. He beckons me forward. I would rather dine with hogs, but I go to him. Benefactors, courtesans, and ranis cram around lower tables bowed with platters of rich dishes. I do not see Jaya or Gautam.

“Here’s my champion!” Tarek welcomes me with a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

I cringe at the stench of apong on his breath, but I sit cross-legged on the floor cushion beside him. Mathura smiles a distant welcome and puffs on her pipe, her cane propped against the table. Beside her, Eshana beams with a friendliness that nearly curtails my unease for joining their elite group. Anjali lounges on her elbow, eating bits of pineapple, and Lakia sidles up to Tarek’s other side possessively, unsubtle as always about her incapacity to share him.

Tarek selects a hunk of charred flatbread from a basket and lays it on my plate. “Eat, love. We’re celebrating you. This tournament, this feast—”

“This wine,” Anjali says, saluting me with her cup.

“Yes, everything is in the viraji’s honor.” Tarek tops off his chalice and drinks to me. I manage a small smile.

Lithophone players perform on the other side of the dais. A dancer moves between the tables with precise, balanced stances. Her hand gestures match the beat, and she stamps her feet in a fancy rhythmic pattern. Tarek taps his fingers in time and eyes the dancer like a hawk spying a mouse in a field.

Jaya is still nowhere to be seen.

Laughter carries up from the attendees. Fareeshah grins, her mouth full of food. Should I also relish this feast as my last meal? I stare at my untouched plate, the food growing cold.

After another course that I do not partake of, servants carry baskets stacked with wooden lots from table to table. My challengers pick a lot and compare fate’s hand with their neighbors. When all of the wooden lots are dispersed, my opponents will be sectioned into pairs for the duels.

A servant brings a basket to Anjali. She digs her hand inside and plucks out a stick. Smiling wide, she picks her teeth with the pointy end.

Tarek’s chuckles boom in my ear. “Come,” he says, inviting Anjali to his side. She squeezes in between us, and I gladly scoot over for her. “You duel tomorrow, my sweet?”

She pets the nape of his neck. “Afraid for me?”

“You? Never.” He kisses her forehead, blessing her with good fortune.

I am partly disgusted, partly intrigued. The rajah cares for Anjali, yet he supports her fighting to the death. And, remarkably, despite his not claiming her as his rani, Anjali adores him. Tarek plays more mind games than Lakia. His charm, his bravado, his affection. Are all of these women willing to die for one of his kisses? Or are they playing their part in order to survive? The rajah has set himself up like a god, but I do not fear his power more than the gods’. I cannot be the only one.

I tolerate the rest of the feast as I would a long day in the oppressive desert sun. Eshana tops off Tarek’s chalice, and Lakia and Anjali compete for his lap. I slip away. Only Mathura acknowledges my departure and then returns to smoking her pipe. Manas and Yatin wait for me in the corridor, but still not Deven.

Natesa comes out in the hall to meet me. “Kalinda, have you seen Jaya? I heard she was claimed by the general.”

I would never tell her where Jaya is after what Natesa did to her, but I stop myself from saying so.

The kohl around Natesa’s eyes is smeared, as though she has been crying. She holds her arms securely across her chest. “I just want to know if Jaya is all right. I know you don’t think I care, but I do.”

I am so startled by Natesa’s sincerity that I answer in kind. “I don’t know where Jaya is. I saw her with the general at skill demonstrations, but not since.”

Natesa frowns, her dark eyes troubled. I hardly recognize this fretful young woman. “Are you all right?” I say.

Natesa glances over her shoulder at two benefactors watching her from a table in the hall. “I’m fine.” She raises a surly lip. “Go back to your private wing, where you are left alone.”

My heart speeds up. “Natesa, I—”

“If I see Jaya, I will tell her you’re looking for her.”

Natesa returns to the waiting benefactors. They receive her with hungry hands and oily smiles. Natesa’s eyes glaze over when the men touch her, reminding me of how Jaya was acting beside Gautam. I swallow through a rough, dry throat and start off to my chamber, my guards tailing me. I try to leave Natesa’s concern for Jaya behind, but it lays a slimy coating all over my insides. I am worried for both of them.

At my doorway, I turn my teary eyes away from my guards. “Please tell Asha not to disturb me tonight.”

“Viraji,” Yatin says in his gentle burr, “do you need anything?”

“Actually, yes. General Gautam claimed a new wife. I would like to meet with her. Please pass my inquiry along to her servants.”

I step inside my chamber and shut my door. The mountain of satin pillows entices me to my bed. I lie down, and the basket of challenges hovers at the fringe of my vision. I pinch my eyes closed. Perhaps if I pretend hard enough, I can imagine that I am home with Jaya in our chamber, readying for bed. But something shifts at my feet. I sit up onto my elbows and see a round lump beneath the bedcovers.

Keeping my gaze on the bulge, I slide off the bed. The lump extends out into a long, thick rope. I draw Yasmin’s dagger and force a steadying breath. Whatever is under my bedcovers was put there to stop me from setting foot in the arena. I throw back the blanket, sending pillows flying in a shower of silk.

A black snake coils up at the bottom of my bed, agitated at me for stripping away its cozy den. I greet the thin, venomous asp with the point of my dagger and inch away. The snake hisses. I hold still, heeding its warning. My dagger is too short to be useful. Another movement could incite the deadly snake to strike, but I have to try. I slowly step back. The asp opens its mouth and hisses louder, its translucent curved fangs ready to hook into my flesh.

“Don’t move,” I hear.

The Burner steps in from the open balcony and approaches the other side of the bed. The snake stays preoccupied with me, its dark eyes staring me down. The Burner sneaks up behind it and swings down with an ax, chopping the asp’s head off. Its tail twitches until death.

The Burner slides his ax into a leather sheath strapped to his back. I keep my dagger—although I have seen what he can do with his hands—and draw back. I consider shouting for my guards, but the truth is I have been expecting his visit.

He lifts the severed pieces of snake off my bed and tosses them into the hearth. He throws kindling on top of the asp’s corpse. “Someone wants you dead,” he says.

“A lot of someones.” I nod at the basket of challenges. “You’ll have to get in line.”

“We don’t want to kill you, Viraji. We want to help you.”

“We?” I ask.

He grins secretively. He is less menacing when he smiles, even attractive, but appearances are unreliable depictions of character. Rajah Tarek is handsome too.

“I found the book you left me,” I say.

“The warlord wanted you to have it.” He presses his fingertip to the kindling, and fire erupts. Flames chew the wood and consume the snake carcass. The Burner brushes off his hands and straightens. He is less bulky without the dark cape, ropy—like a starved wolf. From his pocket, he withdraws the tonic formula and my last remedy vial.

“You went through my satchel!”

“You should find a better hiding place.”

He tosses the formula into the fire. I lunge after it, falling to my hands before the hearth and dropping my dagger. The fire devours the paper in seconds. The Burner kicks the dagger, and the blade spins out of my reach under the bed. He holds my tonic between two fingers.

“This contains two types of poison. Haven’t you wondered why it hasn’t killed you? You took it this morning, and yet here you are.”

I push to my feet. “You’ve been watching me.”

He waves aside my accusation. “The point is you’re alive. Your powers burn off the tonic before it poisons you. That’s why you must take it every day or your temperature flares.”

“I don’t have powers. I have fevers.” Even to me, my argument sounds weak.

“You don’t take poison every morning because you’re frightened of fevers. You’re afraid of what you could be—of what you could do—without it.”

My face falls, hearing my fears voiced so succinctly.

The Burner’s gaze softens. “I understand what it’s like to hide, but you cannot suppress who you are forever. You will build immunity to the poisons, and your powers will turn on you.” An image of the bent comb fills my mind, and my mouth goes painfully dry. “We can help you, and we can help your friend escape the general.”

“You know about Jaya?” I whisper.

He smiles and comes closer. “We will discuss the terms of our bargain once you agree to stop hiding.” He leans into my side, his breath hot in my ear. My pulse ratchets higher. “So few of us are left. The first time I saw you, I thought you were a mirage, but here you are, fire burning in your veins.”

My chest swells with longing. The Burner is like me. All my life dangerous fevers have separated me from others. Never before have I met anyone with my same condition.

He sets my last tonic vial on the bedside table. “You don’t have much time. You must raze before you run out of tonic.”

I pick up the vial before he changes his mind and throws it into the hearth too. Razing, whatever it is, may be my only protection from my fevers. But why would the Burner and warlord help me?

“The tournament starts tomorrow,” I say, hedging.

“There is still time for you and your friend.” The Burner strides to the balcony and looks back, his honey eyes luminous in the moonlight. “I will return tomorrow night for your answer. For the sake of you and your friend, consider our offer.”

He leaps over the balcony. I rush to the railing and look down at the shadowed garden. The Burner is gone; he has vanished, like a quenched fire without a trace of smoke.

21

Yatin enters my chamber the next morning. Asha finishes brushing my hair, and I go meet him at the door.

“Did you find Jaya?”

“She sends her apologies. Her husband forbids her to see you, but she wishes you luck in the tournament.”

I set my jaw. Gautam forbids Jaya to see me? We will see about that.

“Thank you, Yatin. I’m ready to go now.”

I took my tonic this morning. Though the Burner’s warning rang clear in my mind, I could not afford to be feverish.

Asha adjusts a fold of my skirt. The gold sari swathes me like a cloud, the silver embroidery along my bodice the ethereal lining. Strokes of kohl line the corners of my eyes, and juice stains my lips red. Asha has outdone herself, but this illusion of glamour cannot ease my anxiety. Today is the first day of the tournament.

Yatin and Manas escort me to the main foyer. Imperial guards are stationed every few feet down the maze of corridors. More guards border the grand entrance hall, which is swarming with ranis and courtesans, all buzzing about today’s scheduled battles.

I notice two things about the guards. First, none of them is Deven. Second, every guard is on edge.

“What’s going on?” I ask Manas.

He answers a rung above a whisper. “An intruder tried to break into the rajah’s chambers early this morning. We’re still looking for him.”

I scan the guards. Did the Burner leave me and go to the rajah’s rooms to search for the Zhaleh? Whether he did or did not, I cannot fathom how we will meet again with every guard in the palace looking for him.

Imperial guards descend the grand stairway, Rajah Tarek between them. Tarek is dressed exquisitely in a gold tunic coat, with a silver paisley print, over dark trousers. A satin turban is wound around his head. I had thought that Asha wanted me to look my best for the people of Vanhi, but now I see that she dressed me to match our ruler.

The rajah draws the attention of every woman in the hall, but he comes to me. “You’re more beautiful every day, love.” He kisses my cheek, souring my stomach. Even at this early hour, he smells of apong and another woman’s perfume. Tarek rubs a circle on my hip. “I’m a patient man, but I don’t know if I can wait until our wedding night.”

I lower my eyes in disgust. I can wait a thousand lives.

With his hand on my waist, he steers me down the palace steps into the open courtyard. To the east, the early sun charges into the sky with the glory of a desert god. On the other side of the gates, people press against the divide, cheering for the ranis and courtesans surging out of the palace behind us. I glance over my shoulder, uncomfortable to have my contenders at my back. Any of them could have slipped the asp into my bed. I do not know them well enough to definitively say who, but the most likely contender is Anjali. She could not stay out of Tarek’s lap last night, and she clearly wants to be one of his wives.

Across the way, Anjali speaks with a group of courtesans. I search her face for surprise that I am alive, but she does not glance in my direction.

The courtyard teems with servants, soldiers, and imperial guards. Among them are exotic animals I have seen only in books. Tarek stops before an elephant with shoulders nearly as tall as the outer wall. A howdah, a box carriage with a red silk canopy, is belted to the back of the beast.

“We are riding that?” I ask Tarek over the din.

“I assure you it’s safe.”

Servants push a rolling staircase up to the elephant’s side, and we climb into the high, swaying carriage decorated with winking rubies. As I sit in the top-heavy howdah, I twist to see a line of four more elephants behind us. Four carriers are tied to their backs, one for each of the rajah’s favored four.

Lakia climbs another rolling set of stairs into her howdah. She hates me more than all of my challengers combined, but she did not slip the asp into my bed. Lakia wants the tournament over with almost as much as I do. Killing me before I wed the rajah would force Tarek to claim yet another viraji to be his final rani, as I am not yet his wife, and this extravaganza of death would start all over again.

Imperial guards assemble the rest of the ranis and courtesans. They will either walk to the amphitheater or ride on camels adorned with gold-tasseled saddles. From above the disorder, I scan for my guards. Yatin has found Natesa and hovers near her side. Manas hoists the Tarachand Empire’s scorpion banner. I cannot see Deven. His absence should not bother me, but we left off so abruptly yesterday that I am concerned that he thinks I am angry with him. Perhaps Taline’s execution has changed his mind about staying on as my guard.

Tarek swallows a drink from a flask that was waiting in the carrier. “Kali, you are quiet.”

His neutral tone puts me on edge. I immediately smooth out my frown. “I asked my guards to help me set up a meeting with Gautam’s wife. The general married my friend Jaya. Remember her from skill trials?”

“Ah, yes. Natesa cut her cheek.”

Because of you. I pinch off my resentment before it pours from my voice. “I would very much like to see her. Could you arrange it?”

He kisses my cheek. “For you, love. Anything.”

My smile of gratitude doubles as one of gloating. Gautam will have to let me see Jaya now.

A gong sounds, and then a dozen servants heave the gold palace doors open. An infantry troop clears the way, their horses pushing back people to clear the road. The sky and ground jerk as the howdah rocks side to side with the elephant’s impressive strides. I clench the passengers’ bar in front of me and pray that I do not fall out. Tarek grins, his boyish delight genuine. I can scarcely believe that he is the feared rajah of the Tarachand Empire.

Vanhi’s streets are hardly passable. Clay huts clump together behind peasants standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the roadway—children, men, and women all clamoring for a view.

“Viraji!” they cry, waving the empire’s red-and-black flag.

Their adoration stuns me. Not long ago I was a lowly temple ward. I have not accomplished anything to secure such adulation.

“Wave to your admirers,” says Tarek. “They believe you to be Enlil’s hundredth rani reincarnated. You are a legend come to life.”

I fight off a frown. I want to tell them that I am no such hero, but their belief in what I represent stops me. I cannot rob their faith in the gods. Smiling tightly, I wave to their dirty faces. Many wave back with arms so skinny that they could be staffs and with robes that have more holes in them than the roads. The gaudiness and wealth of our procession shames me. One ruby off this howdah could feed a family for many moons, yet no peasant dares cross the barrier of armed soldiers to filch one. Tarek may be able to sit on a gold throne and not despise himself, but I cannot.

While Tarek is turned away, I rip a handful of rubies off the side of the howdah and toss them to the crowd. The gems rain down on the people, and a ripple of recognition travels fast. Needy hands and bodies swarm over each other in a mad dash for the jewels. Soldiers dismount their horses and barge in to break up the riot.

“What is the disturbance?” Tarek calls down to a guard.

“The viraji threw rubies into the streets,” his man reports.

Tarek slides his arm around my shoulders. “Wasn’t that charitable?” he says for all to hear. His guards return to their duties, and Tarek’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Do you mean to infuriate me?”

“I meant to devote them to you, Your Majesty.” My lie tastes like dust on my tongue. More soldiers stop to tear apart the mob.

“You needn’t throw them jewels to gain their devotion. My people love me. Do you know why?” Rajah Tarek kisses my earlobe, his lips hovering there. To all the world, we are lovers sharing an intimate conversation. “I give them what they hunger for most. Not bread or clothes or coin.” His intrusive voice fills my head. “I give them the rank tournaments. I give them blood.”

Almost an hour after leaving the palace, the amphitheater’s rounded walls soar into view. Spectators stream through the open gates stationed around the exterior of the mighty stone-and-brick structure. Our elephant rocks to a stop beside a high-arched entry, and servants push forth a staircase for us to climb down.

On the ground, I look out over the mass of people, their faces as numerous as grains of sand. Tarek takes my hand and lifts it into the air. Our audience hurrahs, and then he and I lead the court procession through the entry and into the dim corridors of the amphitheater.

The imperial box is at the center of one of the narrower ends of the oval stadium, set apart from the other tiers by solid stone walls. A flat marble platform—the podium—spans the area below us. Tarek’s wives and courtesans gather on the first tier, vying for the best view of the arena. Two more tiers rise to our right and left, circling the stadium. The benefactors occupy the second tier. Most are already deep into their cups, despite the morning hour. The third and highest tier is for the lower class.

A tattered canopy shades a portion of the tiers, and above its flimsy ceiling, brass gongs gleam as golden moons. I stare in amazement at the incredible breadth of the amphitheater and sea of people. The whole population of the City of Gems must be here. Tarek sits on his throne and motions for me to occupy the one to his left. Lakia takes the throne to his right. The rest of his court will watch from the terrace below.

Drummers emerge from an underground level through metal gates. They strike up a marching cadence and cross the arena, their music silencing the audience. The hand drummers form a line before the imperial box and thump their final beat.

In the sudden stillness, Rajah Tarek approaches the banister and addresses his people. “Welcome to my hundredth viraji’s rank tournament!”

Thousands of spectators answer with deafening applause. The benefactors are the loudest, pounding their feet. They are why Deven did not want me to think that he enjoyed attending the tournament. He is not the sort of man who belongs here.

Tarek waits for the commotion to settle and continues. “The Tarachand Empire prepares to enter a new reign of supremacy. Soon, I will be the most powerful sovereign on the continent. I swear to you our time of leniency will end. My first act will be to rid our great empire of the demons plaguing us. Then we will move on to the rest of the world, until we are free from bhutas once and for all!”

His people thunder their feet against the floor in approval, hammering fear into my chest. The Tarachand Empire has the most powerful army on the continent. So long as Tarek is at war with the bhutas within his borders, his resources are tied up. Exterminate them here, however, and he is free to expand his conquest elsewhere.

“Let the tournament begin!” the rajah shouts.

Men stationed in the towers strike the gongs, clanging them in unison. Through the lower gates, two courtesans march into the arena, armed with metal shields and helmets. They may choose to duel hand to hand, with staffs, or with blades.

A tournament official announces the challengers, Ameya and Shanti. Each woman thrusts her weapon to the sky when her name is called. I scarcely recognize them this far above, but their names are familiar. Ameya looks especially small. She is armed with a haladie, the double-bladed dagger. Wise selection. I doubt that she is strong enough to swing a heavier blade. Still, I do not anticipate her outlasting her larger opponent. I pray that she proves me wrong.

Asha explained the tournament rules this morning. Four duels will take place each day, starting with eight contenders battling in pairs. The four winners of those duels will then face off in a victors’ match. The last woman standing wins the finalist title for the day. This goes on for three days, and on the fourth day, the three finalists will battle me in a championship match. The odds sicken me. Only three challengers out of twenty-four will survive to face me in the arena.

“Faster,” Lakia snaps at the servant fanning her with ostrich feathers. Lakia does not fight until the last day either. She and her challengers will battle as the opening act for my match.

More servants fan the courtesans and wives below. Those contenders not slated to fight today sit forward in their seats. Soon it will be their turn. Any of the women in the arena could someday be their adversary, or mine.

The gongs ring, signaling the start of the duel. The taller, stronger fighter, Shanti, dives at her opponent. The little courtesan, Ameya, is nimble and spry. She dodges her opponent’s khanda and blocks blows with the haladie. Shanti slices the little one’s hand, and Ameya retreats. I want to shut my eyes and shield myself from the blood, but even though these women battle each other, they are challenging me. I will not be able to look away in the arena, and I will not now.

Shanti circles Ameya. My fingers curl down on the armrests of my throne. Ameya slashes forward, and her smaller blade grazes Shanti’s back. Shanti assesses her uncritical injury and then retaliates. Ameya evades Shanti’s blade, but Shanti anticipates her lateral move. Shanti swings back around and drives the sword into Ameya’s stomach. The slighter woman crumples like a paper doll torn down the middle, dropping in a bloodied heap.

Unshed tears burn my nose. I had anticipated it would be like this, but I am struck by the carnage, the horror, and the nauseating stench of blood rising up from the arena floor.

Lakia yawns. “I hope all your courtesans aren’t defeated so easily.”

“Yes, it will make for a tedious day,” Tarek replies, sipping his flask.

I cut them a glare. Ameya just sacrificed her life. She wanted freedom from being a courtesan so much that death was a better alternative. I want to shred Tarek’s pampered face with my nails, but I do as Mathura said. I absorb my hatred and let it feed me, transforming it into something bigger, meaner, uglier.

I will wait.

I will crouch in the dark until the time is ripe, and then I will eat Rajah Tarek alive.

Servants wheel a handcart into the arena and pile Ameya’s body onto it.

“Where will they take her?” I ask.

“Where do you think?” Lakia considers her painted nails. “The rajah has no use for her now. She’s refuse.”

Indignation snarls through me. “Her body must be prayed over before she’s laid to rest.”

“The gods don’t care about dead whores,” Lakia replies, bored.

“The gods care about honor and sisterhood, not this spectacle of death.” I lower myself from my chair to my knees and bow my head.

“Get up,” Lakia hisses.

“Not until I pray.”

“Kalinda.” Tarek’s voice is deadly low. “Sit.”

Hanging my head, I look through the slats in the banister at the lower balcony. Natesa peers up at me, her eyes teary. She must be thinking of her older sister, wondering if anyone prayed over her body.

I lower my chin and speak. “Gods, bless Ameya’s soul to find the gate that leads to peace and everlasting light.”

Below us, Natesa repeats the Prayer of Rest, and then Shyla speaks the blessing on Ameya’s soul next. Then Eshana and Parisa lend their voices. Idle chatter dies to a hum of shushed murmurs. The prayer ripples out to the other ranis, each bowing her head in respect. Every courtesan and rani, besides Lakia, honors the fallen young woman. A surge of pride pushes me to my feet, and I sit back down.

Tarek leans toward me and taps my knee, his tone quiet. “Have a care, Kali. You do not wish for me to tire of your boldness. I still find you amusing, but that could quickly change.”

I shrink away from him, my insides boiling. Only Tarek would view a prayer as rebellion, but I need not show my support for the defeated challengers again. My message has been felt by his court. Those who perish in this tournament are not refuse. They are our sisters.

Gongs ring in unison, followed by a tournament official proclaiming the start of the second duel. Witnessing the bloodbath of the next two duels does not get easier for me; however, Lakia’s smile widens with each passing death. One less woman with whom to share her husband.

At midday we pause for a meal. I wave off the food tray, too nauseated to keep anything down. The dirt arena floor, once brown, is splattered with blood. When the time comes, I do not know how I will find the courage to add to the gore.

When the midday meal finishes, Anjali is summoned with Cala for the fourth duel. Tarek remains relaxed in his throne, displaying no worry for the youngest of his favored four. The gongs ring, and Cala lunges. Anjali dismembers Cala’s arm in the first blow. Cala sinks to her knees with an agonized yell. Anjali silences her with a clean blow to the heart.

Tarek claps loudly, and Lakia scowls at him. I cringe away from both of them. Seeing Anjali fight, I am certain she could defeat me. Someone with her skill would not need to stoop to sabotage. A different courtesan slipped the asp into my bed, and with four competitors already dead, I may never know who.

The four winners are called out for their final match of the day. All save Anjali bear injuries from their earlier battle. Selfishly, I wish for their speedy deaths and a swift end to this butchery.

A rapt silence blankets the crowd. The gongs boom, reverberating down to the marrow in my bones. The attacks commence. Tired arms swing heavy blades. Pained grunts carry over hushed spectators. The first challenger defeated falls, awakening the spectators’ voices. Then a second fighter is downed. There is more frantic applause. Only Anjali and Shanti remain.

Tarek sits forward, his gaze fixed on Anjali. His favored courtesan paces around her opponent, but she is limping, and her khanda is lowered. Anjali is losing strength. Shanti swings at her. Anjali dodges and kicks Shanti in the kneecap. Shanti drops to the ground.

I wince, and the audience roars. Anjali brandishes her sword, swinging it flagrantly for all to see, and then stands over her injured opponent and drives the blade between Shanti’s eyes. It is a ruthless triumph that petrifies me to the soul.

22

I fend off Tarek’s wandering hands and sloppy kisses during the return procession to the Turquoise Palace. He is all hands when he is drunk, but his reaction time is slower. I abandon him at the howdah and run off through the crowded courtyard into the palace ahead of my guards.

The corridors fly by in a haze. I burst into my room, ready to scream or sob—or both. Deven turns from my balcony, where he was watching the procession arrive, his eyes brimming with compassion. Finding him waiting for me unlocks the fear I have held in all day. Warm tears trickle down my cheeks. He opens his arms, and I fill them, crying against his shoulder.

“I watched those women die, and I did nothing.”

He rubs my back, his caresses as soft as his voice. “They chose to fight.”

My tears flow faster. His being right does not change the mark their deaths have made on my heart. The palace walls thin around me, and I can feel the Beyond. I am aware of my tender mortality, how close I am to the divide between life and death. Deven holds me until my sorrow runs dry.

I wipe my damp cheeks. “I thought you had changed posts.”

“I thought you wanted me to.”

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to leave.” I told Mathura that I would remind Deven that I am the viraji, but he knows who I am, and he is still here. I lay my cheek against his solid chest and savor him, his sandalwood scent a precious comfort.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there today,” he says. His gentleness unlooses more of my tears. “Jaya’s sorry too. I spoke to her while you were gone. She’s lodging here in the palace.”

I look up at him, my heart lightening. “You saw Jaya?”

“I stayed behind to search for her.”

I throw my arms around his neck and hold him closer. “Thank you.”

Deven eases us back toward the wall, out of the open. “It isn’t safe, Kali.”

“It will never be safe.” After a day of biting my tongue, I revel in the lack of constraint, and my words tumble out. “I cannot forget our kiss.”

Deven draws me behind the silk draperies, secreting us in a cozy cocoon. My hands remain fastened to his shoulders. “I cannot forget either, but I don’t want it to be like this, with you smelling of him. I don’t want to watch over my shoulder, terrified that every moment I’m with you will be my last. I want you to myself, Kali.”

My fingers seek the soft hairs below the neck of his turban. “I want that too.”

He tilts forward, resting his forehead against mine. I realize that any second he will come to his senses. His morals as a soldier will force him to stop, and he will warn me that we can never touch again. But Deven inhales through his nose, breathing me in, and presses his lips to mine.

His lips touch mine urgently, without a care for regulations or threats. He runs his hands through my hair and pours his unspoken words into me. I should stop this. I should be the reasonable-minded one. But there is no reason when it comes to my feelings for Deven.

I kiss him back and remove his turban, dropping it, and my fingers weave into his silky hair. His hands travel to my waist, and his kisses deepen. His gripping fingers loosen as they begin gentle strokes. Slowly, so slowly, his lips part from mine.

Deven releases an explosive breath. “Jaya’s waiting for you in the herb garden. Yatin will show you the way.”

I do not know how long we have been hiding behind the curtain, but I want to stay inside this silk chrysalis forever.

“Why don’t you come with me?” I trace his jaw up to the curve of his bottom lip.

He kisses my fingertips and pulls my hand away. His other hand smooths down my hair. His own hair is ruffled and free, a soft tumble of waves around his flushed face. “The rajah saw me approach you at skill demonstrations. We don’t want to give him another reason to look our way.” Deven kisses me again and smiles to lift my worries. “I’ll be all right. Go meet your friend.”

“Kali!” Jaya flings her arms around me and locks me in a hug that reminds me of the musty, dark temple corridors and ever-burning incense of home. “I’m sorry about my message. Those were Gautam’s words.”

“I knew it wasn’t you.” I lean back to look at her, and my heart topples over. She is very thin, even thinner than I am. Thanks to Healer Baka’s expert stitching, her cheek healed with minimal scarring, but a bruise darkens her chin. Rage for the general rises so fast and hot that withholding it burns.

“We don’t have long,” says Jaya. We sit on the rim of the raised garden bed. Yatin waits out of sight at the end of the path. “Gautam thinks I’m in my chamber.”

My gaze explores her face for all I have missed since we last parted. “How have you been?”

“Leaving Samiya was difficult. Gautam isn’t a gentle man, but I’m learning how not to cross him.” She rubs at her bruised chin and sends me a falsely optimistic smile. “What is life like in the palace?”

“Nerve-racking.” I feel wretched for complaining when she has suffered so much worse. “I couldn’t have survived without Deven, my guard. And I have so much to tell you about Tarek”—her eyes widen at my informality—“and his ranis and courtesans.”

“I want to hear all about them, especially about your guard, but first I have something to tell you.” Her eyes are grave with seriousness. “The night we arrived in Vanhi, the general met with the rajah. I listened at the door while they spoke for an hour about a book they don’t want the bhutas to find.”

“The Zhaleh.”

“That’s what they called it.” She frowns at my paling complexion. “The Zhaleh is the reason for the war, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The bhutas want it back. Do you know where it is?”

“No, but Gautam and the rajah said it is here somewhere.”

The Zhaleh truly is hidden in the palace. Perhaps that is what the bhutas want from me—to locate their book. “Maybe I can follow the general and find it,” I say.

“You cannot. Gautam met with the kindred. I overheard them say your name, and then they moved out of earshot. They’re watching you.”

No good can come from Lakia and Gautam meeting together. I have to get Jaya away from them, away from here.

A bird stirs the bushes. Jaya peers down the garden path. “I should go.”

I seize her hands. Sending her back to Gautam feels like a dagger twisting in my side, but she has given me the answer I needed to force my next step. “Everything will be all right,” I promise.

“How?” Her eyes swim with doubt.

“The bhutas want to bargain with me. In exchange, they will sneak you out of Vanhi.”

Jaya shakes her head. “You’re always trying to protect me, Kali. This time, let me help you. I’ve learned a lot by listening at doors. Let me help you find the Zhaleh.”

“It’s too dangerous,” I reply just as adamantly. “You mustn’t get involved.”

“I already am.”

The truth of that slaps me hard, the blame of it entirely in my hands. “I’m sorry. If you hadn’t waited for me—”

“This is what we wanted. We’re together again.” She smiles and wraps me in her bony arms. I search my soul for gladness, but I will fear for her safety so long as she is with Gautam.

Jaya leans back and tucks a tiny ointment bottle into my hand. “I made this oil from one of my plants. Dab a little on your skin, and anyone who touches you will become ill.”

One of her plants. This is poison. “Will I get sick too?”

“Your head will ache for a day or so.” Her mouth twists up. “But so will his.”

I squeeze her hand. She must have used this ointment on Gautam. If he were to find out she poisoned him, he would do worse than bruise her jaw. “Be careful, Jaya.”

“You too. I was so worried about you.” She squeezes my hand harder. “Then I saw you at skill demonstrations. I could not believe . . . You are suited for this place, Kali. You are suited for the life of a rani.”

She would not speak so if she knew how difficult it has been. I have more to tell her, but Jaya kisses my cheek and runs off, leaving me alone with a chill entombing my heart.

23

I dine alone in my chamber and then send my supper tray away with Asha for the night. The palace is still crawling with guards on high alert, but the Burner will come. He must, or we will run out of time.

I sketch to calm my mind, but I find myself mulling over what lie to tell Deven. I do not know how I will hide this from him, but I have to try. He will not understand what I must do.

“You draw beautifully.” Deven sits beside me on the bed and looks at my drawing. “Where is this?”

“The meditation pond in Samiya.” I shut the sketchbook, feeling foolish. “I don’t know why I thought of it. I will never see it again.”

“You don’t know that.” Deven takes the sketchbook from me and reopens it. He flips through the pages, pausing on a portrait of the fire-god, Enlil, that I drew last night after the Burner left. Less is known about the fire-god; his history is shrouded in smoke. So I drew him obscured in a haze, but I could not get his ember eyes correct.

I take back my sketchbook and set it out of Deven’s reach.

He grips his knees and looks down at his hands. “I have been thinking about us since I last saw you, and I have decided it would be best for us both if I request to be reassigned at the conclusion of the tournament.”

His words take a moment to hit me, and then I fall back into the mound of pillows. “Earlier you said—”

“I was impulsive and selfish. I shouldn’t have misled you. I’m a soldier. This is what the gods want of me. And you”—he looks up at me with a mix of wonder and regret—“you are fated to be rani. I won’t stand in your way.”

“But you aren’t in my way. You’re my only safe place in the world right now.”

“I cannot be anything to you, Kali.” His fingertips dig into his knees. “I cannot watch you wed him. I cannot escort you to your husband’s bedchamber night after night. I cannot protect you from him.”

I steel my tone. “You chose to stay and guard me.”

“I shouldn’t have. As your guard, I should be able to do all that is required of me, but I cannot separate how I feel for you from my duty. I cannot be what you need.” His voice breaks with the admission. “I will see you through the tournament. Once it is over, please don’t ask me to stay.”

His plea strikes me breathless. “Of course I won’t ask you to stay. I want . . .” I soften my overwrought voice, my insides tumbling apart. “I wish you every happiness, Deven.”

His chest rises and falls in uneven levels. “And I, you,” he whispers.

The Burner steps in from the balcony. “Dearest brother, still sacrificing your own happiness for the betterment of the empire.”

Deven springs to his feet and draws his khanda. His jaw goes slack. “Brac?”

The Burner bows. “I have a meeting with the viraji.”

Deven’s attention flings to me. “You spoke to him?”

“You know him?” I rejoin, mirroring his shock.

Brac presses a mocking hand over his chest. “I’m wounded,” he says to Deven. “I thought you would have told her about your dead younger brother.”

“Half brother,” Deven says sharply. “And if you haven’t noticed, you aren’t dead.”

Brothers. My gaze bounces between them. They have the same slope to their nose, but otherwise they look nothing alike. Brac’s coloring tends toward copper, and he is wiry, whereas Deven is robust, but I see pieces of Mathura in both of them. Deven has his mother’s large dark eyes, and Brac has his mother’s bright, wide smile. But it is what I cannot see in Brac that astounds me. Deven’s brother is a bhuta.

“You’re a traitor,” Deven pushes out of a tight jaw. “You pretended to be a soldier, but you worked for the warlord. You knew the Galer planned to attack. That’s the only way you could have survived.”

“Just as well.” Brac’s eyes burn tawny in the low light. “You left me for dead.”

Deven steps back from the blow of this accusation. “You betrayed our troop. You let me think you had been killed. Kali mentioned that the Burner she met had golden eyes, but I didn’t want to believe you would do this to me.”

“I did no worse to you than you did to me. You could have tied me to the boulder, but you chose to save the rajah.” Brac approaches Deven’s extended blade, undaunted. “All my life, you refused to see what I am. When I miraculously recovered from my fevers, you never asked me how. But you must see Tarek’s corruption, his brutality, his lies. You cannot be that blind.”

Deven steps forward and skims the tip of his khanda across Brac’s breastbone. “I see a coward hiding in the palace and a demon placating a guard.”

“Lower your sword, and we will see how good a guard you are.”

“Stop.” I step beside Deven. He does not have the heart to end his brother, but that does not mean that he will not hurt him. I look to Brac. “I accept your bargain.”

“What bargain?” Deven demands, voice rising.

“She hasn’t told you?” Brac grins. I wish that I could cover his mouth with both my hands as he says, “The viraji is a bhuta. A Burner, to be precise.”

Deven’s eyes broaden in disbelief. I am unable to utter a defense, not even to tell him about my fevers, which it seems Brac also suffered as a child.

Deven sputters out a reply. “Kali isn’t a—”

“I assure you she is exactly as I say.” Brac scoffs at his older brother. “You accuse me of hiding in the palace when you escorted her, a bhuta, here.”

“You aren’t hiding now,” Deven retorts. “One shout and you will be stoned by dawn.”

Hilarity drops off Brac’s face. “And the viraji? Will you turn her in too? Your cold loyalty is undiscerning, but I thought one Burner in your life would be worth sacrificing your damnable obligation for.”

“Brac.” I glare a warning. This is not about their broken brotherhood but his claim that I am a bhuta. “You have not proven what I am.”

“I will as soon as your tonic dosage wears off.”

“That isn’t until sunrise.”

Dawn is hours away. I doubt that these two could last that long without pummeling each other.

“The quicker solution is you raze,” says Brac. “We let your blood.” My cheeks sap of warmth. Deven rises to his entire intimidating height, his hands tightly gripping his sword. “Sounds unappealing, doesn’t it?” Brac adds with a humorless smile. “But better I cut you than the rajah. I won’t bleed you dry.”

“I will slice your head off before you touch her,” Deven growls.

“Are you certain you don’t want to be with her, brother? You’re clearly smitten.” Brac sends Deven an infuriating grin and then turns to me. “Razing, or letting your blood, is the safest way to release your suppressed powers. It will take an hour. Two at most. We have to leave now if you’re to return by dawn.”

“No.” Deven levels his sword at his brother. “Kali, he cannot be trusted.”

“And she can trust you?” Brac counters. “You will turn her in.”

Deven jolts, affronted. “I will not.”

“Without our help, her powers will destroy her. This is the only way she will live.”

Brac’s avowal echoes what I have read in Bhuta Origins. Without the tonic remedy to lower my fevers, my powers will turn on me faster than any stoning mob. Razing sounds worse than drinking a thousand vials of tonic, but if it does what Brac claims, I will never need the tonic again.

“What do you want from her in return?” asks Deven.

Brac’s expression closes off. “The warlord will discuss the bargain with her.”

Deven jabs the khanda at him. “Not good enough.”

I insert myself between them before Deven takes off his brother’s head. The warlord may want something from me badly enough to help me overcome my fevers, but I need something from him as well. “My agreement stands.” I avoid looking at Deven. “I will come with you and—and raze. In exchange, you will help Jaya escape from the palace before the tournament ends.”

“Done. I swear on Anu you will be safe.” Brac ends his vow with an earnest look at his brother.

Deven lowers his sword in defeat. He must be wondering if it is true, if I am his enemy. I touch his tensed arm, searching for understanding. He does not pull away, but his answer is definite. “If you go, you go alone.”

Indecision tears at me. He is my safety, my place of peace. I want to crawl into his arms and surround myself in his goodness, but I cannot ask him to betray the rajah any more than I can force him to stay on as my guard. I run my hand down Deven’s arm, knowing he will likely never forgive me. “Do what you must,” I say, “but know that I must go.” Fighting every inclination to stay near him, I start toward Brac.

“Kali, please.” Deven’s desperate gaze reaches out for me. “You cannot trust them.”

Brac leans casually against the wall. “I wager I can change your mind about that.”

Deven’s expression chills. “You’re nothing but a dead man pretending to be someone I used to care for. What makes you think anything you say could affect me?”

“Mother is going to be killed,” says Brac. My heart drops like a stone, and Deven’s attention intensifies on his brother. “In the story of Enlil’s Hundredth Rani, any surviving courtesans were drowned. Our informant in the palace learned that Tarek plans to kill Mother and the rest of his courtesans according to the tale. He believes it is fate.”

I cover my mouth with my hand. “Why? His courtesans are a sign of his power.”

Brac’s lips angle downward. “Tarek fears the wrath of the gods if he doesn’t reenact the tale. That’s why you’re fighting in the tournament despite his adoration for you. He needs you to play your part.”

My mind whirls back to a sickening memory. The day I first arrived at the palace, Tarek spoke of me playing a role.

“Your informant is lying,” says Deven. “You are lying.”

“For what purpose? Mathura is my mother too.”

Deven crosses the chamber in four strides and shoves Brac against the wall. “Do not speak of Mother. She mourned you. She still mourns you.”

Brac pushes him off. “I lost my family too.”

“You chose to lose us.” Deven circles away, fuming.

I watch him from the corner of my eye and ask Brac, “When?”

“The morning after the wedding, the courtesans’ wing will be emptied,” Brac says. He appeals to his brother next. “If you still don’t believe me, come with us, and you can hear it from someone you trust.”

Deven glances my way for an explanation, but I do not know who that trusted person could be. I too am reluctant, afraid of walking into a trap. I believe that Brac cares for his brother and that he would not lead us into harm’s way. However, Brac is loyal to his people. Even with his vow, I fear his intentions are purely in favor of the bhutas.

Deven’s glare cinches in on his brother. “Does the warlord have a plan to save Mother?”

“I wouldn’t have told you about this if he didn’t.”

I plead silently with Deven to join me. Coming along must be his choice.

He nods shortly. “Fine. I’ll go along.”

Brac’s grin nearly splits his face. “Meet me in the chapel.” He walks to the balcony, leaps over the banister, and drops out of sight.

Deven turns his back to me. “Why didn’t you tell me you met Brac?”

“I didn’t know he was your brother.”

“And if you had known?”

I hold my tongue. I doubt that I would have told Deven even then.

He sighs wearily and faces me. “Are you armed?”

I pat the dagger tucked against my lower back. A useless precaution. My blade will not protect us against bhuta powers. Neither will Deven’s sword, yet he sheathes it in preparation. I let him have the reassurance of his steel, for once we face the warlord, we will be at his mercy.

24

Before we meet Brac, we have to pass Manas and Yatin, stationed outside my door. Deven and I come up with a quick justification and go out to meet them.

“The captain has offered to escort me to the chapel,” I say, sniffling like I have been crying. “He suggested that I pray for my fallen contenders.”

Yatin nods with understanding. Manas eyes us more closely, not as easily convinced.

“Would you like us to come along?” he asks.

“No one will bother the viraji in the chapel,” answers Deven. “One guard will be enough. You are both relieved of duty for the night.”

Yatin extends a sympathetic smile to me. Manas frowns suspiciously at his captain. Deven challenges the young guard with a direct stare until Manas bows curtly, and we go.

Brac waits for us at the back of the chapel. Before I can inquire why we are here, he lifts the bottom corner of a long tapestry on the wall, exposing a hidden passageway. Deven ducks through first without any sign of surprise or trepidation. My hand hovers over the dagger hidden at my back as I step into the dark.

Brac leads us down a stone stairwell, his oil lamp lighting our way. My heartbeat echoes with each footfall.

“How did you know this was here?” I whisper.

“Deven and I found these passageways as children. There’s a network of them all over the palace. We used to slip out of the nursery through them. When we were older, we used the passageways to escape kitchen duties.”

Deven stares straight ahead, unmoved by his brother’s memories. Brac must have also used these tunnels to sneak around the palace before and after our meetings.

The stone steps give way to a steep gravel decline. My feet crunch over loose rocks as the passage narrows to a low-ceilinged tunnel. Water runs down the muddy walls to rivulets at our feet. I skid on a slick rock, and Deven is immediately at my side.

“Take my hand,” he says. I clasp it hard. I have wished for time alone with him in the dark, but this is not what I envisioned.

We descend deeper underground, the damp air laying a heavy film on my skin. Gradually, our surroundings lighten to a hazy gray that peels back the darkness. The running water grows louder, rushing in my ears. Brac blows out the lamp, and Deven releases my hand. My fingers twitch at the loss of his comforting touch.

My eyesight adjusts, and I make out the shape of Brac in front of us. The tunnel opens to an enormous underground shaft. Bits of light from the city above filter through slim openings in the high ceiling.

“What is this place?” My voice bounds off the walls and comes back to me.

“The last of the turquoise mines,” Deven replies. “Several passageways lead down here, though they are mostly forgotten. Veins of turquoise run throughout the rock along the banks of the underground river. Many of those veins have since dried up, and the mines have closed.”

Our path turns onto a ledge along the riverbank and up a sheer incline. Something shiny catches my eye. Along the wall, scraggy streaks of robin’s-egg blue gleam through the dirt, the remains of a turquoise vein. We walk uphill long enough to tax my legs, right up to a wooden door. Anything could be on the other side.

“Viraji, once you step through the door, there is no turning back.”

Brac means I cannot go back on our bargain, but I am more concerned about the Razing than I am about what the bhutas have planned. The thought of being bled roils my stomach.

“Kali,” Deven says quietly, “are you certain this is what you want?”

Hesitancy paralyzes me. I am frightened of what I can do without my tonic, but I am also afraid of what will happen if I do not raze. My gaze skips from the door to Deven. “What if Brac is right about me?”

“You needn’t worry about that, Kali.”

“I am worried.” I will not let him dismiss this as an extension of his own squashed feelings for his brother. “This could reveal me to be a bhuta.” He flinches at the word. “You hate them. You cannot ignore that.”

“Certainly he can,” Brac retorts.

Deven hurls a glower at his younger brother and then refocuses on me. “I don’t hate bhutas. War demands allegiance. I had to pick a side, and I chose the empire. That doesn’t mean I stopped caring about the people who matter most to me.”

Brac scowls at his feet.

Deven pauses, reaching for the right words. “I know what it’s like to run from who you are. I tried that when I joined the Brotherhood, but I was meant to be a soldier.”

“Exactly my point,” I say. Concern makes my voice scratchy. “If I’m a bhuta, that would make us—”

“Enemies,” Brac says, confronting Deven with an arched brow. “It isn’t too late to turn back. The viraji can carry on without you.”

Whether in defiance of his brother’s suggestion or in support of me, Deven answers without faltering. “No.” He brushes my cheek with the whisper of a touch. “I am with you.”

I wish that his promise were for always, but he is risking everything to be here tonight. I cannot ask for more. I fasten Deven’s hand to my cheek, soaking in his strength for as long as I have it, and I say to Brac, “I am ready.”

Brac grumbles something indecipherable and opens the door. We step into a stone stairway lit with torches. The corridor leads upward to a cloth draping the exit. Brac lifts another strategically draped tapestry and waves for me to go first. I pass through the hidden archway into a chapel. Elevated ceilings tower above me. Massive painted murals of the gods color the walls with scenes of the Beyond, and a tranquil meditation pool with crystal-blue waters gurgles at the front of the room behind the stone altar. The layout mimics the Samiya chapel so closely that I question if the tunnel took us under the mountain and up to my home.

Brother Shaan rises near the altar, where he was kneeling. He must be the person Brac said that Deven could trust. “Viraji, we have been waiting for you.” Brother Shaan smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re courageous to come here.”

“I’m terrified,” I whisper.

“What is courage without fear?” He greets Deven with a friendly handshake. “Brother Deven, this is a surprise.”

Deven hastily releases his hand. “I could say the same. How long has the Brotherhood been assisting the warlord?”

Brother Shaan deflects the accusation with a gracious smile. “We assist those in need. Bhutas, beggars, and soldiers alike.” He waves me forward. “Come along. They’re waiting.”

We follow the elderly brother from the chapel, down steps to a small chamber laid with cool bricks. A man and a young woman rise from chairs, but the strangers do not hold my attention for long. In the center of the room rests a table covered with a pristine ivory sheet. Near the opposite wall, on a shorter wooden table, I spot a set of gleaming surgical knives.

“We weren’t expecting you, Captain,” says the older man. Sunshine has browned his skin to cracked leather and bleached his hair snowy white around his ears. His jaw has a hard edge, and a formidable intelligence is reflected in his ebony eyes. This is a man I would not wish to meet in other circumstances or cross in any circumstance.

The young woman beside the man considers me with quiet scrutiny. I search my memory for her, but we have not met.

Deven’s hand grips the hilt of his khanda. “Where the viraji goes, I go.”

The man tips his head back and assesses him for several long seconds. “Then you are welcome.”

His invitation to stay does little to relax Deven. He stands ready to draw his sword if the lamplight so much as falls askance on one of the resting daggers.

“Viraji, this is Hastin.” Brother Shaan introduces the warlord with a pleasant, diplomatic smile. He shows the young woman the same courtesy. “And his associate Indira, an Aquifier. She has come to assist with the Razing. If you would please lie down, we will begin.”

“No.” I lock my knees. “First, I must know the terms of our agreement.”

Hastin’s gaze roves over me with explicit interest, equal parts exploratory and calculating. A fractional smile purses his lips, and he picks up the chair Indira vacated and sets it before me. The warlord sits back down in his chair, waiting for me to join him.

I drop into the seat in front of him. Sweat dampens my palms. Whatever Hastin asks of me, I must do. All I have left are prayers—that whatever he requests, the gods will give me the strength to accomplish, and that if the task offends them, they will have mercy on my soul.

“Our agreement is founded upon a single request. You may state your conditions after you agree to our terms.”

“Which are?”

“We require only one thing.” Hastin tips up his chin. “We wish for you to kill the rajah.”

I stare openly at his calm face. He wishes for me to do what?

“I cannot kill Tarek.” I hear my answer and think back to the amphitheater today when I wanted to do just that. But that was a far-off desire. “I’m not an assassin. Hire someone who is trained.”

“We don’t need an assassin. We need you.” Hastin clasps his hands in front of him. “Tarek is almost never alone. He shares his nights with several women at a time and is under constant heavy guard. The only time he is alone with someone is on his—”

“Wedding night,” I whisper.

Hastin nods once. “As the rajah’s final bride, you will be the last person ever alone with him.”

I clutch the seat of my chair. Hastin is truly asking this of me, not one of Tarek’s warrior wives who has proved herself in the arena, not a bhuta who can sneak around the palace—me.

Everything makes sense now. When the bhutas attacked my carriage, Brac let me live so that Hastin could use me. They spared my life so that I would take the rajah’s.

Hard laughter fills my throat. I have not yet won the tournament and secured the throne, but they are so desperate to end this war that they are already asking for my help. Or perhaps I have it wrong. This is not about ending the war. This is about what started it.

“You’re after the Zhaleh.” I throw my arms wide. “Come and find it! Flatten the palace. Burn it. Flood it. Do what you must to take back your book.”

“And risk destroying the Zhaleh?” Hastin asks archly. “We’ve looked for it everywhere. The rajah has hidden it well.”

“Send someone to force it out of him.”

“We cannot wait any longer. The rajah plans to invade the sultanate of Janardan and hunt down bhuta refugees. Janardan’s army is smaller and weaker. Their people grow tired of harboring our families. They will hand them over to avoid war. Rajah Tarek expects us to stand in his way, but he will not anticipate you.” Hastin sits forward, demanding my full attention. “You must win the tournament and wed the rajah.”

His use of “must” tugs my chin sideways. I will not win the tournament for Tarek or for Hastin. But I still need his help in freeing Jaya, so I tread forward carefully. “I suppose you have a plan for how I am to win the tournament.”

“Your powers will secure you the throne.”

Again, he thinks too much of me. They have yet to establish that I am one of them. “Let’s say I agree to your plan,” I say. “If I use my powers in the arena, the whole of Tarachand will see.” I shake my head, having expected more from the warlord. “Tarek will kill me. Nothing will save me, not even the memory of his first wife.”

Pain passes over Hastin’s eyes at the mention of Yasmin, but the raw emotion leaves so promptly that I question if it was there. “Brac can teach you how to employ your powers so no one will know you used them.”

Brac nods his commitment to train me, should we arrive at a bargain.

At this point, I am inclined to walk out of here and never look back. I want to help Jaya, but Hastin is asking me to battle to wed the rajah only to risk my life to kill him. He seems to think that I will do anything to save my friend, but Jaya would never ask this of me. She would tell me to find another way, one that does not depend on the warlord’s word.

Deven rests his hand on my shoulder. His calm, direct voice smooths out my knotted nerves. “What will happen after Rajah Tarek is dead?”

“Prince Ashwin will inherit the throne, and we will insist that he reinstate a bhuta council—Virtue Guards—as in the olden days. Bhutas will hold their rightful place in power and ensure that this catastrophe never happens again.”

Hastin’s plan appears reasonable, but he is leaving something out. I try to think of what it could be, but I am so overwhelmed by what he is asking of me that I cannot grasp what I am missing.

“What about the power hidden in the Zhaleh?” asks Deven. My heart brims over with gratitude for his dependable composure. “The power to unleash the Voider?”

I shiver in the warm room, recalling what Brother Shaan said about the Voider, the demon Kur’s spawn, a half-demon with the power to rip apart the world.

Hastin looks to Brother Shaan, who answers. “The Voider will grant a favor to whomever releases him. His dark powers are often used to accomplish dark motives, even to bring back the dead.” He lowers his voice as though he speaks blasphemy. “We fear the rajah wishes to bring back Yasmin.”

Sorrow crosses Hastin’s face again. He knew Yasmin.

“No one can bring back the dead,” Deven says. “That power is beyond any mortal—half-demon or otherwise.”

“The Voider was born of the Void,” replies Brother Shaan. “Time and space have no boundaries for him. He can retrieve Yasmin from her next life, but only her soul will come. Without a mortal form, she cannot stay here. Her soul must dwell in a body.”

Hastin’s silent stare digs into my skin.

My mouth is stripped of all words.

Me.

Tarek plans to put Yasmin’s soul into my body.

Deven’s hand grips my shoulder, a reassuring force with an unsaid promise. He will not let Tarek use me. I funnel my concentration into Deven’s touch, clinging to his stability, but terror spins me around and around at the prospect of being taken over by another soul, my spirit pushed out of its shell.

“How do we stop the summons?” asks Deven.

“The exact order of the ritual is unknown,” Brother Shaan says. “We were forbidden to transcribe it elsewhere, so we need the Zhaleh to fully understand what would be done. We do know that the rajah has begun gathering what he needs.”

“Bhuta blood,” Hastin inserts, his voice a furious rumble. “The rajah collected drops of blood from the hundreds of bhutas he executed. He waited seventeen years to gather enough, and then he went looking for the last component—a host for Yasmin.”

Nineteen years. Tarek has been preparing for this since Yasmin died. I squeeze my voice out of a taut throat. “What happens to me if Tarek succeeds?”

“Your soul will go on to the Beyond,” says Brother Shaan.

Deven’s hand clutches my shoulder as if his stubborn will can hold me in this life. I barely feel him, hatred for Tarek consuming my senses. Tarek stole my freedom when he claimed me, but that was not enough. He is determined to take everything I have, everything I am, until there is nothing left of me.

Hastin returns to the matter at hand. “Once Tarek starts the ritual, the Void will open and there will be no stopping him. Kalinda will have to end him as soon as she sees the Zhaleh.”

Deven’s charged quiet is like a wind screaming at my back. I do not need to look at him to know his other hand waits on the hilt of his sword, ready to fight our way out of here. But my mind has emptied of my shock enough to allow me to see the path before me more clearly than ever.

Tarek has sacrificed many lives to breathe life back into a single soul. I do not care how dear Yasmin was to him. No one is worth the heartache and bloodshed that he has forced upon his people. But can I do it? Can I end Tarek’s life?

I lift my chin and stare down my nose at the warlord, trying to appear fearless despite my quivering confidence. “If I do this, I want my friend Jaya taken safely out of the city before my battle match. You will hide her, care for her, and protect her for the rest of her days. In addition, you will save the remaining courtesans. None of them are to be drowned or harmed in any way.”

Hastin pinches his lips. “That is asking a lot, Viraji.”

“I ask no more than is necessary for me to commit to your terms,” I answer coolly. “The courtesans and Jaya will be saved, or we have no bargain.”

Hastin’s eyes narrow to the smallest of slits. “You have my word.”

Misgivings about the warlord simmer in my belly, but our bargain is fair. Anchoring myself to a tiny thread of courage, I finish. “Then I will kill the rajah.”

25

Hastin and the Aquifier prepare for the ritual, cleaning the daggers and setting them in a neat row. Deven is speaking with Brother Shaan near the door. I wait on the sheet-covered table, and Brac keeps me company.

“Sorry we don’t have time for you to sweat your powers out in a hut the way I did,” Brac says. He rounds out his apology with a smile. “That was a long day.”

If he means to comfort me, it is not working. “Is this truly necessary? What if you’re wrong about me?”

“First, you know I’m not wrong or you wouldn’t be here. Second, if you would stop worrying about what Deven thinks, you would know that’s true.” I open my mouth to argue that my reservations go far beyond Deven, but Brac goes on. “Third, all Burners must raze when they come into maturity. You have waited longer than usual, so this may hurt more.”

I grimace, and Brac’s smile tenses. “I will see you soon,” he says. “When you’re a true Burner.” He steps away and tells his brother, “You should wait outside with me and Brother Shaan.”

“I’ll stay,” replies Deven. I didn’t ask him to do so, but he will not leave me alone with Hastin. Brother Shaan and Brac exit the room without him and shut the door.

“Viraji, unwrap your sari and lie on your front,” Hastin says.

I turn away to loosen my sari and lie facedown on the table. I try not to think of the meticulous row of daggers, but I can still see the cold, daunting blades shining in the lamplight. I slide an arm up near my head, reaching for Deven. He clasps my shaking hand in his steady one.

“I wouldn’t get too close to her,” warns Hastin.

Deven grips my hand harder. “She won’t hurt me.”

Staring at our linked fingers, I remember the scorch marks on the carriage floor. “Maybe you should stand back.”

Deven lets go but does not step away. Indira unfastens my blouse, exposing my spine. She wipes water down my back and cleans me with a bar of ginger-lavender soap.

Hastin’s spidery shadow creeps across the wall as he speaks from behind me. “Due to the toxins in your blood, this will be painful.”

I press my chin to my shoulder, bracing for the incoming pain. “Where did the tonic come from?” I say.

“The land-goddess did not agree with Anu giving godly abilities to mortals, so she created plants to temper bhuta powers and told the secrets of them to the brethren.”

Someone from the Brotherhood must have sent the formula to Healer Baka. She suspected that I was a bhuta, yet she spent years treating me as though I were sick. My apprehension stretches tighter, and I am uncertain if I am prepared to find out once and for all what is true.

“Once we begin, we cannot stop,” says Hastin. “Understood?”

Deven and I answer together. “Yes.”

Hastin appears in my peripheral vision. “Kalinda, shut your eyes.”

I inhale a steadying breath and follow his instructions.

“How many lights do you see?” Hastin’s deep voice has a grumbly quality, like he has pebbles in his gullet.

“Dozens.”

“These lights are the fire in your soul. Every mortal can see them when they close their eyes. For a Burner, these are your powers suppressed.”

“How many lights should she see?” Deven asks.

“When she has finished the Razing, there should be one perfect light—the essence of her soul-fire. Viraji, pick a light as a focal point.”

I concentrate on a single star in my vision, and my body heats up, as if a cinder has fallen on a bed of dry leaves. Warmth crackles through my muscles. Deven jumps back from the surge of heat, and I am so startled that I let the tiny glow slip from my focus.

“Don’t let go of that light,” Hastin commands. “Hold it like you would an oil lamp.”

I picture myself as he says, cupping the shining star in my palms. The heat of the light buzzes fast, emanating from my skin. Either the room is on fire or I am burning. I cannot decipher which. The flames are around me, on me, inside me.

A sharp pain lances across my back. I scream, and the small light pours out of me, fading away with my trickling blood.

“Good,” says Hastin. “Pick another.”

“How many times must I do this?” I pant.

“Until all but one light is gone. We must rid you of the extra fire. As it is released, the toxins will seep out as well.”

I am less inclined to select another star in my vision, for I know that agony waits, but I hold another precious light in my mind’s eye. A wildfire roars through me, blazing through my veins like they are dry brush. I hold on to the scorching light, although everything within me is shrieking to let go.

Another incision on my back. I clamp my teeth down on a scream. The pain brightens as a sun under my skin flares its singeing rays.

“Stop. Please, stop.” I dig my fingernails into the table. I feel as though I am being dipped in a pool of flames. I cannot do another. I cannot.

“She’s done,” says Deven. “That’s enough.”

“The gate has been opened,” Hastin says. “We cannot stop, or she will smolder to ash.”

Does he not see that I already am smoldering? I open my eyes to sneering shadows. Steam fills the air, blurring light into the dark. Indira swings her hands in circles and sprays a light mist to cool the room, but it vaporizes before it reaches me.

Deven bends over near my face, his brow puckered. Sweat drips off his nose, and his cheeks are red from the heat. “Kali, close your eyes.”

“I cannot.”

Urgency disbands his calm. “You must finish this.”

Tears stream from my eyes, puffing to steam before they roll down my cheeks. My chest scalds so badly that I fear someone has replaced my heart with blazing coals.

“Close your eyes and pick a light.” More calm. More urgency. “You can do this, Kali.”

I do as Deven asks, and the light explodes as I am cut three times at once. I scream, a feral cry, and buck against the table. Agony leashes itself to my spine. Hands lash me down. I have no words, only sobs that rise up from a place of anguish, like a pressure exploding from my center. The stars behind my eyes fly at me. I have no stamina to hide from them. Upsurge after upsurge strikes, each fiery whirlwind accompanied by a quick, deliberate cut on my back. Bleeding quells the firestorm, and the swells of agony shrink to waves, then ripples, until finally, the biting scores diminish from a lancing pain to a sweet release.

My body hums a steady flow of heat, but the intensity is softer, gentler now. A banked fire. A cooling pot of boiling water. A warmth that does not destroy but feeds.

A tender hand strokes my damp face. “Kali, it’s done.”

I pry one eye open and see Deven’s concerned gaze. “Did I hurt you?” I say.

He tucks his hand away, but not before I spot blisters on his palm. His mouth slides up on one side. “To touch you, it was worth it.”

I use the last of my strength to smile; then I close my eyes and drift off beneath the light of a single perfect star.

I cannot say if I am out ten minutes or ten seconds, but when I awake, my back does not burn. Across from me, Indira wraps Deven’s hand. Beside them on the table sits a mound of bloodied towels and an empty water pitcher.

“You did well,” Hastin says from my other side. I turn my head to look at him. He fingers a lock of my hair. “Tarek always had a weakness for women’s hair. Your hair is like midnight, as was Yasmin’s.”

“You knew her?”

“She was close to our previous bhuta leader, Kishan.” He releases my tresses. “He was a Burner, like you.”

“What are you?”

“A Trembler.”

I remember what I have read about Tremblers. Hastin can wield the land as a weapon. Reminded of how dangerous he is, I redirect the conversation back to Yasmin. “How did Yasmin and Kishan meet?”

“Rajah Tarek invited us to Vanhi to discuss reinstating Virtue Guards. Bhutas served on every rajah’s council up until Tarek’s great-grandfather did away with them. We were in talks about joining Tarek’s council when Kishan met Yasmin. He loved her at first sight. Neither I nor anyone else could keep him from her.” Hastin’s gaze drifts inward, remembering. “Before long, Yasmin was with child. Tarek believed she was carrying his heir, but Yasmin knew it was Kishan’s child. They knew she couldn’t hide their child’s paternity once it was born, as the infant would be a bhuta, like its father, so when Yasmin was heavily pregnant, she and Kishan tried to run away. Tarek caught them before they left the palace. He confined Yasmin to her chambers and executed Kishan. Yasmin’s grief over losing Kishan started her labor early, and ultimately, that was the end of her and their infant boy.”

I cannot believe that I have not heard of this scandal. Tarek speaks worshipfully of his first wife. I never would have guessed that Yasmin had betrayed him.

“Kishan had the Zhaleh with him when they were caught. We did not know of his death until Tarek ambushed our peacekeeping party. I was the only one to escape. Tarek held on to the Zhaleh and has hunted our people since.” The warlord’s ebony eyes, two granite pebbles, meet mine. “Yasmin foresaw that Tarek would be the ruin of Tarachand. Tarek wanted to use our powers to expand his empire. He never bore love or respect for bhutas, but Yasmin did.” Hastin holds out a dagger. “This was hers. She would want the person who ends Tarek to have it.”

He lays the dagger near my face; it is a twin to the one Mathura gave me. The turquoise hilt comes into focus, along with the gaps in Tarek’s past. His hatred for bhutas is a motivation I do not know if I can outmatch, but my alliance with Hastin is complete.

I have one more question for the warlord. “I never met my parents. Did you know them?”

Hastin shakes his head, and my hope falls like a foot stamping on my chest. If the brethren and bhutas cannot tell me about my parents, I doubt that I will ever know.

“Regardless of who they are, your parents would be proud of you,” says Hastin. “And you should be proud of your heritage.”

It’s too early to tell how I feel. One or both of my parents passed down their powers to me, a legacy that left an unseen mark but unites me with Hastin, Indira, and Brac. I may not have found my family, but I have found my people.

Brac comes in and flaps a hand in front of his face. “It’s hot in here,” he says. “Viraji, it’s time to go.”

Deven helps me down from the table. “Indira closed your incisions, but you still have shallow scratches. She says they will fade by tomorrow.”

“And your hand?” I ask.

“It will be better by morning.”

I thank Indira, and Deven helps me quickly repin and drape my sari. I strap the second dagger, concealed, to my waist. My back is stiff, and my skin feels stretched thin, but there is little pain. I am simply drained of strength. Deven supports me up the steps to the chapel.

Brother Shaan is speaking with a girl. He turns.

Anjali?

I pull up short, and Anjali bows with a smirk. My gaze bounces from face to face, seeking an explanation for why she is here. Deven is faster at piecing it together.

“Anjali is your informant?” Deven asks his brother.

Brac shrugs. “I could do worse.”

“You have, if I remember correctly.”

Brac slides his brother a knowing look. “We cannot all be with the viraji.”

Deven flushes, and I sling a scowl at Brac to silence him.

Brother Shaan hurries over. “They know the viraji is missing. You must return immediately.”

Deven helps me toward the passageway. Anjali falls into step with us. “So you agreed to my father’s bargain,” she remarks.

My eyebrows jump. Hastin is Anjali’s father? Gods . . . I study her profile for a resemblance to him, but do not find it. Still, there is one commonality they must share. Anjali is also a bhuta, probably a Trembler, like her father.

“I suppose this means I cannot kill you,” Anjali says. She purses her lips in dissatisfaction and strides ahead to Brac.

I glower after her. “Mathura said Tarek picked up Anjali off the street. How could Anjali have planned that?”

“Her father must have encouraged her to charm the rajah.” Deven shakes his head. “I should have suspected she was involved. Tarek doesn’t take in many beggars.”

Hastin’s dedication alarms me straight through, chipping into my confidence about our agreement. He has been exploiting his daughter as bait to infiltrate the palace. The warlord has no limit to how far he will go to dethrone Tarek.

“Why doesn’t Hastin ask Anjali to kill the rajah?” I ask.

“The rajah isn’t interested in using Anjali as Yasmin’s host,” Deven says. “Anjali could try to win the tournament and wed the rajah, but unless Tarek reveals the book, it wouldn’t matter how close she got to him.”

Of course. Killing the rajah is not Hastin’s chief concern; it is retrieving the Zhaleh. He presumes Tarek will reveal the book after he weds me. I shudder, my insides freezing with fright. I will worry about marrying the rajah after I secure the throne.

Deven and I step into the underground passage after Anjali and Brac. We return to the palace in good time, but Brac passes the chapel entry and continues onward. The path changes from dirt ground to stone stairs, challenging my quaking legs.

Anjali pauses at another door. “Captain, you and Brac find another way in. The viraji and I will enter here. If anyone asks, she slipped away from you. Meet up with us in the Tigress Pavilion in five minutes.”

I doubt that Anjali would have brought us this far only to betray us, but Deven hesitates. He subtly brushes his hand across the daggers hidden at my back, reminding me that I am armed, should Anjali prove to be untrustworthy. I try to hearten him with a short smile as I follow Anjali through the door.

We emerge into the south portico of the Tigress Pavilion. Anjali hustles across the open dark patio to the wall of weapons.

“Arm yourself,” she says. “Whoever finds us needs to believe we have been sparring.” I draw Yasmin’s daggers in time to dodge the khanda Anjali brings down next to my face. She grins. “Don’t look so frightened. If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead already.”

“I thought you put a viper in my bed.”

“That would be Lakia.” Anjali rotates, and our blades meet. “You’re surprised?”

“Yes.” My arms nearly buckle under Anjali’s might. Even if I were not weakened, she is stronger, faster, and more experienced. “Lakia wants the tournaments to end.”

“Not more than she values her rank. She thinks you will steal it.” Anjali kicks me in the thigh. I stagger to the wall and brace against it, recovering my breath.

“But Lakia and I are not scheduled to battle each other.”

“As it turns out, no one is. Someone planted scorpions in the rooms of Lakia’s challengers tonight. Two fell with fever. One will lose her toe where she was stung. The other lost her whole hand.” Anjali lunges at me, her braid whipping behind her. I block her with both daggers, one on each side of the sword, and hold her off. “After the injured ranis were found, Lakia ordered a bed check and found that you were missing.”

“But you said Lakia planted the scorpions.”

“No one will report her if she did.” Anjali pushes closer to our locked blades. “I heard what you said about my father. You’re wrong about him. I volunteered to come here.”

I drag the blades down, metal screeching, and back away. “You heard that?” Deven and I were whispering, and she was far in front of us.

“I hear everything the wind tells me.”

My mouth opens in surprise. I had thought that Anjali was a Trembler, but Galers hear the secrets of the wind. Hastin is cleverer than I supposed. His daughter’s powers make her the ideal informant to position in the palace.

Anjali tilts her ear into the breeze. “Someone’s coming.”

Though I hear nothing, she swings her sword. I barely block it in time. She jabs at me again, and a deep voice calls from the dark.

“Found her.”

I lower my daggers to see one of the kindred’s imperial guards in the shadows, still and expressionless.

Lakia stalks in after him and eyes our weapons. “What are you doing in the wives’ wing, Anjali?” I could never imitate the kindred’s imperious poise; she has mastered it over many years.

“Sparring.” Anjali twirls her sword with a swaggering smile. “Kalinda invited me.”

“The rajah would be very put out if you killed his viraji when no one was watching.” Lakia’s tone borders on contemptuous. “Go back to the courtesans’ wing, where you belong.”

Anjali replaces her weapon on the rack and shoots me a smirk. “See you in the arena.”

Lakia paces toward me. “That’s a unique pair of daggers.” She lifts my arm to hold one up to the moonlight. I compose my features, refusing to shy away. Her guard watches from behind her, though I doubt that he will step in to defend me. “Where did you get them?”

“They were a gift.”

“They were Yasmin’s.” Lakia’s gaze narrows. “I have not seen them since my sister tried to run away.”

“You were there?”

“I warned Tarek of Yasmin’s treachery. She was running off with his heir.”

I wrench my arm from her grasp. “You betrayed your sister.”

Lakia reaches down her side, over the bulge of a hidden knife. “No one is loyal to their sisters here.”

“What reason do they have, with you as their leader, sabotaging them from within?”

Lakia hisses like the asp she planted in my bed. I see a flash of silver by her thigh and sink into my fighting stance. She raises her knife to my throat. I tighten down on the daggers in my hands, but they might as well be empty. She could drive her blade into my jugular before I could lift them.

Her dark eyes flatten to pools of endless nothing. “I will sleep better knowing you are dead.”

“Kindred, you found her.”

Lakia looks at Deven entering the patio. He and her guard rest their hands on the hilts of their swords. A game of intimidation. Lakia sneers and lowers her knife. I keep mine firm in my grip and start toward Deven on tottery legs.

Lakia blocks me. “I will find out what you were doing tonight. There are no secrets here.”

It takes all of my self-control to harness my fear. I level her with a chilly stare and then skirt around her, calling back over my shoulder, “The palace may have a shortage of sisterhood, but it has an endless supply of secrets.”

26

Manas turns rigid when he sees Deven and me approach him outside my chamber door.

“I thought you were off duty,” I say.

“I thought you were in the chapel,” Manas rejoins.

“Soldier,” Deven warns, “may I remind you that this is the viraji?”

Manas faces his commander. “No, sir. Do you need to be reminded?”

A vein in Deven’s forehead bulges. “You’re excused from your post until further notice.”

Manas recoils with a hurt expression. He must be confused by his captain’s behavior. I rise to his aid. “Captain, he is only concerned—”

“Viraji,” Manas says sharply, and then he bows and marches away.

“Good gods, he’s mad,” I say, watching him turn the corner. Deven and I go inside my chamber, my head pulsing with every footstep.

“That imperial guard uniform has gone to his head.” Deven sighs at his own aggravation. “Manas is tired. I’ve been overworking him.”

“Do you think he knows we left the palace?”

“I doubt it, but we have to be more careful. Manas owes everything to the rajah. He will not stay silent if he believes we have wronged him.” Deven helps me lie down on my bed and rearranges the pillows behind me. The linens smell of sunshine and lavender. “This arrangement is for the best. Manas can get the rest he needs, and I will reassign Yatin to guard Natesa in the courtesans’ wing. While they are gone, I will look for the book.”

My gaze swings to him. “You’re going to look for the Zhaleh?”

He takes off his turban and lies down facing me. “Once I find it, we can negotiate for Hastin to help you leave the city.”

Leave Vanhi? That would mean no battle match, no wedding, no risk of the Voider being released . . . I stop before my hopes rise too high. “How will you do in two days what Hastin hasn’t done in nineteen years?”

“I have greater motivation than Hastin.” Deven takes my hand in his. “I want to be with you, Kali. Ever since I saw you eavesdropping in the temple, I’ve wanted you for myself.”

His deep voice eases through me like a sweet ache. This is everything I have wanted to hear. “But earlier tonight, you said—”

“I was trying to do what I thought was best. Everything has changed now. You are”—I cringe inwardly, waiting for him to say a demon, evil, a dirty bhuta—“remarkable. I will never meet anyone like you.”

“You don’t mind that I’m a Burner?”

Deven looks down at my hand, inspecting every line and curve of my palm. The low lamplight brushes the side of his face, warming it with a golden shadow. “I have known Brac is a bhuta all my life. I thought I was saving him pain by not acknowledging who he is, but when he needed me most, I turned my back on him. I won’t make the same mistake with you.” He lifts my hand to his cheek. “You would be a fine rani, but you have another choice. I want to leave together. We can go back up the Alpanas and hide. We can make our own fates.”

A tepid breeze carries in from the balcony, ushering with it the hushed rustle of palm fronds. I lean in closer to him. “Of course, Jaya would come too,” he adds.

My smile blooms. He knows that I would not go without Jaya, but there are others to think of. “What about your mother and the rest of the courtesans?”

Deven kisses my fingertips, and my heartbeat quickens. “The bhutas will free them once we find the book. By then, we will be on our way.” He presses his lips to a tender spot on my palm, and my mind turns fuzzy. “I will build us a modest cottage with a prayer alcove. Outside, we will have a meditation pond—”

“And a garden for Jaya to grow flowers.”

Deven smiles and kisses my pulse hammering at my wrist. “We will have fields and fields of greenery for our sheep, and a watering hole to swim in. I will build a fire every night for you to sketch by, and we will decorate the walls with your art. When we go out at night, we will look for the Samiya beacon in the distance.”

He has drawn a better image with his words than I could sketch. I can see Jaya trimming her flowers and Deven watching over our sheep. I can imagine warm meals by the fire and the Alpanas standing guard over us, keeping everyone else out and our peace in. I am tempted to escape into the life he has built, a promise of happiness waiting for us to jump into. I could leave here and never look back, but I do not know that Deven could.

I brush my fingers through his soft hair. “You would give up being a soldier? It’s your fate.”

“It is one fate. Being a guard for the empire is an honorable destiny, but more honorable would be to share my life with you. During the Razing, I almost lost you . . .” His voice clogs. “I cannot . . . I cannot let you go.”

I turn over his bandaged hand, still healing where I burned him. Holding on to me has already caused him injury. Would it be right to let him leave his family, his career, his identity as a soldier?

My hands wander to his face and stroke his jaw. “I don’t know, Deven. If the gods brought us here, shouldn’t we obey?” I fear his answer, but I cannot make him any promises until I know without a doubt that this is what he feels is right. Healer Baka used to say that there is no higher peace of mind than doing what the gods would have us do. I have never been certain enough of what the gods want to let that stand in my way, but Deven has. I will not rob him of that surety.

He rests the length of his body against mine and pulls me to him. “Obedience may be the greatest virtue, but the gods do not expect us to sacrifice what makes us happy, and nothing makes me happier than you.”

I rest my forehead against his.

“Leave this place with me, Kali.” His whispered offer lights up the deepest trenches of my soul. This is what I have wanted, for Deven to take me by the hand and lead me into the labyrinth of his heart. We could have our dream of peace and family. But this hope is too precious, too vivid to look at straight on.

“I . . .”

I want this. Need this. Cannot have this.

Deven cups my chin and lifts my gaze to his. “Will you come with me?”

Staring into his unguarded eyes, I stand with my tiptoes hanging over the brilliant abyss and let myself fall. “Yes.”

Deven touches his lips to mine and draws me deeper into his arms. He kisses me slowly and then urgently. He kisses me with his hands on me and my hands on him. He kisses me until my lips and heart ache for dawn to never come.

Despite my pleading, the sun makes its daily debut, in a rust-streaked sky. Daybreak’s first rays brighten my chamber to a dusky hue. I cuddle into Deven’s side and glide my hand up his jaw.

“Don’t leave,” I whisper.

He kisses my palm. “I have to search for the Zhaleh.”

“I wish I could stay with you instead of going to the tournament.”

“I’m sorry I won’t be there.” He smooths back my hair. “But you have to go. You have to play the role of the viraji, Kali. The rajah has to believe you’re his champion.”

I would rather be myself, but I can only be that person with Deven. He stands, leaving coldness on his side of my bed. I sit up to kiss him. “When will I see you?”

“Soon,” he promises against my lips. He pulls on his jacket and goes to the door. He sends me a smile that lays a blanket of contentment over me, and then he leaves.

I settle into my bed on a thick exhalation. I feel different, and not only from spending the night in Deven’s arms. My bones do not ache, and my head is clear. I reach over my shoulder and feel for abrasions, but they are gone as well. I close my eyes, and a single star burns, a guiding light in a black velvet sky. I finally feel how I had hoped I would every time Healer Baka persuaded me to try a new treatment—healthy, whole, and strong. If my first day of being a full-fledged bhuta is any indication of what is to come, this may not be as terrible as I thought.

Asha comes in with my breakfast tray. I stretch out on the other side of the bed to give the appearance that I slept there. “Good morning, Viraji.” Asha sets the tray on the table and pauses to look at me.

“Yes?” I ask.

She frowns to herself. “You have a glow about you.”

“I had a good dream,” I reply, smiling.

“Hmm,” Asha says as she busies herself tidying the chamber.

I get up and pull on my robe. A flicker of movement draws my gaze to the balcony. Brac’s face fills with a broad grin. Asha tugs down my bedspread, her back to the wide balcony, and I sneak over to Brac. I shove him behind the same drapery Deven and I hid inside, and I follow behind.

Brac’s eyes sparkle. “Been here before?”

My face warms. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for your lesson.”

“It will have to wait,” I whisper. “I must leave for the tournament soon.”

He stays close enough to almost touch. His skin smells of soap, and his copper hair is slightly damp, darkened to burnt amber. “I will be brief. We can practice on your servant.”

“No! You aren’t using Asha.”

“I won’t hurt her. I used to practice on Deven all the time.”

I squint at him. “He let you do that?”

Brac shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t think to ask. You have to learn to use your powers. You cannot let them go to waste.” He slips out of the drapery before I can stop him and creeps up behind Asha. I observe from behind the curtain, afraid to move and draw her attention. Brac places his hands on both of her arms. Half a breath later, she falls forward onto the bed.

“You dolt! What did you do?” I hurry over to Asha, who is slumped on her side.

“I parched her, like I did to the courtesan in the carriage.” Brac bends over her. By all appearances, she is asleep. “See? Still breathing. Parching doesn’t hurt, and so long as she doesn’t see me, she won’t remember. She will stir soon, and then you can try.”

“I won’t—”

Asha’s eyelashes flutter. Brac puts his hands on her again, and she collapses, facedown.

“There. She will be out a little longer.” He repositions Asha’s head so that she can breathe. “When she starts to wake, put your hands on her skin. Every mortal has a fire within, the essence of who we are. Feel for that soul-fire and draw it out.”

“I have no idea what you just said!”

“Feel for mine.” He places my hand in his. “Do you sense the heat? Some say soul-fire is a buzz or a tickle.”

I concentrate on the warmth rising off him, and my skin tingles. “I think so.”

Asha groans. Brac moves my hand to her arm. “Go on. Pull her soul-fire in.”

I reach for Asha’s inner fire and locate a well of buzzing warmth. Wrapping my mind around it, I draw it in, and an intense glow fills my mind’s eye.

The light is too big, too immense. Unable to hold my inner fire back, I push it at her.

Brac yanks my hand off Asha, and dizziness washes over me. He catches me from reeling. “You pushed instead of pulled. Good thing I was here, or you would have scorched her.” He checks Asha’s breathing. “She’s all right.”

I lean against the bedpost and wait out the white dots zipping around my vision. “Scorched her?”

“What I did to your coachman,” Brac replies with a grim, set look.

“Oh,” I say. He means Jeevan. I would be angry, but Brac and I were enemies then. I look at Asha, picturing her as a pile of dust, and what he said strikes me harder. “I nearly killed her?”

“I wouldn’t have let you. I know that it’s challenging to contain your fire, but this is a skill you must master. A good Burner never reveals his powers. He will—”

“He?”

“She will parch her opponent, weakening them by drawing out their soul-fire, and then she will end the battle without anyone knowing what she did.”

Devious, but also ingenious. I can weaken my opponents and finish them in a way that no one could trace back the victory to my powers. But there is a flaw. “What if my opponent is armed? How do I get close enough to touch their skin?”

“That’s up to you. I’m only here to teach you Burner skills.” Brac runs a hand through his damp hair, preoccupied with his duty. “There’s more. You can burn low if you aren’t careful. Fire takes fuel, and so do we. Eating helps you restock your powers. Regardless, you could use more meals.” He pinches my skinny arm. I tug away from him and his quick grin. “You can also burn too high if you take in a lot of inner fire from others. To get rid of the excess soul-fire, you need to expel it in waves. You know how heat ripples off fire? You cannot see it, but when you get too close, it singes. That’s a heatwave. We will need somewhere safer to practice that . . . somewhere with less cloth. And people.” Brac looks down at Asha and starts to lift her veil. “I wonder if she’s pretty under there.”

I smack away his hand. “Help me with her.” We lift Asha to lie more comfortably on my bed and stand back. “She looks peaceful.”

“She’s going to wake with a horrible headache.”

I look at Brac sidelong. For all of his lightheartedness, it must have been painful to leave his family and join the bhutas. “Who taught you to use your powers?”

“No one. Burners are the rarest bhutas and the most destructive, so naturally the rajah sought to annihilate us first. My mother knew what I was and hid it. Everyone thought I was feverish, but when I got older, Hastin found me. He was looking for bhutas in hiding and recognized my symptoms. He helped me raze. After that, I read about the fundamentals of Burner abilities in Kishan’s private journals. The rest was trial and error.”

Noise travels up from the courtyard, where people gather for the procession to the amphitheater. Brac peeks out the balcony. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”

I groan. He knows full well that I have to get to the tournament. “No wonder Deven didn’t miss you.”

“He didn’t?” Brac slants his eyebrows together, affronted.

“He did, but he blamed himself for your death, so give him time.”

Brac starts to the balcony. “Where is my elder brother now?”

“Looking for the book.”

“The Zhaleh?” Brac stops midstride and leans heavily against the wall. “That’s a different Deven than I know.”

“Will you help him?” I do not add that more is at stake than my bargain with Hastin. Deven can decide whether or not to tell his brother about our plan to leave Vanhi.

“You’re more likely to milk a scorpion than find the book. I have looked for it everywhere.”

“Please keep trying. And, Brac?” I tuck my robe tighter around me. “Jaya has been listening in on Gautam’s conversations with Tarek. She may have learned where to find the book.”

He shakes his head. “You should not have included your friend, but since she’s already involved, we will pay her a visit. You should practice parching today.”

“At the tournament?”

“The key is stealth. If you can parch someone there without others noticing, you can parch anywhere.”

After what I did to Asha, I am hesitant to use my newfound talents, but if Deven cannot find the Zhaleh, I will have a greater chance of winning my battle match with my powers. Still, I am afraid to test my Burner abilities and risk revealing them or, worse, accidentally scorching someone to cinders. I glance at Asha’s motionless form and pray harder that Deven succeeds.

27

Rajah Tarek meets me in the main entryway. “Morning, love.” He kisses my cheek and then slants back and frowns. “You look tired.”

I look like me. This is the least done-up that I have been since I arrived. Asha woke just before I left. She was baffled about falling asleep and apologized over and over for her laziness. She did not remember being parched. I felt so guilty about letting her think that she had shirked her duties that I ran out the door before she could fix me up properly.

“I woke early to train.”

Tarek clucks his tongue. “You should not stress yourself. You’re my champion. I have every faith in you.” He places a firm hand on the small of my back and steers me outside.

A line of elephants waits in the busy courtyard. I climb up to the howdah on the first elephant and notice the rubies I tore off have been replaced with more.

Tarek notes their reappearance as well. “Ah, they recovered my jewels.”

I force myself not to react. His soldiers recovered them. They are not new rubies; they are the same ones I threw to the crowd. Regret grates at me. I do not want to think about how many people the soldiers must have harassed to get back those precious stones, but I do know that Tarek retrieved them as a warning for me not to go against him again.

The procession is every bit as elaborate as yesterday. More people pack the roadway, all of them cheering and waving, and I realize that Brac has asked the impossible. I cannot practice parching with so many eyes on me. Though, if I could, I would test my abilities on Tarek.

He rests a hand on my knee and leaves it there during our travel. I peek at it intermittently, expecting his hand to slither up my leg, but we reach the amphitheater without a single one of his fingers stirring. I suspect that he used to sit with Yasmin this way. I abhor his nearness all the more.

Tarek, Lakia, and I go to the imperial box overlooking the arena. The events start with Fareeshah’s match; she is the courtesan who asked about my health during the declaration ceremony. She is to battle Manju, a courtesan in her late twenties. All four gongs chime, sending a tremor down my back.

Fareeshah attacks first. Feral in her movements, she stalks Manju like a wildcat on the hunt. I fear for the older courtesan, waiting for Fareeshah to spring with her sharp daggers. Fareeshah prowls closer and closer to Manju. Inevitably, Fareeshah attacks and Manju falls, struck down by the swiftness and accuracy of Fareeshah’s blades. Fareeshah raises her knives to the crowd, soaked in her opponent’s blood.

Tarek cheers with the crowd, and my stomach gurgles in repulsion. Fareeshah must still win the victors’ match before she secures a position battling me. Although it is callous, I wish for her to lose so that I never have to confront her in the arena.

The tournament continues with the second duel, another gory, cringe-inducing sight. For most of the morning, there is no safe place to rest my gaze. I cannot watch the challengers battling, nor can I look down at the courtesans in the terrace without thinking of Tarek drowning them, and I cannot look at Tarek without wondering if he is aware that at this very moment his stronghold is being searched.

I hate that Deven is combing the palace without me, but as soon as he finds the Zhaleh, we can use Hastin’s help to get away. Once I leave, the rest of my challengers will have no one to fight for the throne. I do not anticipate that Hastin will let Tarek live long enough to claim another final viraji, and so the tournament will be over. All I must do is my part. I must stay here and play the role Tarek has given me.

During a midday meal of roasted lamb, which I pass over so as not to gag, a messenger enters the imperial box. I follow him out of the corner of my eye, watching him whisper in the rajah’s ear. Tarek looks at me and then back at the messenger. My worries vault. Something could have happened to Jaya or Deven.

The messenger leaves, and Tarek returns to his roasted lamb, cutting it into precise bite-size chunks. He is playing coy. I hate to feed into his strategy to draw me in, but I cannot sit here any longer without knowing what is happening at the palace.

“Your Majesty, have you received unpleasant news?”

“Why would you say that?” He pops a piece of lamb into his mouth and studies me.

“A message is often urgent,” I say, trying to act offhanded.

Tarek pats his knee and smiles. “Join me, and I will tell you.”

I am in no position to deny my ruler. I go to him, and he pulls me into his lap. He smells of warm eucalyptus oil and the spices on the meat. Lakia curls her lip at us and turns away with her plate of food.

“How would you like to have supper with me tonight?” Tarek plays with my hair, wrapping the ends around his wrist.

I compel myself to relax in his arms. “Supper?”

“General Gautam and his new wife have agreed to dine with us.”

“That’s very thoughtful, Your Majesty.” I will not pass up the opportunity to see Jaya, but if the message were about supper, why would Tarek be reticent to tell me?

He brushes aside my hair and kisses me behind my ear. “After they leave, you and I can be alone.” I lower my gaze to conceal my wrinkled nose. Tarek tips up my chin, and I startle at his cold eyes. “You would not deceive me, would you, love?”

“N—no, Your Majesty.”

Still glaring, he presses his lips to mine and works them like he did the piece of meat. His rough kiss brands me as much as a number on my hand. I hold my breath, my stomach cramping with disgust. Tarek finally stops and rests his forehead against mine. Hours ago, Deven did the same, only I wanted him to touch me.

“We will be together soon, love,” Tarek whispers, twirling my hair.

His forced intimacy suffocates me. He is not speaking to me, but to Yasmin. I am merely a vessel for the woman he desires. The pampered smell of his oiled skin and the stink of chewed meat on his breath curdle my insides. I have to get away.

I stand, and pain shoots across my scalp. My hair is still wrapped around Tarek’s wrist. He yanks on it like he would a rope, and I fall to my knees before him. The servants and guards in the imperial box quiet. Lakia swivels back to watch us.

“You smell different today.” Tarek lifts my hair to his nose. Does he detect Deven’s scent on me? “Is that new soap?” he says.

He means the ginger-lavender soap the Aquifier used to wash my back. “Y—yes, Your Majesty. Do you like it?”

“Very much.” Tarek releases my hair, his expression distrustful. “Yasmin favored the same scent.”

I try for a flattered smile at the morbid coincidence and return to my chair. For the remainder of the meal, I steal glances at the rajah, but he ignores my attention. His disinterest unsettles me almost as much as my suspicion that the message his servant delivered was not about supper.

The victors’ match takes place in the suffocating heat of late afternoon. By the time Fareeshah slays her last challenger and secures a finalist position, my nerves are scored down to bone. Tarek has warmed to me again, but he is preoccupied. We leave the amphitheater, and I realize that he has not had a single drink today.

The return procession goes on forever. I expect to break away from Tarek when we enter the palace gates, but he holds my hand, and we descend the rolling stairway pushed up to the elephant’s side together. In the courtyard, he does not let go.

“Supper will be served soon,” he says.

“Do I have time to change?” I pretend to be crestfallen. I have to get away from him long enough to see Deven and hear how the search went.

Tarek smiles wide. “I will escort you to your chamber and wait for you.”

His proximity stifles the air, like walls closing in around me. He hovers near my side during the long walk to my chamber, his guards behind us. No one stands guard outside my door. I pray that Deven is not visible within.

Asha greets us with a low bow. “Your Majesty. Viraji.”

My gaze darts around my chamber, and I relax a fraction. Deven is not here. “Asha, I need to change for supper. Would you bring me the jade sari, please?”

Asha hastens to find the garment, and Tarek’s guards take up their posts near the door. I step behind the dressing screen and exhale slowly. I breathe more easily without Tarek’s insufferable nearness, but he is still too close. I can hear him wandering my room.

Asha brings me the sari. From her troubled eyes, I sense something is amiss. “What is it?” I whisper.

“Captain Naik has been imprisoned.”

My blood runs to ice. “What for?”

“I don’t know, but he is in the dungeons.”

Fearful tears spring from my cold regret. Whatever the reason he has been detained, it must trace back to me.

“Are you dressed?” Tarek asks. “We don’t want to leave our guests waiting.”

“Almost,” I squeeze out.

Asha drapes the pleated sari over my shoulder and dries my eyes with her sleeve. “Hide your pain,” she whispers. “The rajah laughed when the kindred threw hot oil on my face for bringing her supper late. He cares nothing for your tears.” She tucks the tail end of the sari into my front waistline. “Hurry.”

My heart aches for Asha, but I drive away the fear making my hands shake. Play the role. Be the viraji. I gather every tattered scrap of courage I possess and step out.

Tarek’s gaze devours me. He steps forward and fixes the kohl around my eyes, where a tear must have smudged the color. “Has something upset you, love?” His concern borders on mocking.

He knows that I know about Deven.

I am tempted to touch him and push, push, push all my fire into him until he is nothing more than a heap of dust. I am confident I have enough hatred stockpiled to hurt him, but could I do away with him? Even if I were able to scorch him and evade his guards, I cannot risk trying until I know what he has done to Deven.

I fix him with a taut smile. “Not at all.”

One side of the rajah’s mouth curls up, and he leads me by the arm to a secluded atrium in the wives’ wing. The atrium is enclosed by high walls and lush greenery. The intimate garden is scented with hibiscus and shaded from the setting sun by blooming magnolia trees. The second I step inside, my inner fire shrinks. Though the desert night could not be warmer, dread chills me.

My Burner abilities are gone.

I went so long without my powers that I immediately recognize the sensation. Does Tarek know? He could have brought me here to disarm me, but he sat beside me all day without any indication that he knows what I am.

I do not think about it long, for I see Gautam and Jaya. I restrain a gasp. My friend’s face is bruised more than before, and her lip is split. The scar across her cheek has been reopened, cut in a precise, purposeful line. I wrap her in my arms.

“What has he done to you?”

“The rajah knows,” she whispers back.

My windpipe seals shut. Knows what? That I am a Burner? About Deven and me? That we are after the Zhaleh? That I am aiding the bhuta warlord? I have so many secrets that I do not know which to prepare a defense for.

Tarek invites us to the table. He and I kneel on floor cushions beside each other, and Gautam and Jaya sit across from us. The table is set with elegant plating and silverware, including carving knives, golden chalices, and satin linens. A platter of bread and honey has been set out as an appetizer. I touch none of it.

Jaya tucks her arms and legs close to her body, like an insect curling in on itself. I wish that we could link hands under the table like we did in Samiya. I could gut Gautam for what he did to her. The cut on Jaya’s cheek had healed, but now it will leave an ugly scar.

A servant offers wine to the rajah. He waves her away and selects a portion of cheese that he lays on my plate. “Good matches today, wouldn’t you say, General?”

“A headache forced me to miss most of the morning,” replies Gautam.

I resist the urge to look at Jaya. I want to praise her slyness for poisoning her husband, but for all I know, he caught her and repaid her with new injuries.

“I did see the victors’ match. That courtesan of yours, Fareeshah, is a master with the blade. The viraji will have to dirty her hands with a sword. A slingshot will not hold up in the arena.”

“Why don’t I use my fists—like a man?” I ask, with a pointed look at Jaya’s split lip.

Tarek strokes my arm to shush me. “See her spirit? My viraji is eager to battle. Now, Jaya”—my friend shrinks under the rajah’s full attention—“how are you enjoying your stay?”

“Very well, Your Majesty. Your gardens are lovely.”

“You should tour more of the grounds, see my execution yard.”

“I’m certain there are lovelier places for her to visit,” I say, laughing lightly.

“Are there?” Tarek’s question is meant to set me on edge. I want to parch him unconscious for threatening my friend. When will he tell me he has imprisoned Deven? What is he waiting for?

Chuckling to himself, Tarek inclines toward me. “Glare any harder and you will peel off my skin. Relax and enjoy the evening.”

I could no more relax there than in a den of wolves.

Servants set out a roast goose. Above us, the fire-washed sky cools to inky azure, and Tarek and the general discuss the tournament further. Jaya curls her hand around her supper knife and picks at her food. I try to catch her eye, but she will not look at me.

At the end of our tedious meal, Tarek wipes his mouth clean on a napkin and smiles. “I have arranged for entertainment.”

Jaya’s gaze jumps to mine. I know that look of fright. The last time I saw it, we were outside the temple when an avalanche started and she told me to run inside. But I have no time to run now. The avalanche has struck.

Into the atrium walk several imperial guards. Terror drives icy spikes into my bones. Between the guards, shackled in irons, is Deven.

28

Chains lock Deven’s wrists behind his back. His uniform jacket is missing, and his undershirt torn. His face is beaten nearly beyond recognition. The lips that kissed me this morning are swollen and bleeding. Yet Deven stands with his chin high and his gaze forward.

Behind him, floating on a cloud of arrogance, walks Lakia. The kindred is followed closely by . . .

Gods, no. Manas.

“Captain Naik, this isn’t one of your better looks,” says the rajah. Gautam chuckles, and I cut him a sharp look. That is your son. “I heard you were poking about the palace grounds. Find anything of interest?”

Deven stares straight ahead.

Gautam answers for him. “We caught the captain associating with a Burner.”

Panic drives a battering ram through me. Brac must have been captured as well.

“You wouldn’t be aiding the bhuta rebels, would you, Captain?” Tarek asks. “Not my most loyal of soldiers who roped me to a boulder when a Galer attacked. Not the man I trusted with my life and the viraji’s life.”

“I should have let you die,” Deven says, meeting the rajah’s gaze.

Tarek barks a sardonic laugh. “You will beg my forgiveness for that when you’re being crushed under a pile of rocks.” He clasps a hand on my shoulder. “The viraji will do the honor of casting the first stone.”

My heart dives to my knees. I would never stone Deven.

“The viraji is as guilty as the captain.” Lakia lifts a book in her hands. “This was in her bedchamber.” She lays Bhuta Origins before the rajah.

“That belongs to me,” Deven answers. “I hid it in the viraji’s chamber, on the bookshelf by the door.”

Tarek arches a questioning brow at Lakia, and she nods begrudgingly. That is where she found the book.

“You were hiding it for your bhuta accomplice?” Tarek prompts Deven.

“Yes, Your Majesty. The viraji did not know it was there.”

I cannot bear to listen. Why are you doing this? my eyes shout at Deven.

His gaze pushes back his answer. I have come to read his thoughts as well as Jaya’s, and I see his request clearly.

Save yourself.

He does not want me to put up a fuss. I am to let them drag him away, innocent in all except that he wished to be with me.

“Captain,” Tarek says, “for conspiring against the throne, you are hereby stripped of your military command and sentenced to death.” Tarek pours himself a chalice of wine in celebration, grinning like a lynx with a sable in its jaws. “Your execution is set for dawn.”

Deven licks his bloodied lip and says nothing, his gaze so far off that he could be across the desert.

Tarek watches me, waiting for a reaction. My instincts scream at me to scorch him to a pile of ash, but I still have no powers.

Tarek dismisses his soldiers with a wave, and they lead Deven away. My gaze claws at Deven, begging him to look at me, but he does not glance back.

“Rajah Tarek, thank you for the meal.” Gautam blots his greasy lips with a cloth. “Will you attend the captain’s execution?”

“The viraji and I will be there.” Tarek’s smile twists his ruthlessness deeper into my back. “And, General, I expect you will control your wife. One more slipup and she’s gone.”

Gautam bows his head. “I apologize again, Your Majesty.”

Jaya lowers her watery eyes. What happened? Was she caught with Deven and Brac? Is that why she cannot look at me? Was it her fault?

The general hauls Jaya up by the arm. They leave, and I notice her supper knife is missing. I last saw it in her hand. Admiration for her courage surges through me. Great Anu, protect her.

Lakia stays, Manas flanking her. He must have been involved in Deven’s capture. Deven warned me that Manas would report on him, but I did not want to believe that the empire would mean more to him than their friendship.

“Manas,” says Tarek, “your loyalty is commendable. I will arrange for you to visit the courtesans’ wing as thanks on my behalf.”

Manas bows in appreciation. I look away, sickened by him.

“Tarek,” Lakia says, her expression steaming, “what will the viraji’s punishment be? Manas reported she spent last night with the cap—”

“I will do nothing.” Tarek lowers his voice to a concise snap. “She is my champion. She will defend the throne in two days, and I will see her unharmed when she does.”

“You would wed someone who is unfaithful?” Lakia asks, eyes wide.

“I would wed her immediately if it would not enrage the gods. The tournament was instituted by Anu, and like his son, Enlil, my viraji will be champion.” Tarek takes me by the arm and drags me from the pavilion, his guards following.

I try to rip away, but he holds me fast. “You try my patience, love,” he says. “Two dozen women are willing to die for your throne, and you jeopardize it for a nothing soldier.”

“I never made any pretenses about wanting you,” I say, breathless from his swift pace. “I was never asked what I wanted at all.”

“I do not care for your pretenses or your wishes. I am the rajah. I am your intended. You will obey.”

Something fires through me, hot and fierce. My powers are back. But before I can use them, he tosses me through the doorway to my chamber. I find my balance and do not fall.

“Be grateful I fear the wrath of the gods,” he says, “or I would call off the tournament and wed you tonight.”

I clutch the front of my sari. No threat has terrified me more.

“Do not let her leave,” Tarek commands his guards. “Watch the door and balcony. Kill anyone who tries to get in. She stays here until I return.”

I slam the door shut and press my hands over my eyes. Deven. I picture him bruised and bloody in shackles. He has given up, but I will not. I cannot let Tarek execute him.

“How was supper?”

I drop my hands and see Brac step out from behind the balcony drapery. “Brac,” I breathe. “I thought you were imprisoned.”

He smiles. “I’m hard to catch.” A khanda hangs against his back, and an ax is slung on each hip. He looks intimidating, like the first time we met. “I’ve been waiting for you since you left for supper.”

I glance at the door, expecting guards to burst through any moment, and speak in a low voice. “What happened? How did Deven get caught?”

“We visited Jaya, and then Deven suggested we all go to Yasmin’s tomb. He thought since the rajah’s trying to bring Yasmin back, he would hide the book somewhere close to her. He said that’s what he would do if he were Tarek.”

My chest pangs at Deven’s thoughtful observation. I should have considered it myself. The day I wandered the gardens, Yasmin’s tomb had been recently opened.

“I waited outside the tomb, and he and Jaya went in,” Brac continues. “Manas followed us and brought more soldiers. I warned Deven they were coming, but he and Jaya fell behind.”

My hands itch to throttle Manas. “Does Hastin know? Is anyone else coming?”

Brac jams each word out from between tight teeth. “Hastin doesn’t feel Deven is worth the risk.”

“And Anjali?”

“Sides with her father. All the rebels do.”

I ball my hands into fists. Deven may not be part of our agreement, but I will not abandon him. Hastin can forget our bargain. Forget the Zhaleh. Forget the tournament. The bhuta warlord can kill the rajah himself.

“I’m getting Deven and Jaya,” I say. “We’re leaving tonight.” I grab Yasmin’s daggers from my bedside drawer. My hands heat up, fire boiling through my veins. I exhale a calming breath and will the rising heat to recede. I need every last cinder of my powers to break Deven free.

“I’m coming with you,” Brac says.

I pause to look at him. “But you’re with the rebels.”

“I’m with my brother,” he corrects, his gaze resolute.

I resist hugging him for staying and shove one dagger into the waist of my trousers. I add my slingshot and tie the pouch of firing stones to my side. “Tarek has the entries guarded,” I say.

“Did you practice today?”

“No, but I will manage.” The truth is I will explode if I do not expel the heat smoldering through me. I draw the second dagger, leaving my other hand free, and approach the door.

Brac draws his ax. “Ready?”

I nod, and he throws open the door.

Manas and three more guards draw their swords. Brac flies at the trio. I capture Manas’s arm. Pull. Don’t push. I feel for his inner heat and tug. A golden thread passes from Manas to me as I coax his fire out strand by strand, flame by flame. My inner fire grows hotter, stronger with his added light, until Manas drops to the floor. Brac parches two guards and cuffs the final one in the head with the blunt end of his ax.

I look down at Manas’s gray complexion, my burning veins full of his excess soul-fire. “Will he be all right?”

“Should be. Next time let go a little sooner, or you will turn your opponent into a prune.” Brac pushes one of the guard’s legs out of the way with his foot. “Where to now?”

“Jaya first.”

Brac’s sneakiness proves dependable. He leads the way through the vacant corridors, down three levels to a slightly ajar door. We back up against the wall. A servant comes out, and Brac nabs him by the neck. The servant sags in his arms. We drag him out of the way and steal inside the hushed chamber.

I round a corner, dagger first. Jaya waits there, ready to attack with the supper knife. Her cheek is bandaged, the whites of her wide eyes matching the color of the sterile cloth.

“Kali.” She lowers her weapon with an exhalation.

Brac glances in the other doorways with his ax raised. “Where’s the general?”

“He’s not here. Why have you come?”

“We’re getting you and Deven out,” I say.

Jaya’s shoulders slacken. “I wanted to tell you what happened at supper. The captain was right. The Zhaleh was in the tomb. We had it when the guards arrived, but my skirt caught in the door. Captain Naik stayed to help me. The guards seized us and put him in the dungeons.”

“Where’s the Zhaleh now?” I ask.

“Gautam returned it to the rajah. He must have hidden it again by now.”

A groan rises up my throat. Deven had the Zhaleh in his hands. I cannot think about how close we were to leaving here together, to having our dream.

“Kali, Gautam dropped me off here after supper and then went straight to the dungeons.” An apology seeps from Jaya’s gaze. “He’s questioning Captain Naik about the bhuta warlord.”

“But Deven doesn’t know anything!”

“Doesn’t matter.” Brac grabs his hair. “Gautam will torture him regardless.”

Brac does not say so, but I know that he thinks we should have gone to find Deven first. Coming here for Jaya was my order, my choice. And now, we may be too late.

29

Jaya and I descend the dark, slippery stairs to the dungeons after Brac. I grip the wall, tension vibrating out of my fingertips. Brac stops near the bottom and motions for us to stay. He disappears around the corner, and I hear a loud thump. I peer around the bend and see a guard go down, parched. Jaya comes forward with me, eyeing the unconscious guard.

Brac lays his hands on the door above the latch. “Viraji, a little help, please?”

He must mean that he wants me to burn it down. That is one way to expel the excess heat we have taken in.

I join him at his side and rest my hands on the wood. “Call me Kali.”

“Scorch it, Kali.”

I do as he asks, eager to push out my simmering powers, but nothing happens.

Brac curses under his breath. “They put the same poisonous herbs from your tonic into the clay bricks to keep bhuta prisoners from escaping the dungeons. The bricks must be around this doorframe too.” He hacks at the door with his ax.

Jaya pales. “He knows about the toxins in your tonic?”

“Do you?” I search her guilt-ridden face.

“I helped Healer Baka grow them. I was worried at first, but she explained that the combination wouldn’t hurt you, and it didn’t. The tonic lowered your fevers.”

“The tonic did more than that.” Brac cracks a hole in the door big enough to shove his arm in. He reaches through the gap and opens the latch.

The door swings open, and Brac steps inside. Jaya goes next. I follow her into the dim, tunnellike corridor. Immediately, I am doused with the sensation of being immersed in frigid water. The toxins in the walls dwindle my powers to a tiny, useless ember, just like when I entered the atrium.

Brac opens and closes his fists, frowning. “Is this how it feels to be a full mortal? How do they stand it?”

“Shh,” Jaya says. “I hear something.”

Garbled voices float out of a cell at the far end of the corridor. Jaya nudges me forward with a look, and I lead the way. We creep past iron-barred cells that reek of human waste and vomit. I slide my slingshot from my hip and dig around in the pouch for a firing stone. The final cell door hangs open, and Gautam’s voice carries out.

“I have given you plenty of chances. Tell me where Hastin is hiding.”

I edge up to the doorway. Candlelight shines out, yellowing the dingy floor.

“I don’t know,” says Deven, his voice weak.

A string of muted thumps ensues, followed by a pained groan.

I do not need my powers to feel my temper rise. I arm my slingshot and pull it taut. Brac ticks his head sideways for me to hold off—we do not know who else is inside—but that is a chance I will take.

Gautam’s voice toughens. “Tell me what you know.”

There is a hard thud, and then Deven groans. I have heard enough.

I step into the lit doorway. Deven is tied to a chair, his face a bloody mess. Gautam and his two guards reach for their weapons. I lob the firing stone at one guard, hitting him in the eye. He goes down. Brac throws his ax into the other guard’s chest. His brutality strikes me like I am the one hit. I am glad he is on our side.

Brac raises the second ax at Gautam. “Lay down your weapon.”

The general spits a foul curse and drops his sword. Brac shoves Gautam against the wall, raising his ax to his throat, and then disarms the first guard by kicking his sword out of reach. The guard stays down, cupping his injured eye.

I rush to Deven. His face is worse up close. Blood runs down his nose and spatters the sandy floor around his chair. As I untie his wrists, I try not to think of the pain he must be in.

“I had it, Kali.” His voice is pure agony. “I had the book.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I release his wrists from the constricting cordage, and his arms slacken at his sides. I prop him up, bracing him under his shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

“None of you will make it out of the palace alive,” says Gautam.

Jaya takes a charged step into the cell. “Yes, we will.”

Gautam clenches his hands into fists. “You are my wife. I order you to stay.”

“I am devoted to the gods,” Jaya says. “I do not obey you.”

Gautam lunges for the ax sunken into the fallen guard’s chest and yanks it free. The conscious soldier throws a handful of sand in Brac’s face, temporarily blinding him, and retrieves his sword. He aims the pointed end at Brac. I rise with my dagger, and Deven draws its twin from my hip.

Gautam snags Jaya by the hair and raises the ax blade to her throat. “Surrender or she dies.”

Deven takes aim with the dagger, but he has no clear shot, with Gautam using Jaya to shield himself. “Have you no loyalty?” Deven says. “She’s your wife.”

“And you’re my son. You think that means anything? Mathura chose to keep you. I never wanted a useless bastard.”

Brac smears sand from his streaming eyes. “Couldn’t handle more than one in the family?”

“Save your insults, demon.” Gautam tightens his hold on the blade at Jaya’s throat. In her hand, gripped at her side beneath the pleats of her sari, is the supper knife. “Drop your weapons,” the general says.

“First, let Jaya go,” I say.

“Young Viraji.” Gautam sneers at my title. “Still haven’t learned your place.”

“Neither have I.” Jaya twists, and I see a flit of silver. She buries the short blade of the table knife in her husband’s throat.

Gautam stumbles back, eyes oversize with shock. He drops to his knees, feeling for the handle of the knife lodged deep. This will not be a quick death, choking on his own blood, but it is the death he deserves.

The soldier I shot in the eye slashes at Brac. While the guard’s back is turned, Deven tosses the dagger with swift precision. The blade drives into the soldier’s spine, and he arches. Brac steps out of the way, and the guard plummets face-first to the ground.

Brac sheathes his axes. “I had him,” he says.

“Of course you did,” Deven says, cradling his side. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“You either. My elder brother, the most loyal of soldiers, in the dungeons. Times do change.” Brac retrieves my twin dagger and comes to Deven’s side. “Can you walk?”

“I will make do.” Deven picks up one of the discarded swords, taking care not to strain his injured rib cage, and turns to his brother. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I always knew you were a Burner. I wasn’t pretending you weren’t because I was ashamed of you. I thought I was protecting you by keeping it a secret.”

Brac rests his hand on his brother’s upper back. “I was protecting you by keeping my powers to myself.”

Deven grab’s Brac’s shoulder. “I’m glad you aren’t dead.”

Brac’s face bursts into a grin. “Same to you.”

I leave them and go to Jaya. She stands over Gautam, staring vacantly at his lifeless eyes. I wrap her trembling body in a hug. “It’s done.”

“I had to do it.”

“I know.” She presses her face into my shoulder, and I smooth back her hair. “You did the right thing.”

Brac checks the corridor. “Clear.”

I lead Jaya out of the cell. She does not glance back at her dead husband but pushes onward through the shadowy dungeons. Brac leads the way down the corridor to the entry.

“Son of a scorpion,” he says. “The guard is gone.”

I look up the vacant stairwell; it will not be empty for long. The alarm has been sounded. Tarek knows that we are here.

“The chapel has the closest hidden passageway,” Deven says. “We will follow the underground river out of Vanhi.”

We climb the stairs, my jittery body pumping with adrenaline. Deven leans heavily to the right, but he keeps up with us. All is quiet when we reach the stairwell landing. I peek around the corner, and Deven pulls me back. Half a breath later, an arrow pierces the wall behind my head.

Brac steps into the line of fire and flings his axes. He takes down the two archers, but the guards behind them charge forward. Brac gives Deven a maniacal grin. “Like old times,” he says.

“You’re as impulsive as ever,” Deven replies, raising his sword while holding his sore side with his free arm. He joins Brac, and the stampede of guards rushes upon us.

The brothers engage our attackers, dancing around each other’s blades. Deven falls behind the rhythm, and a guard plunges past him. The soldier lunges his sword at me. I twist around him, and he redirects, aiming for Jaya. I leap onto his back and clutch his face in my hands. Finding his well of light, I pull. The immediate surge of heat is invigorating. I hang on as he collapses in a heap. I look up from the floor and see Jaya gawking at me.

“I’m a Burner,” I explain.

She offers me a hand up. “That explains a lot.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of you? Never.”

I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back but lets me go quickly. I do not take offense. I am adjusting to my new self too.

Brac darts around the corner and nearly trips on the unconscious guard. “You remembered to let go,” he says to me.

“I aim to be your best trainee.”

He smiles. “Shouldn’t be hard. You’re my only one.”

I look past him to Deven. His sword arm hangs so low that he is dragging the tip of the blade across the floor. He is worse off than before and rapidly losing endurance. I loop my arm around his waist, and we hasten to the chapel.

Corridor after corridor is empty. My tired breaths boom through my head, louder than our footsteps. The farther we go without more guards accosting us, the higher my anxiety soars. The palace is too calm, but we are so close. We have only to reach the passageway, and then we can flee to safety. I feel Deven’s strength of will in his every fatigued step. We are almost there.

Deven and I push through the chapel door and immediately halt. Tarek blocks the underground passageway. Before we can turn back, guards file in behind us, Manas near the front. Tarek must have known that we would come here; it is the passageway closest to the dungeons.

My powers flare, dispatching a pulse of heat. Deven weathers the heatwave beside me.

“Kali, don’t,” he says.

Tarek paces nearer, stopping out of reach. “Don’t what, Captain? Break into my dungeons and attempt to rescue you? This is oddly reminiscent of the night I caught my first wife running away. She too abandoned me for a man who stood behind her strength instead of his own.”

Deven tips up his chin. “Sometimes it takes more strength to step back than forward.”

“Does it?” Tarek steps sideways.

I tamp down my inner fire. My abilities are the only surprise I have left.

“This is what’s going to happen, Captain,” Tarek says. “Your cohorts will relinquish their weapons, and the viraji will come with me. My guards will escort you and this filthy bhuta traitor to the dungeons, and at dawn, you will both be stoned.”

“I have a better idea.” Brac swivels and slices into the guards with his axes. His impulsivity claims two victims. Jaya spins around and swipes a sword from a fallen guard, and together they confront the rest.

Tarek draws a haladie and swings at Deven. He blocks with his sword, wincing from the movement. Tarek jabs at him rapidly. Deven lags behind, parrying just fast enough to keep up. He is in no condition to battle. Any longer and he will slip up.

I grip the dagger. As soon as Deven steps out of range, I throw. The tip of the blade strikes the rajah in the leg. A poor hit. I aimed higher, for the rajah’s heart.

Tarek stumbles back, face paling. He wrenches the bloody blade from his thigh and gapes at the turquoise handle. “Yasmin,” he says.

Deven and I bolt for the tapestry, Deven yelling for his brother. Brac throws his hands out, and a wall of heat slaps the guards, sending them cringing back.

Jaya rushes for the hidden door after us, passing Tarek. The rajah raises his haladie and hurls it. The blade spins across the chapel after Jaya. Just when I think that she has escaped it, one side impales her back, and she crumples to the floor.

“No!” I yell, running back for her.

Brac backs up toward us and throws another blast of heat, pinning Tarek to the wall.

I fall to my knees beside my friend. Gods. The blade. I yank it out of her, and she screams. I toss the haladie aside and lay Jaya on her back. Her hand seeks mine. I hold it close to my chest.

“You will be all right. We’re almost out of here.”

Her hand faintly squeezes mine. I love you, it means. The movement, albeit small, encourages me. I can carry her out. I can find a healer or take her to the Aquifier. I can—

“Kali.” Jaya’s eyelashes flicker, and then her eyes go blank.

“Jaya?” I clutch her hand. She does not respond with her usual echo squeeze. She always answers. Always. “No, no, no.”

I listen for her pulse but hear only my own heart knocking against my ribs. Her warm blood spreads out beneath her like crimson wings, soaking through my skirt. Still I listen, seeking for some sign that she is with me. She cannot be gone. She would not leave me.

Brac tugs on me to go, but I cling to Jaya. He turns his back to me and throws another strong blast at the guards, holding Tarek at bay with the same storm of heat.

My mind tells me to run, to let Jaya go. I search her for signs of movement, each second an eternity packed with frantic prayers and urgent pleas. What I find strips away all layers of my hope. No breath. No heartbeat. No life.

She is gone.

Brac grabs me, and I let go of Jaya’s limp hand. He drags me after Deven through the doorway and into the passageway. I yank myself from his hold and look back at the tapestry. Sobs wrench from my chest.

I fall to my knees with an enraged cry and throw my hands out. A heatwave flies off my glowing fingers, and a hot wind ravages the tapestry, igniting it in a blinding blast of flames. I cringe away to protect my face, and when I look back again, the blazing doorway is gone. Black char stains the bricks, and the air hints of singed hair and burning dust.

The fire starts to die, and with it, my inner flame shrinks to a faint flicker. Rajah Tarek will think that Brac let loose the heatwave. But I want Tarek to know that I did it. I want him to fear me.

Deven lifts me to my feet, but I pull away from him, my tear-filled eyes burning from the clearing smoke. On the other side of the doorway, the rajah shouts for his guards to follow us. Fury fires through my veins. Tarek must pay.

“Kali,” says Deven, “we have to go.”

His face comes into focus, the bloodied mess that once was his beautiful jaw and lips. I cannot risk his life again. Someday I will go for Tarek’s throat. Someday I will make him hurt. Someday, but not today.

I run with Brac and Deven down the passageway. My grief stretches to new heights as we travel away from the hidden door, away from the chapel, away from Jaya. Without a torch, the dark is darker and the water is louder, rushing through my ears like a midnight rainstorm. Deven latches on to me for balance, and I stick to his side, relying on his fortitude as much as he does mine. He is propped heavier against me the farther and faster we walk.

Somewhere in the blackness behind us, footsteps pound. Little spots approach—torches.

We dash out of the tunnel into a dim cavern. Brac runs down an incline toward the blue-black river gushing below. Deven and I try to match his pace, but we lose our footing. We trip over each other and tumble to the bottom of the slope, shy of the riverbank.

Brac stands knee-deep in the rushing water. “Run!”

Soldiers spill out of the passage above us. The archers line up and arm their bows. I hold Deven up, and we stagger for the river; it will take us downstream, a faster escape than on foot. A few steps later, Deven jerks against me and collapses. I stumble under his weight and take some of the impact of his fall. My hand comes away slick with blood.

“Good gods,” I breathe. An arrow is lodged in Deven’s shoulder, the serrated tip burrowed deep in his flesh.

His brow scrunches in pain. “Kali, I’m done.”

“No!” My quaking fingers grasp his chest. “You have to get up.”

He rolls onto his side, blood flowing down his back. “Leave me.”

His order triggers a flash of panic. “No. I cannot do this without you.”

“You can do anything you set your heart on.” He pushes me.

More guards rush out of the tunnel, armed with bows and arrows. Tarek runs behind them, yelling, “Stop them!”

The archers release a swarm of arrows, spearing the muddy ground and nearly clipping my foot. I grab Deven’s ankles and drag him, still on his side, down to the mucky riverbank. He groans and tells me to stop. I ignore him and the trail of fresh blood he leaves behind.

Brac sloshes back to help. He grips Deven under the arms, and I pull his legs. Cool water laps over him, but it is not deep enough. Soldiers’ steps thunder behind us.

I press my lips to Deven’s and send up a quick Prayer of Protection. “Let the sky lead you, the land ground you, the fire cleanse you, and the water feed you.”

He murmurs something, but I cannot make it out.

“I will follow you,” I say, and with one final push, I shove Deven into the river. Brac catches him, holding both their heads above the surface, and drags him into the current. The fast-moving water picks them up and sweeps them along.

I slog into the frigid water after them. More arrows fly in front of me, blocking my path. Deven and Brac float out of sight. I run with the current, hurrying after them near the shore.

“Seize her!”

Water rises to my waist, and the river sucks me downstream. I move my arms back and forth near the surface to keep my head above water. Splashes sound behind me, and Manas grabs me. I try to kick him off, but he is a stronger swimmer and will not let me go. I bob under and up again. Manas hauls me, my arms and legs flailing, back to shore.

I sputter up mouthfuls of river water, my limbs wet and heavy. Manas and another guard lug me before Tarek and shove me to my knees. I hang my head as I regain my breath, but I can see that the rajah is pressing a hand to his bleeding thigh, where I stabbed him; his injury is at my eye level.

“The captain may have gotten away,” he says, “but he will not live through the night.”

My chin shoots up. Tarek has taken away everyone I love. I have obeyed for too long. I will be silent no more.

“I hate you,” I say, and I reach for my powers, vowing that the first second Tarek realizes that I am a bhuta will be his last. But I have exhausted my inner flame. I could parch his soul-fire for fuel, but I would have to be close enough to lay my hands on his skin. Still, that would knock him out long enough for me to push his fire right back in, scorching him. I draw my dagger and stand.

Tarek raises a finger, stopping an archer from shooting me. “You will not kill me, love.”

“You are wrong. I am not Yasmin. I am Kalinda, and you will pay.” I lift my knife as though I plan to cut away his smug smile, and then I move in with my free hand. But before I can touch Tarek, I see the blur of something arcing toward my head—and then nothing.

30

A foul stench wakes me. I lift my head to look around and then drop my cheek back to the sandy floor. The dungeons stink as dreadfully as I recall.

I do not sit up when a guard brings a breakfast tray into my cell, nor do I stir when he leaves, locking the iron door behind him. I lie on my side, waiting for Tarek to come and force me to attend the tournament.

He does not come, but the rats do. They scurry close, sniff my feet, and twitch their whiskers. I do not move for them either. Eventually, they grow bold and help themselves to my untouched food. I let them have it.

Sand works its way under my clothes, a gritty itch that I lack the will to scratch. I stare at my hands. My worthless hands. All I can do in this poisonous prison is think. I have more than enough hours to reflect on what went wrong, but I do not need them. I know why I am here. The gods are punishing me. I strayed from their path, and they crushed my rebellious dreams.

“You look droopy today, love.”

Tarek drags a chair to the bars and sits facing me. He is dressed for the tournament in his finest jewel-adorned tunic and turban, the rubies cold crimson in the dim light. Either he knows that I am a bhuta and I have no power here, or he does not suspect what I am. I doubt that it would matter if he did know. He would probably find a way to restrict me by tying a collar of noxious herbs around my neck.

“The guards said you won’t eat. You really should. You will need your strength for your match tomorrow.” I stare at the floor, and he adds, “The third finalist is Natesa. Your opponents have opted to fight with blades. You may choose differently if you wish.”

I am unsurprised to hear that Natesa was victorious, but his offering of a choice is absurd. Regardless of the weapon I choose, every one of the finalists is a better fighter. Any one of them could defeat me. I stew in my resentment. Let Tarek force me into the arena. Let him pit me against the three strongest challengers. Let them cut me down to the ground we stand on. I would rather go on to my next life than give him the satisfaction of watching me spill innocent blood.

“I won’t fight.”

He settles back in his chair, relaxing into his mantle. I am not fooled by his ease. He is unpredictable when he has been drinking, and I can smell the apong on him from here. “You will fight,” he says, “or I will burn down your temple. Samiya will be nothing but a smoke pillar in the distance.”

A dark laugh bursts out of me. “You’ve taken away everything else, why not my home?”

“I offer you the empire. You will be my wife, my queen. What else could you wish for?”

“A family. A home.” My traitorous voice trembles on the last word I say. “Love.”

“We speak of the same things.”

Contempt drives me to my feet. “Your court is not a family. These women serve you only to survive. Your home is not my home. It is a prison of secrets and lies. And I will never love you, not in this life or the next.”

His eyes spark with temper. “If you’re holding on to hope that Captain Naik is alive, you waste your prayers. He’s dead, washed ashore downriver. The birds and fish fed off his face.”

My chin quivers at his cruelty. It cannot be true. Deven was alive when I sent him off with Brac. They escaped the river’s savage pull, and the Aquifier healed him. “You lie.”

Tarek tilts his head, a smile twisting his lips. “What need do I have to lie when the truth serves me better?”

I refuse to believe him, but darkness descends upon my mind, swallowing up my denial. Tears I vowed not to shed in front of Tarek slip through my grasp. I turn away. “Leave me.”

“The tournament starts at high noon tomorrow. I expect you to be submissive when I return. The sooner you bend your will to mine, the sooner we will be happy.”

I whirl to face him and glare. “The way you and Yasmin were happy?”

Tarek stands fast, tipping over his chair. “You know nothing of Yasmin.”

I step forward, braver with the bars between us. “I know she tried to run from you. I know she never loved you. She loved Kishan—”

“Never speak his name!” Tarek pounds his fists against the cell bars. His face reddens, and tears gloss his eyes. Even with my own tears tracking down my cheeks from his cruel words, I find no satisfaction in causing him a mirrored pain.

The color in Tarek’s cheeks fades. He straightens and tugs down the cuffs of his jacket. “I will punish you for that.”

Done with him, done with everything, I back into a corner and lower myself to a huddled crouch. Tarek goes, reserving his punishment for another time, for a time when he has not already won and I am not already broken.

My cell door creaks open, and a guard brings in my supper tray. “Viraji?”

“Go away.” I stay hunched in the corner with my head down. “I won’t eat. I don’t care what the rajah said.”

“The rajah didn’t send me.” The guard’s voice is familiar, with its gentle burr. “Natesa asked me to come. I brought a visitor.”

A different voice adds, “We have come to see how you’re faring.”

I look up and see Yatin in the cell doorway, Brother Shaan behind him.

The big soldier scans me with soft eyes. “Natesa was concerned when you didn’t attend the tournament today.”

I wipe my soggy nose and rest my chin on my knees. “Tell her . . . tell her I’m . . .” Alone. Afraid. “Here.”

Yatin offers a sympathetic smile and sets down my supper tray. He leaves the cell, relocks the door, and then goes down the corridor, out of sight.

Brother Shaan rights the chair that Tarek knocked over not long ago and sits. “I have taken care of your friend’s burial. Jaya has her own grave.”

Thinking of Jaya buried in a grave shreds the last of my resilience. I slope farther into the wall, my budding tears blooming to full-size teardrops. Gratitude for Brother Shaan’s kindness mixes with my grief. Most wives are buried with their husbands, but Jaya would not wish to be laid to rest with Gautam. She would want her freedom.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” his gentle voice continues. I want to cover my ears to avoid hearing what other loss I have accrued, but I am not fast enough. “Deven was a good man, one of the scarce few in Vanhi.”

A whimper escapes my lips. Part of me still held on to the hope that Tarek was lying. But it seems he needed not lie in this, that the truth truly did serve him better.

My heart retreats from the pain of losing Deven. I hug my knees closer to my chest and replay our final moments together. I did not know I was sending him to a watery grave. I did not know I would never see him again. Hot tears trickle down my face and drip off my chin into the sand, staining it dark.

“I am sorry, Viraji,” Brother Shaan offers quietly.

I am too. He has no idea how much. I am sorry I did not save Jaya. I am sorry I did not make it down the river with Deven. I am sorry I will never see either of them again.

“Do you think starving yourself will punish the rajah?” says Brother Shaan.

“No,” I grit out. I hate that all my pain traces back to him. I hate him even more than I did last night. I hate him as much as I love Jaya and Deven. Eternally and unconditionally. “Not eating will make my point.”

“Which is?”

“Tarek does not command me.”

“I see.” Brother Shaan looks around the dungeons, as though there is something else to see besides filthy walls, sandy floors, and a broken girl. “How do you suppose you will win your match if you take poor care of yourself?”

“I have no intention of winning,” I say with a scalding gaze. Then I refocus my abhorrence from Tarek onto Hastin. The bhuta warlord left Deven to die. I blame him too.

“What do you suppose the tournament is about?” Brother Shaan asks in a reflective tone.

“Winning the throne.”

“Is it? I think it is about changing the way things have always been done.”

I shake my head. “We cannot change it.”

Brother Shaan crosses his arms in front of him. “In the story of Enlil’s Hundredth Rani, the decision of who lived and died was left to the fire-god’s wives and courtesans. The tournament took place because they disagreed on who would forfeit their place with Enlil.”

“Of course they disagreed. None of them wanted to die.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they had a chance to make peace and they chose war.”

I arch a brow. “You think Anu would have spared their lives if they had refused to fight each other?”

“We will never know. None of them fought for anything other than their own lives. If they had banded together, as sisters, I believe Anu would have taken mercy on them and they would have lived. Ki believed the virtue of sisterhood to be the solution. She organized the Sisterhood, built temples, and instituted a whole line of women to teach the following generations. These ideals have been forgotten, but they are not lost.” He pushes his hands against his knees to help his old legs stand. “Just think how Enlil’s courtesans would have changed the world had they chosen peace.”

Brother Shaan starts to leave. I rise and meet him at the bars. “Do you really think the tournaments can be changed?”

“Anything can be changed by those who have the courage to blaze their own path.”

“But which path do the gods want us to follow? Ours or theirs?” I grip the bars, impatient for an answer.

Brother Shaan’s gaze bores into mine. “You assume your path and the gods’ path lead you in separate directions. But they are one and the same.”

One path. I thought that my destiny was determined long ago and that I could not alter it. But what if my life never was out of my control? What if it is not?

Brother Shaan smiles, understanding infinitely more than I do about the mysteries of the gods. He bows. “Viraji.”

I stay pressed to the cell bars, listening to his retreating footfalls. Brother Shaan implied that the gods want what I want. I wish to bring back Jaya and Deven. I wish to hold Jaya’s hand and stroke Deven’s cheek.

But bringing back the dead is beyond even Anu’s power.

Misery weighs me down. If I cannot have Jaya and Deven, then what? I do not mull over my second choice for long. I want what I have wished for every day of my life—peace. But a simple, quiet life will be hard-won. The rajah will not give me up. My challengers will not fall easily. I have as much chance of surviving the tournament as Jaya and Deven have of rising from the dead.

Body heavy, I return to the corner and curl up in a ball. The rats revisit me, circling my meal tray. They chatter to each other, plotting how they will sneak up to my food without my noticing. Jaya was always strategizing ahead, anticipating others’ decisions. If she were here, she would say that I am an inexperienced fighter but I have a cause worth fighting for. She would say that my weapons may not have blades but I can wield five virtues mightier than any sword. Deven would tell me that my fate may be to die in the arena but I can fall with honor. I am not ready to die. If I were to allow Tarek to defeat me, Jaya and Deven would have perished for nothing.

This is my fate—to fight, to stand up to tradition, to finish what Yasmin could not.

I crawl to my waiting supper tray, scattering the rats, and eat.

Tarek comes for me the next morning. I lick the yogurt from my finger, and he looks in on me with surprise. “You’ve come to your senses,” he says.

The guard unlocks the door, and I exit the cell. Tarek kisses my cheek with more reserve than usual. He does not trust my obedience yet, but he will, because he wants to trust it.

“The time has come to prepare you for the arena. Will you behave yourself?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Desire sparks in his eyes. He pulls me close and kisses me. My cheeks heat from the force of not fighting him off.

“That color becomes you, love,” he says of my blush. “I hope to see it more often.”

Tarek escorts me to the wives’ wing and waits in my chamber while Asha readies me for the tournament. I have a new role to play today, my toughest performance yet. I am to act the part of a warrior.

Behind the dressing screen, Asha wraps a band of ivory fabric around my breasts, sealing them to my ribs, and then holds up loose trousers for me to step into. They hang from my hips to my ankles, the cloth baggy between. The straps of sturdy flat sandals wind up my shins, and leather cuffs strengthen my wrists. Asha smudges dramatic makeup onto my face. My lips are bloodred, my eyes dark and wide, my cheeks rouged. She then braids strips of ivory into my hair, the same shade as my uniform. I will be dusty the second I step into the arena, but the white will look striking for the procession.

I eye myself in the mirror glass for flaws, but Asha has done her job well. If I did not know myself, I would believe that I was the rajah’s champion. I tuck that knowledge away to draw on later.

“May the gods be with you,” Asha whispers.

I step out from behind the dressing screen for Tarek’s final inspection. He nods approvingly with a hint of adoration and then leads me out the main entry. The imperial court and soldiers prepare for the final journey to the amphitheater. Beyond the gates, the people chant for their champion. After today, I hope to be worthy of that title.

Many eyes follow us as we cross the courtyard to the line of waiting elephants. Others must have heard of my failed attempt to flee the palace, but if they disagree with Tarek’s decision to keep an unfaithful viraji, no one dares speak loud enough for us to hear.

Mathura stands off to the side with the favored four, and I meet her gaze. She looks older, as though a lifetime has landed on her all at once. I expect her to be angry with me, but her loving eyes bear the same silent message as Deven’s final words. You can do anything you set your heart on. His echoed confidence shines from her. Nothing I say can replace her son, but maybe she understands that I tried to save him. Maybe she is as sick of death as I am. Maybe she knows that I fight for us all.

Before I climb up the stairway to the howdah, Tarek pauses. “I have a surprise for you.”

Guards bring forward the old shepherd who helped me on my journey to Vanhi, along with his wife. The elderly couple bows. “Viraji,” they say, smiling.

I embrace both of them. They smell of the Alpanas, of budding spring grass and chilly, starry nights. But why did Tarek bring them here? Worry for their safety hides behind my glassy smile. “I’m glad you came.”

“The moment we met you, we knew you were a rani,” the old man says with his strange rolling r’s. “We wish you the blessing of the gods.”

I thank them repeatedly. I need their prayers more than they could possibly know.

Tarek speaks to a guard. “Find them seats in the amphitheater, and see that they are comfortable.”

The older couple bows in appreciation and shambles away arm in arm. Tarek helps me climb into the howdah.

“How did you find them?” I ask.

“They asked for you at the gates. I thought you would be pleased to see them.”

Tarek does nothing out of kindness. He means to prove that I can have a family, home, and love with him. I do not wish to owe him even the smallest sliver of gratitude, but I must convince him that I am the compliant young woman he wishes me to be.

I kiss him on the cheek and whisper my thanks.

He beams and opens a flask of spirits. Our elephant plods through the overcrowded roads, and I encourage Tarek to take the bottle often. I want Tarek to drink today. I need him good and tipsy if I am to succeed.

31

Dust rains down from the upper levels of the amphitheater. The cheers and stomps of the audience drown out the violent pounding of my heart. An armorer straps a heavy shield to my arm. The cool metal soaks into my skin, and I shiver in the sweltering midday heat.

Light from outside blazes into the cavelike exit to the arena, a golden path that leads to my destiny or my doom. Cries from the spectators escalate in a crescendo of hysteria, a fervor for blood. They care not whose blood so long as crimson coats the arena floor by day’s end.

An iron helmet is dropped onto my head, pushing me down with the might of a thousand regrets. I should not be here. It should not have come to this. Jaya should be safe in Samiya. Deven should be serving the empire. But they are gone, and I am here.

I will do this for them. I will do this for everyone who will suffer if I fail.

Through the yawning gate, I glimpse the final blow of the opening act. Since Lakia sabotaged her challengers before they could enter the arena, the rajah arranged for her to demonstrate her greatness with a battle against a thieving servant. Lakia ends her downed opponent with a blade through the chest. Blood pours from the defeated thief as though her heart is a fallen bucket.

Cheers erupt, and the rajah’s voice rings out. “See my kindred in all her glory!”

Lakia leaves the arena through an opposite doorway, her arms raised in victory. I do not applaud. Her thirst for blood is disgraceful.

The defeated thief is wheeled out, and the armorer double-checks the security of my shield and helmet. Both are on tight. The quartet of gongs peals, and the mob hushes to a whisper.

Tarek speaks from his perch in the imperial box. “Welcome to the championship match!”

Spectators holler their joy.

“We have had more challengers in this tournament than ever in the history of our great empire. Each of them fought valiantly for my final rani’s crown, but only three have earned the right to stand in this arena today. Anjali, Fareeshah, and Natesa have proven to be worthy contenders for my viraji.”

Across the way, my opponents enter through a door to the calls of the crowd.

“They will now battle the gods’ champion of choice, a young woman who is the living reincarnation of Enlil’s hundredth rani. The indomitable Kalinda!”

My name reverberates through the arena, each syllable ricocheting off the walls and returning to me with the might of a fallen ax. I inhale slowly, my pulse quickening. Remember the gods. Remember your path.

The bladesmith hands me a khanda and urges me out the door. I wage war against my resistant knees, my whole body rusty from nerve-crackling trepidation. But with one step, just a single step, I know that I can build momentum. So I draw a steadying breath, shriveling my monstrous fear to a less sizable opponent, and pass through the gaping sun-drenched gate.

The bright light blinds me. Applause deafens me. My eyes refocus, and I spot the outline of my challengers approaching the center of the arena. A chalk circle marks our starting position.

The battle ring.

The armorer shuts the gate behind me and lowers the lever, locking me inside. A sob tangles in my throat, but screaming is useless.

Anjali is the first in the battle ring. Fareeshah stalks in after her, followed by Natesa. The women are dressed like me, only in black. Their bodies are toned and powerful. Their faces are sculpted with aggression. As I face off with these established warriors, every lurid tournament battle I have watched floods back to me. I know what to expect, yet I jolt when the gongs clang.

Anjali pivots and engages Fareeshah. I thought that they would all turn on me, but Anjali successfully draws Fareeshah away with her, swords clanging. This leaves me Natesa.

“I have waited a long time for this,” Natesa says, slashing forward.

I parry her thrust. “We don’t have to fight,” I say. I lift my shield, and her sword connects. The vibration jogs up my arm. I back out of the chalk ring, drawing her farther away from Anjali and Fareeshah. I raise my voice above the cheering of the spectators. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Only one of us can win, and it will be me.”

“There is another way. Concede and I will see that you have your freedom.” She scoffs and swings. I block and lean in. Our blades bang together. “Trust me. I can save you.”

“I can save myself.”

Natesa pushes off my blade and rounds at me fast. The tip of her sword catches my forearm. My skin rips open, and blood streams down to my cuffed wrist. I retreat, willing away the screeching pain. I had anticipated that Natesa would be the hardest to convince. She hungers for the safety and security of my throne.

Across the way, Anjali and Fareeshah shuffle to and from each other. Fareeshah tries to get past Anjali, but Anjali blocks her. She is keeping Fareeshah away from me. Anjali is on my side, but I cannot do this without Natesa.

Natesa treads closer. “Let’s end this, Kalinda.” She knows that she can best me in skill and strength.

I will parch her if I must, but I do not want to compel her into peace. I pray that she is changed, that she will see that we can finish this without violence.

I toss aside my sword. “I won’t fight.”

Her face contorts into fury. She hits me in the face with the side of her shield. “Pick up your sword!”

I take off my shield and my helmet, casting them aside.

“Defend yourself!” She kicks me in the stomach. I fall, cradling my aching middle. From my peripheral view, I see that Tarek has left his throne to stand at the edge of the balcony. The crowd grows uneasy, cheers switching to murmured agitation. Natesa kicks me in the back, pushing me toward my fallen sword. “Pick it up!”

“No.” I look up at her, my chest heaving. “You are the only sister I have left.”

Her eyes register an emotion between hatred and love. Familiarity. Here, where every woman fends for herself, that camaraderie is precious.

I kneel before her, stripped of my armor and weapon. “It’s me Tarek wants. Concede and I will protect you. I swear on the gods you will go free.”

Anjali screams. I look past Natesa to see Fareeshah wrench her sword from Anjali’s upper thigh. Fareeshah lifts her khanda in a killing stance. I rise and charge her before she finishes Anjali off.

“Stop this! We don’t have to fight! We can band together and save all our lives!”

Fareeshah turns her attack on me and hacks at my neck. I stumble backward to avoid her blade and trip over my discarded helmet. I land hard on my backside, my sword far from my grasp.

Fareeshah laughs. “You’re a worse fighter than I was told.”

I speak past the panic gripping my voice. “Lay down your weapon, and I vow I will protect you with my life.”

Fareeshah lifts her khanda over her head. “What life?”

Her blade drops at the same time that she hurtles forward from the impetus of a sword driving through her chest. I peer past her, expecting to see Anjali, but it is Natesa who wrenches her khanda from Fareeshah’s back. Fareeshah drops to the arena floor in a cloud of dust.

A frantic onrush of applause erupts at the first defeat of a finalist. Natesa levels her sword at me. I go perfectly still and stare down her bloody blade.

“You swear I will have my freedom?” she asks.

“On Ki and every sister warrior who has ever lived, I swear it.”

Natesa’s sword remains trained on me. My breaths rasp, stinging my lungs. She lunges and stabs her blade into the ground, missing my knee by a finger’s length, and raises her arms to the spectators.

“I concede!” Natesa yells.

Anjali clambers to her feet, favoring her wounded leg. “I concede!” she also yells.

They wave their arms at Tarek high in the imperial box. I rise, supporting my injured arm and struggling to regain my breath. The audience’s clapping peters out, changing to outraged shouting. The gongs call for order, and Tarek motions for quiet.

“What is the meaning of this?” calls the rajah.

“My opponents have conceded!” My voice barrels across the oval arena and up into all three tiers. “They have withdrawn their challenge.”

“This is true?”

Anjali and Natesa answer as one. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Lies!” Lakia rushes from the floor-level entry behind us. “The viraji promised them riches and favors if they forfeit.”

“Participating in the tournament was their choice,” I counter. “They challenged me according to their will, and with that same will, they concede.”

From afar, I see Tarek calculating the impact of this unexpected finale. The people desired a champion who would demolish her opponents. I have retained my title by default, but I have still won. The tournament is over. Tarek has what he wants. He has me.

“The challengers stepped forward,” he says, “and they may step down.” Tarek’s false tone of apology hints at glee. He is glad to move forward with our wedding. “Since there are no other challengers, this concludes the tournament. The viraji is our rightful champion!”

Spectators cheer and boo. Those who favored me winning are satisfied, but the rest grumble their disappointment.

Anjali limps to me and swings her arm over my shoulder. “You’re a dolt.”

Natesa loops her arm around Anjali’s waist, supporting her other side. “A brave dolt.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” I say, resting against them.

Natesa leans forward, looking past Anjali. “Just keep your word.”

“I will.” I am amazed that Natesa conceded. Right up until she sank her blade into the ground, I was certain she would kill me, but her time as a courtesan has softened her.

The refuse cart rolls past us to collect Fareeshah’s remains. Regret for her and the other courtesans who died here scratches me raw. I bow my head and offer the Prayer of Rest. Natesa and Anjali join in, and we finish praying together. I glance up at the wives and courtesans watching us from the terrace. This is the start of a new sisterhood in Tarachand.

Natesa and I help Anjali hobble toward the gate. We make it only a few steps before a voice calls out.

“I challenge the viraji to a duel!”

32

A blanket of stunned silence falls over the amphitheater.

Lakia storms into the center of the battle ring and repeats her declaration. “I challenge the viraji to a duel!”

Her voice drives a spear of dread through my heart. Usually Lakia does not bother with her husband’s lesser-ranked women, but she let her pride override her caution once before, when she challenged Mathura. That battle ended in Lakia’s triumph but left the courtesan lame. I had thought that my securing the throne might draw Lakia back into the ring, but now that it has, I question my ability to see this through.

The spectators stomp their feet in support of prolonging the tournament, but I cannot tell if Tarek’s mind is muddied enough with apong to allow me to fight. Lakia wants me gone from her husband’s palace, and her desire is so strong that she is willing to risk her rank as kindred. I have no doubt that she challenged me with full confidence that she will defeat me, as she did Mathura. Lakia plans to win, maintain her rank, and be rid of me for good.

“You wish to fight my viraji?” Tarek calls down to his number one wife.

“As kindred, it is within my power to challenge any wife or courtesan to a duel.”

“And it is within the viraji’s right to decline,” Tarek reminds her.

Mathura could have declined the kindred’s challenge, but she did not. Neither will I. “I accept,” I exclaim. “On two conditions. The kindred and I will battle hand to hand—no weapons—and if I win, your courtesans may go free.”

Lakia calls out her reply. “I agree to those terms, but I have my own condition. If the viraji loses, your courtesans die.”

I curse her under my breath. Tarek was already planning to kill the courtesans, but this way, he can murder them with the backing of every spectator here, and I will wear the blame.

The rajah’s courtesans cry with outrage. They do not know that Tarek already aims to be rid of them. I look for Mathura in the group of those protesting and find her staring at me in silence. She is too far away for me to read her expression, but I pray that she knows that I will defend her life.

The rajah raises his hand for quiet. His infuriated courtesans are the last to hush. Natesa and Anjali hold on to me as we wait in tense silence for his decision. Tarek’s vanity at having selected me as his champion has been compromised by the concession of my contenders. The only way to confirm that he chose a warrior befitting of the status of Enlil’s hundredth rani is for me to shed sufficient blood this day, but he may not want to let me compete now that he has me locked in as his bride.

“You have my support,” he says, lowering his arm in finality. “The battle ends when one of you concedes.”

Panic crowds in around me. I am to battle the kindred. Great Anu, I hope I made the right choice.

Tarek returns to his throne, and Natesa and Anjali press close to my side.

“Did you know Lakia would challenge you?” Natesa asks.

“I thought she might. She’s as vain as Tarek.”

Anjali frowns up at the rajah. “I hope you have a plan,” she says.

My deal with Lakia has threatened their lives, but I suspect that Anjali is displeased for another reason. My agreement with her father had been going as planned, but now I am risking his ability to retrieve the Zhaleh.

For me, this is not about the book. Hastin and the bhutas left Deven to be executed. I no longer trust that they will free the courtesans.

Natesa wraps my cut arm with a piece of cloth provided by a healer. “Do you know what you’re doing?” she says.

“I’m doing what Ki would have me do. Pray for me.”

She ties off the bandage with a solemn frown. “I already have.”

Lakia waits for me in the battle ring. The blood of the thief she killed speckles her trousers. My uniform has gone brown with dust. I join her, straining to stand tall against my fear. I have lost favor with the crowd; fewer chant my name than they do hers.

She needles me with a smirk. “You naive girl. You really think you can defeat me?”

“Afraid I might?” I hunker down into my fighting stance.

“You better pray you do.” She glares with the heat of a thousand suns.

The gongs ring. Lakia lunges and seizes a fistful of my hair. She swings me around by the head, and lights explode in my vision.

“I am the only wife Tarek needs,” she says. She knees me in the back, pushing me forward.

I stumble away and turn back to her. “He doesn’t love you or me. He has only ever loved Yasmin.” I somersault forward. My feet connect with her lower abdomen. She lurches but stays on her feet.

“I am the kindred. No one, especially not Yasmin’s daughter, will steal my rank from me.”

She swings, but I am so startled by her words that I do not duck. Her right fist connects with my chin, and her left fist drives into my belly. I double over, robbed of breath. She locks an arm around my head.

“You didn’t know.” She punches me in the side, crunching my rib cage. “The second I saw the dead infant boy next to Yasmin’s body, I knew he wasn’t hers.”

Lakia knees me in the face. I fall on all fours, my nose gushing blood. She kicks me in the side. Pain shoots through my torso and into my lungs. Every breath is like inhaling shards of iron.

“The midwife said the child was a healthy girl when she fetched Tarek and me, but by the time we reached Yasmin’s room, the baby was a dead boy. The midwife claimed she was confused, but I knew she was lying. I could not be so fortunate as to lose my sister and Tarek’s heir.” She kicks my ribs again.

I roll onto my side, wheezing.

“I knew you would return,” she says, “and when you walked in looking like Yasmin, with your long hair”—she tugs my braid so hard that stars shoot across my vision—“I knew the time had come to defend what is mine.”

Lakia stomps on my forearm, where Natesa sliced me. My arm explodes with agony. The kindred shoves me onto my back and sits on my chest. I grunt under her weight.

“I told Tarek you are Yasmin’s daughter—his daughter—but he refused to listen.” Her knee digs into my side, pressing on the injured ribs. My head reels as though I am rolling downhill. “He refuses to see what is plainly before him, the lovesick fool.”

Lakia squeezes down on my windpipe, sealing off my air. I clutch her bare shoulders and try to push her off, but she is immovable. My chest burns for air. I burrow my fingers into her skin, reaching for her inner fire. I tug gently, threading out her light. Her fingers cramp, letting up on my neck, and I gasp a cleansing breath.

“If you’re right that I’m Yasmin’s daughter, you’re wrong about one thing.” I wrap my powers around Lakia’s soul-fire. She sags closer, her color graying. “I am not Tarek’s daughter. I am the daughter of a bhuta.”

I release her, and Lakia falls on her back, groaning. I straddle her hips and hold her down.

“Concede and I let you live. Speak a word about who I am and I will use your bones as kindling.”

Lakia spits at me. “Never.”

I place my hands on her face and push my inner fire into her. Her eyes go wide, the rims drying. Her lips crack, the skin peeling. My hands tremble from the effort of holding back the full force of my powers.

“Concede.”

I cannot push any more fire into her without scorching her, but I hold her as close to my blazing inner flame as possible.

Still, she does not relent. She stinks of singed hair, and her skin goes papery. My fingers start to glow. I have to pull back, or I will kill her, and everyone will see what I am.

“Concede,” I half plead, half demand.

Lakia nods in surrender.

I shove myself off her and rise to the people’s applause. Dizziness pummels me. I bend forward and clutch my knees. My head pulses with a headache of sharp needles digging into my eyes. I shut them and beg for unconsciousness to come.

“Behind you!” Natesa shouts.

I turn to see Lakia flying at me with a dagger. I grab her wrist and grapple against her. My legs quake, and I sink under her might. She steadily lowers the pointed tip toward my jugular. I have no powers left to parch her. The effort it took to restrain myself from scorching her has depleted my fuel, lowering my soul-fire to shrunken warmth.

My knees meet the dirt. Ki, help me.

Lakia looms over me, lowering her face to mine. The tip of the knife pricks my throat, releasing a warm stream of blood down my neckline. “Time for you to join Yasmin.”

And Jaya and Deven.

I am tempted to let her end this, to let her send me to the Beyond with those I love, but I will not go yet. I cannot leave this life until I finish my godly purpose.

I reach inside myself for the last of my dwindling strength, and I push back at Lakia. I straighten and slam my forehead into hers, stunning her. Then I twist the blade around and plunge it into her chest.

Lakia’s eyes bulge. My own eyes brim with tears. Her blood seeps around our hands between us, hot and slick. If her words were true, she is more than the rajah’s kindred. She is my kindred. My mother’s sister. The last of my family.

She pitches forward. I catch her and totter to my knees, laying her on her back. She rasps, her breaths loosening to watery rattles, and then she breathes no more.

Roaring ovations drift over me. I look up at the imperial box and see Tarek clapping hardest. Lakia would be devastated to see him applaud her defeat. All she had ever wanted was for him to love her, to be his one and only. His true kindred.

I sit heavily beside the fallen rani. Resting my hand on her still chest, I send up a prayer of thanks to the gods for sparing my life. I have gotten what I came for. I am to wed the monster of the Tarachand Empire. I am to be the rajah’s one hundredth queen.

33

A string of applause accompanies our return procession to the palace. I wave from Tarek’s and my howdah at the people cheering my name. Though I have claimed the throne and won the rank of kindred, a feat no other viraji has accomplished, I quickly tire of the praise. I am numb to the complimentary racket by the time Tarek escorts me to my chamber door.

“Tomorrow at sunset you will be mine forevermore,” he says, running his fingers through my hair.

Sourness coats my mouth. I am haunted by Lakia’s revelation about who I am. I want to discount her story of a disappearing baby as the rant of a jealous woman, but her conviction that I am Yasmin and Tarek’s daughter seemed to be the crux of her hatred. She died believing it to be true.

But Yasmin was not a bhuta, and neither is Tarek. So if Yasmin is my mother, then my father must have passed on his bhuta powers to me.

Still, I could be Tarek’s daughter if he is a bhuta and has been concealing his powers. I have been hiding mine from him, and he could be doing the same.

A storm of nausea swirls in my belly. Until I know who my parents are, there is a chance Lakia is right. I could be Tarek’s flesh and blood.

“I—I must lie down,” I say. I bid Tarek farewell and hurry into my room.

Bile burns in my throat. I run past Asha to the washbasin and empty my stomach until all that is left are dry heaves. Asha cleans my face and helps me to my bed.

A healer bandages my forearm and binds my middle with downy cloth. “Two of your ribs are broken. I will advise the rajah to leave the bandage on.”

Mortification warms my face. The healer means for me to wear this bandage on my wedding night. The idea of being with Tarek in such an intimate way was already disgusting to me, but now that he could be my father, I want to retch and retch until the thought is in me no more.

The healer packs up and goes. Asha dresses me in a robe like the one I wore to the Claiming.

“You are to go to the chapel for your bridal markings,” she says.

I can find my own way, but Manas and another guard follow close at my heels. I ignore Manas, hardly able to endure his presence or the reminder of his betrayal.

He clears his throat at the chapel door. “Congratulations, Viraji,” he says.

I slam him into the wall, pain lashing down my side. “Traitor,” I say. “Do not speak to me.”

“Deven was the traitor.”

“Deven was good.” I shove Manas tighter into the wall. His eyes shine with tears. “Deven was better than you or I will ever be.”

Exhaustion drains my temper, and my hands fall, letting him go. The second guard lowers his sword, which I did not see him draw. The palace residents must be aware of my failed escape, but Tarek would like to pretend that it did not happen, like Deven never existed.

Three sisters I do not know wait for me in the chapel. Per their directions, I disrobe and lie facedown on the blanketed altar. They come forward with clay pots and thin-tipped brushes. I lie still, smelling the pungent tang of henna. They tickle swirling patterns of celestial glories on my arms and across my back. The sisters work through the night, their gentle hands and softly hummed prayers lulling me into a daze.

In my wakeful moments, Lakia’s claims about my parentage dominate my thoughts. I try not to dwell on it, but the possibility that I am preparing to wed my father consumes me with horror. I need to know if Tarek is my father. And if he is . . . I swallow another upsurge of nausea. I will deal with that if it comes.

At daybreak, my hands, feet, arms, and legs are covered with intricate designs of the sun, moon, and stars. The sisters also painted the number one onto the back of my hands. Now that I defeated Lakia, her rank of first wife belongs to me. They rub away the dried henna, revealing the dyed skin beneath, and re-dress me in my robe. I sit down on the altar, cradling my sore side, and send them to fetch Brother Shaan under the guise of wanting a blessing.

While I await his arrival, I try not to let my sight stray to the place where Jaya died, but my attention settles there, and I see that her blood has been scrubbed clean. She would warn me not to let my mind wander to dark places, but I cannot shake her death from my head.

Brother Shaan comes in and shuts the door.

I meet his gaze. “Lakia told me I’m Yasmin and Tarek’s daughter. If that’s true, I can’t figure out how I came to be a temple ward. But I think you know.”

“Healer Baka said you would piece it together.” He crosses the chapel to the altar. “She requested that I tell you, but I swore never to speak of it.”

“Tell me what Healer Baka has to do with this. I deserve the truth.”

Brother Shaan sits beside me on the altar and expels a profound sigh. “I suppose you do.” He clasps his weathered hands in front of him. “You are not Tarek’s daughter.”

A relieved breath whooshes out of me. “Whose daughter am I?”

“Yasmin and Kishan’s.”

The quiet echo of his answer drops through me. So Lakia was partly correct. I am Yasmin’s daughter, but Lakia’s jealousy blinded her to what everyone else could see; Yasmin loved Kishan, the bhuta leader she tried to escape with. Yasmin was carrying Kishan’s baby, not a boy or Tarek’s heir, as many supposed. A little girl and a Burner, like her father.

“Then tell me.” My small voice grows. “How did I come to be a temple ward?”

“Two people were present the night Yasmin died. Healer Baka, who was a midwife then, and me. Yasmin was sick during her pregnancy. Mortals do not fare well birthing bhuta children, and they often do so at the price of their own lives. When Yasmin heard of Kishan’s death, her fragile body could not take the news. We tried to slow her labor, but she was too distraught. She delivered a healthy baby girl. But the birth depleted Yasmin’s strength beyond repair. Soon after, in the midst of begging us to hide her daughter from the rajah, she passed away.”

Heartache bludgeons me. I have heard others speak of Yasmin, and I have seen her tomb, but I have not mourned her death until now. She was my mother, yet I will never meet her. Her last words were pleas for my safety, yet I will never hear her voice.

Brother Shaan’s elderly face bears every line of his grief. “Healer Baka had delivered a stillborn boy earlier that night, so we replaced Yasmin’s daughter with the deceased baby boy. I took the infant girl and hid her in the Vanhi Temple. When she was old enough to travel, I sent her to the farthest Sisterhood temple from here. And Healer Baka went along, to watch over her—over you.”

I am staggered by the number of secrets that he and Healer Baka kept. All this time, Healer Baka knew of my parentage. Brother Shaan knew as well. But it was Lakia who told me. She was more honest with me than those I trusted.

“Why didn’t Healer Baka tell me?”

“To protect you and honor Yasmin’s final request, we never spoke of your true identity to anyone. When I first learned you were coming here, I was distraught. Healer Baka and I worked so hard to keep you safe. But the gods directed you here for a purpose.” His voice drops to a coarse whisper. “Hastin means to seize the palace as soon as you recover the Zhaleh. He’s waiting outside the walls with twenty bhutas, ready to strike.”

My patience has been filed down to a stub. I need another day to recover from the tournament and reflect on what I have learned about my parents, but there is no stopping the wedding. I would be less averse to proceeding tonight if I trusted Hastin, but I do not trust him any more than I do Tarek, and I see no way to stop the bhuta warlord from attacking. All that I can do is fulfill my side of our bargain and pray that he does not escalate the war.

“Tell him to wait for my signal,” I say. “I will light the torches on the front gate, and then he may come. Not a second before. We will start the new future of Tarachand with peace.”

“I will tell him.” Brother Shaan studies the fresh henna markings on my hands and feet. “What will you do?”

“My part.” I strategized for this night in the dungeons. Still, regardless of my forethought, my fingers quake with worry.

“You are aware that the rajah’s chambers were built with the same bhuta-repellent poison as the dungeons?”

“I am aware.” I have not forgotten how I lost my abilities when I entered the atrium, but I will not face Tarek defenseless.

Brother Shaan pats my knee for support. “Remember, as soon as you see the Zhaleh, do not delay. The rajah mustn’t begin the ritual.” He glances to the chapel door, which Asha is opening. “Our time is spent,” he says. “I will see you soon at your wedding.”

The next day, after I have spent hours being groomed from crown to foot, Asha tucks an exquisite gold-embroidered red sari around my waist.

“I have never seen a lovelier sari,” I say, touching the stitching.

“The rajah requested that you wear it,” Asha says, pleating the embroidered side. “It was his first wife’s bridal sari.”

I watch my staid reflection in the mirror glass as she finishes pleating, pinning, and draping the sari around me. Before today, hearing that I was to wear Yasmin’s wedding sari would have spoiled the pretty clothes. Now I am grateful to have something that belonged to my mother, to be close to her in some small part.

I lost Yasmin’s daggers and my slingshot the night of my attempted escape. I wish that I had them, but even if I did, I would have nowhere to conceal them. The fitted pleats of her exquisite bridal sari allow no room for weapons.

As a final touch, Asha adds Yasmin’s necklace. I stare into the mirror glass at the living spirit of my mother, wondering how she would kill Tarek if she were in my place.

Another servant enters, bearing a velvet pouch. “The rajah sent this for the viraji.”

She and Asha watch me open the pouch to reveal a jar. I unscrew the top, and the scent of the ginger-lavender lotion escapes.

My insides slope to my knees. Once again, Tarek is pushing Yasmin on me. Is it not enough that I dress like her? I must smell like her too?

I set the gift aside. “Asha, I would like to be alone.”

“Right away, Viraji.” She and the other servant leave.

Kneeling beside my bed, I dig my arm beneath my mattress, up to my shoulder, and pull out my last tonic vial, as well as the ointment Jaya gave me. Poison does not have the same comforting feel in my hand as a blade, but its secretiveness makes it deadlier.

I tuck the tonic vial down the front of my blouse, and then Parisa and Eshana bustle in. I stash away Jaya’s ointment in the pouch with the lotion. A contingency plan, should my other efforts fail.

“Kali, you’re a vision!” says Eshana.

Parisa rubs the hem of my sleeve. “This is the lightest silk I have ever felt. My bridal sari wasn’t half as elegant.”

“You weren’t half as favored either,” says Eshana.

Parisa cuffs her in the side of the head with my flimsy veil.

Asha hurries in, her gaze apologetic for the interruption. I am not annoyed. I have not spoken to the chatty duo in days. Their prattle is welcome.

“Everyone is talking about your performance in the arena,” Eshana says as she preens at herself in the mirror glass. “We all agree you embodied the land-goddess. You were a true sister warrior.”

“No one is sad Lakia is gone,” adds Parisa. “The mood of the wives’ wing is brighter. All of us will get along better without her.”

Eshana abandons her reflection to face me. She places my veil over the lower half of my face, hooking it behind my ears. “The rank tournaments are in the past now. With all of Tarek’s ranis claimed, and you as our kindred, we can live in peace.”

Their outlook is encouraging but leaves a bitter aftertaste. So many died to reach this point. I hope with all my heart that their sacrifice was not in vain.

Shyla sweeps into the room and clasps her hands. “Kalinda, you look breathtaking! Do you have everything you need? You won’t return to your chamber tonight.”

“Yes.” I hand Asha the velvet pouch containing the lotion and Jaya’s ointment. “Can you take this to the rajah’s chamber? He favors the scent.”

Parisa reaches for the pouch. “What is it?”

“Can we smell?” asks Eshana.

Shyla loops her arms around Parisa’s and Eshana’s waists and steers them toward the door. “Let that be Kalinda’s secret, at least for tonight.”

I trail the giggling young women out of my chamber, the smooth tonic vial buried deep in my bodice. I doubt that every secret is deadly, but I fear that those are the only secrets I will ever know.

34

In comparison to the tournament, the wedding is a humble affair. We exchange vows on the terrace at the rear of the palace, overlooking the gardens. Brother Shaan officiates, and Tarek gazes at me adoringly through the nuptials. I look down, lifting my chin as I swear to the gods that I will willingly submit to my husband in all things. That is the only promise that I am required to make. I will break it by day’s end.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, Tarek and I lead his wives and courtesans inside to the throne room. It has been set up to look like the tournament feast, but the tables are absent of the young faces who died trying to see this day as a bride. I should thank the gods I am not one of them, but my heart seeps only grief.

Tarek—I refuse to think of him as my husband—and I kneel at a table on the dais. Lithophone players strike a lively song of celebration. The wives take turns laying tokens at my feet: lip stain, silk, perfumes, but mostly veils. After tonight, I will be obligated to wear a veil in public too.

“Welcome, sister,” the ranis say. As part of their offerings, they kiss my knee to show they bend to my authority as kindred.

Tarek drinks beside me, draining a full chalice of apong. I want to slip my tonic into his cup, but I have to delay until I see the book. I do not like relying solely on poison. I want a weapon with a blade, a defense that cuts. I scan the tables for supper knives, but I see none. My hands curl in on themselves. Tarek must have learned from Gautam’s death.

The rajah twirls a finger in my hair. “Traditionally, the wife dances for her husband.”

I wore my mother’s bridal sari for him, I swore to obey him, but I will not dance for him.

“Perhaps the groom can dance for the bride?”

“Will it bring a smile to your face?” Tarek’s hand creeps up my knee.

My frown deepens in dissention. “Maybe.”

“Then I will try.” Tarek stands and invites his other wives to join him.

Parisa and Eshana rise and spin with him, clapping their hands to the beat. Mathura sits off to the side, with her bad leg resting on a chair, and smokes a hookah pipe. She does not come forward with a gift or to offer congratulations. I do not expect her to.

Natesa approaches my table and lays a veil at my feet. Yatin watches her from the doorway. I have missed him since he was reassigned. “For you,” she says of her gift.

“You’re still here.”

“So are you.” She eyes me curiously. “I have known you many years, Kalinda. You are not the type to submit to a man.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Natesa sits on the satin floor cushion beside me. “Tarek will not hand out pensions, so only a few of the courtesans have requested to leave. This life is not much, but most agree it is better to work in the palace than be destitute in the city.”

I should not be troubled by their decision to stay; most of these courtesans did not challenge me in an effort to improve their lives. But I loathe the idea of Natesa remaining a slave to the rajah’s men of court. “You could request to rejoin the Sisterhood,” I say. “They may make an exception for you.”

“That is another kind of submission.” Natesa plucks at a loose thread on her skirt. “I would like to open an inn, but women innkeepers are not respected. No one would come.”

“I would,” I say. Natesa’s eyes mist with tears. I lighten the mood by laying my leg on her lap. “Are you going to kiss my knee?”

She pushes my leg off playfully, her tears forgotten, and we laugh.

Tarek returns to our table and grins at me. “There’s that smile. Ready to go, love?”

My powers flare at the threat of being alone with him. I stomp them down with a nod.

Natesa hugs me. “Be careful,” she whispers. I force a smile of thanks, pretending that she congratulated me, and rise to leave with Tarek.

Ranis and courtesans toss out prayers as we pass by. Most utter pleas to the land-goddess, asking her to bless us with fertility. I counteract their wishes with a prayer of my own. Please, Anu, grant me the strength to end Tarek before he touches me.

Several guards wait outside the rajah’s bedchamber. We pause at the door, and one of them pats me down for hidden weapons. My pulse soars when the soldier’s hands rise to my bust, skimming the tonic vial.

“Ah, ah, ahh,” Tarek says, stopping the guard. “Save something for me.”

His other guards chuckle, and my face flushes hot.

Tarek and I step inside his chamber, and my powers instantly diminish to a sleepy ember beneath a dusting of ash. I eye the room for a weapon, but there is nothing useful. Even the oil lamps are of no help; they are tall and up high and too heavy for me to pick up and swing at his head.

I am relieved to find the velvet pouch with the lotion he gave me on the corner of the canopy bed, which is twice the size of mine. Behind the bed, from floor to ceiling, hangs a tapestry of Anu. The sky-god sits atop the sun, sharpening his blade of light on the sun’s rays. Opposite the bed, an immense balcony overlooks the desert night and darkened city skyline. The room and the view are stunning, but the person I am sharing them with would just as likely bruise my jaw as kiss my cheek.

“Would you like a drink?” Tarek says, pouring me a cup of wine from a serving tray on a console table.

I take the chalice and sip. “Won’t you join me?” I say.

He unbuttons his jacket collar. “I have had enough spirits tonight.”

I try for a persuasive smile. “It’s our wedding night. When better to overindulge?”

“I will indulge later.” Tarek skims a finger across my jaw. “The best is yet to come.”

I frown at my wine, and he steps over to his bureau. He pulls out a book and a small oil vessel, setting them by the drink tray. The brass vessel is small; I could easily slip it into my pocket. The book has an old, weathered leather cover with a waxen string binding. I dare not look at them long, but I know what they are: the Zhaleh, and Tarek’s collection of a thousand drops of bhuta blood.

“You enraged me in the dungeons,” he states without ire.

“Forgive me.” My voice emerges scratchy. “I was distraught.”

A storm brews in his eyes. “Over him?”

“Over my friend. May I earn your forgiveness?” I lift my chalice. “Let us drink to a new beginning.”

“A thoughtful gesture, but no.” He flashes a predatory grin. “I wish to be lucid for my night alone with you.”

I smile faintly. He has rendered the tonic hidden in my bodice useless by not drinking. I need time to think. My gaze falls on the lotion that Asha left on the bed. I pick up the velvet pouch and show it to him. “Your gift.”

Tarek leaves the Zhaleh and the oil vessel and returns to me. He lowers the shoulder of my blouse. My heart drums in warning. “Ginger lavender. Yasmin’s favorite.” He bends and kisses my collarbone. My repugnance is so strong that I nearly swallow my tongue. He relieves me of my chalice and drops his voice to a husky drawl. “Would you like help undressing?”

“I—I can manage.”

I slide behind the dressing screen and resist the urge to beat the barrier with my fists. What an infuriating man! Tarek has been a drunkard nearly every day I have been here, but now he will not take even a sip. I breathe slowly, willing myself to reorganize my thoughts. As fortune would have it, his lotion has supplied me precious time to think. With shaking hands, I open the pouch.

The small ointment bottle Jaya gave me falls out. My contingency plan.

Holding up the ointment bottle, I replay what Jaya told me about the poison. A single dab on her lips gave Gautam a headache, but she also suffered the effects. Her ointment must be more potent than my tonic, but I have never been exposed to this toxin, so I cannot say how it will affect me. Perhaps if I rub it in my hair before Tarek touches it . . .

I open the ointment bottle and dip one strand of my hair in it. The poison immediately changes the color, fading the strand to fair blond. I grind my teeth in frustration and pluck out the hair. I cannot spread the ointment in my tresses without Tarek noticing.

My gaze falls to the jar of lotion. If one dab of the ointment is harmful, the whole bottle could be lethal. Quick as can be, I pour the ointment into the lotion, mix it in with a makeup brush, and reseal the jar.

“Are you certain you don’t need a hand?” asks Tarek.

“Almost done.”

I discard my mother’s bridal sari, blouse, and petticoat and then unwind the bandage around my sore ribs. I stash the unused tonic vial inside my clothes and step out from behind the screen with nothing but the lotion jar.

Tarek has removed his jacket and tunic. I am disturbed yet pleased to see him bare chested. We must touch skin-to-skin to transfer the poison.

He saunters over to me, his gaze eating up my nakedness. I would be ashamed of using my body to entice him, except that I am his wife. I feel no dishonor in exploiting his weakness for flesh. On behalf of every woman he has terrorized, on behalf of my mother and Jaya, on behalf of myself—I will end his reign.

Tarek strokes my hair. “You are exquisite.”

I struggle against the urge to cover myself and open the lotion jar. He sniffs the sweet scent and smiles a boyish grin. He scoops up a generous handful and smooths it down my back. The toxins tingle as they bleed into my pores. If Tarek notices the warm sensation, he does not say so. He moves on to my arms and then my chest, covering the henna markings with the oily lotion. He reaches my torso and slides his hands gently over my injured ribs. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, sucking my teeth against the flare of pain in my side. My bare arms seek his skin, and our chests press together. The lotion is slick between us as more of it transfers to him.

Tarek kisses below my ear. “You smell like paradise.”

He buries his face in my neck. My vision blurs, and my heart thumps as fast as a rabbit’s. I can feel the poison slithering inward, branching out into my veins. But I am not afraid. Death has snapped at my heels for weeks. Should the gods will it so, it will be a relief to pass into the Beyond.

Tarek lifts me and carries me to his bed. He lies tucked behind me, cradling me to him. I feel his lips on my neck as his hands explore the length of me. Sweat beads along my spine. With each inhalation, my lungs constrict.

Did Jaya know that it would come to this? She was always one step ahead of me. I would not doubt that she foresaw that my path would lead me to this end.

A midnight wind ruffles the balcony curtains. Growing light-headed, I incline toward Tarek. We lie pressed together, the lethal lotion spreading between us. His fingers stroke my hip, his steady caress in rhythm with my banging temples.

Tarek’s breaths run ragged in my ear. He clutches my hip with sudden force. “What have you done to me?” he says.

I do not answer.

He rolls me onto my back and presses me down. Redness blotches his face and neck. “What have you done?”

A sheen of sweat covers his forehead. His gaze loses focus and then sharpens again. His eyes stretch in understanding.

Tarek pushes off me and sits at the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands.

“You’re like her in every way. Cunning. Beautiful. Treacherous. Unfaithful.”

I kneel behind him and flatten my front to his bare back, sealing what is left of the poison onto him. “I have done nothing Yasmin would not do.”

He flings me off with his failing strength. The mattress cushions my fall, but the drop leaves me dizzy.

He stands and staggers for the Zhaleh. I order my weakening limbs to follow and trip forward into him. We stumble together against the wall.

Tarek holds me loosely, petting my cheek. “I waited so long for you. So very long.”

My sight hazes to streaming colors. I prop against him for support, but he cannot handle my weight. We crash to the floor, tipping over the serving table. The Zhaleh and the oil vessel fall with us, knocked out of reach.

“You were suffocating me. You suffocated her.” I tug at my cramping throat. Every breath thrashes across my ribs.

His chest heaves for a saving breath. “I would have loved you too.”

“Your love is toxic. You hurt everyone you care for.” My arms can bear my weight no more. I slump beside him. The walls and ceiling spin relentlessly. Heaviness rams me down, down, down into the floor.

“Yasmin.” Tears trickle from his eyes, trained on my face. “I never stopped loving you, Yasmin. I only ever . . . ever wanted you to return my love.” His whispered regret saps the last drop of his strength, and his eyes wash of life.

My heart races too fast to catch. Half breaths struggle to live inside me. I start to blink, and my eyelids remain closed.

Jaya . . . Deven . . . come for me.

An errant wind howls in from the balcony, tugging at my hair and cooling my flushed skin. I crack open an eyelid. Flashes of lightning emblaze the storm-strewn sky. A growl rises up from the land, rocking the ground beneath me. Rain begins to pour with abandon. Stray droplets patter into the chamber, promising relief.

Hauling myself to my elbows, I crawl toward the balcony. If I can reach the rain, the water will wash me clean. Go. Don’t stop. Go. Don’t—

My endurance gives way just inside the door. Fuzziness fogs my sight. I gasp, my throat grasping for nothing. There is no air. Rolling onto my back, I feel numbness creeping into my bones, filling them with emptiness.

Vibrations rise up through the floor. Ricocheting raindrops ping my face, begging me to try one last time.

On a groundswell of determination, I drag myself through the doorway and collapse in the purity of a new desert rain. Hail and wind lash down, drenching my hair and gathering like dew on my cheeks. I lure in a precious breath. Then another. Shutting my eyes, I watch as the banked embers of my ever-blazing soul awaken to a single perfect light. I latch on to that inner star with the entirety of my being—and I burn.

35

“Kali, can you hear me?” The darkness speaks with a voice that sounds like Deven’s. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s been poisoned.”

Brac?

“I must burn the toxins out of her, or she will die,” the second voice says.” Hands are placed against my stomach. “Kali, this may hurt.”

The voice drifts away, and I am engulfed in the infernos of everlasting destruction. I gasp and writhe against the pain, willing the agonizing heat to quell to a sweet buzz. Soon, but not soon enough, the purifying powers of fire will scrub me clean from the inside out and expel the barbs of Jaya’s poison from my body. But right now my inner light blazes high, raging with the ferocity of a wildfire. The fire is too hot, too close. I cannot escape.

Just as I am convinced that I will be consumed by the flames, those same cleansing hands reach into me and draw out the excess heat, dimming my soul-fire to an ideal smolder.

I open my eyes to lightning crackling overhead, fire bolts chased by roaring thunder that rattles my teeth. My vision clears, and I see Deven leaning over Brac. Both are kneeling in the rain.

“Are you all right?” Deven asks his brother.

Brac’s face is flushed. He drops his head in his hands. “I will be. Take care of her.”

Deven drapes a robe over me and crouches down. Rain is streaming off his nose. His face is bruised and swollen in spots, but no longer bloody. “You gave me a scare,” he says to me.

I clutch his arm and sense the warmth of his flesh, and then I probe deeper, to the flicker of his soul-fire. He is real.

I throw my arms around him. “They told me you were dead.”

“I thought you were dead too.” Deven gathers me close. I inhale his familiar sandalwood scent. “Brac dragged me out of the river and took me to Hastin. The Aquifier healed me, but then they locked us in the temple cellar. Brother Shaan freed us.”

“But Tarek said they found your body.”

“Hastin feigned my death. He thought you would be more motivated to win the tournament if I was gone.”

“That liar.” I was motivated to win the tournament after losing Deven and Jaya, but that does not justify Hastin’s manipulation or scheming.

Deven helps me inside. The rajah’s bed has been pushed away from the wall. Sitting at the end of the mattress, I shove my arms through the robe and tie it around my waist. Tarek is splayed on the floor. I expected to hate him even in death, but I feel only emptiness.

Deven strokes my back. “Brother Shaan told us about what you did in the arena. I wish I had been there to see you win.”

“It’s over.” I rest against him, still unable to believe that he is here. “I will never set foot in an arena again.”

Brac rises on the balcony with painstaking care and walks inside. Deven helps him sit beside me. I was delirious from the toxins, but I remember what he did.

“How did you know I had been poisoned?”

“I could feel the toxins smothering your inner fire. Fortunately, my powers were able to purify you, or that amount of poison would have done you in. Unfortunately, now I’m feeling the toxin’s effects.”

“Thank you.” I hug Brac and see a book near his feet. “The Zhaleh,” I say.

Brac bends over the book. “Looks like a regular text,” he says, but he does not pick it up.

A rumble shudders the walls, surging up from the floor. I stare out past the balcony at the wide-open palace gates.

“The rebels are inside the palace.” Deven takes my hand. “Leave the book, and let’s go.”

“No,” I say, pulling away from him. “Hastin has lied to us at every turn. He faked your death and defied my order to not attack until after I lit the torches on the front gate. Until Tarek’s heir is instated, Hastin will have complete command. If we give him the book, we give him the empire.”

“If we take the book, he will hunt us.”

Deven’s quiet warning holds a question: Do I want to provoke the bhuta warlord? I could wipe my hands of the war and what becomes of the empire. I have done what the gods asked of me. Tarek is dead, and I have bought my freedom. But what is freedom without peace of mind? I cannot leave the fate of the empire in the hands of the warlord.

“We take the Zhaleh,” I say. “I won’t exchange the reign of one monster for another.”

Brac looks to Deven for advice about what to do. What I ask of them is no mere task. None of us will have any rest until we locate Prince Ashwin and see that he and Hastin negotiate a conclusion to this war.

Deven places a supportive hand on the small of my back. “We follow the rani.” His words soak deep within me and fill me with appreciation. I trail a careful finger across his bearded jaw. He kisses my lips and whispers, “My happiness is with you.”

“Can you two save that for later?” Brac says. He shoves the Zhaleh and the oil vessel into his satchel, wincing at the vial of blood.

Deven leads me behind the bed, which has been pulled away from the wall. The rumbling grows closer, slapping over wine bottles and driving fractures into the ceiling.

Brac hurries over. “That’s our signal to run like the demon Kur is after us.”

Deven lifts the tapestry of Anu. A lit torch waits in the passageway. Brac plucks the torch from the wall, and Deven takes my hand. We chase after Brac, staying in the surrounding puddle of torchlight. The tunnel quivers. Chunks of dirt fall from the ceiling and the walls.

Deven drops my hand. “Run!”

I sprint after him. Clods of dirt plunge down around us, and swirling dust obscures the grayish tunnel opening. As Brac hurtles through a curtain of raining rocks, the torch is smacked from his hand. The tunnel seals closed behind us, crushed under the weight of fallen land. We roll downhill, away from the spray of soil, coming to a stop near the riverbank.

Before I can rise, a quake carries up from the ground. I look up and see Hastin reopening the blocked tunnel with an explosive rumble. Three figures step out from the dissipating dirt cloud.

“Go!” I shout at Brac.

He runs into the river with his satchel held above his head, out of the water. Deven and I scramble after him, but a powerful gust of wind blasts us back. We land hard, my broken ribs feeling most of the crash. I shield my eyes from the contrived wind and peer up at Hastin. Anjali and Indira stand behind him.

Anjali lets up on her punishing air draft. She walks without a limp; Indira must have healed her injured leg. I stand, holding my aching side. Deven grips the hilt of his sword. Brac is out of sight, downriver, away and safe with the Zhaleh.

“Disarm them,” Hastin orders.

Anjali pats me down, and Indira takes Deven’s sword. Finally, they step back.

“Where is the Zhaleh?” Hastin asks.

“The rajah is dead,” I reply flatly. “I fulfilled my bargain.”

“The bargain was for the book.”

“You don’t want the Zhaleh for peace,” says Deven. “You want it for retribution.”

“I want the empire to pay for what it has done to my people.”

The cavern reflects the warlord’s temper. Stones from the gradient tumble down in a rocky sluice and splash into the river behind us.

“Your father would be ashamed of you, Kalinda,” Hastin says. At my narrowing gaze, he says, “Yes, I know you’re Kishan’s daughter.”

I glower at him in thanks for yet another deception. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t need to know to agree to our bargain. Everything has a price. The question is, are you willing to pay?” Hastin’s expression hardens to granite. “Kishan kept a journal,” he says. “I will give it to you in exchange for the Zhaleh.”

My breath snags in surprise. My father.

“The final passages were written during his time with Yasmin. He speaks of her and the child she carried.”

My heart overflows with yearning to read what my father wrote about me and my mother.

Hastin tilts his head back with a knowing smile. He has something that I want very, very badly. “Tell me where the Zhaleh is, and the journal is yours.”

“Kali?” Deven’s voice carries a caution.

I should not bargain with the warlord. I cannot trust him. But I want that journal.

Anjali tips her ear, listening to far-off noises the rest of us cannot hear. “Father . . . soldiers.”

“Kalinda, do we have a bargain?” asks Hastin.

Pangs of longing to know my parents run deep, but Hastin has manipulated me at every turn. I cannot allow the fate of the empire to teeter upon his word. “No,” I say.

Above us, Manas and a host of imperial guards pour into the cavern.

“Change her mind,” Hastin says to Anjali, and then he faces the oncoming soldiers and stamps his foot. Upon impact, the cavern walls quake. Rocks drop in succession from the ceiling, crushing several guards.

Anjali pulls out a chakram disk and aims the blade at Deven. My vision channels to red-hot rage. I throw my hands open and cast my inner fire at her. A blast of heat shoves Anjali and Indira off their feet.

“Go!” I yell to Deven.

We leap into the chilly river and swim downstream side by side, each stroke moving us farther from Hastin. Then, without warning, the current changes direction. Clutching each other, we are dragged back toward land by the water’s almighty fist. There, Indira stands in the riverbed up to her shins. She is directing the riptide.

Behind the Aquifier, Anjali whips up a wind and sends it tearing toward the soldiers. A cyclone picks up a handful of guards and lifts them high, high, higher—and then drops them. Their terror-filled shrieks sound over the gushing waters. They hit the ground, and there is silence.

My toes touch the silt river bottom. Deven stands beside me. I hold fast to him, and we fight the pull of the water, but our legs are stone. The sediment begins to disappear beneath us, drawn away by the current, and we are lured closer to Indira.

Manas runs down the riverbank and hits Indira from the side, throwing her to dry ground. The Aquifier loses her dominance over the river, and the water relaxes around us. Deven and I swim to deeper waters. The river resumes its ancient course, and we are carried away until the soldiers and the bhutas are out of sight.

The cavern opens to gray skies, and the waterway pushes us through the city and to placid waters in the desert.

“Deven! Kali!” calls Brac.

Deven and I meet him on the shore. We splay on the wet sand, teeth chattering and limbs wilted. I rest my head on Deven’s chest and match my breathing to the cadence of his sturdy heartbeat. My anger against Manas eases with each weary breath. I never want to see him again, but I will be forever grateful that he helped us get away.

“We have company,” says Brac.

I sit up on my elbows and see a caravan approaching in the moonlight. An imperial guard leads a procession of four camels; two veiled women ride atop one. My worries flee when I recognize the guard.

Yatin dismounts his camel first and then helps Natesa down. She greets me with a fierce hug. “Mathura invited me to come.”

“I’m glad she did,” I say to her. I smile at Yatin. “Good to see you too.”

The burly soldier grabs me in his arms. “Ribs,” I croak, and he releases me with a sheepish blush.

Deven helps his mother dismount. Brac shuffles over to them, his head down. Mathura’s eyes gloss with tears.

“Mother,” Brac says, “I wanted to tell you—”

Mathura rests her palm against his cheek. “Brother Shaan told me everything.” She draws Brac in for a hug and then reaches for Deven and wraps one arm around him. “My boys. I’m so happy you’re all right.” She kisses their cheeks and holds them tighter.

Deven’s arms come around his mother and brother both. I smile a little to myself, pleased to see him united with his family.

“How did you know to meet us?” I ask Yatin.

“Brother Shaan warned Mathura of the attack after the wedding. I helped her and Natesa sneak out of the palace. I remembered the tunnels and thought you would take the river out.”

“You did well,” Brac says when he comes over to us. He claps Yatin on the back. “You’re even bigger than I remember, old friend.”

“And you’re smaller,” Yatin replies, smiling.

A slight quake shifts the sand beneath us, and then the overcast sky booms an echo of fury. Unease dispels our brief reunion; the warlord will be after us soon.

Deven eyes the gathering clouds. “We’ve lingered long enough.” He helps me onto one of the spare camels and climbs in front of me.

Brac, the satchel containing the Zhaleh slung over his shoulder, climbs onto the fourth camel, and our caravan ventures into the desert. Flashes of lightning brighten the sandy terrain. I look over my shoulder at the City of Gems. Thunderclouds encircle the hilltop, swathing the palace’s ivory walls in darkness.

A dry wind pelts my face with coarse sand. I loop my arms around Deven’s waist and press my cheek to his shoulder blade. We place our backs to the threatening storm and follow the jasmine moon across the dusty dunes.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A solemn hand rests over my heart in honor of my biggest supporters:

First and foremost, my husband, John, the best cohort a girl could ask for and the kindest man I know. I promise to save my finest words for you.

Our kiddos, Joseph, Julian, Danielle, and Ryan, you are the brightest spirits in the entire universe. Don’t ever doubt your divine potential.

My agent extraordinaire, Marlene Stringer, thank you for your endless hard work and dogged enthusiasm. I promise to write more stories that give you the chills. My editor and all-around captain, Jason Kirk, for your “Viva Kalinda” e-mail closings and bated breaths, you have my greatest appreciation for your support. My developmental editor, Clarence Haynes, with your keen eye for detail and unparalleled insightfulness, thanks for getting this story. And the whole Skyscape team, thank you for bringing me into your fold and giving my books a happy home.

These top-notch femme fatales deserve thanks: Kathryn Purdie, for nurturing this story from infancy and always knowing when I need a kick in the pants; Angie Cothran, for being my constant cheerleader; Erin Summerill, for your party van and open-ended invite to occupy your couch; Ilima Todd and Tricia Levenseller, for slogging through my early drafts; Veeda Bybee, for letting me tempt you to the dark side; Kate Coursey, for road trips and red-hot lips; my southern sweetheart, Deana Barnhart, for answering a desperate stranger’s e-mail; my brilliant agency sisters, Charlie N. Holmberg and Caitlyn McFarland; and Shaila Patel, for sharing your customs and memories. You are all goddesses.

Endless thanks to Rachel Brooks, for believing in me first, and to Cupid’s Literary Connection, for taking a chance on a novice. Caralee Flowers and Katie Ronning, thank you for our Sunday visits. Randy and Jessica Farr, thank you for talking books and movies over Diet Coke and shouting kids. Many thanks to my VIP writer friends: the Write Night group, the LDStorymakers clan, the Swanky Seventeens, and my blogging buddies, without whom this journey would have been oh so lonely.

Expressions of eternal gratitude to my mom and dad, for long years of cheering me on in faith; Eve, Sarah, and Stacey, who are kind of a big deal—I’m still waiting for us to take over the world; Ethan, for first introducing me to SF/F; my generous in-laws, Mike and Rita; and my growing family, which includes Beth, Jonathan, Steven, and Chris.

To my valiant readers, I claim you as champions.

And finally, for my loving God, I will never forget how I first met Kalinda and Rajah Tarek. Thanks for the inspiration and courage to find my way.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 Erin Summerill

Emily R. King is a reader of everything and a writer of fantasy. Born in Canada and raised in the USA, she has perfected the use of “eh” and “y’all” and uses both interchangeably. Shark advocate, consumer of gummy bears, and islander at heart, Emily’s greatest interests are her four children. She’s a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and an active participant in her local writers’ community. She lives in Northern Utah with her family and their cantankerous cat.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR