I gnaw on my inner cheek, locking down my exasperation. Brac is exhausted and frustrated. We all are. Our deliverance from war relies on us locating Prince Ashwin, but finding him is taking longer than we anticipated. We are chasing a spirit, someone we have been told exists but have never seen in the flesh.
“Hastin will own his victory when the prince is dead,” says Mathura. “We’ll find out if the prince survived this attack in the next few days.”
“Until we hear otherwise, we’ll assume he’s alive,” I say, and Brac glances away.
Am I wrong? Should we stop searching for the prince?
I look to Deven for his opinion as a captain, as my guard, as the man I love. He gazes at the burning temple, his eyes pained. Since he removed his soldier uniform and put on a plain tunic and trousers, his attention often drifts elsewhere, lost in thought. Before Rajah Tarek died, he charged Deven with treason and stripped his command for helping me aid the rebels in their attack on Vanhi. But Deven’s only mistake was siding with me.
“What should we do, Captain?” Brac inquires.
Deven flinches into focus, cringing every time someone uses his title. He scrubs a hand over his dark beard. His facial hair is scruffier than when he wore the crisp lines of his scarlet uniform, and the ends of his hair are longer, curling out from beneath his turban. His pause lasts longer than usual for his decisive nature. He has come all this way in pursuit of our new leader, and his hesitancy puzzles me.
“Son?” Mathura presses.
Deven glances at Brac, his half brother, and then at their mother, Mathura. “We’ll continue onward.” Deven points at the Alpana Mountains’ far-off shadowy peaks. “Tonight we’ll camp above the refugee trail in the foothills, and tomorrow we’ll start for the northern temple.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He registers my gratitude with a short nod, his soft beard grazing my cheekbone. “Stay alert,” he says. “The rebels could be nearby.”
We lead our camels away from the fiery ruins, the stench of death beating at our backs.
Our caravan rides up to intersect the eastward thoroughfare leading to Iresh, the royal city of the sultanate of Janardan. Rajah Tarek’s demise and the bhuta warlord’s occupation of Vanhi spurred a mass evacuation. Over the past two moons, thousands of feet have worn a trail into the water-starved valley on the way to the sultanate.
Ahead of us, a small group of refugees wear more tracks into the land. A mother with an infant tied to her chest with a headscarf plods beside a handcart. Two young men heft the cart that holds their scant possessions and supplies for their journey. A little girl runs alongside them, tapping the spoke wheels with a knotted stick.
The woman sees our approach and orders her sons to halt. As the young men set down the handcart and wipe their sweaty brows, the woman watches us guardedly. Pieces of her braided hair fly in tatters around her sunburnt face.
“Ma’am,” Deven says.
She clutches her infant closer to her bosom. Gripped in one hand, partly tucked in the folds of her sari, she conceals a knife. The new road has brought evacuees in droves and, with them, thieves preying on travelers.
Brac leads his and Mathura’s camel across the road, and Yatin and Natesa follow on theirs. I yank the reins of ours, stopping in the center of the roadway.
“Pardon me,” I say. “Do you have any news from Vanhi?”
The woman squints up at me with cold distrust. “None since the bhuta warlord invaded. My husband was stationed in the palace at the time. Word is the warlord executed him and the other guards.”
My heart beats slower in my chest. By lingering around village water wells, we learned that Hastin boarded up the gates to the Turquoise Palace, locking everyone inside. The people of Vanhi blame Hastin for Tarek’s murder. Few know the truth.
I reach into my saddlebag, and the woman lifts her knife.
“I don’t want trouble,” she warns.
“Neither do we,” I promise.
Deven shifts behind me, his discomfort palpable. We are not safe out near the open roadway.
My fingertips brush the turquoise handle of the dagger in my bag, a twin to the blade strapped to my outer thigh. The daggers belonged to my mother, Rajah Tarek’s first-ever wife. Mathura brought them from the palace for me, and Deven has trained me to wield them well. I depend on my daggers as I once did my slingshot. I bypass the hidden knife, find the object I seek, and pull out my hand. The woman peers at the headscarf.
“For you,” I offer.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Maybe so, but what will happen to your children if you fall ill with sun sickness?”
Her scowl lessens, yet she still resists.
Down the road, a larger group of travelers ambles our way, wagons and men. No, soldiers. They are dressed in dark-red uniforms, with the Tarachand Empire’s black scorpion crest on their chests, the same uniform Deven no longer wears. They travel without banners. This far from an army stronghold, they must be deserters. Civilians are not the only ones fleeing the bhuta warlord.
Deven vibrates with tension, silently demanding we leave before the soldiers arrive.
I dangle the headscarf between the woman and me, her children solemnly observing our exchange. “Please, take it,” I say.
She shuffles forward, pinches the farthest corner of the cloth, and plucks it from my grip. Upon seeing the back of my hand, her eyes bulge.
“Kindred,” she says, sinking to her knees. Her sons lower to the ground after her, and she waves for her little girl to do the same. “Forgive us. We didn’t recognize you.”
The noises from the caravan of soldiers quiver in my stomach. I forgot how much I despise being bowed to. Imagining the lot of them kneeling at my feet, my tone shortens. “You’ve caused no offense. Please don’t speak of seeing me.”
“We won’t, Kindred. May the gods watch over you.”
“And you.” I snap the reins for the camel to go.
Deven and I finish crossing the road and start up the rocky hillside. Below, the mother holds her children and weeps. She does not cry from misery or fear but from happiness that twitches my spine. I will add their family to my daily prayers.
Deven’s hawkeyed gaze remains on the party of soldiers coming around the bend. Once we are out of sight of the road and the travelers, he relaxes. His voice reaches out to me like a gentle caress down the back of my neck. “That was kind of you.”
“I only gave her a headscarf,” I say.
“You gave her more than that. You’re the kindred. Seeing you gave her family hope.”
I shift in the saddle with a frown. I may be nobility, but I am not noble. The woman and her family would not have been forced to flee their home had I not foolishly placed my trust in Hastin. I bargained with the warlord for my freedom and lost more than my own. I assumed by ending Rajah Tarek I would liberate his ranis and courtesans, but now they are Hastin’s prisoners in the Turquoise Palace. As the first wife, I was the ranis’ kindred and leader. Their friend. I failed to protect them, just as I failed to save my dearest friend, Jaya.