Sultan Kuval directs the servant manning the gong. “Ready your mark.”
Indah bends into her knees, preparing to run. Citra draws her machete and sends me an arrogant grin. Her father handpicked this skill demonstration to suit her. Tinley straightens the strap of her quiver, filled with bolts for her crossbow.
The gong sounds, vibrating across the open space. My competitors tear off in separate directions. I draw my daggers and sprint into the dense trees.
Beneath the leafy canopy, grayness coats everything, thick as the steaming air. I dart through the cloying mists, water rattling in my lungs. Soon, I can no longer hear the sounds of civilization, and I pause to catch my breath.
Strange noises echo all around me. Above me, a macaque peers down from a low bough. Its persistent stare itches at my nerves. Monkeys can bite when provoked, but they are not considered dangerous. I am here for the most lethal predator I can find. The king of the Morass.
I walk away from the macaque and trudge into a swamp, wading up to my knees. Fireflies zip past me, brightening flecks of light. The shielded sky dims to pervasive dark. My thighs burn as I wrench my feet from the muddy waters. I would fashion a torch of some kind, but everything is soaked and green, unfit for burning.
When I finally leave the bog, something wiggles against my leg. I bend down and brush against a slimy, fat body. “Agh!” Hopping up and down, I pluck the leeches off my ankles. Blood spills from my skin where they fed from me. Leeches are deadly in large numbers, but I can do better. I toss the bloated pests aside and move on.
Not too far ahead, the trees open to a quiet clearing, and I come to a halt. Moonlight shines down on old stone pilings. I follow a dilapidated, crumbling wall to the structure’s darkened main entrance set between two pillars. The ancient ruins extend underground and into the hillside. These must be the remains of an archaic temple, abandoned long ago. Predators could be holed up inside, but I step away, my footsteps cautious. I will not trespass on sacred ground.
Something behind me snaps. I pull my dagger and whirl around. Before I see anything, the ground beneath me buckles and lifts me backward.
Citra’s shadow splits from a copse of ferns. She raises the ground beneath me again, and the avalanche shoves me toward the temple entrance. I stumble on the sliding dirt dragging me into the ruins. I grab the lip of the door and hang on. Citra sends forth an incessant stream of rocks, pelting my arms and face.
“You’ve found the most deadly thing in the jungle,” she says.
“Your father didn’t mean our opponents.”
“My father underestimates me. He thinks I’m unfit to rule, but I’ll show him how worthy I am after I take your throne.”
She pummels me with more dirt, pushing me farther inside. My grip on the doorjamb lessens, my beaten knuckles aching.
“This was Ki’s sanctuary,” Citra yells over the barrage. “Under these ruins lies a labyrinth of tunnels. Even if you find a way out, you will not return to the palace by dawn. Do me a favor—don’t return at all.”
She throws a storm of rubble at me. I grip the doorway, soil seeping into my nose and stinging my eyes. Larger rocks hit my wrists and arms. One of my hands slips. Holding on with my final grip, I reach for my powers, but a landslide sweeps me into the ruins.
Citra seals the door, and I am locked in the dark.
14
DEVEN
I part my eyelids at the creak of the cell door. The Aquifier healer comes in carrying a lamp. He is followed by a man with a haunting face. I blink fast, questioning my sight. Rajah Tarek . . . except he looks as he did when he was younger.
While growing up in the Turquoise Palace, I would sneak glances at His Majesty from behind my nursemaid’s skirts. His domineering presence and lust for cruelty petrified me. Rajah Tarek controlled my mother’s life and sought to destroy all bhutas, including my brother, who was forced to hide his powers. When I finally stood against Tarek, my years of loyal service as his soldier meant nothing.
“Captain Naik, I’ve come to view your progress.”
The stranger’s voice is higher and smoother than Tarek’s. Prince Ashwin. I did not get a fair look at him when he came for Kali the other night, but his voice matches my memory.
The Aquifier moves behind me and runs his hands down my back, over my still-healing wounds. I hiss at a brief flare of pain, my skin stretched thin. The prince frowns—a show of compassion or culpability?—and occupies the stool beside my cot. Great skies, he looks like his father.
“Well?” the prince asks the healer.
“Captain Naik has recovered remarkably fast, but he still has scars.”
“Continue your sessions until they’re gone,” says the prince, “including the one on his shoulder.”
The one on my shoulder is where I was struck by an arrow while escaping execution. An arrow Rajah Tarek ordered his guards to fire.
“It’s an older wound, but I’ll do my best, Your Majesty.”
I wait for the Aquifier to leave and then speak to the prince. “I don’t mind scars.”
“I cannot decide if you deserve them or not. Did you betray Rajah Tarek?”
“I already confessed to the vizier.”
“I want to hear from you,” he says.
This boy has placed himself between Kali and me like a stone wall. His concern about my injuries—wounds he caused—means less than nothing. I remove all emotion from my voice and report my answer. “Rajah Tarek caught me trying to steal the Zhaleh and presumed I was working for Hastin.”
“You weren’t?”
“No.” I planned to exchange the Zhaleh for the warlord’s help in getting Kali and me out of Vanhi, but the prince does not need to know that.
“Kalinda credits you for escaping Vanhi. I’m grateful for your loyalty to her.”
I slam my teeth together. The scars on my back were not caused by his civility. “I didn’t do it for you.”
“Even so, I am in your debt. I hope someday soon Kalinda will become my kindred. I thought it fair to let my intentions be known.”
At the finish of his words, the wall between Kali and me grows taller and thicker. “Are you in love with her?” I scrape out.
“Are you?”
I boost my chin, unwilling to answer. “Why are you here?”
He sits nearer to me. A gold cuff on his wrist reflects the brassy lamplight. “I don’t want hard feelings between us. I need your support and leadership with my soldiers.”
“Your soldiers don’t recognize you as their rajah, and they believe I’m a traitor. They won’t trust me again.”
“They may trust you after I exonerate you.” His certainty rivals mine—a blood-borne arrogance stemming from generations of rajahs.