Tinley dismounts and strokes the bird’s feathery breast. She pulls a scorpion from a pouch around her waist and tosses it into the falcon’s open beak. A long sarong covers her upper thighs, a high slit revealing long, lean legs, and her chest is banded with a single strip of dark cloth. A crossbow is strapped to her back. Her milky eyes take in the crowd, sharp as the long nails jutting from her fingers like talons. She stalks into the terrace and down the aisle before the dais.
Tinley bows and removes a feather from her pack. “Prince Ashwin, as a token of my devotion, please accept this feather plucked from my falcon, Bya, sky-friend to all mankind and guide to the heavens.” Her musical voice rings like copper wind chimes.
Ashwin takes the feather and runs his fingers over the flexible blades. Tinley assumes her place among the crowd beside her people. A small current of sweet air flows around her, a sip of pureness that is intoxicating.
Dread imbeds itself in my belly. I am not competing against mere warriors. These women are bhutas and masters of their inner element. Another lesser concern nags at me. I did not bring a gift for the prince. I have no more time to think of this as the ground begins to tremble.
Sultan Kuval raises his voice. “It is now my pleasure to introduce my firstborn and eldest daughter, Princess Citra, Sentinel of the Morass.”
Trumpets peal, startling the crowd. The ground shakes harder, rising up through my thighs. A group of elephants stomp across the gardens, decorated with headpieces of golden tassels and rich green and purple cloth. Princess Citra rides bareback on the first of the animals. She and her majestic mount stop shy of the pillars, and she emits a ground-shaking yip. Her elephant lifts its two front legs and holds the balanced stance. Princess Citra hangs on, one arm raised above her head. Another yip from her, and the elephant drops, vibrating the pillars.
The only other person surprised by Princess Citra’s powers is Ashwin, who gawks along with me. The princess has not worn a yellow armband like the other bhutas in Iresh, so it did not occur to me that she is a Trembler.
Princess Citra slides off the elephant, moving gracefully in her heavy breastplate and helmet. She lifts her arms and clucks her tongue. The elephants bow before her, and the crowd hushes in reverent awe. Princess Citra clucks her tongue twice. The herd rises and plods away, their thin tails swishing.
The princess slinks up the dais to Ashwin and removes her helmet, her hair falling over her shoulders like strings of black sapphires. “I offer a token of my devotion to Prince Ashwin.” Planting either hand on his armrests, she leans over him. “A kiss,” she says and presses her lips to his.
Ashwin’s eyes fly open. The audience titters. Sultan Kuval scowls at his daughter’s audacious display. Princess Citra withdraws, and Ashwin droops in his throne, red faced. The princess licks her lips and grins. Has she any decency?
The princess struts down the steps and kneels with the sultan’s women of court. A girl no more than twelve sidles up to her, and Princess Citra loops her arm around the youngster. They have similar features—they are sisters. The girl must be Tevy, the one Ashwin told me about.
Sultan Kuval clears his throat, calling the audience to attention. “And finally, we welcome Kindred Kalinda, rank-tournament champion of the Tarachand Empire.”
I rise without fanfare. I have no majestic beast to ride on. No fancy armor. No grand weapon besides my mother’s daggers, hidden beneath my skirt.
Sultan Kuval’s lips twist smugly. He does not know that I am a bhuta, yet he pitted me against three. He has set me up to fail. How far does his scheming go?
Silence digs into my back. I stare up at Ashwin, my heart hammering. I do not know what to do. I cannot be seen as weak before my competitors, but I cannot reveal my powers without word spreading to the camps that I am a Burner.
“Kindred Kalinda, what’s your offering?” Sultan Kuval presses.
“I . . .”
Reading my panic, Ashwin rises from his throne. “Kalinda needn’t offer me a token of devotion. Her coming here is the only gift I require.” He crosses to me and kisses my cheek. I jolt a little. This close, he is a mirror of Tarek. Ashwin frowns, understanding that he has unsettled me. But instead of moving away, he kisses my other cheek. “I’m not my father,” he whispers.
I scrounge up a smile and turn to the audience. Princess Citra’s face screws up in jealousy. Tinley inspects her sharp nails, unimpressed by my introduction, and Indah remains collected, unconcerned by my closeness to Ashwin. He and I return to our seats, and Sultan Kuval addresses the assembly.
“I have given great thought to this trial tournament, as to what qualifications make an outstanding rani. My pondering led me to our history. In ancient days, Anu challenged his children, Enlil and Enki, to prove their godliness in a number of trials. Our competitors will face a series of similar tests. But before they begin, each one must complete an exhibition of ability. Skill demonstrations are customary before any tournament. They provide each contender the opportunity to boast her weaponry expertise and intimidate her opponents.”
For my last skill demonstration, I broke glass orbs with my slingshot. But I suspect the sultan will require something more strenuous of my bhuta opponents and, subsequently, me.
“Tomorrow at sunset,” says the sultan, “competitors will meet at the mouth of the Morass. There they will receive further instructions.” With that ominous declaration, he adds, “Let us feast!”
12
DEVEN
I lie on my stomach, all strength bled out of me. To blink is to harness the power of a thousand men. To swallow is to employ the gods. The Aquifier pours more healing waters over my back. The warm liquid releases a cascade of fresh smells, from sun-warmed muslin to coconut to white sandalwood. My skin tautens painfully and then tingles with welcome coolness.
A member of the brethren has not come to offer a healing blessing on my behalf, as is customary in Tarachand, but I did not expect it. During my time training with the brethren, I learned Janardanians do not worship the Parijana faith as we do but a varied sect that places the land-goddess above her husband, the sky-god. Janardanians believe returning to the ground to feed the land, Ki’s domain, is an honor. They accept that they will die when the land-goddess chooses, and they do not interfere with her will through prayer.
The Aquifier trickles more of his fresh-scented water over my back. Foggy dreaminess drifts over me with the lifting pain, my mind flowing from one abstract thought to the next. An image of a fox arises from the darkness.
“I’m finished for now.” The Aquifier’s voice sharpens my focus. With great effort, I turn my head to see him gathering his empty jug and bandages. “I’ll leave your back unwrapped. The air is good for your wounds.”
I thank him, and he leaves, shutting me in the dark.