I do not believe him. Kali would not forget to arrange for our arrival. More likely than not, Prince Ashwin has taken a liking to her and is keeping her from us. Or keeping me from her.
“This is our procedure for all refugees,” says the vizier, his words crisp. “Civilians and military personnel are to reside in separate camps.”
“These aren’t camps,” Natesa says, glaring. “They’re prisons.”
Vizier Gyan sniffs his nose at her. “These arrangements are temporary, miss.” He signals to his men. “Take them inside.”
Natesa jerks away from a guard. Yatin plants his feet apart, preparing for a fight. My fingers go for my sword—but they confiscated it. Our chance of running and hiding in the jungle tree line across the way is too risky. I will not endanger Yatin or Natesa.
“Yatin,” I say. He hears my command in my colorless voice. Stand down.
“Do as they say, little lotus,” Yatin tells Natesa.
She places her palm on his wide chest. Though her touch is gentle, her eyes are hard. “Don’t let them mistreat you.”
“I won’t,” he promises.
Guards escort Natesa to the gate for the civilian encampment. Additional guards nudge Yatin and me toward the high walls of the compound. One of them throws out his hand, and a sudden wind unlatches the gate. The guard is a Galer. I spot a sky symbol on his yellow armband. The armbands must distinguish the elite bhuta guards from the regular soldiers.
Vizier Gyan leads us to an open quad amid rows of canvas tents. Loitering men quiet when they see us. All of them are from home, some having served under my command. They wear prison garb, plain brown tunics and flowing trousers. A younger man, four years shy of my twenty, stalks up to me.
“Manas,” I breathe. He was a fellow palace guard who served under my command. The last time I saw him, he was battling the rebels beneath the Turquoise Palace. “I thought you were—”
Manas punches me in the jaw. I fall back a step, and he strikes me again, his knuckles slamming into my cheekbone. Yatin grabs Manas by the back of the shirt and lifts him away. Manas hangs from Yatin’s hand like an infuriated kitten in its mother’s maw.
“Traitor!” Manas bellows. “You betrayed Rajah Tarek!”
Vizier Gyan steps between us. “What’s the trouble here?”
Yatin sets Manas on his feet, and Manas yanks his shirt from Yatin’s hold. “Ask Captain Naik,” he growls.
I glower back at him, my jaw and cheek burning.
“You’re a disgrace to the imperial army,” Manas says, spitting at my feet.
More caustic glares from the other men box me in. These soldiers were my comrades. Manas and I were friends. I thought he died in the rebel insurgence and I would never see him again. I ball my vibrating fists. If the vizier were not involved, I would strike Manas for betraying our friendship. He turned me in to the rajah.
“Detain Captain Naik until I confer with Prince Ashwin,” Vizier Gyan calls to his guards.
Yatin puffs out his gigantic frame to protect me, but I signal for him to bow out. He crosses his arms over his chest and lobs a disgruntled look at Manas.
Guards usher me across the yard to a windowless shack, shove me inside, and slam the door. The dark cell stinks of stale body odor and rotten moss. A ray of sunlight sneaks through the crack at the bottom of the door.
Traitor. My men think I should be dead. I strike the wall with my fist. In the wave of pain that carries up my arm, my shock and anger at seeing Manas dissolve to bleak acceptance. Try as I might, I cannot entirely fault him or the men for their resentment. I did betray our empire by breaking my oath to serve the rajah. My penalty was not absolved, only postponed. I could pound against the door, demand to speak with the prince, and plead with him for forgiveness, but he is within his right to discipline me. Gods know, disobedience has a cost. The sky is everywhere, and Anu’s justice sees all.
Laden with regret, I bow my head. I’ll face my dishonor with humility. Just please, Anu . . . forgive me.
Minutes pass as cold fear trickles into my heart. My mind falls silent, but my heart prays on.
8
KALINDA
I spend the afternoon with Opal, though she is not much for company. She naps while I stare blankly at a book. The colorful inks and sketching parchment call out to me, beckoning me to open them. My mind floats with imaginings of all the vivid pictures I could draw, but I go no further. I will not be bribed, even by so lovely a gift.
Sitting by the hearth, I ignore the book in my lap and scratch at the rank marks on the backs of my hands. I wish they would go away. But even if they do, the prince still has first rights to me. What if he compels me to compete in the tournament? What if he doesn’t? Will he exercise his first rights to me regardless?
Opal sits up and tilts a listening ear to the sky. “Brother Shaan needs me.” She jumps up without further explanation and leaves.
My sigh hitches on disappointment. She said Rohan and my party were a day or so behind us, so they must not be here yet.
I return my attention to the book, but in the stillness of the chamber my awareness prickles. Someone is watching me. I rise with my hand firmly on my dagger and search for the source. Seeing nothing, I step closer to the bed. Gooseflesh flares up my body. No one is here, yet a steady pulse like a heartbeat drums in my ears.
My hand slips into my satchel hung on the bedpost. The pulsing intensifies. I pull out the Zhaleh, and the throbbing behind my eyes stops.
Did I imagine that? Or did the book lure me to it?
I pull off the cover of the sketchbook Prince Ashwin gave me. The real front of the Zhaleh is worn and creased like an old man’s face. I run my hand over the tanned deer hide, and my pulse hitches. I should leave it alone. The Zhaleh holds darkness. And yet . . .
As I open the true cover, I brace for an assault on my senses. I assume the mere act of unsealing the book will unleash evil, but nothing happens. Exhaling shallowly, I start in.
The first page is divided into four columns. At the top are symbols, one each for water, sky, land, and fire. Names are written beneath the symbols. The top four names are the First Bhutas, including Uri under the fire symbol. Below them, line after line, page after page, are the proceeding bhuta generations. After twenty pages or so, the column of Burners becomes shorter than the others. Starting at the bottom, I skim the list backward. My finger stops.
Kishan Zacharias.
I brush my thumb over my father’s surname. KZ. We have the same initials.
“Kalinda Zacharias,” I say, testing how it sounds. The last part rings foreign, like an off-tune sitar string. I whisper my full name to myself once, twice, a third time. “Kalinda Zacharias.” The last time the sound slides out of my mouth and sits right in my ear.
A shadow appears on the wall, cast from behind me. Someone is here. I whirl around and grasp the intruder by the throat. My fingers glow, pulsing with fire.
“It’s me.” Prince Ashwin gulps hard, his gullet bobbing against my palm.