“Princess Gemi is lovely, but she isn’t you.” I replay my words and quickly cover my mouth. “Please don’t repeat that to the viraji.”
The formal term of endearment crowds my throat. I disliked the title when it was mine. It feels odd conferring it upon another.
“Repeat what?” Natesa answers, eyes twinkling. She picks up a comb and brushes my hair. “Don’t worry, Kali. Everyone knows you’re glad for them.”
“I am,” I say firmly.
Though Ashwin proposed marriage to me, I care for him as my cousin and friend. I support his decision to take the Southern Isles’ princess as his first wife. Gemi has a unique zest for life and a free spirit. The empire is in dire need of a leader with her forward-thinking views.
A crash outside draws Natesa to the balcony. She clucks her tongue and motions me to join her. Servants douse a grass fire in the garden below. A pair of girls flee into the trees.
“You didn’t make it to the dining hall in time,” says Natesa.
I rub at a mounting headache. “I had no idea two girls could be so much trouble.”
Servants extinguish the fire and resume their work. Past the palace wall, Vanhi has woken. Men crowd the roads with their burros and carts, headed to the marketplace that is shaded by a mosaic of lean-tos. Women hang laundry on the lines strung between the huts and milk goats. Children play in the side-winding river while their older siblings collect water in baskets. Life is on the move, ready for a new day. I could fall into bed until noon.
I scoop up my clothes and duck behind the dressing screen. Natesa prepleated the sari, but I fumble with the pins.
“Kalinda?” Her voice comes at me tentatively. “Would you like help?”
“No.”
A former rani who lost two fingers during her rank tournament taught me how to carry out everyday activities such as dressing and dining. By necessity, my left hand has become dominant and does well with the assistance of my prosthesis.
While pulling my sari over my shoulder, I drop a pin. Gods almighty.
Natesa hovers nearby, waiting for me to give in.
I select another pin and try again.
2
KALINDA
My trainees—Basma, age nine, and her seven-year-old sister, Giza—gaze up at me with their hands clasped in front of their bellies. Dirt dusts their sandaled feet and legs. Historically, the Vanhi amphitheater housed rank duels between sister warriors. Basma and Giza are sisters but are far from skilled fighters.
“Who threw the heatwave at Master Tinley?” I ask.
Basma’s stare does not waver from mine. “It was me.”
Giza lowers her chin. A sign of agreement? Or is she letting her older sister take the blame for her mistake?
Except for the finger length of height Basma has on Giza, the sisters are identical, with rounded faces and tiny underbites that become more pronounced when they hold back tears.
Tinley grumbles from across the arena, the tail end of her long silver braid singed. Indah, acting Aquifier instructor, soaked her down with water from the practice barrels. Neither woman needed much persuasion to stay in Vanhi and train our bhuta children, though right about now Tinley must be rethinking her decision. Indah and Pons, her partner, are content raising their baby girl here, and Tinley will seize any excuse not to go home to her parents and four younger sisters in Paljor. Though I have tried to figure out why, she has not provided any hints to her self-banishment.
Across the arena, Tinley returns to instructing the five Galer trainees, teaching them how to manipulate the sky and wind to their advantage. The archery target Basma missed remains untouched and will remain so for now.
“Practice looking for your inner star,” I tell my students. “Don’t open your eyes until you find the brightest one.”
While the girls look inward for the manifestation of the fire powers, I stride to Tinley’s section. Her apprentices push a massive granite block across the arena with their winds.
“I smell like charred yak meat,” she grumbles.
“More like roasted lamb,” Indah says.
Her five Aquifiers rest in the shade for a break. High above us, the benches that encircle the roofless amphitheater are empty. Even higher, on the rafters, the gongs glint in the late-morning sunshine and the Tarachandian red-and-black pennants lie slack without a breeze. We divided the oval arena into four equal parts. The bhuta children ages five to sixteen train in their respective sector.
A little over a moon ago, Brac petitioned Prince Ashwin on behalf of our bhuta youth. Accidents with their powers were occurring all over the empire. The half-god children with elemental abilities passed down through their parents’ bloodlines no longer lived in fear of execution but had no masters to train them. After one mishap led to a six-year-old Aquifier drowning in her village bathhouse, Brac gathered the bhuta children, mostly orphans, and converted the arena into a training ground. Princess Gemi, a Trembler, has agreed to instruct our four Tremblers once she arrives. In the meantime, Indah oversees them.
The Aquifier lifts her wavy hair and fans the back of her neck. She has slimmed down since birthing her baby, while her proportions have fluctuated. What stayed of her pregnancy weight redistributed to her curves.
“I thought winters in the desert were cooler,” she says. Perspiration shimmers across her golden-brown skin.
“This is cooler,” I reply. I watch my apprentices search inside themselves for their soul-fire. Neither seems able to find it.
“Are you going to leave them like that all day?” Indah asks.
“I would,” replies Tinley. She twirls a gust at a Galer boy who quit pushing the granite block. He scrambles to rejoin the others. Their massive rock reaches the arena wall, and she yells, “Next time finish faster!”
The children slump against the ground, panting.
“You should reward their progress,” Indah says.
Tinley examines her talonlike nails. “Compliments breed laziness. They must always be on guard.”
“Always be ready” is our training motto. My teaching style is less aggressive than Tinley’s. Brac taught me about my Burner abilities, and I had formal weapons training at the Sisterhood temple—all wards do. Jaya put in the longest hours with me. She was firm yet heartening during our sparring sessions.
I return to my students.
“Giza, stand against the wall. Basma, face me.” They both scurry to follow my orders. I set the archery target before Basma. “How many stars can you find?” She shuts her eyes again and counts. When she reaches twenty-two, I cut her off. “Let’s say thirty. When you come fully into your powers, you’ll raze and consolidate them into one inner star. Until then, you mustn’t let them overpower you. Without looking, hold out your hands.”
As my student obeys, Ashwin and Brac appear in the imperial box at the north end of the arena. My pulse trips into a sprint.
The prince looks just like his father.
That box is where Tarek supervised my rank tournament. I am still too susceptible to the memory that engulfs me.
Gooseflesh raises up and down my body. The Claiming chamber is cold. A blindfold conceals my sight from the benefactor looming behind the thin veil. I hear him step out and feel the heaviness of his gaze exploring my nakedness.
Patient, plodding footfalls come closer. I want to run, scream, cry. My chin stays high, my fingers curled. Hot, sour breaths drift across my cheek . . . neck . . . chest.
Fingers thread through my hair. The water-goddess’s symbol of obedience, a wave stained in henna down my spine, burns like blasphemy.
“This one.”
The echo of Tarek’s voice shatters my memory. I press my prosthesis over my charging heart. Ashwin abolished the Claiming, the rite that gave benefactors the power to take orphaned temple wards as servants, courtesans, or wives. We are in the early stages of establishing alternative futures for those girls, and ourselves, but the past is hard to release.
Ashwin’s arrival—not Tarek, Tarek is dead—stirs whispers from the trainees. The prince mentioned he might stop by to observe their improvement.