I link my elbow through his, worry turning my lips downward. Ashwin said his mantle of authority weighs lighter on him when I am by his side. He claims he is acting in the best interest of our people, but when he smiles at me, he is not thinking of his empire.
He smiles at me as though I am his entire world.
Ashwin escorts me to the palace gardens, down a walkway with shorn shrubberies and across an arched bridge over a slow-moving stream. The placid water flows to the nearby cliff and transforms into a roaring waterfall. I am the stream in both its forms: calm on the exterior, raging inside.
We pass a statue of the land-goddess Ki with a dragon cobra slung over her shoulders. I have always admired her plentiful curves and fiery gaze. Ki is equal parts the tenacity of the mountains, asperity of the desert, steadiness of the grasslands, and carnal bounty of the forest. This likeness of her reminds me of the painted murals in the temples back home, except for one part.
“Why do Janardanians depict Ki with a snake?” I ask Ashwin as he walks beside me.
“If I recall my studies correctly, snakes are distant relatives to dragons. In the Janardanians’ portrayal of the land-goddess, the dragon cobra represents the demon Kur. Some people believe Kur and Ki were lovers. Others have gone as far as to say their union bore a child.”
I rear back to look at him. “Ki would never take a demon for a lover.”
Ashwin shrugs. “Ki supposedly had a wandering eye, and Kur was said to dote on her.”
“You’re a romantic,” I say on a laugh. “You think the myth is true?”
“It’s possible. Everyone has redeemable qualities.”
“Even demons?”
His smile waivers, but his answer remains resolute. “Especially demons.”
Guests and palace attendees gather in the lattice-roofed terrace that has a view over the twilight sky and city. Flowering vines twist up the exterior columns and latticework overhead to the gray dome ceiling. Teardrop lantern chandeliers light the late-afternoon shadows.
Veiled women of various ages, with inarguable beauty, kneel on one side of the terrace. They must be the sultan’s wives, his sultanas. Additional lovely women in slightly less gaudy finery sit behind them, the sultan’s courtesans. Kuval’s court is smaller than Tarek’s, and his women are soft and plump from their privileged life. I do not see a single sister warrior among them. They have never set foot in an arena. Tarek reinstated rank tournaments, even though they were abolished centuries ago. He alone hungered for the arena violence, and his wives bore the scars from the ruthless duels he forced upon them for his entertainment. I would be in different circumstances had I been claimed by a man like Kuval. His sultanas and courtesans are pretty possessions to pet once in a while, not sister warriors to pit against one another in the arena.
On the opposite half of the terrace, representatives from Paljor and Lestari congregate in groups. I cannot tell which of them will be my opponents, but they all wear formfitting clothes made of thick material and carry strange, flashy weapons.
Sultan Kuval oversees the gathering from his throne on the dais. The back of his seat is fashioned from elephant tusks. I recall hearing that elephants are sacred in the sultanate. Janardanians believe elephants are the first animals the land-goddess introduced to the Morass.
Ashwin follows my gaze and speaks into my ear. “Years ago, Rajah Tarek poached an elephant herd from the jungle. When Sultan Kuval demanded them back, Tarek sent him the ivory husks of the oldest and largest elephant he stole.” Ashwin gazes pointedly at the large tusks of the sultan’s throne. “I’ve been told those are they.”
Sultan Kuval beckons to Ashwin. The prince goes to occupy the empty throne to the sultan’s left. Brother Shaan kneels across the aisle from the sultan’s court. I would rather sit alone, but to prevent others from noticing that we are at odds, I join him. I do not meet the brother’s seeking gaze. I am still fuming at him for not telling me when my party arrived. His omission cost Deven the skin on his back.
The sultan rises, and a hush falls over the terrace. “Welcome, honored guests,” he says. “We’re joined by representatives from Lestari and Paljor, as well as Prince Ashwin of the Tarachand Empire. The prince has asked for aid, and we have heard his call. The rebels are not his responsibility alone. Together we will unify the continent with this trial tournament. At this time, each competitor will come forward and declare their intent to vie for the Tarachand throne. First we welcome Indah, Virtue Guard from the Southern Isles of Lestari.”
He swings out an arm to direct our attention to the stream. A young woman floats over the water on bare feet, a cloud of vapor around her. A short skirt is wrapped around her legs, and a twisted band covers her chest. She is tall, taller than me, and built to weather a tide, with strong sculpted legs and arms. Her bare waist is thin, her shoulders broad, and her golden-brown skin dewy. Ashwin’s mouth falls open. Lestari has sent a woman who exudes natural strength and sexuality, and who is also an Aquifier.
Indah reaches land, and the ethereal mist dissipates. She pads on bare feet to the dais, carrying a trident and a large shell. Her eyes are the same golden hue as the interior of the shell and reflect the bronze sheen of her painted lips.
Indah bows and holds out the shell to Ashwin. “Your Majesty, please accept this gift from my island as a token of my devotion.” He takes the shell, his hands exploring its rough ivory surface. “Hold it to your ear, and you can hear the sea.”
Ashwin lifts the shell to his ear, and his eyes widen. Indah bows to him with a smile, and then descends the dais and joins the Lestarians in the audience. She moves with the grace of a wave and the might of the moon. Ashwin sets the shell in his lap, pleased and stunned by her magnificence.
Sultan Kuval announces the second competitor. “Next we welcome Tinley from the alpine cliffs of Paljor, daughter of Chief Naresh and Guardian of the North Wind.”
A gale rushes through the terrace, tousling hair and skimming cheeks. A sound like a whip cracking snaps overhead, and everyone looks up. Something large flies above us, a bird with red-orange feathers and the sharp beak and talons of an evolved predator. A mahati falcon, king of the sky and natural enemy to serpents, mocks the wind with the speed of its flight.
On the back of the mahati rides a sleek young woman. Her opaque eyes and silver hair are striking against her warm sepia skin. She lands the falcon with a whoosh that disperses all sound to wind song. Only a Galer could dominate the skies with such flawless form.